Stalker ★★★★★

Stalker was screened at the BFI, Lon­don as part of their KOS­MOS sea­son, the sec­ond instal­ment of their Russ­ian cin­ema sea­son KINO.

Described by Ing­mar Bergman as “the great­est of us all,” no Soviet sci-fi sea­son would be com­plete with­out at least one of Andrei Tarkovsky’s sem­i­nal clas­sics from this spec­u­la­tive genre of film­mak­ing. Whilst Solaris (1972) may be bet­ter know to West­ern audi­ences (due pri­mar­ily to the Steven Soder­bergh remake star­ring George Clooney), Stalker (1979), Tarkovsky’s sec­ond foray into sci­ence fic­tion, is per­haps one of the most revered films to emerge from the repres­sive regime of the Soviet Union.

Set in a timeless dystopian future, three characters, known simply as Writer, Professor and the film’s titular Stalker, leave their world of near uninhabitable destitution and embark on a perilous journey into ‘The Zone’ – a forbidden region, steeped in mystery and heavily guarded by those who fear its power.

Within the confines of this furtive, spiritual territory is a place merely described as ‘The Room’, a building purported to house an unimaginable power that makes the inner most wishes of those who enter it come true. The Writer is here in search of inspiration and the Professor is determined to make a “discovery.” The Stalker is their guide, a clean and intellectually innocent man, who gives himself completely to his task, taking refuge in The Zone, seeing it as a peaceful and deeply sacred area in which he can escape his desolate life, his nagging wife and his deformed child. However, The Zone is an unforgiving region which must be respected by those who enter its lush, green but eerily bleak landscape, especially the unfulfilled ‘tourists’ who hope to reap the rewards of this supposedly enchanted Room…

The scale of Stalker is nothing short of epic. Tarkovsky’s bewildering study of the human condition, set against this apocalyptic backdrop, presents us with a sense of inadequacy towards our own natural behaviour, which soon overshadows the initial horror conjured up by these desolate surroundings. This deeply pessimistic allegory illustrates how we, as a species, are doomed to collapse inwardly due to our negative outlook on life and a dependence on fictitious spiritualism to save us from our own self inflicted traumas – it depicts a timeless future which was as appropriate then as it is now.

For the viewer, the existence and the origins of The Zone and its Room seem almost mythical – despite their physical presence within the film, they appear to solely serve as a mirror, revealing the true personalities of our central characters through the desires they wish to materialise within this sacred tomb. The Writer’s search for inspiration is questionable due to his nihilistic attitude towards life and his disregard for the respect which must be paid to this foreign land. Instead of lacking inspiration, this despondent dreamer appears to lack an inherent desire to live, recklessly fighting against the Stalker’s authority and unwilling to play by the rules. The Professor’s quest for knowledge is uprooted by the climactic revelation of his true motivation for this journey, whilst the Stalker himself, with his fearful reluctance to even enter the Room (believing his job to guide people here is a righteous one and of greater importance than his own selfish whims) asks more questions than it answers.

Tarkovsky’s attempts to locate the spiritual message behind Stalker’s rich tapestry of ideas uses a wide range of close-up shots to allow the audience to gaze into the eyes of the characters, allowing us a gateway into their souls, and revealing the fears and desires of these deeply troubled men. These numerous compositions of pure human emotions and inner turmoil creates a strong backbone from which the film’s truly affecting, metaphysical narrative and philosophical message can resonate.

Despite being a science fiction film, little attention is paid to the futuristic gadgets and otherworldly paraphernalia normally associated with the genre, allowing Tarkovsky to strip down this science based medium of film to its bare thematic essentials. Therefore, the film’s powerful social warning about the direction the world is heading in is allowed to flourish, whilst also offering a worrying insight into our over reliance on fate, religion, luck, or whatever other false deity you decide to place your confidence in, instead of heeding these obvious concerns and addressing the issues at hand.

Shot mainly around the disused and deserted factories of the derelict industrial heartland of Tallinn, Estonia, Stalker’s image of the future is one ravaged by material greed where the population is desperate to escape the repressive regime of an over controlling government. It draws obvious parallels with the numerous problems of the Soviet Union, whilst acting as an interesting precursor to the Chernobyl disaster, with the uninhabited Zone baring a remarkable resemblance to the devastated Ukrainian town. The numerous tanks and items of heavy machinery shown devoured by vegetation also seem to symbolise nature fighting against mankind’s destructive habits.

The dreamlike qualities of this forsaken world are painterly presented through colour film within The Zone (capturing its floral glory), whilst the world outside is shot using sepia tones that perfectly express the magnitude of despair felt by its inhabitants. Combined with some subtly glacial camera pans and Eduard Artemyev emotive score (beautifully amalgamating Eastern tones with distorted Western rhythms), these technical astute elements create an enchanting, trance like atmosphere around the film.

Whilst maybe not Tarkovsky’s greatest film, it is a testament to his overall body of work that Stalker still remains a towering achievement in science fiction and as necessary now as ever. Transcending the usual clichés of the genre, Stalker creates an elegant, challenging but thoroughly rewarding film, whose vision of the future successfully combines important remnants from the past, an insight in to our troubled present and a worrying vision of what might be.

Rabies ★★★★☆

If you go down to the woods today you’re in for a big surprise...In Latin the word rabies translates literally as "madness", something the pretty girls and boys visiting this deserted woodland could never have imagined. Aharon Keshales' Rabies (aka Kalevet, 2010) violently breaks all the conventions of the slasher genre whilst simultaneously executing all the most successful scare techniques from every critically revered horror film of the last century.

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Kill List ★★★★☆

With Kill List (2011), Ben Wheatley (director of the critically acclaimed Down Terrace [2009]) has created this year’s most horrendously violent and bizarrely surreal film by simply amalgamating the generic conventions of a hitman thriller with the eerie iconography of occult horrors such as The Wickerman (1973).

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Cosmic Voyage ★★★★☆

Cos­mic Voy­age was screened at the BFI, Lon­don as part of their KOS­MOS sea­son, the sec­ond instal­ment of their Russ­ian cin­ema sea­son KINO.

Kino, The BFI’s Soviet sci­ence fic­tion sea­son is well under­way. A cel­e­bra­tion of com­mu­nist film­mak­ing and Russ­ian film pio­neers, the event has so far been an intox­i­cat­ing insight into the power of cin­ema as a form of pro­pa­ganda, but also, more impor­tantly, as an immer­sive and excit­ing method of escapism.

The screen­ing of Cos­mic Voy­age was pre­ceded by two related fea­tures. First a silent movie from the Russ­ian empire first released in 1912, Voy­age To The Moon, com­plete with live piano accom­pa­ni­ment which amazed the audi­ence with its whim­si­cal por­trayal of space travel. Next up was a delight­ful ‘60s doc­u­men­tary offer­ing a infec­tiously hilar­i­ous and dated view of how the space race would result in legions of Soviet fam­i­lies liv­ing in har­mony on the moon, wav­ing back at their impe­r­ial ene­mies whilst they pros­pered in this des­o­late world. Both per­fectly set up the evening’s main event – Cos­mic Voy­age

Released shortly after the spectacularly popular Aelita: Queen Of Mars in 1924, Cosmic Voyage’s plot is a simple tale of professional rivalry set against a science based backdrop, primarily intended to showcase the engineering and astrological advancements of the Soviet Union.

The year is 1946 (only ten years in the future – little would the audience have known about how different things would be – at that time) and the Tsiolkovsky Centre for Space Exploration is prepared for this fantastic journey into the unknown. A strikingly large ramp sprouts from the building, supported by an endless wall of scaffolding, spreading miles into the horizon, like a rollercoaster stretching out far past the reach of mankind. Yet, as an impressive feat of engineering, it’s nothing compared to the rocket ships housed in the station’s hanger – large towering ships of iron and steel which proudly fill this expansive space.

The imminent excursion is plagued by uncertainty. Sensibly Karin led an effort to test the effects of space travel by sending up a rabbit, but when it returned with an exploded heart, due to a cardiac rupture, concerns were obviously raised. However, Pavel Sedikh raised a compelling counter argument that he “is not a rabbit” and insisted the program proceed as planned. Yet a brilliant mind like his was deemed to valuable to risk, so Air Army captain Viktor Orlov is instead promoted to the mission, a decision which angers Sedikh. To prevent further problems, the launch is moved forward to catch the old scientist off guard and Orlov begins his rigorous preparations.

Victor’s younger brother, Andryusha, is a keen admirer of Sedikh’s work and believes this plan to out manoeuvre the aging professor is devious and underhand. He sneaks out to inform Sedikh of this conspiracy, believing that, as he built and designed these rockets, he should be made aware of such treacherous behaviour. A plan is conceived, and despite some unforeseen circumstances, the two of them end up onboard this towering rocket and begin their ascent to the moon. After a mildly unsuccessful landing, an epic quest unfolds to announce to the world below the extraordinary feat they have accomplished…

Cosmic Voyage is perhaps one of the most enjoyable film’s to emerge from the silent era. Successfully merging the childlike amazement of fantasy adventures with a serious scientific approach, Cosmic Voyage is an incredibly creditable film which gloriously realises the hopes and dreams of the Soviet space programme. A socialist-realist melodrama that manages to capture the imaginations of young and old, rich and poor, and everyone else prepared to marvel in its sumptuously presented, imaginative journey into the then unknown

Considering the era in which Cosmic Voyage was created (first theatrically released in 1935), the technical standard is impressively high quality. It’s hard to imagine a time when the world’s population had not been treated to the site of Neil Armstrong taking mankind’s first step onto the moon, so for the lunar sets to capture the desolate scenery so well, whilst still inspiring a delightful sense of excitement, has to be commended. However, the film’s most astonishing achievement is the set design of the Tsiolkvsky’s station. Using miniature models to visually express the grandness of the space craft’s, and the magnitude of the feat at hand, it still looks as impressive now as it must have over eighty years ago. From the scientific accuracies of their design to the seamless transition between their presence on screen and the real life sets the actors perform on, you honestly believe that these two artificial worlds are one and the same – a feat that isn’t always accomplished in even today’s CGI laden movies.

Unfortunately, there are moments when this amazement evoked by the production values is dashed – and the sudden realisation that what you’re viewing was produced decades before the use of personal computers, let alone green screen technology. The film’s stop motion, used to present the weightlessness of the moon’s surface, is noticeably dated. This is partly down to the success of the film’s previous effects, but even compared to the animation of the time, it feels shoddy and poorly conceived, and whilst elements like these can sometimes appear as charming features to a constantly aging relic of film, here it just feels like a misguided step that ruins the hard work preceding it.

This speculative medium is renowned for being used by the Soviet Union to promote political agendas. Cosmic Voyage was commissioned by the Communist Youth League to inspire the younger generations with a glimpse of the adventures they could well be having in the not too distant future. Yet whilst the film may have all the trappings of a government issued recruitment video for young scientific minds, the Communist Party’s arbiters of culture were less than impressed, deeming much of the film as needlessly frivolous and contrary to the dictates of Socialist Realism – resulting in the film being pulled from theatres. With hindsight, and an overwhelming appreciation of the visual splendour of Cosmic Voyage, it’s clear that this adventurous Kino classic is more than just style and spectacle but instead a glorious insight into the promising future many Soviets believed lay ahead, despite the country’s numerous failings. It could be argued, however, that the rebellious nature of the arrogant scientist and his young companion makes Cosmic Voyage a mildly revolutionary film, with these two ambitious but repressed men fighting against the conformists who aim to hold them back from their goal.

You couldn’t imagine a better introduction to the early years of Soviet science fiction than Cosmic Voyage. Combining both visual spectacle and a strong communist message about the alleged great red power of the East, this silent movie needs few words to express its historical importance or its marvellous spirit of adventure.

Edinburgh International Film Festival (Subtitled Online Feature)

The Edin­burgh Inter­na­tional Film Fes­ti­val is one of the old­est of its type and this year it cel­e­brated its 65th birth­day. 2011’s incar­na­tion was intended as an inter­ac­tive social gath­er­ing for all the cinephiles who reli­giously head to the Scot­tish cap­i­tal yearly for a dose of unadul­ter­ated cin­e­matic delights, offer­ing an alter­na­tive to the main­stream fare of the mul­ti­plexes. Due to the abol­ish­ment of the UK Film Coun­cil and the fall­out of adver­tis­ers asso­ci­ated with it, this year’s re-think was an attempt to reju­ve­nate the fes­ti­val whose fund­ing had been dras­ti­cally slashed. The most strik­ing amend­ment to the pre­vi­ous for­mat was a pro­posed stronger empha­sis on the films show­ing instead of the usual pomp and para­pher­na­lia nor­mally asso­ci­ated with these cel­e­bra­tions of the medium.

Gone were the indulgent red carpet galas, as was the use of the city’s Cineworld as a venue, which over the previous few years had hosted these embarrassing attempts to recreate the star fuelled facade of the Cannes croisette. The prestigious awards ceremonies that were previously used to celebrate aspiring British talent were also scrapped in favour of a more intimate approach. Events were scheduled throughout the city that purportedly aimed to be an insightful window into the inner workings of the industry and an alternative to the glitz and glam of the festival’s European contemporaries.

With the number of films on show dramatically condensed down to almost half of the normal quota, and the embarrassing inclusion of Countdown To Zero, which had already gained its UK premier at the festival the previous year, many looked at the diminished selection on offer with a degree of trepidation. Glaring omissions from the programme, such as Scottish director Lynne Ramsay’s Cannes success We Need To Talk About Kevin (Starring former festival patron Tilda Swinton) and the Palme D’or winner The Tree Of Life (despite a print being available in town for press screenings), felt like potential ingredients which may have sparked some much needed excitement outside of the city, as well as an incentive for its already culturally spoilt inhabitants to fill the half empty cinemas and disperse the subdued atmosphere which surrounded the venues.

The Edinburgh Film Festival will always have a committed audience, and if you read between the lines of the numerous negative press statements, and the critical mauling of those who have been unapologetically dismissive of the festivals funding problems, there was a wealth of challenging and exciting films lurking below the negative ambience which unfortunately over shadowed this year’s festival…

Rabies

If you go down to the woods today you’re in for a big surprise…

The pretty girls and boys visiting this secluded woodland could never have imagined the madness they were in store for – and neither will you, as Rabies violently breaks all the conventions of the slasher genre whilst simultaneously executing all the most successful scare techniques from every critically revered horror film of the last century.

This masterfully created Israeli film positively revels in misdirection. Opening like a torture porn with a young pretty girl trapped within a metal cage before suddenly the rug is pulled from under our feet and we find ourselves thrust into the middle of a physiologically tense thriller, hunting down a psychopath who’s been setting traps throughout the forest, whilst the less than helpful appearance of police does little but add more fuel to the contagious fire of un-mitigating madness which appears to be in the air.

So fast does the pendulum of horror swing from style to style that we never have time to acclimatise ourselves, resulting in a heart pounding level of confusion and fear which subtly edges towards a degree of perverse excitement that should surely be illegal. Indeed, this assured mixture of well executed genre conventions, with some unique scare techniques that are so perfectly timed you could set your watch by them, all culminates in a film which never gives you a moment to catch your breath and is all the more enjoyable for it.

Rabies use of unconventional bright colours and subtle twists of comedy helps prevent the uncomfortably framed close ups and audacious use of gratuitous violence feeling too claustrophobic. The film transfers you into a bizarrely comatose state of being, completely transfixed and unable to turn away, despite the natural desire to do so the moment you realise that mallet isn’t going to be used for the purpose it was intended for.

The film’s lack of any discernable plot and absence of a conceivable explanation as to why all those who enter this seemingly pleasant woodland end up committing the most malevolent acts of utter madness never distracts from the overall enjoyment of what has to be one of the most strangely unapologetic pieces of ultra violence since A Clockwork Orange. This nihilistic, gutsy film’s combination of rich ideas and a cultivated ability to deliver all the scares you desire from a good piece of suspenseful gore is an unconventionally infectious example of how thriving the film industry of Israel is becoming.

Calvet

After a terrifying journey to hell and back, Jean Marc Calvet must now face his biggest demon. After rising from the ashes of a life shrouded in paranoia, this now famous artist must embark on a harrowing voyage back through his troubled past in order to find the son he abandoned almost eighteen years ago in this brave and thoroughly touching documentary.

A onetime drug addict and rent boy, the young Calvet slowly built himself a life and a family out of nothing before rejecting it all the moment the prospect of a life of unimaginable prosperity came calling. A childhood riddled with abuse, amongst a backdrop of poverty, had provoked anger within the young man, driving him to a lifestyle of violence which led to careers in the Army and eventually as a bodyguard for a rich American business man who made him the job offer he couldn’t refuse.

Leaving his homeland and moving to America, he soon realised that this new lifestyle was a million miles away from the stereotypical American dream. Deeply involved within a world of unsolicited and highly illegal business deals, he soon became disenfranchised with the broken promises that appeared to have shackled him into this life of drug trafficking and underground crime. He ultimately made a phenomenally brave decision which, whilst freeing him from this oppressive lifestyle, ultimately led to another filled with destructive excesses that would eventually incarcerate him within a world of mental instability and drug fuelled paranoia.

Using art to free himself of his internal demons, Jean Marc Calvet is now very much a reformed man. His expressive paintings with their uniquely personal style have attracted interest from art critics worldwide, affording him a comfortable lifestyle, whilst also giving him an outlet for the anger which once consumed him. The only thing missing is to make amends with the son he left all those years ago…

Dominic Allan’s film is almost as painterly presented as Calvet’s masterpieces. These rigorously framed flights into Calvet’s troubled past are as visually alluring as the most accomplished of fictional movies, creating an absorbingly intense portrait of a man who has lived through more in his turbulent life than seems humanly possible.

Never coming across as even moderately voyeuristic, this incredibly personal expose of a truly fascinating man resonates with a message about the importance of family that a thousand fabricated tragedies could never come close to replicating. This life affirming adventure into the abyss and back of one truly fascinating character has a social message that ought to be heard by all. Calvet’s wish that love and the power of family is more than just a dream is a belief we should all be able to relate to.

Arrietty

Much loved by adults and children alike, Studio Ghibli’s contribution to the world of cinema has so far been a continually welcomed dose of adult friendly, childhood fantasy, which continues to accelerate beyond the now seemingly redundant benchmark Disney had previously set for hand-drawn animation. Last year’s Ponyo managed to mesmerise audiences with its charming retelling of Hans Christian Andersen’s ‘The Little Mermaid’, so with Arrietty similarly adapted from a much loved children’s classic (The Borrowers) it would be fair to say that expectations are high…

Arrietty is a young borrower, or ‘little person’, as they’re known to those who believe in them. She lives within the walls of a house inhabited by human ‘beans’ and has done so comfortably for all of her life, enjoying the overgrown playground of the neighbouring garden whilst frolicking with the local insects and creating her own floral haven at home from scented herbs and flowers. Thanks to an essential combination of ingenuity, accelerated adaptability and some crafty ‘borrowing’, Arrietty and her parents have managed to fight the odds and survive in this oversized world fraught with perils at every turn, unbeknown to the humans they’re dependant on for sustenance.

One morning, a young boy, pale and fragile, arrives at the house. His name is Sho and he’s returning to his mother’s family home to stay with his aunt in the hope the fresh air and quite solitude of the countryside will help him gain some much needed peaceful rest before his forthcoming, potentially fatal but unfortunately necessary heart operation. He’s aware of the mythology concerning these ‘little people’ from his mother’s handed down tales of youthful exuberance and childhood adventures whilst growing up in this rural paradise. However, he took little notice of these imaginative stories until one night he awakes to the sound of a fallen sugar cube accidentally dropped by Arrietty whilst embarking on her first borrowing trip.

Despite her parents’ warnings about making herself visible to the humans, Arrietty soon embarks on a touching relationship with Sho which, despite its unconventional nature, will ultimately give them both the strength they need to overcome the future obstacles they must face…

From the rigorous attention to detail to the heart-warmingly imaginative inventions used by these petit scavengers, to the soft lilting score that gently flows through the film’s innocently sweet dialogue, it’s difficult not to fall in love with Arrietty. This fantastical voyage into a magical realm of child fantasy imbued within reality may not reach the higher echelons of the Ghibli franchise, but it comfortable sits amongst the company’s already delightful back catalogue of dutifully loved animated gems.

Tomboy

Celine Sciamma won much notoriety with her debut feature Water Lilies, a female coming of age drama which stood as another example of French cinema’s gloriously joyful ability to capture the raw emotional energy which surrounds adolescence.

Tomboy very much carries on from where Water Lilies left off, dealing with female insecurities. This time our central protagonist is Laure (Zoe Heran), a 10-year-old girl with issues of gender confusion. When her family moves to a town just outside Paris, Laure, with her indistinguishable dress sense and short hair, takes this opportunity to recreate herself not just with a new identity but a whole new sex.

On her first encounter with one of the neighbourhood kids, she announces herself as Michael in what is just the start of a lie which naturally spirals out of control. It’s not a difficult thing to believe as this glorified tomboy, in her grey vest and unisex hoodie, has yet to enter puberty and could easily pass as either an effeminate boy or manly young girl. Even Lisa, a young insecure girl from the same apartment block, is convinced, and develops a crush for Michael, which Laure has no qualms in reciprocating.

She goes to great lengths to hide her true sexuality from her new found friends, from roping her younger sister into this game of deceit all the way to running into the forest every time she needs to urinate. As the stakes escalate, she even goes as far as destroying her bathing suit to create a more masculine pair of speedos, whilst fashioning a crude makeshift penis out of playdough to finish of the look.

However, as she falls deeper into this new artificial persona, cracks start to appear within her fragile facade. Suddenly, the realisation dawns that once these gloriously fun filled summer holidays come to an end and the school term commences, it’ll become almost impossible for her true identity to be shielded from her new group of friends, some of which, Lisa included, may not take so kindly to such a gross degree of deceit…

Sciamma’s minimal direction in this insightful exploration of the mystifying awkwardness of childhood allows the performances of her strikingly assured young cast to tell the story with great effect. Zoe Heran and Malonn Levana, as the two sisters, have the type of naturalistic, immaculately constructed on screen relationship that should by rights be impossible to recreate by those so young. Heran’s appearance as our eponymous tomboy is exceptional, pulling of this unisex role with great aplomb and never seeming uncomfortable with the mature subject matter or complex issues asked of her. Despite the minimal use of dialogue, she confidently uses body language to capture the internal conflict of her characters self-imposed dilemma, whilst simultaneously her strikingly expressive eyes maintain a level of innocent charm that both conveys her confused mental state whilst also driving the narrative forward.

This subtly natural observation of the difficulties which envelop the seemingly all important search for acceptance amongst pre-teens is a lovingly crafted, confident and refreshingly unique film, which perfectly encapsulates its subject matter in what can only be described as a joyfully pure and lovingly sweet tale which deserves to be seen by a much larger audience.

Turin Horse

This Berlinale Silver Bear winner is rumoured to be Bela Tarr’s directorial swansong. Turin Horse is a deeply personal and philosophical film that masterfully uses the impoverished and desolate backdrop of the Hungarian countryside to take us on a harrowingly bleak journey through six days of spiralling despair and misery.

There are many who will no doubt perceive Turin Horse as little more than an example of overly pretentious art, striving to alienate its audience in some vain attempt to be heralded as a masterpiece. It’s an understandable viewpoint, which is very difficult to argue against as Turin Horse, like all of Tarr’s work, is a very subjective film that often relays its message at the expense of the audience’s patience. However, Tarr’s work is a prime of example of art which gives back as much as you’re willing to put into it. Turin Horse is truly a hypnotic film which, if you allow yourself to be consumed by its dark foreboding atmosphere of fear and repression, will ultimately leave you feeling as emotionally effected as even the most poignant and depressingly divisive of tragedies.

It’s impossible to ever come to a clear interpretation of the film’s hidden meaning, but there are still plenty of interestingly profane elements of symbolism from which to shape your own personal opinions. Opening with a voiceover re-telling the extraordinary tale of how philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche apparently once stopped a cab driver from ferociously whipping his horse before the famed philosopher collapsed and spent the next ten years of his life in demented silence. At first, it seems like a curiously irrelevant opening to a movie but, on closer observation, it acts as a key into the realm of Tarr’s deeply cogitative and abstract vision. Subtle comparisons between the way the daughter treats her father and their work horse lead to some interesting conclusions. The way in which she helps her father undress is strikingly similar to the manner in which she removes the horse’s bridle, and draws comparisons with this elderly man and his numerous shared mannerisms with the horse (including the way he eats his potatoes like a horse using its hoofs). Tarr appears to use the unrelenting gale which continually plagues this bleak rural wasteland as a metaphorical representation of the coachman’s whip, attacking this old man and slowly forcing him into submission. Leading many to believe Turin Horse is a visual representation of the cruelty Nietzsche observed, recreated to express the increasing level of human brutality encountered in these more improvised areas of Eastern Europe.

The most interesting explanation of this seemingly uneventful, yet visually majestic exploration of one man’s vision of the world is the belief that Turin Horse is in fact a surreal interpretation of the apocalypse. Reading from the book of genesis, it would appear these six days of increasing deterioration are in fact the reverse of how God is purported to have created the world. It’s a monumental game changer once realised, and a potential revelation which only adds to the already mesmerising visual symphony of human misery which has over the years become a trademark of this intellectually challenging director.

Turin Horse is a remarkably dense and intriguing film which begs you to return to its fascinatingly subtle blend of symbolism and sublimely framed shots of psychologically penetrating desolate beauty, which, as a farewell to filmmaking, fittingly leaves us desperate for more.

The Last Circus

Directed by renowned surrealist Alex de la Iglesia, The Last Circus throws us straight into the action when a circus performance in Madrid is interrupted by the sound of gunfire and explosives. All the men in the audience are pulled out and forced to fight, this includes the performers, notably one of the shows bedraggled clowns who, despite his opposition, is thrust into this bloody conflict against general Franco’s advancing armies. The carnage which ensues would be enough to titillate even the most jaded of extreme cinema fans, but throw in a clown dressed in drag, wielding a machete, and the excitement scale burst uncontrollably under the weight of its own absurdity.

The bulk of the film plays out 36 years later, as we follow this heroic clown’s son, Javier, also a circus entertainer (following in his father’s footsteps but interestingly choosing the role of the ‘sad’ clown due to his miserable childhood and tarnished soul affecting his ability to affectively convey inner joy). He soon becomes obsessed with his stage partner’s tantalisingly beautiful wife and, as to be expected, relationships begin to fray, affecting not just this unconventional love triangle but everyone involved in this touring sideshow. What eventually unravels is a series of gruesome and profane events that spiral this professional rivalry into madness, far transcending the farcical roles of their stage characters, to the point of no return.

This gorgeously presented, glorified B-movie is a film which seems to have divided audiences and critics so far. On one hand, its beautifully maddening story has pushed some to the limits of what they find enjoyable, whilst others have positively revelled in it, transfixed by its visual assault which strikes you with the magnitude of a thousand cream pies to the face.

All the classic conventions of revenge and romance stories are dismissed in this gothic nightmare. Instead, The Last Circus strips down the emotional devastation that loss and infatuation can create to its mentally unstable core. Once the stage is set, it leaves us with nothing but the madness love can create and without a second thought, and amplifies it well past a socially acceptable level, into a realm of cinematic entertainment that far surpasses the simplistically generic ‘midnight movie’ tag some have labelled it with.

The Last Circus is a unique and unforgettable film which shatters genre conventions, but through its bizarre storytelling and gratuitous violence is a movie which will no doubt alienate many. If you’re looking to push the boundaries of what a film can be and suspend your disbelief entirely then perhaps you’ll to fall in love with this visually stunning , beautifully crafted and joyfully over elaborate piece of cultural trash.

The Colour of Pomegranates ★★★★★

“Medieval Armenian poetry is still one of the most remarkable victories of the human spirit known in the annals of the entire world” Valery Brivsov

Sergei Parajanov’s seminal classic, The Colour of Pomegranates, finally becomes available for UK audiences to buy after years of only being accessible through unauthorised European bootlegs.

Striving to convey the gloriously vivid words of the famed medieval Armenian poet, Sayal Nova,Pararjanov has created a sumptuous tapestry of visually alluring Iconography that ironically relies on ocular metaphors instead of words to capture the majesty behind this renowned wordsmiths work, using the language of cinema to recreate the vivid prose of his poetry

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Fright Night 3D ★★★☆☆

Fright Night 3D is a remake of the 1985 cult favourite of the same name. Starring Colin Farrell as a lecherous, libidinous vampire who preys on the inhabitants of a quiet suburban Las Vegas neighbourhood, this modern adaptation attempts to add a little more bite into the originals lurid tale of provincial horror. Those fed up of the constant teen fiction and paranormal romance inspired reincarnations of these satanic monsters take note, Fright Night’s portrayal of these blood sucking immortal beasts is a million miles away from the misunderstood hunks of recent manifestations, deftly reminding audiences that vampires are not meant to be messed with!

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Friends with Benefits ★★★☆☆

This film screened at Empire Big Screen

Striving to have its cake and eat it, Friends with Benefits attempts to both parody the well trodden path taken by most romantic comedies, whilst simultaneously using the genres conventions to create a loveable pastiche.

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Beautiful Lies ★★☆☆☆

Audrey Tautou has become an iconic face for mod­ern French cin­ema, almost to the extent that Cather­ine Deneuve was in the ‘60s. Her mere pres­ence in a film is enough to evoke inter­est from those with even the mildest curios­ity for world cin­ema. Beau­ti­ful Lies once again reunites Tautou with direc­tor Pierre Sal­vadori (Price­less) for what on the sur­face appears to be another slice of delight­fully whim­si­cal French com­edy.

30-year-old Emi­lie (Audrey Tautou) runs a styl­ish salon in her idyl­lic home town in the south of France. She has a rel­a­tively peace­ful life; how­ever, she’s begin­ning to have some con­cerns regard­ing her mother, Maddy, who has so far failed to recover from her hus­band leav­ing four years ago. Maddy has devel­oped a mild form of ago­ra­pho­bia, unable to con­nect with any­one on an emo­tional level due to the hurt inflicted by this mar­i­tal betrayal. Emi­lie is aware that her father has now moved on and is about to have a child with his young fiancée, a woman much younger than Emi­lie. With his desire to finalise his divorce, Emi­lie knows that the clock is tick­ing and must find a way to restore her mother’s lust for life before this dev­as­tat­ing news is bro­ken. A solu­tion presents itself in the form of a ran­dom dec­la­ra­tion of love, anony­mously signed, and deliv­ered to her desk one morn­ing.

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The Guard ★★★★☆

Cut from very much the same cloth as his brother’s hugely suc­cess­ful hit-man com­edy, In Bruges, John Michael McDonagh’s debut fea­ture is a puerile, tongue-in-cheek, police story about an unortho­dox part­ner­ship between an Irish Guard with a con­fronta­tional sense of humour and a stiff upper lipped, African Amer­i­can FBI agent. Yet this underw-helming and for­mu­laic descrip­tion would be a dis­ser­vice to what has to be one of the most sur­pris­ingly humor­ous and unique action/comedy films of the last decade.

Sgt. Gerry Boyle (Brendan Gleeson) of the Galway Garda is not your conventional police officer. Indeed, this fact becomes instantly apparent during the film’s opening scenes, where we accompany this bungling, idiosyncratic cop on a callout. It’s here, amongst the wreckage of a recent traffic incident, that we first encounter Boyle’s morally dubious approach to law enforcement. As he frisks the bodies of this tragic accident’s casualties, he nonchalantly pockets a stash of hallucinogenic drugs, perfectly setting the tone for this facetious tale. Set against a backdrop of a jovially backward community and the contentious behaviour of its loveably wayward protagonist, it becomes instantly apparent that The Guard is certainly not your usual crime thriller.

Boyle soon finds his quiet little parish has become a bustling centre of attention after the investigation of a murder with ‘occult overtones’ escalates far beyond his jurisdiction, leading to a FBI investigation into a huge cocaine smuggling operation rumoured to be taking place just off the coast of this sleepy town. Straight-laced FBI agent, Wendell Everett (Don Cheadle) is given the arduous task of organising this operation, and soon finds himself paired up with the unscrupulous and opinionated Boyle in an irregular working relationship which must overcome its seemingly inappropriate union (and Boyle’s droll subversive jokes) if their mission is to be a success…

This gloriously enjoyable film truly belongs to Glesson. Whether he’s indulging himself with prostitutes and narcotics, bickering with members of the IRA, provoking racially fuelled disputes with Everett, or comforting his dying mother with humorous stories about brothels and amyl nitrate, it becomes near impossible not to be left completely spellbound by this tour-de force performance. There’s barely a scene where Glesson isn’t present, and in the few moments he is absent, you find yourself impatiently waiting for his return, anxious for another dose or his superbly delivered wit and subtly comedic mannerisms.

The character of Boyle is deceptively complex, a fact apparent from his roguish charm, which manages to enrapture the audience despite his philandering ways. Not only is this a tribute to Glesson but also the remarkably natural and often hysterically funny dialogue. From Boyle’s apparent knowledge of the FBI gleaned solely from watching popular US television shows like C.S.I, to his unrelenting racial attacks on everyone from the British to the Mexicans, and almost every nationality in-between, the film’s engrossing script means the pace never lags. Jammed full of memorable one-liners and endearing laugh out loud scenes, this vivacious and unforgettable comedy’s uncomplicated facade hides a much deeper movie which you’ll be forgiven for not expecting. Indeed, The Guard is a film which impressively manages to mould its own unique identity.

Director and screenwriter John McDonagh is also due much of the praise for this remarkable film. Without his whimsical direction, this otherwise generic action-comedy hybrid would surely have failed to deviate from the usual stigmas that often plague this amalgamation of genres. Whilst his impressive ear for dialogue (thanks to his Irish heritage) may be the most noticeable weapon in his arsenal, he also does a remarkable job of presenting the surrounding Irish landscape, with Boyle’s sleepy town soon feeling like a home away from home. Shot entirely on location, each set piece occurs in a natural, yet endearingly quirky surrounding, creating a realistic but visually stimulating backdrop for the action to unfold.

The Guard is as close to perfection as you could expect from a low budget independent movie, yet there are a few minor flaws which hold the film only inches away from becoming an all time classic. The peripheral characters are sadly overshadowed by Glesson’s magnificence, which considering the quality waiting in the wings is mildly disappointing. Liam Cunningham and Mark Strong are two of the most unsung actors currently working and to see their roles reduced to mere comedy villains is mildly discouraging, yet you’d be hard pressed to find anyone prepared to sacrifice Glesson’s screen time to allow for the development of the supporting cast.

Deep down, The Guard is something of a clandestine examination about social integration. The film’s continued collision between cultures wonderfully depicts the way in which our world is ever changing. Yet, despite the constant battles between races, personalities and socio-economic groups, the film’s confrontational yet surprisingly accepting approach to this climate of change is a subtle eye-opener to the varying attitudes accompanying this progression.

Unfortunately, the Guard’s risqué approach to comedy will probably prevent it reaching a larger audience. Yet it’s fantastic balancing act between black humour, thrilling action and genuine emotion (all achieved so effortlessly) makes it one of the year’s most enjoyable films – and one you’ll find yourself desperate to submerge yourself in time and again.

Troll Hunter ★★★★☆

This filmed screened as part of Empire Big Screen.

Choosing to take the well trodden ‘found footage’ path that, over the last decade has slowly created itself as a recognized sub category of both the horror and thriller genres, Troll Hunter is difficult not to describe as a more farcical Blair Witch Project or adrenaline force fed Catfish. Indeed there’s a plethora of shaky camera shots as our protagonists run in fear, supplemented with generic close ups of scared faces that at first make you feel like you’re observing a carbon copy of these cheaply made shock pieces. However, the instant we’re thrust into the depths of Troll Hunter‘s gloriously exhilarating interpretation of the Norwegian wilderness and its world of ancient mythology, it becomes instantly clear that this lazy journalistic stereotyping would be a total disservice to what is a uniquely creative, tongue in cheek piece of lovingly assured film making.

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Conan the Barbarian 3D ★☆☆☆☆

It’s officially blockbuster season, and forcible attempting to be this year’s biggest box office success is Conan the Barbarian 3D, swinging and punching its brand of ultra stylized violence into the subconscious of those un-familiar with the rich mythological history which accompanies the film. Conan is a no holds barred, action adventure whose purported brutal approach to entertainment has left many foaming at the mouth in anticipation.

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French Cancan ★★★★☆

Jean Renoir’s mag­nif­i­cently camp French Can­can, with its slap­stick rhythm, numer­ous fren­zied love tri­an­gles and over embell­ished dance rou­tines is a per­fectly elab­o­rate trib­ute to the ori­gins of the noto­ri­ous Moulin Rouge.

Henri Danglard is the fash­ion­ably suave but bank­rupt owner of Cafe Le Par­avent Chi­nois in Paris. Despite the ram­bunc­tious crowds this bur­lesque club attracts through its provoca­tive dancers and enter­tain­ers, his busi­ness is crum­bling under the weight of his own friv­o­lous demeanour and absurd pom­pos­ity. Even Lola, Danglard’s mis­tress, is unable to sal­vage the club from this finan­cial slump despite her eye-catching belly danc­ing, and, inevitably, the cafe is closed, con­demn­ing Danglard to the cold unfor­giv­ing streets of Paris.

He’s left with little choice but to reassess his options and find another lucrative project to restore his wealth and fame, as the saying goes, “the show must go on.”

Then one fateful day, whilst scouring the bars and clubs on the wrong side of the Parisian tracks, he discovers a bar in the run down part of town where the Cancan (even then regarded as outdated and old fashioned) is still danced. Witnessing the exuberant faces of the bar’s patrons, he soon realises he’s discovered his next lucrative show.

Amongst the hordes of dancers and drunks, Danglard spots Nini, a young laundress and natural dancer who gleams through this destitute rabble like a diamond in the rough. With a new routine and vibrant face to launch this new production, he sets about creating a new, more popular establishment – The Moulin Rouge.

What Danglard cannot foresee are the explosive romances fuelled by jealousy and greed that would threaten his new venture. Yet, whilst love may conquer all, in show business there’s little room for romantic engagements, with adoration and devotion all too often sacrificed in favour of applause…

Like his father, the famed impressionist Pierre Renoir, Jean Renoir has created an image of Paris that positively radiates with a plethora of vivid colours. Gloriously exploding from the screen, Renoir’s sumptuously framed love letter to Paris successfully creates a contagious atmosphere of electrifying excitement which is impressively sustained throughout, thanks mostly to a well crafted script, which effectively amalgamates delightful lyrical whimsy with an immersive and realistic romantic subplot.

The film’s carefully choreographed dance scenes play out with an intoxicating energy of intensity and feverish joy which add a sense of character to the proceedings. Not unlike Jacque Demy’s fantastic Les Demoiselles de Rochefort (filmed twelve years later), the movements of Renoir’s carefully chosen dancers are hypnotic, with each radiating an noticeable spirit of joviality and impishness. Unlike Baz Luhrmann’s overly stylised Moulin Rouge, French Cancan captures the raw energy on the stage in a more realistic way. This approach ultimately results in a more natural and, in turn, immersive viewing experience, which will ignite your soul with an invigorating sense of elation.

The set designs, whilst obviously shot in a studio, manage to recreate a vibrant Parisian atmosphere only bettered by the adorably twee costume that are as fantastically flamboyant as the stars who wear them. Once combined with the pleasingly impassioned soundtrack, the film’s choreographed dance scenes explode with a frenzied mix of colour and sensuality. A brief but poignant cameo by Edith Piaf gives further reason, if reason be needed, to watch this resplendent musical drama.

Behind this vigorous stage show, there appears to be a deeper side to French Cancan, hidden behind its facade of glitz and glam. Renoir’s harmonious ode to Paris retains some of the director’s trademark side swipes at the class system. The characters are all too rigidly archetypal examples of their comparative class. There is the suave prince and the pompous aristocrats who dress in splendid gowns and suits and care little for anything other than money and prowess. In stark opposition, we also have the stereotypical working class stiffs; boorish uncouth philistines who toil away at meaningless jobs, constantly searching for a way out. No-one escapes this very black-and-white treatment, resulting in there being no established middle ground. Renoir’s efforts to inject subtle satirical themes into his film, in an attempt to bring down these archaic barriers, unfortunately results in a cast of relatively two dimensional characters.

French Cancan is a finely tuned musical with an unadulterated focus on the pomp and tomfoolery of stage entertainment, with a rich romantic vein gently anchoring it from disappearing into a midst of contrived, meaningless gaiety. With the spotlight firmly set on the harsh but exciting world of theatre and dance, the film does sometimes fail to elaborate on the motivation of our entertainers and their lives behind the curtain, or emotions under their make-up. However, this lack of dimension fails to diminish the fact that French Cancan is a downright explosion of joie de vivre, with a contagious zest for life that creates a near perfect sensual delight.

Poetry ★★★★☆

The inten­sity of lan­guage and the beauty it con­veys are visu­ally inter­preted in Lee Chang-dong’s Poetry, a film which man­ages to fash­ion the vividly imag­i­na­tive nature of a poem, against a nar­ra­tive sat­u­rated with themes of human mis­ery.

Mija (Yun Jeong-hie) is an elderly lady with an infec­tiously joy­ful energy which negates the cli­mate of sor­row that cur­rently dic­tates her life. She lives in a South Korean city where she cares for a dis­abled older man in order to cob­ble together enough money to sus­tain her­self and her dim-witted grand­son (who she is the sole guardian of). Her life is one of infre­quent moments of cheer­ful­ness inter­spersed with count­less inci­dents of immense dejec­tion and feel­ings of insignif­i­cance.

Things don’t look like improving for Mija when she’s diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, condemning her to an uncontrollable downward spiral into dementia. In an attempt to discover a new language in which to communicate her complex range of emotions, she takes up a poetry class at the local arts college. The students are assigned the relatively simple task of creating one poem by the end of the course, but how can Mija possible create a composition of prose to express the beauty which quietly resides in the world when her vocabulary is slowly diminishing? And with the revelation that her grandson is implicated in the rape and death of a young girl, she finds herself further impeded by yet another example of the crumbling level of morality and escalating despair which now surrounds her life…

Lee’s sobering vision of an emotionally paralyzed woman coming to terms with her degenerative condition through a dying art form is as graceful and expressive as the most emotive of Sonnets. Eloquently achieved through a use of tranquil pacing and a heightened artistic approach to filming, Poetry successfully captures the emotional numbness which can often accompany such devastating events, whilst simultaneously illuminating the subtle strokes of beauty which often present themselves at these moments of magnified mortality.

The breathtaking performance of Yun Jeong-hie is what ultimately transforms Poetry from a sombre tragedy (albeit a visually stimulating one) into an immersive character drama. Returning from a sixteen year retirement, her performance is tremendous – perfectly conveying her character’s obsequious demeanour and naive sensibilities with a simple, nuanced stare. Whether it be the degrading chores she must perform for her boss or the uncomfortable meetings she must attend in regard to her grandson’s horrifying transgression, Jeong-hie seems to handle these uncomfortable situations with a majestic level of professionalism. With little action and a sparing use of dialogue, Jeong-hie has little chance to articulate the turbulent range of emotions her character is going through. When given an opportunity to express herself, her lilting mannerisms convey such a subtle blend of deep emotions it’s difficult not to become transfixed by her delicate and innocent manifestation of the character. Whilst Mija’s recently diagnosed illness is never really addressed, other than a few sporadic scenes of forgetfulness, Yun Jeong-hie always seems to be carrying a heavy burden behind her cheerful exterior. It culminates in an assured performance which transforms the film’s central protagonist into a well rounded and extremely impassioned individual whose harrowing situation becomes increasingly upsetting to witness.

Much like Bong Joon-ho’ s hugely successful Mother (2010), Poetry is yet another South Korean film carried by an elderly female lead dealing with the destructive ripples which emanate from a troubled dependant. For two such films to emerge within such a short space of time, and originate from the same country, it would be difficult not to draw comparisons. Poetry deals with its serious subject matter with a much more natural approach, never needing to lapse into melodrama or extreme symbolism. The story is allowed to unfold at its own steady pace without falling into monotony, instead creating a genuine flow of events which unravel in a conventional linear fashion that is ultimately fitting with Mija’s slow decline into dementia.

Like any poem of literary importance, Poetry demands that you read between the lines, listen to what’s not said and study it meticulously to grasp its hidden meaning. With a dark vein of immoral behaviour brewing beneath its pleasant exterior, the spiritual messages of peace and love often associated with poetry are nowhere to be found. It’s this calm and calculated delivery that may alienate many viewers. A distinct lack of tension or any signs of moral retribution create a particularly unsatisfying conclusion to the film’s previous events, which required such devout patience. Yet, perhaps, Mija’s reluctance to accept the monstrous crime her grandson committed is an attempt to avoid filling her last remaining memories with such images of horror and disappointment? This is just one of many loose ends no doubt implemented to make Poetry a more philosophical experience which leaves a lasting impression.

A strong sense of compassion for Mija’s situation is also required to make the most of the film. An inability to sympathise with her situation or to become infuriated by her naivety will unfortunately result in a long two hours of action-less events portrayed at a noticeably leisurely tempo. Indeed, this is a film which asks few questions and answers even less, instead relying on the events to slowly build to their climax.

Poetry is a superbly well-crafted story that flows as elegantly as its namesake. Its underlying beauty, whilst only revealing itself after some deep searching, is as rewarding an experience as you could expect from such dark subject material, but persevere with Poetry and you’ll discover an intensely moving film about inexorable optimism in the face of uncompromising negativity and despair.

Empire Big Screen

Empire Magazine’s ambitious efforts to create a glossy and endearingly unique film festival arrived last weekend under the guise of Empire Big Screen. Billed as a live movie event that promised to bring Hollywood to London, hordes of eager cinema patrons flocked enthusiastically towards the capital’s Millennium Dome O2 arena to take part in this celebration of the medium. However, this attempt to recreate the renowned studio showcase of Comic Con was marred with numerous issues, most prominently ticketing problems with both guests and staff unclear as to how the complex allocation of events worked. Yet despite these teething troubles there was plenty for movie fanatics to enjoy.

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The Extraordinary Adventures of Adele Blanc-Sec ★★★☆☆

Look back through Luc Besson’s career and you’ll discover something of a penchant for strong female characters. From Nikita’s eponymous femme fatal, Leon’s young trainee assassin Matilda, to Milla Jovanich as both Leeloo in The Fifth Element and Joan of Arc – they all point to a man with a healthy fixation for bucking the archaic Hollywood obsession with archetypal male leads. No surprise then that Besson has been entrusted to adapt Jacques Tardi’s graphic novel about the daring journalist and internationally acclaimed explorer Adele Blanc-Sec.

We meet our intrepid adventurer as she returns home from an expedition to Peru. She’s on somewhat of a crusade, endeavouring to find a cure for her ailing sister, recently paralyzed after a friendly game of tennis became overly competitive, resulting in an ill-advised hair pin (far from sensible sports ware) becoming permanently implanted in her cranium. Adele’s continued journey in search of a mythical cure for her sibling leads us through a varying set of exotic locations, with constantly changing scenery that switches almost as much as our eponymous heroine replaces her hats (of which there are a plethora on show, ranging from the splendidly elaborate to the outright cumbersome and ludicrous – any one of which, could put the ladies of Ascott to shame)

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Elite Squad 2 ★★★☆☆

*Warning - This review was written in one hour as a favour for Law&More and after having not seen the film in over a month - you have been warned. Let the terrible spelling and punctuation begin!*

In 2014 all eyes will turn to Brazil as it hosts perhaps the largest and most watched sporting event in the world – the FIFA World Cup. Describing the country’s infrastructure as fragile would be an understatement, a sentiment not only seconded by both of the Elite Squad movies but exposed for all to see.

Whilst City of God may have open many  eyes to the heightened level of crime and disorder in the favelas of Brazil, director Jose Padiha has continued to carry this torch of social critique, using its flames to ignite a sense of rebellion within the country.

Beautiful Lies ★★☆☆☆

*A mildly less whimsical review for subtitled online will be posted shortly*

Beautiful Lies once again reunites Audrey Tautou with director Pierre Salvadori (Priceless) for what on the surface appears to be another slice of delightfully whimsical French comedy – but which unfortunately hides a dark secret!

Thirty year old Emilie (Audrey Tautou) runs a stylish salon in keeping with her glamorous appearence. She has a relatively peaceful life, however, her mothers deteriorating mental condition is starting to cause some concerns. Maddy (Emilie’s mother), has so far failed to recover from her husband’s departure, a pretentious sculptor, who left her four years ago. Maddy has developed a mild form of agoraphobia, unable to connect with anyone on an emotional level due to the hurt inflicted by this marital betrayal and has chosen to hide from the world behind the walls of her palatial mansion. Emilie is aware that her father has now moved on and is about to have a child with his young fiancé, a woman much younger than Emilie and understands that his desire to finalise the divorce will destroy her mother. A solution to this dilema soon presents itself to Emilie in the form of a random declaration of love delivered to her place of work on one seemingly uneventful morning.

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Project Nim ★★★☆☆

Arriving conveniently the same weekend as Rise of the Planet of the Apes (a film with a strong social warning about our inherent desire to advance scientifically with little regard for the natural repercussions) Project Nim successfully amalgamates a mixture of talking head segments, archived footage, still photography and dramatised recreations to retell the tale of Nim Chimpsky, a chimpanzee thrust into a human environment in an elaborate experiment to see if chimpanzees can successfully communicate with humans through sign language.

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Devil's Double ★★☆☆☆

Based on a true story of opulence, greed and unequivocal malevolence, The Devil’s Double retells the account of Latif Yahia (Dominic Cooper) the real life ‘fiday’ – or body double – to Saddam Hussein’s notoriously wayward son Uday Hussain (also Dominic Cooper).

The moment the film’s overly stylised introduction comes to a close we are presented with Latif as he’s reunited with his old class mate Uday. The resemblance between the two is understandably uncanny, with only the flamboyant and cartoonish mannerisms of Uday separating him from the uptight and conservative Latif. The question of whether Latif will accept the role of Uday’s double is dragged out until it reaches its inevitable conclusion, with Latif unwillingly agreeing to sacrifice his identity in order to protect his family from any violent backlash his refusal may provoke from the Hussein family.

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Rise of the Planet of the Apes ★★★★☆

For a while now we’ve been warned that the Planet of the Apes will rise again. However, after the abomination of Tim Burton’s misplaced attempt to reboot this once cherished franchise, this idle threat was hardly enough to stir any degree of excitement from an audience now familiar with the feelings of disappointment that accompanies these persistent attempts by film studios to cash-in on childhood nostalgia. So maybe it was the rock bottom level of expectations or a sign of the decaying state of Hollywood filmmaking, but Rise of the Planet of the Apes is undoubtedly this year’s most accomplished and thoughtful summer blockbuster.

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Mr Popper's Penguins ★★☆☆☆

In the nineties Jim Carrey’s name was like a stamp of approval, guaranteeing near to instant box office success. When it came to outlandish slapstick comedies Carrey had the market cornered, becoming an unconventional A-list celebrity in the process. That once boundless and vivacious actor now seems like little more than a distant memory and whilst his ‘serious’ roles have propelled him into the consciousness of a more astute collection of film fanatics, his penchant for comedy has never since reached those once dizzying heights. Yet whilst Carrey’s name coupled with these entertaining, flightless birds may attract an audience of nostalgic Ace Ventura fans, Mr Popper’s Penguins target audience is undoubtedly of a younger demographic.

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