Assorted Thoughts of a Salted Caramel

Ratatouille

2012-02-22T18:11:00.000Z

A disappointing entry to the Pixar catalogue, and the first of their movies to make me feel like a grown up watching a kids’ film. It’s a perfectly fine film, but that verges on a damning critique for the studio that dominates the animated landscape and draws tears from even the flintiest of men.

There’s no gaping hole in its production, but everything feels a few notches below Pixar’s best. The film’s central conceit - food as a part of our history and personality, an experience, not just fuel - is neat, but never really explored. The animation doesn’t seem as finely tuned as one might expect the plot devices (the way in which gastro-rodent Remy controls hapless human pawn Linguini by his hair for example) seems too juvenile and the array of accents (including Americans imitating French folk) in a film about French cuisine, set in France, is just baffling. And the film slides frequently (but hopefully unintentionally) into tepid cultural stereotypes as almost every character appears to be defined by their ethnicity - the French are rude and food obsessed, the lone black chef talks about ‘bad juju’ and so on). Even more galling is the way that an American movie set in France still manages to install a Brit (food critic Anton Ego, sneeringly voiced by Peter O’Toole) as one of the villains. Even if the creators had simply wanted to play with the irony of a food critic from a country (wrongly) notorious for bad food, capable making and breaking careers in a country whose techniques are the foundation for haute cuisine across the globe, they would still be guilty of tedious misconception.

There are flashes of Pixar’s more habitual outside-the-boxiness, my favourite innovation being the synaesthetic representation of taste, with explosions of sound and neon lights. By the same token, lone woman in a man’s world Collette is joyfully sharp, an animated pre-cursor to Michel Roux Jr’s right hand woman on Masterchef, Monica Galatti. However, the insurmountable hurdle is that no matter what hygiene rules might be observed, there’s something fundamentally not quite right about having your food cooked by a kitchen full of rats. All of which makes Ratatouille an easy film to like, but a difficult one to love.

This Means War

2012-02-16T21:34:00.000Z

A Bourne Romance...

One of the more unexpected revelations while watching This Means War was a sudden appreciation of the utter dearth of stand alone action films with a sense of humour. Chances are, if it isn’t a (comic) book adaptation, a remake or a sequel (often to a vastly superior original), it simply hasn’t made it to a cinema near you in the past decade or so. Even when an original script manages to sneak through, more often than not it’s a po-faced offering along the lines of Salt or Avatar – varying shades of excellent in their own way, but lacking a certain quip happy recklessness that franchises like Lethal Weapon and Die Hard served up so well.

That alone is reason enough to take a gamble on TMW, a featherweight spy movie with added (b)romance in which CIA spooks and brothers-in-arms Tucker (Tom Hardy) and FDR (Chris Pine) both manage to fall for career girl Lauren (Reese Witherspoon). Naturally, their friendship is soon buckling under the strain as they use and abuse the ample resources of the US government to thwart each other and get the girl.

Another reason is the central trio themselves: Pine’s slick playboy, Hardy’s sensitive bruiser and Witherspoon as the girl shaped wedge driving them apart. It’s a genuine shame that all three give far better performances than the material deserves, their collective star power powering a script so half baked that it doesn't even take the time to explain why Tom Hardy's English spy is working at the heart of that most American of security agencies. Elsewhere, Chelsea Handler’s faux frustrated housefrau is a foul mouthed hoot, although Angela Basset’s sphinx-like presence is barely felt (at 97 minutes, I can only assume that this is the result of some fairly vicious post-production pruning).

That the plot is wafer thin, occasionally incoherent and utterly predictable (you'll know who's going to get the girl before she's even on the scene) is the least of TMW’s issues. And in the hands of a lesser moron (yes, moron – the man calls himself “McG”), these flaws would be intangible. I've no doubt that a more talented director with a better feel for both comic timing and action (Shane Black, Joe Carnahan – even Guy Richie), could have turned This Means War into a whipsmart modern classic along the lines of Kiss Kiss Bang Bang.

Sadly, serial offender McG's Lennie-like cinematic grip all but crushes the life out of TMW, leaving it to utterly reliant on its stars to maintain its effervescent charm. Pine is left stranded in one gear as a reformed playboy who never really gets round to reforming, yet another sign of the shoddy material given his stellar turns in Star Trek and (to a lesser extent) Unstoppable. As his partner in crime, Tom Hardy’s sensitive spy can clearly beat the living daylights out of anyone in the room in order to save the girl…and then snuggle with her afterwards. But the price of playing a slightly more in depth character appears to be a woeful storyline. On the plus side, Hardy's performance serves as a pitch perfect showreel should he ever want to angle for the coveted Bond gig as he kicks, punches and smoulders his way through the film, demonstrating a nice sense of comic timing to boot. Likewise, Reese Witherspoon has enough comedic chops to fill out what is an otherwise identikit female role, ensuring that she doesn't entirely fade away in the presence of the vastly more interesting characters around her.

Even the action scenes, arguably McG’s forte (although this is a little like saying Homer Simpson’s really good at being a fat, lazy slob) are too few and far between, disappearing in a blizzard of nauseating jump cutting when they do. Meanwhile the scenes (scene, really) of a sexual nature rivals Zach Snyder’s cheesy efforts in The Watchmen. As for the relationships, these aren't helped by misjudged comedy (particularly the ham-fisted final scenes, which seems to be a witless attempt to set up a sequel), and an occasionally galling misunderstanding of what makes people tick.

TMW is a jolly good romp, warts and all, right until the credits start to roll, at which point it becomes a deeply frustrating missed opportunity and yet another reason to curse the bone headed studio execs who keep employing Mc-freakin'-G. But until that happens, sit back, relax, turn off your brain and enjoy the snap, crackle and pop of Witherspoon & Co.

The Muppets

2012-02-15T18:18:00.000Z

Brilliantly...Muppety

The rebooted Muppets franchise is a slice of unashamedly feelgood filmmaking, basking in a mish mash of thoroughly retro settings, from the 50s Smalltown from which brothers Gary (Jason Segel) and Walter hail, to the snazzy 70s powder blue suits they both tote and the jumble of vintage vehicles on display.

Anyone who saw the vampire musical finale in Forgetting Sarah Marshall may already know that this is a long gestating labour of love for Segel. The wisp of a plot - the Muppets must regroup in order to save their theatre, or risk losing it forever to evil oilman Tex Richman (a brilliantly strait laced yet OTT Chris Cooper) - is really a convenience on which to hang everything we love about the Muppets: singing, dancing, comedy and above all, anarchy (usually all at once).

It’s also the cue for minor constellation of star cameos, from Dave Grohl as a grungy blink-and-you’ll miss him tribute band drummer to Segel’s How I Met Your Mother co-star Neil Patrick Harris. Some may be lost on an overseas audience (‘Mouth from the South’ James Carville anyone?) but there is an entire avenue of fun (not to mention a potential drinking game) to be exploited by simply keeping up with the flurry guest appearances.

Fact is, this is a kids movie made for adults - the stars may be Jim Henson’s best furry felt creations, but this was a labour of love and nostalgia, made for (and judging by the timbre of laughter around me in the cinema, best enjoyed by) the big kid that most adults spend far too much time and energy suppressing. Anyone too young (or witless) to appreciate the golden age of 80s film making isn’t really going to get references to ‘travelling by map’, or picking up the rest of the gang‘by montage’ in order to save time. Similarly, when every other film or tv show has an arch ‘wink wink nudge nudge’ moment when they break the fourth wall to acknowledge the audience, The Muppets effortlessly flaunt theirgroundbreaking style by never even bothering to build the wall in the first place.

There are a fair few flaws on show, most noticeably the peripheral human characters. It’s mighty big of Segel to make way for Walter and a coterie of classic Muppets, but it does leave both him and Amy Adams short changed. Every so often, it’s downright disconcerting to realise that you’re rooting for some masterfully puppeteered pieces of felt far more than for Segel and Adams wholesome as apple pie coupling. And while it’s understandable (nay - downright necessary) for Kermit et al to deliver wildly OTT performances, the same earnest over exuberance seems a little hokey coming from their human co-stars. Lucky then that the Muppets are more than capable of eking out poignant performances (who knew a felt-covered hand could be so expressive?), while Chris Cooper turns out the most Muppety human performance of all as a villainous oil tycoon who can’t laugh (but can rap…).

Similarly, at nearly two hours, the latest incarnation of the Muppets is probably a little too long - a leaner version with (and it pains me somewhat to say this) even less of Adams and Segel would probably work slightly better. And with such rich pickings, a number of classic Muppets barely get a skit’s worth of screentime – it’s my own personal bugbear that Beaker isn’t featured more heavily, while Gonzo is practically absent (although I am still hopeful that a Muppets revival will finally mean that I get that Beaker toy I’ve always wanted…).

Having said that, Segel is probably better served by his alter ego in the movie - thrust into the middle of the action and #1 fan of the original Muppet crew, Walter may be a fraction of Segel’s seize, but he’s made of the same stuff (metaphorically speaking - clearly he’s made of felt…). And even if the pace does dip a little in places, only the most stony hearted of viewers will lose their goofy, Muppet induced smiles. Because any movie that is as unrepentantly feelgood, stuffed with day glo song and dance numbers (Oscar nominated numbers in the case of ‘Man or Muppet’ – we can only pray that the Academy can remove the stick from their collective asses in time to sanction a Segel and Walter performance at the ceremony later this month), and the kind of uncomplicated niceness that characterises the Muppets deserves all the goodwill (and decent box office) in the world.

Plus, how often are you ever going to find out what ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ sounds like when performed by a barbershop quartet of puppets? Exactly.

Chronicle

2012-02-12T15:00:00.000Z

We Need To Talk About Kevin meets X-Men

I had written a near perfect assessment of Chronicle before the power to my laptop cut out and I once again rued the fact that most of the cloud doesn’t autosave. It is however, somewhat fitting that this review is a merely a shadowy imprint of the original - as a trio of teenage boys descend into a peculiar underground cave before emerging with powerful telekinetic abilities, one of them actually alludes to Plato’s allegory of the cave (sorry, I was force fed The Republic as uni).

This oddly palatable mix of philosophy and pop culture tells you a lot of what you need to know about Chronicle, a film that takes the modern day myth - the superhero origin story - and and doesn’t so much twist as contort it. What sets it apart is not so much the substance as the style. Lead misfit Andrew is steeped in kitchen sink drama as he tries to deal with a dying mother and an abusive father. None of which makes Andrew a loveable movie misfit - his own cousin points out that he’s…difficult. Even the found footage style of the film - largely shot through Andrew’s camera - is updated, the usual nausea inducing shaky cam swiftly giving way to smooth swooping shots as Andrew learns to master his abilities.

It’s also a far more coherent effort than most of its peers - the first half of the of the film is particularly good at ramming home the fact that these are teenage boys by having them go out and do what any normal teenager would do with superpowers, namely fool around and try to get laid. Even when the tone shifts, the story still makes sense: an accident here, a tortured spider there - deliberate violence against others is the next, inevitable step. Somewhat unusually, the onscreen action is matched by a philosophy - references to evolution and the natural behaviour of top predators are simple but plausible, chilling echoes of countless hate based ideologies.

Even the decision to have Andrew film everything makes sense - it starts as vague attempt to record the abuse but is it so very odd that he would want to separate himself emotionally and physically from the unpleasantness of everyday life?

Chronicle isn’t perfect - the trio have great chemistry, and it seems natural that they would confide in each other, but would their friendship really be consequence free, especially for the most popular boy in school? Likewise, the peripheral female characters are more annoying than anything else, and seem to be little more than plot devices or props (literally in the case of Casey, the female video blogger, who does little more than provide alternative angles and additional video footage during scenes when Andrew isn’t present).

But all told, Chronicle is good enough to warrant overlooking these minor quibbles. It’s not just the effortless performances by the three leads (although Michael B. Jordan as budding politician Steve Montgomery is effortlessly charismatic, while his co-stars master awkward and offbeat). Nor is it the fact that Max ‘Son of John’ Landis and director John Trank have worked miracles with a $12m budget which ought to put half of Hollywood to shame. The FX do err on the low budget side of things, but their ambition and execution carry the day. The final scenes, as buildings, helicopters, police cars and people take a beating are easily as exciting to watch as the average blockbuster. More important is that beneath the spectacle, there is always the story of human beings - in this case some random Seattle teens - who just happen to have extraordinary powers. They’re not driven by world domination, or conflict between humans and superhumans or any of the other comic book staples. They’re angry frustrated, awkward, lazy, irrational, just like the rest of us, it’s just that they have a spectacular way in which to express themselves.

In other words, Landis, Trank and Co have remembered what their better funded cohorts sometimes lose sight of in amongst the giant robots and hinky superpowers - namely that we the audience are ultimately shelling out for a good story.

Robots

2012-02-08T17:18:00.000Z

Short circuit

Channelling wholesome 50’s Americana in a world populated by steampunk art deco automatons, Robots looks good, but has less depth than an episode of Dora the Explorer. Unsurprisingly for a movie made during the adolescence of digital animation, the visuals and voice cast (the inclusion of Robin Williams and others contribute to the slightly dated feel) have superseded the story (see the current crop of 3D movies for a demonstration of the same phenomenon).

There are some cute quirks and neat ideas (from lo-tech light sabre duels to robots doing The Robot), but most of these are crushed beneath Robots’ sledgehammer metaphor: old vs. new, corporations vs. the individual, empty consumption vs. innovative production etc. etc. In some respects, it’s ahead of its time, but the makers appear to have mistaken darkness for depth - any playfulness is torpedoed by the twin themes of genocide and euthanasia. Darker scenes like junkyard scene, with a soundtrack courtesy of the gravelly voiced Tom Waits, while among the most inventive, jar with the rest of the movie, which frequently lurches from social commentary to scatalogical humour in the blink of eye. Some of the smartest jokes are the scatter gun one liners, or squirrelled away in the background.

Not without merit, but more of an historical cul de sac along the path of digital animation than a film worth seeing in its own right.

Young Adult

2012-02-05T20:25:00.002Z

More like Senescent Teenager

Diablo Cody appears to have just the one trick up her sleeve. With Juno she made Ellen Paige’s prematurely pregnant teenager sound smart and precocious, coining teenspeak every time she opened her mouth. Cody’s follow up, Jennifer’s Body, again plumbed modern teenage lore, drawing a not particularly subtle analogy between high school queen bees and rapacious flesh eating zombies devouring/reaping revenge on sex obsessed teenage boys. With Young Adult, Cody is ostensibly taking a seat at the adult table, with her tale of a teen fiction writer who travels back to her home town in order to rekindle her romance her high school flame.

If Juno is the self-possessed teen that Diablo Cody wanted to be then, somewhat worryingly, Young Adult’s Charlize Theron is half revenge on the girls who bullied her in high school, half reflection of the woman that Cody has actually turned into. Theron’s improbably dowdily named Mavis Gray (Cody’s pleasingly ordinary real name is Brooke Busey) is a recently divorced (Cody is on her second marriage) ghost writer of a teen fiction series whose covers bear an uncanny similarity to Sweet Valley High (with which young Brooke was no doubt familiar).

On the one hand, Mavis is an alcoholic divorcée struggling to write the final book in her now defunct series. Waking up every day with a hangover, a soundtrack of Kendra and the Kardashians on E! and, every so often, a stranger passed out next to her, she’s a mess - imagine the Paris Hilton 10 years from now, but from Minnesota. Her attempts to poach her high school sweetheart from his wife and newborn child are cringingly pathetic, and the main thrust of the film - Mavis may be hurtling towards 40, but as one classmate remarks, she hasn’t changed. For Mavis, this is proof of her superiority. For anyone with half an ounce of self awareness, it would be a damning indictment. Even worse than her age inappropriate fawning is the blandly good looking object of her affection (a description which, just this once, constitutes a complement to Patrick Wilson’s strangely affable and witless performance).

Unlike the recent brace of male oriented high school nostalgia movies, Mavis isn’t interested in capturing her youth, she’s just stuck there, wearing Hello Kitty, using archaic slang like ‘gross’ with no irony, and mooning like, well, a teenager at a happily married man. She’s virtually inseparable from her teenage alter ego in the Waverley Prep books she writes, only she hasn’t been Prom Queen in 20 years.

All of which would be hysterical, if it had a suitably vicious punchline. Not that there aren’t plenty of bitter laughs to be had, most of which come courtesy of the Patten Oswald’s sardonic cripple, a literal and metaphorical casualty of high school’s Hobbesian war of all against all.

But watching Theron (who is, it must be said, breathtakingly vile as Mavis) go into full meltdown promises a wickedly gleeful comeuppance, not just for her, but for every vicious teen queen who peaked at 18, with maybe just a hint of redemption. Instead, Young Adult never fully takes the plunge - Mavis is unrepentantly delusional and wholly self-centred but Cody (perhaps recognising herself in the carwreck of her creation) just can’t pull the trigger. There’s no redemption because Mavis hasn’t learned anything. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, and for some viewers it will feel like a puzzling waste of time - there’s little catharsis to be had in hating someone who loves herself that much. In the end, Young Adult falters because it tempers its hatred and disdain of prom queens and cheerleaders with self-loathing adulation of the same.

Theron’s performance and Jason Reitman’s direction deserve better material, audiences deserve a better film in return for their hard earner tenners, but most of all, Diablo ‘I-Don’t-Ever-Want-To-Grow-Up-Even-Though-I-Can’t-Get-Over-High-School” Cody née Brooke Busey deserves a little less Hollywood buzz and slightly more critical opprobrium than has perhaps headed her way. One of Hollywood’s 50 Smartest People? No wonder the US is slipping down the global eduction league tables…

You Again

2012-02-01T18:10:00.000Z

A tolerable piece of fluff that takes a hollow premise (Kristen Bell’s brother - gets engaged to the head cheerleader who tortured her in high school) and pads it out as best it can. For Bell and co-star Odette Anable (best known as cannon fodder for Hugh Laurie’s tetchy Gregory House), pap like You Again is simply a way of paying their dues. Sadly, it’s a complete waste for the sublime Jamie Lee Curtis and Sigourney Weaver, grandes dames who deserve much better material, not just any old mother/spinster/divorcée role that Hollywood decides to throw at its cache of talented women over 40.

Less surprising is the fact that the men are a definite afterthought - male lead James Wolk comes across as a bargain basement Jon Krasinski (which is not an entirely bad thing), while Victor Garber is as wasted as his female colleagues.

The movie equivalent of the X factor - a chronically inoffensive waste of talent.

The Descendants

2012-01-29T18:39:00.000Z

Yeah, yeah, we get it - rich people have problems too

Generally speaking, I’m easily pleased - probably too easily pleased - by any film that comes along. I enjoyed the muted melancholy of Another Earth, marvelled at the too-good-to-be-true heroics of Captain America, and will happily smirk my way through SyFy’s wilfully dreckish hybrid monster movies on a Sunday afternoon. In fact, the only truly abysmal film I saw in 2012 snuck in right at the end - the painfully inadequate New Year’s Eve, and at least I was expecting that.

But every so often, along comes a film that - beyond all reason and rationale - I hate. This is one of those films.

With The Descendants, director Alexander Payne (responsible for the critically acclaimed Sideways and About Schmidt) posits that the trappings of a good life don’t automatically make for a good life. George Clooney’s Matt King is one of the titular descendants of Hawaiian royalty who discovers his wife’s infidelity only after a boating accident puts her in a coma. Upon such a slight premise is built the only film capable of taking down The Artist bandwagon on Oscar night.

And there’s plenty to admire. George Clooney is brilliantly schlubby, shaking off his natural star quality to inhabit the distinctly uncharismatic skin of the cuckolded Matt King. Likewise, Shailene Woodley excels as his eldest daughter Alexandra, both unbelievably self-possessed and believably brattish. The surprise diamond in the rough is Nick Krause who confuses and amuses as Alexandra’s sort-of-boyfriend, whose deceptive idiocy provides some extra emotional warmth in what is otherwise an emotionally cool film. There are frequent moments of bleak humour and surprising tenderness throughout. And it goes without saying that Hawaii’s islands, whether they’re sun saturated or shrouded in early morning mist, look gorgeous.

So, what’s not to like?

The reality is that this is a typical Alex Payne production - a painfully generic plot packed with characters that are more irritating than interesting and wholly dependant on its fine cast. Certain films - anything starring Jason Staham or directed by Michael Bay for example - are frequently derided by the media intelligentsia as lazy, empty, lowest common denominator film-making (despite the fact that millions of people actually enjoy them). So it’s ironic that The Descendants is the equivalent for those very people - film-making by numbers for (largely) materially comfortable intellectual snobs who want licence to say ‘hey, I’ve got issues too’.

Even more exasperating is the way in which the film’s emotional content is intellectualised out of all recognition. Just as economists simplify humans into the flawed ‘rational actor’, writer-director Payne churns out a range of characters with little or no depth, who’s reactions to various traumas is at best perplexing, all to service the pedestrian plot and smugly arch screenplay.

Discovering that your spouse was cheating on you after an accident put her in a coma would be devastating. But there’s no doubt that discovering this when your only other problems are which half a billion dollar bid to accept for your land, berating the lax guardianship at your daughter’s $35,000 a year private school, and trying to remember which day the pool guy comes might justifiably be labelled ‘rich people problems’ by the…90%. That the film tries to make its point in the opening scenes by showing members of Hawaii’s indigenous Polynesian population (virtually the only appearance they make throughout the film) in various states of implied distress is either incomprehensibly ironic, or breathtakingly ignorant - it’s certainly incredibly insulting.

The Descendants is riddled with undeniably good performances and were it a more low key entry into cinemas, I would no doubt have quietly enjoyed it before promptly forgetting all about it. Instead it’s blown into town as an establishment favourite, eliciting more fawning than a CEO at the company picnic. It’s just as well that it was tailor made for the 10% as they’re the only ones who could possibly stomach sitting through 2 hours of such an gratuitously navel gazing, emotionally incoherent drag of a movie.

Life As We Know It

2012-01-26T18:30:00.000Z

Bringing Up Baby...

First, a question: when did all female romcom leads become Mrs Beeton? As one of two happily single people who inherit their best friends’ only child, Katherine Heigl is the latest in an increasingly long line of movie bakers (Bridesmaids, It’s Complicated, ummm…Life As We Know It…) who’ve replaced the power suited ball breakers of 80s and 90s moviedom. No doubt both feminists and misogynists everywhere have something to say about that…

Anyway, that’s neither here nor there. Originally, Life struck me as yet another tepidly predictable romcom when it was released in cinemas, so much so that I never mustered sufficient interest to get off my behind and go see it. Given that I
suffered through
saw both Ghosts of Girlfriends Past (numbing) and All About Steve (downright painful), that’s saying something.

Judged against these admittedly low benchmarks, Life is, in fact, a pleasant surprise. Yes, it’s so formulaic it should be taught as part of an introductory algebra curriculum, but neither does it ever aspire to be anything more than a pleasantly girly romp. Elements that could easily have gone horribly wrong (not least the death of Sophie’s parents) are deftly handled, allowing the film to glide easily into the main event, namely the sparring relationship between odd couple Heigl and Josh Duhamel. Yes, Heigl starts out as unattractively shrewish (par for the course with women in movies these days it would seem) while Duhamel is more of an oafish yet adorable bloke, but mercifully they both mellow out and grow up before it all becomes too grating.

What is genuinely refreshing about Life is that it gets most of its mileage from ‘proper’ baby based humour, with scarcely a scatalogical joke in sight. Admittedly, the best one liner in the film is a poop gag (Duhamel, on seeing the contents of baby Sophie’s diaper: “It’s like Slumdog Millionaire in there!”), but this is more than matched by the number of completely clean (and yes, funny) moments about first steps, and discerning gourmands. Without wishing to come across all Mary Whitehouse, every so often, it’s nice to watch a comedy in which people aren’t actively competing to commit increasingly disgusting acts featuring an alarming array of bodily fluids.

I wouldn’t dare claim that this is the best rom com ever, or even the best one I’ve seen this year. But it was funny, cute and featured just enough of Josh Duhamel’s physique to entertain without being utterly gratuitous. In other words, perfect easy viewing if you just want to curl up on the sofa with a hot drink on a cold day.

J. Edgar

2012-01-25T20:47:00.000Z

J. Edgar is a near textbook example of how to appeal to film awards bodies:

Prestigious director? Check
Towering performance by a Hollywood megastar? Check
Controversial historical figure? Check

And so on.

This is certainly Leonardo Di Caprio’s movie, who turns in a performance that is by turns both charming and chilling. One moment, DiCaprio’s Hoover is flirting with pretty young things, the next he’s deploying the machinery of government apparently guided by little more than the sort of deep rooted paranoia that would normally be associated with tin foil hat wearing fruit loops.

Certainly, for someone like me i.e. a non-American with only a nominal familiarity with the life and times of Hoover, J. Edgar functions well as an introductory peek. The relationship with his mother (Judi Dench as an icy American matriarch who could have matched Mrs. Bates in terms of overbearing behaviour), is particularly fascinating, if a little shallow. And the film certainly does a brilliant job of depicting Hoover’s undeniably immense influence on the US justice system, contrasting his quest for a more scientific and evidence-based approach with a megalomaniacal vanity that drove him to fire agents simply for stealing focus. There’s even a surprisingly touching nod to the (apparently scurrilous) rumours that Hoover was a cross-dresser.

But for every stroke of finesse, there’s a flaw, the biggest of which is the ageing of its youthful cast. DiCaprio fares better, his natural boynishness fading into jowly senescence as the film flashes back and forth. Unfortunately, the no doubt first class crew appear to be powerless in the face of Armie Hammer’s Ken doll good looks. For some reason, no amount of latex or liver spots can stop him from looking like a modern day matinee idol wearing fake wrinkles. No doubt the make up will still be nominated for an Oscar next week, but judging by last week’s Golden Globes I suspect this has much to do with the fact that people in LA La Land have no idea what old people actually look like (I’ve a sneaking suspicion that at the first sign of a wrinkle, old folk are taken out the back, turned into Soylent Green and recycled into wheatgrass smoothies…). Even without the make up, Hammer’s ridiculous good looks often distract from what is actually a very fine performance as Hoover’s lifelong deputy Clyde Tolson, not helped by a script that doesn’t really bother to develop his character.

Like The Iron Lady, J. Edgar cracks under the weight of its ambitions, but even more so given that it tries to cram more than 50 of the most interesting and turbulent years in American history from the perspective of one of its most controversial figures into just over 2 hours. Like the latest Thatcher biopic, it also glosses over what some consider to be key elements to Hoover’s story. In the film, Hoover’s single minded pursuit of Martin Luther King is intense, but somewhat inexplicable - a couple of clicks on Google are all that is needed to discover Hoover’s apparently well known racism. By the same token, McCarthyism, Kennedy’s assassination, the protests of the 60s and other cultural touchstones in modern American history barely merit a mention. It’s clear from the IMDb entry (which credits a great deal more people than actually appear in the film) that vast swathes of the film vanished during the editing process, leading me to wonder, wistfully, how much better this might have been as a trilogy.

It would have been bad form (not to mention bad movie making) to create a completely one sided account of Hoover’s life. But so little is known about Hoover’s background and private life, that a little more speculation might have leavened the whole endeavour. Little wonder then that the most interesting moments are the (fictional) scenes between Hoover and Tolson, informed largely by speculation since so little is known about Hoover. Sadly, this marks the extent of the artistic licence taken - no-one, apart from Hoover, has more than one dimension to them, and there are more questions raised (about Hoover’s father, brother and relationships with women) than are satisfactorily answered.

J. Edgar isn’t a bad movie - it has too much pedigree for that - but I did come away with a nagging sense that without its top drawer cast and director, it’s not much more than a very glossy, very ambitious movie-of-the-week (an assessment supplemented by the hordes of American TV actors - poached from everything from Friends to Burn Notice - that crop up in every other scene). It seems unlikely that this Oscar bait is fit to catch anything more than a few minnows and an old boot.

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

2012-01-22T17:46:00.000Z

(aka Harry Potter and the Mediocre Movie Adaptations)

Seven books, eight years and millions of numb bums later, and the billion dollar franchise finally came to a juddering halt, spliced by Warner Bros into not one but two films with a combined run time of 276 minutes (under the guise of doing justice to all 608 pages of JK Rowling’s battering ram of a book, naturally).

And remember, this is primarily a franchise for little people with little attention spans and even littler bladders - having opted through a mixture of laziness and ennui to wait until I could watch both films back-to-back on Sky, I was mightily glad of the opportunity to hit the pause button a few times myself.

But I digress. It turns out that Deathly Hallows is, both literally and metaphorically, a film of two halves. Part 1 is a long, meandering and largely pointless 146 minute prologue with precisely two highlights: the starkly animated short that tells the story of the Deathly Hallows and the death of a certain house elf (the film’s most affecting performance by some distance). Rowling’s final book barely masks the fact that it largely revolves around a trio of stroppy teenagers traipsing about to little effect, but no-one (self included) really cared when it was released at the height of Potter mania in 2007. Flash forward to 2010, and Potter was being Eclipsed by the latest instalment of the anaemic Twilight saga, which eventually did more worldwide box office than the boy wizard’s penultimate outing. Yes, like its predecessors, Deathly Hallows is bigger, darker and bolder, but unlike the books, which brim with death and danger (at least as much as a book that makes such prolific use of the word ‘muggles’ can), most of the darkness comes courtesy of the lighting. But despite the money and talent thrown at the screen, the franchise remains oddly unintelligible, even to those familiar with Rowling’s works of fiction. And unsurprisingly for a film that is primarily a string of events plucked at random from the book, it has all the emotional heft of a mass produced greeting card.

It took Part II (and a timely Christmas repeat of The Philosopher’s Stone) to highlight just how far Radcliffe & Co. have come. There are still missteps, but by Part II, it’s clear that many of the franchise’s weaknesses stem from the lacklustre adaptations and not (as I had almost irrevocably managed to persuade myself) from the performances of its young stars. The climactic battle at Hogwarts could have been a thrilling setpiece, but the endless cutaways to the ongoing search for the wretched horcruxes robs it of any paces. Compare and contrast this to Lord of the Rings: Return of the King. Like Deathly Hallows, it ends with an epic battle intercut with the final steps of a quest to destroy a cursed talisman. Unlike Deathly Hallows, it manages to do this without undermining the story it’s telling.

Having frittered away more than two hours in Part I to little effect, Part II is so rushed that characters appear and disappear quicker than a Whack-A-Mole on speed. And thanks to the (anti) climax of the big battle, the final confrontation feels bereft of excitement - as with the rest of the franchise, a less rigid interpretation of the book would have made a world of difference. Instead, The Boy Who Lived very nearly has his own movie stolen out from under him by Alan Rickman’s brilliantly tortured Severus Snape, and Ralph Fiennes’ snarling Lord Voldemort. Harry’s long dark tea-time of the soul as he wanders the English countryside is a wan distraction next to The Dark Lord’s murderous and unhinged rampage through the wizarding world.

But what’s done is done. Deathly Hallows is a fitting end to the Potter franchise, and in many ways, is the best film of the lot. It’s just a shame that after spending more than a billion dollars and employing virtually every member of the UK’s venerable acting establishment that the results weren’t more astounding.

My Week With Marilyn

2012-01-18T17:52:00.000Z

Notting Hill: The Prequel

The true story of an unlikely fling between a fresh faced public school boy and the world’s most famous star, MWWM is (despite the deceptive lack of corsets) a solidly decent period film of the kind at which Brits excel.

The performances are impeccable, with Dame Judi Dench and Julia Ormond emanating old school elegance and grace throughout. But unsurprisingly, the film belongs to Michelle Williams. It would be easy to underestimate the difficulty of portraying an historical figure who is by now more icon than flesh and blood woman. It certainly involves more than donning a platinum blonde wig - Michelle Williams never really bears more than a passing physical resemblance to Marilyn Monroe, and (notwithstanding the attempts to manufacture Monroe’s renowned curves with padding), lacks her va va voom. Instead, Williams’ performance rests on her ability to channel Monroe’s luminescent quality, her ability to switch ‘it’ on and light up a room, or a 50 foot screen, flitting continually between helpless, lost child and self-destructive siren. In one of the most memorable scenes, Marilyn is confronted by fans while touring the English countryside, quietly uttering “Shall I be Her?”, before posing and preening for her impromptu audience. It’s Williams’ apparently effortless ability to weave together a string of moments like that which breathe life into a version of Marilyn that feels both real and unknowable.

Looming in the back ground, Laurence Olivier’s muttered suspicions about Monroe’s manipulative tendencies merely burnish Williams’ performance, leaving the audience in a perpetually state of bewilderment as to who Monroe really was.

The men do not fare so well. Kenneth Branagh, as British icon Laurence Olivier, always seems to be playing second fiddle to Williams’ Monroe, despite enjoying vast swathes of screen time. It is perhaps fitting, as his Olivier is an acerbic reflection of Monroe, only his insecurities manifest themselves as witheringly bombastic contempt in the face of Monroe’s utter bewilderment. Even so, it sometimes feels as though Branagh is trapped in the hinterlands of the movie, as his story is only half explored.

By the same token, many of the film’s characters are somewhat one dimensional - at times, even Eddie Redmayne’s protagonist, Colin Clark, casts an irritating shadow across the events of the film, frequently displaying a borderline absurd naiveté about the world. More often than not however, his Bambi like innocence is the perfect foil to the ambiguity of Marilyn Monroe’s own motivations.

Sadly, despite it’s best efforts, MWWM always looks like the (very expensive) BBC production that it is. Certainly, the over earnest voiceover doesn’t help, anchoring the Notting Hill scenario all too firmly to its English grounding, while its ‘slice of life’ approach may leave some unsatisfied.

Williams’ certainly deserves recognition for her turn, but it’s as much despite as because of the wider production. MWWM often takes off, but rarely soars, and when it does, it’s almost entirely because Michelle Williams’ has come so staggeringly close to being…Her.

Another Earth

2012-01-17T17:40:00.000Z

On its surface, Another Earth is an indie Sliding Doors, or Butterfly Effect, a ‘what if?’ movie without the distraction of famous names (notwithstanding William ‘cousin-of-Tom-Cruise’ Mapother) and a big budget. Brit Marling is mesmerising as an ethereally beautiful young graduate who crosses paths with Mapother’s composer under tragic circumstances, the same night that a new planet appears in the sky.

It would be easy to get caught up in the mystery of the planet’s appearance: what it means, why it’s there, where it’s going. But the other earth is really a quietly clever way for writer-director Mike Cahill and co-writer Marling to pose big questions in an unobtrusive way. Strip away the veneer of science fiction and Another Earth is, at its core, a film about two wrecked people who find unexpected solace in each other, a story of grief and loss quietly reflected in Cahill’s beautifully raw cinematography. Mapother and Marling find an unlikely sliver of hope in each other, enough for even the most pessimistic viewer to begin to hope that there might be some way back from the abyss for them. Yet from the outset, there’s an air of inevitability about how their story will play out - Another Earth is a delicate lotus flower of a film that gently unfolds in its own time, leaving a gorgeous and all too fleeting spectacle. Even the abrupt ending, prompting as many questions as it answers, is a perplexing delight, the perfect way to punctuate a film that respects its viewers too much to tie itself up into a neat little bow.

If, next year, you’re looking for an alternative Christmas movie, there’s worse out there than Another Earth, a deceptively simplistic tale woven from hope, redemption and reflection. It’s just a pity that it has roughly a snowball’s chance in Bermuda of receiving any kind of major award.

The Iron Lady

2012-01-16T03:36:00.000Z

This Lady's not for turning into a biopic - at least not yet...

It’s difficult to know what to make of a film that has proven nearly as divisive as its protagonist, even among those who haven’t even seen it. Viewing the life of former PM and now Baroness Margaret Thatcher from the present day via a series of flashbacks, The Iron Lady has stoked ire from both the Right (who decry the decision to show Thatcher’s mental faculties in decline) and the Left (who are howling because, well, it’s a film about Margaret Thatcher). Such is the level of opprobrium being heaped upon the film from both sides that it requires Herculean efforts to judge its merits as a film.

Setting aside party politics, The Iron Lady is after all, the story of one of the most powerful and prominent women in recent history, a grocer’s daughter who rose to the very top at a time (first elected to parliament in 1959) when women were still largely tied to the domestic sphere. In a century where women in politics are still judged based on their membership of one of the two rival
harems
camps known as Blair’s Babes or Cameron’s Cuties (pauses to weep quietly for a moment), a biopic about the UK’s longest serving PM who was also the first - and to date, the only - woman to occupy the role, is surely worth celebrating?

Sadly, therein lies the rub. Margaret Thatcher is both a legend in her own time, and the proverbial boogie man - it’s virtually impossible to separate the woman from the politics. It’s equally implausible to attempt to cover eight decades of remarkable private and notorious public events in barely two hours. Like its obstinate protagonist, The Iron Lady is felled by its own ambition. Thatcher’s private life and personal relationships are tantalisingly glimpsed, but never explored. Based on their fleeting treatment, her early life in Grantham, relationship with her parents, courtship with Denis Thatcher, and later family life (particularly with her children) would all make for fascinating films in their own right. By the same token, the Falklands conflict, the riots, the strikes and any number of other nationally significant events during Thatcher’s premiership would all form the basis of compelling movies.

Instead, Iron Lady is the cinematic equivalent of a scrapbook, a story told in bits and pieces, but never in depth. It’s too brief to do more than gloss over every significant event in her life, not least the assassination of Airey Neave, and often requires a more than passing knowledge of contemporary political figures and events in order to understand the narrative. The result is a film that fails to portray with any depth or conviction either the personal or political history of - love her or loathe her - one of the most significant individuals in British history. The film has prompted complaints that it glosses over the upheaval of the miners’ strikes, but one could easily argue that Thatcher’s liberal stances on homosexuality and abortion are equally absent, if not more so. Jim Broadbent’s Denis Thatcher is relegated to a slightly clownish figment of MT’s imagination in the present, and virtually written out of her past.

In fact the film’s saving grace is, unsurprisingly, Meryl Streep. Despite the confused and ambivalent material, Streep has crafted a riveting performance (amply supported by Alexandra Roach as Maggie the Younger), somehow managing to believably inhabit the shoes of someone whose story is till being written.

Suffice to say a definitive biopic, if such a thing is possible, will almost certainly have to post date the lady herself, and while I rarely argue in favour of overtly biased film-making, will probably require at least two passes by both her detractors and lionisers. For now, The Iron Lady is a tantalisingly prologue, and abridged version of an engrossing life. It’s definitely a celebration of a talented, powerful woman occupying the upper echelons of her profession - but that woman is Streep, not Thatcher.

The Artist

2012-01-15T17:20:00.000Z

Silence is Golden...

The Artist has swept into UK cinemas on a tidal wave of critical acclaim, and a raft of increasingly major awards. Set in the late 1920s, just as the advent of sound overturns the Hollywood status quo, The Artist tracks the pride and fall of George Valentin (Jean DuJardin, best known over here for the OSS 117 espionage parodies) following a chance encounter with Peppy Miller (personified by the delightful Bérénice Bejo).

It’s a credit to those involved, particularly writer-director Michel Hazanavicius, that what is in effect one of the oldest tales in Hollywood, spun in everything from Singing in the Rain to Sunset Boulevard, is a beautifully crafted homage rather than the empty, prattling cliché it could so easily have become. DuJardin is terrific as the charming but conceited Valentin, with all the old school grace and swagger of Old Hollywoodland heartthrobs, from Douglas Fairbanks to Rudolph Valentino. By the same token, his co-star Bejo, though slightly sidelined at times, is captivating as the aptly named Peppy, big-eyed and beguiling from start to finish.

Yet it’s worth pausing to consider that The Artist is not, strictly speaking, a silent movie - it’s actually a movie that happens to be silent, an admittedly specious, but nonetheless important distinction. It’s a modern movie shot in black and white with only a single line of dialogue and virtually no sound apart from the musical soundtrack. But silent movies were a distinct genre. The absence of sound and dialogue necessitated a different approach to storytelling, with an emphasis on movement and action, not to mention brevity - the average length of a silent movie in 1910 was about 30 minutes.

By contrast, The Artist is 100 minutes long, positively curt by modern standards. But without the crutch of dialogue to lean on, 100 minutes is perhaps too long in this case. Instead, the audience is virtually required to spend portions of The Artist lip reading during scenes which, had they been cut, would undoubtedly have strengthened as well has shortened the film. Because The Artist works best during the (majority of) scenes that require little or no speaking. Shots of audiences applauding, of Valentin wandering the streets alone, the discovery of an anonymous but humiliating act of charity - all of these moments are as gripping, perhaps more so for not being accompanied by hackneyed dialogue. Bejo and DuJardin excel at pratfalling, their shameless mugging and jazz age japes only serving to highlight the pathos they evoke elsewhere, all the more startling for being totally reliant on their physical performance alone.

What I’m trying to say I suppose is that The Artist is a wonderful movie, but one that perhaps panders to critics and fans of early Hollywood movies a little more than the average modern cinema goer - the final line (spoken out loud), may feel a little anti climactic for some, but it’s rich with meaning and Tinseltown history. It’s a film that wants to be clever (the much mooted dream sequence) as well as heartwarming (any scene involving James Cromwell’s Driver or Valentin’s adorably faithful mutt), but occasionally finds it difficult to reconcile the two (the final set of intertitles are the punchline to a joke that feels a little jarring). And yet by the time the final foot has tapped, all such minor (and in the grand scheme of things, they are minor) flaws will be forgiven.

Go because the media has stoked your curiosity, but stay because of the unabashed feelgood factor. If you can escape the relentless buzz around The Artist, it is a gem of a movie that will help you relocate the cockles of your heart.

New Year's Eve

2011-12-31T22:30:00.001Z

New Year's Heave

Less of a sequel, and more of a tie in to last year’s vapid Valentine’s Day, New Year’s Eve takes every celebrity with a gap in their schedule and throws them onscreen willy nilly in the hope that something will stick. Sadly for audiences and their seasonally depleted wallets, the result is a lot like new year’s eve itself - an unfortunate, anti climactic expense that makes you wish you’d stayed in and gone to bed instead. NYE isn’t just a shallow (forgiveable), saccharine (tolerable) indulgence for its self-satisfied, preening cast of media whores (none of whom need the money or the exposure). It’s also a boring, bloated blimp of a movie whose only redeeming feature is that it might (if you’re lucky) send you to sleep, which is by far the best way to spend two hours.

Its tangled mess of wafer thin storylines - a race to have the first baby of the new year, a wish list that needs to be completed by midnight, a make or break career opportunity and so (endlessly) on - don’t so much compete with as completely obliterate each other. Instead of sweet, life affirming vignettes, the hapless viewer is instead bombarded by the sight and sound of inordinately smug, beautiful New Yorkers (and Hilary Swank) boasting unfeasibly cool jobs (music exec, comic book artist, costume designer etc.) killing time before they wind up at their predictably warm, fuzzy denouements. The only attempt to inject an ounce of humanity or realism into this clinical exercise in separating people from their money is the abominably insulting scene between a soldier and a nurse, which merely serves to underline the vacuous (not to mention ethnically cleansed) nature of a movie set in one of the greatest and most rough and tumble cities in the world.

The fact that NYE and its predecessor were helmed by Garry Marshall, the man who managed to turn a life of prostitution into an iconic movie fairytale, merely rubs salt into the suppurating psychological wounds caused by having wasted both time and money watching this flaccid excuse of a movie. In fact one of the only good things about NYE is that it isn’t the worst film on Robert De Niro’s increasingly dire CV - which is kind of like saying chlamydia isn’t the worst STD out there.

If you have a hankering for a seasonal, feel good movie bursting at the seams with famous faces, then do your bit to punish everyone responsible for this tedious puke of a movie by consigning it to the bottom of the box office/DVD bargain bin, and watching Love, Actually instead.

The Illusionist

2011-12-29T17:18:00.000Z

Proof that a picture can speak a thousand words

A magician in the twilight of his career has his life changed forever by a young fan. That description and the fact that Jacques Tati, the grand doyen of French comedic cinema, might lead the unwary to believe that The Illusionist is a light hearted slice of animated cinema. Much of the time, it certainly fits the bill - from comically drunk Scots brimming with bonhomie, to bad tempered bunny rabbits, there’s lashings of gentle whimsy on display.

It’s also a viscerally visual experience, practically a silent movie. What little dialogue there is tends to be deliberately distorted beyond comprehension, forcing the viewer to keep their eyes peeled. Like Chico & Rita, there’s also a nostalgic pleasure to be had from watching hand drawn animation, the pleasingly jerky and caricatured movement of the characters and an assiduous attention to detail that isn’t limited to static in jokes lurking in the background. Even the palette of colours on display beautifully reflect the 50s setting - muted greys and vibrant browns with occasional splashes of colour.

Thus taken in by these simple pleasures, I failed to see where the film was heading until it was too late. It’s fair to say that the titular illusionist does more to change the life of his stowaway, Alice, than she does to change his. If you can sufficiently suspend your disbelief, and haven’t yet become completely jaded, Alice is charmingly naive, bringing a little joy into the dowdy lives of those around her. And while the illusionist is undoubtedly uptight, his attempts to protect and treasure Alice are heartwarming.

But sadly the story of two people is also the story of a dying tradition of vaudeville and music hall entertainment. True, our illusionist holds out much longer than many of his fellow performers (who provide a glimpse of genuine despair), spurred on by the need to care for Alice. But ironically, her iron cast belief in magic is a reflection of the dwindling interest in illusions in the world at large - a more savvy and jaded world which has no place for such simple pleasures as magic tricks. The showy boy bands with their screaming hordes of fans, the shop windows full of televisions, the fact that the illusionist’s most enthusiastically received performance is in a pub buried in the Scottish hinterlands - all signs carefully woven into the film, all mini portents of the death of a tradition and eventually, the illusionist’s own loss of faith.

There is so much to enjoy in a film brimming with charm, and tinged with melancholy - The Illusionist will leave you bewitched and, inevitably, just a little saddened.

Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol

2011-12-28T17:14:00.000Z

The Cruiser’s back and he’s toothier than ever

From the peculiar opening credits (featuring clips from the movie you’re about to see), to the oddly sentimental final scenes, everything about MI:4 is a little…off. Not hugging-your-toilet-in-the-middle-of-the-night bad, but definitely throwing-away-the-last-of-the-milk-just-to-be-on-the-safe-side…off. Framed for the bombing of the Kremlin (the Kremlin!), Ethan and his IMF team (an unfortunate acronym for a crack taskforce being sent to prevent a literal global meltown - insert your own joke here) are disavowed, left to fend for themselves, clear their names and prevent World War III, all before tea time.

The problem is, it all feels a little bit retro (and not the good kind where you reminisce about watching Thundercats and Grange Hill either). It’s been five years since the last MI film, and movies (particularly spy movies) have changed a lot since then. MI3 came out the same year that Daniel Craig’s rebooted 007 turned James Bond from a cheesy lothario using improbable gadgets to escape from even more improbable laser based death traps in his nemeses’ lair, into someone who looks like he could actually kill someone with one hand tied behind his back. But the writing’s been on the wall since 24’s Jack Bauer (2001) and 2002’s Jason Bourne demonstrated that an effective government agent requires little more than a taciturn demeanour and a rolled up magazine - every action thriller since has traded on a variation on the same theme.

Which is precisely why MI:4 feels slightly stale. Throw in a plot involving global nuclear war perpetrated by a mad scientist from Sweden (a detail that I would consider ironic in a better movie given the origins of theNobel prizes) who is curiously capable of kicking the ass of the US government’s super spy, and it all starts to feel juuuust a little too 1982. The real surprise is that this is directed by Brad Bird, the guy behind The Iron Giant and The Incredibles, superlative films, animated or otherwise. But whereas those movies started with a story and went from there, Bird appears to have been stymied from the outset, having been handed a fully formed concept.

The same can also be said for Tom Cruise himself. His balding, beer gutted movie exec was easily the best thing about Tropic Thunder, swiftly followed by a pastiche of his own borderline psychotic charm in Knight & Day. Agent Ethan Hunt inevitably feels like a step backward for the Hollywood star whose light has been flickering ever since his impromptu trampolining on Oprah’s sofa. Suffice to say, I’m looking forward to his turn as a glam rock superstar in next year’s Rock of Ages than I am about the prospect of a fifth MI installment.

None of this makes MI4 a bad film. The set pieces range from the good to the incredible (Cruise’s ascent of Dubai’s Burj Khalifa will induce vertigo in even the hardiest cinema goers, while the opening prison break promises more than is perhaps eventually delivered), Jeremy Renner is impeccable as one of the new additions to the IMF team (standing him in good, if somewhat ironic, stead for his takeover of the Bourne franchise next year) and Tom Cruise does what he does best, spending more time running than Usain Bolt at an athletics training camp.

Still, at over two hours long, the action does start to pall, particularly when it’s tied together with the usual threadbare shoestring of an MI plot - after 15 minutes, what started as an exciting chase through a vicious dust storm eventually starts to feel more and more like an excuse to make savings on the special effects budget. Simon Pegg is stuck between comic relief (good) and action hero (…not so good), while Paula Patton has little to do except look stunning as the token female despite an inordinate amount of screen time.

In a nutshell, both Cruise and his audience have outgrown the 12A thrills of the MI franchise - the fact that MI4 feels a little like a nostalgic swansong may mean that Cruise knows it too.

A Very Harold & Kumar 3D Christmas

2011-12-26T23:50:00.000Z

Higher than Santa's sleigh

Tradition dictates that a review start with a short précis of the film’s plot. However, it’s rather more pertinent to ask you to consider the following: naked nuns, stoned two year olds and shooting Santa in the face - if none of these things shock or appal you, then this could well be the Christmas movie for you.

AVHK3DC is brimming with nudity, drug taking and knob gags (including a scene involving a cold pole and a hot beverage that rivals There’s Something About Mary in the leg crossing stakes). But they’re definitely not there to titillate, in much the same way that the movie’s plot (John Cho’s titular Harold needs a 12 foot tree) is not there for story telling purpooses. Like its predecessors, AVHK3DC is a string of bizarre, balls out (literally in at least one memorable claymation instance) stoner comedy sketches. There are even a handful of more sophisticated jokes thrown in for good measure: on the way to crash an exclusive house party, Kal Penn’s Kumar replies ‘Who’s gonna believe that?’ when told to pretend he works at the White House.

Fans of the franchise will also be pleased to know that Neil Patrick Harris is back (despite being gunned down by hookers in the last instalment - don’t worry, it’s explained), although like the rest of the characters, he too has moved on. Instead of pillorying his Doogie Howser MD days, NPH skewers both his status as an openly gay Hollywood male, and Barney Stinson (his nymphomaniac alter ego on How I Met Your Mother) in one fell swoop. Other cameos abound, most notably Danny Trejo as Harold’s terrifying father-in-law.

In fact, despite the nominal nod to the inevitability of growing up and being responsible, the only real difference in the third film is that it’s coming at unsuspecting audiences in 3D, shamelessly taking advantage of the format - pot smoke frequently weaves over the audience’s heads, while barely a scene passes in which some object isn’t thrown, poked, or otherwise projected from the screen. Yes, the laughs are cheap, but that doesn’t mean they’re not funny, although I suspect it may lose a little something in the translation to 2D on DVD and Blu ray.

It is what it is: drink, drugs, and thoroughly gratuitous nudity - everything we’ve come to expect from the two least straight-laced Asians Americans on screen, breaking barriers one spliff at a time (it’s nice to see an entirely new racial sterotype - the cuddly stoner - being added to the existing catalogue of token nerd and gang banger). Harold and Kumar remain good, unclean, entirely un-family friendly fun, definitely not suitable for kids (and probably not most adults either). Merry Christmas.

Sherlock Holmes: A Game Of Shadows

2011-12-18T15:28:00.000Z

Sherlock Holmes: A Very Victorian Bromance

Despite mixed reviews, being beaten to the top of the US box office by an Alvin and the Chipmunks threequel (oh the shame) and my own personal ambivalence (of which more later), Sherlock Holmes 2 is actually ok. Following on from last year’s surprisingly enjoyable romp across Victorian London, part 2 sees Robert Downey Jr’s derelict gentleman detective forced into a reunion with Jude Law’s honeymooning (and not altogether willing) Dr. Watson in order to face off against Professor James Moriarty, that most arch of Holmes’ enemies. Rumours that Brad Pitt would cameo as Moriarty, which surfaced after the last film, were much exaggerated - instead Jared Harris turns in a wickedly psychotic performance as a master criminal whose intellect even dwarfs that of Sherlock Holmes.

And as goes the villain of the piece, so goes the whole film. As with any sequel, the pressure is on for more. And whereas the first movie was a relatively light hearted caper featuring a villain straight out of a Victorian gothic novel, Harris’ Moriarty is both chilling and charming. Part 2 is darker, more grown up, more twisty and turny than an Alpine motorway and, for better or worse, places more emphasis on character and relationships than its predecessor. Like the BBC reboot, any notion of a bumbling Dr. Watson is banished by another charismatic turn from Law. His Watson, not to mention Noomi Rapace’s gypsy fortune teller, are able foils for Downey Jr’s hyperactive mania.

To his credit, Ritchie manages to avoid the usual ails of sequelitis (too many villains and sidekicks, hollow visuals, and not enough story). But those that enjoyed the breakneck pace of the first film may find the sequel drifting into exposition a little too often. Sure, the dynamic duo are much more of a partnership (as opposed to a hero and his sidekick), and the droll interludes featuring Stephen Fry as Holmes’ brother are welcome (even if his nude scene is perhaps less so). But even so, there’s a noticeable shift away from pure action and banter, which may not go down so well in some quarters.

Still, the setpieces, when they arrive, are well worth the wait. Some may find Ritchie’s quick-quick-slow visual effects a little repetitive, but the result is a brilliant ballet of comic book violence, in merciful contrast to the epilepsy inducing jump cutting or gimmicky 3D. Instead, the audience is allowed to enjoy the money being thrown at the screen, from steampunk military hardware to bombs ripping through turn of the century European architecture. Action scenes are previewed in slow motion before being re-run in bone crunching real-time - a treacle slow chase through a forest as Holmes and his cohorts flee bombs and snipers is a particular standout.

It may be a touch too slow, and a tad too long, but among the tangle of depressingly worthy Oscar contenders currently dominating cinemas, the rapacious wit and wonder of Sherlock & Co is a welcome tonic indeed.

Moneyball

2011-12-06T19:00:00.000Z

It’s all about the money (except that it’s not).

There are many things about Moneyball that shouldn’t work. Not only is it a film about baseball (a sport that virtually no-one outside the US and Cuba understands), it’s a film about baseball statistics. It boasts a screenplay written by Aaron Sorkin, the man who made software programming interesting with last year’s Facebook movie, but lacks his patented scattergun, razor sharp dialogue, relying instead on real and mock stock footage punctuated by lengthy silences. And it’s a story with no real ending as characters, plots and events appear and disappear, seemingly at random, during two hours of movie that cover an entire season of baseball at an oddly glacial pace.

But if (and granted, this is a big ‘but if’), you can put all of that aside, Moneyball is a thoughtfully crafted little morality tale posing as a sports movie. Taken at face value, it’s a about The Little Team That Could. Brad Pitt turns in an admirably composed yet charismatic performance as real life ex-baseball player Billy Beane, General Manager of the Oakland A’s, a baseball team trying to take on the League’s big boys with a shoestring budget (fans of Everton and other premier league football clubs without endless transfer budgets will no doubt sympathise).

So far, so Disney, but the best sports movies are always metaphors for something else, and the same applies here. The events covered in Michael Lewis’ excellent book are merely a hook on which to hang a (perhaps cautionary) tale about what happens when you attempt to swim against the tide. At times, Moneyball appears to be almost singlemindedly designed with that in mind. If characters appear and disappear at random, it’s because we’re not really interested in his ex-wife or his 12 year old daughter - they’re simply there to remind us what Beane has to lose as he takes on the dreadnought machinery of a national pastime that’s barely changed in a hundred years. Even Jonah Hill, playing his right hand man with enjoyably low key panache, is as much a framing device as he is part of the story - his Yale educated economist serving an apprenticeship provides a stark contrast to Pitt’s washed up ball player who turned down a university scholarship. Even the old school trainers and scouts that make up Pitt’s team (including Phillip Seymour Hoffman in a role that gifts him with barely twenty lines to say) are ciphers, designed to highlight how the deepset resistance to change that permeates the current system. The players perhaps get the shortest of straws, stripped of all personality, and reduced to pawns in an exquisite game played not on the diamonds, but in the backrooms of baseball.

To top it all off, the ending may strike some as…a little downbeat (unless you’re a Red Sox fan). By the end of the film, Pitt’s Beane seems to have let his heart go to his head, so used to going against the grain that he can’t seem to enjoy the fruits of his labours. That’s not to say that this is a film about stats devoid of humanity (in much the same way that The Social Network wasn’t just a film about the internet): there are feelings, thoughts and emotions brimming over and bubbling under throughout the film. It’s just that the people and personalities are the the needle and thread of the story being told here, rather than the tapestry itself.

But if - if - you can swallow all of that, this little film with the big movie stars is worth a look, and a gentle ponder.

50/50

2011-12-04T10:30:00.000Z

Turns out, I like those odds…

It’s saying something that I was tired, dehydrated and suffering from a thumping headache after dealing with a work emergency on the first day of my first week off for six months (and it isn’t even a whole week) when I went to see this movie - and I still enjoyed it.

Drawing on the experiences of Will Reiser - who wrote the screenplay - 50/50 focuses on Joseph Gordon-Levitt’s Adam, who’s diagnosed with cancer at the ripe old age of 27. Eschewing the mawkish sentimentality (and oestrogen overload) usually associated with films about serious illness actually makes 50/50 all the more able to yank at the heartstrings of its audience. When Adam is diagnosed with cancer, the news is not accompanied by photogenic tears and the military mobilisation of a vast, and unendingly patient and supportive network of friends and family who know exactly what to say. Instead, his doctor is hopelessly clinical, seeing Adam as a case study rather than a patient, his mother instantly histrionic and his best friend almost jovially laddish about the news. Yes, the music tumbles into the foreground, but it’s the soothingly bleak stylings of Radiohead, a pattern that is almost relentlessly adhered to throughout the film - gloopy background music is booted in favour of melancholy indie pop. Likewise, the film isn’t soft lensed to oblivion in warm comforting earth tones - hospitals are cold and sterile, Adam’s home seems dull and gloomy, outdoor scenes seem washed out. In other words, it looks just like real life most of the time.

That’s not to say that 50/50 doesn’t have its fair share of orchestral swellings, it’s just that they’re used more sparingly, and rarely (if ever) to openly manipulate the audience. Stripping away the usual Hollywood makeover that most illnesses get on their way to the big screen, Gordon-Levitt looks pale and wan, while Bryce Dallas Howard plays The World’s Least Supportive Girlfriend with panache. Similarly Angelica Huston, ably supported by Serge Houde, create a complex family dynamic as Adam’s mother and father, the latter’s Alzheimer’s adding an extra pathos to the story.

And peppered throughout are comic landmines that work because they ring true - a cathartic backyard bonfire, a post ‘medical macaroon’ high, and no small number of cringeworthy moments (not least when Adam and best friend Kyle - Seth Rogen - to get Adam laid using his cancer as a chat up line). And while the film belongs to Gordon-Levitt, Rogen and Anna Kendrick (the latter’s burgeoning career proving that even the Twilight franchise has a wafer thin silver lining), no character seems underwritten or underused. The Eureka moments, when they come, arrive without fanfare - when Kendrick’s grass green therapist turns Adam’s perceptions about his family upside down with a single, incisive remark for example, or the way in which the death of a character is handled. Similarly, Seth Rogen spends most of the film seemingly playing himself until a chance discovery forces a rethink of everything we’ve just watched.

Which is why, when 50/50 starts to jerk tears (and it will) it’s because we’ve spent the last 90 minutes getting to know a set of people - not just characters in a movie. By the time the (fictional) final scenes play out you’ll forgive the sprinkling of fairy dust. One of the most effortlessly funny and touching films of the year - if you can find somewhere that isn’t playing Breaking Dawn Part 1 on an endless loop on all of its screens, catch it before it disappears.

Twilight: Breaking Dawn Part 1

2011-11-27T11:00:00.000Z

Twi-hards, look away now...

My expectations for the latest instalment of modern cinema’s most insipid love story were barrel scrapingly low, tempered only be the mood enhancing banquet of Chinese food ingested beforehand. And yet somehow the creative minds behind Breaking Dawn (whose title so ominously declares that it is merely Part 1) managed to crush my MSG high and deliver the most preposterous two hours of film I’ve had to suffer through this year. It’s difficult to know where - or whether - to start.

The fact is, Catherine Hardwicke’s phenomenal bestsellers about a love story that should appeal to teenage virgin girls has hordes of fans of all ages and both genders. Peering around the cinema beforehand, I was hard pressed to identify any patrons who weren’t deep into their twenties and thirties, and frankly alarmed by the number of men who appeared to have bought tickets of their own free will. This is a franchise that has undone a hundred years of Hammer horror and Buffy the Vampire Slayer, to bring the world rich, good looking, ‘vegetarian’ vampires who only lurk in the shade in order to stop themselves from looking like they’ve stumbled out of a glitter party in one of Soho’s gay clubs. No wonder Jacob and his Native American brethren spend most of their time prowling angrily around a saga that portrays them as hot headed high school drop outs harassing the genteel and intellectual Cullens.

Nor is it any surprise that Kristen Stewart and Robert Pattinson generate fewer sparks as Bella and Edward than a firework display in the middle of a monsoon. A story about a relationship between man struggling to suppress the vicious, ugly monster within and a woman who learns to see beyond his demonic exterior - or perhaps finds herself drawn to that very darkness - is ripe with possibilities (see, ooooh, every other vampire film or tv series ever made, plus a fair few involving humans only). A story about an 18 year old who thinks that interminable pauses between sentences is a sign of emotional depth is…like being forced to sit through someone else’s adolescence - a boring series of non-events of little interest to anyone not directly involved.

And bear in mind this is one of the more interesting entries: it has weddings, nookie, demon pregnancies, sieges, werewolves vs. vampires, death, betrayal, heartbreak - in other words, you’d have to go some way to screw it up. Sadly, not only have the folk behind Twilight gone there, they’ve planted a flag and set up camp. The effects are unacceptable for a threequel raking in nine figures at the box office, the acting veers between wooden and hysterical, and the plot and dialogue make the infamous Sunset Beach turkey baster storyline look restrained. The sexual tension flickers between ridiculously coy (there’s more flesh on display in Disney’s The Little Mermaid) and downright disturbing (sex before marriage is bad, but marital sex that leaves you bruised and battered is an acceptable expression of love). As for the whole ‘imprinting’ storyline, well, that was just downright creepy. And it would be entirely redundant to point out that Breaking Dawn is brimming with plot cul de sacs and hordes of actors whose appearances are so limited that don’t even qualify as cameos. Some would say that this is a result of not having read the books, but it’s difficult to see how even hardcore fans could wring much enjoyment out of this.

All of this would be forgiveable - and vastly more entertaining - if played out with cheesy high camp. Unfortunately the whole enterprise is just as dour and portentous as its predecessors. It’s childish, boring, confused, madder than a box of frogs, and worst of all sorely lacking in shots of Jacob’s abs (the franchise’s only redeeming feature). And for the love of all that is good, would it kill Kristen Stewart to smile? For a film in which she gets married, gives birth and enjoys a love that apparently transcends death, our heroine looks like her pet hamster’s just been run over. But unlike low budget mockbusters or Hallmark TV movies, there’s no excuse for a production with so much money and talent (luckily I’ve seen other movies, not to mention Nurse Jackie, so I know at least some of the cast can act) to be so…woeful.

Easily one of the worst films of the year. And until the trauma starts to fade, I’m tempted to upgrade that to ‘ever’.

Tower Heist

2011-11-20T19:32:00.001Z

Tea leafs on the roof...

Sneaking in long after the best and brashest of the summer blockbusters have been and gone, Tower Heist attempts to capture the zeitgeist and throw in a little catharsis to boot. The result focuses on the attempts of a motley crew (led by Ben Stiller) to take back what’s theirs from Alan Alda’s sleazy Bernie Madoff style financier, a man so venal he’d steal the life savings of an OAP just to keep himself in muscle cars and heated outdoor pools. Despite starring Eddie ‘Everything He Touches Turns to Box Office Poison Recently’ Murphy, and a trailer that never promises anything more than strictly average entertainment, Tower Heist is…not bad. Yes, it deals in clichés, stereotypes, and the sort of gentle slapstick that peaked in the mid to late nineties.

But the result is straightforwardly cathartic movie experience for…let’s call them the 99%. Tower Heist is for everyone from the working stiff too busy working three jobs to set up a rent free polyester domicile on prime urban real estate, to the shoulder shrugging masses who might understand and accept the logic of the bailout but would still secretly like to kick a hedge fund manager in the short and curlies. It’s a modern day revenge movie, Robin Hood for the masses - a comforting slice of escapism that allows cynical audiences to imagine a world in which a tiny, coked up elite didn’t bring Western capitalism to its knees and saunter off to their tax havens with publicly subsidised bonuses…

But I digress. Had Heist stuck to bland, anti-banker wish fulfilment, it would have been forgettably good fun from beginning to end. Eddie Murphy phones in a serviceable performance as a brash, motor mouthed career criminal that will remind fans of his 80s heyday. Ben Stiller shows signs of mellowing in his dotage, dialling back his trademark Angry Man antics (apart from an excellent scene involving a baseball bat and a rich man’s toy). Hovering nervously in the background, Matthew Broderick does what he does best (looks worried), while Tea Leoni battles gamely with a token female role, while Gabourey Sidibe proves that there is life after starring in 2009’s most depressing film as an (unnecessarily Jamaican) housemaid. Casey Affleck’s unbelievably Bostonian concierge and Michael Pena’s knucklehead get a little lost in the mix, but it doesn’t really matter. Nor does it matter that certain storylines (not least two potential romances and a pressing greencard issues) simply evaporate, unresolved. And as for the gaping plot holes - well, it’s not trying to be Inception.

Nope, Tower Heist’s Achilles Heel lies in the fact that despite creating a monstrously smackable villain in Alan Alda, it still fluffs the ending. For some reason, rather than serving Alda’s head up on the plate, Heist instead takes the movie’s fragile chess metaphor too far. Like Smokin’ Aces, or Law Abiding Citizen, Tower Heist abandons its morally dubious but crowd pleasing convictions, in favour of a more poe-faced ending that belongs to a different film. The result is an indifferent film that disappoints instead of a stupid film that entertains. Those still searching for a suitable financial crisis movie for the masses will just have to wait for Eli Roth to make Hostel 3: Banker’s Refuge instead…

Immortals

2011-11-13T22:09:00.001Z

The hash of a trailer suggests that Immortals is a messy Clash of the Titans style sword and sandals epic that fails to capture the cheesy charm of 70’s classics like Jason and the Argonauts, and on the surface, it is. Despite (or perhaps because of) a cast that acts its socks off, Immortals takes itself too seriously - barely a smile is cracked during two hours of blood, guts and some rather grim torture. The creative team can’t even decide if they want to make a pure fantasy, or a reality based re-telling of a legend: the gods are real, but for some reason the Minotaur is a man suffering from an Ancient Greek version of ‘roid rage. As for the plot, it’s downright nonsensical, plucking a handful of characters and events from Greek mythology, and weaving them into sorry mess that bears as much resemblance to the original legends as a MacDonald’s hamburger does to a Kobe beef steak.

Mickey Rourke as King Hyperion actually manages to reign himself in, but only because his character, as written, is so psychotically over-the-top dishing out a constant stream torture and disfigurement to anyone unfortunate enough to be within striking distance. Henry Cavill and Frieda Pinto spend the entire film looking gorgeous enough to have been chosen for their looks alone rather than their talent, looking like couture models even when covered in grime. Elsewhere, Stephen Dorff and John Hurt are left to potter aroud on the periphery of the film apart from conform to the stereotypes of Reformed Tea Leaf and Wise Old Goat (Hurt is even credited as ‘Old Man’). Every other character in the movie is a mere redshirt - someone likely to be sliced, diced, or otherwise dispatched. All of which is indicative of director Tarsem Singh’s strength (and weakness), namely his ability to make more of an impact with a 30 second shot of rippling silk than with two hours of dialogue.

What the trailer fails to impart however, is that Immortals works best if you tune out the dialogue and just let the film wash over you. Singh is notorious for his glorious visuals, responsible for the stunning but incoherent ‘The Cell’ as well as the beautifully esoteric ‘The Fall’. For Immortals, he again prioritises style over substance. If you can ignore for a moment the monumental pretension of a director who wants to be credited simply as ‘Tarsem’, and instead enjoy the fruits of his labours: every frame of Immortals is a work of art.

The film abounds with dozens of shots that would make beautiful stills, from a serene Frieda Pinto against barren, earthen backdrops to Henry Cavill in mid-air, battle ready and full of rage, looking every inch the living sculpture. Even slightly tired effects like bullet time are dusted down and used to separate the mighty immortals from the awe stricken men. Mythological purists may well howl with rage at the perceived desecration of the original legends, but that would be to miss the point - Ancient Greek mythology is merely a convenient pretext that allows Singh to weave a moving tapestry. Even the decision to depict Hellenic civilisation as more multicultural than 21st century London appears to be an aesthetic choice rather than a politically correct one, as different shades of humanity swarm across the screen.

My abiding hope is that the DVD includes a director’s cut which exorcises the talk track and dishes up an extended music instead. Without the distraction of the absolute hash of a plot and overly portentous direlogue, Immortals would make a remarkable video installation in a quiet gallery somewhere - it makes next to no sense, but looks wonderful.

Tintin: The Secret of the Unicorn

2011-11-07T21:25:00.003Z

Blistering barnacles! Tintin explodes into 3D…

In an unidentifiably European version of London (or some part of Europe annexed by expat Brits - the Costa del Sol perhaps), the unfeasibly young, undauntedly intrepid, and nominally Belgian reporter Tintin innocently purchases a model of a 17th century ship. With this one small act, he unwittingly launches himself on a thrilling adventure that takes him halfway across the globe in a quest to uncover The Secret Of The Unicorn…

Setting aside such peripheral concerns as the subtext of the relationship between Tintin and Captain Haddock (not to mention creator Georges Rémi’s controversial views), on paper, Tintin’s latest movie outing is a fanboy (or girl’s) wet dream. Hergé’s classic tales, have been adapted for the screen by Stephen Moffat (most recently responsible for dreaming up most of the decent Doctor Who episodes and rebooting Sherlock for the BBC), Edgar Wright (geeky demi-god responsible for every nerdishly cool thing from Spaced to Scott Pilgrim), and Joe Cornish (who’s graduated from the Adam & Joe show to alien invasion indie ‘Attack the Block’). The effects have been lovingly rendered by Peter ‘Lord of the Rings’ Jackson’s FX high temple, the Weta workshop. To top it off, the whole shebang is directed by His Beardiness Steven Spielberg (no explanation required). And that’s before you throw in a stellar cast led by Jamie ‘Billy Elliot’ Bell, Daniel ‘007’ Craig and Edgar Wright’s bosom buddies Nick Frost and Simon Pegg, as bumbling twin detectives Thompson and Thomson.

It certainly doesn’t want for thrilling setpieces - piratical attacks, duelling dockyard cranes, and the inadvertent destruction of a sleepy town are merely among the most memorable. In fact, the flashback in which two blazing 17th century ships swirl violently in the middle of a raging sea, masts entangled, easily outdoes anything in the last Pirates of the Caribbean movie. Add to that the rip roaring 3D, and Tintin certainly looks spectacular. And yet…somehow it just doesn’t work. Despite the maelstrom of action taking place on screen, watching Tintin is an oddly clinical experience.

In part, this stems from the gap between the cutting edge animation on display and the resolutely old fashioned story. The Secret of the Unicorn is about maps and kidnappings and pirates. It’s a film in which humans fall off buildings and dogs get buffeted around with nary a scratch to show for it. It’s a film in which only one character dies, in a surprisingly bloodless hail of machine gun fire. In other words, it’s a film rooted firmly in a bygone/neverwas world of Saturday morning serials and boy’s own adventures. The whole enterprise is just…dissonant.

The real shame is that the opening credits of Unicorn mimic, which Hergé’s original illustrations (but with more élan), look so good they almost undermine the technical wizardry that follows. While digital 3D animation looks gorgeous, films like Chico & Rita, and Waltz with Bashir forcefully demonstrate that substance matters more than style (and that style itself means nothing if used in the wrong context). Both the aformentioned animated features are aimed at grown ups, and both are completely absorbing, despite (if not because of) the pared down use of traditional animation. Certainly, one can’t help but wonder how different the film might have been had the producers taken a real risk and made a more traditional (i.e. retro) animated film.

Spot the difference…

I’m certainly no purist - despite being an avid bookworm, my childhood reading material was thoroughly devoid of the globetrotting reporter’s adventures, and even now, Tintin remains a respected cultural icon rather than a beloved literary hero. And in all honesty, it’s difficult to argue that Tintin is a bad film: the voice work is great, as are the Andy Serkis patented mo-cap performances, and - despite a tongue lashing from critics that suggests otherwise - the characters largely manage to avoid falling into the uncanny valley (although truth be told, Tintin does occasionally look a little shark-eyed). The story starts at a gallop and speeds up from there and thanks to a ream of books waiting to be adapted, a sequel is all but guaranteed. Still (and perhaps it’s just one of those inexplicable things) all the pieces are there: they just don’t fit together.

Real Steel

2011-10-22T17:04:00.000+01:00

Rocky Meets Short Circuit…

Real Steel probably has the best pitch of any movie right now: it’s Rocky with robots - and it stars Wolverine. Or, if you prefer the unabridged version, a former boxer on a lifelong losing streak reunites with his son, trains up a no-hoper and somehow gets to take a shot at the world title. With robots.

Sadly, despite the best efforts of everyone involved, Real Steel never quite delivers a knock-out blow. For starters, it spends far too much time setting up a rather bog standard premise. Estranged father and son? Check. Underdog? Check. Pantomime villain nemeses? Check, check and check. Add to this a misguided attempt to portray Hugh Jackman as a deadbeat dad (something the Oklahoma singing, Tony Award winning actor is simply too nice too convincingly pull off) and the first half hour or so is a little shonky.

Elsewhere, the film desperately casts about for plots, sub-plots and characterisation. But why bother? Real Steel is the sort of feel good, family film for which movie shorthand was invented: shiny, futuristic black robots with glowing eyes = Bad. Scrawny little rust buckets like our hero Atom = Good. Redneck cowboys, Russian babes wearing too much kohl and stylish uber nerds who hate to be bested? Bad. Girl-next-door brunettes, little blonde moppets and former boxers who just won’t quit? Good. Et cetera...

Instead of adding depth, the added detail simply slows the film down, highlighting the waste of talent on display – most notably a peripheral Anthony Mackie and a lovely but sidelined Evangeline Lilly. In fact, had the film-makers simply replaced all the half-baked efforts to develop storylines and characters with more ‘bot-on-‘bot action, they would arguably have ended up with a better film.

Because, Jackman’s 1000 megawatt smile notwithstanding, the robots are the star attraction. While some of the faux HP products (Steel boasts some of the most breathtakingly blatant product placement ever shoehorned into a film, including an amusing plug for an Xbox 720), look jarringly out of place, the robot warriors themselves seem comfortably at home in the anonymous America of the film. It may lack the billion dollar shock and awe factor of the Transformers trilogy, but unlike Michael Bay, Steel director Shawn Levy isn’t trying to make films so visually hyperactive that they induce epileptic seizures. In fact there’s a surprisingly primal satisfaction to be had from the pared down robot on robot smackdown – it’s a little like watching a less nerdy version of Robot Wars. On steroids.

By the second half of the film, Real Steel openly revels in cliché, shamelessly ripping off boxing classics like Rocky and The Champ. As Jackman’s showboating son, pint-sized Dakota Goyo also sends up Don King’s ebullient theatrics, and gifts the films with its best scene as he does The Robot - with a robot. Steel even takes a few pot shots at the sport - money, corruption, showmanship - but these are gentle jabs rather than knockout blows.

Yes, Steel is flawed, largely because it can’t decide what sort of film it is. But even though it never soars, neither does it sink. Go for the story of the little ‘bot that could, but stay for the robot smackdowns, because despite its numerous flaws, Real Steel is still a movie about robot boxing – and it stars Wolverine! What’s not to like?

Ping Pong

2011-10-21T12:00:00.000+01:00

A growing chain of upmarket dim sum restaurants whose raison d'etre is to serve the discerning grazer "Little steamed parcels of deliciousness". Or more accurately, "Overpriced little steamed parcels of deliciousness". Or, in my opinion, "Underwhelming, overpriced little steamed parcels of deliciousness", even more so now that they've removed one of my favourite dishes from the menu (the seafood clay pot rice since you ask).

Ping Pong is a tolerable example of what happens when street food from another culture gets pimped out for UK diners.

It's best feature are the 'Lazy Dimsumdays' - all you can eat (from a reduced menu that excludes desserts, seasonal dishes and chef specials) for £18.95. On the plus side, if you eat between 12pm and 2pm, you get a free drink thrown in, which vastly improves the value (and the mood of the diner, since it includes cocktails). It's also good for easing fussy eaters (who may otherwise be terrified by the rows of leathery looking ducks strung up in the windows of Gerrard Street) into the 'my dumpling is your dumpling' mode of eating that epitomises dim summery.

However, if you have more self control and less greed than I, you'd be better off trundling into Chinatown in order to enjoy the real (comparatively) thing for approximately half the price, and twice the taste. Yes, the service from the average Gerrard Streeet institution means you're more likely to get your food hurled at you than delivered with a smile by a perky waitress, but that's half the fun of eating in Chinatown.

Havin' a Giraffe

2011-10-20T12:30:00.000+01:00

is a chain of casual restaurants that offers up a buzzy, world cuisine inspired dining experience for the post work / pre-play crowd across the UK.

Despite a distinctly underwhelming start (a Large Mezza that breached the Trades Description Act and created lots of scope for arguing over the single portions, not to mention the non-appearance of the falafels that were supposed to be included).

A few half price cocktails from the limited but decent 'Bar Buddies' list helped soothe my indignation (if not my empty stomach). The mango lime daquieiri (effectively a slushie for grown ups) and apple elderflower martini (probably one of my five-a-day?) may not have contained enough alcohol between them to inebriate a firefly, but they were at least tart and tasty.

The food did at least get better. For those that stuck to it, the 2 courses for £9.95 (a starter and a main) represented quite good value and, thanks to the extremely limited selection on offer, also have the added benefit of radically reducing the agony of choice for parsimonious customers. For gluttonous spendthrifts like me, the full menu offers a bewildering array of dishes whose influences criss cross the globe. I inadvertently opted for two new dishes - the Jumbalaya risotto comes with or without prawns, chorizo and chicken (naturally I chose with), was a little more meagre than I was expecting and I could have lived without the spring onion topping which was rather like a side serving of hay.

But it was the starter that really grabbed my attention- deep fried prawn dishes are often heavy and greasy, but this was light and crispy, Even better, whichever genius was in charge of making them in the kitchen that night managed to bring out the delicate taste of coconut, which I found deeply impressive (and delicious). Even without a spritz of lime or a dip in the sweet chilli sauce it was far better than I'd been expecting, and definitely something I'll be sneaking back to order again.

Elsewhere, the service was pretty good, plus the waiter seemed to take a shine to a member of our group, and gifted us with 'goodwill' sweet potato fries, also new to Giraffe's menu (which turned out to be good, if not a patch on the delectable ones served up at Haché).

Given my lingering suspicion of chain restaurants, this was definitely a positive experience, and a template of what a decent chain should aim to do - decent, affordable food served up with a smile.

Lucky's: Fine Delicacies from Wonderland

2011-10-17T19:00:00.000+01:00

Lucky's wares consist of a range of miniature brownies coated in a crisp chocolate shell. They look - and should taste - delicious, but after shelling out for three different samples at the 2011 Chocolate Unwrapped event, I discovered that this just wasn't so.

Lazy Rabbit - allegedly a Baileys flavoured confection, covered in milk chocolate. Unfotunately the light spnge doesn't quite fit with the decadence of the concept, and can't stand up to the other, richer elements in play. Atop the layer of sponge is like a creamy layer that barely tastes like Baileys, wrapped in slightly plasticky and cheap tasting milk chocolate used to the coat the whole thing.

Salty Insanity - purportedly a salted caramel inspired offering, this is covered in a better quality, dark chocolate, which helps. The cake element was also richer and denser, which was again an improvement on the Lazy Rabbit. However, the salted caramel element consisted of a couple of pebble sized pieces of chewy toffee, an unnecessary irritation for anyone expecting the delicious ooze of actual caramel (or any consumers with dentures - I'm still trying to free most of it from between my teeth).

Coco Rush - it was while tasting this one that I realised that part of the problem was the over enthusiastic use of cinnamon in the brownie mixture. What should have been a heavenly cross between a cake and a Bounty bar was instead a mouthful of cinnamon flavoured, coconut textured cake.

The packaging was tremendous (gorgeous little Alice in Wonderland styled boxes for each dinky brownie), but if only the contents had matched the presentation. I suppose they did if what you're looking for in a calorie rich treat is all style and no attention to substance. They look delectable, but frankly, given some of the other award winning products I tasted at Chocolate Unwrapped, I'm actually a little shocked that these brownies were the recipients of Gold Great Taste Awards. Certainly, at £2 a pop for something that doesn't extend more than an inch in any dimension (I've seen larger ice cubes), these ought to have been 24 carat delicacies. Sadly they were more like fool's gold.

X Factor / Saturday 15th October performances

2011-10-16T18:49:00.000+01:00

My mind blurts on this week's performances ahead of Sunday's ~~eviction~~ elimination

Nu Vibe - vocals all over the place frankly, even if you take into account that they're one of the few acts (capable of) dancing. Makes me wonder if the producers are rigging the show in order to preserve JLS' position as top dogs in the boy band establishment...

Sami Brookes - Maybe it was the song choice, but it did make her sound like a cruise ship singer, when she’s previously sounded like one of the best singers.

Craig Colton - another dodgy song choice that made Craig’s voice sound oddly off and strained. Sadly it demonstrates what may be a key weakness for him, namely that he may struggle to sing softly. I think the Bieber haircut and attempts to give it some during his performance may also be a mis-step…

Janet Devlin - I love the Irish accent (too many singers and groups these days still sing with indistinct or mock American accents), and her performance was lovely, but can’t shake the feeling that the cute act is just that. Hope I’m wrong.

Frankie Cocozza - setting aside the fact that even though the world seems to think he’s a loveably cheeky chappy, I simply feel slightly soiled even looking at him, he had a lame performance. This could easily be blamed on teh fact that his song was changed at the last minute. Or it could just be that without the mitigating influence of teenage hormones, he’s just a passably average vocalist (at best).

Jonny Robinson - Louie doesn’t seem to realise that Jonny is just seriously camp, not a proto transvestite performer or cabaret drag act. He’s got a fantastically high voice and could go cult if given a day glo Pet Boys/Communards look and sound. But at the moment, Louie is burying him under far too many layers of make up and ridiculous costumery. Even if it’s not insulting, it is downright embarrassing.

Marcus Collins - Did creditably on the vocals (better than some of hte other acts stright off), but the song did come perilously close to highlighting the weaknesses in hi voice, but he powered through it.

Rythmix - they at least looked like they were having fun, and certainly had the best start of any performance thus far. The stylistically different song (and the fact that the song was modern but slightly older than those performed by some of the other acts) also worked in their favour. It sounded a bit different, and that definitely worked for them in my opinion. Notwithstanding those happy factor, they also had excellent vocals. Shame Tulisa had to go and ruin it with her sub girl power comments…

Mischa B - one of the performers with the highest bar to meet with the funk and vocals to match some of this year’s better acts, topped off with the style of Grace Jones via Lady Gaga. Sad to see that this week’s costumer was a little too eighties, and while the vocals were great, the actual performance was altogether a little lacklustre. Shame really.

The Risk - stupid name (just had to get that off my chest up front). As for the vocals, they were no worse than any other band this week, and they are undeniably a bunch of pretty boys (but why don’t they dance?). They could definitely occupy a niche as a kind of Benetton flavoured JLS alternative/rival.

Sophie Habibi - Love that song, and while she didn’t knock it out of the park, she didn’t ruin it and unlike a number of other performers, she sounded like she was actually feeling something while she sang. Shame that it sounds inherently twee off the back of the Twinings advert cover version.

Kitty Brucknell - oh ye gods. What bugs me (most) about her is the way she thinks anyone who doesn’t adore her must be having an adverse a reaction to her ‘controversial’ performances. In my opinion, she’s about as controversial as a Horlicks, I just don’t like her on spec. However, Louie picked a highly apt song for her (even if Bjork’s version is vastly superior). She could yet turn her showboating and average vocals into a mid- to long-term career. But there have been and are artists that do this kind of thing much better and more imaginatively.

What's Your Number?

2011-10-13T18:00:00.000+01:00

Probably higher than the score for this film…

I’ll be honest. This was the least challenging movie showing at the cinema that didn’t involve 3D sharks, hence its appeal. In a nutshell, Anna Faris vows not to sleep with anyone else unless he’s ‘The One’ after learning (via the ever reliable medium of the woman’s mag) that 96% of women with more than 20 ex-partners are unable to find husbands - I don’t deny that it’s cinematic candy floss. Sadly, the experience wasn’t enhanced by the couple sitting next to me who appeared to have bought cinema tickets for the sole purpose of having somewhere cool and dark to sit and talk. And talk. AND TALK (you know who you are - I will find you. And tip my slushie over your head as payback).

Even without the efforts of The Annoying Ones, What’s Your Number? still isn’t premier league viewing. It’s a shame really - Anna Faris and Chris Evans are a likeable (and immensely buff) central couple, which makes them easy to root for/drool over. However, the film itself is merely a sequence of plot devices, some of which work, more of which don’t. It’s a terrible waste - few actresses have as much comic potential and willingness to make an ass of themselves as Faris (although I must grudgingly concede that her foray into plastic surgery has left her with a botoxed rabbit-in-headlights look which has not enhanced her comedic chops). Even the open goal of Faris re-visiting her exes is wasted - despite some promisingly perverse material, numerous cameos (including Martin Freeman, and a finger sniffing Joel McHale) are fluffed or wasted. The only positive is that the unmemorable male characters leave Blythe Danner clutching the best supporting actor role (as Faris’ demonically elegant mother) by default.

As for Evans, while he is effectively rehashing previous roles, most notably The Human Torch, as a cocky but loveable man ho’, he (and his magnificent abs) are still worth the price of entry (and guys - prepare to feel very bad about yourself). Plus the basketball scene is probably the sexiest thing involving one ball that you’ll see in a cineplex this year.

Unfortunately, despite a plausible premise (what woman hasn’t questioned everything about their existence after reading an article in a lifestyle magazine?), the film sags. I wasn’t expecting an exhaustive treatise on feminism, but What’s Your Number? doesn’t even acknowledge the irony of a woman ‘taking control’ of her life on the basis of a single spurious statistic in a Marie Claire article, or the flagrant double standard at play as Faris’ character freaks out about her number - a number easily surpassed by her male neighbour. Such omissions push the film beyond light and fluffy, and into drearily vacuous territory instead. Sub plots come and go without arousing much interest, the insurmountable obstacle and final dash to declare one’s love is extremely contrived (yes, even for a rom com), and then there’s the perennial question of how two penniless people can afford such magnificent apartments (I rent a hovel at vast expense, so naturally it bothers me).

In short, there have been better rom coms released this year (some of which are still on wide release), but you should probably save yourself the trouble and wait until it crops up on the tv instead.

Made in Chelsea

2011-10-12T21:30:00.000+01:00

Every time I think this programme can't possibly get any better (for which read worse), it absolutely does! Today's chestnut occurred within 60 seconds of the opening credits, namely a heartbreaking account of revenge in a digital age: "she deleted all the photos of me off Facebook, blocked my tweets, deleted me off BBM...'. I only wish I were capable of generating such golden comedy nuggets... And I must confess that my enjoyment of this marvellous car crash of a programme is vastly enhanced by watching my long suffering boyfriend squirm through every 42 minute episode before simply sinks his head into his hands(even if it totes requires a shower afterwards in order to wash all the shame off...). And snarky commentary aside, whoever does the music is knocking it out of the park - I may actually have to sneak into a waning HMV and with some cash and procure a copy of the soundtrack should such a thing ever materialise..

The sad truth is that I love-hate every wildly effeminate, fake tan wearing, candlelit dining, designer shopping, chihuahua owning, polo playing, Ferrari driving, champagne swigging, party hardying, Barbour jacket wearing, yacht frequenting, afternoon tea sipping, faux socialising cringeworthy second.

And now I have to go have a shower.

I Should Cocoa...

2011-10-12T12:38:00.000+01:00

Thanks to National Chocolate Week, Twitter and a curious palate I was lucky enough to pitch up at The Providores for the ‘From Pod to Providores’ dinner hosted by chocolatier Paul A. Young and restaurateur Peter Gordon at the Marylebone venue he co-owns with Michael McGrath.

Nestled in an intimidatingly boutiquey nook of London, Providores might accurately be described as ‘bijou’, a quietly chic but welcoming restaurant that specialises in fusion (normally a phrase that would send me running for the hills almost as fast as the words ‘foraged cuisine’). Happily, I had no chance to exercise this fight or flight response as my main reason for booking was the involvement of Paul Young, whose flagship Soho store has been responsible for much thinning of my wallet since it opened in June. Young is a dapper, Yorkshire born Willy Wonka, conjuring up everything from goat’s cheese chocolates (lush) to Marmite truffles (startling), not to mention his (wickedly divine) salted caramels.

Paul A. Young

Still, given that 48 hours ago, Providores was an unknown quantity and (as any moderate purveyor of tv cookery shows will know) savoury chocolate dishes make for excellent car crash cookery tv, six courses of cocoa themed dining was a risk. The whisky sour inspired cocoa bean aperitif (refreshing but unsettling for a sweet toothed cocktail lover like me) and unusual dining arrangements (diners were deliberately lumped together with strangers for added social frisson) did little to allay my initial nerves. However, once the food started flying out of the kitchen (and the wine paired with each course started flowing), the evening rapidly hit its groove.

Peter Gordon

Running the gamut from a sour tinged appetiser - grilled aubergine with a tamarind caramel - to a silky chocolate tart for dessert, the menu delivered on every level. Each course was preceded by a brief intro from Paul, who rhapsodised about the beans and chocolate makers to whom we owed our dinner, and Peter Gordon, who etched out how the impending dish had been prepared in his lilting Kiwi tones. For the first course, this was a mildly diverting distraction (this may seem churlish, but having half starved myself all day, I was ravenous), but throughout the evening, their enthusiasm, knowledge and love of food was both infectious and increasingly entertaining. By the time the Crispy Pork Belly - with mouthwateringly crisp, salty crackling, naturally - with Crusted Ox Tongue and Butternut Squash Coconut Curry was served up, the evening had evolved into a convivial dinner party as strangers turned to their neighbours to discuss everything from the best places to eat brunch to the joys of a Snickers bar. Only the joltingly superb smoked chickpea panizza (a meltingly smooth polenta like dish made from ground chickpeas and - heavens! - smoked cream), served alongside the braised beef cheek managed to silence me or my fellow diners for any noticeable length of time. Indeed, thanks to the consistently high quality of food (not to mention the friendly but professional service), I’m already planning a return pilgrimage to Providores in order to sample the Turkish Eggs (no, I’d never heard of them either, but the mere mention of them seemed to provoke an ecstatic response from everyone who had).

As an added bonus, several members of the food and chocolate aristocracy flitted from table to table, including the founder of the UK’s chocolate week (inducing in me the sort of abashed awe Young Conservatives must reserve for Margaret Thatcher). By far the most convivial however were Young, Gordon and McGrath who seemed nearly as interested in their adoring public as we were in them (and are certainly vastly more amiable and interesting than the average North London dinner party host).

If there was a downside to the evening, it was occasionally being forced to listen to people lucky enough to work in or with food chat faux wearily about upcoming trips to various far flung and exotic corners of the world (it’s a hard life). Still, this simply gave me ample opportunities to sneak extra chocolate tasters out from under the noses of my fellow diners, so who am I to complain?

Crazy, Stupid, Love.

2011-10-10T19:15:00.000+01:00

I Crazy, Stupid, Love this movie.

This review has been my Everest. Criticising something is easy. Liking something is effortless. Attempting to explain why I fell just a little bit in love with this movie has been like constantly trying to glimpse something out of the corner of my eye - frustratingly elusive.

So eventually I quit trying and played to my strengths instead.

Some people may not buy Ryan Gosling as a super buff lady's man as he struts through the movie looking like a sexually ambiguous GQ model and exuding a strangely attractive misogynistic charm. In fact Gosling, who has been quietly turning in stellar performances for years, picks the most unlikely genre of all to turn in a magnetic performance that's so good it's a borderline satire of the standard rom com hero.

At the other end of the scale, others may be disappointed to see Steve Carrell toning down his more familiar goofiness in order to play it straight as the middle aged cuckold who gets his mojo back under the metrosexual wing of Gosling's barfly. The fact that their unlikely bromance is front and centre in a movie that purports to be a rom com is but the smallest surprise in a film that sometimes feels twistier and turnier than an M. Night Shyamalan movie featuring ghostly alien superheroes. More astonishing is the way in which their mismatched pairing is as lovingly tended to as the more conventional relationships throughout the rest of the film, inadvertently puncturing the fratboy antics that have become synonymous with any kind of significant platonic male relationship.

True, CSL's attempt to ponder the nature of virtually every type of relationship (marriage, parent-child, affair, platonic, new love, puppy love, obsession, one night stand. And those are just the ones I noticed), might leave some of those relationships with less screen time to develop. Similarly, with hindsight, the female characters may feel slightly sidelined, but perhaps that's just because (in a neat reversal for the genre) they're marginally less unbalanced than their male counterparts. Emma Stone and Marisa Tomei are impeccably comic, but it's Julianne Moore who performs some sort of thespian voodoo, somehow earning the audience's sympathy over the course of the movie, despite being responsible for the initial act of adultery that kicks off the subsequent chain of events.

Just as well then that the pitch perfect cast (and yes, I include ANTM alumus Analeigh Tipton as the doe-eyed teenage babysitter and crooner Josh Groban as the world's dullest boyfriend), manage to convey everything they need to in the time allotted, from the heartbreak of unrequited love, to the fury of a woman scorned. It even manages to throw in a couple of unlikely but perfectly pitched curve balls - and it's been a while since any film, let alone a romantic comedy, genuinely blind sided me.

For years, Hollywood has been the main (albeit not the sole) peddler of the same cheap knock offs. My own pet theory posits that only two or three genuinely great romcoms will be produced in any given decade, and CSL appears to be evidence that the second decade of the century may have peaked early. Rom coms are at their best when they reflect real life, albeit with a few extra spoonfuls of sugar. When Harry Met Sally and While You Were Sleeping are more obvious examples, but even Sleeping in Seattle and Notting Hill, for all their fanciful plot devices, still had streaks of something resembling the sweetly bitter reality of relationships running through them. Apart from these solitary peaks, cinema has little to offer the discerning hopeless romantic, apart from watered down vehicles designed to do nothing more than make the female lead look adorably ditzy and showcase the male lead's abs.

Which is precisely why Crazy, Stupid, Love kicks sand in the face of most romantic comedies made in the past twenty years. It starts with divorce and ends with a threat to shoot someone in the face, and yet I would happily describe it as one of the feelgood films of the year. Like a perfect chocolate soufflé, this is both feather light, yet rich and satisfying. There will undoubtedly be those who feel that CSL deviates too far from the candy coated cookie cutter rom coms that have dominated for so long, leaving a succession of Hollywood starlets and comedic actresses who should know better with little to do and even less of note to say. But CSL dares to revel in the bittersweet twilight between reality and make believe - there are no guaranteed happy endings, but more than enough hope to leave the audience wanting more.

Some people may not be comfortable walking out of a cinema with an unbearable lightness of being that they just can't explain. But just this once, I wasn't one of them. This may not be a perfectly made film, but it is a perfect movie, and one of the finest rom coms since When Harry Met Sally.

I crazy, stupid, love. This film.

Coco Momo

2011-10-09T17:53:00.000+01:00

A chain of pub-bar hybrids (this one a five minute walk from Chancery Lane), with satisfactory appletinis and a kicking out procedure that leaves something to be desired. Last orders were delivered by a harassed barman who reminded me of a frazzled host trying to think of a polite way to boot those final, clingy house party guests out of the door, before eventually evolving into an apologetic & but unreservedly ticked off nightclub bouncer.

As for the bar itself, it serves decent looking food of the burgers and Mediterranean tapas kind, had a handful of cocktails on the drinks menu, is perfectly located for the hordes of media types and lawyerly folk who work, rest and play in that part of town. It's perfect for straight laced suits who like to pretend that they're relaxed, and dishevelled types trying to summon up a professional demeanour.

Can't say I'd go out of my way to (re)visit it though - generally speaking, there are definitely better bars closer to more interesting things scattered across London.

Terra Nova

2011-10-06T21:29:00.000+01:00

New series - apparently by 2149 humans have buggered up the world so badly that there's a 'Family = 4' policy (regardless of how cute your third sprog is) and the survival of the human race hinges on the re-colonisation of the earth 85 million years ago. Not the most promising start with pantomime population control cops and cloying scenes goodbye scenes between teen sweethearts with the requisite declarations of everlasting love.

Attempts to convey the direness of the situation fall somewhat flat (oh, the wonder of an orange...). On arrival in the distant past, one wonders why they have to walk miles to get to the camp through (dino infested) wilderness, to the tune of a sub Jurassic Park soundtrack. Only to be greeted by the power crazed colonel from Avatar who greets them with talk of getting it right and avoiding the baser instincts of homo sapiens - with a gun strapped to his chest. And dinosaurs that look ropier than the ones in Primeval. Not to mention a teenage son with an attitude problem because he abandoned them (yawn). And a blisteringly obvious red herring in the shape of a'probe sent through the time fracture that proved it was a path to an alternate timestream' (that looks even more stupid written down than it sounded in the first place) hence no butterfly effect snafus to worry about. Even more oddly for a pilot episode, nothing much seems to happen despite arrests, fisticuffs, a jailbreak and an unauthorised slip through the aforementioned timestream...

To be honest, it's all terribly portentous, not to mention rammed with clichés, despite the mildly piquant premise. Not a promising start. And probably not worth another 42 minutes of my time.

Four Lions

2011-10-03T13:47:00.000+01:00

Blowin’ up ain’t easy…

Deliberately coming to this aeons after the (muted) hype faded away, it’s no great surprise to find that, broadly speaking, Four Lions isn’t as funny as it thinks it is. If anything, it seems to be holding back, despite the slapstick shenanigans of the undoubtedly comically inept plotters.

In part this seems to be down to the uneven tone of the film - no amount of incompetence can mask the confused hatred driving the would be bombers’ actions. The plot isn’t helped by the presumably deliberate omission of any kind of trigger for the plot - until the final 30 minutes of the film, every interaction between the bombers and the decadent western ‘kuffar’ around them is unrelentingly positive, giving the whole film a puzzlingly lopsided and incomplete feel.

Four Lions also suffers from a lack of focus - it riffs off the stupidity of the bombers, the attitude of the society that presumably created them, the ideological weaknesses on all sides, the disdain of overseas rebels to their frankly inferior Western counterparts, and on and on. If the point is to satirise everything, the end result is a film that doesn’t really have a point.

In fact, some of the most interesting features of the film - as some of the plotters begin to doubt their cause, the breathtaking zealotry of the convert, the disconcerting family scenes - the use of the Lion King as a bedtime allegory for suicide bombing anyone - are almost entirely devoid of humour, belonging instead to a more strait-laced study of the suicide bomber’s psychology.

Oddly enough, the film is at its funniest during the unsettling denouement, when the humour becomes more surreal than satirical. As the fracturing relationships and waning zealotry (rather than the terror plot itself) start to drive the action, creator Chris Morris mines a rich vein of uncomfortably dark humour from the protagonists’ reaction to an extreme situation that is rapidly spiralling out of control.

Having said that, the film peppered with moments of comic brilliance, in large part thanks to the cast (and some incredibly inventive Urdu cussing). It’s just a shame that having taken the risk of making the film, a satirist as accomplished as Chris Morris couldn’t have made more of the opportunity. Instead of a comically polarising polemic, the end result is a sporadically amusing trifle that starts to fade from memory as soon as the credits roll.

Jane Eyre

2011-10-03T13:45:00.000+01:00

"And Reader, I married him..."

I’ve never been fond of the novel, not since all the pleasure was squeezed out of it at school, which is why this is the first of dozens of adaptations I’ve ever bothered to see (under mild duress). Yet somehow, despite this unpromising start, this latest adap is tame, a little lengthy, but surprisingly unboring. From the opening shots of Jane weighed down by the weight of her misery, to the intermittent flashbacks to her searingly cruel childhood, there is always a story being told, even if nothing much appears to be happening.

True, it’s rampantly (melo)dramatic, but thanks to the muted beauty of the Yorkshire countryside - a grudging admission from this city mouse - and austere drabness of the setting, the story remains grounded. Gothic elements are subtly woven in to the story - mist, muffled bumps, a madwoman who probably wouldn’t attract a second glance in most modern city centres. The latter is perhaps one of the more noticeable flaws in the film. Rochester’s dirty little secret is (by modern standards) guilty of little more than moderately anti social behaviour, which renders his actions rather unappealing. The subsequent fix is slightly forced the inclusion of clunky speech spelling out in words of one syllable exactly why he’s actually a Rather Decent Sort, attic asylum notwithstanding. The same device (a slightly conspicuous speech) is used later to torpedo the eligibility of a younger, more attractive and ostensibly kinder love rival played by Jamie Bell.

But the appeal of Jane Eyre 2011 is less about the finer plot points of Charlotte Bronte’s novel, and all about the underlying emotional resonance, which is precisely why Michael Fassbender and Mia Wiakowska are so very excellent. As Rochester, Fassbender is brutish but refined, tortured but tender - channelling the most iconic elements of recent portrayals of characters like Mr Darcy and Heathcliff into a darkly alluring portrayal of Bronte’s most famously brooding hero. As his foil and easily his match, Wiakowska is believably plain, exuding both an inner steel and an innocent vulnerability that could quite conceivably turn the head of a callous, wealthy aristocrat.

But captivating as they are to watch, the ebb and flow of the film sometimes serves to undermine their relationship. Prior to the (cue: essential but unsurprising spoiler, sorry) proposal, the relationship between Rochester and Eyre lacks depth - barely more than a frustrating flirtation. Only once they’ve both acknowledged and accepted the nature of their relationship does their passion genuinely flare, despite their limited time onscreen together.

Nonetheless, this is a classy slice of entertainment - old-fashioned storytelling for an audience with modern sensibilities - for hopeless romantics and incurable melancholics alike.

One Day

2011-10-03T13:41:00.000+01:00

Twenty Years. Two People. One Day.

Being a fan of the book, and having frothed over the trailer, I had braced myself to hate this movie. The first five seconds, during which a hideous cursive font pilfered from the Hallmark school of design rolled on-screen, seemed poised to validate my misgivings. Somewhat happily for this film, and a little sadly for my prematurely sharpened talons, it turns out that you can’t judge a film by its font.

As Emma, Anne Hathaway certainly looks the part. She is as believable as a lost 21 year old wearing Doc Martins and her principles on her sleeve as she is channelling Audrey Hepburn as a confident - if implausibly unwrinkled - version of herself. That said, the accent - oh the accent. It’s…discombobulating to say the least (and not just because I want to shoehorn the word into a post).

However, despite her practically perfect physical incarnation, Hathaway is fatally hampered by an accent that flits whimsically from the Scottish Highlands to the Home Counties via the Midlands in the space of a single utterance. I’ve overlooked plenty of bewildering movie accents in my time, but the dynamic of One Day is based in part on the idea of opposites attracting. Emma is a working class Yorkshire lass who develops a decades long bond with an upper middle class layabout from the South East - during the eighties no less, when this stuff mattered more to boot. With limited context elsewhere in the movie (we never see her family, or learn much about her outside her relationships with men), the accent is a vital reference point - thematic shorthand for a bundle of complex things like money, class, politics etc. Naval gazing film boffery aside, it’s a little odd that she often sounds even posher than the estuary accented Dexter.

Accents aside, there are other, more subtle flaws whittling away at the film, not least the necessity of editing down a novel that focuses on the minutiae of a relationship spanning two decades. Inevitably, massive chunks (sometimes entire days) are missing, which will undoubtedly displease fans of the source novel. It certainly as though some pivotal moments have been excised, skewing the story somewhat. Readers of the book will hopefully agree that while Dexter’s ostentatious self-absorption and flair for instant gratification triggers much of the emotional trauma, Emma is at least as culpable for the exact opposite reason - a total emotional cowardice. This equilibrium is sadly lacking in the film.

Dexter is saddled with most of the blame for the pitfalls of their relationship. The lack of detail also undermines the depth of their relationship - by the end of the film, the denouement and the epilogue feel rushed, and even a little shallow (if not downright) confusing, to those unfamiliar with the book.

Fortunately however, even taken in concert, these are defects rather than death knells. Hathaway and Sturgess are engaging enough to invest in, and ultimately root for. There are wry laughs to be had and the end, when it came, had much more of an effect on me than I’d anticipated. Moreover, the always fantastic Patricia Clarkson features, albeit briefly, as Dexter’s mother. But it’s Sturgess’ show, as he straddles the gulf between charming and obnoxious without falling in. The more faithful replication of Dexter’s many (many) imperfections make his journey more captivating, and Sturgess delivers. When he breaks, we empathise, and even understand, despite the endlessly selfish and self-destructive behaviour that gets him there.

If I had to choose one format, it would be the book, hands down. But like its characters, One Day the film is flawed but attractive, better than my (admittedly low) expectations had led me to believe, and worth at least a little of your time.

Fright Night

2011-10-03T13:35:00.000+01:00

~~Cape~~ Camp Fear...

As a committed horror-phobe, I was pleased (and not a little relieved) to discover that Fright Night 2011 is a solidly old school horror movie – no Eli Roth inspired gore porn here – with a bucketful of camp humour thrown in to leaven the proceedings. Which is pretty much the way to go when the plot involves a teenager who discovers his new neighbour is Colin Farrell pretending to be a vampire.

Anton Yelchin, despite sporting forehead wrinkles that would look severe on someone twice his age, plays it straight as the empathetic lead. Refreshingly he, his girlfriend (Imogen Poots, a perfect blend of sugar and spice) and his mother (an under-used Toni Collette) show far more resilience and creativity in the face of the supernatural than your standard horror victims: no screaming and running towards danger, lots of mace swinging and improvised staking.

The plot is undeniably thin, hurtling along unquestioningly, and often seems to skip forward as though interim scenes are missing, but to be honest, it would be unreasonable to hold any of these flaws against a film that never pretends to be anything more than the catalyst for an uncomplicated night’s entertainment.

Fright Night largely acknowledges its own ridiculousness - the only real weak point is Colin Farrell, who seems to be trying to play it straight, but somehow seems to have inadvertently lapsed into Really Bad Vampire Acting 101. It’s all eyeliner and the sort of strutting, leering sexuality that hasn’t worked for anyone since the heyday of 70s glam rock.

Instead, he could have taken a leaf out of David Tennant’s book. Tennant appears to be having a whale of a time hamming it up as super camp Vegas magician Peter Vincent - it’s certainly one of the more fun performances audiences are likely to see this year. And a special mention goes to Christpher Mintz-Plasse (of McLovin’ fame) who proves beyond a doubt that he is the king of the comedy movie nerd.

As an added bonus, Fright Night also boasts ‘real’ vampires, by which I mean, no pretty, brooding vampire-lite pining here: Farrell & Co. are toothy, vicious and unrepentant. If I were going to level any criticism at Fright Night, I might perhaps chastise the film-makers for passing up the opportunity to be just a little more sly or inventive, especially in the post-emo Twipocalyptic era of vampire worship in which we find ourselves. Surely they could have fostered a little more doubt about whether or not vampires exist, or whether it’s in the head(s) of the protagonists? Or perhaps drawn a few parallels between the stereotypical behaviour of your average teenager and your garden variety vampire, as an increasingly nervy and erratic Yelchin is unwillingly drawn into A Series of Unfortunate Events.

But that would be churlish. Instead, if you’re a bloke, warm up the crook of your arm and take a date. And ladies - play along and use the opportunity to snuggle up to your real life crush while secretly ogling David Tennant. Everyone’s a winner…

Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy

2011-10-03T13:32:00.000+01:00

An oddity of a film, with the potential to unsettle a certain swathe of cinema goers (self included) primarily raised on a diet of Bourne, Bauer and Bond, programmed to associate the words ‘spy movie’ with more pyrotechnics and flamboyant gadgetry than a fireworks display in your local PC World.

But from the oblique trailer to the inclusion of what appears to be every middle aged, British character actor of note, this adaptation of John Le Carré’s best selling source novel was always going to be more Oscar baiting than MTV Movie Award bothering.

The pitch is deceptively simple - there’s a mole in the upper echelons of MI6 - but the story weaves a merciless web of confusion and paranoia as Gary Oldman’s George Smiley tries to flush out the mole. The interest here is not so much in the investigation that he conducts than in the relationships it fractures along the way. Oldman gets the lion’s share of screen time, but it is to the credit of the entire ensemble cast that the old boys’ bonhomie of MI6 is both so powerfully evoked and so swiftly crushed by the mounting tally of betrayals.

Gary Oldman’s casting has fanned accusations of sexing up the source material, and perhaps Smiley should have been more unappealingly old school. But Tinker’s strength is its cast, and they are to a man (and I do mean to a man - there’s barely a whiff of oestrogen here). Every glance, every look, every twitch is beautifully choreographed. Given the caché of the elder statesmen involved - an endless parade of wins and nominations between them - it’s to the credit of relative whippersnappers Tom Hardy and Benedict Cumberbatch that they more than match Oldman, Firth and the rest of ‘The Circus’.

Binding these performances together is a story that is told as much through Tinker’s style as through its content, with unrelentingly washed out visuals capturing all the bleakness of Cold War Britain. Director Tomas Anderson creates a sense of time and place, masterfully balancing confusion and enlightenment as the Tinker ambles towards its conclusion, punctuated sparingly, but effectively by occasional bursts of surgical violence. Minutes go by in which nothing is said, and yet the story is somehow propelled forward. Unlike the spectacular but sometimes soulless chases, gunfights and explosions that more often mark the passing of time in modern day spy movies, Tinker’s intrigue has less to do withwhat is being done, than in why it is being done. In a time and place perched on the edge of nuclear war, what could persuade men with a sworn duty to protect their country to betray everything and everyone they hold dear?

If anything, this is the film’s weakness - having successfully blindfolded and led the viewer to the denouement, the end of the film feels a little…anti climactic. And certainly, there are no happy endings to be found here, on either side of the ideological divide. But it is the journey that counts, not the destination. Tinker is a portrait of a world in flux, of old orders and certainties crumbling to reveal a world of ambiguity and chaos in which no-one can truly be said to win, and the conflict never ends - it simply reinvents itself.