Reviews

Consider the wit, brawn and pulse-pounding balls of both Iron Man movies and the spectacular Thor. Now consider the flaws and failings of Captain America, Fury and two incredibly average Hulk flicks. What are you left with? A question: where exactly was in-form writer/director Joss Whedon's Avengers Assemble actually going to go? Down the pan? Or through the roof? Well, guess what? He's only gone and pulled it off.

Ever since that teasing Nick Fury advent at the end of the first Iron Man, fans and filmgoers alike have been seeing-out the end credits of all subsequent Marvel flicks in hope of something (anything). What they got was everything. All signs pointed to an assemble, all roads lead to an Avengers movie. 5 years in the making? Try 50 for any Marvel mogul worth their salt will tell you a film's been coming since the early 1960's.

And here it is: 4 big-buck franchises rolled into one: Iron Man, Thor, Captain America and Hulk. Robert Downey-Junior, Chris Hemsworth, Chris Evans and...Mark Ruffolo?! Ed Norton obviously didn't fancy this one but fear not, Hulk nuts, Ruffolo's twitchy turn makes for the best Banner yet. Anyway, throw these four in a room together and you're guaranteed two things; friction and fun. Our heroes square up, square off but in the end...well you can guess where it goes. The story? SHIELD head Nick Fury (Samuel L Jackson) enlists the fickle four along with Black Widow (Scarlet Johanson) to help save the world from Thor's bad brother Loki (Tom Hiddleston). Zero points for innovation, then. But if you thought Tony Stark suiting-up for the first-time was the coolest thing you've ever seen. Think again.

Skilled sci-fi pen-cum-director Joss Whedon has well and truly arrived with this dizzyingly brilliant blockbuster that's more than the sum of it's fluctuating parts. Believe the hype, Avengers Assemble is a cast-iron hit. It's incredible. It's thunderous. It's furious, beaming, biting and marvellous. But enough puns, let's get down to business.

Whedon has approached this four-way fusion in the right way: a strong and balanced emphasis on plot, dialogue and visuals, character development and chemistry. Too many cooks? Hell no. The big-name players work so well with one another it's actually surprising. The sheer sum and sense of one-liners and put-downs are just as memorable as the brutal, in-house beat-downs. Which is saying something when you consider scenes pitting Iron Man and Hulk against Thor are enough to send an entire generation of comic-book geeks into cardiac arrest.

Downey-Junior's effortlessly cool turn on the sarci' Stark was always going to be the main lure, here, but to say he outshines his peers would be wrong. It's not all about the billionaire ball-buster. Everyone gets their 15 minutes. Both Hemsworth and Ruffolo (in particular) are bang on. Even the out-of-touch Cap' chips in with a few big, cheesy shots and Hiddleston's creepy demigod makes for a sharp villain.

Granted, Whedon's tongue-in-cheek ethos and slapstick-like approach means the Avengers was never going to measure up to any of Nolan's Batman films. How many comic-book films (or films, in general) do!? Which is why there's not much point even trying to compare this breath-snatching Marvel muster to Nolan's Dark Knight rebirth. It's a kick-ass popcorn movie for young and old. Nothing more.

That said, this hulking 142 minute feature is a stimulating affair with a freehold on the brash and the flash and the down-right hilarious. It's an absolute blast. Wildly entertaining, ridiculously awesome, the Avengers' is everything it should be: over-the-top, funny, cool, funny, loud, exciting, electric and did I mention funny!?

Best comic book movie ever? No. Best Marvel production ever? Yeeeeee...no. X-Men: First Class still has that one tied-up but for such a question to prompt a pause for thought says an awful lot. Whedon's Assemble may not be the best superhero film out there but it is the funniest and probably the most entertaining. Definitely the coolest.

Sure, there may be a limit to how many times you can watch superheroes kick the crap out of one and all. But you won't mind too much. Popcorn cinema doesn't get much better than this. Joss Whedon and co. have kicked this year's comic-book-busters off with a bang. Expect sequels.

Usain Bolt and bobsleighs aside, when someone mentions Jamaica, you think of either Reggae, Rhastas or weed. In other words, you think of Bob Marley. The undisputed paragon of everything we associate with that "laid-back" corner of the Caribbean. But Bob was a little more than a nonchalant stoner who sung a few tunes, you know. As far as singer/songwriters go, they don't come much bigger than Bob Marley. His and The Wailers' universal songs of love, peace and hope rank amidst some of the finest and most recognizable ever given up to music. There are even those who would liken Bob to Ghandi. A bit O.T.T, sure, but the comparisons are there (sort of): an immortal advocate of peace and altruism; a liberal; a national treasure. And yet Bob Marley was not without fault and, 'till now, a fair share of unworthy documentaries.

Kevin Macdonald's (The Last King of Scotland) bio' doc' about Bob's life and legacy is a stylish and honest mediation on the man behind the myth that charts his physical and spiritual journey through the music world; his quest for success that would transform him from the rejected frontman of a budding ska band to the iconic, liberating arbitrator whose timeless tunes went beyond music and unified colours, creeds and a country in meltdown.

Made with the full cooperation of Bob's family and friends and told largely through their accounts, Marley is a potent and essential piece of documentary film-making. Kevin Macdonald's Bob doc' could've made the man out to be some kind of saint. But it doesn't. Macdonald's various interviews with those who knew Bob best in addition to a heap of archival stills and footage paint the pop-icon in a variety of ways; conflicted, poised, selfish, kind, wanton, loyal, driven, stubborn, free. Marley lays bare the heart and soul of the dreadlocked Rhasta in some style.

A distinct level of cohesion and humanity is well and truly found in the director's attention to detail regarding Bob's estranged personal life; from his impoverished roots and search for acceptance to his self-serving, self-sacrificing ways and stirring date with cancer.

Despite a muddled and stuttered opening, Marley boasts an absolving and deeply moving final third that ties the hefty, 146 minute bio doc' up in style (cheesy ending credits aside).

This is a fresh and thoughtful trip through the life of a music legend with scope and soul in spades; an intriguing and chic fusion of art, music and history. Marley is the quintessential portrait of Bob Marley's life. See it.

Bold, beautiful and utterly brilliant. Ang Lee's heartbreaking cowboy film is a vital meditation on love and longing, maleness and morality. A year on from the passing of its leading light, The Edge remembers one of the decade's most important films…

An eloquently tender slice of American cinema, Brokeback Mountain is a film I've held close to my heart now for quite some time. Among other things, this delicately spun picture brought to my attention the skills of an enticing young actor who was fast becoming recognised as one of the finest his generation had to offer. Heath Ledger. A dynamic talent whose Oscar Nominated turn in Ang Lee's epic love parable proved he was, in fact, the real deal. Okay, he didn't win the award and Brokeback was erroneously pipped to the best picture prize by the pretentious Crash. But in 10, 15, 20 years time, Lee's spacious adap of Annie Prolux's short story will no doubt be remembered as the film of 2006. Perhaps even the noughties. And while Ledger's show-stopping spin on Lee Bermejo's retooled Joker maybe the role forever coupled with his name, I will always remember him as the man who played a prominent part in the conception of, quite possibly, the greatest love story of our time.

Set against the sweeping mountain vistas of Wymoing, Brokeback Mountain tells the tearful tale of Ennis Del Mar (Ledger) and Jack Twist (Jake Gyllenhaal). Two twenty something ranch-hands who inadvertently forge a secret love affair in the summer of 1963 that, for all its twists and turns, snags, wrongs and rights, endures: emerging a subversive yet authentic testament to the power of love.

Spanning three arduous decades, Ennis and Jack's covert allegory is one awash with danger, deceit, thought, feeling, density and doubt that bobs and weaves from start to finish. In spite of their mutual affection, Ennis's repressed spirit and alpha-male tendencies obscure the two men's hopes of a happy life together. Jack is the beta and more in-touch half of the bond who, in time, comes to terms with who and what he is. But for Ennis, things aren't so easy. He's a cagey, conflicted and near- inaudible entity who's always quick to remind Jack that their country and culture has a "heterosexual or highway" policy that cannot be inverted.

Considered "alien" even now, homosexuality is outlawed in and around certain pockets of the U.S which is why controversy surrounded and continues to prod the picture three years on from its release. Given the underground credentials of art house autuers' Pedro Almodovar and Wong Kar Wai.Ang, Lee wasn't the first to tackle the theme head-on, but under the stuborn eye of the Hollywood mainstream's- he was. "The first time I read the script for Brokeback, I rejected it," he confessed. "The second time I read it I decided to do it for the exact same reason I'd rejected it before: no one was going to see it." Lee was right to some extent: the percentage of insular homophobes occupying the mainstream of the movie going world was and is, no doubt, large. But Brokeback is too good a film to take on board the criticism dished out by the obtuse. Wake up, smell the coffee. This film is a flat out triumph. A gracefully spun tear jerker with hope, pride and splendour to spare. Brokeback Mountain is one of the most important films to come out of America in living memory. One that compels, captivates, moves and inspires: it stuck with me for months after viewing it.

Much more than just a gay love yarn about two cowboys, Brokeback Mountain is a spectacle. A heart-wrenching morality play that has the power to reshape the notions and ideals of those who discard diversity. This is a film about love. Love that transcends gender, reason and the so-called "norms" laid down by a heterosexual world. Brokeback doesn't ask you to embrace homosexuality, but to understand it, to accept it. Discard it as an "issue", even, for love is an inescapable force that knows no bounds.

Ennis and Jack's same-sex relationship even defies relevance as the film flows towards a melancholic finale, paving the way for a full fledged romantic melodrama that has an unmistakable air of Romeo and Juliet about it. Gylenhall is fantastic, Ledger is a revelation. The late chameleon's pitch-perfect portrayal of a troubled father and husband torn between what he feels and what he thinks he should feel is as true, as touching and as potent as anything you're likely to see in cinema. Much like the film's breathtaking backdrop and photography. Brokeback looks magnificent. The jagged peaks, land; lake and sky-scapes together with the deftly plucked and strummed strings of Gustavoa Santliano's acoustic guitar mount towards one effortlessly potent motif: reminding the viewer time and time again of the men's rocky liaison; of the struggle, pain and care they both share. Brokeback Mountain is an emotive masterpiece. A truly special film that has the dexterity to stir, touch and even transform.

Disturbing yet allegorical, emotionally shallow yet erotically fierce, David Cronenberg's crushingly warped world of sex, cars and sex in cars isn't for those who like their films "middle-of-the-road". Try "off- road". And then some, for Cronenberg's Crash is a perverse, surreal and psychosexual illustration of the apparent links between danger, death and sex with clout that, for all its scandal and sexcitement, ultimately fails to get into top gear.

James Spader plays horny TV exec' James Ballard who, following a near fatal car crash with an equally horny Dr. Helen Remington (Holly Hunter), finds himself lured into an uncanny cult where ex-crash victims are bound together by a kinetic lust for the very machines, circumstances and imagery that disfigured their bodies and minds.

Taking contentious themes and stretching them to their outer limits such as scopophilia, sadomasochism, serial monogamy, self mutilation and homosexuality, Cronenberg crafts and explores a world driven by auto- eroticism, sexual-oddities and libidinal hungers that feeds on the messages, morals and conventions of the mainstream. A move that'll come to the delight of some but, inevitably, the complete and utter disgust of others. Those who fall into the latter camp: don't bother with Crash. You'd do well to last twenty minutes. The former: sit back, interpret and try to enjoy.

With seemingly more scenes of a sexual nature than dialogue (I counted three in the first two minutes), Crash is not for those who bare a faint or chaste heart. It's a prude's worst nightmare. It's provocative, distinct and sexy; a libidinal indie smash of Bunuel-cum-Lynch-like verve whose characters have somewhat idealistic and incalculable sex drives superior to those of a celibate sex addict set loose in Amsterdam. The result? Cinematic smut in pure overdrive that depraves and astounds.

Tzvetan Todorov's model of narrative equilibrium and the action film go hand-in-hand. Harmony, disruption, restoration. Simple. Enter Taken; Director Pierre Morel kicks things off with some good old fashioned scene setting. Subtle, delicate and about as ordinary as a Nicholas Cage film. Oh, and we're also thrust onto the side of his protagonist in the most ostentatious of fashions: exiled Dad Bryan (Liam Neeson) buys his daughter a karaoke set, step dad whips out a dashing white pony. Top that. But as far as negative criticisms for Taken go, I'm spent. A mundane start and structure doesn't conceal the fact that this is a stunning, high-octane fuelled action film with a freehold on the fast and furious, the tense and intense. Second-best to Bourne, perhaps, but more than a match for those that rest and revel in the action/adventure genre.

Bryan may've been cast into the shade by a prancing pony but he's one hard b*stard. A worn, torn, tried and tested retiree trying to make up for those lost years taxed by trade. A trade that annulled a marriage, divided a three piece family suite and rid Mills of any domestic respect he may've had. His line of work? Protection. Prevention. 007 kinda stuff; he was a first-class covert infiltrator for the U.S Government. Highly- trained, highly-skilled, highly- dangerous. So I suppose it's Mr. B*stard to you, then. Neeson's adroit and wrinkled visage tells us all we need to know from the outset. He's been there. Done that. Got the t-shirt. But when a clan of wily, woman traffickers "unexpectedly" up and off with daddy's little girl in Paris, the pension gets the boot and we have ourselves a movie. And a pretty good one at that: a part chase, part rescue, part action; adventure, thrill and redemption movie with verve, vigour and viscera. Archetypal? Sure. Taken throws up nothing new, but it is one of the best of its overcooked kind: sometimes heavy, sometimes cruel. Gritty in places, stylish in others. Clever in areas, conservative in others. It's a very well made film fresh from the minds and eyes that bought us the superb French thriller, District 13.

Co-penned, then, by Luc Besson and directed by Pierre Morel, Taken draws numerous and sometimes obvious likings to the Jason Bourne franchise; guerrilla styled photography, breakneck editing, fast cars, fast hands, state of the art tech', superior covert opp' crushing skull after skull. Bourne didn't know who or what he was, though. Mills does: a pensioned off, ticked off CIA hard nut without the rust and with plenty of thrust ("I will find you, and I will kill you!" ). For all its heart stopping scraps and tussles, takedowns, beatdowns, fist, gun and knife fights, Taken succeeds in mining our emotions and domestic qualms on an up-close and personal level. The empathy injection, although clichéd, works to the film's advantage. None of us could really relate to Bourne's mind state or predicament but with this- we kind of can. Whether it be as a father, mother, daughter or even tourist. Thus every grapple, pursuit, punch, shift, block, bullet, bob and weave has added intent and meaning. You'll be willing Neeson's Mills on through every horde of baddies as he plots and pummels his way to his daughter's aid.

It's Neeson who'll no doubt seize the plaudits, then. And why not. The acclaimed thesp' churns out yet another first-class performance as the determined, ageing action hero; proving once more that there's no role he cant take on without rendering both his own and convincing. Neeson's pin-sharp portrayal of Mills' means the character's not just his corny little girl's rock, he's ours too. The man's an exceptional actor. His Taken turn reiterates his kudos as one of the industry's finest.

As for the film itself? In terms of flat-out entertainment? It's the best since the Bourne Supremacy by a mile. Yes, I said Supremacy. Didn't go much on Ultimatum I'm afraid. But I'll leave that for another day. Anyway, Taken's energy, score and degree of grip factor are spot- on but it's in the cutting room where the film really excels. Sharp, swift, seamless: the action set-pieces are cut to near perfection: showing us just enough on occasion to evoke a grimace, gasp or sly snigger. Heads get slammed in car doors. Bones get crushed. Noses broken. Skulls fractured. Action film junkies: satisfied.

Taken is a solid all-round effort. Hardly flawless but all you could ever really ask for from a steely, high-concept adventure film.

30 years and several retools on from Susan Hill's now seminal pocket novel comes the big screen adaptation of The Woman in Black. Swapping the lingering, life-spanning impact of Hill's Dickensian book of the dead for a hollow yet effective house-of-horrors yarn that'll have you stirring in your seat- and out of it.

The film's set-up is more or less identical to the book but with a few baffling tweaks; Arthur Kipps (Daniel Radcliffe) is a solicitor and widowed father of one who's summoned to a remote town and manor on an eerie northern marshland where he's to settle the estate and will of a recently deceased old hag. Somethings wrong with the place, though. An ominous figure stalks and taunts and haunts the townspeople. A child falls whenever it is seen; a woman in black.

If there's one thing horror movies have taught us, it's that ghostly old dears and kids are a recipe for new underwear. And what do you know, The Woman in Black has them both in droves. All of which reside in a haunted, Victorian mansion in the middle of nowhere. The film charts Kipps' probe into the strange happenings from inside the damned estate in this simplistic yet effectual horror gem that's as playful and frightening as it is enjoyable.

As a stand-alone picture, director James (Eden Lake) Watkins' Woman in Black is as sound a horror of this ilk and purpose come; the haunted-house caper has been done to death then done again over the course of cinema's history. The Woman in Black is the best of its kind for quite some time. When measured against the book, though, it comes up short. Despite remaining faithful to its source through large parts and absolutely nailing the location, Jane Goldman's screenplay omits certain key scenes as well as the haunting bookends that made Hill's novel one the finest ghost stories of all time. Fans of the book will find it hard to fathom why these decisions were made. Maybe Goldman and Watkins wanted to stamp their own, uplifting mark on the tale. Shades of Kubrick's Shining? Not quite. I won't reveal what transpires in Hill's novel, but if the film had followed suite, it would've had greater substance and longevity.

Grafting Harry Potter onto its set-up ensured Watkins' film spun a profit before it hit a single screen. In an undemanding role that require Radcliffe tread cautiously and look scared, the boyish Brit does what's expected of him but fails to impress; to say he's believable as a father would be stupid. He isn't. If Radcliffe is looking to break free from his Potter persona, it's going to take a lot more than a 12A, British horror film to do the trick. Albeit a damn good one; the Evil Dead 2 a la Dickens without the gore, gut laughs and satire. Jumpy, jittery and fun. Yes, fun. The Woman in Black is by no means a black comedy but its clichéd set-up and slow-boiling pots of suspense are so well conceived and cooked you'll be scared silly and amused at the same time. Nervous laughter? You bet. Watkins' delays the unveiling of the shadow shrouded woman to the bitter-end but when we finally see the bitch, its no laughing matter.

Think The Shining without the depth. Think Paranormal Activity without the realism; a minimaliststic, nail-biting scare-fest primed for the big screen that joins the likes of The Others and The Village as well crafted mainstream horrors fit for young and old. See it.

It's pretty safe to say that what little knowledge us Brits have regarding major American sports like Baseball, Basketball, Ice Hockey and American Football tend to stem from cinema. These titanic past times that comprise a lofty part of US culture and identity just don't get the coverage they arguably deserve over this side of the pond. They're still more or less exclusive to our star spangled cousins who, to their credit, have actually given the world some credible films centred on their beloved four like Field of Dreams, White Men Can't Jump, The Mighty Ducks and Any Given Sunday. So what about Moneyball? Capote director Bennet Miller's rousing and inspired semi-biopic about a pivotal period in contemporary Baseball starring major league thesp Brad Pitt. Well, it's good. Very good, in fact. You could even go as far as saying it's a little bit special.

Nominated for six Oscars and based heavily on a true tale that unfolded around the early noughties, Moneyball is a character based docudrama that even those with zero Baseball knowledge can be taken in and moved by. Pitt plays Billy Beane, a former ball player who's now the haunted general manager of the Oakland A's; a cash strapped major league team who are down on their luck. They've just lost their final and most important game of the season and look set to lose their 3 best players with no financial gain as a result. Bean must now rebuild the team for the upcoming season with next-to-nothing in the way of cash and appeal. Despite resistance from his staff and the media, Beane enlists the help of a Yale educated economist (Jonah Hill) and begins to assemble a team of misfits based on stats, facts and figures and forever changes the way Baseball is played.

If, like me, you're unfamiliar with Baseball politics and procedures, a general manager answers only to the club's chairman and is required to broker deals and contracts for current and would be players. It's basically his job to pick the players that make up the squad. It's then down to the head coach and staff to field the team for a given game and implement tactics. Got it? Right, back to the film.

Despite revolving heavily around everything Baseball, the lasting impression Moneyball leaves is that it is more of an honest and thoughtful meditation on one man's desire to make amends and restore a level of personal pride and dignity. As the volatile Billy Beane, Pitt brings his A-game to the field and exhibits all the charm, wit, skills and natural talents that have made him one of the most diverse and commendable actors at work in Hollywood over the past 3 decades. When Pitt's not dabbling in conventional pieces of high-concept dribble like Mr. and Mrs. Smith and Ocean's Twelve, he can act up a storm and does so with Oscar- worthy ease in this: his latest and, perhaps, greatest pitch. His portrayal of the bitter and quirky general manager hell-bent on re-writing the rule book ranks easily amongst some of the 49 year old's best work. As a teenager, Beane was prematurely lured into the pro-leagues with promises of fame and glory. It didn't work out. Neither did his marriage. So, he turned to scouting in attempt to right wrongs.

Jonah Hill's assured, Oscar nominated turn as Beane's studious assistant is also worth a mention for this may signal a break away from the funny fat guy roles that have comprised the bulk of Hill's career so far. Make no mistake about it though, it's Pitt who steals the show in what some believe was "the" performance that should've bagged him that long overdue best actor gong.

Don't be fooled by the facade and grandeur of an underdog Hollywood sporting film starring an A-list star or two, Moneyball isn't your typical sports film. Think Any Given Sunday without the testosterone: very well acted, scripted, shot and peppered with bouts of humour and heart. You don't have to like Baseball or even sport to enjoy Miller's Moneyball. In only his third film, he has steered a total of 4 actors to Oscar nods now which is an impressive feat to say the least. His heartwarming spin on Steven Zailian and Aaron Sorkin's adapted screenplay deserves its place alongside both this year's best pictures and the all-time greats of character based sporting pictures.

Question: how do you craft a stand-alone and worthy prequel to a seminal slice of horror movie-making without cocking it up? The answer: not like this. So well-made and accomplished was John Carpenter's eerie, Hitchcockian classic that a straight remake was and should never be on the cards. If you're going for a prequel then you're still on wafer-thin ice. One wrong move (eg- using the same title) and the cracks start to appear, a few more and it's goodnight Viena.

One or two neat tie-ins to its 1982 source aren't enough to warrant the new Thing's conception. The set-up and scenario are virtually like-for-like yet the taut, tense and claustrophobic tones that ran so rich throughout Carpenter's finest film just don't come to pass in director Mathjis Van Heigimgen's toothless Thing. It may as well have been a remake.

Yes, the SFX are an improvement (of sorts) but it's surprising just how well they still hold up in Carpenter's pre-CGI creature feature. Some of the greatest horror films ever made relied little on the quality and exposure of on-screen gore and ghouls (The Exorcist, Jaws, Alien, The Mist). Heigimgen obviously didn't care for these films. Consider Carpenter's Thing; the fear and impact conjured rests not just on the nail biting, paranoid set-ups but in the mystery surrounding the Thing itself. Where did it come from? What does it want? What the hell is it? And what the exactly happened in that Norwegian camp? These questions, though, need not be answered. But where there's money to be made, there's always room for stale movies that rest on the shoulder's of giants.

Granted, this prelude can be understood and even enjoyed by those with zero knowledge of the original. But for those who know better, this isn't the real thing. The tale takes place in a Norwegian research camp somewhere in Antarctica. It's 1982 and after unearthing an ice bound, shape shifting alien, a group of US scientists start poking it with sticks; it breaks free and reeks havoc. Picking off the camp members one by one on its way to supremacy. Sound familiar?

Gone to an extent, then, is the mystery surrounding the creature and the ravaged camp. This Thing is a daft rendition of Carpenter's sublime Alien in the artic tale whose only glimmer of class lies in its transitional ending credits.

Shelf this one with 2009's Predators and the other pointless retools of recent times. If this is a sign of things to come from prequels to timeless sci-fi treasures then Prometheus (Ridley Scott's highly anticipated prologue to Alien) is going to hurt. But with Scott at the helm and Michael Fassbender on board, there is still hope for a break in this banal trend.

In the Loop is a cynical, laugh-out-loud docudrama-cum-comedy that tackles the "speculative" side of modern politics with piercingly funny and audacious dazzle and dialogue. Writer/director Armando Iannucci satirises and melds both the light and dark components of International relations and humour into an instant transatlantic gem of vivid one-liners and putdowns, characters and camera-work with Peter Capaldi at the cold heart of it all in one of the single most funniest yet frightening character performances I've seen in anything, anywhere, ever.

The film, itself, follows a fictitious assembly of foul-mouthed, sharp-tongued Government and State Department Officials, advisers, Secretaries and enforcers in their behind-the-scenes efforts to either promote or prevent the then impending war in the middle east.

Tom Hollander plays Simon Foster, a nervy yet humane Cabinet Minister who lands himself in a web of turmoil after publicly declaring the possibility of the UK and the US launching a war in the middle-east as "unforeseeable" only to contradict himself the following morning with a hilarious pro-war metaphor on live TV. Enter the PM's obstinate and shady communications chief Malcolm Tucker (Capaldi), an abusive yet hysterical press and political spin doctor who jets Foster and his assistant Toby off to Washington while things in London get smoothed over. In the Loop centres, then, on the aftermath of Foster's comments as both pro and anti war narcissists inside the US State Department treat him as a pawn in their fierce yet farcical tug of war as the "secret" opinion poll for military intervention in the middle-east draws near.

It's basically The Office meets Dr. Strangelove. It's probably the best and most original British comedy to hit the silver screen in years. It's a sublime political satire: a hyper-kinetic, feature-length spin-off of director Iannucci's award winning BBC sit-com (The Thick of It) that has all the energy, look and feel of a 30 minute episode and it's bloody brilliant. Hard to follow in places, perhaps, but more than enough chunks of comedy gold at hand to keep you glued until the plot becomes clear. Still not everyone's cup of tea, granted, but sufficient enough to wet the appetites of those who like (a) their politics, (b) their comedy black and sharp and ( c ) their films fast, smart and relevant to the now.

If truth be told, though, In the Loop is hardly an enlightening experience, it doesn't educate us on the cut throat world of politics- apparently it's corrupt and full of lying, egocentric gits- director Armando Ianucci and his team of talented screenwriters don't say anything we don't already know, then, but when a film's this funny and this good who cares!? Stand-out turns from Capaldi, Hollander and James Gandolofini along with a whole host of smartly scripted, paced and delivered dialogue make for one of the funniest films this country have ever produced. So get In the Loop.

Given the style and flat-out force of first-time writer/director Steve McQueen's Hunger, the urge I felt to turn out an extensive, scene-by- scene discussion was great. Films this well conceived just don't come around often enough yet I have neither the time nor word count to write such a piece, so here's the rub on Mcqueen's debut feature in...well...relative brief: it's a brutal and fragmented prison drama with art-house undertones. A bleak and unflinching true tale with a three-part structure that depicts what took place in Northern Ireland's infamous Maze Prison back in 1981 when…(1) a block of flouting IRA captives staged a shocking blanket and no-wash protest in hope of obtaining POW status, (2) an on-edge prison guard and his colleagues beat and abused the insurgents silly and (3) protest chief Bobby Sands (Michael Fassbender) led a perilous hunger strike.

You may've gathered that the film's title is something of a double entendre, then. But how good is Hunger? The answer is simple; 'very'. In fact, I have no hesitation what so ever in branding it a masterpiece. This is a film that'll knock the breath clean from your lungs. Not because it makes Posh Spice look like a half-ton mum. Not because it makes Shawshank look like Disney Land. But because it's an extraordinarily grim yet breathtakingly brilliant blend of the harsh realities and nightmarish-like cogs in this stain on modern British history. A vision that's realised so vividly by Steve Mcqueen who is so assured, so meticulous yet fearless in both his filmmaking and direction that an array of emotions are invoked throughout the course of his somewhat impartial treatise on human spirit: anger, disgust, pity, shock, doubt, confusion, nausea, sorrow, respect- you name it, you'll feel it.

Hunger isn't what you would call 'easy viewing', then, and it will divide viewers on the grounds of both its subject matter and imagery but so did the likes of…say…The Passion of the Christ, Fight Club, The Exorcist, A Clockwork Orange and Irreversible- all divisive, all effective, all triumphs. So I guess Hunger's just another case of 'cinematic marmite'- Mcqueen leaves little room for a middle ground. You'll either love this one or hate it. I mean, one scene shows a janitor sweeping pee and bleach towards the camera for 2 minutes. Another shows an inmate smearing his own sht into the wall, a third: someone jet- blasting it off. Shall I go on? No? OK, I'll stop, but expect no such mercy from Mcqueen who pulls no punches in his portrayal of both the jailed and the jailers. How true to the facts he is in his depiction may never be known but Hunger still looks and feels excruciatingly real. Almost too real: Mcqueen shoots with unflinching clarity and class. The scene where we're first introduced to Bobby Sands as he's hauled out of his cell for a wash is so viciously lifelike that you can virtually feel the blows inflicted on his body. These kind of scenes really infiltrate the film and are incensed by yet somewhat neutralised in the more drawn out, dream-like sequences. Mcqueen adopts a thorny, staccato like approach to storytelling that finds a kind of bent cohesion in Joe Walker's delicate editing.

It would also appear evident that the first-time director doesn't consider neither an omnipresent score nor a large amount of dialogue necessary. And why should he!? Actions speak louder than words, or so the saying goes, yet some verbal explanation is needed after 40 minutes or so of pure unpleasant imagery and a vindication, of sorts, arrives a bit belated but in some style: a single, 18 minute stationary shot of Sands and a republican Priest (Liam Cunningham) discussing the sense and morality behind the impending hunger strike. This, for me, is the film's as well as Fassbender's crowning moment. It is in this scene that we learn all we really need to know about Sands- the flawed revolutionary and Sands- the man (what follows is one of the single most finales I've ever seen in cinema). Like the rigid Priest, you too have to question Sands' sanity and judgement considering what he and his fellow prisoners have been through. The sheer intensity of their fortitude cannot be ignored, though.

That said, Hunger doesn't really force us into taking sides. It doesn't ask "Hey, who do you think was in the wrong?" No. If there's a question the film throws up it's "in the end, did it really matter!?" Mcqueen doesn't glorify the IRA. He doesn't back Thatcher's Britain nor does he render Bobby Sands a martyr. He simply shows that when an unyielding spirit meets an immovable object, when one man's right meets another man's wrong, when doctrines dissolve into all out war, people will die: lunacy will, in time, prevail and there will be no gain, only casualties.

Hunger is a film of such terrible beauty that you will sometimes struggle to look at and away from. Much has and will continue to be said about Michael Fassbender's intense and unwavering turn as the skeletal Sands but he's no more than a hefty stroke on director Steve McQueen's visionary- grey, green and bleak house canvas. Is it art? If not, it's what art should be. The fact that this is Mcqueen's first film will leave you reeling. You have to see this.

It's hard to watch any Michael Mann film these days without feeling even the slightest of tendencies to measure it against HEAT- Mann's cops- versus-crims epic that stirred, stunned and starred a couple of 'alright' actors called Al Pacino and Robert De Niro. Ask any Mann fan what they consider his best film to be and they'll almost certainly come back with the aforementioned. Ask a stubborn film snob like me and I'll insist on The Insider. Anyway, whoever you ask, whichever Mann film you favour, the above-mentioned movies actually have a lot in common: superbly acted urban allegories with clear eyes about the importance of look, sound and feel. They're also comprised of great scripts, photography, sound, scores, half a dozen lens filters and rather memorable endings.

So, "where does this leave Mann's latest film?" I hear you ask. Well, not only is Public Enemies his finest since the quite brilliant Collateral, but it's reasonably akin to the above-mentioned movies in a variety of ways, especially HEAT. Public Enemies is a relatively well acted, well shot and scored US based action/thriller that's loaded with breathtaking shoot outs: it looks, feels and above all sounds pretty good. What's more, Mann's grafted A-list stars Johnny Depp and Christian Bale onto its set-up, employing vintage yet somewhat bare characterisation techniques to show the similar mind sets and emotions of cops and robbers. Having said that, though, Public Enemies lacks that (for want of a better word) 'zing' that made Mann's finest work just that. To rank his latest film amidst his best would not only be generous, it would be wrong.

Pubic Enemies is an overlong, self assured film that has been drained of all depth and complexity to make room for some fast, profit- reaping commercialism and high concept. Spun from Bryan Burrough's equally titled book, the film tells the true tale of notorious bank robber John Dillinger (Depp), a charismatic, Robin Hood like maverick whose swift and graceful raids made him the number one target of J. Edgar Hoover's newly founded FBI and its chief agent, Melvin Purvis (Bale).

Back in a Depression ridden, 1930's America, Dillinger's name and antics held somewhat of an illustrious place in society. No cop could stop him. No bank could beat him. No jail could hold him. His magnetism and foolhardy prison breaks widened his appeal to almost everyone, from his girlfriend Billie Frechette (a superb Marion Cotillard) to a society who felt no compassion for the banks that had thrust their nation into a Depression. If only Dillinger and his band of crooks were among us now, eh? Anyway, the film is basically a far from extraordinary dramatisation of a particularly 'eventful' year in the life of a love- struck Dillinger with Purvis' bid to catch him acting as an omnipresent plot boost.

Pitting Depp against Bale, Public Enemies certainly harks back to Mann's metro' crime classics HEAT, The Insider and Collateral, yet, it ultimately fails to tap Bale's true potential. If there's any area that the film can be seriously accused of faltering in then it's in the sheer depth of Bale's forgettable supporting character: there isn't any. Depp is excellent, playing a tortured, bent kind of anti villain who, like De Niro's character in HEAT, has a heart, a dream and enough principles to steal the audience's sympathy. Bale is far less convincing, though- trapped inside a shallow, uninspiring role that begs to be explored. He does the best with what he's been given, yes, but I'm afraid the usually reliable Bale has been upstaged for the third film on the bounce by an actor who's just had more to work with. Ledger had the Joker. Worthington had Marcus Wright. And now Depp has Dillinger. I'm not even sure why Bale even went for this role. He's a side character at best. I found Marion Cotillard's character and performance far more interesting. Anyway, enough Bale bashing. Onto the film stuff.

Mann's hands-on approach to filming combined with Elliot Goldenthal virtuoso score and sound mixing are the film's underlying strengths. A modern sheen on 1930's styling is also brought to fruition but Mann and DP Dante Spinotti shoot and frame the locations in such a way that they ultimately fail to boast the same kind of presence the urban spaces did in their previous work. For me, Public Enemies does not reflect Mann's knack for transforming city and landscapes into screen characters. A few overhead shots, tracks or even the odd long shot or two would've been nice. Maybe even a tea-stained, saturated lens filter would've added a little more authenticity, a little more character. It sure did the job in that Francis Ford Copolla gangster film. I forget what it's called. Anyway, I guess I'm nitpicking, but when it comes to Michael Mann, when it comes to one of the most experienced visualists in the business, you expect better. The dark and largely sombre palette employed along with the cold, clear interiors certainly add to a detailed mise-en-scene that works well with a whole host of hand-held coverage but Mann's summer smash stirs in the shadows of his transfixing, urban masterstrokes and emerges a forgettable gangster caper.

Good: At times suspenseful, sometimes sensual and very well scored, Public Enemies is a decent yet unremarkable film riddled with remarkable gunfights. Mann's authorial traits permeate the plot throughout and his droll Cagney homage a la Stephen Graham was a very nice touch, but I guess Public Enemies belongs to Johnny Depp- if anyone.

Bad: The comparisons are there alright, but Public Enemies is no HEAT. Bale's talents all but go to waste inside a second-rate supporting role and the film, itself, is nothing more than a flimsy genre mash-up when weighed against the likes of, say, Scarface, Once upon a time in America, American Gangster and Miller's Crossing.

There's something familiar about Gavin O'Connor's latest film, Warrior. I can't quite put my finger on it. I mean, its a gritty underdog tale about second chances and punching people in a ring for pride, love, cash and redemption. It's also set in and around Philadelphia and features a growling old trainer, sweaty brutes, a training montage and a bunch of rousing scenes that'll send chills down your spine and tears down your cheek. If you're yet to fathom what I'm getting at, Warrior resembles that old 1970's classic Rocky. A truly unforgettable film that very few people still have on their "to see" list yet the unfortunate catalyst to countless amounts of barrel-chested fighting films that were just not worthy of John Avilsen's Oscar winning rock. Bloodsport, Kickboxer, Split Decisions, Fighting, Never Back Down, Best of the Best, the list goes on and on and on. All jokes aside, Warrior should fall into that category with consummate ease. It should be a superficial, clichéd piece of trash. It should be a terrible film. But it isn't. Not by a long shot.

The film tells of three men. Each solitary tale contributing to one story about forgiveness and family. Troubled US Marine Tommy Riordan (Tom Hardy) turns up on his father Paddy Conlon's (Nick Nolte) doorstep after 14 years away. Turns out the old man was something of a woman- beating drunk back before he found God and went sober. Tommy gave up a promising career in professional wrestling to run away from dad with mum in his early teens: nursed her, buried her then joined the core. Now he's back and after decking a top- middleweight contender in the local gym, he has a chance to fight in SPARTA: the biggest mixed-martial-arts (MMA) tournament in history with $5million up for grabs. Tommy needs a trainer. A prick his Dad may've been, but he always was a good trainer.

A few hundred miles down the road is Tommy's older brother Brendan (Joel Edgerton). A physics teacher, husband and father of two who also has a beef with dad. Brendan's also broke and facing foreclosure if he doesn't come up with some big money in the next 3 months. Before he got into teaching, Brendan was an average MMA competitor who failed to make it big and packed it all in to be with his wife and kids. He still does a bit of midnight brawling on the side though. And after an amateur circuit win in a grubby parking-lot tournament, Brendan wants a shot at SPARTA. No points for guessing who he's going to run into.

Predictable Warrior most certainly is. A modern-day Rocky counterpart it very nearly is. Masculine? Yes. Fantastical? Yes. Warrior is almost mythical in stature: a torn-apart family tale that's nothing short of a Greek tragedy. David takes on Goliath, there're nods to Moby Dick, the unbeaten ancient Greek wrestler Theogenes and.....Beethoven?? Oh, and the winner-take- all tournament is called SPARTA. If it wasn't for Ridley Scott and his 1999 classic, Warrior probably would've been called Gladiator.

The reasons why Warrior earns its place amidst the heavyweights of combat orientated pictures like Rocky, Raging Bull,The Champ and The Boxer, though, are threefold: 1) Subplot- the three mens' tragic past and present family tale is a bitter affair rife with pain and emotion that emerges more important than the in-ring rucks and bucks, 2) Fight scenes- they're brutal, breakneck and utterly convincing, 3) Acting- its some of the best you're ever likely to see in a mainstream film. Tom Hardy turns in yet another imposing, multi-layered performance as the muscle-bound, tormented Tommy: a ferocious and vengeful runaway who for all his muscles, tats and ass-whoopings emerges a vulnerable man haunted by those who've done him wrong. Australian born Edgerton is also excellent as the determined and likable underdog Brendan. Both Hardy and Edgerton do themselves proud inside two physically demanding, all- American roles. Nick Nolte, though, is a revelation. His grumbling turn as the guilt-ridden, recovering alcoholic trying to make amends is worthy of a thousand Oscars. Director O'Connor claimed the part was literally written for Nolte who gives a career best performance at the age of 71. One scene with Nolte and Hardy, in particular, will have the hardest of blokes reaching for the Kleenex.

It's not all about feuding families, though. Warrior is the first film to explore the ever- growing sport of MMA with the level of respect and realism it now deserves. Gone are the days of no-holds-barred cock- fighting in cages. MMA is now a disciplined, sanctioned tactical combat sport with seasoned athletes and weight-classes. Some say it could eclipse boxing someday.

Once the final bell has sounded, though, MMA is nothing more than a backdrop to which Warrior is so brilliantly set against. It isn't really about MMA, winning, losing or two men slugging it out for cash and the mantle of world's hardest bastard. Its about pride, honour, redemption, family and love. Rocky-esque? Of course. The final scene in particular will have those same hard nuts reaching for the Kleenex...again. Warrior is worth a watch for the acting alone.

Films about boxing and boxers have been done to death and done again. The likes of Rocky and Raging Bull are the films against which all of their kind have to measure themselves against. That's why its refreshing to see films like The Wrestler, Redbelt and now Warrior step into the ring with something just a little bit different albeit familiar. Believe the hype. This one's a winner.

"You don't need to know the route." states a mysterious figure down a phone while standing in the window of some trashy L.A motel room. "You give me a time and a place, I give you a five minute window. Anything happens in that five minutes and I'm yours. No matter what. Anything happens a minute either side of that and you're on your own. Do you understand?" What follows is a slick yet savvy getaway drive handled by the film's nameless and soon to be iconic hero (Ryan Gosling). This edgy prologue is rounded off by the word "Drive" scrawled across the screen in fluorescent pink to the thumping sound of some electro eighties throwback track. The opening credits role and so begins the coolest film of 2011.

Director Nicolas Winding Refn revs up the romance in this retro metro, neo noire reverie. Drive is an instant cult classic and a career defining film for both Refn and lead man Gosling: measured, memorable and ultra violent. A modern day Taxi Driver with shades of Memento and like a 1970's Scorsese, Winding Refn appears to be a cut above the current crop when it comes to producing compulsive indie pictures with a semi-mainstream lure. In the hands of a lesser director, Drive could've had the facade of a straightforward, pedal to the metal Hollywood action flick. Instead, it has the look, sound and feel of something familiar yet somehow different: the heart and soul of a esoteric European art-house film in the guise of a romantic, idyllic American b-movie. There's a guy, a girl, gangsters, guns, chase scenes, heroes and villains. And Ron Pearlman. And what can only be described as an "epic" soundtrack. "The studios wanted me to use more western, 'radio friendly' music with guys like Kayne West" snarled Refn in a recent BBC interview, "which proves they don't know what the hell they're talking about." Amen.

Make no mistake about it, Refn's unruly rendition of James Sallis' noire novel is his own kind of movie. It's not one for the low-brow, dumbed down Hollywood crowd. Nor the squeamish. He's done it his way. This is a character driven tale of good vs. evil and not necessarily the power of love, but the idea of love. The near inaudible relationship between Gosling's driver and the beautiful Irene (a radiant Carrey Mulligan) is more spiritual than physical. It forms the basis of the plot and is simple enough: Gosling's enigmatic mechanic (who's something of a beast behind the wheel) strikes up a bond with neighbour Irene and her young son Benicio. A surrogate dad appears to be on the cards but then jailbird bio-dad shows up and derails the dream. He owes money and favours to the wrong kind of people. They want him to handle a heist for them. Dad needs a driver. You can see where this is going. The job goes tits up and our driver goes to great and gory lengths to protect his new found loves. Escapism. Fantasy. True Romance. Take your pick.

Drive is a subtle yet savage masterstroke. A pure dream and Refn's most accomplished work to date and surely Gosling's signature role. He is to Drive what Eastwood is to Sergio Leone's Dollar westerns. A deep and ever present anti hero with a badass wardrobe who just has that look about him. He needn't say much. He needn't say anything. But when he does its compelling. Much like the film itself.

Bronson director Refn's recurring urge to explore complex characters with psychotic, ultra violent tendencies to the sound of some killer tunes invite comparisons to not just Scorsese but Tarrantino. Drive is, after all, a cool genre cocktail riddled with crime, revenge, suspense, death and love that's clearly inspired by styles and eras gone by.

Ryan Gosling's measured turn affirms his brewing reputation as one of the most gifted leading actors in modern cinema. Expect more from him. Expect more from Mulligan, Refn and expect to hear a lot more about this absolute gem of a film for many years to come. See it.

First class by name, first class by nature, this explosive chapter in the wilting X-Men film anthology is not just the best of the bunch by an absolute mile, it's also a complete game- changer. Following the abysmal Last Stand, it couldn't get much worse for mutant buffs. Then it did; the awful Wolverine origins tale of rise and maul was a daft and rushed affair rife with flaws and frailties. It was the Batman and Robin of X-Men movies. Back to the drawing board, then; the failing franchise in desperate need of its Batman Begins.

Enter Kick-Ass helmer Matthew Vaughn and co. with a heady and rousing cold-war embroiled script charting the genesis of the original mutant coalition lead by then chums Charles Xavier (James McAvoy) and Erik Lehnsheer (Michael Fassbender). Before they were worn, sworn enemies and answered to Professor X and Magneto, the two forged an elite class of mutants to help bring down a band of baddies hell-bent on sparking World War 3. X-Men: First Class chronicles the events that made the early-day mutants X-Men fans know and love and love to hate while shedding light on some unfamiliar faces like nasty Nazi Sebastian Shaw (a dastardly Kevin Bacon) and the seductive Emma Frost (January Jones).

Featuring a horde of nods and groundwork to what lies ahead in both the comics and films, Vaughn's vision is an action-packed and highly satisfying benchmark in superhero cinema. Yeah, yeah, Chris Nolan's Batman renaissance may be the bee's knees but to class it in the superhero niche with the likes of First Class would be wrong. OK, they're both inspired renewals of mainstream material with top-class acting but ask yourself this; would you see a submarine being plucked from the sea by a magnetic man in a Batman movie? Exactly.

Over-the-top First Class undoubtedly is, then, but that's not to say it's ridiculous in its scope and execution when its context is considered. Set in the sixties and amongst the paranoia surrounding an imminent nuclear war, the film's historical backdrop helps establish an air of fidelity despite being pure baloney. There is plenty viewers can relate and refer to; prejudice, friendship, love, loss, anger, revenge, Nazis, the Cuban missile crisis, war and peace.

The brunt of the film's class lies within its cast, though; both McAvoy and Bacon give exceptional and highly-convincing character performances inside their taut and tailored roles but it's Michael Fassbender who owns all. Complex, tortured and conflicted to the core, who better to take on the vengeful Holocaust refugee than the intense and immense method man. The German born thesp of Irish descent turns in yet another absorbing performance of great concentration and great effort. His measured turns in the likes of Hunger, Fishtank and Inglorious Bastards ensured he earned the praise and respect of film buffs but seldom that of the mainstream. Until now. With this film and this performance, Fassbender can no longer be ignored. He could well be the best thing to happen to big-screen acting since Christian Bale. Expect more from him. It's rare for a film of this ilk be praised for its acting. Without it, the emotional impact and poise of key scenes would be lost. It's the best the action/adventure genre has had to offer since, you've guessed it, The Dark Knight.

X-Men: First Class is a spectacular slice of high-octane, globe-trotting cinema and is nothing short of a revelation that action film fans and X-Men nuts should ready themselves to marvel at; a loud and proud preface with balls and brains to spare. Add to that a chic and pulsating score, a wry Hugh Jackman cameo and the urgent need for a follow-up and you're left with two words. You know what they are; first...class.

A film about a sex addict in NYC sounds like a banal Rom-com starring some A-list heartthrob like Ashton Kutcher or Gerard Butler. Well, Steve Mcqueen's Shame couldn't be further from that stomach-churning premise. The Brit director's sombre morality-play about a sex pest in the city is a bleak and intriguing affair; an unflinching character study about a detached introvert that'll bore many, immerse few. Make no mistake about it, this is one for the independent and art-house purists who appreciate fine film-making and damn good acting.

Shame tells of Brandon, (Michael Fassbender) a self-consumed sex addict whose perverse private life reaches a crossroads when his idle sister Sissy (Carey Mulligan) shows up on his doorstep and begins to meddle and annoy.

In spite of his success, charm and rugged good looks, Brandon is a hard (no pun intended) and isolated man incapable of forging a meaningful relationship with somebody, anybody. The fact Shame is set in Manhattan is far from coincidental; it underscores Brandon's anonymity and loneliness as a person. This is sex and sex addiction like you've never seen on screen before; complex, sobering, shameful and destructive. Sexual healing can go fudge itself.

Once again, the intense and immense Michael Fassbender is highly-convincing inside a very.....difficult role that requires a great deal of patience and restraint and balls for that matter; strolling around on screen with them out, taking a slash and performing an array of explicit sexual scenes can't be easy but where there's method, there's Fassbender. The ever- impressing thesp' does his director proud; going the distance for Mcqueen once more and bagging himself an Oscar nod in the process.

Carey Mulligan is also superb as the suicidal Sissy. Outgoing, dramatic, needy, she's the complete opposite of her big brother but his saviour nonetheless. Her erratic and, at times, spellbinding performance is by far the best of her career thus far.

Then there's Mcqueen; the gifted and fearless director of Hunger whose approach to film making is as bold and as beautiful and as it is challenging and technical. The man loves his prolonged stationary shots and employs them to lingering effect throughout, allowing Fassbender and Mulligan to ad-lib and feel their way through scenes in pursuit of total realism. Mcqueen also opts for what can only be described as a majestic tracking shot in one scene where Brandon flees Sissy's company in the way of a metaphorical run. In only his second feature, Mcqueen achieves a balance between the two main adjectives all directors and authors care about; "unique" and "brilliant". Here, he has a freehold on both of them; the sheer thought and attention to detail behind each and every shot is remarkable. From the potent close-ups of Brandon pressed against a grimy train window to moody, single takes of him doing his business.

Shame is by no means the first film to look at sex addiction in modern cinema. Chuck Palahniuk's novel Choke was adapted into a droll and enjoyable indie satire some 4 years back but it's hard to compare the two. They differ in both genre and approach; Shame being the unprotected half of the two in its honest depiction of two siblings bound by pain and torment. Its climax is a telling and unforgettable one; abrupt, daring and open- hopeless in the eyes of some, uplifting in the eyes of many. Mcqueen and Fassbender's last tango in Manhattan may not be as powerful as their first collaboration, but it certainly doesn't fail to stir or impress. In a word; shameless.

Set against the sun-starved suburbs of northern Adelaide, Snowtown is an unflinching look at the sordid underbelly of Australian life and crime that rejects common sentiment despite delving into a much chartered niche in Australian cinema: the gritty, crime fuelled drama with something to say.

First time writer/director Justin Kurzel's bleak, brutal and bloody nasty rendition of the notorious Adelaide killings is certainly a step up in class from last year's overrated Animal Kingdom and although his work fails to rank amidst seminal Aussie films like Romper Stomper and Chopper, Snowtown is a harrowing, hand-held drama of considerable patience, poise and impact that deserves attention.

Shot on a shoestring budget and based on true events, the film follows 16 year-old Jamie (Lucas Pittaway), a troubled teen who becomes involved with his mum's "welcoming" new lover John Bunting (Daniel Henshall): the hateful head of a self-governing, self-righteous group of neighbourhood watchmen who would go on to commit a string of heinous murders that would shake Australia to its very core.

The similarities to Animal Kingdom, then, are obvious; a mislead, partially moral teen gets caught in a morose web of communal crime and killings. Snowtown has a look, sound, setting and feel akin to its crime-based predecessor yet somehow emerges a far more chilling, absorbing text.

The restrained and multi-layered performance of Lucas Pittaway brings to mind the work and aura of a young Heath Ledger and despite Daniel Henshall's forbidding and intense portrayal of the bearded Bunting, it's Pittaway's turn that steals the show in this grim and fearless affair of the tense and the intense; of hate crime, malevolence and a descent into evil and all out madness.

First degree murder, drug use and poverty aside, a host of challenging themes are also thrust to the fore and shot with unflinching clarity and realism. Paedophilia, rape, sodomy, animal cruelty and sadism all fall under the microscope. One particular scene featuring a stop/start strangulation of a local victim is nigh on impossible to watch. Its also worth noting that a great deal of the facts and details regarding the actual events were omitted from Justin Kurzel's script as they were deemed too distasteful by the Australian Film Council.

Snowtown is a slow-boiling and ultimately shocking experience that'll unnerve even the most robust of film fans. It is an unforgiving film. As bold, real and as harsh as they come. It's not for the feint of heart. Do not expect to be entertained or even excited by this one. That's not its intention. That's not its purpose. This claustrophobic docudrama merely casts a callous eye over an irrefutably dark period in Australia's history that follows the likes of Animal Kingdom and the stirring Martha Marcy May Marlene in its sombre depiction of a young and mislead soul in torment.

Marmite. Garlic. Brussels Sprouts. Don't worry, you're in the right place; this is a film review. Why the hell has it began with a list of disgusting foods- you ask? Well, that's the point. To many, they're actually delicious. Even sprouts. You simply either love 'em or hate 'em which, consequently, brings us to Chronicle. First-time director Josh Trank's low-budget sci-fi spectacle that bolts itself to the vexed Blair Witch-ish notion of "real" documented footage. The reasons to love this kind of style are actually reasons to hate; raw, course and tangible filmmaking that blends truth with trickery. Sucking the viewer into the plot whether they like it or not, spitting them out at the end all shaken and stirred. While some revel in the tremulous, hand-held realism conjured by the cast and crew, others detest; dismissing the concept-cum-gimmick as mere nauseating crap. Example? Cloverfield. Another? Paranormal Activity. One more? Troll Hunter. Chronicle, then, will enthral just as many as it'll appal.

Given the ultimate success of certain hand-held films across a range of genres, it was only a matter of time before someone had a go at a superhero flick in a docudrama disguise. Trank's directorial debut chronicles the events of three high school friends who gain telekinetic-like superpowers after stumbling across a mysterious crystal-like-thing. Soon, though, they find their lives spiralling out of control as the cameraman and would-be baddie of the trio starts to embrace his darker side.

In an era where we're documenting our every thought, mood and action, updating our Facebook status' and flushing all sorts of crap down Youtube, anybody can chronicle their day-to-day life, anybody can make a movie. It also appears that any production company can put up the cash to pretend to make a low-budget, indie film. With its sterile, static twitching camera concept and staggering effects, Chronicle falls somewhere in-between the three. It's a product of its time; an immersive and enjoyable experience blaring with cinematic shock and awe with humour to spare.

The everyman acting of the unknown cast instills enough empathy and flat-out realism to make the super power servings palatable. Chronicle all but makes the unbelievable believable. A rare feat, indeed, in modern-day fantasy film obtained only by the likes of Christopher Nolan and the cream of the discovered footage crop. Yes, teens do play pranks, bend metal and move cars with their minds and take to the skies from time to time. Our main character's subjection to domestic abuse and high-school bullying along with his terminally ill mother and punch-drunk dad brings Chronicle crashing down to earth, though. But not for long. Trank counteracts this dark subtext by ramping up the voltage and the laughs, the fireworks and the fantasy. His Chronicle is ambitious, immersive, subversive and boasts a barnstorming finale redolent of Akira. And like the seminal Anime classic, Chronicle is a revelation. Yes, it requires a certain predilection for found footage filmmaking, but it's hard not to marvel at the enterprise of such a well executed concept.

The fact little effort went into a lofty viral marketing campaign (or any sort of campaign for that matter) means Chronicle won't reap the initial hype and profits obtained by the likes of Cloverfield at the box-office. Which doesn't make much sense given the film's demo-graph. But with its pending DVD/Blu Ray release, sales and idle talk should sky-rocket in Josh Trank's favour. Whatever happens, Chronicle looks set to be a cult hit and possible catalyst to a league of sequels and spin-offs (which may not be a good thing).

Anyway, the last thing I want to do is to encourage you to see a film you may not like, but seldom do you see a mainstream-friendly film this engaging; this pioneering. It's absolutely brilliant and like all great movies, Chronicle is a rousing and fresh fusion of cinematic prowess and high-quality entertainment that breathes new life into a genre. Forget The Hunger Games. This is the new and exciting sci-fi saga we deserve. See it.

A modern-day spin on one of Shakespeare's lesser known plays, Coriolanus is an ambitious and lyrical Greek tragedy that has everything you'd expect from the mind of the Bard; betrayal, revenge, pride, conflict, monologues, dilemmas, death- it's all in there. The only thing missing is a star-crossed lover or two.

Both its star and director, Ralph Fiennes follows past masters Laurence Olivier and Kenneth Branagh onto the breach in this doomy and demanding directorial debut that may signal a new and exciting direction for the steely-eyed actor.

Set in a city on the verge of collapse that resembles Tripoli but calls itself Rome, the film charts the rise and fall of general Coriolanus (Fiennes); a fiery soldier of war-torn Rome who earns his stripes in a bloody battle against an insurgent army lead by Turrus (Gerard Butler). In the aftermath of a brutal bullet storm and knife fight, Coriolanus emerges victorious and is branded the symbol of a new and prosperous empire. It doesn't work out. The decorated vet is more brawn than brains; his strong sense of pride coupled with the dirty work of corrupt bureaucrats and advisors lead to civil unrest and, in turn, a verbal attack by Coriolanus' on the people of Rome which results in his banishment from the city. Bitter, betrayed and hell- bent on revenge, the spitting outlaw seeks refuge and redemption in who else but his sworn enemy, Turrus.

Swapping the frantic razzmatazz of Baz Lurhmann's Romeo and Juliet retool for a far more gritty and paced approach, Fiennes has crafted a brave and bombastic drama that'll probably find its way onto a school curriculum or two before the year is out. And why not. His contemporary vision of a 300+ year old morality play is one awash with thought, feeling, values, complexities, politics and emotion- pure, unadulterated Shakespeare.

Coriolanus is far from the vision of just one man, though. Gladiator screenwriter Josh Lucas lays the necessary footing for Fiennes and Hurt Locker cinematographer Barry Ackroyd to bring the tale to life. Stirling support also comes in the shape of seasoned thesps Brian cox, Vanessa Redgrave, James Nesbitt and....Gerard Butler; all of which are new to big-screen Shakespeare yet convincing nonetheless. Even Butler.

The screen belongs to a raw and rampant Ralph Fiennes, though. More than just a noseless sorcerer, Fiennes is an exceptional actor and, now, promising director whose verbose and gung-ho approach from both behind and in front of the lens makes for a fascinating commitment. "Such is the work of a man". Olivier and Branagh would be proud. Coriolanus will have Shakespeare enthusiasts chomping-at-the-bit, students scrambling for the exits.

In a cinematic world of re-makes, re-imaginings and full-blown copies, it's inevitable to see a movie like The Hunger Games wallow in the limelight and hysteria of mainstream banality and post-Potter hunger simply because it's there. Adapted from Suzanne Collins' trilogy of teen- friendly novels, The Hunger Games looks set to follow in the well-off footsteps of Harry Potter and the soon-to-cease Twilight as the next big-money, low-brow saga for the GCSE bound masses.

This moderately engaging adaptation of Collins' first novel plays like a pre-teen spin on Battle Royale. Director Gary Ross shoots for a futurist-retro sense of uprising, endurance and wonder and in the eyes and minds of 11 year-olds, he's on target. There's plenty to behold, but little to absorb. Despite all efforts, The Hunger Games is starved of a character or scenario to really care about.

A hyped-up, cheesy and dumbed down treatise on human nature, spirit, freedom and TV culture, this is a badly-acted, action-crammed movie built on a much explored prophecy that's been residing in both literature and film for years; a nightmare dystopia in which society is slave to a tyrannical regime. But what do you know; there's a rebellion on the cards. And guess what? It's only lead by an unlikely yet inspiring hero. The Hunger Games is nothing new, then, but hold your horses; pitting 24 kids against one another in a game of death on a top-secret island is an original idea that's sure to evoke sympathy, shock and compassion. Isn't it? Well, maybe, but not if you know your films; not if you've seen Battle Royale.

A bloody slice of social satire with shock and awe to spare, Battle Royale was by no means the first to offer up a glimpse into an oppressive fictional world where people are forced to fight to the death. Sparticus, Running Man and even Gladiator all touched upon on this idea of enslaved cock-fighting for the "greater good" and fun of a bent society.

Suzanne Collins' tale may not be a rip-off of Battle Royale, but it is a blatant source. In director Ross' big screen retooling, The Hunger Games is set in a far from terrifying, post-war America whose totalitarian government get their kicks from a legislation born out of the ashes of World War III; each of the country's 12 districts are to offer up one young girl and boy every year to slog it out on live TV in a last-kid-standing tournament set on a virtual island. This; a sacrificial homage to a nation's thirst for blood and conflict. A punishment for an early, post war rebellion. A tribute to state power; The Hunger Games.

The film follows Katniss (Jennifer Lawrence), a steadfast teen who puts her life on the line when she volunteers to replace her younger sister in the upcoming games. What follows is a predictable tale of heroism and self-sacrifice as Katniss and clunky love interest Peeta (a wooden Josh Hutcherson) are wined, dined, trained and then hurled into a giant lion's den full of determined, blood-thirsty brats who are there to win, to kill. Will Katniss and Peeta fall in love? Will they both make it out alive? If not, will one of them be the victor? Do you care?

The Hunger Games is a self-assured, self-important piece of profit-reaping cinema whose potentially bleak and barbaric set-up cannot be realised through on screen peril, atmosphere, gore and violence due to its mild target audience. Alas, there is a lot of hand-held camera-work and rapid editing to cover up the scuffles, scraps, impact and blood. It doesn't work. Over-hyped and overdone; turns out it doesn't take much to tailor a totalitarian future concept for the modern-day youths; just strip it of all depth, complexity and darkness, throw in some weapons, some fire, a bit of romance and some heartthrobs and you'll be laughing all the way to the bank.

An eerie yet gorgeous tapestry of lingering close-ups; parallels, cuts and slow-motion photography, Lars Von Trier's Antichrist is a gruelling tale of mythical grandeur: a bizarre yet beautiful film chock full of sadism and shagging, Satanic dogma and similes. Most of which, I don't understand. So you'll be pleased to know that I have no intention of harping on about the director's bent meditation on gender, nature, genocide, motherhood, misogyny and astronomy. I find all that stuff interesting, don't get me wrong, but when things get Freudian I'm way out of my league. Therefore, I'll stick to what I know.

Albeit seething with emotion, Antichrist refuses to adhere to some of the general "rules" of the classical Hollywood narrative, meaning it lacks clarity, unity and closure. For example, there're only two characters, both of which remain nameless and have indefinite; pasts, motives and are somewhat difficult to identify with. The film rejects conventional morality. It is a difficult and uncomfortable experience that'll unnerve even the most robust of film fans. So if you like your films light, clear and conservative, stay away. If, however, you're a fan of, say, Nicholas Roeg's Don't Look Now, director David Lynch or you just dig a bit of alternative cinema, then brace yourself for a hugely demanding tableau that film critic Anita Singh of the Sunday Telegraph dubbed "the most shocking film in the history of the Cannes Film Festival." Willem Dafoe plays "he", a therapist and husband to "she" (Charlotte Gainsbourg), the female half of the cast whose line of work we never really learn. After a quite miraculous opening montage that juxtaposes the couple making love with the accidental death of their child, the embedded tale follows the pair as they flee to "Eden", their isolated cabin in the woods, where "he" attempts to aid a severely grief stricken "she" through her bereavement.

Book-ended by a masterfully conceived prologue and epilogue and split into four focal chapters entitled "Grief", "Pain", "Despair" and "The Three Beggars" (don't ask), the film takes on a ghostlike tone from the outset as the boundaries between the real and surreal become blurred. Alas, things get weird, edgy and very, very nasty. The sheer mass and rate of dense motifs and metaphors at hand regarding sex, Freud, the devil and the soul is a little overwhelming. Not to mention the force and intensity of both Dafoe and Gainsbourg's turns in addition to the film's strong, emotional undercurrent.

In spite of large and sustained periods of quite brilliant film-making, Antichrist contains some of the most violent and deplorable images ever committed to celluloid. For the ladies there's self mutilation. For the gents there's…I, I, I can't even say it. Put it this way, it ain't good lads…Anyway, add to the unthinkable gore a whole host of outlandish set-ups, half a dozen scenes of a sexual nature and one or two jolts in tone and you'll be scared silly. Remember- sometimes in cinema, you fear what you don't understand, especially when the camera is an unflinching eye inside the head of a disturbed, Danish poet. Lars Von Trier is an excellent filmmaker, but even his biggest fans will find it hard to swallow this, never mind stomach it.

Dedicated to the memory of legendary soviet filmmaker Andrei Tarkovsky, Antichrist is truly as haunting, delicate and poetic a film as you're ever bound to see. Though shrouded in scenes of unspeakable cruelty, the film eludes to the work of Tarkovsky in a big way: Von Trier's warped Adam and Eve parable is a moody, metaphysical affair cloaked in hypnotic, dreamlike imagery that calls to mind the likes of Mirror, Solaris and the brilliant Stalker. The trancelike photography; sound, score, and editing demonstrate a predilection for atmospheric, art-theatre sensibility. Tarkovsky would have loved it. This, after all, is a film that simply has to be seen to be believed. Not necessarily for its aesthetic grandeur, gore or technique, but for its harrowing portrayal of a soul in torment.

What's it all about? Who cares?! Antichrist is an unusual, atmospheric horror film that's guaranteed to provoke. The performances are honest and strong, the aesthetics are bold, the direction is brilliant and the outcome is something that is ultimately hard to come by these days: authentic film-making.

Jack Harding

20 years or so ago, as the eighties dispersed into nothing more than memory- so to did the acting career of Mickey Rourke. A once glorious, once rugged young talent whose forthrightness got the better of him- landing the once promising, once striking up and comer a place on Hollywood's cold shoulder and a fruitless career in the Boxing ring.

A handful of decent comeback turns aside, Rourke has long been considered a lost and wasted talent who, given the right attitude, could've flourished and seized those early day likings to late greats' James Dean, Paul Newman and Marlon Brando.

Mirrored to an extent, then, is Rourke's chronicle by the character he plays (and how) in 'The Wrestler'- Randy "the Ram" Robinson. A weary, washed-up wrestler. A has-been. A nobody. A nostalgic, runaway father who lives and breathes his in-ring pseudonym. Back in the mid to late eighties, Randy was a star. Now, 20 years on, he's a loner. A mountain reduced to a mound. A champ turned chump. When he's not roaming the rings of the weekend amateur wrestling circuit, he's pumping iron, shooting steroids and hauling ass at the local deli.

All in all, Randy's a nice guy: likable, easy going and even Christ-like but after suffering a serious heart attack, the inevitable bad news is dealt: wrestle again and you could die. Now- Randy has a choice to make: go on living the only life he knows or get moral and stage one last crack at righting his wrongs: patch things up with his daughter and settle down with his favourite stripper.

The role of Randy is perfect, then, for Rourke. Not only does it give the 52 year old a shot at "the" lead many have been aching to see him grapple with for years, but it also allows him the substance and space to churn out the performance of his life. Beneath his unsightly exterior still stirs the wit, charm and dazzling panache that once promised so much. Mickey Rourke is, perhaps, the only actor out there who could approach this hearty part with the means, motives and memories to draw upon so effortlessly. For Rourke, this is a crossroads. A hairpin. A renaissance. A turn that sees the life of a wayward actor congregate with that of a fictional pugilist to summon something heartfelt, bona-fide and pretty dam special.

Directed by the visionary Darren Aronofsky, 'The Wrestler' is a moving and masterfully shot treatise on human nature and endeavour. The acclaimed cult director, whose former triumphs include 1998's cyber-surreal 'π' and 2000's stunning 'Requiem for a Dream', could be described as a dazzling mix of Davids' Lynch and Fincher with a generous pinch of Kubrick thrown in- and yet he is none of them. He's a budding maker of dense psychological dramas that centre on the self-seclusion of characters trapped inside their own bubbles of being.

Although considerably different in terms of visual style to Aronofsky's previous three features, 'The Wrestler' s a quite superb slice of American cinema that displays the 41 year old helmer's resourcefulness and new found maturity as a director. His 'Wrestler' is a smart yet simple tapestry of hand-held shots, moving cameras and tracks. Aronofsky's crafted an instant classic of the independent sphere that deserves attention. 'The Wrestler' is his most authentic film to date: a toned-down, slowed-down character piece with a big, brave heart.

Forget what you think you know about wrestling. This film is far a field from fake and a mere whisker from perfection. It's a morality-play, of sorts, but without the histrionic moralising and feel good summit that sugar coated this sport film to that. Yes, the proverbial blood, sweat and tears are there alright but this isn't a rewarding underdog tale or rags to riches yarn. This is neorealism. This is life: unfair, unfulfilling and un (bloody) reliable. Aronofsky drags cinema back onto the streets and hones in on reality. The nice guys aren't nice, they finish last and the 'heroes' keel over on their way to save the day. Yet, 'The Wrestler' emerges a flat-out winner: an often gritty, sometimes comical affair that fluctuates between the rough and the fine, the tough and the touching.

An unknown yet high-class supporting cast also come to pass- leaving nil to be desired which, ultimately, brings me back to Mickey Rourke who'll no doubt bare the brunt of the film's justifiable ovation. Darren Aronofsky steers his leading man towards a standout turn that could see the born-again thesp' land a fair few gongs this season. An Oscar?.No. I think Sean Penn's got that one sewn up but for such a question to prompt a pause for thought says an awful lot. Rourke is magnificent. Memorable, even, in this able all American gutter film that's going to give this year's best a run for their money.

Skilfully adapted by Peter Morgan from his own hit stage play, Frost/Nixon is an expertly balanced film that sees the playwright's screen tailored script combine memorably with two unfamiliar yet exceptional actors to give us one of the best and most gripping Hollywood dramas in years.

Child actor-cum-director Ron Howard has an Oscar winning flair for historical U.S bio-dramas and Frost/Nixon could well be his masterpiece. Predictable? Perhaps, but without a doubt his most charismatic and intelligent picture to date that uses a truly historical event to comment on current affairs.

If you want a modern-day sense of both the scale and importance of this 1970's political drama, then imagine Richard Hammond set loose on George Bush over a string of televised interviews and wringing out a confession over those wretched weapons of mass destruction. This, in essence, is what happened back in 1977 when chirpy British TV presenter David (Breakfast with) Frost (Michael Sheen) sealed a series of damning face-to-face interviews with fiery ex Prez Richard Nixon (Frank Langella). For three years after being forced from his presidential post over his involvement in the notorious Watergate scandals, Nixon remained silent. Officially pardoned yet publicly despised: unquestioned yet yearning for his chance to set the record "straight" and win back the hearts of the American people. So when fluffy TV funny man Frost comes along with a wad of cash and a team of 'crack investigators', baying for the ex-premier's blood, time and apology, Nixon sees his chance for a public-relations comeback. What follows is a compelling battle of wits and words between a budding TV talent trying to further his career and a shamed politician trying to justify his.

Peppered with actual footage and recordings and staged documentary-like interviews with the side characters, Frost/Nixon offers a dramatised yet authentic looking insight into the events surrounding the now legendary interviews, showing us the mentality, morals and interlocking back stories of both Frost and Nixon in the months and weeks leading up to their final showdown. The result is a dynamic duel to the death. A heavy yet light and ultimately moving affair chock full of high-quality movie moments that chill us to the bone; make us gasp, laugh and sometimes gape. A certain close-up of a rattled and wounded Nixon, eyes welled, head tilted- frozen, is up there with some of the finest and most potent pieces of cinema I've seen all year. It's a telling climax: time seems to stand still, there is complete silence, no words or score are needed- just damn good acting.

Reprising their roles from Morgan's prized play, then, are the quite brilliant Michael Sheen and Frank Langella. The latter, undoubtedly the film's crowning glory. The 71 year old plays the part of Nixon to shocking perfection. Each individual mannerism, tone and tick that set the slouched and slack cheeked politician apart come to quite excellent pass in a performance of great presence and great effort. As the forlorn yet droll Nixon, Langella gives one of the great leading performances of modern movie history but to say he outshines young Michael Sheen would be wrong. The unsung Brit sparkles as the beaming, coming-of-age underdog Frost in a buoyant, breakthrough turn that has to be regarded as a step up from his lifelike portrayal of a certain Tony Blair in Stephen Frear's The Queen. Both Sheen and Langella do more than hold their own against a subtle yet star studied supporting cast comprised by the likes of Kevin Bacon, Rebecca Hall, Oliver Platt and the priceless Sam Rockwell. Frost/Nixon is a very well acted film, a very well made film and, dare I say, a modern Hollywood classic in the making. See it.

Final Verdict: Ron Howard has crafted an inspired, thoroughly engaging political drama of rare value and class, time, place and intelligence. It would've been interesting to see what director Oliver Stone had in mind for a project seemingly destined for him but Howard's charm and knack for getting the best out of his cast comes up trumps in a way few could've foreseen. Langella and Sheen are dynamite. Where were the Oscars/BAFTAS?

Would you cross Clint Eastwood when he's on a mission? Thought Not. The acclaimed screen vet' may've given up his guns for a different kind of shooter in recent years, but don't go thinking a fistful of treasured turns as a director has rendered the man soft. I still wouldn't mess with him. Would you? Thought not. But it's still fun watching a gang of punks doing just that in 'Gran Torino': Eastwood's first crack at leading the pack from both behind and in front of the lens since 'Million Dollar Baby'.

For me, Eastwood's reputation as a director rests not on his Westerns, not on his genre burying classic 'Unforgiven' or his thrillers but on his recent crop of human dramas: 'Mystic River', 'Million Dollar Baby', 'Flags of our Fathers', 'Letters From Iwo Jima', 'Changeling'- Not a bad string of films, I suppose, but what about 'Gran Torino'? Well, Eastwood plays rigid Korean War vet' Walt Kowalski- a grouchy, ominous old git who sets out to reform his gang hounded, east-Asian neighbour, Thao, after the teen's attempt to steal his trophy car (a vintage 1972 Gran Torino) runs afoul.

Drawn against his own will to get with the times and accept the company and race of those around him, Clint's Kowalski soon finds himself pulling back the hammer on his M1 rifle in the way only Clint can to protect his fellow neighbours from the hoods that plague their turf. "Ever noticed how you come across somebody once in a while," he growls, "somebody who you know shouldn't have messed with…that's me!" Lucid shades of dirty Harry Callahan, cut man Frank and a wasted William Munny help paint Clint's obstinate yet august Kowalski, then. That unnerving, doll-like look in his eye still holds up. As does the by-gone icon's forbidding, set-to-be last on-screen turn as the hostile yet righteous martyr. Say what you want about Eastwood's age and overall range as an actor, he 'can' still carry a film.

There'll be no Oscar nods for acting, directing or producing this time around, though. Eastwood's 'Gran Torino' borders grand but it's not that kind of film; it's not 'that' good a film nor does it reach the heights of his previous five. Eastwood doesn't tell us anything we don't already know: the elderly are, by and large, blinkered; they hate kids and immigrants and retirement homes and often cling to their prejudices but, it's never too late to change. Whether you're good, bad or ugly, morality can upend bigotry. Age gaps can be bridged. One man can make a difference. We know all this. We've seen it all before. Yet 'Gran Torino' still makes for a pretty decent film, and watch for that matter.

Final Verdict: An engaging yet flaw flecked fusion of Clint Eastwood's love for the one-man-army action play and the human drama. Not his best, but still more inclined to the good than the bad, or the ugly.