CharlotteP

You know you're in trouble when you look forward to the scenes that 50 Cent is in. Marvel as two hacks who should be ashamed of themselves collect their paycheques for making little or no effort throughout until Pacino phones in some trademark hysteria and eye-rolling at the end. Gasp as the plot twist which was obvious from the start is revealed to an audience who by this time surely couldn't care less. Cringe as the dodgy sub-plot (she likes it rough) leads to nasty payback. She deserved it, innit. But the audience didn't.

A slight, rather unimpressive story; a sense of puzzlement overcame me every time they sang a song because frankly the songs weren't as great as the viewer was being invited to anticipate.

"I'm floating in the most peculiar way/And the stars look very different today..." An interesting, beautifully executed meditation on time and identity which manages to hold the attention despite its narrow focus due to a hypnotic and compelling performance from Sam Rockwell. There's much to absorb on every level but he pulls off a difficult feat here. Entirely gripping and ultimately moving

Disappointing, outlandish and barely credible, this formless film hinges on an unlikely and morally suspect "Broken Britain" theme, where plucky old men have no choice but to fight back against local toughs in the only language they understand - extreme violence with guns. Emily Mortimer never fails to annoy but here she's also poorly cast as a police detective whose sheer helplessness and apathetic limpness is infuriating. Michael Caine should really know better, but given that he recently endorsed David Cameron, he clearly doesn't. The effect is unremittingly bleak and depressing, without having any redemptive qualities, and certainly without coming across as representing any kind of true vision of Britain. It sounds trivial, but the fundamental procedural mistakes made by Mortimer's character finally torpedo the entire sorry exercise.

I was ill-disposed towards this film almost from the start due to a physical aversion to the jerky camera work which now seems to plague every film of a certain type: spending millions of dollars to make it look as though the action scenes are filmed by a passer-by who's less than familiar with how to use their video camera (jumping up and down, unable to hold the thing still even in a static setting, zooming in and out of focus, on the wrong settings at night, and so on). All totally unnecessary, and guaranteed to induce queasiness almost immediately. Had the film been better, perhaps it wouldn't have mattered; but unfortunately this was an over-simplified, unconvincing and frequently irritating movie which raised many more questions than it answered.

Clint starts off in fine acerbic form as Walt, a malcontented Korean War vet with neighbour problems, but regrettably the film rapidly descends into homily, cliche and downright implausibility. Gasp as Walt discovers his softer side! Chuckle at the chutzpah of the young girl confronting three would-be rapists with wisecracks and her irascible neighbour with cheeky repartee! Marvel as the impossibly baby-faced priest becomes Walt's confidante in a last minute schmaltzy reconciliation between Walt and his long-lost faith! Extra half a star for "Click Clack, Ding Dong and Charlie Chan", though. Funny when he was being mean, saccharine when he wasn't, and impossible to reconcile the two.

How did Casey Affleck get a role for which he was quite clearly unsuited? What was the director thinking? ****. A strangely-accented Affleck Junior is woefully miscast in this slightly clumsy, over-simplified version of the Dennis Lehane novel. Read the novel, if you like that kind of thing. Don't see the movie. One rare true note is struck by Amy Ryan who plays the conflicted, unsympathetic mother perfectly.

Mortensen was mesmerising, so much so I almost forgot the farrago of LOTR. It wasn't the same person. He was effortlessly menacing, yet still human; the plot and all the rest of the actors moved around him in the shadows - except for Armin Mueller Stahl who was (literally) the only genuine Russian. Vincent Cassel gave his usual panto performance. Naomi Watts was weak and couldn't transcend the implausibility she was being asked to cover up for. Everything tailed away somewhat disappointingly after a powerful first half and I was left watching the closing credits wondering what kind of fool I'd just been taken for. But at least I watched the closing credits because I was still thinking about it.

Smart, fast-moving and reasonably entertaining commercial espionage movie which kicks off with an excellent slo-mo fight between Paul Giamatti and Tom Wilkinson. The latter is always a pleasure to watch, unlike Julia Roberts, who is only marginally sympathetic here as a bossy ex-CIA agent turned freelance spy. There's very little chemistry between her and Clive Owen and she looks, weirdly, more like a meerkat than a woman in some scenes. Clive Owen inhabits his role like a favourite shirt and his performance and that of most of the other players keeps things ticking along, which handily redeems a movie that might otherwise have been scuppered by Roberts' peculiarly humourless style.

Excellent performances by Streep, Hoffman and Davis still couldn't lift what emerged as a strangely unsatisfying film which asked more questions than it answered. As an adaptation of a stage play it had that faintly awkward, limited feel of a story that had been shrunk to fit the scenery.

Somewhat promising at the outset but sadly it degenerated rapidly into a completely generic, implausible Hollywood thriller. Carrie Ann Moss as someone's mother? How the mighty are fallen.

Somewhat manipulative but nonetheless quite engrossing film; it's based on such an incredible true story only astonishingly inept direction could have wrecked the premise, but there's plenty of that around, and this was pretty sensitively handled. I still have an involuntary antipathy towards adopted accents and there was a curious disconnect between the Russian which was subtitled (even when spoken by the leads) and the Polish which was rendered in silly, heavily accented English. Daniel Craig was somewhat low key and based on this portrayal it became a matter of surprise that he was regarded as the de facto leader of the partisans. All such films seem to be required by law to feature a mournful violin.

Given that I watched this in less-than-perfect conditions on the plane through piss-poor headphones, the seat in front reclined right in my face, a tiny screen, screaming babies ago-go, and a fat American man snoring loudly next to me, it was surprisingly engaging. The word "steadi-cam" did pop into my head a few times - the street scenes particularly were suspiciously cleanly shot - there were a few unlikely escapes (but wait - I thought she was near death with a girder sticking out of her chest?), and of course the monster was ridiculous even in broad half-seen brushstrokes; but there was a sense of fear and panic in the film that must have been rather difficult to manufacture, and i thought it quite convincingly captured the sheer panic, helplessness and chaos of an uncontrollable disaster situation.

A slight premise (a dysfunctional family unable to be honest with each other are brought together by an ex-con who turns out to be...) which could easily have been wrecked by poor casting is brought to life by excellent, empathetic performances by Andy Garcia and Julianna Margulies. There are a few bum notes (a wince-inducing turn by Emily Mortimer as an ever-so-English aspiring actress and a cringeworthy scene where Garcia over-emotes as an amateur actor under-emoting to win a role) but it's all likeable enough, particularly when they all stop shouting and start listening to each other.

It's a shame that Sam Worthington comes across as so terribly humourless in this movie. Ultimately distinguished from the other warriors only by his incongruous buzz cut and beardless aspect, Sam's Perseus grimaces his way through every scene; his accent (now Australian, now American, now - gasp! - English) was the only unpredictable thing about his performance. Had he appeared to be enjoying himself, perhaps we would have too. As it was, the movie seemed like a randomly strung-together sequence of tenuously related events overseen by Perseus' perpetually frowning visage, culminating in a not-terribly-engaging monster battle.

Risible accents ("I am Beowulf. Come to kill your monstah - Innit"), hamfisted choreography, and neither-fish-nor-fowl between real actor and cartoon character, this patient presented as a film that couldn't decide whether it wanted to be comedy or horror and ended up being neither. Epically boring. Still, it could have been Norse...

Somewhat effective thriller with a gone-to-seed John Cusack carrying the movie pretty much alone aside from a risible walk-on appearance by Samuel L. Jackson. Unusually successful adaptation of a Stephen King short story.

Clive Owen is on smouldering form as a retired gangster reluctantly drawn back to London to find out why his brother died. Slow-paced, but intense, with a low-key but believable finale, a nice performance from a grave-faced and dignified Charlotte Rampling and, unusually, Rhys-Meyers playing to his strengths as the callow brother overcome with humiliation. Arguably Owen has the presence to elevate even the most pedestrian movie into something interesting but there's enough going on amongst the other players to keep the attention throughout.

Unnerving, but slightly irksome and glacially-paced Japanese horror film that didn't quite deliver on its promise. It's a precursor to the glut of similar films that followed it, and might be appreciated more if you have never seen Dark Water, The Grudge, or the Ring, shallow though that sounds; although you can appreciate the artistry you're left bemused.

This reminds me of nothing more than The Singing Detective (the original, although RDJ did coincidentally star in the hamfisted Hollywood remake). A funny, sharp, knowing film which repays repeated viewing.

Robert Duvall is in majestic form as a backwoods recluse with a painful secret in this slight, but engaging film set in 1930s small town America. Bill Murray has a nice turn as a pragmatic funeral director and Lucas Black gleams with clean cut charm as his **** protege. It all ticks along nicely, but somehow leaves the impression of having petered out without leaving much behind it.

Creepy, ethereal and peculiarly moving tale of pre-adolescent revenge, a **** superannuated 12 year old (brilliantly played by a real 12 year old), extreme cold (debuting as an additional character here) and first love. Free of the the burden of superstylisation and the glossy pretensions which have spoiled vampire films since time began, this is, refreshingly, a story as much about love and loneliness as it is about vampires.

Funny, melancholy film with great performances from Gleeson and an unexpectedly excellent Farrell, whose childlike wonder at the sight of a real midget seemed quite genuine. And Bruges looked like a painting which somehow conveys extremes of temperature. Aside from the slightly ersatz note struck by Ralph Fiennes' character (odd casting that: Fiennes is too posh to be a thug), this was an assured and engaging film.

An interesting film which could have been grim but is leavened by unexpected light touches and a powerful central performance by Tahar Rahim as a young, newly incarcerated inmate of the French prison system who has to work out as quickly as possible how to survive in the internecine world of the prison with its hierarchies, loyalties and treachery. The film feels authentic and is neither didactic nor judgmental as it revolves around two or three powerful characters but draws in many more - this is a compelling, multi-layered picture of prison life but also of what awaits in the outside world, speaking of bleak reality while leaving room for individuals' dreams, however misguided.

Relentless, powerful and utterly compelling - without a doubt the best film I've seen all year, this film is Shakespearean in its ambition and in the tragic arc of the story, featuring an incredible performance by first-time actor James Frecheville in the role of a young man dropped into the heart of a criminal family which is about to be torn apart. The characters are beautifully, yet economically drawn; the cinematography is precise, the action evolves with intensity, there's humour and there's despair. Music is used sparingly but effectively, and the key actors' performances are often low key but always true.

The American is a rather slow and ultimately nonsensically plotted movie which promises much (it could have been The Consequences of Love, and was clearly influenced by it) but fails to deliver (the "twist" at the end, instead of being explicatory, instead renders everything that's gone before utterly pointless). Clooney works hard with the slow pacing and it's quite nicely shot, with the benefit of some wonderful scenery, but all you're left with in the end is the taste of disappointment.

Downbeat, laced with mordant wit and dark as can be: a tale of small criminals in a confined environment, family fortunes, and escalating paranoia between father, mother and son. A slow-growing film which is a million miles away from gormless Guy Richie's Brit-trash flicks; the naturalistic acting and dialogue lend it an almost documentary feel and flashes of often absurd humour lift the grimness. It's one of those unusual films that you may have to watch all the way through before you can make a judgment. Watch it all the way through: it's worth it.