REVIEW - FOR ELLEN

A haze seems to hover over So Yong Kim's For Ellen. It lends the locations an impermanence, and the events which take place in these locations. The muted colour palette, the slow pace, the mumbled dialogue - this is life as it is, not as it is fashioned to be in movies, to stimulate us. Joby Taylor is at a turning point, and facing down, or avoiding facing down, the result of several misplaced years, chasing a career as a rock star which only he is unable to discern is a fruitless endeavour. Kim maintains a subdued tone throughout, even as emotions come to the fore, or ought to come to the fore, at least by Hollywood standards. Because, in truth, life goes on, carrying us through even the most painful stretches, ticking away as steadily and as uncaringly as ever. The locations we inhabit do not change, and no-one around us knows, nor often cares, what we're going through. Joby has brought his sufferings on himself, and will continue to evade them until life changes him, as he cannot change his own life, not willingly. But Paul Dano summons up and out the heart of his despair, and enables us to appreciate that pain even when warranted is no less painful than when not. In the moment, it still hurts. The other cast members are equally impressive, including Jon Heder, displaying surprising versatility, and Shaylena Mandingo as Ellen, who never once appears to be acting. The ending is extremely derivative, but if the glove fits...

REVIEW - TO THE WONDER

There is wonder in every frame of To the Wonder. This is no surprise, and nor is anything about Terrence Malick's latest film - it is quintessential Malick, which means it is abstruse, visually stunning, and extremely good. Watching it, you grasp just how gifted Malick is as both filmmaker and philosopher. He largely dispenses with conventional dialogue, favouring fragmented narration, and intricately detailed mise en scene, edits and soundscapes to intimate the deepest, most fundamental thoughts and emotions of his characters. The suggestion is that we are not lords of this earth, but a part of it. The beauty that can be found in music, in nature, in ourselves, both physically and cerebrally, is evinced here. We are informed by nature, and have the ability to inform it with our own natural gifts. In France, the architecture compliments the scenery; in America, where the people feel a desire to express themselves to the fullest, and through artificial means, it insults it, or destroys it. Marina and her daughter are stifled by this new life, this culture that is born out of a need to create active culture, rather than nurturing itself and allowing it to evolve organically. Neil accepts it, but unknowingly yearns for the spiritual, the intangible, the radiance that the women in his life all seem to possess. It is in Malick's storytelling, in the specific selections of score, the distinctive editing, the marvellous use of sound, the costumes, which turn to a flat, brutal light-swallowing black when their wearers lose their own internal light, and the usual exquisite photography, that he harbours his emotional intellect, and he coaxes greater meaning out of the human beings in his story than words - just another construct - could ever achieve. To see To the Wonder and to embrace it as Malick embraces us, like the melancholy priest played here by Javier Bardem, is to experience cinema at its most transcendent and sublime.

REVIEW - 28 HOTEL ROOMS

Everything you already knew about conducting an affair in hotel rooms but were too afraid to try yourself. Don't worry, it looks pretty manageable from here. Marin Ireland and Chris Messina play a couple... well, there it is. They play a couple. Their relationship starts with sex, sure, but at least they know they'll always have that to fall back on. They keep meeting up for sex, and eventually forge a relationship out of their encounters. Their contact is depicted as being otherwise very limited, yet this relationship evolves like any other, with its peaks and troughs, highs and lows, good days and bad days. Having never participated in a long-term illicit affair in a variety of mid-range American hotel rooms, I'm no expert, but I'm of the opinion that such an unconventional love would be manifested in an unconventional way. There are moments of humour, emotional tension, nudity, all a mixed bag of mild flavours, none ever quite taking hold, resulting in a film that plays everything much too safe. Writer-director Matt Ross has assembled elements of other alternative indie love stories and smoothed out their creases, stitching them together with a structural device that is pitched as a quirk, but ends up as only a frustration. Ireland and Messina hit nary a false note between them, but with material so unchallenging, it'd be a shock if they did.

REVIEW - NO

A spirited account of Chile's escape from the clutches of dictatorship in 1988, Pablo Larrain's No makes up for its lack of innovation with its brio and sense of humour, partially at least. It almost approaches docudrama territory with the frequent footage of the ad campaigns run by opposing sides in the plebiscite, and this footage is the most revealing and entertaining aspect of No. Production details are excellent in their evocation of the era, and the faux-authentic filming style is only occasionally tacky, and mostly successful. Larrain achieves a feeling of immediacy throughout, keeping the flow of scenes brisk, the camera close and intimate, the performances bright and natural. It's somewhat sloppy, though, and both verbose enough that you'll need to pay constant attention, yet often lacking in clarity, or even pertinence - many characters barely register, and their petty squabbles add neither humour nor dramatic depth. Larrain adds a jolt of tension every now and then, but to little avail; it's always short-lived, and ultimately only clutters the tone of the film. All of this is why the contemporary ad footage is so much more interesting - it has been created with purpose, a greater purpose than No can aspire to today, and one which it has its sights firmly set on. Larrain is generous with his use of it, though, which is welcome, and also necessary, considering its centrality to the story. No is, then, an appealing but slightly frustrating and unsatisfying film, generally well-executed but a tad unmemorable.

REVIEW - THE EYE OF THE STORM

This is a deceitful film. The filmmakers aren't being frank with their audience. They want us to believe that this is a story of a wealthy, ill, elderly Australian woman whose two grown children have flown in from Europe to bear with her as she approaches her end. And this is, indeed, what happens in The Eye of the Storm. But, in fact, this is a story of a great (or, perhaps, rather small) folly, an attempt to create a grand, monumental work of cinematic art, a project of immense and wholly misplaced ambition. Mere moments in, the central characters are revealed to be vapid, crass regurgitations of literary tropes (this is an adaptation of a novel), their dialogue so mannered that it surely can't be the produce of spontaneous thought - it must be the produce of hours of consideration, and a most thorough perusal of a thesaurus. These people can only be interpreted as actors, and watching actors play actors is rarely pleasant, lest the film be a comedy; The Eye of the Storm is not a comedy, because timeless masterpieces can never be comedies. Dreary scene after dreary scene lolls on screen until the credits appear, and no profound insight into the human condition has been offered up, no significant emotional course has been undertaken - we're still where we started, resenting these tired, affected figures and every word they so precisely articulate. Judy Davis has been playing this role for years, so if you're a fan, you ought to watch anything else of hers; Charlotte Rampling still has a charming youthfulness about her, and tries her best, but this material is beyond even the best of the best performers. I suppose that was the intention - not even actors these great are worthy of such fine writing! A slog from first to last.

REVIEW - CHASING ICE

The theory is that the statistics go in one ear and out the other, but that the natural beauty of our Earth is unforgettable. The statistics still pack a punch, though, for me at least, since there are clearly enough facts and figures which we aren't aware of. You drill deeper into this, you only seem to find more and more evidence. I thought it, and then the film stated it: why are we still arguing? Surely if there is a small chance that we are causing irreparable damage to this planet, we ought to do all that we can to try to put it right? This rotten tooth isn't going to heal itself. Perhaps, as blocks of ice as big as a small country calve off into the sea, and few more magnificent spectacles of such awesome devastation you're likely to ever see, you'll feel as I did - how could we have done this to our planet? We are wholly, entirely, unquestionably 100% reliant on it, and yet we abuse it so badly. This is bad news, on an unfathomably large scale, and it's old news. The natural beauty gives way to horror, as ice gives way to water, and Chasing Ice ends on a reflective, elegiac note in its credit sequence, thoroughly worth sitting through, as all those in attendance at my screening did. More of this beauty, or the horror, or even the statistics would have bolstered the film, though, since these truly are unforgettable, whereas the film's human subject, James Balog, is not.

REVIEW - THE QUEEN OF VERSAILLES

We human beings are possessed of two important features which set us apart from all other species. One is an advanced intelligence, a capacity to consider many conflicting points of view and to make judgements thusly, to think laterally. The other is money. One is a progressive feature, the other regressive. Money creates a hierarchical social system which few have the nerve to challenge, and in so doing, exposes our greed, envy, sloth, and cowardly acceptance of the superiority of others who, we can identify, have little meaningful claim to superiority over anyone. It is easy to ward off emotions such as sympathy when one witnesses the privileged fall on hard times; Lauren Greenfield lays it on thick with her documentary, and began to erode my wall of stoic indifference to the plight of the filthy rich Siegel family, until they gave me another reason to deem them worthy of their misfortunes, dispensed to them by the recession. So you're compelled to spend this money? You literally cannot resist? I know the feeling - every time I see a neon pink leopard print tracksuit, I just have to have it. Bitch please, you have no such compulsion. This 'Queen', Jacqui Siegel, is a misguided soul, really, not a bad person. She was guided away from her own intelligence, married a man more than 30 years her senior and had seven children, who know their nannies better than they know her. She's a fascinating character, but not an infuriating one in whose company to spend time. The same can't be said of her bilious bully of a husband, nor his almost equally toxic son - there's a segment, early on, focusing on the son and the family business which felt like a glimpse into the devil's daydreams, and I figured that I might not be able to endure a whole film of this. Luckily, though, the Siegels soon get what they deserve. The stock market drops, and so do their smiles. Every cloud, right?

REVIEW - ANTIVIRAL

Horror film as social commentary, or is it the other way around? Either way, one gets in the other's, and Brandon Cronenberg overcooks his slick new-Millennium update of the kind of low-budget 'body horror' films his father made in the 70s and 80s. Visually, none of the seams are showing, but thematically, Antiviral is haggard, consisting of one simple, trite observation made incessantly and ham-fistedly. It's a premise worthy of the most pretentious student film, glossed up by sexy, stark imagery worthy of a high-grade commercial. What a startling dichotomy. It's not necessarily that Cronenberg needed to explore greater psychological depths - if anything, it's the opposite. As an insidious little horror, Antiviral is quite satisfying, and Cronenberg's love of all things red and runny produces many memorable moments. He could have gone a little further - it leads to less than it ought to, save one deliciously disquieting burst of eroticism, Cronenberg-style. An increasingly fraught Caleb Landry Jones sulks his way through endless scenes of illness and desperation, which reach the point of tedium, but Jones' dedication to the role is impressive. The camera rarely leaves him - that same tunnel vision that Brandon's father employs, only to more characteristic effect, understandably, and Brandon is unable to either mimic this effect or to create one of his own. Sarah Gadon is miscast as megastar Hannah Geist, and the film's inability to convincingly distill the cult of celebrity in the modern era is centered upon her and her character.

REVIEW - LORE

A blinkered view of immediate post-war Germany, blinkered because it is seen from the perspective of a teenage girl, and she has other things on her mind. Maybe there have been enough stories about the war, but there have certainly been enough stories about adolescent women coming of age, which Lore's director Cate Shortland surely ought to know. It's a smart and appropriate decision to set Lore's view of the world askew, and closed to the naked truth staring Germany down as it recovers from its heady, horrible days of hope and death under Nazi rule, but a tad more insight might have lent this film a tad more colour. A tad more bite would've helped too - Shortland kicks subtly but markedly into action in the final minute or so, like a shot of pure alcohol after two hours of murky water. Lore, a teenager in charge of her younger siblings as they journey across a country that is no longer their own, becomes many things over the course of the film - a mother to her brothers and sister, a grown, or growing, woman, emotionally and sexually, and gradually aware of many things. Alas, so familiar is this tale to audiences that the unique setting does little to distinguish this film from many others - we can forecast Lore's thoughts and actions before she knows she's even capable of them, and Shortland springs no surprises on us. Lore is just another teen, who thinks she's going through what no-one before her has ever gone through; she is, but not in the same way. The woman she emerges as is the stronger, more interesting character, even if she barely has time to peek her head above the surface before the closing credits roll. The score and photography are as tastefully bland as they are hypnotic, and Saskia Rosendahl is memorable in the lead role.

REVIEW - HOW TO SURVIVE A PLAGUE

Not a study of death, more a study of the science of preventing it, and the struggle to prevent it. As a study of that struggle, it is abundant in passion and hope - passion that becomes so very clear when the reasons behind it reveal themselves, quite naturally, and hope that becomes so very astonishing in that same light. And since the science is charged with the purpose of ending or, at least, abating mass suffering, the throbbing heart of How to Survive a Plague is regularly front-and-centre of this film. It is eventually deluged with emotion. How easy to observe a battle, such as the one depicted here, dispassionately, until it is depicted in such a way that it transforms from a battle into an appeal. There is a great many powerful moments in David France's debut documentary, as France opens up paths from the hearts of those featured to the hearts of those watching - to you and I - and provokes thoughts and feelings of one's own, to heighten the dramatic effect. He is right to do so, as he brings us closer thus to the level of emotional intensity experienced in the remarkable events captured by various people here. His use of music is a key tool in achieving this also. And this is what will stick. Not the names of the people, nor the names of the drugs, nor the dates nor places. The passion, the hope, the emotion. How to Survive a Plague may not be 2012's most important documentary, but it is its most moving.

REVIEW - THE PIRATES! IN AN ADVENTURE WITH SCIENTISTS!

Good nature only gets you so far, but it's hard to hate a film when it's made with the best intentions. The Pirates hits its mark square in its squidgy plasticine nose. It has no grand illusions, no aspirations to be anything more or other than it is, which is a lot of silly fun. Screenwriter Gideon Defoe and directors Peter Lord and Jeff Newitt keep the humour quotient sky-high, and there's likely not a single gag herein that won't appeal to at least somebody. A fair few sank to the seabed at a rate of knots for me, while others continue to put a smile on my face even now as I write this review. It's my temperament, I'm sure, being a Brit weaned on goofy British comedy, and The Pirates is the epitome of such in 2013 at both its best and its worst. Cringe you may, as I did, and laugh too, as I did, perhaps even both simultaneously, as I intermittently did. This is a comedy through and through, so what do you expect? I imagine Aardman Studios expected precisely that - to induce amusement and embarrassment in their audience in equal measure on average, and it does you a whole lot of good. Good nature, best intentions, all as standard. Aardman continue to forge a path for themselves in the industry; it's a path no-one else has followed (mercifully), maybe due to their command of the stop-motion medium or their unique sense of humour, or due to the mediocre dividends at the box office. The Pirates may be derivative of other Aardman films, but the filmmakers seem quite aware of this, and proud too, at least that their work isn't derivative of that of their rival larger American studios. That's their path, after all, and this is Aardman's. It's not art, it's a lot of silly fun.

REVIEW - MEA MAXIMA CULPA: SILENCE IN THE HOUSE OF GOD

This film will not help you make your mind up. It will make your mind up for you. We've all heard the personal stories, the local lawsuits, the international scandals. It always seems incontrovertible. What we've maybe skimmed over are the finer details, the proof, for it is proof. Alex Gibney is a most rigorous of documentarians, and he will pore over material in order to unravel complex cover-ups with simple truths at their heart. The cover-up here is that of the catholic church and sexual abuse, and Gibney's scrupulousness has revealed the full extent of the complicity, implicating members of every level of the canonical hierarchy, including the Pope himself - quite directly, and frequently. Incontrovertible proof indeed it seems, for indeed it is. What servant of god could live in peace knowing that they had perpetrated such acts as the serial rape of minors, or of concealing this from police and public, or of lying about it, or of persecuting victims and their families? There are few admissions from those responsible, as there can be no denying what has occurred, not in the eyes of the people nor in the eyes of their lord, and no justification. The catholic church practises avoidance in such matters, and actively perpetuates acts not just in violation of the teachings of catholicism, but also illegal, and morally indefensible. But hey, what's new? This is documentary filmmaking as legal indictment; narrative momentum eventually sags, but Mea Maxima Culpa is more cinematic treatise than anything else. It has no business entertaining us, and no desire to do so either.

REVIEW - BROKEN

What happens when you squeeze every last breath of air from a movie? The answer is Broken, a short and dense film, crammed to the brim with interconnecting narratives, each one of which is of interest, although perhaps of too much interest to survive alongside so many others. Cull a few, and there's no reason that the remaining few couldn't achieve the same harrowing effect. It'd only feel less manipulative, that's all. If you're searching for blame, it can be found not in Mark O'Rowe's screenplay nor in Rufus Norris' debut direction, but in their source novel by Daniel Clay - all this simplistic, soap opera melodrama might make quite the impression on the page, but condensed into 80-odd minutes, Broken becomes an emotional assault. Your instinct may be to react with sincere empathy at the troubles depicted onscreen at first, only then to react with sincere scepticism and frustration at the escalating tragedy, as contrivance upon contrivance, catharsis upon catharsis is affixed. O'Rowe's intention is that every scene has purpose, yet there is purpose in deliberately-paced character development, or variation of tone and mood, both broadly absent - Norris' direction proves up to this task, in impeccable framing and blocking, and a thorough assuredness with all elements of filmmaking (although he is sporadically over-reliant on gauche, affected editing). And O'Rowe's dialogue is faultless, leading to a wealth of marvellous performances, especially from newcomer Eloise Laurence, whose acting quality is the very definition of natural, unassuming charisma.

REVIEW - MAMA

As much as Andres Muschietti follows all the rules in adapting his short film into a feature-length one, I give him credit for his conviction, and the polished, considered approach he takes to directing this stock horror film. Such careful consideration, however, drains Mama of the potential to surprise or to truly shock, and since he is disappointingly reliant upon jump scares to maintain our interest, this is a misjudgement, one that slows the film down. He plays on ideas hardly original to the genre, but with the occasional air of creepy portentousness that hits just the right note - equal parts intriguing and spine-chilling. These are abandoned as time passes, and the story lumbers around in circles, with an over-familiar backstory, loose ends as big as your leg, and the obligatory noisy nighttime-set finale, replete with CGI and a villain who has become far too humanised to be frightening any more. Like many filmmakers, Muschietti understands that suggestion is scarier than showing, but ends up showing anyway. His use of the more blatant horror tropes, the dream sequences, the shadowy monster, is generally pretty successful, yet consistently undermined by the familiarity of the material, and the leaden pace with which it gets nowhere. Jessica Chastain is convincing as a rock chick reluctantly accepting guardianship of two feral young girls whose history is far more interesting than the melodramatic story told for the majority of this dull film. It's inventive and unhinged, and quite unsettling. Everything Mama is otherwise not.

REVIEW - BEYOND THE HILLS

A potentially scarring experience, rendered admirable but not quite as impactful as intended by an avoidance of sensationalism. Director Cristian Mungiu is a fraction too civil in his portrayal of unyielding Orthodox Christians in a barren monastery in rural Romania. Their harsh conditions and glum lifestyles are depicted accurately but not evocatively. We see but we do not feel. We do not even always see, and Mungiu's literal approach to this story wards off any subtextual depths, psychological or social, like the nuns obsessively ward off the influences and manifestations of evil, as they see it. It's an austere, pure, pious style of filmmaking, well-matched to the material but perhaps not well-suited, and he employed it to indelible effect in his acclaimed 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days, but to lesser effect here. The story circles around itself several times, and an air of pointlessness eventually undermines any atmosphere created by the sensitive cinematography and excellent, unaffected performances from the cast. Still, Mungiu is a highly skilled director, with an immaculate sense of space and blocking, and a subtly creative eye and ear for indirect methods of storytelling, which he uses most efficaciously. Characterisation is superb, as is the portrayal of life under specific circumstances, be this for the nuns and their priest, whose roles and relationships are immediately clear, or for the inhabitants of the nearby town, so expressively related in very limited screentime. The film teeters on the edge of horror toward the end, but Mungiu's unrelenting ambiguity of tone prevents it from fully succumbing, which is only to its detriment - a more tangible sense of claustrophobia would have had great effect, and the film becomes brash and manic just when it ought to become close and tense. All sacrificed in the name of realism. I shouldn't complain.

REVIEW - TED

There are lines you just don't cross. Offense is subjective, so it can be hard to gauge where these lines are, but they do exist. I applaud those who toy with these lines, whether ironically or plain recklessly, but even then, there are still lines you just do not cross. You know Seth MacFarlane generally only wants to wind up the puritans, so vulgarity is on the moderate end of the scales here, as is the strength of social or cultural jokes (his act of subverting homophobia and other prejudices by employing them in his humour is unsubtle and has become overused, though). I suppose his goal is to emphasise his intelligence in wrapping his verbal jokes up in layers of excessive - and unrealistic - verbosity, but he surely only ends up confusing those whom the jokes are aimed at, and embarrassing those who understand the linguistic grandiloquence. MacFarlane also unknowingly stumbles over one line, despite marked attempts to counter this movement: his female lead, played by Mila Kunis, eventually becomes an accessory to the action and a pawn in other peoples' stories. She is generously given her own point of view, and is portrayed as the sensible character in her relationship, but her only pressing concern seems to be her man. She has every reason to leave him, and does, until she returns to him, learning to love his impudence, fecklessness, and intrusive best friend, for apparently nothing in return but a ring. I wanted more of her (in a better film), more of Mark Wahlberg's naked rear end, and less of that wiseass teddy bear. He's the one who crosses the line. He disses Katy Perry. There are lines you just don't cross.

REVIEW - ROBOT & FRANK

Boosted by a more pointed tone than many American indie comedy-dramas of its ilk, Robot & Frank is a formulaic but engrossing diversion. If there is a film for every occasion, this one is one-size-fits-all - perfect for a rainy afternoon, a cold evening or when you need a little cheering up. It's unchallenging, almost to a fault, in fact, as there are thematic depths untroubled by the screenplay, which seems to avoid them each time they threaten to emerge. But if Robot & Frank aims to satisfy your comfort rather than your curiosity as a viewer, it is a most satisfactory film. The fragmented treatment of secondary characters and the arbitrariness of the low-level heist plot might have suggested a narrative reflection of Frank's advancing senility in a more focused film, but that then might have spoiled its carefree nature. As it is, its weaknesses are continually masked by its warmth and affability, and only become clear once it has finished, when one is less likely to care. And isn't it refreshing to see debut filmmakers content to make a modest, simple piece of entertainment, rather than naively rely on overreaching ambition and questionable levels of skill? Perhaps not always, but I think there's space enough in the industry for talents like director Jake Schreier and writer Christopher D. Ford. Leading cast members approach their roles with an absence of pretentiousness, and palpable chemistry, and there's a smart late-game twist that contributes an unexpected emotional component to this experience, which is welcome. This helps to redeem some of the less inspired moments, as does the comedy side of proceedings - this is a stronger comedy than drama, with a handful of terrific one-liners right out of Woody Allen.

REVIEW - MOVIE 43

It's easy not to laugh. Just tell yourself you're going to see a drama. Tell yourself Movie 43 is not a funny film, and it might surprise you. In fact, let me. Movie 43 is not a funny film. I did laugh, but very rarely, and when the gag rate is this high, that's a bad sign. Another bad sign is when you realise that your everyday life is, on the whole, funnier than the comedy you just walked out of. That might make you laugh at least. A series of short sketches, so short that you may have seen most of some of them in trailers, connected by a framing device which is wholly different in the US and internationally, for no evident reason. The one I saw was offensively unfunny (in that I was offended that the writers thought any member of the human race, myself included, could find it funny), but so too is the majority of this enterprise. It will be, to many who see it (but many more who don't), just offensive. Puerility is a trait which most of us almost comprehensively exhaust during adolescence, and Movie 43 thrives on it. I saw and heard writers straining to make me cringe and wince and gag and reel... but haven't I been here before? Aren't these the same gay, genital-related, bullying, sex, race and shit (literally) jokes we all told and heard when we were 12? The cast of estimable Hollywood stars participate in the apparent hope of proving how game they are - for most, the only positive will be that they will never appear in anything quite as bad as this for the remainder of their careers (this doesn't include Seann William Scott).

REVIEW - HYDE PARK ON HUDSON

All over the place, and yet in no place at all. Who knows what the filmmakers were trying to achieve with this sloppy period drama? Not even themselves, it appears. Shortly prior to the first ever visit of a British monarch to America, President Roosevelt summons his distant cousin, Margaret Suckley, to his rural home, where he woos her with a wank and she effectively becomes one of his concubines. The royals arrive and unsuccessfully try to conceal their rampant xenophobia (it is presented here as a most British trait, odd given that much of the principal cast and crew members are British), before abandoning it altogether over a hot dog, and everything will be alright. As the President instructs his timid and thoroughly humiliated Piece of Ass No. 3 Margaret to smear mustard on the King's hot dog, you'll begin to understand why they didn't include this bit in The King's Speech (needless to say, no Oscar nominations for Hyde Park on Hudson). The King and Queen's quaint priggishness is gainfully employed as the only successful humour in the film, aided by astute performances, particularly from reliable scene-stealer Olivia Colman. Rather suddenly, though, their behaviour becomes unbearable. It's a wonder anyone thought to make a film of this sojourn; in fact, as told via an embarrassingly chick-lit-worthy narration, it is Margaret's story, yet the focus meanders from her to the President to the royals to the President's other kept women, never with much discernible insight. Scenes are staged in the manner of an amateur middle-brow director aiming for a subtly quirky effect, which is what makes Hyde Park so peculiar, and such a mess. He so frequently veers off course, such as in a nighttime chase through the woods, that the film has the air of something stitched together from a troubled shoot with several different directors, none ever fully in command of the material. It may not have been a troubled shoot, but it's a troubled watch for sure.

REVIEW - A LATE QUARTET

Coffee-table filmmaking. And if there's one (sub-)genre of film to which I will likely never warm, it's coffee-table filmmaking. One wonders if the New York art elite wouldn't rather attend a live performance of Beethoven's exquisite Opus 131, the String Quartet in C# minor - why make a film about it? Posh New York musicians in posh New York apartments playing posh music, and all with very posh problems. All save one: Christopher Walken's cellist Peter, whose Parkinson's diagnosis is the first domino in the line of misfortunes to befall the Fugue Quartet. His is the only problem in which he played no conscious role, though, and his domino falls in the opposite direction to the rest of the line, so why is it that the other three members' lives begin to crumble too? I suppose their egos stretch so far out that it doesn't matter where that domino fell, it hit them anyway. You know that one where the violist was once in a relationship with the 1st violinist, but now she's married to the 2nd? Yup. And the one where they have a row in the back of a taxi so he cheats on her and she finds out and they split up? Yup. And now the 1st is secretly seeing their daughter, whom he teaches? Yup. And you know the way this all happens to real people in real life? No. Even the musical elements of the film are flunked - the actors do commendable jobs of faking professional musical aptitude with all possible precision, but repeated shots of this only make it ever more obvious how dreadfully inept their attempts are. It's comically excruciating in the final scene. And the screenplay treats the music with intense reverence, yet a lack of erudition, offering up tedious platitudes regarding the power of music, and the lives of musicians, in wordy scenes which go utterly nowhere. This is a film mostly consisting of people verbalising emotion after emotion, to either no perceivable end or to a most predictable one, as if these actors weren't capable of expressing all of this in about a tenth of the time. They ought to have cut most of the dialogue, and concentrated on the Beethoven - I'd rather attend a live performance of it, even if Christopher Walken does have to spoil it. Let him - he hits the only true note in this tiresome film.