Devilmath

not reviewed ........................................................................................................................

Once upon a time, there was a film called Dying of the Light. Nicolas Winding Refn was supposed to direct, the script was written by Paul Schrader, and the lead actors should have been Harrison Ford and Channing Tatum. The story revolved around the revenge quest of a terminally ill CIA agent gone rogue, trying to track down a terminally ill terrorist who’d tortured him years before. It looked like a linear, unavoidably cheesy action flick, with a medical race against time to add a bit of zest. Then Ford left due to creative differences, and the project went back to square one. Schrader got promoted to director, and Refn stayed as executive producer. Nicolas Cage was cast, and suddenly Dying of the Light became widely known as “Nicholas Cage’s Dying of the Light”, inspiring more of the tongue-in-cheek comments and contemptuous cold-shouldering that have been chasing the erratic Leaving Las Vegas actor in the recent past. Despite having given top-notch performances for the best part of his career, Cage will be forever remembered as the guy shouting “Not the bees!” in the infamous scene from The Wicker Man (2006); a blunder the Internet will never forgive him. Schrader, too, had his share of highs and lows. Famous for writing Scorsese’s Taxi Driver and Raging Bull, he is also known for more recent and less noteworthy directorial experiences, including The Canyons (starring Lindsay Lohan), and a prequel of The Exorcist you don’t want to watch. Up until then, Dying of the Light had been no bed of roses, but still had the potential to be a decent film. Anton Yelchin (Star Trek) completed the cast, horror-fan Gabriel Kosuth joined as cinematographer, and shooting started. The real troubles began when Schrader submitted the first cut to the studio. Wordy notes from the producers started coming in, asking for changes and new cuts, pointing out that the film was much different from what they’d initially greenlit. According to Schrader, however, he was simply locked out of the editing process and “never asked back”. The pitiful catfight carried on, with the producers trying to play down their hijacking, and Refn (still attached as executive producer) openly siding with the director and talking of “artistic disrespect”. To escalate the drama, Schrader posted on his Facebook page a picture of himself, Cage, Yelchin and Refn wearing black printed T-shirts with their contract’s non-disparagement clause. His comment was: “The non-disparagement clause in an artist's contract gives the owners of the film the right to sue the artist should the owner deem anything the artist has said about the film to be 'derogatory'. I have no comment on the film or others connected with the picture”. I think what we have here is the workbook definition of “PR disaster”. After a minuscule theatre release, Dying of the Light is now available on VOD and DVD. It might go without saying, but it’s far from satisfying. Cage’s character is an incoherent caricature, his acting and lines are all over the place; Yelchin too is completely implausible as a CIA operative, and the plot is far-fetched, mostly rattled off in ad-hoc character dialogues. The pace is thoroughly inconsistent and the third act is idiotically cut, with the climax scene repeated twice for no other purpose than showing a laughable action sequence with cap guns. How curious; who would have thought that the studio wouldn’t be able to make a better film than its director, after unilaterally taking control in post-production? An eye-opening consideration came from Kosuth’s comment in a Variety article: “I'm trying to understand why would someone deliberately ruin such a visual expression. Just because it's possible? Why would someone damage something achieved with unknown effort and sleepless nights? Just because there are people today who cannot take a human activity called artistic creation seriously?”. If anything, Dying of the Light will live as another meaningful chapter in the “cinema gone wrong” series.

Alex Garland’s directorial career couldn’t start any better. The English writer, mostly known for being the mind behind Danny Boyle’s cult 28 Days Later and Sunshine (but also Never Let Me Go and Dredd), makes his debut behind the camera with a tense and intense sci-fi thriller. Ex Machina is a remarkably solid feature, one of the best of the genre in recent past. It embodies very well all of Garland’s distinctive touches; if you are familiar with his work, its horror notes shouldn’t come as a surprise. Apart from the obvious thematic reference to Spielberg’s A.I. Artificial Intelligence, Ex Machina echoes titles such as Moon, or even Blade Runner and The Matrix. Without being as groundbreaking or action-packed as the Wachowski siblings’ 1999 feature, Garland’s film will raise substantial existentialist issues, and keep you entertained until the very last shot. The plot revolves around a new robot built by billionaire and tech guru Nathan, played by Oscar Isaac. Invited to participate in the world-changing event is Caleb (Domhnall Gleeson), a young coder tasked with administering the Turing Test to the machine. Named after computer pioneer Alan Turing, the test is commonly used to evaluate a machine’s ability to “appear” human, by presenting it with a set of questions; the machine passes the test when it displays a behaviour intelligent enough to trick the examiner into believing they’re talking with a human being. Complicating Caleb’s task are Nathan’s magalomaniac tendencies, and his highly claustrophobic bunker-like mansion. What’s more, Caleb’s sessions with Ava (Alicia Vikander), the robot, prove that Nathan’s gone a great length to create an extremely well-functioning and self-aware artificial intelligence. In fact, he might have gone a little too far. Ex Machina eludes very well the typical constraints of low-budget sci-fi features: from the credible “high-tech research facility” setting to the special effects used for Ava’s android body, the film has nothing to envy to the much more lavish features it may compete against in the pre-Oscar season. When the rhythm slows down, especially during the most technical (and philosophical) conversations between the two leads, all of Garland’s bravura and incisive writing stand out, making the sequences flow smoothly. Although the tension is consistently high, Ex Machina would benefit from a stronger “think outside the box” approach, avoiding those few rulebook plot twists that may seem anticlimactic. Garland’s choice of making the story more linear is debatable but still effective, and the cast is the icing on the cake. Gleeson and Vikander are both convincing in their roles, but it’s Oscar Isaac who steals the show with his impersonation of evil genius and drunkard (not to mention lunatic and recluse, almost Colonel Kurtz-like) Nathan. After his outstanding performance in last year’s Inside Llewyn Davis, there is no more denying his talent; maybe his upcoming roles in A Most Violent Year, Star Wars 7 and X-Men: Apocalypse will finally grant him the official recognition he deserves. Ex Machina is another step in the right direction.

Director Brian Miller is not exactly a guarantee of quality. Since 2010, he mainly directed straight-to-DVD titles that struggle to reach a mere 5 out of 10 on their Imdb page: action flicks with a half-baked plot and risible acting, often featuring fallen-from-grace stars and shoddy special effects - arguably the equivalent of old style B-movies. Nothing suggests that they will ever gain the same cult-like following as the films that inspired Quentin Tarantino; most of the time, they take themselves way too seriously to be enjoyable trash culture, and end up becoming sheer nothingness, forgotten in the discounted DVD basket at the supermarket. The Prince, however, features the likes of Jason Patric (you might – or might not – remember him from Speed 2), John Cusack and Bruce Willis. It could have been a turning point in Miller’s career; instead, as expected, it’s just another unsuccessful attempt. After his daughter Beth (Gia Mantegna) stops answering his calls while away at university, Chicago car mechanic Paul (Patric) decides to go on a quest to find her. His search leads him to Angela (Jessica Lowndes), one of his daughter’s friends, who reveals that Beth is less of an angel than her daddy thought. After meddling with drugs and bad company one time too many, she might have been kidnapped and taken to New Orleans. Paul’s resolution to find his beloved darling will bring him face to face with scary drug lords and their thugs, but it won’t take long to understand that he’s not just a mechanic: he has a very particular set of skills that make him a nightmare for the bad guys. You know how this thing plays. The more Paul’s true personality comes to light, the more we learn about his past and his connection with mysterious criminal Omar, played by Bruce Willis. Completing the cast are John Cusack as Paul’s old pal Sam, Korean musician Rain as Omar’s lethal (and slightly awkward) assistant, and 50 Cent as drug lord The Pharmacy. Despite being set in the colourful New Orleans, The Prince was shot in a flat in unimpressive Mobile, Alabama. The film follows the lead of Taken (which is becoming one of the most influential action features of the last ten years), but it plays like a sloppy western-inspired gangster thriller. There’s also some seriously lousy acting, mainly from Lowndes, who doesn’t have great material to work with in the first place. In a particularly embarrassing exchange, Paul tells her he knows a place where they can crash for the night. “On a scale from one to ten, ten being the Sistine Chapel and one being a steamy pile of **** how nice are we talking?”, she asks. Paul says it’s probably a three, to which she replies: “That’s like two steps away from **** Bruce Willis, too, seems particularly uninspired and not fully comfortable with his role. He’s also the only actor who doesn’t appear in the special content’s interviews; it might be his notorious reluctance to market films, or maybe he’s already trying to distance himself from his part, another low point in his recent career. The same applies to Cusack, who certainly didn’t need another flop after his lucky star left him over ten years ago. The Prince might not end up in the scrap heap, after all. It could even become a small classic: “the film that put another nail in the coffin of two of Hollywood’s brightest careers”.

After Song for Marion in 2012 and Labour Day in 2013, this year’s May Fair Hotel Gala enriched the London Film Festival with another bold, inspired feature: Wild. The film is based on Cheryl Strayed’s “Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail”, a memoir of her 1,100-mile hike on the Pacific Crest Trail, and a best seller that topped many book club favourite lists in 2012, including The New York Times’ and Oprah’s. By the time the book was published, Pacific Standard (actress Reese Witherspoon’s recently created film company) had optioned it for film rights. With Witherspoon already cast as lead actress, English legend Nick Hornby writing the screenplay and Dallas Buyers Club’s Jean-Marc Vallée signed as director, Wild had all it needed to be a very interesting feature. The film starts with young, attractive Cheryl renting a room in a motel by the Mojave Desert. As we watch her prepare her backpack and get ready to leave, we understand that the story is cutting straight to the point, and her journey is starting immediately. We soon realise that Cheryl is an amateur, and has no hiking experience; however, she has a very specific reason for taking on this adventure, and we don’t yet know what it is. Her journey is everything but an easy one: all daily errands, from mounting the tent to cooking freeze-dried food, are a struggle; the desert is hot and desolated, nights are scary, and her backpack is insanely heavy. Ten minutes into her hike, Cheryl is already thinking about quitting, but her motivation is too strong to just give up; when the first flashback of her past life begins, we have the proof that there’s much more at stake than a simple walk in the woods. Each of Cheryl’s life events was a step in the direction of the Pacific Trail. Her journey is a discovery process, and a chance to reflect and reconnect with what really matters; a challenge to herself, rather than a struggle with nature. Wild is beautifully shot and daring, but doesn’t delve quite as deeply as we would expect from a character-driven film. Flashbacks and diary entries enlighten us on Cheryl’s past life and struggles, and gradually clarify her motivations. These segments run at the correct pace, and blend in naturally with the flow of the story; they satisfy our curiosity and define Cheryl’s character, but they don’t bring the plot forward. Meanwhile, Cheryl’s journey continues; the hike presents her with a series of threats, not always real, but invariably quick to disappear. Wild animals, creepy encounters and equipment failures are setbacks that enrich the journey only partially. At times, the hiking storyline feels like a frustrating interruption in the stream of flashbacks, raising the doubt on which of the two films is more interesting to watch. Despite all, Wild does a good job of leading us to sympathise with Cheryl. We wouldn’t want to be in her shoes, but we wish we had at least a fraction of her inspiration.

When British student Meredith Kercher was found murdered in her flat in Italy, back in 2007, it didn’t took long for local journalists to set aside ethics and sobriety in order to quickly build the usual, shameless media hype. Feeding the audience’s growing thirst for morbid details, tabloids and TV programmes jumped on the story head first; they speculated, distorted and exaggerated every piece of news, selling what was left of their souls to the gods of TV ratings. The crime, investigation, first suspects and subsequent trial flooded the newscasts, becoming an omnipresent and over-analysed topic – the Italian equivalent of Madeleine McCann’s disappearance in the UK. It didn’t take long before the media’s approach to the case became a talking point as relevant as the crime itself. Not even when American student Amanda Knox was found guilty of the killing (with her accomplice, then-boyfriend Raffaele Sollecito) did the attention diminish, as the Italian judicial system allows different chances of appeal; as of today, the trial is still ongoing, and no one has been definitively convicted (Knox was eventually acquitted in 2011 and allowed to fly back to the U.S., but was found guilty again in 2014). Almost ten years later, British director Michael Winterbottom (9 Songs, The Road to Guantanamo) reexamines Kercher’s killing in hindsight in his new, dark thriller The Face Of An Angel. His vehicle for the event reconstruction is Thomas (Daniel Brühl), a London-based film director with an erratic career, whose upcoming project focuses on the case. Brühl is not new to a film based on news stories: just over one year ago, he starred along Benedict Cumberbatch in The Fifth Estate. Much unlike the poorly received flick about Julian Assange, The Face Of An Angel has some actual connections with the real events (although names and locations have been changed). But more than this, it tries until the very last shot to reach beyond the formulaic j’accuse against the media circus; in a frantic quest for originality, Winterbottom uses his personality and skills to take the viewer on a journey inside the aberrations of the human mind. Thomas’s journey is riddled with nightmarish atmospheres and inexplicable visions: the more time he spends in Italy, the more he loses his track. His research on the case soon blends with his personal life issues, fears and insecurities, in a whirlwind of madness and self-destruction. Three main characters help him with his project: Kate Beckinsale as Simone, a journalist who followed the case from the very beginning; Valerio Mastandrea (one of Italy’s finest actors) as Edoardo, a bizarre local who seems too interested in the case not to have a hidden agenda; and Cara Delevingne in her debut performance as Melanie, another English student who becomes Thomas’s buddy in the investigation. Much like Thomas’s inner struggle, The Face Of An Angel loses its thread more and more. As the the plot moves forward, the Kercher case fades to the background, giving space to a direct critique of the journalists’ reckless attitude towards crime news. The story takes a horrorish twist when Winterbottom introduces Mastandrea’s character, and the focus shifts further away. Halfway into the film, it becomes strikingly clear that the director has bitten off more that he can chew; the audience’s perplexity and dissatisfaction mirror the confusion in Thomas’s head. Maybe it’s Winterbottom’s precise choice to make us reflect on the bigger picture and forget the whodunnit. The result, however, is hit-and-miss: The Face Of An Angel is a would-be poignant drama, burdened by odd, idiosyncratic characters, and too feeble to fully buy into.

It’s widely known that The Drop marks James Gandolfini’s final appearance in a film. The late Sopranos star passed away more than one year ago, leaving a huge void in the acting universe. His talent is yet again celebrated in this dark tale of mobsters, omertà, violence and last chances of redemption. The Drop is adapted from a short story by novelist Dennis Lehane, who also wrote the screenplay; similarities with Lehane’s previous novels (“Mystic River”, “Gone Baby Gone”, “Shutter Island”) are easy to spot, and shouldn’t come as a surprise. With Michael Roskam signed as director after his Oscar nominated debut Bullhead, and Tom Hardy, Noomi Rapace and Matthias Schoenaerts completing the cast, The Drop is a very promising concentrate of talent. Lehane’s original story, “Animal Rescue”, takes place in Boston, but the producers decided to move The Drop to a less hackneyed location. They eventually settled on Brooklyn, instructing cinematographer Nicolas Karakatsanis to create a “Martin Scorsese meets Frank Capra feeling”. The result is a small-town, traditional, albeit often shoddy-looking environment; the perfect place for Bob (Hardy) and Marv’s (Gandolfini) bar. Bob is the silent bartender and his cousin Marv is the old-style administrator; they run the business for the Chechen mob, who often uses the bar as a “drop”, a hideout and collection point for bookies’ money. When two masked thugs break in after closing time, and rob the cousins at gunpoint, Marv speaks everyone’s mind by asking “do you know whose money you are taking?”. The events unfold in what seems to be a linear, almost predictable pattern, until Bob finds an abandoned puppy outside of Nadia’s (Rapace) house, and the two of them decide to adopt it. This is when things take an unanticipable turn for the worst. Since opening at the Toronto International Film Festival in September, The Drop has premiered around the world, eventually landing at the 2014 London Film Festival; it’s one of the most relevant titles listed in this edition, and one of the most anticipated features of the year. A lot of the attention is probably due to the presence of Gandolfini, who performs admirably as Marv: the old-timer who regrets having sold the bar off to foreign mobsters, a pathetic wretch whose glory has faded out. Tom Hardy, on the other hand, is even more compelling as Bob, the shifty loner. He seems completely harmlessat first sight, but deep down he’s very dangerous, and Hardy manages to convey his personality while keeping an emotionless façade at the same time. Gandolfini and Hardy support each other in an almost effortless act, and give a bold, distinguished tone to the film. Whereas the plot is sometimes flimsy, possibly due to the limits of adapting a short story, The Drop stands succesfully as a deep, engaging and entertaining piece of cinema.

While Difret might not be one of the frontrunners in the First Feature Competition at the London Film Festival, it still deserves a good deal of attention. The film premiered at Sundance in January, where it won the Audience Award, and has featured in many important festivals since (Berlin, San Francisco, Seattle, Sydeny, Jerusalem, Locarno, Rio de Janeiro, Vancouver, Mumbai). Its principal theme is “telefa”, the practice of abduction into marriage. One of the oldest Ethiopian traditions, “telefa” is believed to affect over 40% of the country’s adolescent girls, and although illegal since 1957, it was pardoned if the abductor agreed to marry the victim. “Telefa” was made completely illegal only after the case in 1996 of Hirut Assefa, a teenager charged with murder when she killed in self-defense her abductor and rapist. Director Zeresenay Mehari had the idea to make a film on the issue when he met women rights advocate and Hirut’s lawyer Meaza Ashenafi. The economic crisis and several funding issues delayed production for many years, but eventually the film gained the credit it deserved, receiving a boost in popularity when Angelina Jolie signed on as excecutive producer at the beginning of 2014. Difret has a very naturalistic style when portraying characters, landscapes and everyday life. Ethiopia’s traditions are as old as the beautiful land in the countyside, where self sufficient farmers live in huts, have no household appliances whatsoever, and have to decide between their kids’ education or an extra help in the fields. On her way back from school, Hirut is kidnapped and then ****; when she eventually manages to escape and kill her assailant, she is arrested and charged with murder. The political, social and judicial consequences of the case are explained effectively by Mehari, who tells the story from Ashenafi’s point of view. The lawyer perfectly embodies the strong, self-sufficient woman figure that Ethiopia needs to face and defeat its bigotry. That is not to say that Difret is free from flaws, mostly ascribable to poor writing and editing: subplots are vague, the action is anticlimactic, too many supporting characters appear as nothing but empty shells. Although there’s plenty of room of improvement, Difret stands as a success in the social and cinematic history of Ethiopia.

The Cut is directed by Fatih Akin, best known for Soul Kitchen and a segment of New York, I Love You. The German writer, actor and director, born from a Turkish family, sets up a dramatic plot that begins in Mardin, a town in the late Ottoman Empire. Nazaret Manoogian is a Christian family man and a blacksmith, who will soon face one of the greatest tragedies of the 20th century: the Armenian Genocide. As he is abducted from his family to be used as expendable workforce in the Ottoman forced-labour camps, Nazaret’s struggle for survival becomes a fight against destiny, longing for revenge. Set in Turkey, Lebanon and the USA, The Cut follows the epic journey of Nazaret in his quest to get his family back. Written by director Akin and Scorsese favourite Mardik Martin, returning to screenwriting after more than 30 years, The Cut displays a commendable spirit of reconciliation: it’s the first time in film history that a Turkish (Akin) and an Armenian (Martin) screenwriter collaborate on a feature about the Armenian genocide. The film works very well when sticking to historical facts, still considered taboo by many, including the current Turkish government. Although its concrete consequences are never fully addressed, the genocide is graphic and appalling; a strong, visually successful cinematic statement, dominating the first forty-five minutes. Unfortunately, the film staggers for the remaining two thirds, which roughly equate to well over one hour. The editing hardly manages to guarantee an engaging enough pace, and the film drags on, creating repetitive action and stretching the character’s arch. Despite too many wrong ideas that eventually don’t pay off, The Cut is still a meaningful film, well worth considering if you like the genre, and an important entry in the London Film Festival’s Journey category.

During summer 2009, a troupe from satirical Comedy Central program The Daily Show travelled to Iran to shot a farcical reportage of the upcoming elections. The story featured Iranian Canadian journalist Maziar Bahari, jokingly answering silly questions from a comedian pretending to be an American spy. A few days later, after the show aired the taped segment, the Iranian government arrested and imprisoned Bahari. The journalist was charged with 11 counts of espionage, accused of “working for four different intelligence agencies: the CIA, Mossad, MI6 and Newsweek”. Bahari was held in prison for 118 days; physically and pshychologically tortured, threatened, forced to confess his supposed wrongdoings on TV, and eventually realeased only when international pressure became overwhelming. In 2013 Jon Stewart, The Daily Show’s executive producer and host, decided to write and direct Rosewater, inspired by Bahari’s imprisonment memoir “Then They Came for Me”. First presented at the Telluride and Toronto film festivals, Rosewater immediately distinguishes itself for its relevance to current events and its unusual style and perspective. The film, already famous for marking Stewart’s cinematic debut, was also the Gala title of the “Debate” selection at this year’s London Film Festival. Starring Spanish Gael García Bernal as Bahari, Rosewater begins with the journalist’s arrival in Iran, following him all through his imprisonment, and finally his release and return to London. Bahari’s job as reporter for the BBC takes him on a journey across Teheran, as explained in a solid and rich first act. The sequences showing the upright political activism of Iranian communities, the showdown between Ahmadinejad and Mir-Hossein Mousavi, and the civil unrest after Ahmadinejad’s victory declaration are all very touching, and Stewart manages to illustrate them flawlessly. When Bahari reaches the prison, though, the film suddenly loses all its charm. The farcical tone that Stewart tries hard to maintain throughout the story is probably his biggest mistake. It’s easy and liberating to laugh at the incoherences of the government’s oppression, especially when its perverse authoritarianism is conveyed through its out-of-touch pretentiousness and clownish bigotry. When slapstick comedy and funny jokes happen during brutal interrogation scenes, though, the film clearly shows all its weakness and Stewart’s lack of judgment. Jon Stewart proves to be a confident director, to a certain extent better than many other newcomers; most of them, however, probably don’t have as many resources at their disposal. Despite some interesting directorial ideas, Stewart’s screenwriting needs major rethinking. There’s too much forced and amateurish will to sound smart, and too few occasions where Rosewater comes across as a convincing feature. Even if we overlook the debatable awkwardness of an American film questioning Middle-Eastern freedom of expression, and pass over the schlocky, outdated gimmick of having Iranians speaking to each other in English with a foreign accent, we are still left with a muddled and anticlimactic film. What really drags Rosewater down is the inadequacy of the second act: the conflict between prisoner and jailer lacks depth and suspense, especially considering that the outcome (the liberation and survival of Bahari) is well known; Stewart’s expedients, both humorous and dramatic, fail to maintain an engaging enough pace. Regardless of its quality, Rosewater still deserves praise for its irreverent vein, and the idea of making fun of what most terrifies us. For his future projects, Stewart might want to reconsider his pre-production choices, while definitely keeping up the same passion and will to challenge himself.

Unexpectedly, Monsters: Dark Continent was one of the most disappointing titles presented at the London Film Festival last October. It follows brilliant British sci-fi flick Monsters (2010), directed by then newcomer Gareth Edwards (who went on to direct Godzilla in 2014 and is already working on a Star Wars spin-off due in 2016), and it’s the perfect example of an unnecessary sequel; its level of failure reminds of flops like Jurassic Park 3, Basic Instinct 2 and Speed 2. Considering that Edwards had a 500.000$ budget for Monsters, and all CGI effects were made with his laptop, some criticism for lack of action in the film was inevitable. To please the audience, Dark Continent stages the main plot in the Middle East. The evergreen conflict between the U.S. army and generic Arab insurgents gives director Tom Green the chance to show off badass soldiers, air-strikes, gunfights with automatic weapons, dying people and the likes. Unfortunately, Green doesn’t strike as a particularly gifted action director; using the shaky-cam everytime someone fires a bullet is a trick we’ve seen a hundred times too many. Almost nothing remains of the strong character introspections and dynamics, and the thought-provoking (albeit subtle) alien presence seen in Edwards’ original feature. Ten years after Andrew and Samantha’s journey through the “infected” Mexican area, the aliens have spread to the sandy Middle Eastern countries, where the U.S. are engaged in combat with the locals. As more soldiers are being drafted to face the increasing menaces, Frankie (Joe Dempsie), Michael (Sam Keeley), and their bromantic macho friends decide to leave the squalid suburbs of Detroit, and give purpose to their lives by joining the army. Their experience in the theatre of war is shocking and painfully eye-opening; the threatening presence of huge tentacular monsters (constantly bombed by American jets) adds to the level of danger and violence in the area. Set for a desperate rescue mission, the group of friends, led by war-junkie official Noah Frater (Johnny Harris), finally realises that Detroit wasn’t too bad after all. The plot unfolds in the most predictable way; if you’ve seen Battle Los Angeles (2011) or Black Hawk Down (2001), expect nothing different (apart from the heard of roaring aliens in the background). You might find some amusement in placing bets on who will die next, but that only works if you can actually tell the characters apart. Unlike Monsters, Dark Continent completely misses out on the opportunity for a revealing moment of redemption. Gareth Edwards’ film was a progressive metaphor of the immigration issue between Mexico and the U.S.A., with a militarised wall built alongside the border to keep the aliens from trespassing. The moral was that the so-called monsters were no different from us human beings: they needed enough resources to survive, and only attacked other creatures if attacked first (on a second thought, they are clearly better than us human beings). How timely and mature would it have been for Dark Continent to adapt this metaphor to the difficult relationship between the U.S. and the Arab world! It could have been a great message of peace, showing that the Middle East is not inhabitated by monsters but by fellow human beings. Sadly, the film never even touches the subject, preferring to rely exclusively on its warmongering mumbo-jumbo, undefined characters, pointless aliens, unbearable soundtrack and prosaic story.

After winning the Best Screenplay award at the Cannes Film Festival, and being chosen as Russia's official submission for the Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film, Leviathan added yet another trophy to its showcase a few days ago. As BFI Fellow and President of the Official Competition Jeremy Thomas announced, the London Film Festival’s jury chose this Russian drama as winner of this year’s competition, commending its “grandeur and themes [which] moved all of us in the same way”. Another successful feature for Andrey Zvyaginstev, whose Elena already won the Special Jury Prize at Cannes in 2011. After premiering at many other important festivals (Telluride, Toronto, Vancouver), Leviathan is released in the UK by Curzon Cinemas without much clamour or hype. The cinematic season reaches its peak at this time of the year; as Christmas blockbusters and Oscar-hunting auteurs begin to seize screening rooms and star on every bus side and billboard, this ambitious but overlooked film will have a hard time getting the attention it deserves. And yet, despite not striking immediately as a crowd pleaser, this is more than just a film for sophisticated critics: it’s a deep and tragic reflection on human nature that everyone should consider watching. Set in a Russian coastal town, Leviathan kicks off as a tense and dark political thriller. Nikolay (Aleksey Serebryakov) and his girlfriend Lilya (Elena Lyadova) live with Nikolay’s teenage son Roma; their stability is threatened by the greediness of corrupt mayor Vadim (Roman Madianov), who wants to build a conference centre on Nikolay’s land. The clash between the two ends up in court, where judges inevitably defend the vested interests of the powers that be. But Nikolay’s lawyer, handsome Muscovite Dmitri (Vladimir Vdovichenkov), has an ace up his sleeve: a secret dossier on Vadim. Will that be enough to make the shady politician desist? The preparation of the blackmail is one of the most unusual and satirically nipping sequences, not only in this film, but in the history of movie blackmails. Before finally taking the compromising documents to Vadim’s personal office, Dmitri goes all around town to try and press charges against the politician; the series of dismissive rejections or excuses he hears from various functionaries is a remorseless blow to Russia’s apparatus and enduring submission to power. When Leviathan hits its peak of tension, the thriller progressively fades out to let the human drama grow. This destabilising trick might put off those who expect a climactic series of plot twists, but it’s necessary to accurately portray the unfolding of events and their impact on everyone involved. The relationship between Nikolay and Lilya, their friends, and Dmitri is very soon put to the test by the real-life repercussions of Nikolay and Dmitri’s insubordination. Their favourite pasttime, drinking, suddenly turns from comical to woeful; their camaraderie ****, not only by Vadim’s hand, but also because of their human inadequacies. Although you’ll be hard-pressed to find a bleaker film this year, Leviathan’s social and human critique can’t be mistaken for simple nihilism. In one of its most vivid and symbolic scenes, Nikolay’s son Roma sits by the coast, worn out by his family’s unsurmountable decline; next to him lies the huge skeleton of a sea creature, a reference to the biblical and mythological leviathan that God shows to Job to prove the inscrutability of the divine plan. In Roma’s case, the higher power is much more earthly and unforgiving.

Pamela Smart is widely known for being convicted of conspiring and being accomplice to the murder of her husband Gregg Smart. Her trial, completed in 1991, was the first ever to be publicly televised in the U.S. Captivated challenges its outcome, giving voice to the actors in the controversy: director Jeremiah Zagar interviews Pamela Smart, the prosecutors in the investigation, the TV reporter that provided full live coverage of the trial, book authors, and many more people involved in the case. The film also features a great deal of video footage from the televised trial, TV shows and films loosely based on the event, as well as the original unreleased audio recording of Juror #13: a woman who secretly recorded her thoughts during the trial, one of the few voices of skepticism and rationality who questions the system rather than just accepting its absurdity. While watching the film we realise, with increasing horror and astonishment, that the media circus built around the investigation is growing out of control, and those involved are losing track of what really matters. Everything starts with the murder of a man, but what everyone cares about is getting a chance to tell the story in front of the camera. Captivated is particularly effective (and amusing) when it lets the old protagonists speak; when trying to debunk and reconstruct the official truth it works less smoothly, especially because the risk of not practising what it preaches, and falling prey to sensationalism and partiality, is always high. The finished product is strongly engaging, though, and delivers a clear message about issues that are all but outdated.

The Great Invisible will particularly resonate with UK audiences, as it recounts the explosion of British Petroleum’s Deepwater Horizon oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico, triggering the worst petrol spill in American history. Director Margaret Brown’s investigation encompasses everyone affected by the tragedy: from the eleven Deepwater Horizon workers who died during the explosion, to the ones who survived, forever marked with deep pshychological and physical scars. The film also reports on the effect that the spill had on various cities on the coast. The destruction of the ecosystem and sealife that sustained thousands of families caused many job losses across the region; nevertheless, we see top oil businessmen gather to pat each other on the backs, complimenting on the increasing profits at their yearly conference in Houston. Brown constantly shifts the focus between different but complementary aspects: the working class people in Alabama, struggling to obtain the compensation they were promised; former Deepwater Horizon workers providing first hand details about the disaster; oil industry representatives, smoking cigars and reassuring each other that fuel fossils are still the way to go; BP’s disastrous handling of the situation, and its political and judicial implications. The result is a logical, informative, radical documentary that will make your blood boil, and rightfully so.

After surprising Venice with The Tracker in 2002, and winning the Cannes Special Jury Prize with the universally acclaimed Ten Canoes in 2006, Rolf de Heer adds yet another stunning title to his filmography about Aboriginal Australian culture. Charlie’s Country is mainly a celebration of de Heer’s long time friend and Aboriginal icon David Gulpilil, who also won the Best Actor prize in Cannes for his interpretation. Since Walkabout (1971), Gulpilil has never stopped surprising with his strong performances, naturalism and authenticity; his charisma and a life of great highs and miserable lows made him the symbol ****, and brought Aboriginality into the mainstream of the screen arts. Charlie’s Country tells the story of an Aboriginal man, Charlie (Gulpilil), who lives in a community in the Northern Territories of Australia. His constant fight against the white society’s prejudice and neglect fuels his desire to go back to the swamp where he was born, and live in the old way. De Heer has no remorse in exposing the government’s ignorant and preposterous approach to this social issue, and deals with Charlie’s personal conflict in a very sympathetic yet objective way. Charlie’s Country is an insight on Charlie’s problems with alcoholism, his inadaptability to modern society, and the unsolvable struggle between surviving in the artificial security of government controlled communities, and enjoying freedom in the wild and unforgiving Australian forest.

Fishing Without Nets was announced as Cutter Hodierne’s response to Captain Phillips, the drama by Paul Greengrass that premiered at last year’s London Film Festival. The two films have a very similar subject: a pirate story set in modern Somali waters. Whereas Greengrass’s feature was a high-tension thriller, told from the point of view of the American cargo being hijacked, Fishing Without Nets switches the perspective, having the pirates as protagonists. Released officially in the U.S. at the beginning of October, Hodierne’s first feature has struggled to convince audiences and critics, and feels more like a missed opportunity. Fishing Without Nets might not star celebrities of Tom Hanks’s caliber, but all its actors portray their characters very convincingly, especially lead actor Abdikani Muktar. His character, Abdi, is a Somali fisherman who joins a local group of pirates to support his family. The struggle between his will to keep his traditional, honest job, and the lure of making easy money with the pirates is a perfect example of the social fatalism that distinguishes the film. Fishing Without Nets reiterates the assumption that most men are forced into piracy, but it doesn’t dwell enough on the social or cultural causes of this phenomenon; all the focus is on the hijack, the struggle for power between the pirates, their disorganisation and inability to deal with things bigger than them. Although the plot significantly differs from Captain Phillips, and is certainly not as compelling or suspenseful, Fishing Without Nets mirrors the American drama quite efficiently; however, it lacks in contextualisation,and oversimplifies its most important and high-potential aspect.

Camp X-Ray is the first feature from Peter Sattler, who takes on writing and directing after many years as graphic designer for several notable films (Walk The Line, The Game Plan, Star Trek, Take Me Home Tonight). Entirely set in Guantanamo, the U.S. prison in Cuba, the story revolves around the unusual relationship between Cole, a rookie guard played by Kristen Stewart, and Ali, a suspected terrorist played by A Separation’s star Payman Maadi. Cold and indifferent, Cole doesn’t immediately get on well with Ali, who bothers her from the very beginning. Their quarrel over the presence of a Harry Potter book in the prison’s library is an original (although quite lenghty) device to introduce the two characters and set the premises for their relationship; it is also one of the few striking sequences in the film. Despite Sattler’s meticulous and researched approach to creating a plausible and realistic prison, Guantanamo is nothing but a setting for the conflict between the two main characters. This choice creates two issues that drastically impair the film. The first issue regards the oddity of dealing with highly controversial Guantanamo Bay with a detached point of view. The U.S. prison is the elephant in the room that Sattler chooses to ignore; by his own admission, he didn’t want to alienate half of the audience by taking a position pro or against it. The film fails to address the very context it’s set in, creating a forced, unsatisfactory void. The second issue concerns the casting. Whereas Maadi is a flexible and engaging actor, Kristen Stewart hasn’t yet fully matured since her Twilight years. Much of the dissatisfaction left by the film is due to her credibility as lead actress, especially in the main storyline and her exchanges with Ali, but also in the subplot involving her army superiors. For a film that bets so much on characters, Camp X-Ray hits the mark only partially.

I wasn’t even 10 when the first Dumb & Dumber was released in 1994. Twenty years ago, Jim Carrey was the hero ****: he was Ace Ventura and The Mask, and every kid at school imitated his catchphrases at every occasion. We still didn’t know about the awful films that would come in the following couple of years (before he found his redemption with The Truman Show), and leave an indelible mark on his career. His co-star was Jeff Daniels, who also appeared in Speed, but didn’t have a fraction of Carrey’s fame. Daniels reportedly agreed to get involved in Dumb & Dumber for $50,000 (while Carrey’s salary was around $7 million, nearly half of the whole film’s budget), just because he was keen to star in a comedy. By pairing Carrey (Lloyd) and Daniels (Harry), and having them perform a bunch of idiotic stunts, the then newcomers Bobby and Peter Farrelly created one of the most iconic slapstick comedies of the ‘90s, and achieved an incredible financial success. I’m not sure I would find it as funny now, but it still is significantly better than its simple-minded and slack sequel, Dumb and Dumber To. Many things have changed since 1994: Bobby and Peter directed a dozen more films with increasingly worse results, The Three Stooges (2012) and their segments in the much hated Movie 43 (2013) being perfect examples of their worst failures. Jim Carrey alternated various comedies with dramatic performances, often with good results (Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and Man on The Moon to name but a few). Jeff Daniels, on the other hand, starred in a series of consistently mediocre features, as a quick glance at his Rotten Tomatoes page will prove. Regardless of the wrong choices he made in the past, his appearance in Looper (2012), and the Emmy he just won for his role in acclaimed TV series The Newsroom, show that he’s a solid actor with a lot of potential. When the news of Dumb and Dumber To’s release spread, millions of eyebrows raised in incredulity. Why on Earth would Carrey and Daniels go back to those ridiculous roles? They had too much to lose to risk being dragged back into potentially career-wrecking parts. This sequel attracted little favour from the very beginning; it will be interesting to see the box office results, but nothing will change the fact that, bias aside, Dumb and Dumber To is the huge disappointment everyone feared it would be. This is mostly due to Bobby and Peter Farrelly’s inability to understand the way comedy evolved in the last twenty years – although I feel that most of the film’s gags would have still fallen flat in the ‘90s. The story follows Dumb and Dumber’s road adventure formula: Lloyd and Harry must bring the proverbial MacGuffin from A to B, while chased by a deadly gang of criminals. People falling on the floor, fart jokes and qui-pro-quo gags follow at will in a tiring, uninspired and unoriginal fashion; even plot points and complementary characters are dumbed down, as if Lloyd and Harry themselves had written the screenplay on a lazy afternoon. Is this ingenious meta-cinema, or plain ineptitude? Despite their comic verve, Carrey and Daniels aren’t remotely as funny as they were 20 years ago. Seeing these two 50-year-olds grab their asses and laugh hysterically creates a sense of unease, even when their jokes actually manage to crack a laugh. Dumb and Dumber To reflects a sad trend of the recent past: directors and studios exploiting old successes to create (often unneccessary) sequels or prequels. Old ideas, however, don’t always work when merely reproposed without a serious creative process behind them. Fans of the original films are learning it the hard way; let’s hope directors and actors (but especially producers) understand it soon too.

What differentiates a trashy, loudly violent action film from an entertaining, genuine guilty pleasure? If there’s a line, The Equalizer walks on it like an acrobat on a tightrope. Antoine Fuqua’s most recent work establishes itself as a crowd-pleaser, leaving spectators in awe, but every fluctuation between nonsense and coherency creates uneasiness and raises eyebrows. One might think: I hope this guy knows what he’s doing. Fuqua’s previous feature, Olympus Has Fallen (2013), felt like that too: an action packed thriller, forgoing all plot consistency, continuity and common sense for the sake of staging uncontrollable mayhem inside the White House. Since his deservedly acclaimed Training Day (2001), the American director has seemingly found it difficult to keep up with expectations. He has, nonetheless, always had good eye for action scenes, managing to build remarkable and gripping sequences. Much like some of his past works (King Arthur and Brooklyn’s Finest to name but a few), The Equalizer suffers the pains of lacklustre direction. The tasteless use of alarm clock shots to set temporal continuity, or the abundance of dull and redundant digressions, are only a couple of examples. Nevertheless, the film also offers great action, riveting exchanges, and a likeable, cathartic anti-hero. Denzel Washington is Robert McCall, our anti-hero, the guy we’d all want in our neighbourhood watch. He tries to lead a normal life, but his past is quite ambiguous, as two minor characters conveniently point out at the very beginning of the film. We’re never quite sure what he used to do for a living, but we soon find out that he’s good at killing people. To compensate for his brute instincts, Robert has developed a form of OCD that forces him to put everything right. He obsessively checks the time, follows a strict routine, aligns surfaces, equalizes things. Self control, though, only lasts until a ruthless syndicate attacks his friend Teri, forcing him to put his skills back to use. Everyone on Robert’s path to justice (better called revenge) then becomes cannon fodder, in a bloody chase between him and the pitiless mobsters. If you go see The Equalizer because you like the idea of good ol’ Denzel decimating the bad guys, you will be served, but don’t expect much more than that. There’s little substance beyond the already-held idea of righting all wrongs. There’s very little passion (let alone depth) in the canonical moral messages, clumsily delivered in the banal form of literary quotes. Chloe Grace Moretz and Marton Csokas do a decent job of playing Teri and Russian hired gun Teddy, but Washington outshines both, carrying the whole film on his shoulders with the usual talent. His character comes from an old TV series of the ‘80s, although die-hard fans claim that similarities end there. Washington’s Robert McCall is a half avenger half psychotic hitman, mixing Taken’s Liam Neeson and Unbreakable’s Bruce Willis. He has no real dramatic depth, but we still like him because we like to see the bad guys get beaten up. Whereas Training Day is all about discovering Washington’s Detective Alonzo Harris, appreciating his dark personality by observing his evolving attitude and actions, The Equalizer settles Robert’s background with two lines of dialogue. While Det. Harris is an Oscar-worthy protagonist with a powerful connection with the audience, Robert remains a tool, merely exploited to fuel the action on screen. If you’re planning to watch The Equalizer, prepare for a factitious thriller with unusual dark comedy shades. You’ll spend hours wondering if you liked it or not, before accepting that, in spite of everything, you actually enjoyed it.

Going to the cinema with high expectations and finding that the film meets them in full always inspires a priceless sense of fulfilment. When I watched The LEGO Movie, in February 2014, my expectations were actually exceeded. The film is a success for many different reasons, thanks to its many layers of meaning; it gives the audience not only what they want, but also what they don’t know they want just yet. The story, focused on different aspects of the LEGO experience, combines impeccable CGI action, surprisingly sharp social critique, and a heartwarming message. As if this wasn’t enough, it’s directed by 21 Jump Street’s hot duo Phil Lord and Christopher Miller, and its voice cast includes Chris Pratt (you’ll see him in Guardians of the Galaxy soon), Will Ferrell, Elizabeth Banks and Will Arnett. Plus Morgan Freeman voicing Vitruvius, the half-looney half-prophet wizard. And did I mention Liam Neeson, playing Bad Cop (or Good Cop, depending on what turn his interrogation takes)? Considering the past results in developing a cinematic product based on well-established brands (mostly hit and miss, to use an understatement), the outcome is astonishingly positive. The LEGO Movie has become Warner Bros. Pictures’ most commercially successful animated film, grossing almost $500 million worldwide, and soon due for release in DVD and Blu-ray. Whereas extra content is meagre (limited to three amateur shorts and the film’s main song singalong video), it’s well worth saving The LEGO Movie a spot on your shelf. The LEGO Movie’s story develops the proverbial “Everyman turns into hero” arch in three acts: the film opens presenting Emmet, an ordinary construction worker who lives following instructions. President Business tells him (and all citizens) what to do and decides what should make him happy, and Emmet is ecstatic to comply: he buys overpriced coffee, endlessly quotes awful sitcom catchphrases, sings to the most annoying (and most memorable) tune in the history of made-to-be-abhorred songs, happily follows every precept of his society in order to fit in. Sounds like the world surrounding you, doesn’t it? Well, Emmet also happens to be the “Chosen One”, he who is revealed will save the LEGO universe from the threat of Business’s secret weapon: superglue. Along with a team of whacky rebels, Emmet will travel across lands in a journey of self-discovery, personal growth and meta-reflections on the spirit of LEGO as a product. With a closing moral that poignantly celebrates art for art’s sake. Who initially thought that all this is just product placement, may want to take a closer look: The LEGO Movie doesn’t make you want to buy and play LEGO, it just makes you want to watch the film again and again. You can’t get enough of its hilarious and nipping approach, elevating even the most mundane stuff into joie de vivre: from special effects entirely made of LEGO (explosions, smoke, fire, and even the shower’s water) and over-the-top action sequences, to countless cool references to pop culture and the history of LEGO (Benny, the "1980-something space guy" with an obsession for building spaceships, wears an helmet cracked in the exact spot where real-life LEGO pieces would usually break). I could go on forever. The LEGO Movie is the kind of film that you find yourself quoting as soon as you leave the cinema: “And when this happens… and when Vitruvius says… and when Batman does this and that…”. Oh boy, I feel like I’m 10 again. At that age I had a few cherished VHS of animated classics that I never grew tired of watching: The Sword in the Stone, 101 Dalmatians, Robin Hood, Toy Story. If I were that boy now, The LEGO Movie would surely earn a place among them.

The Two Faces of January is a psychological thriller adapted from a novel by American writer Patricia Highsmith. Previous adaptations of her work include Strangers On A Train (1951) by Alfred Hitchcock, and The Talented Mr. Ripley (1999) by the late Academy Award winner Anthony Minghella. After a significant but fluctuating career as screenwriter (The Four Feathers, Drive, Snow White And The Huntsman), Hossein Amini takes on a challenging task for his directorial debut, proving that his skills can compete with Minghella’s and with the Master of Supense’s himself. Amini conveys the complex aspects of human behaviour typical of the finest thrillers in a surprisingly powerful way: he sharply outlines atmospheres, characters and situations, harmoniously blending them together in a remarkable, intriguing drama. The story is set in Greece, in the early ‘60s. Walking by the Acropolys in Athens, we meet the three main characters: glamorous American couple Chester and Colette MacFarland (Viggo Mortensen and Kirsten Dunst), and Rydal (Oscar Isaac), a young Greek-speaking American working as tour guide. The characters’ duplicity is immediately evident. Rydal missed his father’s funeral, apparently on purpose; the event seems to trouble him, but not enough to stop him from scamming random tourists. On the other hand, Chester and Colette look like the usual wealthy couple on holiday. They wander by the ancient ruins and have fun together, harmless to all appearances. However it doesn’t take long to understand that Chester is the kind of crook who doesn’t make his living by skimming tourists’ money: he is mixed up in something dodgiers and way more lucrative. Lured by Chester’s sophisticated look and beautiful wife, Rydal bumps into the MacFarlands and sticks with them, hoping to have found another easy target; when Chester’s problems inevitably find him in Athens, hell breaks loose, and Rydal finds himself dragged in a situation he would never have foreseen. His choices must now be dictated by more than just his appetite for money. All of a sudden, the petty criminal becomes way more sympathetic than what used to look like a lovely couple on vacation. Mortensen’s performance and characterisation of a very complex and troubled figure is the strongest asset of The Two Faces Of January. With Isaac also grabbing the spotlight, there’s little room left for Dunst, completing the triangle in a lesser role that would hardly please the supporters of Bechdel’s Law. As he builds the tension between the three protagonists, Amini doesn’t hide the source of his inspiration: Hitchcock is a presence that fills every character’s action, word and fear. The set up is splendidly rendered, and the story avoids overindulging plot twists, focusing especially on the protagonists’ choices, throughout the first two acts. The plot resolution is way less convincing: halfway into the film, it becomes clear that only a stroke of genius can solve the intrigue efficiently, and complete the puzzle of apprehension, suspense, deception and self-deception. Unfortunately the ending develops on a less original (not to say lousy) note, no matter how hard Amini tries to avoid it. It would be too easy to impute this oversemplification to inexperience or lack of personality, or blame it on a commercial twist in an otherwise rather thoughtful feature. There’s room for improvement, and hopefully we’ll see Amini back in action soon.

It is thought that up to 12 honour killings happen each year in the UK. Honour killings are violent acts of vengeance, committed by male family members against female relatives who allegedly brought dishonour upon the family. Refusing to enter into an arranged marriage, being the victim of a sexual assault, seeking a divorce and committing adultery are all valid reasons to sentence a family member to death. Honour presents the story of Mona, a young and beautiful Muslim British girl who lives with her (originally Pakistani) family in London. Since her dad passed away, she has been sharing the house with her strict mother and her two brothers: Kasim, a policeman who tries to play the worthy head of the household, and Adel, the naïve younger brother. Mona is all but submissive; she works as estate agent, wears heels, refuses to wear a headscarf. It is thanks to her job that she meets Tanvir, a Punjabi colleague whom she falls in love with. Due to the fundamental incompatibility between their cultural and religious backgrounds, they decide for a reckless getaway. This is too much for her family to bear, and the film opens with what seems to be the ending, the same ending many young girls still endure: Mona is attacked by her family. The plot unfolds in a non-linear way: many details of Mona’s life roll on the big screen, all contributing to give depth to her doomed character. The expedient works only partially, making you wonder if this is just a trick to make up for the plot’s lack of complexity. But the rhythm is engaging; the more we learn about Mona, the more we want her to escape from the gloominess that dominates her life. One of the main characters who cross Mona’s path is Paddy Considine’s (Hot Fuzz, The Bourne Ultimatum, director of the acclaimed Tyrannosaur) Bounty Hunter, hired directly by her mother to track her and bring her home; this is just one of many dirty affairs he settles for a living. “You understand: do what you must do”, demands the tyrannical woman as she offers him a bundle of money. A sinister doubt arises: is this scene really taking place before the attack on Mona’s life? Honour tackles a difficult topic that not many films have addressed before, and partially hits the mark. It tells a striking, riveting tale of hate and longing for freedom, and raises numerous questions on cultures that legitimise violence as a valid solution to problems. This is a harsh critique to both sides: Asian and Muslim culture, and the Western world’s cult of money. Honour also hints at the possibility of redemption: Adel resigns himself to his family’s demands, but he understands his sister’s need for a different life; even the ruthless and shady Bounty Hunter starts questioning his priorities. Both their roles, however, are hardly as substantial as the director, newcomer Shan Khan, may have intended. His choice to give a commercial appeal to the film spoils its credibility: by trying to soften the tone, he ends up watering down the story that kept us on the edge of our seats. It’s only fair to doubt the authenticity of a project that exploits one of the most dramatic modern tragedies to create easy-going entertainment. Ironically, when the thriller plot kicks in, we can’t help but wonder what happened to the interesting film we were watching half an hour earlier.

I lost count of the times I’ve seen "love" and "destiny" going together in a Hollywood film. The two concepts are often forcedly connected, and perhaps this is the first reason that makes Winter's Tale (released in the United Kingdom as A New York Winter's Tale) a complete disappointment. The film is adapted from a 1983 book written by novelist, journalist and conservative commentator Mark Helprin: a tale of considerable success, which gained a large number of admirers over the years. Its fame could explain why so many stars got involved in the project, turning the film into a showcase of well-known faces: Colin Farrell, Russell Crowe, Jennifer Connelly, Will Smith, William Hurt. Even Martin Scorsese was rumored to have shown interest. Unfortunately, it takes more than good intentions and a slew of celebrities to guarantee quality. A New York Winter's Tale wants us to think that our destinies are all entwined, like the stars in the sky. In 1915’s New York, thief Peter Lake (Colin Farrell) flees from his mortal enemy, the evil Pearly Soames (Crowe). He only escapes thanks to the appeareance of a white horse, whose supernatural nature is portrayed with a ridiculous amount of glare on the screen. The plot unfolds, leading Peter to meet beautiful Beverly Penn (Jessica Brown Findlay), a deathly ill but cheerful heiress, whom he irrevocably falls in love with after she cracks half a smile and blinks a couple of times. Is he the miracle she was waiting for? Will their love be enough to defeat death? Their purity will clash with the viciousness surrounding Soames’s gang, secretly at the service of Lucifer (a very awkward Will Smith, whose interludes with Crowe are often source of embarrassment). Peter and Beverly, instead, are the obvious personification of Good; after all, he’s the handsome knight on a white horse. This game of metaphors runs parallel to the agonising love story, always hinting at the existence **** plan that shapes everyone’s destiny. However, the masterplan only works as a good ol’ deus-ex-machina, designed specifically for the protagonists. Even when the setting magically changes to today’s New York, and the film drops the cheesy trash of the first half to pick up a livelier pace, it still fails to address its main themes with credibility and coherence. A New York Winter's Tale’s many flaws are all direct results of its poor screenplay (written by first-time director Akiva Goldsman), and a chaotic, at times ludicrous structure. The vagueness and silliness of the supernatural element is the final straw in a story packed with preconceptions about love and sacrifice; the script too often belittles profound themes and concepts, labelling them as mere manifestations of "magic" and "miracle". The magic of the right man in the right place. The miracle of life. If there's a magic connection that links us all, in an inexplicable and immense network, I very much doubt its sole purpose is to get you a cute boyfriend. Even so, many in the audience were genuinely moved at the end of the film, showing that, despite it all, it hits its specific target of hopeless romantics. If this doesn’t sound like you, steer clear.

Out Of The Furnace presents us with characters and situations that we’ve seen many times before, especially in those stories depicting the worst of America’s filth: small town punks , gambling debts, problems with the law, drug abuse, violence, dealing with the wrong people at the wrong time. The most immediate need of the protagonists is having enough money to make ends meet; their means, however, are only fit to attract inevitable violence. Out Of The Furnace‘s people spend money they don’t have, and abuse alcohol and drugs to escape a life that has only two outcomes: misery and crime. The misery is that of those who work at the furnace: a dangerous and underpaid job in a dirty place, filthy as the roads that lead there, as the houses of those who work there. Crime, on the other hand, keeps money flowing, helps let the steam out, and promises an alternative to that misery; but it's all a bluff, fixed like the illegal fights and the gambling that will ruin the protagonists’ lives. Everyone who works in the field knows it: nice and not-so-nice dealers, junkie gang leaders, even the powerless police. Those who don’t know it are fatally bewitched, and can’t see that, in reality, easy money is not enough to survive. No one survives at all, and that's it. Out Of The Furnace’s characters are neither the smartly dressed criminals from a Scorsese film, nor Pulp Fiction’s tough and sophisticated thugs: they come from penniless families, they live to eat, they fall asleep in homes shared by drug addicts and outlaws. The little money they set aside is flushed in drugs, stolen, or lost at the betting shop. And it’s exactly at the betting shop that we first meet Rodney (Casey Affleck): he has no job, no hope, apparently no good judgment either, and usually makes risky bets with other people's money. His brother Russell (Christian Bale) - a furnace worker who tries to walk the line, keep his job and hang on to his girlfriend - repays his debts, most of the time. Tragedy lingers in both brothers’ lives: for Russell it’s jail, for Rodney it’s the aftermath of war. After serving several years as a Marine and giving everything for his country, he returns home to find there’s nothing left for him, apart from anger, frustration, and a dying father. Out Of The Furnace is a brilliant collection of graphic images and touching moments of truth. The screenplay, written by Brad Ingelsby and director Scott Cooper, cleverly shows how Rodney and Russell’s lives cross paths with small crook John Petty (Willem Dafoe), and psychopath Harlan’s (an incredibly crazy Woody Harrelson) dirty business. The film isn’t perfect, though: the plot is slightly hit-and-miss, and detractors might all too easily cling to its flaws, missing the beauty of the whole. I'm actually still amazed by the performance of everyone involved in this project: from the skill and genuinity of the actors, to Cooper’s ability to create one of the bleakest and most discouraging American dream-wrecking tales ever.

At a first glance, "The Call" might seem like a minor work, destined to arouse interest only after its DVD release, and to be watched absent-mindedly during an autumn afternoon. Not that it tries to be subtle, or pretends to be meaningful: “The Call” is action, jump scares, petty suspense; it’s built to entertain the viewer for its 92 minutes of running time, and sell a lot of popcorn. Don’t underestimate it though, it will surprise you. The film tells the story of Jordan (Halle Berry), a 911 operator at the Los Angeles Police Department. She works in the “Hive”, a police nest where the buzz of emergency calls never stops, 24/7. One day, realising that she has lost her control and objectivity during a call ended in tragedy, Jordan decides to give up the headset and pick up the training of new recruits. But six months later, while leading a tour of the Hive with a group of wannabe operators, she ends up handling a call from Casey (Abigail Breslin), a teenager kidnapped by a ruthless and psychotic killer (Michael Eklund), and locked in the trunk of his car racing towards certain death. Unfortunately the film doesn’t show what happens with the job applicants, but I like to interpret it as a metaphor for how best to weigh the pros and cons of a new job, and then eventually withdraw your application. After niche films like “The Machinist” and “Transsiberian” and a lot of TV work, director Brad Anderson returns to cinema to give personality to a script that, on its own, would hardly make an interesting film. Contrarily to his previous work, which shows Anderson’s passion for **** situations and atmospheres, “The Call” is marked by a more commercial and easy-going style. Predictably, the characters adhere to the genre’s standard, at the expense of the film’s credibility: their personalities are light years away from the complexity of Christian Bale’s Trevor Reznik in “The Machinist”. “The Call” prefers to focus on keeping tension high throughout the film, using gimmicks that are all-but-new but still effective, easily keeping the audience on the edge of their seats. And although the interpretations are just good enough to fit the level of action and thrills set by the mediocre script, it’s impossible not to notice the director’s skills. His talent shines through every shot, particularly in the grueling and never-ending second act, where a terrified Casey, locked in the car’s trunk, is on the phone with Jordan. That’s when drama escalates. The film then takes the unexpected turn nobody asked for: a “Silence Of The Lambs”-like twist of plot that appears shockingly unintelligent and involuntarily hilarious. I won’t spoil the ending, but the astonishment it provokes is worth experiencing on your own skin. This finale, so illogical and grotesque, jeopardises the reputation of what could have been a discrete film, but at the same time turns it into an unmissable guilty pleasure. And that’s how a mostly forgettable feature, made with good intentions but without great ideas, instantly becomes a cult. One of the final shots, with the bad guy lying at the bottom of a pit, the good guys towering above him, and the American flag towering over them, is a truly remarkable page in the history of trash moments in cinema.

Jane Austen, the famous pre-Romantic English novelist, author of the evergreen Pride and Prejudice, is a difficult subject for a film in 2013. Especially so after the explosive comeback in popularity of sci-fi, in a cinematic landscape dominated by morbid thrillers, zombies, giant robots vs. aliens, precocious teenagers, 3D concert films on One Direction... I could go on forever. My point is: if you want the so-called “general public” to take an interest in a 19th century writer who died aged 41, whose main topics were modesty and moral values, you need the greatest and most compelling idea ever. “Austenland”'s concept appears unique and promisingly original, but unfortunately fades into a very mediocre, uninspired feature. The story: Jane (Keri Russell) is an American girl obsessed with Jane (what a combination!) Austen, and particularly with BBC's drama “Pride and Prejudice”, starring Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy. Her obsession has turned her into a social outcast and a total nutcase, messing up her life for ever. But Jane is more than happy to live in her own world, so much that she decides to spend all her savings on a trip to Austenland, a Regency-era themed resort in England. Cut to an aircraft’s undercarriage that touches the ground, a panoramic shot of Westminster, and the Union Jack: welcome to the United Kingdom. At the resort, Jane meets Mrs. Wattlesbrook (Jane Seymour), the inflexible owner who dictates the rules of the Austen-themed **** camp. No mobile phones, no activities that stray from Austenland’s 19th century atmosphere, and most of all, no excessive physical contact with the male guests (insert winks and giggles here). Joining in the costume parade, apart from a group of freaky women with perpetual hormone disorders, there’s a bunch of unbearably creepy men. Bar one exception, of course. Two, in fact, because there’s no film without conflict, and there’s no conflict without the most bland and predictable of love triangles, permanent feature of every sappy romantic comedy in the world. While Jane lives her dream, who will her choice fall on? When her fantasies crumble and everything seems lost, which of her suitors will selflessly beg for her love, in the least practical and credible way? Will it be the handsome handyman (Bret McKenzie), or the fascinating but gloomy Mr. Nobley (JJ Feild)? Even more unacceptable than the silly plot and pretentious sentimentalities, are the narrative devices that torture the viewer from start to end: by-the-book stolen kisses and girly rivalries come in succession, in an ordeal towards the inevitable finale. The characters are mere vehicles for irrelevant gags that fail to crack half a smile. The fat woman with big breasts (Jennifer Coolidge) is funny because she craves for a man, the blonde girl (Georgia King) is stupid and hits on the Indian macho man (Ricky Whittle), the guy with the moustache (James Callis) is gay, and Mr. Wattlesbrook (Rupert Vansittart) is an alcoholic who harasses women. How hilarious. Joylessly directed by newcomer Jerusha Hess, and produced by the author of the Twilight Saga, “Austenland” is a lousy film that degenerates into an insult to the viewer’s intelligence. It’s difficult to understand who might actually like it: Austen’s true fans will turn up their noses in disgust, as there’s no real reference to the writer, merely an excuse to shoot a costume-drama. Those who are looking for a love story will hopefully leave the room within half an hour of running time. As for me, only one scene really made me laugh: the one where the resort’s guests act in a play. A member of the audience suddenly yells: "You’re rubbish, get off the stage you ****". I liked that guy.

Isador Cortez, a.k.a. Machete, always had Danny Trejo’s face since his first cameo in Robert Rodriguez’s "Spy Kids" (2001), and has always been portrayed as an over-the-top caricature of the infallible action hero. His first sporadic appearances in different films were intended as Easter eggs and nod to the fans: the best known reference of all is the fake trailer included in "Grindhouse" (2007), by Tarantino and Rodriguez himself. It took Quentin’s genius (but most of all his reputation) to raise the funds for a project that had been their forbidden desire for a long time: a so called “b-movie”, a low-budget exploitation film as in fashion in the ‘70s. Rodriguez jumped at the chance to give depth and notoriety to Machete, laying the foundations for what would later become the 2010 feature “Machete”, a critical, public and box office success. Former Mexican Federal Machete is a living legend, a die-hard incorruptible law man, whose face is scarred by violence and whose soul is scarred by death and suffering. Armed with his inseparable and lethal machete, he is the perfect war machine that every villain fears but invariably tries (and fails) to kill. This time, his nemesis is Luther Voz (Mel Gibson), orchestrating an intricate plan to threaten humanity. Machete, personally hired by the funkiest President of the United States ever (a brilliant Carlos Estevez, a.k.a. Charlie Sheen, typecasted straight from his previous roles in the “Scary Movie” saga), must travel across Central America to save the day. Alongside him, a number of disreputable characters follow one another while the plot unfolds. Enter hot secret agent Miss San Antonio, Vanessa Hudgens playing the prostitute, Mendez the Madman and his split personality, his bodyguard, corrupt Sheriff Doakes, Shè coming back with a bunch of guys from the previous film - and then this hitman, el Camaleòn, who is actually four different people! Seriously? That’s way too many characters for me to care about, especially given the standard of the film, in which everything is a farce built for Machete to destroy - while possibly maiming some limbs. Away from the dusty and western-like setting of the first chapter, Rodriguez shapes "Machete Kills" in a way that reminds me a bit of James Bond, and too much of "Expendables". Rather unfortunate, for a film that tries hard to be cool, but ends up looking like any other average action feature. It is this strange ambivalence that makes "Machete Kills" hard to appreciate fully: a few scenes are memorable, and some are pure works of genius, but the uniqueness of a character like Machete is game-changing, and it soon becomes clear that he doesn’t fit the genre’s standards. His invincibile and illogic nature is the elephant in the room that makes everything else pointless. “Machete Kills” attracts its audience with promises of absurdities, silliness, and gratuitous gore; all this aside, it feels just like a 2-hour long cartoon, or an ice cream with a dozen scoops. After a while, you just get tired. That’s not to say that the film isn’t worth the ticket price: when written wisely, its episodic gags make the whole cinema laugh out loud, and the fake trailer for "Machete Kills Again... In Space" is one of the funniest things I’ve seen in the last ten years. This is why Machete remains one of the cult icons of modern cinema, and just as I am ready to point out all the film’s weaknesses, I’m also impatiently waiting for the next sequel.

After a bomb blows away Borough Market and dozens of human lives, Farrouk Erdogan is arrested. He is the only survivor of the terrorist group that allegedly planned the attack, and he is now at the center of what promises to be the biggest terrorism trial in British history. Forget the John Grisham-style legal thrillers from overseas, though, and expect no “Law & Order” either. This is boring London, with barristers, solicitors, and a lot of technicalities. But there is a catch: in terrorism cases, for reasons ascribed to so-called national security, the Crown Prosecution Service can use classified evidence. Its content can be disclosed neither to the defendant nor to their lawyer, let alone to the general public. This is when a Special Advocate comes into play: a barrister appointed by the State to ensure a fair trial, the sole person authorised to examine the secret evidence and represent the defendant during “closed sessions”. It’s as complicated as it sounds, and given the key role it plays in the film, dialogues are full of ad-hoc explanations, grossly inserted and repeated to ease the audience’s understanding. To make “Closed Circuit” at least a little interesting, the Special Advocate and the barrister, who in theory can’t even talk to each other, are lovers. And they will break all rules to solve the case and defend Erdogan. “Closed Circuit” stars Eric Bana as Martin, the defense barrister who likes to go canoeing on the Thames (a perfect excuse to get a shot of Westminster and other characteristic landmarks), and Rebecca Hall as Claudia, in the supporting role of the Special Advocate. The cast also includes the all-but-talented Hasancan Cifci as Erdogan's son, Ciarán Hinds as Martin's mate Devlin, and the great Jim Broadbent as the Attorney General. Broadbent plays the powerful man that loves to blab about how “transparent and fair” the judiciary process is, even if he’s just a tool of the powers that be, who doesn’t hesitate to sacrificy his integrity. His role as Chief Inspector in “Hot Fuzz” immediately comes to mind: looking at him, wide-eyed, always minimising the worst atrocities, it’s impossible not to giggle. As the Big Brother is always watching through CCTV, Martin and Claudia’s investigative journey becomes more and more dangerous. Although the trailer warns that “Everyone is being watched” and “every moment is being recorded”, promising psychologically and even politically relevant twists, everything actually dissolves into banal conspiracies and chases through the dark streets of London. But what’s the role of secret services in all this? What does Erdogan's son know that can’t be revealed? Watching “Closed Circuit”’s trailer is enough to answer all these important questions; the film itself doesn’t amount to much. Beyond the first twenty minutes, it’s nothing but an unoriginal collection of the genre’s trademarks. Martin and Claudia’s rush towards the resolution adds very little to a story that already struggles to achieve the right pace and consistency. You find yourself expecting a twist that never comes, and before you notice it, the film reaches the most anticlimactic possible ending. Maybe because real life is boring, and certain things only happen in films. Is this what director John Crowley and talented screenwriter Steven Knight (“Eastern Promises”, “Dirty Pretty Things”) are trying to tell us? If this is the case, I really wonder why someone would choose to watch “Closed Circuit” instead of enjoying real life.