Hannah Strong

It’s less about politics and more about the function of art in crisis, yet remains oddly toothless for a film so insistent it’s making some sort of pronouncement.

All McElwee has are the images that Adrian left behind, and in Remake, he has found a way to process them into something profound and powerful that illustrates not a perfect relationship, but certainly the sort of true magic a camera can offer to remind us who we were, and the great beauty in seeing another person through the lens of true unconditional love.

While Samy Burch’s script makes some amusing observations about the fact that only rich people can afford to be artists, it’s a far cry from the knock-out that was her May December screenplay. Dafoe is serviceable, but poor Lee gets the worse of it, a manic pixie litgirl who is only afforded interiority at the end of the story. She does what she can, but the theatre kid energy makes Gloria a consistently grating presence.

Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma defies easy categorisation. It’s a romance, sure, but it’s also a horror film about the agony of contorting oneself in traditional gender and sexuality binaries, and undoubtedly it’s a comedy too, poking fun at the self-seriousness of prescriptive horror analysis and the idea we have to constantly qualify the pop culture that made us with acknowledgements of its flaws.

Perretta makes the leap to film director with impressive ease, his vision confident and compassionate, echoing the work of Shane Meadows in its sensitive but never condescending portrait of childhood from a child’s point of view.

All of Christopher Nolan exists within The Odyssey. All of humanity exists within filmmaking. Yet cinema always finds new ways to tell old stories; this is the great magic of the medium.

At its core it’s a film about the joy of hanging out and creating stuff with your pals – a daffy but delightful ode to delusional dreamers the world over with an admirable commitment to the bit.

It might not be the most raucous or ridiculous send off, but Best and Last feels like the finale that Jackass deserves.

The film director creates the sensation for viewers of being dragged through the various levels of hell across the course of 2.5 turgid hours, riddled with incomprehensible dialogue, baffling accents and some of the most egregious continuity in recent film history.

Emerging blinking into the foyer after Disclosure Day, one isn’t confronted with a sense of wonder or curiosity, but instead of abject confusion at the incoherence of Koepp’s script and lack of technical ambition on Spielberg’s end. Perhaps this is the film’s real truth: never underestimate mankind’s capacity for disappointment.