30 Days of Night presents a rather obvious take on the vampire flick which will quite possibly leave studios everywhere scratching their heads and saying, ‘why didn’t we think of that?’ By setting the action in Barrow, Alaska, the authors of the comic book source material (Steve Niles and Ben Templesmith) guaranteed themselves the titular 30 Days of Night, a period where, due to its extreme North location, Barrow finds itself hidden from the sun. The final part of what is ostensibly a high-concept flick is of course the vampire arrival where a band of vicious brutes led by a rather terrifying Danny Huston attempt to massacre the entire remaining population of the town, led in their survival attempts by Josh Hartnett’s typically out-of-his-depth Sheriff, Eben Olsen and his estranged wife Stella (Melissa George). 

Visually 30 Days of Night is one the most astoundingly brave films since Sin City and it is Robert Rodriguez’ film which immediately comes to mind as soon as darkness descends. Director David Slade and Cinematographer Jo Willems craft a blackness which has a personality of its own, set against white snowdrifts and ambiguous grey shadows. It’s perhaps unusual to see a pairing whose history includes the distinctly un-inspired Hard Candy re-inventing themselves in such an outlandish, dare you say it, stunning, fashion but the pilfered stylings of the comic book transfer on a picture-perfect level to the screen. Slade shows he is brave enough to let the vistas do the talking and some truly fantastic framing shots throughout the film provide the proof. In the end the film could have come across as Sin City-lite but actually transpires as a more realistic version of Frank Miller’s vision. The black and white and red here is one of realistic necessity rather than artistic indulgence and the mood it creates sets the tone at a judicious level. 

It’s a tone that is well maintained by the action Slade cultivates throughout and Buffy this certainly isn’t. There is copious amounts of blood and gore, pouring forth on a near constant level. Certainly when Hartnett’s battered sheriff finds himself in possession of an axe part-way through proceedings it soon becomes clear that he isn’t simply planning to chop wood with it. Some brutal attacks later and certain characters find themselves missing rather important parts of their body. It’s key too that the vampires themselves appear relatively realistic. They do move with exaggerated, animalistic, movements but when they’re hit with something significant (say, a truck with a massive snowplough attached) they fly through the air with the greatest of ease, similar to if you were to do the same with a human (this is not recommended). Slade keeps a tangible amount of dread every time a confrontation is imminent but occasionally struggles to build tension, something stemming from the fact that the vampires on screen presence is often as terrifying as their off-screen one. 

Where the film falls down slightly is in its slavish devotion to the source material. Had it been changed to ‘One Day of Night’ or even ‘A Few Days of Night’ the pacing and plotting would certainly have been a lot more believable. As it is long periods of time are simply omitted and passed over by the narrative, creating holes larger than Melissa George’s nicely rounded… eyes. One character, for example, appears to manage to survive under a house for twelve days while the survivors struggle for food and warmth inside houses and various other buildings. This time-line also serves to eliminate some of the threat and detaches the audience from the peril we witness on-screen. 

Despite this however, 30 Days of Night stands strong as both an excellent comic book adaptation and a really decent stab in the right direction of the vampire-horror film. The visuals are stylised and almost unique in their own right while the violence is realistic and often daring. Mention should also be reserved for Hartnett and George whose poise on screen is admirable. Viewers will certainly be hooked until the end where the inevitable confrontation does not disappoint and the conclusion provides simultaneously a nicely rounded closure and the faintest hint of a possible follow-on.

Based on the bestselling book by Ceceila Ahern, P.S. I Love You tells the tale of Holly Kennedy (Hilary Swank) who is aided in recovering from her husband’s (Gerard ‘this is Sparta’ Butler) death by a series of letters, carefully orchestrated, by him, to arrive at key moments in her recovery process. What follows for Holly is a trip to his native Ireland with her friends (Lisa Kudrow and Gina Gershon) and a rough reconciliation with her mother (Kathy Bates). 

The first problem (and once again reader, I warn you, this will not be the last) with P.S. I Love You is that its initial premise would quite possibly have been better suited to staying in literary format rather than attempting the transformation to screen. It is, after all, based on letters. In its celluloid appearance Director/Screenwriter Richard LaGravenese doesn’t manage to imbue it with any of the sentimentality, sweetness or absent, longing, romance which was so appreciated in the book. Instead, the appearances of Gerard Butler’s Gerry in Holly’s imagination appear more akin to something in a horror movie rather than a romantic comedy while the eagerness book readers felt at the arrival of each new letter on the page is completely lost when all we have is alternate narration from Holly or Gerry. 

As the movie matures it becomes increasing apparent that its characters aren’t and herein lies the absolute killer punch to any chance P.S. I Love You had of being a decent romantic comedy; not a single one of the characters are likeable on any level. While Holly may retain our initial sympathies her grieving process just doesn’t convince, wavering madly between recovery, extreme depression and excessive anger, all of this not helped by the fact that she didn’t actually appear to treat Gerry very nicely when he was alive. In turn to this she is so self-centred that even more than a third of the way in to the film she can’t feel any happiness for the joy her two friends soon find. Having said that, this is one crime that can actually be forgiven for the simple fact that Kudrow and Gershon play two absolutely despicable ‘friends’, one of whom seems completely emotionally bankrupt yet majestically finds the man of her dreams, while the other appears completely and utterly helpless in every situation where the screenwriter does actually have the good grace to give her a line.

All this, of course, could be saved if the two male leads (Butler and Jeffrey Dean Morgan) had an ounce of charisma between them. Sadly they are both victims of horrific casting despite giving the roles their best efforts. Butler is Scottish which someone in Hollywoodland obviously thought made him a shoe-in for Irish accented Gerry. The resultant mish-mash sounds like his best impression of a cross-Gaelic fairy godmother whos been lost in the wilds of New York for a few years. Morgan, meanwhile similarly fails to convince as Irish Billy which again can be forgiven seeing as he’s from
Seattle! A mention should also be maintained here for Swank and Bates who, so the story goes, are of Irish heritage, although neither attempts an accent, nor apparently, knows anything about Ireland, despite the meaningless back story of Holly which reveals she’s visited the Emerald Isle before. 

The film just avoids the dreaded one star by virtue of actually occasionally fulfilling its promise on the comedy side. When Holly isn’t moping and the other two aren’t being a) bitchy or b) silent there is some witty, quick-paced scripting which does raise a smile or two. However, a few laughs does not a good rom-com make, especially when there are no characters to speak of and the ones that are here are spouting what can only be described as cross-cultural nonsense on a grandiose scale.

It seems strange in the era of a successfully rebooted Batman, Spiderman and Superman that the first really hugely-anticipated movie of the summer is Iron Man, a comparatively minor superhero. Although part of Marvel’s The Avengers series (super-rich Tony Stark bankrolls the project in certain incarnations) Iron Man’s appeal seems to hover somewhere around the cult level of a popular indie (say Spawn for comparisons sake). Whilst distinctly more popular in the U.S, over here in Blightly it seems that Iron Man’s meteoric box office success has been more down to film fans than comic fans. What then is its appeal? Why, other than a typically saturated media-onslaught from, in particular, Robert Downey Junior, has Iron Man been such a success? 

The reasons for this, I am sure, are extremely varied and multiple but one becomes clear about an hour or so into the film. Terrence Howard watches Downey Junior fly off in the Mark 3 suit before turning and looking at the Mark 2 and, with a wry smile, mouthing ‘next time’. It is here that Howard sums up the feeling of everybody sitting in the cinema, and I don’t just mean the fan boys. This is the flying suit you dreamed of as a kid, the fighting suit you dreamed of as a kid, the do-anything, go-anywhere suit you still dream of as an adult! It’s the ultimate boys (and girls) toy! 

Of course, terrific source material and the nous to bring it to the screen in such an appealing way isn’t the only reason Iron Man works so well. Director Jon Favreau brings a light, humour to proceedings ensuring the film is never afraid to poke a bit of fun at its own fictionality. Stark, for example, fights a running battle with his own robots who aren’t quite technologically advanced enough to clearly understand his own voice commands. Elsewhere there’s the barely controlled bubbling romance of Stark and his secretary, Pepper Potts, played here by Gwyneth Paltrow who obviously wasn’t willing to let Renee Zellwegger walk off with the award for most impossibly named, alliterative, love interest (Lexie Littleton in Leatherheads). Even though the two actors are ostensibly not doing anything they haven’t before, they do have an on-screen chemistry that bubbles between shy giggles and moody glances. 

There’s plenty here for the fan-boy in you to. The appearance of Agent Coulson and his agency which isn’t quite sure what to call itself runs along nicely parallel to the main event and comic devotees won’t be particularly surprised to find out just who it is that makes a post-credits cameo (stay in your seats, it’s well worth a watch). There are apparently plenty more of these little ‘Easter eggs’ subtly hidden within the make-up of the picture and whether this is just wishful thinking by people who have too much time on their hands or not it certainly makes repeat viewing a tad more interesting. 

Despite the fact that you can’t help but leave the cinema on a wave of euphoria, the type of which will transform your mundane Ford into the Batmobile, Iron Man isn’t quite an 100% success. The inevitable final battle between Jeff Bridges’ thinly disguised villain and Stark’s Iron Man doesn’t quite have the punch one expects after the film has built up to it so impressively. It’s a real disappointment, especially considering how tactfully Favreau handles the ‘damsel-in-distress’ element of the tale, managing to (just) avoid superhero cliché. Personally I find origin tales enthralling and I would have liked to have seen a bit more of Iron Man’s personal and physical development whereas the studio obviously worried that this could turn it into another X-Men and therefore quickly paces through the use of the Mark 2 suit. 

Despite these gripes however, Iron Man rises close to the heights of Batman Begins, without quite threatening to usurp it as probably one of, if not the, best comic book adaptation around. Rest assured however, it does provide Spiderman 3 with the trouncing it truly deserved, and it does it with a pretty wide grin on its face.

Robert Redford’s been sneakily hiding his outspoken liberalism beneath the ultimate smooth-talking veneer of a country gent for nigh on 50 years now. O.K so maybe an argument could be created for it creeping out in Spy Game or All The President’s Men but can anyone really find the political message in Charlotte’s Web or The Horse Whisperer? Anyone? No? In which case be directed to Lions for Lambs, Redford’s seventh directorial offering and the first for seven years since he exposed us to the mushy sentimentalism of The Legend of Bagger Vance. It is also probably the most overt slice of liberal fist-shaking in the general direction of the American Government you’ll see this year or possibly any other. 

In its structure Lions for Lambs resembles an art-house experiment, focussing on three different duologues and the relationships between them. Redford takes one of the six main roles for himself as Professor Stephen Malley who recounts the story of two of his students (Michael Pena and Derek Luke) to disaffected current student Todd Hayes (Andrew Garfield). Meanwhile Tom Cruise’s slimy senator Jasper Irving attempts to sell a new military strategy in Afghanistan to journalist Janine Roth (Meryl Streep). At the other end of this policy, on the front line in Afghanistan, are Malley’s former students who after graduating decided the best way to make a difference was join the army. 

In its conception the film sounds innovative but perhaps a little ambitious. In its production it appears innovative but slightly annoying. Characters are set up with resolute ideals only to have them played with by their partner in the duologue in a way which hardly respects the original degree to which backed an idea or a cause. Streep and Cruise’s discussion is definitely the most guilty of this while Pena and Luke’s is by far the weakest in general, leaving their development to Redford’s reminiscing professor. 

Ironic then that ultimately Streep and Cruise’s conversation is by far the most engaging with snappy scripting from Matthew Michael Carnahan ensuring Senator Irving’s assertions and manipulations are only answered by cleverer questions and mis-readings by Streep’s closet liberal journalist. In Redford’s own segment he merely goes through the motions with a character who freely admits he has seen better days. Again, strange therefore that he apparently has such an effect on un-motivated Todd. 

The political heart of the film is well and truly worn proudly on its sleeve. The conclusion of each story preaches to the ability of people to change and develop and perhaps therefore provide hope for the future of Redford’s America. If you can scrape past the political preaching and ignore the poor Afghanistan sets, which look like they were filmed in a small closet somewhere, then there’s a decent film here with some passable acting from its stars. Cruise in particular should at least be given a cursory nod, attacking a character outside of his usual gamut in the smooth-talking, manipulative, Irving. To some, this will be too hard to do and the fact that the film shouts its message from the rafters doesn’t help. However, at leas the message is one worth hearing, a fact definitely not ignored by a film worth seeing.

Funded by the New Zealand national film council, Out of the Blue tells the story of the true life tragic events in Aramoana where 13 people died at the hands of David Gray, a local un-employed man who went on the rampage over two days in 1990. Following, Gray (Matthew Sunderland), a police force (including an impressive Karl Urban) struggling to cope with events it is ill-equipped to handle and the small town’s local residents trapped in the middle the film pitches itself at ground-level, telling the story with a vicious honesty. 

Director Robert Sarkies creates an impressive array of contrasts within Out of the Blue, highlighting how Aramoana really is the last place on earth anyone would expect this to happen. Opening shots of beautiful beach and countryside scenes are all the more poignant when we know what inevitably will follow. In fact the entire opening 20 minutes or so are amongst some of the tensest in modern cinema as characters are built whom we are only too aware, existed in reality but are not there any longer. 

Gray is introduced early on and Sarkies doesn’t shy away from presenting him as seriously mentally unstable. Early scenes see him exploding at a teller in a bank while at other times he clearly imagines false pressures pushing in on him. While answers aren’t exactly forthcoming about Gray both throughout the film and by the time the inevitable conclusion hits Sarkies does try his best to craft a character out of the little which is obviously known. 

During a horrific night-time siege of the town (which is little more than an organised hamlet on the shore) by Gray, the director narrows the focus down to key members of the community and the police force who struggle to adapt and help than make it through the night. Decent turns by both Karl Urban and William Kircher as the two lead police officers help anchor what happens in a stark urban reality, maintained to a high level by Sarkies. 

At times Out of the Blue is extremely hard to watch, all the more difficult for the fact that we know we are witnessing events in almost a slightly-delayed real-time. Gray’s victims included the weak and the vulnerable and while at times Sarkies can be accused of watering down particularly horrific deaths, rarely is the film anything but brutally, and disturbingly, honest. While not shying away from presenting us with the victims and their stories Starkies does not negate the fact that there are heroes here too, and plenty of them.

Vantage Point takes the interesting, if not entirely original premise of showing the same event from eight different angles, each one revealing something new about the twenty-three minutes it focuses on. When you throw in the fact that the cast includes Sigourney Weaver, Dennis Quaid and Lost’s Matthew Fox along with the fact that said ‘event’ is the assassination of POTUS (President Of The United States, if you’ve never heard it said before, you will by the end of the film!) and you should have the material for a decent, action-packed blockbuster… the word ‘should’ there is the key one. 

Much has been made about the fact that towards the end of the film Vantage Point abandons its central thread and turns into a car-chase based full-on action flick. This however, isn’t its main problem. The assassination of the President should, in anyone’s language be a fantastic and shocking piece of cinema but instead of enhancing the experience the idea of showing it from eight viewpoints makes it boring. We see pretty much the same thing every time and instead of making the plot any clearer it simply adds elements to be revealed in the final act. Dennis Quaid’s Secret Service agent sees something key on a monitor but the audience don’t, the director instead choosing to hold it back to ‘shock’ the audience with at the end and so we remain none the wiser as to what is going on. 

If it was only boredom that this created it might be excusable when the shocks start rolling out come the end but the plot is so predictable you know exactly what’s going to happen, to who, when and even on some occasions, where. We don’t need eight viewpoints because after the first two, feel free to leave – you already know what’s going to happen. 

The film gets an extra star for effort and premise, along with some decent scenes but beyond that there’s not much to recommend. The production design feels extremely ropey; in the big set-piece car chase one car seems to take a battering before miraculously repairing itself mid-race while the final chopper take off against what is obviously a still and actually rather grainy photograph of a Spanish skyline is terrible and unforgivable. It’s not even held together by decent performances. Quaid comes out as the best of a bad bunch, going through his motions without leaving first gear while Weaver is horribly wooden and although Fox has the look of a star he fails to display any of the talent to go with it. Supporting turns also fail to actually provide any tangible support and if this performance is anything to go by then Zoe Saldana’s turn as Uhura in the new Star Trek film is going to be one to miss as she resoundingly fails to even go through her motions in the role of stock character: argumentative news reporter. 

The film’s premise is a decent attempt to break the stale action mode but by sticking to the genre conventions of bad acting, ropey dialogue and lazy design it stalls on square one. The final act is certainly not the worst bit of the film but many will have lost faith with it well before then. 

Doug Liman obviously felt he had unfinished business following his premature removal from the Bourne franchise. With Jumper he presents a thinly-disguised superhero romp complete with characters as ambiguous as Jamie Bell’s accent. Unfortunately however, Liman is not Paul Greengrass and Hayden Christensen is certainly not Matt Damon. 

It says a lot that Christensen is consistently out-acted by The OC’s Rachel Bilson, who hasn’t exactly been fighting off the award givers this season. His delivery of a typically flimsy, lazy script by David Goyer is frequently so stale and forced it gives the impression that he is reading from an auto-cue that he can’t quite see. His potential as a leading man is evident after a decent performance in Star Wars: Episode III and a nuanced turn in Shattered Glass but here he turns in a performance so flat he doesn’t even deserve credit as a supporting role. 

The plot centres around Christensen and Bell’s characters ability to teleport to any place they have seen before, including the inside of bank vaults various people are kind enough to show them in advance. It has potential but the mythology of a comic book tale without the comic book feels screwdrivered in to facilitate convenient developments. Samuel L Jackson’s character needs a way to follow the boys through their ‘jumps’, suddenly he has a ‘machine’ which allows him to do it. Bilson and Christensen need to be together, she drops everything to go to Rome with a man she hasn’t seen since High School and who’s just beat up her boyfriend. And so the convenience keeps on coming. 

If this mythology was introduced with skill and tentativeness then there might be a good story brewing round about but Goyer’s script sticks to the bare minimum; ‘I’m a Jumper. You’re a Paladin. What happens now?’ Christensen’s character mouths at one point before having it explained to him in language babies could understand. 

In a film where it’s difficult to like the hero it’s even more difficult to hate the villains of the piece. The aforementioned Paladins have a nasty fanatical religious steak (again seemingly shoe-horned in to make them seem a bit more evil!) but other than that they seem to be no more evil than a CID unit, attempting to track down a pair of highly-skilled bank robbers. The plot adds no real malevolence and Liman’s slap-happy direction fails to add fuel to the fire. 

Michael Rooker, Jamie Bell and Jackson add some much needed weight but are typically given short-shrift with a film which more often than not appears to have both eyes on its inevitable sequel than on the job in hand. If Liman was hoping to exercise his Bourne ghosts then this is not the film to do it with because in the end we can only hope that Greengrass comes to the rescue and directs the sequel, preferably with Damon in the lead.

Nominated for Best Film at this year’s Academy Awards, Michael Clayton is a legal thriller following the development of a high profile law case following the mental breakdown of one of the key litigators (Tom Wilkinson). Sent in to clear up the mess the law firms fixer (George Clooney) soon finds himself up against the hard-talking head of his client’s legal department (Tilda Swinton). 

In a crowded Best Film category which included eventual winner No Country For Old Men, There Will Be Blood and highly-rated British film Atonement, many observers were surprised to find the John Grisham-esque thriller Michael Clayton stealing in with a nomination. Indeed, as the countdown to Oscar night got smaller and smaller some observers worried that the only reason it had been included was that it was going to beat the likes of No Country to the gong. It’s easy to see why people were worried as despite it being an involving, well-acted, thriller it is hard to see anything in it which justifies an award. 

Taking into account its title the film suggests itself as a character piece, following the trials and tribulations of Clooney’s Clayton as he attempts to make the various parts of his life stick. The film does largely stick to this model, occasionally veering off path to develop the conspiracy elements of the film’s plot lines. Enough has been written about Clooney in the past year or so to keep a team of lawyers busy for a number of months but there is no doubting he is a magnetic presence when on screen. Whatever the quality of the material, Clooney remains extremely watchable and with a decent script and ambitious plotting he excels here, managing to reveal the many facets of Clayton through various interactions with his family, work colleagues and his own darker underworld connections. 

Supporting Clooney is Oscar winner Tilda Swinton and nominee Tom Wilkinson. If anything, Wilkinson’s is the better performance, giving depth to a character who remains unpredictable and unreadable throughout the film. It is perhaps one of the film’s main points that you are never entirely sure whether Wilkinson’s Arthur Eden is the mad one or if, indeed it is the world around him. Swinton’s Oscar win meanwhile appears generously gained on the evidence shown here. Rarely does she step outside of her comfort zone and despite Director Tony Gilroy’s best efforts the character’s facets are never anything but hidden. Browsing the list of Best Supporting Actress nominations it does seem that there are more worthy performances in more worthy films and it does make one question whether Swinton’s award was designed to recognise a film which missed out elsewhere. 

As a whole Michael Clayton is an accomplished thriller with strong direction from
Gilroy. A significant, if tried and tested, device early on in the film immediately ensures audience involvement and the central performances ensure it is retained. As a character study it is slightly flawed with bits of Clayton’s life, particularly his family life, remaining tantalisingly just out of reach (a fact which invites a later Director’s Cut DVD release). As a legal thriller however, it is close to perfect, avoiding the muddy, slower, waters of a jury led debate. Indeed it is interesting to note that we never actually see the inside of a courtroom with Michael Clayton instead taking centre stage.

In 1990 Christopher McCandless (Emile Hirsch) disappeared from his rented accommodation in
Atlanta to hike across the
United States under the moniker ‘Alexander Supertramp’. Eventually deciding upon living in the Alaskan wilds Christopher left behind a family, twenty-four thousand dollars in savings and most of his cash and possessions. 

Into The Wild is Sean Penn’s adaptation of Jon Krakauer’s non-fiction book which attempts to document Christopher’s journey and his eventual time living in an abandoned ‘magic bus’ in the Alaskan wilderness. Taking on board both screenplay and directing duties Penn here attempts to create a film as expansive as McCandless’ journey, narrowing and broadening his focus from his hero’s (and make no doubt, he is his hero) days in the bus to his journey across America. The photography from Eric Gauthier captures Penn’s vision fantastically, bringing in elements of his previous expansive journey in The Motorcycle Diaries and ensuring we see the America McCandless saw on his tour. 

Performance wise it is hard to fault any of the key character actors. Hirsch is stunning as Christopher and a late photograph shows how similar the two are in terms of their physical appearance. A complex character, Hirsch manages to inhabit the role of a simultaneously intelligent student and penniless bum with a high degree of accuracy and sincerity. Opposite this performances other key roles, by and large, manage to keep up, being mainly filled by the people Christopher met on his journey. Hal Holbrook secured his Best Supporting Actor Oscar nomination for a tear-jerking performance as Ron Franz, a war veteran and ex-alcoholic who adopts Christopher for a short period. Vince Vaughn and Catherine Keener also make brief appearances as characters who both made a big impression and were impressed upon by the enigmatic traveller. Most impressive however is Kristen Stewart as Tracey Trato, a trailer park girl who Christopher strikes his closest relationship with. It is an all to brief glimpse of a young, precocious talent, whose relationship with Christopher is too intense to ever be gratified by other means. Displaying a tenderness that, in later parts of the film, is often absent, Stewart creates a character which manages to shift the focus from Christopher, something which again is often absent. 

With all the above elements it seems impossible for this film to fail, however, Penn comes dangerously close to ruining a good story, muddling events and focuses to a degree where audiences would be justified in feeling disengaged and confused. The greatest example of this is in the portrayal of Vince Vaughn’s Wayne Westerberg. Later focuses by Penn show the influence Wayne had on the impressionable Christopher, the latter writing him letters declaring what a great man he was and how well treated he felt by him, but in his own ‘segment’ Westerberg is given short shrift, disappearing off screen with barely more to show for it than a couple of alcohol-infused bar conversations. Even
Wayne’s eventual disappearance from the screen is handled muddily, leaving the audience uncertain as to his crime and/or fate. It is a model which is repeated throughout with even the aforementioned Stewart receiving a similar lack of focus and development. 

The only real reason Penn can have for this is to justify McCandless’ eventual decision to continue his journey to live alone, despite the apparently passionate and positive interactions he has had along the way. In some ways this shows real insight from the director, recognising that the Supertramp’s decisions are often irrational, impulsive and ill-judged. And here we get to the crux of the film which is that many people really won’t, even after watching from start to finish, understand the decisions Christopher makes. At times he is a frustrating and un-likeable character who seems to have no more problems to run from than the average, well-off, western youngster. Despite frequent offers of love and redemption McCandless doesn’t reach his moral epiphany until he has finally isolated himself from all and sundry. 

The fault that the film isn’t a resounding success doesn’t ultimately lie with Penn but perhaps in the fact that he has attempted to film an un-filmable story. McCandless’ journey is so expansive, so metaphysical and so visionary that it makes it almost impossible to put his motivations and desires on screen in any discernible way, despite fantastic photography and assured performances. It’s a brave attempt by everybody involved, including Christopher himself, but in the end it is a character piece with only one character and even that one not completely realised.

In 1974 Roman Polanski released Chinatown on cinemas in the U.S to immediate critical acclaim. A dark neo-noir tale of private detective Jake Gittes (Jack Nicholson) which begins as a mundane investigation into the alleged adultery of a water-mogul and ends with a famously crushing blow has matured into a vintage classic, comparable to nearly anything in cinema. 

As Gittes, Jack Nicholson develops his character from a investigator more akin to cleaning out the public’s dirty laundry to a magnanimous, maverick detective, trying to simultaneously get to the bottom of a public scandal threatening Los Angeles’ water supply and a private tragedy threatening the integrity and very existence of Faye Dunaway’s rich socialite Evelyn Cross Mulwray. 

With a dynamic, witty and heartfelt script, both leads excel. Coming prior to his performances in One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest and The Shining this was at the time Nicholson’s best performance. In his hands Gittes is supremely confident, exuding one-liners at the drop of a hat and moving from success to success. However, when it is needed Nicholson shows the talent which would later come to the attention of so many people, imbuing Gittes with a vulnerability we are soon all too aware of being just below the surface. ‘Let me explain something to you Walsh’, Gittes tells one of his much put upon associates, ‘this business requires a certain amount of finesse’ and woe be it upon anyone who argues that Gittes and indeed Nicholson doesn’t show at least that. 

Just beginning the height of her career, Dunaway here perfects the stereotype of the neurotic, confused heroine, at times providing Gittes with a worthy adversary, at times showing devastating failings which hint at an inability to cope with her new place in a developing society. Victimised and alienated by her father (an imposing John Huston) Evelyn is eventually a tragic portrayal of the outcomes of un-checked wealth and richness. Although she certainly does not take most of the blame for the events of Chinatown her inability to react rationally to irrational events is one of the film’s driving factors, imbuing an inevitability to her character’s eventual descent into desperation and despair. 

Lurking at the back of this review, as Chinatown itself does in the film, is a discussion of the film’s conclusion, a sore point to some, a majestic success to others. Whether you judge it as either of the above will perhaps largely depend of your judgement of the characters and the interpretation you place on the presence of Chinatown, the location within
Chinatown, the film. Whichever way you judge it, it is a brave choice by Polanski to wear his heart on his sleeve at a time when his private life was in turmoil. For those who find it ill-judged or distasteful it is worth asking the question; what else would you expect from Chinatown? 

The iconic image from Chinatown is Gittes with a plaster over his injured nose, an injury inflicted by a thug played by a cameoing Roman Polanski. To his critics this could provide a metaphor for the whole film; a decent noir left with an ugly scar by a tormented director. However, in truth it is hard to fault Polanski, merging here influences from famous noir such as the Viennetian degradation and mystery on display in The Third Man to the earlier darkness within the heart he had explored in Rosemary’s Baby and Macbeth. The result is a film that will dissatisfy many, leaving a sour taste in more than a mouth or two. Despite this, maybe even because of this, it is impossible to ignore Chinatown in more ways than one and the same people who find it unconvincing will never-the-less find it lurking at the back of dinner conversations like the imposing, impending, presence it reveals itself to be. 

Released on DVD last month in the U.K and coming to the U.S in the near future, Control presents a biography of the life of Ian Curtis, (Sam Riley) the tragic lead singer of Joy Division who, unable to cope with various pressures in his life, committed suicide in 1980 at the age of just 23. 

The first striking thing about Control is how un-rock star like it is. Shot in black and white, the grimy visages of Macclesfield are a world away from the neon lights of Los Angeles. It is a mood which director Anton Corbijn is keen to perpetrate throughout, actively promoting bleak images at every opportunity, rejecting the hallucinogenic colours of 24 Hour Party People in favour of a realist’s view of life in and around Manchester. 

Curtis emerges from this as an almost equally bleak character, unable to cope with anything life throws at him. At times this is masked by supreme confidence, ‘this is only the beginning,’ he confidently tells the rest of the band upon the first airing of their record before being brought shatteringly back down to Earth as he wanders off-stage in an early American performance. As Curtis, Riley is almost, but not quite, a revelation. Perfectly cast in a role as demanding as any circulating at the moment, he treats the front-man with the harshness he deserves at times, allowing genuine sympathy to infiltrate at others. 

Samantha Morton meanwhile, as Curtis’ wife Deborah is equally as fantastic which is apt considering her character occupies as much, if not more, screen time than Riley’s. Based on Deborah Curtis’ book Touching From A Distance, it is little surprise that the main sympathies, perhaps deservedly so, lie with Deborah. Riley’s Ian is frequently uncommunicative and distant, harbouring a love affair he does not possess the personality to quash and a wife and child he no longer possesses the power to interact with. At times however, this microscopic view of Curtis’ life feels judgemental and individual, something which Corbijn has made little attempt to correct. 

Control is, ultimately a fantastic portrayal of a genuinely tragic man. It is odd therefore that in the end we have little sympathies for the apparent subject matter of Corbijn’s analysis. In a life as famously short as Curtis’ its seem a shame that the first major attempt at documentation has only chosen to take account of one source rather than attempt to widen its scope. The title is assumedly meant to refer to Ian Curtis’ eventual lack of, but in theory could be talking about the grip the voice of Deborah Curtis has over this project.

Slipping in under the radar amongst this weeks U.K releases is Street Kings, the second directorial offering from David Ayer, the producer and writer of Training Day. Written by James Ellroy, Street Kings follows Keanu Reeves’ veteran cop Tom Ludlow through a week or so of his life in Los Angeles as part of a special vice squad headed by influential Captain Jack Wander (Forest Whittaker).  

Take an Ellroy story about corruption in the police force and add in all the above ingredients as well as supporting turns from the rising Chris Evans, the majestic Hugh Laurie and fashionable rapper The Game and you should have a recipe for box office success. Strange then that audiences on both sides of the Atlantic have reacted with antipathy to the film with initial U.K figures suggesting an extremely poor opening weekend to go with a U.S gross currently only amounting to around a quarter of 21’s total take. 

The reason for this is immediately apparent only a short distance into the film; we’ve seen this all before. A hard-hitting opening soon gives way to moody shots of Los Angeles which look like a cross between the aforementioned Training Day and Michael Mann’s Collateral. As the film develops its obvious that Ayers is an aficionado on the cop genre. Late developments immediately bring to mind Man On Fire with Reeves’ Ludlow taking on the impenetrable, untouchable air of Denzel Washington’s character, Creasy. 

Reeves himself has bulked and beefed up considerably since the last time we saw him in 2006’s The
Lake House and A Scanner Darkly. The effect is impressive and Ayers use of close ups and framing shots bring his inimitable presence to the fore. It’s a clever effect and adds to Reeves’ character considerably but ultimately it only brings to mind another reference; Ray Liotta’s performance and physique in NARC. Again it’s relatively obvious Ayers and Reeves have both seen it and learnt from it and there’s even elements of Jason Patric’s trigger happy hero as well as Liotta’s brooding anti-cop. 

With such familiar fare the film needs a strong element of narrative and direction from Ayers and Ellroy but what it gets is again tired and practiced. The twists are entirely predictable and Ellroy never introduces anybody that looks even semi likely to be the villain other than the obvious candidate (something which even the trailer doesn’t shy away from knowing). Laurie’s character provides the most interesting and entertaining distraction from Reeves’ rampage but Ayers can’t shift the focus to make him quite interesting enough. 

Ultimately the film isn’t completely without merit. Despite staying within his comfort zone Reeves at least here takes on a character with a bit more substance behind the eyes, even if he can’t entirely reveal him to us. There’s also some impressive violence on display which does, on the whole, manage to justify itself to the more discerning amongst us. Noticeable as well is the booming score by Graeme Revell which drives and moves the film along with speed and judgement in the background, completely in-keeping with the already established mood. The influences the film takes on board are, in the end, too great to not produce a decent final product, its just unfortunate that the talents of Ellroy and Ayers can’t produce anything more original than Training Day, Mark Two. 

August Rush is the tale of musically gifted Evan Taylor (Freddie Highmore) and his journey to try and find the parents everyone else believes to be dead. Along the way he meets sinister Fagan-like miser Wizard (Robin Williams) who re-christens Evan ‘August Rush’ and tries to manipulate his musical talents for his own gains. 

If this premise immediately fills your heart with sadness at the prospect of a schmaltzy tale of redemption, longing and eventually, happy reconciliation then stop reading now because things really don’t get any better. The entire ‘hook’ of the film is that Highmore’s character can hear music in everything; a police officer’s whistle, a bird’s call, rattling dustbin lids, and then turn this into his own brand of musical extravagance. What this translates as is that every fifteen minutes or so the films feels the need to stop all plot development so that Highmore can take centre stage performing an apparently improvised piece which we are never quite sure whether the rest of the cast hears or not. 

After an overlong and drawn out opening in which we are treated to the back story of August’s parent’s (Jonathan Rhys Meyers and Kerri Russell) union, our boy wonder eventually falls into the clutches of a decidedly evil Robin Williams, drawing here on the type of performance which served him so well in One Hour Photo and Insomnia. It’s a rare treat to see an actor so famed for one particular genre turn himself round so well but over the last few years Williams has honed the persona of creepy villain down to a fine art and here he is one of the only aspects that impresses, creating a pantomime villain for a pantomime performance. 

One of Rush’s most overt problems (and believe me, there are many) is that it can’t quite pierce the realms of believability to a satisfactory degree. For all his Irish charm and Gaelic good looks Meyers doesn’t convince as a rock star turned business man, turned back to rock star. Similarly Kerri Russell doesn’t portray the type (or age for that matter) of character to still be ruled over by an overbearing father. In more simplistic turns when August does get down to jamming on a guitar we are treated to close up shots of Highmore’s face followed by close up shots of a pair of hands which must belong to someone closer to fifty than Highmore’s early years. It’s a small point but provides a concurrent metaphor for how the film treats its audience. 

The decision to treat us like fools would be forgivable had director Kirsten Sheridan chosen to stick with it throughout but in a cliché-laden conclusion she abandons it completely deciding we have seen enough to work the rest out for ourselves and ending on a note where none of the characters actually really know anything for certain. It is one of those rare horrific moments when you realise the credits are about to role at possibly the most inconvenient moment possible. 

Feel-good films in general don’t tend to inspire good film making and ultimately August Rush is no exception and provides a good example to the rule. It is by a long way too happy for its own good and even in evoking the Oliver Twist like threat of the Big City it can’t create a middle period filled with anything but smiles. This sort of material needs to be treated tastefully and with a good deal of reproach and retreat. Instead, Sheridan lays it on so thick you can physically hear it adding to the woefully poor soundtrack. Robin Williams’ mid-life career switch provides momentary distraction and despite problems with the script, Highmore, Russell and Meyers have enough talent to keep us at least awake. Other than this however, there is very little to recommend from a musical fable which eventually only plays bum notes.

Currently tanking at the U.K box office and in the process of completing a swallow dive into a pool only half full (or is that half empty?) in the U.S comes George Clooney’s latest star vehicle and third directorial offering, Leatherheads. 

The film follows Jimmy ‘Dodge’ Connelly (Clooney) and his attempts to promote the ailing game of Professional Football (American Football to us Brits) by signing college phenomenon Carter ‘The Bullet’ Rutherford (John Krasinski) to his backwater team of misfiring misfits. In between these two plucky heroes comes Renee Zellweger’s impossibly named reporter Lexie Littleton, intent on exposing the un-truth behind a war story Rutherford has used to build his reputation. 

 As a director Clooney has shown real talent, particularly with Good Night and Good Luck, and there are flashes of his skill here. A decent pace is maintained throughout and some fantastic still camera shots really add to the humour rather than distracting from it. It is an odd choice for Clooney who has recently been shown to be moving away from the rom-com genre, especially in terms of direction (his first film was Confessions of a Dangerous Mind, the biography of game show host cum ‘spy’ Chuck Barris). However, he makes all the parts stick and despite some reservations the love triangle does actually fit and add to the Pro Football angle of the film. 

Clooney is still at his best and most charming as an actor however and here he pitches Dodge somewhere in between the nice-but-dim Everett of O’ Brother Where Art Thou and the dangerously intelligent charm of Out Of Sight’s Jack Foley. It is obviously a winning combination and the development of Clooney’s stock character continues with another likeable and charming outing. As the romantic interest Zellweger does little more than go through the motions despite an attempt to promote her as a burgeoning 20’s power-woman which is hopelessly undermined come the film’s conclusion. At times she manages to evoke memories of the frumpiness of Bridget Jones, hardly needed in the make-up of confident, progressive, Lexie. 

As a whole Clooney’s film (and have no doubt, this is Clooney’s film) has a decent tale to tell, both in terms of the rom-com and sporting elements. In combining the two arch’s however, the film risks revealing that it has little confidence in either thread and leaves itself open to the idea that the love triangle is only there to ensure non-Americans are engaged throughout. The result is a film that, despite its pace, at times feels overlong and drawn-out. The football plot bears most of the brunt at times feeling under-written; how for example, does Dodge know Jonathan Pryce’s slimy businessman and what is their mysterious and possibly conflicting history? 

Leatherheads does, eventually, drag itself through competing stories to emerge a decent rom-com, a so-so sports story and a genuinely funny comedy. The talents of Clooney and Zellweger are, in the end, shining too bright at the moment to be dimmed by a story guilty of being far too over-ambitious for its own good. It’s telling that despite its best attempts at being a universal success the film is still only just putting up the numbers on both sides of the pond raising the age old question; what better, a four star film with little box office, or a shallow three star popcorn muncher which (just) recoups its own budget?

Counterfeiters tells the true story of Salomon ‘Sally’ Sorowitsch (Karl Markovics), Jewish forger and aesthete who escapes German concentration camps by agreeing to help the Nazis ruin allied economies by flooding them with fake notes. 

Stefan Ruzowitzky’s Oscar winner delves into the psyche of Sally and his group of Jewish comrades with genuine insight and tenderness, focusing on the issues of conscious they face on a daily basis. The film quickly narrows its focus in on the battle between Sally and fellow prisoner Burger (August Diehl), Sally on the one hand subscribing largely to the notion that the small band of Jewish forgers need to do everything they can to survive while Burger on the other hand arguing for the need to resist the Germans in every way possible. 

Eventually it is a film which aspires and largely succeeds in soaring above even its weighty time period. The matter of conscious which Sally faces is indescribably awful yet contains real meaning in everyday life, however far removed we thankfully are now from conditions in Nazi Germany. Burger’s motivations are personal yet universal and Diehl’s unsympathetic portrayal of his whole-hearted libertarianism creates a worthy adversary for Markovics’ street-wise Sally. Elsewhere David Striesow creates another beautiful dichotomy in the form of Sturmbannfuhrer Herzog who despite saving the Jews from ‘the final solution’, eventually only manipulates them for this own gains. Sally’s visit to Herzog’s home provides him with the catalyst for moral recompense as he glimpses the gains that can be had from fraudulent means, the repercussions of which Ruzowitzky deals with in the film’s coda. 

If there is error here it is slight but occasionally Ruzowitzky’s character development and storytelling prowess plays false. Sally’s interactions with both Marie Baumer’s Aglaia and Dolores Chaplin’s unnamed female interest are never really fully explored or realised yet house obvious feeling and potential. Similarly the change in Sally’s moral compass is never less than convincing in terms of Markovics’ portrayal but occasionally muddled or rushed by Ruzowitzky’s direction. The film clocks in at less than one hundred minutes and it often feels that there was a significantly longer character piece here had any of the creative team shown an interest in pursuing it. 

Despite this however, The Counterfeiters remains an accomplished film in anyone’s language which deals with weighty issues at a time of extreme and tragic violence. The questions it poses its audience are nothing but frank and challenging and its tone is well established and maintained. Following on from The Lives Of Others, The Counterfeiters shows that German cinema is in a prime time of productivity, encountering and facing its history with a tenderness and honesty still sadly absent from many countries’ cinematic endeavors.