Peter Bradshaw

This is a strange film in some ways. It is watchable and entertaining, but its feelgood trajectory is compromised by what we know of the author.

It’s a strange and riveting moment in pop and political history.

It’s an entertaining spectacle, but really without the novelty of movie-iterations like the more experimental Spider-Verse animations. A more radical reboot is needed.

The sheer creepiness of Trump is what is so striking.

It is a movie with flesh-and-blood intensity.

There’s some funny stuff here in this engagingly silly sports comedy from producer-star Jake Johnson about the world of pickleball, and how this (allegedly) facile pseudo-tennis game for children and old people threatens to infantilise and dumb down the world of tennis itself.

The result is a gigantic, shimmering mirage, a mysterious three-hour vision of crazy episodes that does not yield up wisdom or contentment, but only a grim resolution to continue with the fight, to make sense of ruined lives, to re-enter the scorched battlefield of loss.

What is the point of making a new version of Animal Farm if you are going to subtract the rage, the satire, the passion and the meaning?

This feels like a superfluous piece of monetisable content.

As it stands, Harriman emerges from this film as a talented, self-taught photographer: articulate, fluent and candid about his wealthy and privileged background, which allowed him to witness a certain kind of British overclass racism up close.