REVIEW - THE INVISIBLE WOMAN

For all its gauche excesses in style and art, Victorian Britain was still very much that - Britain, and thus very British. So no heaving bosoms and bursting corsets for Ralph Fiennes in this sedate but scintillating period drama, in which he examines the effects of Charles Dickens' love on a young aspiring actor, and her travails in adjusting to her rapidly changing life. Its title is apt from a historical perspective, yet Felicity Jones' Nelly Ternan is most visible indeed in Fiennes' film from Abi Morgan's eloquent screenplay. She is lit and framed as an icon of statuesque beauty, despite her modest attire and her petite physique. Jones' thorough and sympathetic performance, combined with Fiennes' eagerness to allow these women's exploration of this essential figure in literature to be given as extensive a berth as possible, contributes to one of the most potent portrayals of a young woman's mind in film this year. It is not a condescending portrayal, nor a seedy one, but a generous one, almost theatrically generous, in the classical (and rather Dickensian) manner in which she is so fully fleshed-out. Succumbing to the inevitability of this true tale, Fiennes instead insists on the immediate, on crafting individual scenes of grace and a subtle power, sturdy pieces of filmmaking enhanced by fine technical work - he elicits career-highs from cinematographer Rob Hardy and composer Ilan Eshkeri, and the production and costume designs by Maria Djurkovic and Michael O'Connor are exemplary, in being so thoughtfully created, with a crucial 'lived-in' aspect to their appearance. The narrative device of the extended flashbacks as the core of the story is an overused one, though it is well-employed here, since the magnitude of Nelly's troubling recollections warrants so much rumination on their every detail, both broad and intimate, and since the chronologically latter portions of the film are potentially its most compelling.

REVIEW - A LONG AND HAPPY LIFE

A short and unhappy film, which at least acknowledges the banality of its unhappiness and the prosaicness with which it approaches its story in being so short. Boris Khlebnikov's film is, narratively and thematically, ever on the verge of expanding into something of considerable depth, passion and significance, though tonally, Khlebnikov's admirable and possibly appropriate detachment restrains any of said passion from breaking through. Maybe he was alert to the triviality of the plot. Maybe he intentionally tried to create a film of startlingly low impact. How futile it is to search this film for answers, since its vague social awareness is the closest it gets to ever implying anything beyond the strict details of what occurs before the camera lens. Khlebnikov has, however, mastered that cool, enigmatic style of filmmaking favoured by a number of contemporary Russian filmmakers, in response to the more lavish styles of many of their colleagues and predecessors. It's just a shame to see him apply it to a screenplay so spare it has the air of a skeleton draft, a blueprint upon which to build, a short film devoid of all context and much content. In its brevity, A Long and Happy Life is at least able to sustain some sense of tension and importance, as one awaits impending developments that might give purpose or prestige to what material we have witnessed. And then the film reaches a curious climax, absurdly positioned as the culmination of all that has so far come to pass - a more intelligently thought-out reason behind this event may have served as a sturdy springboard off of which to launch a more compelling story. Quite literally, this was the verge of expansion into a film of considerable depth, passion and significance. A Long and Happy Life is simply none of those things.

REVIEW - THE SPECTACULAR NOW

This America of house parties, of Gap-clad teens drinking from red cups and discovering themselves, of white people problems so white that the only black character in the movie has to ask his girlfriend's white ex how to deal with them. Does this America exist? Or is it one dreamt up by lazy novelists and screenwriters, wishing to bask in the insipid glow of teen movie culture, so nostalgic for these pitiful dreams that they implant them in the not-so-spectacular now, refusing to let them die? Sutter Kiely claims to be the life and soul of the party, which amounts to having a girlfriend, jumping into pools and wearing checked shirts over white tees. He goes to school and goes to teen-themed shindigs with the local stereotypes, before heading home to his comfortably-fractured private life. He meets Aimee Finnicky, who luckily is played by Shailene Woodley, though she's just neat enough a fit for the role that she's too neat, and her sickeningly trite character arc can be telegraphed almost as soon as we first glimpse her face, just minutes into the film. Love, life and relationships - gosh, isn't it all so profound? Isn't it all so moving? Isn't it all so... banal? I know that there exists an audience for this kind of film, where there's a scene set at a prom just for the sake of ticking another box, and one set on the bleachers at graduation. And where there's a sudden tragedy - which is genuinely quite tragic, because Woodley is the sort of actor for whom you naturally feel - among several more drawn-out ones, though these are only tragic when viewed through that white-people-problems screen. And where none of these problems, no matter how sudden nor drawn-out nor exclusively-white, can't be solved with a bit of earnest self-reflection, a gesture of goodwill and a hug. Well then, here's a bit of earnestness: James Ponsoldt, your film is a bit shit. Try solving that with a hug.

REVIEW - NYMPHOMANIAC

An act of culumative cognitive dissonance, achieved through the analysis of nymphomania. In making any one point, Lars von Trier simultaneously rebuts it, apparently concluding that no study of psychology can ever provide concrete evidence to support a certain, individual claim. He once again presents himself as a figure of extreme, caustic duality, and launches an exploration - of the human mind and, specifically, of his own, and also of the medium of cinema. In the former, he is as thorough as one could expect him to be, even absorbing his many digressions into the thematic centre of his film. In the latter, he is more brazen than ever before, submitting wholly to each and every stylistic demand his dense, erratic screenplay makes of him. It's a show of dedication to his principle concern (which is never the tone of Nymphomaniac, but the intellectual content) and a show of carefree confidence. All the film's little quirks von Trier seems to insist upon not merely as reasonable but as essential, and even if you're too distracted by his outright arrogance to appreciate how correct he often is and how much artistry he charges all these affectations with, surely you can see the artistry in being so bold at all. With attentions deflected from tonal matters, Nymphomaniac is mostly, and most appropriately, cold and cerebral, engaging the brain rather than the eyes and ears, though not even Lars would be so cruel to his audience as to deny us some sensory pleasures, which include a number of typically stunning shots: alas, there are few in mainstream cinema with so gifted a sense for mise-en-scene, much as he may attempt to eschew this gift here. There is, especially for so frequently gloomy an enterprise, rather more broad humour than expected; I have never found Lars von Trier's films as funny as many do, and this is particularly true of Nymphomaniac, in which the comedy is palpable indeed, but woven so deeply into the fabric of this generally tragic tale that its odd, sneering presence is willfully exposed as pure provocation. Not sex, not politics, not even psychology - Lars von Trier has finally fully embraced his role as the most arch of international cinema's contemporary masters by pushing our buttons with humour, or perhaps with those contradictions this film is so full of. That unsettling cognitive dissonance that pervades it. And one can imagine how, as we laugh at the characters on screen, he too is laughing off screen, only not at them, but at us.

REVIEW - BASTARDS

A noir mystery that may prove more mysterious to its audience than to its characters, since its concerns lie not with what is done nor said, but with what is thought and what is implied. Claire Denis continues to hone a style of filmmaking whereby what is concealed is infinitely more important than what is revealed, and not for any specific narrative purpose. That all exists to serve her sense of style, and via its misleading structure and lack of contextualisation, Bastards becomes as severe an example of style-over-substance as Denis has mounted thus far in her career. And if cinema is to function as an art form, we rely on artists such as Mme. Denis to continue to hone their singular cinematic styles. And she's hardly pulling the wool over our eyes: Bastards is a stylistic exercise through and through - the opening shots, dazzling and disorientating, of a golden-hewed rain sheeting before metal bars and brick walls, the leaps forward and back in chronology, sometimes even with the intention of deliberately confusing us - these and many more signs that there's nothing of any plot-related purpose here. Beyond the artsy posturing (as assured and accomplished as artsy posturing comes, mind), we are invited inside the characters' heads, in extreme close-ups, wordless shots with the actors' heads slightly tilted, the foreheads accentuated, their moods and motives transmitted from their minds to ours, even if only vaguely, or incorrectly. And it's in this hazy transmission that Denis' motives are also revealed, as she too conceals the specifics of her own objectives, and leaves us to wonder long after the film has finished: what, how, whom, why? Thus, Bastards might be one of the most mysterious mysteries in film history.

REVIEW - ONLY LOVERS LEFT ALIVE

That insufferable hipness that resides in all of Jim Jarmusch's films - they are best when this element is taken as moot, and a film is constructed over it, rather than around it. Because it's always going to reside right there. Best to allow it to surface by itself, without provocation, without aggravation. It's prodded into the daylight and burned to an acrid crisp in Only Lovers Left Alive, which is otherwise a seductive and rather diverting take on the vampire genre. Would that Jarmusch's obsession with producing exactly that - his personal take on vampirism - was much less pronounced, since the film often feels like that's its sole raison d'etre. But good on Jim for staying savvy to the basic needs of audience members whom this film may never even reach, and me: a cringeworthy predilection for highbrow artistic referencing does yield a typically terrific soundtrack, and Jarmusch doesn't seem to see a need to retire his sense of humour, even when striving so hard to be so cool. Decorating his strains and striving are the more modest, and more successful, efforts of a talented cast and crew. Yorick Le Saux once again crafts imagery that looks fresh out of the pages of Vogue Italia, and Bina Daigeler's costumes reconfirm her as one of the industry's most underrated designers. And Jarmusch's new muse, apparently, the incomparable Tilda Swinton, at long last afforded a leading role in one of his features, is ravishing as ever. What character and atmosphere this team of artists constructs without even appearing to try, while their director tries constantly, and either misses his mark or hits a particularly dubious mark particularly well. For it's when the film rises above his trademark hipness, and quits wallowing around it, that it is as seductive and as diverting as it ought to have been throughout.

REVIEW - CONCRETE NIGHT

Simo is a pallid, supple slip of a kid. His skin is smooth in texture, almost translucent in appearance in the dusky incandescence, full of moisture yet bitterly cold. His expression is guileless, his cheeks rounded, his smile carefree and his laugh shrill and feminine and utterly captivating. In the thin, insipid rain and against such brutish surroundings - the cramped, purpose-built housing in an industrial landscape in which all nature seems purged save the sporadic and unwelcome invasion of a mere suggestion of natural life - Simo is an anomaly. He is fourteen, and feels he must adopt a character of his own, not least now his older brother awaits incarceration in a matter of days. He must drink and smoke and fight and be the man of the house, and take care of his mother, whose demeanour rivals her habitat for sheer dilapidation. What pulls Simo back from this artificial burgeoning manhood are desires and requirements he is thoroughly unfamiliar with, and thus frightened by. He lacks his brother's hardiness and self-confidence, and indeed his inhumanity, and cannot afford to yield to temptations, however well they may objectively suit him, that would only set him further apart from the man he intends to become. Pirjo Honkasalo's eloquent and hugely perceptive film allows Simo some brief interludes, and they are certainly brief, of comfort and a small degree of elucidation, though they are tempered by a tension that insidiously encircles pressure upon our protagonist. He is capable of escape, of moments of fantasy and naivety. But he is equally capable of succumbing to the harsher emotions he otherwise evades, and of acting in an irrational manner - an adolescent manner, since, at fourteen, he is assuredly not yet a man. Honkasalo's film is exquisitely designed, with a subtly enveloping sound mix and Peter Flinckenberg's ravishing cinematography.

REVIEW - THE SQUARE

The people of Egypt know what they don't want, but they know not what they do want. What they have had is relative prosperity for an African nation, yet the kind of social and democratic austerity one expects from a Middle Eastern nation. These people have now brought upon themselves, and most intentionally, instability, in pursuit of a level of freedom and fairness not that they have witnessed elsewhere in the world, but that they know, as human beings, they are entitled to. Their pursuit has turned into a battle, one which has, in the eyes of an optimist, taken down two regimes and counting, or in the eyes of a pessimist, replaced bad for worse and again at the seat of the Egyptian government. This battle continues today, which makes Jehane Noujaim's searing documentary even more pointed and poignant. With stunning footage captured from the heart of the action, both physical and political, her account of the uprising whose international infamy inspired several others is deeply, directly powerful. It has the clarity of staged recreation, but with the additional, crucial sting of reality. Noujaim emerges as a master of instilling appropriate atmosphere with accuracy and fortitude, yet sensitivity, and her editing team superbly condense their material into a succinct, satisfying story that also does not betray the essence of its subject, nor play too loosely with the timeframe. Profiled here is a number of significant figures in the revolution, though their presentation is handled with admirable subtlety - a deference to the fact that it is these people's cause, rather than these people themselves, that is of importance here. Their cause is depicted as the only honest, viable, just cause available to Egypt, and the sneering military and corrupt (and entirely-male-supported - it would appear) Muslim Brotherhood are depicted as despicable villains. Noujaim doesn't attempt to argue with this, since she know this to be as true as all else her cameras so sensationally capture in this remarkable film. The people of Egypt may know not what they do want, but if the Muslim Brotherhood is what they don't want, then there's no argument to be made.

REVIEW - R100

Is it to embrace an expanding international audience? Is it to dumb down the message, and have it literally interpreted for viewers left perplexed by his other works? Or is it a signifier of Matsumoto Hitoshi's grandiose intentions in R100, though hardly any more epic and outrageous than anything we'd expect from him, that he actually interrupts the action (or what we had naively presumed to be the action) to offer up explanation for his choices and his conduct as creator of this insanity? Giving voice to the sceptics and giving only the mildest, most cautious reason to the supporters of his creative indulgences, he only reinforces the wildly winking eye he has set upon us from his film's very first scene. Fittingly, what pleasure he bids us discover in R100 (and there's plenty of it!) is most perverse, particularly narratively - logistical and continuity issues arise, and are briefly mocked, but otherwise it's extremely easy to follow what's going on; why it's going on is another matter, and Matsumoto sets us a challenge most of us will never succeed at, and which is futile regardless, if we are to ever truly comprehend quite why. One suspects it's all for the hell of it, and that all this psychological teasing is also all for the hell of it. Observing him manipulate the language of cinema to his own unique ends is actually enthralling, and even if he lacks the verve to form something genuinely revolutionary in his concepts or his methods alike, what Matsumoto achieves is of solid artistic value, and superb entertainment value. The escalating nonsense and histrionic humour each have the potential to irritate enormously - I found both to be as welcome as they were not. And whatever your opinion on them, they contribute to Matsumoto Hitoshi's admirably grandiose intentions. A little bit radical, a lot ridiculous, R100 is a notable step forward for one of the industry's most idiosyncratic and most promising talents.

REVIEW - WE ARE THE BEST!

Confidence is key. Lukas Moodysson's punk rock comedy-drama may lack a brazen, punky texture of its own, but it's a winning testament to the kind of effect such a sensibility can have on a young life. Momentary diversions here and there sustain the gently-barbed tone, with cruelty reconfigured as satire, but Moodysson's championing of three young girls from Stockholm who only want to start a band and have some fun makes this a cheerful, optimistic film, with mild character-based humour and a rather Scandinavian strain of social and familial dramatics that doesn't gel, as infrequently as it arises. Affable young actors Mira Barkhammar and Mira Grosin play Bobo and Klara, whose distaste for and mistrust of convention and authority has broadened their cultural horizons; they see past the social conservatism that dictates the lives of their schoolmates and families, and harbour a compulsion not to rebel but to question. The rebellion comes when they intuit that their questions have no satisfactory answers, and the only reasonable course of action is to rail against the machine. They cannot play any musical instruments, but decide to form a punk band, and enlist, as the only musically-capable member of their group, outcast christian Hedvig, whose transformation from sheltered god-squadder into independent punk-rocker is handled with subtlety and insight. Moodysson has a confident grasp of each moment in each scene, though he eventually can't imbue any of it with much purpose, and the girls' story begins to seem aimless. It's mostly a lot of fun to watch though, in particular the more boldly comedic sequences, including a priceless scene where the hopeless Johan Liljemark attempts to coach the trio on how to play the electric guitar, unaware of Hedvig's superiority until she quietly issues him with the biggest take-down in any film outside of a boxing ring.

REVIEW - THE ARMSTRONG LIE

Lance Armstrong opens and closes The Armstrong Lie sat on a sofa that looks strikingly similar to one which I own. Whether he is perched informally on some item of furniture in a respectably-dressed room or formally against Alex Gibney's stark black backdrop, we are encouraged to view him as the same as the rest of us. But that, itself, is a lie. There is a rabidness in his gaze, an intimidating frenzy, which enables - or empowers - him to defend himself with such vehemence, to obliterate his nemeses, to continue to fight his fight long after it has come to its ignominious close. It's an inhuman quality, one which makes it very difficult to view Armstrong as the same as the rest of us, quite plainly because he is not. He may have been about the same as the rest of his doped-up colleagues in the sport of cycling, though he seems to have lost their respect as much as ours. This fearsome, brutal aspect to his character, which seems to inform every other aspect of it, is unmissable in The Armstrong Lie, and it makes one wonder how this man ever assumed such an elevated status in popular opinion, regardless of his success. I attribute that to his nationality; we Brits like our heroes grounded and humble, Americans like theirs charismatic and, I guess, heroic. Alex Gibney's film-that-became-another-film is an intriguing prospect, more than an intriguing film - he illuminates much of the detail behind Lance Armstrong's career and subsequent downfall, though as compelling a tale as he has at his behest, it's mostly old news by now. A strong personal thrust for Gibney in making this documentary unfortunately does not manifest itself in especially personal filmmaking, nor especially inventive filmmaking. Alas, his (necessary) reliance on his 2009-era footage of the comeback film he was due to make on his subject doesn't afford him much scope for psychological probing, and that's why The Armstrong Lie feels somewhat less personal than it could have. Though in any case it would surely be quite the task to create a 'personal' documentary about a person so not the same as the rest of us.

REVIEW - SALINGER

The bio-documentary no-one needed. Watching Salinger is akin to hearing the Cliff Notes on the life of author J. D. Salinger read aloud by a series of friends and fans, or rather shouted aloud. It's more of a tribute to the man, though an unfocused one indeed, since it reveals nothing new, yet attempts to cover everything. And no matter what grievances he caused those close to him, many of whom are interviewed here, Shane Salerno's film repeatedly returns to hero-worshipping him and his writings, revered by Salerno in the highest degree. Yet he is blind to the truth of what he has created, insisting throughout that Salinger is a film of utmost power and significance. In wildly over-editing and in setting near every single second to a crass, melodramatic soundtrack, he assembles footage of narrators both reliable and not so, and fashions his own version of the facts. It's a straightforward narrative he presents of a life that was surely more complex than this, and he re-imagines it, bespoke for the points he's so forcefully trying to make, by inexplicably mixing up the chronology. It's hard to get a foothold here, rendering Salinger a mere onslaught of storytelling hustle and bustle, which is tolerable only for a very short while. The film is over two hours long... It only achieves anything close to the kind of profundity it strives for as it turns to the luminous Joyce Maynard and her recollections of their relationship; still, Salerno is much too sensationalistic in his approach, which eventually ruins Maynard's testimony. Such is Salerno's compulsion to create the ultimate document of his beloved author's life and work, he shoots back and forth between interview and interviewee, between time periods, and the suggestion of any kind of meaningful psychological study of this undeniably distinctive character is only ever just that: a suggestion. Salerno is preoccupied instead with his own impression of Mr. Salinger, whether it be the truth, the whole truth or anything but. One imagines his hero would have abhorred this film - it is, after all, essentially, phony.

REVIEW - MOTHER OF GEORGE

A struggle between right and wrong is twisted and obscured into a struggle between custom and reform, between Africa and America, between woman and man. Common sense and justice may be matters of the head, but they impact upon the heart when they are bypassed. The same might be claimed of tradition and loyalty, and of respect for one's culture and one's history, but it is only the open, honest, liberal mind that can perceive the benefits in both, and perceive that they need not struggle against one another. Danai Gurira is so soft and subtle as Adenike, a woman caught in a silent conflict between her own thoughts and opinions and the deluge of external influences those around her so arrogantly feel the right to impose upon her. In her quiet, stoic openness, she presents Adenike not as a unique figure but as an emblem of millions of women in her exact situation, for not all of whom the outcome may be so fortunate. And still, she is generous to the character and respectful of her, so while she may outwardly depict Adenike's inwardness, she emerges not as a martyr nor a political tool on the writer's behalf, but as an individual. It is her compelling interior story and the precision with which dynamics between characters are drawn which make Mother of George worth a watch, for anyone interested in social politics, cinema or even a good story. And it is the artsiness of the crew's approach that threatens to diminish this story's effectiveness. Director Andrew Dosunmu and cinematographer Bradford Young have conspired to create a film that is often sensually rapturous, but equally often distancing. It is better not to notice the art at work in enhancing the experience than to continually be drawn back to noticing it first, and appreciating its narrative benefits second, should there even be any. And as Dosunmu brings us back out of Adenike's story time and again, he breaks the spell created by Gurira and her costars, and allows the film to become repetitive and to feel overlong. Darci Picoult's screenplay is smart and sensitive, though at its close falls afoul of the same pretentiousness that afflicted Dosunmu; she starts on the right foot, but ends on the wrong one.

REVIEW - HOURS

Mainstream schlock writer Eric Heisserer turns director for this sensationalistic drama, whose intimacy and whose emotional angle are fronts to disguise from Hours' thrill-seeking nature. As is frequently the case in such circumstances, Heisserer proves inept at either writing or staging the former aspects of the film, and is more successful when the final act resorts to frantic scenes of desperation and even violence. Combine with the Hurricane Katrina setting, and it's clear that a soul-searching story of a grief-stricken man caring for his newborn, premature daughter is quite out of place here. Heisserer lacks the ability to amalgamate the two films he's trying to make into one, and so they clash with one another. His cheap budget is wisely spent on limited locations, though not so wisely spent on ugly lighting at every turn. His cheap sensibilities as a writer do actually yield some effective results, as his compulsion to enliven an inherently restricted narrative does distract from his inadequacy in scripting something so spare, and keeps the film engaging, even if the many twists he employs occasionally require a significant suspension of disbelief. Katrina doesn't make for as urgent nor as potent a backdrop as it could have, and archive news footage of the destruction, sparingly used, brings home the extent of the devastation on New Orleans far greater in a few brief shots than the rest of Heisserer's film even attempts to. Paul Walker demonstrates that no matter whom the actor, nor how well-written the role, if a performer is written a character so prolific in their film, they'll deliver a performance worthy of the screentime.

REVIEW - THE BROKEN CIRCLE BREAKDOWN

Felix van Groeningen's romantic drama is too schizophrenic and too ambitious for its own good, but maybe that is what's good about it. A formulaic first half gives way to a rancidly melodramatic second, where van Groeningen still can't focus on the heart of his storyline with much ease, but one could argue that the film needs this lack of focus, since what breakdown ever was clean and simple, and unpolluted with the kind of chaotic instability that cruel circumstance can inflict upon a relationship? And the emotional unwieldiness is mirrored in a structural one too, yet this does not overcomplicate the film - rather, it guides us through the chronology of a partnership in a sensitive and thus most affecting manner, and we come to understand the kind of trauma this couple has been subjected to. van Groeningen has a mainline to our hearts, too, in his sensational bluegrass soundtrack, with lead vocals from his lead actors, Veerle Baetens and Johan Heldenbergh. They're committed actors and beautiful singers, and they anchor The Broken Circle Breakdown with memorable performances both in acting and in singing. Their young daughter, afflicted with cancer, is played by Nell Cattrysse, who delivers one of the most notable debuts before the camera in recent years. It leaves me dumbfounded that someone born in 2006 can possess such a talent for acting. The screenplay is adapted from the play by Heldenbergh and Mieke Dobbels, and a sudden, brief but pivotal sojourn into politics near the end ought to have been excised, though otherwise the writers have done an excellent job in expanding the script for the screen.

REVIEW - MYSTERY ROAD

This might be the worst thing about international filmmaking. The proliferation of one nation's output, and specifically that one nation's most hackneyed tropes, serves as an influence on filmmakers worldwide. Rather than create original, compelling stories and styles unique to themselves and their country, these wannabes try to play with the big boys, and bigger does not always mean better. The narrative material in Mystery Road is not original, not compelling and, eventually, not even important. A native Australian girl is found with her throat slashed in the Outback, and in investigating her death, the native policeman assigned to the case uncovers dark details about the lives of some prominent figures in local society. Ivan Sen doesn't appear interested in following this 'mystery' (it's anything but) to its close, instead trusting all of his protagonist's assumptions and leading the plot to a climactic shootout, of all things. It's as if he thought there was just one too few cliches already in the film, and rectified the situation with a shootout. I would have recommended that this policeman be a week from retirement too, and that he begins an affair with someone connected to the girl's death, but then that wouldn't have left very much time for lots of gruff stoicism from Aaron Pedersen and blandly picturesque shots of the Aussie landscape. So he keeps that plot simple - so simple, in fact, that he doesn't even avail of subplots or red herrings, staying to the straight and narrow of this thoroughly un-mysterious storyline. Another Australian debut director recently took crime movie conventions and manipulated them into something striking and memorable - David Michod - so it's not impossible. And could I name all the brilliant films set in the Outback?! So that's not impossible either. What's unfortunately very possible, though, is that international filmmakers continue to proliferate this sort of tired rehashing of boring old movies in an attempt to gain our attention.

REVIEW - AFTERNOON DELIGHT

Not so much delight in this amiably erratic comedy from Jill Soloway, as she delves into the full spectrum of awkwardness faced by the modern American woman, constricted by comical societal conventions, and by a fundamental shyness and reluctance in her character. Truly, you've never seen so many white people problems in one woman alone, but Kathryn Hahn is a vivid and generous performer, and Soloway lampoons the lifestyle of her and her friends with such piquancy that this is easily overlooked. Hahn plays Rachel, who finds herself inexplicably compelled to befriend and eventually take in a stripper / sex worker, McKenna, after receiving a lapdance from her. As platonic as their relationship is, McKenna's presence begins to open Rachel's mind, including reigniting a long-dormant sexual spark between herself and her husband, but it also throws up understandable issues. Tonally, Soloway is refreshingly unconcerned with maintaining any kind of balance between the raunchy comedy in some of her scenarios and the incisive realism she infuses others with, and she yields instead to both. So the film is sloppy and shapeless, but in a charming manner. Still, for all its unexpected twists, the path she has drawn out through this plot is unfocused, and too quickly predicted. And those white people problems do grate, since this is yet another indie 'dramedy' about the difficulties of being rich and white in America; Soloway graciously doesn't demonise McKenna, whom Juno Temple inhabits with an impressive amount of confidence and conviction, but while Rachel's cluelessness about the effects their friendship is having on her life works well in Afternoon Delight's comedy scenes, it stretches credulity in the dramatic ones. A colourful cast is comfortable in a variety of roles, including Annie Mumolo, brilliant as Kosher Amanda, and Jane Lynch as Rachel's self-obsessed shrink Lenore.

REVIEW - BIG BAD WOLVES

Pure proof that you can't polish a turd. You might be able to turn the turd into a meaningful work of art, or the very statement of the turd itself into the same, but no amount of spit and shine could ever make it any more than just a turd. Should Aharon Keshales and Navot Papushado be applauded for attempting to draw something more artistically credible from their torture porn narrative shell? Or should they be ridiculed for not believing that this artistic credibility is nullified by its blatancy and its cliche? What actually imbues Big Bad Wolves with meaning is its comic value, which for me was low, but the limitless subjectivity of comedy is a factor there, and so I won't denounce a film's humour as a failure just for the fact that it didn't completely connect with me. It's decently-mounted comedy. As decently-mounted as the rest of this film, perhaps, and as unsuccessful. Its most troubling feature is its attitude toward police brutality. I'm the last person to rail against irresponsibility in film, and the first to laugh when someone gets hurt, but the vindication, bordering on heroism, of sickeningly violent cop Micki's deplorable actions turned my stomach. The supposed irony of his behaviour is treated as a source of mirth, while equally depraved characters are depicted as vile and vicious. The final shot is the strongest possible way for Keshales and Papushado to laud Micki for the dreadful cruelty he so horribly inflicted on suspected paedophile Dror, and the film's eagerness to prey on public hysteria surrounding sexual perversions of any manner is even more distasteful. Keshales and Papushado have crafted a slick, shallow film, with signs of individuality occasionally coming to light and with satisfactory, though bland, stylistic credits.

REVIEW - DELIVERY MAN

You can sense a slight despondency in Ken Scott's Delivery Man. It's the half-hearted whimper of a last-ditch attempt at the big time, before being pastured in a quick and cruel fashion that nobody really wants, but everybody really needs. Vince Vaughn has aged into an actor whom Hollywood will soon stop finding uses for: he's now playing the father of the characters he used to play, only he's still that same character himself. That's not the type of father figure audiences are looking for, alas. The warning signs are all over Delivery Man, with its supporting cast of young, upcoming faces. And the kicker comes when Scott seems to abandon all hope in Vaughn's ability to pull in the punters and devotes one key sequence to his straight man sidekick, Chris Pratt. It's in the framing, and the scripting: Pratt is the star of this show, taking that straight man role and effortlessly drawing out of it the funniest role in the entire film. There's something to be said for a film that loses its way without a supporting character, and, at that, one who spends most of the second act absent, and that something is not a good thing. Since Delivery Man is a comedy, and since it knows it, and since it is clearly the work of talented people just not trying very hard (Jon Brion wrote the score, which is a low for him but a high for the film), there are some successful gags in the film, though they're way too often undercut by schmaltz, contrivance and the nagging notion that Vince Vaughn fathered 533 children and they're almost exclusively slim and sexy. None of them have quite enough gall to consciously show Vaughn up - he's the daddy, after all. But daddy's looking a little tired, now, and a little despondent. Put him out to pasture already, and bring in some fresh meat. Bring in Chris Pratt.

REVIEW - CONTRACTED

Contracted is a deceitful body horror film, with shifting identities and an apparent lack of logic. It reveals its true self in its final shot, whereupon it starts making sense, though the preceding first and second (and third) acts were, until this point, a more collectively befuddling affair than they needed to be. If you rearrange the film with its climactic revelation in mind, all of the pieces are present and correct, though were writer / director Eric England to have devised a conclusion more cohesive with what he appears to promise for the majority of Contracted, I doubt the issue of deception would have arisen. What matters is not how audacious England is in his creativity, but how effective he is in the application thereof. He lacks much conceptual creativity, actually, and this is a resolutely conventional film in its pure narrative and tonal content, but there are definite points of interest scattered throughout: he is surprisingly strong at guiding inter-personal relationships in the film to powerful effect, and lead character Samantha's tense bonds with her unresponsive girlfriend and her interfering mother are very keenly portrayed. He also makes a definite effort to ratchet up the retch factor, with all manner of gag-inducing effects generously employed. It's by no means subtle, though horror movies have some licence to avoid subtlety where they deem necessary, and I'd give Contracted a pass on that ground. England doesn't supply his gore with much purpose, much reason to exist, though, so these are empty eughs he's provoking from us, albeit hefty ones! Once Contracted begins, in the most abrupt and dissatisfying manner, to wrap up, the body horror angle is abandoned, unfortunately, and the film's identity makes its most pointed shift. As disappointing as it may be, it's not illogical. But what matters is not how audacious England is, but how effective he is. And, in the end, he's not very effective at all.