Raging Bull

A sporting biopic unlike any other, Martin Scorsese’s astonishing masterpiece Raging Bull (1980) is surely one of the greatest cinematic achievements of all time. Although many rightly claim it to be the greatest sports movie of all time, Raging Bull’s praise should not merely be confined to one genre, as it is unquestionably one of the finest pieces ever committed to film.

Charting the incredible rise and fall of middleweight boxer Jake La Motta Raging Bull remains absolutely unflinching in its depiction of this complex, brutal and ultimately unique individual. From his early years as a young boxer of enormous potential, through his destructive and erratic relationships with his wife and brother/manager, and eventually his latter years as a seedy club owner and stand up comedian, Scorsese provides a painfully honest, yet remarkably beautiful depiction of each and every aspect of La Motta’s professional and personal life.

While it may seem as though heaping superlatives upon a film already assured of such magnitude and critical acclaim as Raging Bull is hardly an original approach to its scrutiny, I find it virtually impossible to find even a single fault in this most perfect of films. Rarely does one encounter a movie in which each of its components are so expertly woven together to create such a perfectly cohesive whole.

Arguably the most obvious of these components is Robert De Niro’s performance of La Motta, as he takes his famous methodical approach to unrivalled extremes. Aside from the well documented commitment De Niro provided with regards to the film’s fight scenes - sparring and training with La so extensively as to supposedly render him good enough to turn pro – the level of intensity brought to the character must rank alongside, in my view, his all time greatest performance as Travis Bickle in Taxi Driver (Martin Scorsese, 1976). His portrayal of La Motta’s decline and psychological disintegration can often be painful to watch; the scene in which we see him in a jail cell weeping whilst punching and slamming his head into a brick wall being one of the film’s most violently powerful moments. 

However, it is not just De Niro that is on fine form; similarly brilliant in his performances is Joe Pesci as Joey, La Motta’s brother and manager. The loving, yet intensely strained relationship between the two is genuinely moving.  For an example of just how good these two are on screen together, one need look no further than the famous confrontation scene in which Jake accuses Joey of having an affair with his wife. With each and every second that passes, the tension becomes more and more unbearable; rivalling the more physically intense fight scenes in terms of sheer emotional conflict. 

Equal to the supreme performances on offer is Scorsese’s breathtaking direction. From the opening slow-mo sequence of La Motta pacing and bouncing around a smoke filled boxing ring, the sense of impending danger is raised immediately to dizzying heights. Scorsese runs with this tone and then amplifies it with each of the film’s explosive fight scenes. The heightened sense of savage realism in these moments make for a viewing experience unrivalled by any other boxing movie; placing the camera and the audience inside the ring rather than outside, creating a tone of claustrophobia and offering no escape from the action taking place.

As proven with their subsequent works together - Goodfellas (1990) and Casino (1995) - when the formidable talents of Scorsese, De Niro and Pesci combine, the results are never short of impeccable. Yet, for me, Raging Bull’s ground-breaking and distinctive approach to an often formulaic genre results in this trio’s greatest success. A genuine work of genius.

Brighton Rock

The British gangster genre is one of which I have never afforded much time. A genre, which, for the most part, has developed an unforgivably lazy attitude towards each and every aspect of filmmaking. Whilst America has generally led the way in regards to gangster movies with obvious classics such as The Godfather trilogy, Goodfellas (Martin Scorsese, 1990) and Casino (Martin Scorsese, 1995) the UK has conjured up Guy Ritchie; a director of such dire ineptitude as to have single-handedly destroyed the genre by steeping his films in a world of pantomime villains and wholly insufferable cockney geezers. Sadly, due to the inexplicable box office success to have met some of these abominations, films of this ilk appear to have set the template for the genre as a whole, leaving masterpieces such as Jonathan Glazer’s Sexy Beast (2000)much maligned and unjustly forgotten. 

On watching John Boulton’s original Brighton Rock (1947) the level of the genre’s decline was made even more apparent. The film follows Pinkie Brown (Richard Attenborough), a 

young gangster running a protection racket at a race course in Brighton. After he and his gang have a rival mobster murdered in a way that looks like suicide, a local woman named Ida (Hermione Baddeley)becomes suspicious and sets out to discover the truth behind the mans death. On meeting a young waitress called Rose (Carol Marsh), Ida realises that the girl may be able to reveal the truth as to what really happened. The ensuing events force Pinkie into an increasingly desperate situation, as he tries to maintain his status and keep the truth from being revealed.

Aside from the thoroughly gripping storyline Brighton Rock displays an exceptional film noir aesthetic and exposition. Far from the present day cartoonish tone of films like Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels (Guy Ritchie, 1998) in which the characters are presented in a misguided fashion of larger than life comedy, Brighton Rock holds its veneer of brooding menace and underlying tension throughout.

This brilliant construction of dark intensity and imminent threat is embodied to perfection by the performance of Richard Attenborough, whose portrayal of Pinkie holds the film together spectacularly. His stern and, occasionally manic demeanour is not only hugely iconic, but also highly intimidating, often staring into space whilst fiercely and randomly wrapping a piece of string around his hands as if he is preparing to strangle someone with it.

The performance of Carol Marsh as Rose is also extremely impressive, providing just the right level of innocence and naivety to the character to keep the audience on her side, even as she continues to protect Pinkie in spite of his terrible crimes.

However, in spite of Brighton Rock’s numerous outstanding attributes, it is still a far from perfect piece. One particular thing which I found frustrating was the occasional moment of erratic nastiness from Pinkie. For instance, when recording a gramophone message as a present to Rose, he inexplicably rants about how he hates her and is only marrying her to secure her silence. Not only is this action extremely stupid and uncharacteristic due to the fact that he is trying so hard to keep his secret under wraps, it is also a completely pointless device to remind the audience that he’s the baddie; a fact that should be pretty obvious to anyone from the moment Attenborough first appears on screen.

Although Brighton Rock may not be quite the masterpiece I had heard and read so much about, it is still immeasurably superior to the vast majority of films belonging to the genre to have been produced in recent years. One can only hope that in the renewed interest generated by Rowan Joffe’s 2011 remake, future directors might just look back to this as their template for the next stage in the development of the British gangster flick.

Despicable Me

In an attempt to establish themselves as genuine rivals to the sublime Pixar Studios, Universal Pictures offers up its debut 3D animation in the form ofDespicable Me, directed by Pierre Coffin and Chris Renaud (2010). With an output of unprecedented consistency and visual resplendence over recent years, it may seem an almost impossible task to take on the work of Pixar without conceding to the inevitable conclusion that no other studio are quite ready to compete at the present time. Just take Toy Story 3 (Lee Unkrich, 2010), Up (Pete Docter and Bob Peterson, 2009) and Wall-E (Andrew Stanton, 2008) as such glowing examples of what Universal are up against. With this in mind, I believe that to make such comparisons with the above-mentioned contemporary classics would be both too easy and unfair on the film in question.

Despicable Me follows the evil Gru, voiced brilliantly by Steve Carell, and his constant and usually failed attempts to become the world’s greatest criminal mastermind. Whilst trying to thwart his arch nemesis, Vector (Jason Segel), Gru adopts three innocent, young orphaned girls, in the hope that they will be able to assist him in his plan to steal a magical shrink-ray gun; therefore allowing him to shrink and steal the moon. What follows is an inevitable, yet thoroughly enjoyable and entertaining journey for Gru, as his love for his newly adopted girls begins to outweigh his desire for criminal notoriety.

One of Despicable Me’s strongest assets are the voice acting on offer. Carell, a name to usually steer me a country mile clear of anything with which he is associated, is absolutely perfect as Gru. His comically evil Russian accent is a superb accompaniment to the lead character’s appearance. Equally outstanding is the vocal acting of Russell Brand as Gru’s long-suffering inventor, Dr Nefario, providing some of the film’s funniest moments merely through the sound of his voice, without falling into the trap of overstating the performance.

The film’s visuals are also beautifully executed, with the darkness of Gru’s mansion being expertly offset to the bold, bright colours of the outside world. The appearance of Gru’s tiny workers, small yellow creatures in dungarees, is also one of Despicable Me’s major visual strengths, adding to the movie’s vibrant aesthetic.

Whilst the storyline is incredibly predictable from start to finish, and many of its comic set pieces highly derivative from a whole host of children’s movies throughout the years, Despicable Me is still a perfectly adequate and thoroughly entertaining family film. Although it may not be quite in the same league as many of Pixar’s latest productions, it is certainly capable of holding its own against most of the other animated family films currently being churned out by the Hollywood CGI production line. 

The Portuguese Nun

As a film that has been met with almost unanimous critical praise, I am still wondering whether it was in fact Eugene Green’s 'A Portuguese Nun'. (2009) that I painfully and, eventually, begrudgingly endured. For this is without question one of the most tedious, long-winded and utterly pretentious films I have put myself through in a very long time.
It focuses on Julie (Leonor Baldaque) a French actress who goes to Portugal to act in a film, in which she will play a nun. Throughout her stay she meets an array of different characters, yet as these encounters come and go, she remains fascinated by a nun whom she regularly sees praying. After eventually meeting the nun she is finally filled with a sense of purpose and meaning in her life.

What, in essence, could make for an interesting piece of character exploration, somehow fails to connect or engage with the viewer in any way whatsoever, descending into a well of unexpurgated monotony. This is mostly due to Green’s agonisingly slow and drawn-out approach to the film. In each and every aspect it is sluggish and lacking in spark or momentum.

Take, for instance, Green’s camera work. Moving at a snail’s pace, the camera tends to dwell for protracted periods of time on the various landscapes in which Julie inhabits. This persistent technique, whilst intended to represent the protagonist’s state of mind and draw the audience further into her world, ultimately produces an effect of slow motion; as though one is being dragged through both the scenery and proceedings.

This technique continues with the scenes of conversation between Julie and the various characters she comes into contact with during her stay. Almost every conversation or moment of interaction is conducted via a series of cuts between still shots of each characters face, very often lingering on Julie’s for so long that every time the camera focuses on her an even further sense of impending boredom is induced.

Camera work aside, it is the air of crass pretention that equally bothered me while watching 'A Portuguese Nun'. The sense of smugness that emanates through the screen is almost palpable. At times I felt as though my patience was being deliberately tested, and that the desire to simply stop watching was a result of my inability to stay engaged with Green’s minimalism rather than at his ineptitude at effective storytelling.

On reflection, I wonder if it is this fear of being regarded as stupid or incapable to engage with such faux art-house nonsense that has led to 'A Portuguese Nun' being so highly regarded by so many critics. I have tried and failed to find any genuine positives or redeeming features and my endeavours have bee completely without success. The only recommendation I can possibly offer anyone still interested in seeing A Portuguese Nun is to steer well clear!

Black Dynamite

Ever since Scary Movie (Keenan Ivory Wayans) was released back in 2000 the art of spoof has taken a brutal and savage mauling. Having set in motion a chain of unspeakably bad, not to mention painfully unfunny follow ups to the original, Wayans also paved the way for the likes of Epic Movie (Jason Friedberg and Aaron Seltzer, 2007), Meet the Spartans (Jason Friedberg and Aaron Seltzer, 2007) and Dance Flick (Damien Dante Wayans, 2009)to name but a hideous few. For this reason, I approached Scott Sanders’s Black Dynamite (2009) with more than just a hint of trepidation.    

Thankfully, to my pleasant surprise, Black Dynamite manages to buck this recent trend by showing just how good spoof comedies can still be. Set in the 1970s and taking its influence from films of the same era such as Shaft (Gordon Parks, 1971) and Black Belt Jones (Robert Clouse, 1974) the story follows Black Dynamite (Michael Jai White), a hilariously tough-talking ladies man, as he sets out to avenge the death of his brother. Armed with both a 44-Magnum and a set of nunchucks, he fights, intimidates and charms his way around town in order to find his brother’s killer. The resulting chain of events makes for one of the most brilliantly silly and sublimely funny spoofs of the decade.

Possessing a tone not too dissimilar from the classic TV show Police Squad, Black Dynamite throws any sense of subtlety aside, favouring a far more direct and farcical approach to its humour. The Kung Fu scenes in particular display the kind of deliberately awful sound dubbing and camera work that one might find in the kind of low-budget ‘blaxploitation’ films of the time, as well as the kind often found in similarly low-budget Kung Fu movies, such as Ninja Terminator (Godfrey Ho,  1985).

Michael Jai White also provides a great deal of the film’s funniest moments, playing the part of Black Dynamite with just the right amount of self-aware absurdity, whilst ensuring that the performance never becomes too broad or brings about any sense of self-parody.  

In fact, this element of perfectly poised expositon in not only the performances, but the movie as a whole, is central to its overall success. Shot in Super 16 Film and backed by a soulful, 70s soundtrack, Black Dynamite both looks and sounds thoroughly authentic, going someway to enhance the ludicrous nature of the comedy.

The script on offer is equally preposterous, providing moments of laugh out loud hilarity; the scene in which Black Dynamite and his gang attempt to decipher ‘code Kansas’, results in one of the film’s funniest routines and comedic payoffs.

In many ways, the key to Black Dynamite’s success is its deference to the spoof techniques employed by many of its unbearably poor and lazily put together contemporaries, as well as Sanders’s decision to carry the piece in a more traditional spoof direction. Through combining such a perfect aesthetic with a plot and screenplay of ridiculously over-the top humour, hopefully, Sanders may just have helped put the spoof genre back on track.

Betrayal

Having just left the year 2010, a year, in which, I believe few would argue had been a particularly impressive year for the world of cinema, it is with a hint of disappointment that I must bring to your attention a DVD release of such crashing and unbridled dross so early on in 2011. The film in question is Haakon Gundersen’s Betrayal (2009), starring none other than Lene Nystrom of 90s pop group ‘Aqua’ fame. 

Set in Nazi occupied Oslo, Betrayal tells the story of a group of Wehrmacht officers and a local club owner, Tor Lindblom (Fridtjov Saheim), as he illegally supplies them with a wide range of industrial and recreational amenities. Unfortunately for Tor, he falls in love with nightclub singer Eva Karlsen (Nystrom), whom, as luck would have it, just so happens to be a British secret agent. When an outside party decides to send in an officer to check these transactions are legal, things take an inevitable turn for the worse. 

For a film of such drivelsome melodrama and desperation in its attempt to be taken seriously, it is a truly remarkable piece of catastrophic casting to place the lead singer of ’Aqua’ as its female lead. Not that her performance is particularly bad, it is just somewhat difficult to get behind the hero of a film swamped in Nazi corruption, who also happens to be ‘Barbie’. However, this is certainly not the primary cause of Betrayal’s vast and numerous shortcomings.

One of the most obvious and notable drawbacks of Betrayal is the absolutely abysmal score; persistently using short, sharp bursts of strings in a fashion, which is not only ineffectual, but massively overstated to the point of tackiness, ultimately ruining any potential for tension or suspense. This is also true of the film’s script, as it slowly and clumsily meanders through scene after scene of clunky, wooden and unconvincing dialogue.  

Similarly, the performances are far too melodramatic; diminishing any traces of realism and making any form of engagement with both characters and plot, virtually impossible. Admittedly, the poor quality of the screenplay doesn’t help matters, yet many of the cast do little to raise the bar.  Take for example Gotz Otto’s performance as SS Major Kruger, the officer with whom Tor conducts most of his dealings. A character of such vile corruption and immorality would surely have benefited from a performance of measured understatement in order to convey the necessary demeanour of menace and danger to the role. Instead, Otto’s portrayal bears more similarities to that of a pantomime baddie than a genuinely loathsome villain.

It is essentially this preposterously unbalanced tone in each and every aspect of the piece that lies at the heart of Betrayal’s failure to capture both the mood of the era, as well as the imagination of the audience. Whilst trying to juggle heavyweight political and ethical issues with ‘Barbie Girl’ and a ‘bad guy’ more akin to Captain Hook than a high ranking Nazi officer, Betrayal manages to stumble and fall over each and every hurdle in its path. With its bizarre combination of elements, the resulting effect is one of a film that hasn’t quite figured out what it wants to be. On the one hand, there is the half-hearted attempt at providing an informative commentary on complex wartime issues; on the other is Gundersen’s stab at creating an espionage/crime thriller. Sadly he doesn’t even come close to achieving either. 

Morgan: A Suitable Case for Treatment

As a film that deals with themes of insanity, jealousy, romance and class division, whilst simultaneously skipping between madcap comedy and tragic love story, it is little wonder that Morgan: A Suitable Case for Treatment (Karel Reisz, 1966) achieves rather mixed results. It details the descent into madness of the already psychologically unstable Morgan (David Warner), as he is forced to deal with the break-up of his marriage to Leonie (Vanessa Redgrave) and her plans to marry her lover Charles Napier (Robert Stephens).   His inability to deal with the reality of his situation forces him into a world of fantasy, whereupon he sees things and people as wild animals in the jungle, viewing himself always as a gorilla. This particular obsession with gorillas increase along with his plight, with the lines of reality and fantasy becoming blurred as he inexplicably mimics the creatures in public to the bemusement of those around him, culminating in an extraordinary finale, which we will come to shortly.

The key issue I had when watching Morgan was its difficulty in creating a definitive identity for itself. With nowhere near enough funny moments to call itself a comedy, nor enough weight behind the spiralling mental condition of its protagonist to be considered a ‘serious’ film, Morgan falls short of reaching either with any real conviction. However, this is not to say that the film fails entirely. There are certainly enough positives on offer to remain pleasantly entertaining throughout, yet it never quite fulfils its potential to be something special.

Morgan’s most obvious asset is that of David Warner and his performance of Morgan. His on-screen charm combined with the understated menace of his portrayal of the young, unhinged artist is genuinely brilliant, providing the vast majority of the film’s comic moments. The delivery of such fantastic lines as: “You know, I believe my mental condition is extremely illegal.” are perfectly pitched between off-the-wall humour and a sense of growing madness. 

Director Karel Reisz’s visual sensibilities also lend themselves well to the piece, creating, at times, an aesthetic of superb originality. The use of cutting-in images of animals in the wild as a means to illustrate Morgan’s ever-increasing detachment from reality, works beautifully. This technique is largely what makes the film’s remarkable climax quite so unique, as we see clips of the original King Kong (Merian C. Cooper and Ernest B. Schoedsack, 1933), in particular the scene in which King Kong saves Ann and fights the dinosaur, interspersed with Morgan watching the wedding reception of Leonie and his love rival Charles, as he imagines himself rescuing her from the monster. The resulting tone is one of wonderfully inventive comedy; a tone which one is left wishing had been more present throughout.

Overall, Morgan: A Suitable Case for Treatment is a perfectly adequate and mildly entertaining piece of British, 1960s filmmaking. While its cult status is assured due to its lack of concern with commercial viability, it is the absence of a suitably disciplined narrative and direction that are ultimately at the heart of the films exclusion from the canon of great British movies from the same era.

Road to Las Vegas

Rarely does a documentary manage to encapsulate its subject matter with the kind of beauty and non-judgemental insight as Jason Massot’s latest film Road to Las Vegas (2010). Spanning four years, it follows the lives of African American couple Vanessa and Maurice Melton and their five children as they leave home and set off on an indefinite road trip to Las Vegas, where, as Vanessa believes she was told in a message from God, the family will prosper and find a better home. With no more than 300 dollars to their name and using their car as a home, Road to Las Vegas provides a superb insight into the many difficulties and personal traumas the family are forced to deal with, in an account that is at times painfully personal, yet conducted with sensitivity and sympathy from Massot throughout.

Unfolding in the style of a traditional road movie Road to Las Vegas depicts the false promise of new beginnings for a family such as the Melton’s, particularly in Las Vegas, where it’s booming tourist industry offers the opportunity of employment and the ideal setting for a family in search of work and a new home. However, on arrival, Maurice realises that things may be somewhat more problematic than first thought. In the first year of the film he initially finds the kind of job offers he was hoping for, only to realise that due to the enormous demand for work, the income rate is ludicrously low. Rather than accept these unfair conditions, the family continue to search for better paid work. Unfortunately for them, their search is met with similar results.

As the film progresses the family’s plight begins to deteriorate with each year. It is revealed that Maurice has an addiction to crack cocaine, forcing him to leave the family and live on the streets, whilst Vanessa begins seeing one of Maurice’s friends. It is moments such as these where Massot’s abilities really come into play. At no point does the documentary take sides during these family troubles or make any kind of judgement, it simply captures, with unflinching detail, the situation of the family, allowing the audience to think for themselves.

At times, Massot’s film also makes for deeply harrowing viewing. One of the most notable examples of this is Maurice’s brother Lloyd’s funeral, in which we see Maurice, usually extremely tough on the surface, in a state of debilitating grief, weeping and sobbing openly at his brother’s coffin. Although scenes such as this may sound intrusive, Massot expertly walks a fine line between invasiveness and insightfulness. For some, these scenes will undoubtedly be unsettling and uncomfortable. However, in my view, they are a necessary part of the documentation of the family’s journey and their losses along the way. Furthermore, in the context of the film, Lloyd’s death does appear to play an integral part in Maurice’s determination to get clean and support his family.

In contrast to the above-mentioned moments of sadness and grief, the film also succeeds in highlighting the love that both Vanessa and Maurice have for their family. Despite their numerous issues, the couple’s love for their children does remain at the heart of the film, as does the children’ s amazing ability to deal with the spiralling troubles directly surrounding them. In many ways, Road to Las Vegas could also be read as a testament to the family’s unremitting love for each other, as well as the grit and determination of Vanessa and Maurice to stay together through such desperate times.

It is this superbly balanced and wonderfully constructed snapshot of four years condensed into ninety minutes, which make for such a brilliantly engaging and informative piece of work.

Blackmail at the Barbican

When considering the many great works of Alfred Hitchcock, the title 'Blackmail' (1929) is, for many, not one that would immediately spring to mind. Far more likely would be those famous household titles, such as 'Rebecca' (1940), 'Psycho' (1960), or 'The Birds' (1963), each having embedded themselves firmly into the fabric of cinematic and popular culture to such an extent that even those who may not have seen these films are well aware of their influence on cinema to this day. Whether this be through the impact of Hitchcock on the world of horror or through countless parodies of his most iconic scenes over the years, people of all ages will be aware of Hitchcock’s most celebrated moments. However, 'Blackmail', a somewhat forgotten gem from Hitchcock’s formative years, seems to have eluded the same degree of fame and commercial attention as those above mentioned movies. A movie which, in my opinion is worthy of equal celebration.

'Blackmail', Hitchcock’s dark and twisted tale of moral ambiguity follows Alice White (Anny Ondra), a woman who murders a rapist in self defence. Her boyfriend, Detective Frank Webber (John Longden) finds what he believes to be the only piece of evidence linking her to the crime. Unfortunately for them, a wanted criminal known as Tracy (Donald Calthrop) is also able to place Alice at the scene of the murder. What ensues is a story of blackmail and ethical complexity culminating in a finale that I will not spoil now for anyone wishing to see the film.

This Halloween I had the great privilege of attending a screening of 'Blackmail' at Barbican Hall. Accompanied by an original score by Neil Brand, performed by the BBC Symphony Orchestra and conducted by Timothy Brock, the results, I am glad to say were absolutely stunning. Brand’s score somehow manages to provide additional tones, textures and layers to the piece, enhancing each of the elements that made 'Blackmail' such a success in the first place. Its moments of impending danger and mystery are rendered all the more chilling by the orchestration of Timothy Brock, with moments of subtle, understated tension offset majestically by moments of sharp, 'Psycho' ‘shower scene’ style power and intensity.

Such moments are typified in the scene of Alice’s rape, with the orchestra raising the overwhelming atmosphere of dread and foreboding. An already disturbing and unsettling scene, the score also brings with it an added depth of sinister tension, as even though the rape takes place behind a curtain and out of the audience’s sight, the sound somehow adds an extra dimension to the piece, causing the minimal on-screen action to feel far more graphic than it actually is. Equally effective is the violent nature of the orchestration framing the following scene in which Alice kills her attacker with a knife. Once again, through the power of the score, the audience is left with a sense of having witnessed more than they really have; such is the visceral nature of the sound in the scene.

The score also creates the effect of dictating the pace of the film, rather than the film dictating the score, a quality particularly evident in the chase sequences between Tracy and the police. As the orchestration builds in tempo, it also maintains that same, constant tone of potential threat around the corner, raising both pace and suspense in equal measure.

Despite 'Blackmail'’s central themes of threat and exploitation, there are also notable moments of humour and romance, both equally underlined by the score’s seamless ability to shift its tone with deft precision. The early scenes of Alice and Frank having drinks together are beautifully accompanied by a light playfulness in the orchestration, therefore bringing a greater sense of danger and tonal contrast to the sequences of rape and murder which are soon to follow.

Above all else, Brand’s score has breathed new life into an already outstanding piece of work. He, along with the combined efforts of Brock and the BBC Symphony Orchestra, has taken each of the film’s signature themes and developed them to an unprecedented degree. At times humourous and sweet, at others threatening and frightening, 'Blackmail', with this score, is surely as powerful and effective as any of Hitchcock’s most acclaimed achievements. A forgotten masterpiece, 'Blackmail' is as vital a part of the Hitchcock back-catalogue as any other, and if you are presented with the opportunity to experience it with this score, I strongly urge you to do so.

Mary and Max

In recent years there has been a rapid decline in the output of clay animation films. This would appear to be due to the huge increase in CGI animation films from Hollywood, such as 'Wall E' (Andrew Stanton,2008), 'Up' (Pete Docter and Bob Peterson, 2009) and 'Toy Story 3' (Lee Unkrich, 2010) to name but a few. The highly polished, glossy sheen of these films seems to have made the homemade, hand-crafted aesthetic of clay animation a thing of the past. Not, that I am criticising the above mentioned films, on the contrary, I am a huge fan of each, all three being shining examples of just how charming and moving, huge budget Hollywood CGI movies can be when placed in the right hands. However, it is still saddening to see such an imbalance of animation styles on our screens these days.

Thankfully, Adam Elliot’s latest clay animation or ‘clayography’ 'Mary and Max' goes someway to redress this balance. A film of astonishing beauty, 'Mary and Max' is undoubtedly one of THE films of the year. Taking place over the course of twenty years and spanning two continents, the film follows the relationship of pen pals Mary, an eight year old child from Australia, and Max, a forty four year old Jewish man living in New York, suffering from Aspergers syndrome. Through this relationship, Elliot explores the film’s central themes of loneliness, mental illness, love and friendship, all with a deft balance of humour, sadness and subtlety.

Firstly, the clay animation is absolutely impeccable. With an aesthetic that is deceptively child-like, one could easily overlook just how painstaking a process the animation in 'Mary and Max' must have been. This is certainly to the animators and director’s credit, as the style is never too showy or distracting from the unfolding story. Instead, it draws its audience in delicately, allowing its tones and shades to assist in setting the mood.

The balance between the child-like tone and the film’s adult central themes is superbly offset by the narration provided by Barry Humphries, lending itself perfectly to the style of the animation, and allowing the story to be told in way that would be equally fitting to a child’s fairy tale. This is also true of the vocal talent provided by Toni Collette and Philip Seymour Hoffman as 'Mary and Max' respectively, with each adding an extra layer of depth to their characterisation.

The combination of each of these elements makes for a truly exceptional piece of work. Although there are moments of heart-wrenching sadness and a lingering sense of melancholic loneliness throughout, there are also enough moments of quirky humour and touching tenderness to render 'Mary and Max', at times both uplifting and heart-warming. The depth and development of each and every character engages with the viewer in a manner, which would usually seem impossible through animation, such is the strength of Elliot’s script.

For me, 'Mary and Max' should be held in the same regard as Tim Burton’s 'The Nightmare Before Christmas' (1993) as a genuine classic of the clay animation genre. As a genre which is growing ever more redundant at the hand of Hollywood studios’ penchant for big budget 3D and CGI animations, gems such as Mary and Max will inevitably become an even rarer commodity in contemporary cinema, which is why EVERYONE should go see this film at least twice! It really is that good.

The American

As an artist known primarily for his work as a music video director and band photographer, Anton Corbijn’s latest project 'The American', starring George Clooney, could well be seen as a drastic departure from his well established roots. His debut feature 'Control' (2007) yielded great critical acclaim, although some may have noted that being a biopic of the late Ian Curtis, this didn’t really show a significant leap from his usual territory. This time out, however, Corbijn certainly appears to have branched out from those familiar surroundings taking on the spy-thriller genre.

'The American' follows the story of Jack/Edward (Clooney), an assassin and expert weapons builder as he embarks on a task to provide a fellow spy, Mathilde, with a weapon for her next kill. Whilst, on duty he befriends Father Benedetto, a local priest played Paolo Bonacelli, and finds himself romantically drawn to a local prostitute called Clara (Violante Placido). These relationships cause Jack/Edward to reconsider his lifestyle as a hired killer and he decides to make this his final job. Somewhat predictably, things don’t quite pan out so easily.

For various reasons, I found 'The American' crushingly disappointing. Being a huge fan of Corbijn’s work I had possibly set my expectations of the film a little high, yet I still believe 'The American' to be one of the most criminally missed opportunities of the year. It is not Corbijn’s visual skills and sensibilities that are at fault here. The film is replete with stunning shots of spectacular landscapes and beautiful expanses of scenery, which both perfectly emphasise the loneliness of the protagonist and the ability of the artist behind the camera. What IS at fault here is the sense of impending and crushing boredom that sets in around 20 minutes into the piece. Quite simply, 'The American' is a film in which nothing happens for approximately 110 minutes. For long periods, you could be forgiven for thinking that you had walked into an extended perfume or clothes commercial, with many a sequence of Clooney, seemingly performing on autopilot, driving and wandering around alone, looking effortlessly cool, but not doing anything! The only thing he really seems to do is have sex with local prostitute Clara, and with her share a small amount of clunky, unconvincing dialogue.

With regards to Corbijn’s directorial style, as mentioned above, he certainly knows how to compose superb shots and utilise his idyllic surroundings to the highest level. What must be questioned though is his lack of discipline or ability to find an even balance between style and narrative exposition. With such exquisite locations in Italy and Sweden at the heart of the film, Corbijn’s instincts as a photographer take over, resulting in far too many lingering shots that would look great in a holiday brochure, but ultimately hinder and slow the pace of the film.

The performances on display are all perfectly adequate, with the cast making the most of the lacklustre screenplay they have to work with. George Clooney does his usual George Clooney thing as well as ever, providing just the right amount of suave sophistication to the role. Most notably, however, is the performance of Paolo Bonacelli as Father Benedetto. Despite his role being relatively minimal, his presence immediately lights up the screen, conveying a much needed sense of charm and humour to the film.

Somewhere in the midst of this enormous catalogue of, admittedly, wonderful images, was the potential for a fantastically stylish spy movie. With a director of undoubted ability at the helm and a protagonist that appears to be custom built for George Clooney, 'The American' could genuinely have been something special. Sadly, in spite of the cast’s attempts there is nowhere near the required amount of characterisation or plot development. This major flaw makes it almost impossible to invest anything in the protagonist or any of the other key characters. Although commendable for his decision to remove himself from his comfort zone, I for one feel that Corbijn’s vast experience and finely honed abilities at shooting in the world of music and performers is where he clearly excels. Whatever he does choose to work on next, let’s just hope its results are closer to that of the majestic 'Control' and not this forgettable flop.

Leap Year (Ano Bisiesto)

If there is to be a more disturbing or divisive film released this year, it will certainly have to go some distance to top Michael Rowe’s minimalist debut feature Leap Year (Año bisiesto). A depiction of intense loneliness and psycho-sexual torture, or experimentation, depending on which side of the fence you lay, Leap Year raises many a difficult question, with regards to its seemingly complex gender politics.

It follows the life of Laura, played with vulnerable perfection by Monica Del Carmen, a lonely freelance journalist who lives alone in a small Mexican apartment. After a series of one night stands she meets and sleeps with Artur, played by Gustavo Sanchez Parra. Their subsequent relationship grows increasingly violent, with Artur apparently forcing Laura into a chain of appalling, aggressive and demeaning sexual acts. Gradually, however, what initially appears to be a case of intense male dominance, it is Laura who then sets about forcing him into acting out even further acts of sexual violence, reaching a finale that I will not reveal for you here.

Initially, Leap Year left me torn as to whether it is a stark, brutal, and unrelenting portrayal of a woman’s lonely existence, played out with superb complexity, or merely an exercise in repugnant, vulgar and gross misogyny. The first half of the film is pitch perfect. Rowe emphasises Laura’s loneliness beautifully, utilising the tiny confines of her apartment to provide an intimate insight into her sadness. He then goes on to further illustrate the intense nature of her desire for a partner, when we see her staring out of her window whilst masturbating, only to reveal that she is looking at couple just sitting together watching TV. Through a number of one night stands, Laura’s spiralling desperation is made all the more evident, as she is constantly rejected as soon as she tries to establish a connection after they have had sex. To this point in the film, Rowe exerts the correct amount of realism and intensity, drawing us with ease into the world of the protagonist.

However, it is upon the arrival of Artur that things begin to unravel. At first, he appears to be just another one night stand, yet he stays with Laura afterwards, showing her the attention she has so constantly craved from each of her previous encounters. He then returns for a second night, in which we see the first indications as to his violent tendencies. With each passing night that they have sex, his brutality becomes, at times, almost impossible to bear. We see scenes of rape, beating and revolting humiliation, in which Artur forces her to masturbate as he urinates on her.

It is sequences such as those mentioned above that initially left me torn as to Rowe’s intentions with Leap Year. Although the acts are irrefutably degrading, it seems that Laura is the one to really be taking pleasure from them, eventually placing her in a position of power, with her making demands of Artur. However, in spite of this, I, on reflection, believe the second half of Leap Year to be a piece of vile misogynist trash. No matter what Laura’s intentions may or may not be, I can find no justification for creating a ridiculously protracted scene of a woman taking pleasure from a man pissing on her. Or, for that matter, having cigarettes put out on her breasts, or being beaten with a belt.

While some may argue that it is the unflinching, torturous moments which are actually at the heart of the film’s deconstruction of Artur’s character, I could find no argument to stand up against the fact that Leap Year serves only as faux intellectual torture porn.

Rebels Without a Clue

With debut feature Rebels Without a Clue, director and writer Ian Vernon attempts to blend elements of so-called gritty social-realism with black humour, in a film that is about as misguided as it’s unfortunate title suggests. The tagline, ‘Teenagers with guns, drugs and a cool car. All they need to do is lose their virginity’, doesn’t exactly fill one with hope. Its tone being one of slight desperation to attract the teenage, Skins generation via a, shall we say, lack of subtlety and an abundance of brash clichés. It tells the story of four teenagers, who inadvertently interrupt a drug deal and find themselves in possession of drugs, money and a Cadillac. Whilst being tracked by an unnamed thug, they decide to head for Spain in an attempt to escape their current, mundane lives in Manchester.

The key problem with Rebels Without a Clue is the unconvincing and occasionally awkward script. In a film that is primarily centred on an ensemble cast of four, the relationships and the dialogue need to be sharp and engaging if they are to draw one in, yet here, often feels forced and heavy-handed. This is most likely due to the in-authenticity of the interaction between the teens. What should be an entertaining insight into the lives and minds of a group of teens, ends up sounding like an ill-advised guess as to how this generation communicate. This is no more evident than in the all too frequent moments in which, without exaggeration, almost every character to appear on screen refers to Mark (Rik Barnett) as “wanker”. If this is an attempt at humour it comes across as, at best, lazy, and at worst, embarrassing, as though throwing in this word every other minute is somehow going to make teenagers laugh. If not, then it may be that Vernon feels that the constant use of swearing adds to the grittiness or the realism. It doesn’t.

Similarly, the cast on offer fails to capture any sense of realism or comedy. With the exception of Lucy Brennan, who plays Kylie, the performances are wooden and uneven to say the least, although, admittedly, they probably weren’t helped by the equally flawed screenplay. The worst offender though, has to be that of Hylton Collins, whose portrayal of the nameless thug chasing the gang really has to be seen to be believed. In a performance that is so cringe-inducingly bad, I am left unsure as to whether it is deliberately intended as part of the humour. Sadly, I don’t think it is. Dressed all in black, with the words ‘love’ and ‘hate’ tattooed across his knuckles, the thug should have at least seemed intimidating if only in a comic book sense. Unfortunately, the performance holds more in common with Keith from TV show The Office than a scary gangster type. You can almost feel the energy being sapped from the screen whenever he appears, which is a fundamental flaw, considering that this is the character who really needs to be setting the pace in his pursuit of the gang.

Rebels Without a Clue suffers mostly by failing to create an identity for itself. Described as a black comedy, it barely raises enough laughs to call itself a comedy, whilst also lacking anything one might even remotely consider to be gritty or realistic. Additionally, the lack of any consistent or cohesive characterisation further adds to the overall imbalanced tone of the film. All too often, one feels as though Vernon assumes that by simply combining swearing teenagers with dangerous elements such as drugs or guns is an immediate recipe for success, while the reality is that merely putting these components together without a genuine purpose is destined to disappoint.

The Last Exorcism

Over the past few years, documentary-style horror movies seem to have become a fairly frequent occurrence, often achieving varying degrees of success. On one hand we’ve seen wonderfully terrifying examples such as ‘Rec’ (2008) and ‘Paranormal Activity’ (2009), each, in my view, worthy of standing up as true classics of the genre. Equally, however, some haven’t quite delivered in the same way; 2008’s ‘Cloverfield’ and 2010’s ‘Rec 2’both highlighting, albeit in different ways, just how easy it is to get things wrong when shooting in this style. In the case of Daniel Stamm’s ‘The Last Exorcism’ we find a film that embodies many of the qualities that make this genre so effective, yet also manages to implode quite spectacularly due to a few misguided steps.

‘The Last Exorcism’ takes the form of a documentary, following preacher and ‘exorcist’ Cotton Marcus, played superbly by Patrick Fabian, as he sets out to show the world the tricks of the exorcist trade and to reveal the fraudulent and exploitative ways of the church. Somewhat predictably, this doesn’t quite go to plan.

Although the plot and exposition of the film are both highly derivative and explicit in their influences, for large sections ‘The Last Exorcism’ works beautifully, slowly building up the tension and creating an atmosphere of suspense in a way that’s comparable to that of ‘Paranormal Activity’; specifically the moments in which the camera is focussed on the bedroom whilst the couple are sleeping. With these moments, the fear manifests itself in the form of anticipation, rather than what is actually happening on-screen. Examples of this technique can be seen as Cotton and his team are following an apparently possessed Nell through the house. As she moves into different rooms and out of the camera’s sight, one can clearly draw comparisons with the style employed in ‘Paranormal Activity’. Similarly, the scene in which she is alone behind her locked bedroom door, yet the sounds of another voice and a baby crying can clearly be heard, also make for extremely unsettling viewing . In sequences such as this, Stamm exemplifies just how scary and powerful horrors of this kind can be, with literally nothing other than the audience’s imagination providing the terror.

The quality of the performances from the key cast members also adds to the scariness, with no one over-acting or trying to compensate for the film’s carefully understated tone. Ashley Bell’s performance as Nell deserves particular praise for its vulnerability and sensitivity, making the moments of her possession all the more frightening. It is this obvious technique of less-is-more, regarding the cast’s performances, that undoubtedly provides ‘The Last Exorcism’ with its creepiest and spookiest moments, allowing the tension to unnerve its audience instead of screaming at you to be scared.

How frustrating it is then, when in the film’s final act, it decides to abandon every element that had worked to this point, in favour of an ending which is so preposterously bad that it essentially destroys all of the groundwork which was laid before. The realism of the single camera style of shooting is hurriedly discarded to make way for a number of cut-away and reaction shots that simply don’t add up or make sense if the action were truly being captured by one camera. Furthermore, the ‘twist’ in the plot really is laughable. I won’t reveal the ending here, for anyone that is thinking of seeing the film should not be put off by its final 10 minutes, yet when you come away from ‘The Last Exorcism’, the prevailing feeling is one of disappointment at what could have been, rather than appreciating just how good a film it was for around eighty minutes. Such a shame, as given a little more thought, ‘The Last Exorcism’ could well have been one of the year’s best horrors.

Interpol, 'Interpol'

Over the past eight years, Interpol, for me at least, have been without question the most important and consistent band currently releasing music. From the very beginning they have possessed an air of majesty and beauty that has became distinctly synonymous with the band, their 2002 debut ‘Turn on the Bright Lights’ being one of, if not THE, defining indie album of the decade. It can not be overstated just how great an achievement ‘Bright Lights’ is, with tracks such as ‘Obstacle 1’ and ‘Stella…’ showing a maturity and deftness of touch that many bands could only dream of capturing in their first outing.

However, when a debut of such quality is released it is inevitable that doubts will be cast over the band’s ability to follow it up with something of equal worth, with so many bands releasing greatly hyped and well received debuts, merely to fall by the wayside on their second offering. This is an obstacle which Interpol have consistently avoided with consummate ease, with both 2004’s ‘Antics’ and 2007’s ‘Our Love to Admire’ each developing on the qualities evident in ‘Bright Lights’ yet displaying a greater leaning towards epic, and at times cinematic atmospherics, culminating in ‘Our Love to Admire’s’ closer ‘The Lighthouse’, a track of haunting melancholy to rival any of Interpol’s previous work.

Understandably then, the three year wait for self-titled album number four has been a painfully long one. Surely Interpol would once again deliver an album to blow anything else from 2010 out of the water. Sadly, it is with a heavy heart I must report that with ‘Interpol’, the band for the first time, has failed to meet the high expectations they so regularly set for themselves with each release. An album of two halves, ‘Interpol’ begins with so much promise, yet around the halfway mark, gradually falls apart.

Album opener ‘Success’ sets the tone superbly, with the kind of grand production and typically introspective lyrics and delivery from Banks that usually mark the opening of each Interpol record. The album continues with similar promise in the form of ‘Summer Well’, a piano-led track which builds toward an infectious chorus. ‘Interpol’ then reaches its peak with two of the band’s finest moments to date. ‘Lights’ grows and swells in manner that echoes ‘The Lighthouse’, becoming even more haunting and spine-tingling with every listen, placing itself as a true masterpiece amongst the Interpol canon. ‘Barricade’ also finds the band hitting their stride, boasting a deceptively catchy guitar hook and a magnificent Banks vocal as it reaches the chorus. In fact, ‘Barricade’ holds many of the components that could have made ‘Interpol’ a far more enjoyable listen, as from this point onwards the album opts for a more subtle, atmospheric direction.

The results are somewhat frustrating, as many of the tracks lack the edge evident in both their previous works and indeed the first half of the album. Although they aren’t bad, they certainly aren’t anything to get too excited about. ‘Safe Without’ tries its best to find a hook or a tangible thread for the listener to grab onto but ultimately ends up sounding just a bit dull. Similar symptoms of tediousness are present in ‘All of the Ways’, trying its best to replicate the mood of ‘The Lighthouse’ but falls well short, feeling laborious and forced at over five minutes.

Although ‘Interpol’ is clearly not quite the album I had hoped for, it still has enough great moments to ensure that old and new fans alike will be satisfied. Its highlights are more than capable of holding their own against classics from Interpol’s near faultless back catalogue, indicating that there is still a wealth of potential for even more to come from this extraordinary band.

Scott Pilgrim vs the World

It appears to be the case that I am somewhat alone in my view of Edgar Wright’s ‘Scott Pilgrim vs The World’. I have just been having a peek at some of the reviews and comments other viewers have made on the IMDB website and have found almost unanimous love and praise for this film. Additionally, it has also been on the receiving end of great critical acclaim and approval. However, I must admit that I found ‘Scott Pilgrim’ to be a distinctly average and overall disappointing piece of work. For many reasons, it fails to capture any of the wonderfully unique qualities which have become inherent in the work of Edgar Wright, of whom I am a big fan.

As a director of such ability and creativity I had hoped for so much more than what is delivered in ‘Scott Pilgrim’. Whereas Wright has always had the sharp wit and precise focus of Simon Pegg’s writing to steer their previous projects forward, ‘Scott Pilgrim’ feels more like an extensive brainstorming session of potentially good ideas, yet lacks any sense of control or direction. With TV show ‘Spaced’ and movies ‘Shaun of the Dead’ and ‘Hot Fuzz’, the pairing of these two consistently made for highly original viewing, with a truly majestic blend of genre splicing and homage, held together by a string of flawless performances and beautifully constructed scripts.

While the film is visually a huge success, with all the hallmarks of Wright’s directorial style evident in it’s scenes of computer game homage and comic book violence, it lacks enormously in humour and substance. The plot, about Scott having to defeat the seven evil exes of his girlfriend, frankly becomes redundant in the hands of Wright, with ‘Scott Pilgrim’ essentially becoming no more than a canvas for him to show off his skills as a visual artist as opposed to a director with the ability to drive a story in the right direction. For instance, the vast majority of the moments of homage and parody appear to serve no purpose whatsoever and are often entirely irrelevant to what’s going on in the film. It is littered with nods to moments from computer games that are at no point mentioned nor make any sense. This is a major flaw, which should be glaringly apparent to anyone who is a fan of Wright’s previous work, in which any element of parody or homage made sense, and more importantly added to the story.

As a result of such loose direction ‘Scott Pilgrim’ also fails to raise many laughs. The few that do exist often arise from a disappointingly under-used Kieran Culkin, whose perfectly understated performance as Wallace, Scott’s gay room-mate, is one of the film’s undoubted highlights. This overall lack of humour and engagement with the audience left me feeling that ‘Scott Pilgrim’ was more of a missed opportunity than a terrible film. Furthermore, with the input of someone such as Simon Pegg, one can only imagine how much better ‘Scott Pilgrim’ could have been. A project such as this could not have been placed in better hands than those of Edgar Wright, yet still it somehow falls way below par.

Klaxons, 'Surfing the Void'

The follow up to 2007’s ‘Myths of the Near Future’ was always going to be a tricky affair for Klaxons. With a ludicrous ‘nu-rave’ tag, which was more the fault of a gimmick-hungry music industry than the band themselves, it seemed a drastic change in sound and style would be necessary if they were to shake off the shackles of their ‘nu-rave’ image and be taken seriously as a band, rather than merely NME poster-boys. While ‘Myths….’ has moments of greatness, it does possess an element of style over substance; their misguided cover of Grace’s ‘It’s Not Over Yet’, among a few other album fillers, already sounding dated well beyond their three years of age.

Thankfully, with long-awaited follow-up ‘Surfing the Void’, Klaxons find themselves drifting closer toward a sound of far greater depth and longevity. Where ‘Myths….’ relied far too heavily on immediate hooks and distinctly 90s synth sounds to grab your attention, ‘Surfing the Void’ displays a significant maturity both musically and structurally. Although there may not be much in the way of obvious singles or instant hits, the way by which each track grows on you serves to draw you in gradually, in a way that ‘Myths….’ severely lacks. Lead single ‘Echoes’ exemplifies this perfectly, with a deceptively catchy chorus that gets better and better with each listen. ‘Flashover’, a track of pounding intensity and dense production, is also an indicator of just how far Klaxons have come over the past three years.

Although for the most part ‘Surfing the Void’ is a major improvement, there are still a few imperfections lingering from its predecessor. The lyrics, for example, at times are beyond stupid. Presumably supposed to sound astronomical and spacey , they end up sounding more like the kind of insincere, sci-fi bollocks one would expect from Matt Bellamy in his recent attempts to destroy music. An example of such lyrical nonsense can be found in ‘Cypherspeed’, in which we are enlightened with the following: “Ride the pandemonium, The hyper confusion, Escape to nowhere, Glimpse no illusion, In the distance, Information, Glimpse the existent.” Rubbish. However, when compared to how good ‘Surfing the Void’ is as a whole, one can surely forgive them the occasional lyrical lapse.

Overall, the Klaxons return is an extremely welcome one. Whilst there was genuine concern that the band may have faded into obscurity in the wake of the ‘nu-rave’ scene, it would now appear that they possess a purpose and substance that wasn’t quite there before. With ‘Surfing the Void’, Klaxons have not only developed a sound of greater density and maturity, but have also suggested that their best is yet to come.

Salt

Having recently watched Phillip Noyce’s ‘Salt’, I’m still at somewhat of a loss as to some of the glowing reviews I’ve read of this ridiculous film. Being described by many as one of the action films of the summer and the first instalment of a potential ‘Bourne-esque’ franchise, ‘Salt’ should at the very least be entertaining. Yet somehow, despite a decent performance from Angelina Jolie in the lead role, ‘Salt’ merely comes across as boring, predictable, and above all else, stupid.

Littered with gaping plot holes and wooden performances from most of the cast, ‘Salt’ feels more like a bad B-movie, which Jolie has accidently stumbled into rather than a major Hollywood blockbuster. The story of evil Russian spies trying to bring down America is both tired and uninteresting, having been done many times before, only with far greater depth and intelligence. The result here is 1 hour and 40 minutes of watching Jolie carrying out an endless sequence of stunts which would have probably been rejected by the makers of ‘Die Hard 4’ on the grounds of being too far-fetched. Rather than developing and unfolding as an espionage/spy thriller in the vein of the ‘Bond’ or ‘Bourne’ films, ‘Salt’ shares far more in its plot exposition with a comic book movie, yet lacking any sense of charm or humour.

In addition to the sheer unoriginality and overall tedious tone, ‘Salt’ is also painfully predictable. The final ‘twist’ is not only obvious from around the 10 minute mark, but by the time it is ‘revealed’ I, along with most of the audience, had completely lost interest, possessing no element of surprise whatsoever. With characters this painstakingly dull and a plot that’s about as engaging and thrilling as an episode of ‘The Bill’, ‘Salt’ fails to deliver any of the essential components that are so essential to a film belonging to this genre.

The fact that Angelina Jolie still feels the need to make these kinds of film is equally disappointing, confirming her status, for me at least, as the most frustrating actress in Hollywood, somehow managing to move back and forth between film’s of genuine greatness and trashy nonsense; for every ‘A Mighty Heart’ there’s a ‘Tomb Raider’, for every ‘The Changeling’ there’s a ‘Mr and Mrs Smith’. Quite simply, an actress of Jolie’s talent and skill should not be wasting her time on rubbish like this, yet it almost seems inevitable that with ‘Salt’ being tipped as Hollywood’s next major franchise, there will be countless more below par action films to tarnish her CV in the coming years.