RUSH

You cannot accuse Ron Howard’s Rush of being dull: despite having no interest in Formula One, I found myself white-knuckled at several moments during the thrilling recreations of the races between rival drivers James Hunt and Niki Lauda. Watching the road from their perspective, you witness the utter recklessness a racing driver has in repeatedly risking his life. Chris Hemsworth seems to be the poster boy for the film, and very pretty he is too, looking as though he was born in his open-necked seventies shirt. But when we are shown the real footage of Hunt, who has a bashful, unassuming air, you can’t help but feel Hemsworth got it ever so slightly wrong. Perhaps the English accent and a thorough characterisation were too much to grapple with: he got the accent spot on, but his air of confidence was too close to smugness to be a fair portrayal of Hunt. Therefore it was Daniel Bruhl as Niki Lauda who stole the show, despite having been placed behind Hemsworth’s muscly silhouette in all the posters. His icy cool portrayal of a very complex and obsessive man was believable, and he made the most of the rather bare script. Olivia Wilde showed that it is possible to shine in small roles, playing Hunt’s model wife with self-conscious vanity.

 

The film is well-made, each frame full of nostalgia for the seventies, which is wonderfully recreated on screen. The exhilaratingly filmed races and the spiky chemistry between Hemsworth and Bruhl make up for the meagre screenplay, making it a very enjoyable film to watch.

SILVER LININGS PLAYBOOK

Silver Linings Playbook's director David O. Russell doesn't make watching Pat (Bradley Cooper), a man trying to get his life back in order whilst struggling with bipolar disorder, comfortable. His use of long silences, unflattering close-ups of Cooper's pained and panicked face, and his blunt and unself-conscious script is painfully bleak and uncompromising.

What brings warmth and humour to the film is Cooper and Lawrence, whose flawed and down-to-earth romance is both charming and touching. Cooper is surprisingly convincing as a terminal loser, utterly deluded in his determination to win back his wife. Jenifer Lawrence's portrayal of Tiffany, a girl with problems of her own, is truthful and poignant, without pandering to what the audience want to see. Russell gives mental illness humanity without making it clichéd, he makes Pat's journey touching without patronising him. It is rare and refreshing to find a movie which explores something so sensitive with such frank directness.

THE BLING RING

Between 2008 and 2009, a group of privileged teenagers successfully robbed the homes of several high-profile celebrities in and around Calabasas, Caliafornia, including Paris Hilton, Orlando Bloom and Lindsey Lohan. The Bling Ring, based on these events, tells the story of Marc, awkward and unsure of himself, starting at a new school, and becoming friends with Rebecca, a charismatic and beautiful teenage girl. His initial attraction to the glamour of her lifestyle and friends spirals into a dangerous obsession under her influence and encouragement. Eventually, simply worshipping from afar is not enough for their fanatical idolisation of celebrity culture, leading to some of the most daring and extraordinary thefts ever carried out.

Sofia Coppola, the director, has avoided the story's potential for commercial success by writing a slow-moving understated script and casting mostly unknown actors in the title roles. The audience is distanced from the characters emotionally: although it is implied that there are personal issues troubling many of them, they are not enlarged upon, and their actions are reported coldly, without context, so you're not allowed to become sentimental. But Coppola seems so determined to chronicle these events in a detached and muted way that it sometimes undermines the inherent excitement and drama of the story. But the film is full of a self-mocking irony that is very appealing: Emma Watson finally proves her worth delivering Coppola's most absurd lines in her cringingly earnest, monotone voice, wide-eyed and serious ('Your butt looks AWESOME'). Israel Broussard is wonderful as Marc, palpably vulnerable and self-conscious, with all the tension and desperation of an uneasy adolescence.

 

Sofia Coppola's films are not for everybody. Someone looking for drama, pacy dialogue and a gripping plotline would be disappointed by the slow-moving awkwardness of her movies. The Virgin Suicides and Lost In Translation are communicated with a chilling detachment, and yet are humming with an intense sense of tragedy and bittersweet humour. The Bling Ring does not quite achieve this, but then it is a very different film. What it does leave you with is the open-ended question: how far has celebrity culture crept into our lives? Do the images of famous people hurled at us each day give us a sense of entitlement and ownership over them? Coppola doesn't answer these questions directly, but leaves you to consider the extent to which you yourself are influenced by the world of celebrities.

LOCK, STOCK AND TWO SMOKING BARRELS

Written and directed by Guy Ritchie, each sepia-tinted frame of this film is alive with blunt humour. After being cheated out of a large sum of money at a rigged card game, four friends are forced to find a way to repay the loan of a volatile gang leader. Their plan leads them to clash against debt collectors, thieves, rival gangs and weed growers, in an evermore confusing muddle of conflicting objectives, but drawing neatly to a surprisingly simple close.

The script is lively and truthful, each character compelling and well-developed, such as the briliantly well-drawn public school boys growing weed, naively ironing the fortune they have amassed note by note. There is real chemistry between the four friends, played by Dexter Fletcher, Jason Flemyng, Nick Moran and Jason Statham. Fletcher in particular captures the rough and cheeky charm that makes the movie so appealing, and Vinnie Jones puts in a forceful performance as the murderous debt collector with a soft side.

Ritchie unapologetically juxtaposes the cheeky banter of the London underworld with its shocking violence, and the outcome is humorous, well-crafted, and very clever.

THE SHINING

Enough has been written about The Shining: it has been both lauded as one of the greatest horror films of all time, as well as condemned as a silly, overstated mess.

The story is well-known. Jack Torrence takes a job as a caretaker in a hotel during winter, where his psychic son, Danny, able to see terrible visions of both the past and future, can sense the horror that is about to descend on them. Isolated, Jack succumbs to cabin fever, and is led by dark supernatural forces to violence against his family.

But The Shining, seemingly following a simple formula designed for commercial success, is in fact more complicated. Stanley Kubrick's imaginative directing lingers in the camerawork, one shot following Danny pedalling furiously on his tricycle, the noise of the wheel on wood deafening, the silence as it sails over the carpet eerily sinister. The claustrophobia is tangible. As is the feeling of utter helplessness he evokes in his shots of the enormous hotel lobby flooded in a wave of blood. How can it be cliched when it's so good?

Shelley Duvall, as Danny's mother, could not be more perfect for the role: she is so completely vulnerable and lovely that our fear on her behalf is unbearable. Jack Nicholson inhabits his character so naturally and whole-heartedly that his conviction makes the viewer almost uneasy.

There is no question that this film is a masterpiece - even Kubrick's handling of the supernatural elements avoid being heavy-handed, as he leaves it open-ended, giving the viewer the chance to decide what the hell's actually going on. He and his cast have created a film so iconic that generations have come and gone unable to produce anything even comparable.

LES MIS

I really thought that after the Oscar buzz died down a little, so would the obsession over that pig-slop of a movie Les Mis, but I suppose I was wrong. Currently being sold in HMV for a bargain deal of £15.99 is the opportunity to get the most boring three hours of your life over and done with.

The main problem with Les Miserables, contemptuously dubbed 'The Glums' by critics when it first opened in the theatre, is the lack of an engaging plot, any decent music, or remotely believable acting. Russell Crowe plods after Hugh Jackman looking more and more like an obnoxious potato, whilst ‘Éponine’ is an ever-present third wheel in Eddie Redmayne and Amanda Seyfried’s romance. The actors perform with an embarrassing intensity that quickly spirals into absurdity.

The exception to the unbearably self-conscious melodrama is Anne Hathaway’s performance as the ill-fated Fantine, whose brief half-hour on screen is truly heart-breaking. However, this moment is short-lived: as the film meanders drearily on, we are offered bursts of relief in the form of Helena Bonham Carter and Sacha Baron Cohen as a pair of lovable con artists who were given all the best lines. Gazing at Eddie Redmayne’s face can occupy you for a while, but after an hour or two even this grows tiresome. There’s no doubt that each actor had something very profound and passionate to express. It just isn't clear what. As Russell Crowe leapt off a bridge, landing with a satisfying crunch below, I almost jumped out of my seat cheering. Perhaps that's the real problem: the overwhelming well of emotion present in every trembling note makes you unable to form any connection with the characters. 

 Although it is unlikely that you haven't watched it yet, I would STRONGLY advise you NOT TO SEE THIS FILM. I am a musical aficionado: I can recite any Chicago number on the spot, and have the Cole Porter collection stashed away under my bed like porn. But what I WILL NOT STAND FOR are musicals that pretend to be insightful and thoughtful, brimming with messages of unity and righteousness, when in fact they are stories of self-pitying caricatures of people, with unrealistic objectives and negative attitudes. Give me Singin’ In The Rain over Les Mis any day. I don’t need my silliness handed to me with a straight face.

WHIP IT

This movie, Drew Barrymore's directorial debut, is a messy jumble of old parts: sulky teen, high school troubles, first boyfriend - but its disorganisation and lack of coherence is its charm. The story of small-town outcast Bliss (Ellen Page), who stumbles on a roller derby league, is told with a meandering self-mocking quirkiness and thoughtfulness. It doesn't pretend to carry any life-changing message of self-acceptance, and it doesn't, but it does gently give a sweet and humorous portrayal of being a teenager.

Ellen Page, who seems to have mastered being totally charming just by being her weird and wonderful self, is twinklingly original, her eccentricity brought into focus by a wonderful supporting cast, including Kristen Wiig, Alia Shawkat, Juliette Lewis and Drew Barrymore herself, who effortlessly fill the gaps in the script with their own charisma.

By no means perfect, the film seems to skate over clichés just through the bright likeability of its cast. It finishes as abruptly as it began, little resolved, but leaving you glad you indulged in this odd micro-universe of skates and food fights and 'Smashley Simpsons' Barrymore threw you into.

Stoker - A Dark Fairy Tale

When India's father dies in a tragic and unexplained car crash, she is introduced to her handsome and mysterious Uncle Charlie at the funeral. Disarmed by his interest in her, she quickly becomes infatuated with him, and obsessessed by the developing relationship between him and her unstable mother.

Stoker is almost a perfect film. Each frame is a stylish and delicately assembled image, filled by Matthew Goode's magnetic stage presence and Mia Wasikowska's fragile intensity. Nicole Kidman is surprisingly spot on as India's brittle yet softly-spoken mother.

This is a story about blood: the director Chan-wook Park questions the uneasy balance between the influences of nature and nurture. But it also tells the story of India's coming-of-age and her sexual awakening, albeit in an unusual fashion. In her words there is an insightful and perceptive truth about the development of her indentity: 'I'm not formed by things that are of myself alone. I wear my father's belt tied around my mother's blouse, and shoes which are from my uncle. This is me. Just as a flower does not choose its color, we are not responsible for what we have come to be. Only once you realize this do you become free, and to become adult is to become free.'

The story line is a little directionless at times, and the Gothicism begins to spiral into absurdity, but director Chan-wook Park has produced a film that beats with a palpable intensity and elegance, the tension rising slowly but breathlessly towards a hideous climax.

 

How To Lose Friends And Spend A Sunday Afternoon

How To Lose Friends And Alienate People, based on the semi-autobiographical book by Toby Young, is about the outspoken and frustrated ‘hack’, Sydney (Simon Pegg), who has grown used to being abused by celebrities in London (‘Everyone hates us, and WE DON’T CARE’), although pretty eager to rub shoulders with them at the same time. He is offered the job of his dreams at a New York magazine by the hilarious Jeff Bridges, but when he arrives is frustrated that he is expected to pander to the rich and famous.

The script is funny, although it borders on ludicrous as you watch in horror as Young alienates every single person around him with his blunt British ways. However, it strikes truer to home than ‘The Devil Wears Prada’, somehow avoiding clichés and being embarrassing despite the slapstick humour. Pegg as usual brings real charisma to the film, whilst Kirsten Dunst, his prickly co-worker, shrewdly captures that American inability to appreciate British humour, watching Young's exploits with growing distaste and horror. Watch out for Megan Fox, playing a superficial Hollywood strumpet, and Danny Huston, who plays Sydney’s boss, and being fantastically ghastly. There are good cameo appearances by Chris O’Dowd (hmm), James Corden and Thandie Newton.

SHAME

Shame, directed by Steve McQueen, stars Michael Fassbender as Brandon, a sleek, single New Yorker whose ordered life is disrupted when his sister Cissy (played by Carey Mulligan) arrives unexpectedly to stay with him.

However, Shame is not just a film about a dysfunctional relationship between siblings: it is a ruthless and cold look at sex addiction. Brandon’s social life, or lack thereof, allows him to indulge in his heavy dependence on prostitutes, porn and casual sex. His sister Cissy is perhaps more damaged than he is: it becomes clear that whilst Brandon has created a life that allows him to avoid expressing his emotions, Cissy seems unable to contain them. McQueen gives the audience the freedom to guess at the upbringing of Brandon and Cissy, and what trauma caused them to be the way they are. Under all this lies an ice-cold layer of shame.

Stylishly shot, each scene of this film is littered with meaning and tinted with Brandon’s repressed rage, self-disgust and helplessness. His every emotion is  restrained and controlled, making it both uncomfortable and powerful to watch. In one scene, Cissy performs a slow, stilted rendition of New York, New York: heartbreakingly flawed and lonely, we are able to scrutinize every expression on her face in a long, unbroken shot.
 

Shame is a beautifully shot film, unaffected and full of truth. Fassbender is fearless, and utterly convincing in his obsessive, unbreakable cycle of unhappiness. Mulligan is similarly brave, beautifully evoking the fragile loneliness of Cissy that makes the story so poignant and frank. Without pretension or artificiality, McQueen has created a film that follows the intertwined lives of two individuals, equally but very differently unhappy, 
gently asking us whether we can judge either of their actions, when they are only reflections of our society.