It’s been ten years since director Barry Sonnenfeld reunited intergalactic special Agents J (Will Smith) and K (Tommy Lee Jones) for Men in Black 2, the lacklustre sequel to 1997’s wonderfully quirky sci-fi romp. Now, 15 years after that first outing, the Men In Black are back, hoping to reignite the franchise that most considered lost in space.

Protecting the earth from the scum of the galaxy seemingly comes with a whole host of unique occupational hazards, most of which include the adverse side effect of complete global annihilation. Agents J and K’s latest mission is no different; a time traveling alien psychopath named Boris the Animal (Jemaine Clement) has escaped from moon prison, warped back to 1969 and is plotting the future altering double whammy of murdering Agent K and enabling a global alien invasion. J must follow him into the past and team up with the young K (Josh Brolin) to take down Boris, before time runs out.

There’s a hell of lot going on in MIB3, even more so than its hyperactive siblings. Nearly every scene is a constant barrage of new ideas, jokes, characters, and set pieces, all laced with the series trademark kitschy sci-fi sheen. Its how about this?! approach is certainly hit or miss, but it’s hard to fault its enthusiasm, and the film clearly puts having fun at the top of its priority list. That said, the anarchic pace is just as quick to brush past good ideas as bad; we’re thankfully never given long enough to ponder the baffling inconsistency of the time travel, yet an alternate universe minus Jones’s character is only briefly played with.

If a galaxy of silly ideas are the nuts and bolts of Men In Black 3, then its the killer cast that makes the whole thing tick. Will Smith as usual fails commendably at suppressing his unsurpassable charm, despite delivering all of the corniest lines. Limited screen time aside, Tommy Lee Jones plays the world-weary and apathetic K so convincingly that he might not actually be acting. Shout outs also to newcomers Jemaine Clement and Josh Brolin. Clement is almost unrecognisable as Boris, yet his Tim Curry-esque performance falls neatly between menacing and nutty. Brolin knows exactly what’s needed of him and nails it, with a spookily accurate Tommy Lee Jones impersonation.

Dismissed by many as an unnecessary sequel, Men in Black 3 proves itself to be quite the opposite. It’s a showcase of just what this franchise can offer; a world without limits, that’s happy to go anywhere as long as it’s silly, and doesn’t ask too much of its audience, as long as they don’t ask too much in return. Men is Black 3 is hardly a universe altering experience, but it redeems the sidelined franchise and has a lot of fun while it’s at it.

A filmmaker like Wes Anderson is in a tough position. His visual style and direction is so well-known that for him to try something different would be akin to committing career suicide. He has built up a reputation for making quirky films with colour-drenched scenes and razor-sharp dialogue. Moonrise Kingdom doesn’t break the mould in terms of his previous work. And yet, it is by far his most accessible film to date.

The story takes place in the summer of 1965 on New Penzance Island, off the coast of New England. Sam and Suzy (Jared Gilman and Kara Hyward) are two odd children who decide to run away together. Their plan is to retrace the steps of the local Native American migration. Sam’s scoutmaster, Randy Ward (Ed Norton), takes his troop out to locate the runaways – along with the help of local police Captain Sharp (Bruce Willis) and Suzy’s parents (Bill Murray and Frances McDormand).

Wes Anderson has crafted a touching film that isn’t bogged down by the usual overbearing dialogue that plagues his other work. The film’s strength lies in both the chemistry between the two runaways and their story. While it’s innocent and eccentric, the storyline is based more in reality than other films Anderson has made. This doesn’t detract from that other-worldly qualities that are his trademark; it simply means that their story is easier to relate to. Where the runaways’ story is centred around first love, the relationship between Murray and McDormand is strained and reserved. However, the film cleverly eschews delving into it. Theirs is shown through the children’s eyes, and as such, the true state of their marriage is kept suppressed from Suzy. As well, Sam’s home-life is only brought up later in the film as it doesn’t factor in until it is needed. Anderson’s use of the supporting cast is inspired. No extra screen-time is given to Murray, Norton or Willis needlessly. The film’s central focus is on the runaways and their adventure together – not the search parties that are looking for them.

Moonrise Kingdom is a gentle, heartfelt film that never feels anything but sincere. Willis gives a fantastic performance as the good-natured policeman who only wants to help Sam. Likewise, Norton excels as the earnest scoutmaster, all salutes and quick-smart marching. Bill Murray is admittedly underused, as is Frances McDormand. However, a scene featuring the two of them is particularly emotional when, exasperated, the two come face-to-face with the reality that they’re failing as parents.

It’s true, Wes Anderson is working with familiar material here. The film also has certain echoes of Lord of the Flies and Roald Dahl tales. However Anderson has put his unique stamp on a timeless story that is sure to win over his fans – and may win him some new ones as well.

It’s fairly safe to suppose that most of the children born in the western world grow up in circumstances other than those of Hollywood’s typical nuclear family. Over half of first-time parents are unmarried; two-thirds of unmarried parents are under 30. And the vast majority of the children born to this latter group come into the world in circumstances frequently described with euphemisms like ‘unstable’ and ‘insecure.’ Around reproduction, debates about social morality are at their most heated; and that’s before anyone mentions stuff like abortion or same-sex adoption. With this in mind, What to Expect When You’re Expecting quickly starts to look less like blockbuster escapism and more like glossy propaganda. The repercussions of this point of view are right-wing in the worst way; Holly (Jennifer Lopez), one-half of the only non-white couple in What to Expect…‘s central quintet, shows the film’s hand when she bemoans of her faulty ovaries “It’s the one thing a woman is supposed to do.”

This is vile, but there’s worse. What to Expect… depends on two devices to get its message across. There’s the multiple storylines trick from Garry Marshall’s Valentine’s Day and New Year’s Day, obviously seen as a nice low-effort way to pop out blockbusters. A few formless half-plots are made somewhat dynamic by simple virtue of their mixing; since we follow five couples for the whole nine months, there isn’t much pressure on a single character or relationship to develop. Four out of the five couples represent a level of married normalcy that’s pretty unrealistic, and all are assisted by an unlimited supply of those fat wads of notes that seem, in Hollywood, to be a mere fumble in one’s rear pants pocket away.

In spreading its extra-normative message, there’s no room for subtlety; this film is less cooing infants in the cabbage patch, more Saturn munching on his kids’ bones. Thus What to Expect… leans too on a well-known aspect of the ‘pregnancy bible’ on which it is based. The book’s focus on the symptoms of pregnancy offers much potential for gross-out comedy, particularly when it comes to Elizabeth Banks’ character, Wendy. She’s a baby expert unprepared for stuff like haemorrhoids or incontinence. In this, the film demonstrates a grim fascination with feminine health that’s abroad in the media these days; Banks has been the butt of more than a few period jokes as 30 Rock‘s Avery Jessup, and see too, the heinous media coverage of Jessica Simpson’s own third trimester.

“Pregnancy sucks,” moans Wendy near the end of the film, but it’s a necessary nuisance so long as it puts you in proximity to the middle-class ideal. What era are we in, and who makes this stuff? As Kevin Myers, in a lamentably similar context, said: Bastards!

Welsh director Gareth Evans has captured the attentions of cinema-goers and critics alike with The Raid, a high-octane Indonesian action film made for $1m that delivers violence in spades, but little in terms of tangible rewards.

Set in an unnamed location, it tracks an attempt by a police SWAT team to storm a 30-floor apartment tower under the control of crime lord Tama (Ray Sahetapy), who has consolidated his power by taking in gangsters as tenants. With these acting as a security buffer, top dog Tama rules the underworld from his personal fortress.

Rama, played by rising Asian star Iko Uwais, is the central figure of the SWAT team. Compassionate and well-intentioned, we are introduced to him at the very beginning of the film, kissing his pregnant wife goodbye on the morning of the raid. With the mission underway, Rama and the rest of the team arrive at the tower, only for a wave of violence to be unleashed upon them. Spotters quickly alert Tama, who summons the building’s inhabitants into battle and watches the carnage unfold on security monitors from his apartment high up.

All manner of weapons are employed – guns, batons, knives, and anything with a jagged edge lying around. Relentless and unflinching, the action scenes are expertly choreographed, and complimented by the fighting skills of Rama and bad guy Mad Dog (Yayan Ruhian). Both actors are exponents of the Pencak Silat brand of martial arts and their hand-to-hand combat scenes are highly compelling. The overall impact is further bolstered by a score that hits all the right notes, composed by Joseph Trapanese (Tron: Legacy) and Linkin Park’s Mike Shinoda.

Yet so little is made known about the chief protagonists that it’s difficult to care if any of them live or die, it might as well be a video game. This inevitably reduces the tension; for a film that is supposedly all about a mission, it seems to distinctly lack one of  its own. And the fight scenes are so well choreographed that the relationship between combatants often seems collaborative rather than antagonistic. It becomes a spectacle reminiscent of a dance musical.

Well-crafted, fast-paced and consistently brutal, The Raid has plenty of entertainment value. And with an English-language remake and a sequel in the works there’ll be more to come down the tracks. Best not to try and read too much into the film, though – there’s not a whole lot going on between the lines.

Admiral General Aladeen is the comical dictator of the fictional African nation Wadiya. He dreams of a world without Israel, and nuclear weapons with pointed ends rather than rounded ones. But when a U.N. meeting demands his presence he must travel to the evil West, where a sinister plot unravels to liberate his oppressed people with democracy.

What ensues is a politically correct nightmare of hilarity. Baron Cohen (Aladeen) has swapped his trademark cocktail of practical jokes and mockumentary stylings for more traditional straight fiction, fourth wall and all. Instead of subverting the public’s preconceptions face to face, director Larry Charles and Baron Cohen attempt to draw the same lines of comedic irony and hypocrisy through a narrative that’s defined by their previous work together. Unfortunately, this is what lets The Dictator down. The duo’s previous offerings successfully balanced a comedic vehicle for plot and narrative, whereas this film’s strained concept seems at times like incidental filler in between the jokes.

That being said, Baron Cohen and his writers have certainly not forgotten how to twist the blade in America’s side. Despite the obvious set piece nature of the scenes, the boundary pushing political and social subversion at work have not lost their impetus for shock and laughter. Aladeen, as a raw facsimile for Gaddafi, innocently delivers cutting bigotry for all to gasp and laugh at – moving seamlessly from extreme anti-Semitism, overt misogyny and a slightly disturbing preoccupation with abortions.

As the protagonist fights to retrieve his country and work through the paces of a fairly standard fish-out-of-water tale, he almost finds an understanding of other people. This is helped by a stereotypical liberal played in many shades of bland by Anna Faris. However, despite all these goings on, it’s difficult to shake the cynical disappointment in the back of your head that none of this is real. When Aladeen loses two American tourists in translation, leading to racial stereotypes being reinforced out of context, it’s hard not to sigh through the laughter. We know that the two tourists are actors and not a genuinely uncomfortable couple.

Despite its flaws, The Dictator retains many of the trappings of an old-school comedy classic, true to form for Sacha Baron Cohen. It easily knocks out a laugh a minute, combining the retro slapstick nature of Laurel and Hardy with the careful wit of an Armando Iannucci comedy. Simultaneously wry and crass, The Dictator only lets itself down on the foundations from whence it came. Sadly, it will never be Borat, but is still hilarious throughout.

It’s been a good decade for French-Canadian cinema. After films like Les Invasions Barbares, Incendies, and last year’s Monsieur Lazhar, there’s talk of a cinematic renaissance. Jean-Marc Vallée’s 2005 film C.R.A.Z.Y garnered almost unanimous critical approval, and with Café de Flore Vallée looks to be aiming to add another film to this growing cannon of quality.

Café de Flore comprises two parallel narratives, one set in late ’60s Paris and the other in contemporary Montreal. In the latter, Kevin Parent plays Antoine Godin, a DJ who has recently left his wife for another woman. Convinced that the couple will reunite, his ex-wife Carole is tortured by strange nightmares. The other plot has Vanessa Paradis as an overprotective single mother who is struggling against both society’s prejudices against her Down’s Syndrome son, Laurent, and his own willful nature. Antoine and Laurent share an obsession with the ‘Café de Flore’ of the title, a Matthew Herbert tune that, by means of this obsession, goes a way towards linking the plots.

The autobiographical C.R.A.Z.Y was an enormous critical success, and Café shares more than a few of its better qualities – once again there’s an effective exploration of the mixed emotions that bind parent and child, and of the collision of the mystical with the grimy everyday. Mid-tempo classic rock accompanies the many fast-paced montage sequences in a manner that’s just as moving as in C.R.A.Z.Y, and a character’s mindset is often communicated to us by means of the same kinds of embarrassing singing-into-the-hairbrush moments that helped make the earlier film so charming.

What’s missing is a decent plot – unlike C.R.A.Z.Y, Café doesn’t have the excuse of autobiography to allow for contrived or dull moments. And both of the film’s narratives are dull; soap-opera-esque in focus and in execution. Sentimentality, unfortunately, rules. Antoine and Laurent’s obsession with the ‘Café de Flore’ tune starts to look forced quite quickly, as does Carole’s preoccupation with her dead marriage – as things progress, the action is only plausible if the emotion is ever-heightened. Sentimentality excuses irrational behaviour in film no more than in life.

It’s clear that Vallée wants his film to be considered as part of the millennial French-Canadian tradition of excellence. Café de Flore, however, is unremarkable and ill-wrought, and doesn’t deserve a place in that pantheon. Monsieur Lazhar is in cinemas soon – go see that first.

A mainstay of the underground film scene in the early 2000s, the Mumblecore movement, described perfectly by John Patterson of the Guardian as “relationship dramas that mine the mundane for great emotional impact with minimal budget,” has finally hit the mainstream. Noah Baumbach’s Greenberg and The Duplass Brother’s Cyrus opened the doors for Hollywood’s Ben Stiller and Jonah Hill to tackle the roles of men in perpetual adolescence, and we find ourselves in familiar territory with Jason Segel in Jeff, Who Lives at Home.

Jeff (Segel) is a thirty-something stoner who resides in his mother’s basement. He believes strongly in the serendipitous nature of life and an opening quote from him establishes the theme of the movie: “keep an open mind and a pure heart and the universe will reveal itself to you through signs”. A wrong number call for someone named Kevin, and an errand from his mother to buy wood glue leads Jeff on a journey that reunites him with his somewhat estranged brother, Pat (Ed Helms), and results in a far from coincidental seeming chain of events.

Unfairly being billed as a comedy by the trailer, Jeff, Who Lives at Home is far from it. Those familiar with Cyrus, will know more what to expect – out and out laughs are substituted for sincere relationship drama and family reconnections. Not to say though, that there’s no humour present. Jeff’s surreptitious attempts at catching his brother’s wife cheating trawls the look away awkwardness of Helm’s day job in The Office while the notion that his everything-that-happens-is-destiny theory is based on M. Night Shyamalan’s Signs is nothing short of acerbic genius.

Segel’s performance, although not a huge departure from what he’s known for, is pitch perfect. Helms plays the perfect uptight foil to his brother, their bickering could only come from the pen of two siblings – while also delivering a scathing and all-too-true-to-life depiction of marital breakdown with Judy Greer’s Linda. Susan Sarandon occupies an almost tertiary sub-plot, yet her interactions with co-worker Carol (Rae Dawn Chong) provide some of the film’s sweetest and more poignant beats.

The third act threatens to take the wheels off the whole movie. The gallons of saccharine poured on come close to smothering the message instead of amplifying it. With five great performances though, these issues are soon forgotten, leaving only an unshakeable smile on your face.

We were somewhere around The Mexican Border on the edge of the desert when the nonsense began to take hold…

From this point onwards, Mel Gibson literally and figuratively crashes his audience through 95 minutes of what would seem like a sentimental vanity project gone wrong. The film opens with Gibson, an American criminal simply known as Driver, on the run from the authorities along the Mexican border. With the law giving chase on both sides of the fence, he chooses the lesser of two evils and launches himself across the border and into trouble. Upon finding in excess of $2 million in his getaway car, the Federales take him to a walled in, slum-like Mexican prison, replete with vast corruption and a head honcho breeding a liver in a small child.

Slip your brain into neutral and prepare yourself to ignore Gibson’s ‘quirky’ brand of thinly-veiled racism wrapped up in in Mexican standoffs and hyperbolised action sequences. The film appears to want you to believe that all Mexicans do is eat tacos and listen to Mariachi music. Adrian Grunberg (a student of Gibson himself) directs Gibson’s screenplay that pits two competing national perspectives on corruption against each other. While Mexico’s vision is open and ‘honest’ about their wheeling and dealing, Gibson’s criminal is the American poster boy of redemptive corruption as he brings white justice to the seedy underbelly of Mexico’s prison system. Moreover, it would seem that Gibson is attempting an awkward stab at nostalgic voyeurism: recreating a criminalised version of Lethal Weapon’s Riggs; exchanging Danny Glover for a chain smoking Mexican child. However, this brand of jingoistic outlaw hubris is lost as Driver retains almost no redeeming qualities whatsoever.

The film’s dialogue is composed almost solely of witless but catchy quips delivered at a pace so fast that it empties them of any meaning whatsoever. The clumsy manipulation of the characters provides no insight to their background or story, which leaves the audience with little empathy as they’re pushed towards the films awkward attempt at a sincere conclusion. On the surface, How I Spent My Summer Vacation plays out like an average, enjoyable action film – a renaissance for the ‘80s action flick. However, there exists no contextual or characteristic mortar to fill in the gaping blanks left by the film’s need to satiate every dark desire we have to shoot at things until they explode.

All things considered, the return of the simplistic, minimalist action anti hero is somewhat welcomed in what at times can be a comedic and painfully easy to watch film. Quite simply, this is Lethal Weapon’s Martin Riggs on the wrong side of the border, on the wrong side of the law, and perhaps, on the wrong side of the camera.

From Alfred Hitchcock’s Rope to Alexander Sokurov’s Russian Ark, the idea of presenting a film as a single shot has been executed before with extraordinary results. However, like the ‘found footage’ trend before it, a horror movie has come along to remind us that innovative style does not automatically mean a great film.

Silent House is the inevitable American remake of last year’s La Casa Muda, a Uruguayan horror made in ‘real time’, meaning it is composed of long shots seamlessly stitched together to look like it is one continuous take. The remake is directed by Laura Lau and Chris Kentis who are best known for Open Water, another recent ‘low budget/high concept’ horror. The central cast is similarly tiny here, the real star being Elizabeth Olsen who spends the majority of the film alone, and acting surprisingly like a real person. Unlike the Neve Campbells or Jessica Biels of 21st century horror, who attempt to firm up, face their fears and win the day, Olsen’s Sarah just wants to get the hell out of her unfortunate predicament as quickly as possible. Although all the screaming and running lacks the heft of her surprise debut performance in Martha Marcy May Marlene, she does well here. Unfortunately the other characters are really just poorly-drawn foils to give her things to do.

The movie’s format means it has to make some stylistic sacrifices, with the occasional bit of dodgy focus and actors not so subtly manoeuvring themselves around the camera crew, but overall it’s a successful exercise in style. Sadly it’s the substance that proves to be the film’s ultimate weakness, in that it has none. The plot is little more than a patchwork of ideas, story beats and even full sequences ‘borrowed’ from other, better films (the makers of Saw should really get the lawyers on the phone over a certain ‘camera flash in a dark room’ sequence). The confusing and nonsensical twists and turns the film takes in its last act only serve to undo any good character work and tension-building done in the rest of the movie. However it’s hard to pile too much blame on Lau and Kentis, as many of the film’s flaws are also present in the Uruguayan original.

While Silent House is technically impressive and Olsen is fun to watch, in every other department it suffers from a fatal lack of originality. If American filmmakers insist on continually remaking foreign horror movies, it would be nice if in future they stuck to ones with an actual story.

Safe is very much that. The story follows Jason Statham, taking on a role that Chuck Norris would have happily filled out in the ’80s, an ex-policeman-turned-cage fighter who finds himself entangled in a gang war between Russian and Asian stereotypes on the streets of New York. The rival gangs are fighting for possession of a little Asian girl who has memorised a sequence of numbers that’s of the utmost importance to both gangs. The plot is overly complicated and really doesn’t warrant deep scrutiny or thought. In fact, for the sake of enjoyment, it’s better to disregard it entirely. Safe is a brainless action film and it knows it. It doesn’t try to crowbar in emotional moments or dramatic beats.

The direction of the film is fast, quick and brutal – very much reminiscent of John McTiernan films from the 1990s. There’s little or no time given to allow a full story to develop or even to empathise with or understand the characters in Safe. The speed of the film is such that you get a brief picture of each character, their motivations, and then it’s on to the next action scene. This is the film’s true strength and Boaz Yakin knows it. Statham wouldn’t be able to sustain a dramatic, dialogue-driven sequence. Instead, he’s a flurry of movement and one-liners – firing and punching like it’s going out of fashion. The dialogue throughout Safe is riddled with cliches and the brief moments of respite are handled poorly. The relationship that develops between Statham and the little Asian girl (Catherine Chan) is cursory at best. Safe is a daft actioner, that if approached with low expectations, can be slightly enjoyable.

Directed by Constance Marks, Being Elmo: A Puppeteer’s Journey documents the life and times of Sesame Street puppeteer Kevin Clash. Released in the same week as Joss Whedon’s Avengers Assemble, this heart-warming documentary proves that in the right hand, a glove puppet can still conjure as much magic and entertainment as your average Hollywood blockbuster.

Traditionally documentaries succeed on the strength of their subjects and here Marks introduces two of the most charming and likeable characters in the business; puppeteer Kevin Clash and his most beloved creation, Elmo. For the uninitiated, Elmo is a furry red puppet with a propensity for referring to himself in the third person, and one of Sesame Street’s most popular characters. Those familiar with this global phenomenon however will know he represents much more than that. For parents he is a highly sought after toy. For children, he is a friend. For his creator Kevin Clash, he is love.

Born in 1960, Clash grew up in Baltimore, Maryland and like many children of his generation spent his formative years in front of the tube. While most children were content to absorb shows like Captain Kangaroo, Clash was already yearning to peak behind the curtain. Such awareness of the mechanics of television and specifically puppeteering at such a tender age is quite remarkable and to their eternal credit his parents, George and Gladys, sought to nourish and encourage it. Though peripheral in terms of the overall story George and Gladys’ love and support for their son shines throughout so it comes as a fitting tribute when Clash reveals Elmo was largely inspired by his father.

At times Clash’s story resembles the stuff of Roald Dahl, a boy who dreams of passing through his TV set in order to visit Sesame Street grows up to work on the show – and yet like Dahl’s stories there are hints of an underlying darkness. Though Marks’ documentary focuses almost exclusively on Clash’s life as a puppeteer, his strained relationship with his ex-wife and daughter suggest success has come with a price.

Marks weaves a wealth of archive material into her narrative and Clash’s journey from self-starter puppeteer through stints at CBS, The Great Space Coaster and Captain Kangaroo is brilliantly evoked. While this material undoubtedly adds texture and context to Clash’s story it is the puppeteer himself who gifts the film a voice. When he speaks of his childhood, be it memories of Sesame Street or his first forays into puppet making, he exudes the same unbridled joy and passion that informs his work.

Heartfelt and utterly beguiling, Being Elmo reminds us to follow our dreams and cherish our imaginations. They should screen it in schools.

The story of Bob Marley’s rise and sudden death is one that should have been told long before now. A character so divisive, it’s telling that it’s taken almost four years and three different directors just to make a documentary about him. From the very beginning to the end Marley is the story of the man himself, his ideals and upbringing, his relationships and somewhat controversial beliefs. Those expecting to hear about how he made his sound or his recording techniques, how he performed with his backing band and so forth will, unfortunately, be left wanting. Marley is just that – a film about Bob Marley.

Kevin McDonald, primarily known as a film director and not as a documentary maker, provides a full account of the singer’s early life. He travels to his birthplace of Nine Mile, gives detailed information on his upbringing and his absent white father. He also interviews, for the first time, the original band Marley formed in Jamaica. McDonald makes strong use of a wide range of characters, from his wife Rita Marley, longtime girlfriend Cindy Breakspeare to manager Alan ‘Skill’ Cole and label boss Chris Blackwell. The interviews are touching and personal, each retelling their experiences with Marley and make for a fascinating look into the reggae star’s life and times. Interspersed with this are clips of live performances that really demonstrate how powerful his music was. The film also focuses on his political activism in Jamaica and his attempts to quell the violence that plagued the country in the 1970′s.

Where the film falls down somewhat is by glossing over the negatives in his life – particularly the aftermath of his death and the subsequent plundering of his estate by various characters. None of this is mentioned in the film directly and is only briefly alluded to at the very end. Also, the film gives a somewhat naive answer to the question of his many relationships and subsequent children. It may be that Marley himself was unconcerned with people’s reactions – stated by the man himself and those who knew him, his wife included – or it could be that the director simply didn’t want to acknowledge it. Likewise, his involvement with Robert Mugabe and the Zimbabwean government and his apparent sternness and emotional distance with his children is summarised in only a few scenes. The film doesn’t feel like it’s a warts-and-all recounting of his life – it’s his greatest hits and achievements. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, mind – he lived an extraordinary life and made great strides to progress and promote the Third World. It’s just you can’t help the feeling that Marley isn’t the whole story.

Having been a solid cinematic staple throughout the ’90s with the likes of León, The Fifth Element and Nikita, Luc Besson has spent the last decade producing a slew of action films shot primarily around Europe for mass American consumption. The results have been varying – or just plain awful depending on your tolerance for B-movie schlock. A side-note, I’m all for it. Taken, an updated interpretation of Commando has seen Liam Neeson become the most bankable action star around, while it was The Transporter series that showed Jason Statham had more going than just being a grimacing geezer. He can, in fact, kick things really well.

Lockout, Besson’s latest project – co-written with Irish directors James Mather and Stephen St.Leger – is set in 2079, and sees CIA operative Snow (Pearce) set up and sent to MS One, a supermax – not that kind (although potentially as dangerous the one on Eyre Square on Rag Week) orbiting earth. When the President’s daughter (Grace) visits on a routine aid mission and is kidnapped and held to ransom, it’s up to Snow to get her out. He’s the best there is, but he’s a loose cannon. I wish I made that last part up, alas, that beauty of a line is actually in the trailer below. It’s that kind of movie.

This is a bad film, but nonetheless it is a fun film. This is primarily down to a wonderful tongue-in-cheek performance from Guy Pearce. Given a wise-cracking character that’s part Snake Plisken, part John McClane, Pearce embraces the absurdity of it all and just runs with it, delivering lines like, “Here’s an apple and a shotgun. Don’t talk to strangers; Shoot them,” with shit-eating grin majesty. His co-stars fill their clichéd roles adequately. Grace gets just a little more to do here than her turn in Taken, while Stormare plays the chain-of-command touting secret service chief with aplomb. Rent-a-Gerard-Butler Vincent Regan even makes a nice change as a villain without a dodgy eastern European accent.

Where Lockout falls flat is that it tries to be a bigger film than it really needs to be. A futuristic motorcycle freeway chase is more Road Rash than Transformers, the plot lashes on far too much exposition towards the end, and its attempt at deep space dogfight exposes its budgetary restraints. ‘Less is more’ has never been more apt. Just give us Pearce, his foul mouth, a packet of smokes and we’ll be happy.

It’s no secret that comic books are all about payoff. There’s a fairly standard formula to the medium; Establish a flimsy conflict and stakes as quickly as possible, then let the shit hit the fan. The action, the style, the amazing feats and witty quips, by the time the villains bite the dust the reader is so exhilarated they can barely remember that it didn’t make all that much sense to begin with. With this in mind, it can safely be said that Joss Whedon has created one of the truest comic book movies of all time with Avengers Assemble. And boy does it kick ass.

Captain America, Thor, Iron Man, Hulk, Samuel L Jackson. These are earth’s mightiest heroes, and they’ve almost all had their turn in the spotlight. But when the world is faced with the greatest threat its ever seen (yeah, it’s aliens), they must set aside their differences, overcome their egos, and band together to save our asses.

Avengers Assemble opens on a sour note, with a wonky action set piece that’s more bewildering than thrilling. Still, it manages to establish a bad guy, and the movie just about scrapes by as entertaining for the rest of the awkward, exposition heavy first act. The film is tasked with uniting characters and plot from the five preceding entries in the Marvel Studio’s universe, so it’s not too surprising that the process is a little clumsy. The set up ain’t pretty, but it is quick, and once all our heroes are in one place, the film can finally unleash the insanity it’s been giddily building up to. Once Avengers Assemble hits its stride, it’s practically unstoppable.

Increasingly massive action set pieces begin to pile up one on top of the other as the film enters its second act, each more intense and exhilarating than the last. The action is matched stride for stride with a genuinely hilarious script that’s laden with sharp one liners, witty asides and physical humour. Everything is delivered with pinpoint comic timing, and never undermines the drama, unless it’s been explicitly designed to. Every member of the stellar main cast is given more than one moment to shine, though surprisingly it’s the CG incredible Hulk that grabs the lion’s share of the big pay off moments.

The action is framed masterfully through Whedon’s energetic eye; plenty of raw spectator style handycam, and some slick use of long traveling shots to convey the many simultaneous action set pieces of the anarchic third act. Alan Silvestri’s score punctuates the organised chaos perfectly, though lacks the kind of memorable themes that set apart the films ’80s genre forefathers.

With Avengers Assemble, Whedon has taken a potentially volatile formula, and crafted a thrill ride without compare. Following the classic comic book blueprint, his film delivers so much humor, adrenaline and pure pay off, that the flimsy plot and rickety first act will be wiped from all but the most pedantic of minds. He knows his audience inside out, and plays them for all the laughs, cheers, gasps and fist pumps they’re worth. It’s something incredible to behold.

A slightly more Scottish than usual Ewan McGregor plays Dr. Alfred Jones, a civil servant in the Department of Fisheries. Emily Blunt is Harriet Chetwode-Talbot, a consultant representing the interests of an oil rich Yemeni sheikh who wants to bring salmon fishing to the deserts of his homeland. Being a doctor and civil servant, Dr. Jones doesn’t take such poppycock seriously and sends his representatives on their merry way, but is hamstrung by politicians wanting a good news story from the Middle East. Here, the film comes to life a little, with Kristin Scott Thomas having so much fun as the Prime Minister’s press secretary that you forget you’re being asked to laugh at the trivialities of war and death. She’s a swearing, smoking joke machine, and props the first act of the film up until Amr Waked can show up to play Sheikh Muhammed.

Lumbered with all of the dialogue required to actually make the film mean something, Waked has a fairly thankless job, as even if he does it well, he’s a bludgeoning the audience with the movie’s themes. That he rises above this is a tribute to the skill and humility he brings to a character who seems absurd on paper: an oil rich Yemeni sheikh who wants to bring Salmon Fishing to the Yemeni deserts so people can all get along and have a little more faith. Seriously, that’s his ideology. It’s crazy and it’s blinkered, but he really, really believes it, and so do you after a while. He’s so good that the conversion of Ewan McGregor from Aspergers suffering skeptic into idiot romantic is almost believable. The word ‘almost’ is key here, as it aptly describes most aspects of this film.

It’s not just that the premise is mental or that the themes are unsubtle, or even that the two main characters are annoyingly inconsistent; it’s all these things together. If it were supposed to be a funny critique of political power play (and Kristin Scott Thomas does appear to be doing her best Malcolm Tucker impression), it fails when it tries to make it about faith. If it were about faith and a belief in something being important, then it’s ruined by dragging the wildly unnecessary love story to the fore in the final act. If it were a love story, it’s let down by the inconsistent characterisation and total absence of chemistry. It’s not a mess, but it’s not a good version of any of the above either.

Director Lasse Hallström tries his hardest to raise it above the sum of its parts, and despite strong supporting performances, he never quite succeeds. Ultimately, the film is much like the titular fish; agreeable and inoffensive, but not very challenging or adventurous.

With the release of The Avengers only a few short weeks away, Joss Whedon’s ascension to the heights of Hollywood heavyweight seems assured. So what better time to push for the release of the long delayed Cabin in the Woods, a quirky horror pastiche produced and written by Whedon in conjunction with long time collaborator, director Drew Goddard. Cabin is a sharp and inspired tear down of horror cliches, funnier than it is scary, that will pay off in a big way for those familiar with the tropes of the aging genre.

This is normally where a plot summary would go, but it’d be a disservice to the film and anyone intending to see it to give away anything more than a few scant details. Essentially, a group of college kids have the bright idea to take a weekend break in the titular cabin. Each kid falls squarely into a slasher fodder mold; jock, bookworm, slut, stoner etc. However nothing is quite what it seems for this bunch, and that goes double for the audience.

The screenplay for Cabin in the Woods is so nuts, so disruptively brilliant, that it’s amazing that it ever got made. The writing’s as sharp as Freddie Krueger’s fingers, mixing dialogue ripe with Whedonistic throwaways and a story so self aware that it’s a surprise it didn’t leap off the page and stumble into the night. The talent behind this film have spent as much time watching subversive horror and sci-fi as they have making it, and you can tell. X-Files, Buffy, MST3K, take your pick, Cabin in the Woods is as good as any of them, and twice as funny.

In true schlock horror fashion, the cast of teens are mostly unknowns (with the exception of a pre Thor Chris Hemsworth) and all fill their roles with the sort of gormless gusto we expect to see in our horror victims. Of note is Fran Kranz, who juggles the dual roles of comedy relief stoner and perceptive audience surrogate terrifically. Contrasting nicely with the kids’ fatal naivety are Bradley Whitford and Richard Jenkins, with pitch perfect performances as a pair of dry witted technicians whose unaffected banter juxtaposes hilariously with the brutal action in the cabin.

Cabin in the Woods is a treat for anyone familiar with, and perhaps fatigued by the current state of horror films. It draws material and inspiration from almost every facet of horror fiction, but never feels bloated because of it. The film has a little less to offer those not up to date on their horror movie history, who may find the insanity on show altogether a bit perplexing. Regardless, it’s something like you’ve never seen before, and may just be what’s needed to freshen up this ever-so-slightly decrepit genre.

Ever wondered what happened to Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid? No doubt many romantics have pondered the potential glorious escape of the charismatic antiheroes. Writer Miguel Barros is of such an ilk, and sees Cassidy as a homely horse rearer living out a simple existence in the Bolivian sticks under the name James Blackthorn.

Upon hearing of the death of Etta Place, the mother of Sundance’s child Ryan, Blackthorn begins making plans to return to the U.S.. Before he can get that far however, he’s mistakenly assaulted by Eduardo Apodaca (Eduardo Noriega), a Spanish engineer on the run from a posse of Bolivian hitmen. In exchange for his help, Eduardo offers Blackthorn a cut of the $50,000 he has hidden nearby. Despite the looming threat of the seemingly unstoppable gang on the Spaniard’s tail, the glint of past bounties is still dormant inside Blackthorn and the old bandit can’t resist.

Complimenting the well thought out script is an understated performance from Sam Shepard, who makes for an entirely believable Butch Cassidy. The aged Butch is just as hard and sullen as you want him to be. He remains impenetrable, impossible to befriend despite the efforts of Eduardo. Plus, he spits, tracks people via horse manure, and is full of the sagely nuggets of wisdom you’d would expect from the world weary bandit.

The only real lulls in Blackthorn are the gratuitous flashbacks. They feature a young Butch, somewhat confusingly played by Nikolaj Coster-Waldau (Game of Thrones), whose wavy blonde locks would seem more suited to the role of the young Sundance Kid. Instead that role goes to Padraig Delaney (The Wind that Shakes the Barley) who can certainly act but falls a little short of believable. Surprisingly, Delaney isn’t the only Irish actor to cross the screen. The consistently brilliant Stephen Rea delivers a noteworthy performance as Cassidy and Sundance’s ex-pursuer turned pasty drunkard, Detective Mackinley. His scenes with Shepard are downright poignant and contain some of the best dialogue in the film.

The action scenes are sparse but what they lack in frequency they more than make up for in intensity. There’s no frills, just the slow panic of close-quarters gun fire. The climactic shoot out on the Uyuni salt flats is particularly enthralling, perhaps due to the cinematography which is stunning throughout. Shot on location in Bolivia, Blackthorn simply looks amazing.

Blackthorn is a gruff, rusty bucket western that will please any fans of the genre. Rea is engrossing throughout, as is Shepard who’s clearly at home in the role of James Blackthorn. Match that with the arresting cinematography and the grizzly world of Bolivian plateaus, and you’ve got a solid piece of cinema. If nothing else it will give you a hankering to revisit the Paul Newman, Robert Redford classic from 1969.

Wrath Of The Titans should’ve been a slam dunk in terms of action movies. It has all the potential of the swords and sandals canon that slayed box-offices only a few years ago. It has ridiculously well-rendered special effects and a stable of credible vets to fill out the god roles. How is this not the most fun franchise going? Sam Worthington, that’s how.

It’s probably unfair to lump all the blame on his shoulders. But you can imagine that many years from now, the Titans series will be remembered for two different things; setting the benchmark for egregiously horrific post-conversion 3D, and conversations that go something like this, “Hey, remember Sam Worthington, the guy from that movie with the really shitty post-conversion 3D?”

Ten years removed from his defeat of the Kraken, demigod Perseus (Worthington) is living a quiet life as a fisherman, before, you guessed it, the world’s oldest and most powerful dysfunctional family are at it again. When Zeus (Neeson) brings together his brothers to help contain their father, the titan Kronos (there is actually a titan in this one) succumbs to a backstabbing by Hades (Fiennes). How did he not see this coming? With Zeus chained in the impregnable (actually very pregnable) prison of Tartarus, it is left to Perseus to round up a band of merry men and destroy lots of things, ancient Greek style.

A sequel in name but a poorly disguised remake in actuality, Wrath follows all the beats of Clash from it’s early fun onslaught to its laborious road trip and again once concluding with a set piece battle against an enormous CGI beast that’s over far too soon. The action on a whole is improved – Perseus’ God Of War inspired skirmish with a multi-headed Chimera is expertly shot and spews adrenaline – yet the surrounding scenes linking the set pieces are unforgivably bad. The potential for focusing on the sheer barminess of the power yearning and narcissistic gods is passed up for bombing throw-away lines like “you look 10,000 years younger.”

Another sequel is likely, though not yet announced, and events in Wrath suggest things may be different the next time around. We can only hope that a change of characters in front of the camera is met with the same behind it.

In the opening scene of In Darkness, director Agnieszka Holland appears to make an assertion about her feelings about the atrocities suffered by the Jewish communities in Poland during the war. After raiding an abandoned house with his co-worker, Leopold Socha (Robert Więckiewicz) navigates through a nearby forest where he witnesses dozens of naked women being chased by German soldiers, their appearance more akin to pale white spectres flickering just before dawn’s break. A brutal execution sees their bodies piled en masse, yet their bodies seem more colourful, even possibly more human, as if their deaths were a release from the barbarity they were subjected to.

It is with surprise, then, that In Darkness, while dealing with a truly harrowing story in a grisly part of recent history is somewhat uplifting, and most bizarrely, funny at times. Following Socha, a petty thief and sewer worker in the Polish city of Lwów who agrees to hide a group of Jewish people throughout the cities’ underground with his vast knowledge of it’s labyrinthian shape. Primarily seeking only remuneration at the idea’s inception, Socha’s stoic approach to the Jewish plight comes undone as he grows closer and closer to them.

As a frequent collaborator with David Simon – she directed numerous episodes of The Wire and the pilot of Treme – it’s no shock to see Holland handle each character so well, from an affair revealed at the worst time to an untimely birth. Socha may command the lion’s share of the screen time but he exists merely as a vessel for the bigger picture. The presence of humour, although on no par with Life Is Beautiful, is welcome, with the irony of Passover being celebrated under a Holy Communion service a highlight.

Although based primarily underground and in perpetual Winter, the cinematography is stunning. The dimly lit cave like setting is perfectly realised while a ubiquitous sky blue motif plays throughout the film, most effectively on a Star Of David marking and in eyes seeing daylight for the first time in months. An unlucky loser in the Best Foreign Language Film at the Oscars to A Separation – a more than worthy winner, In Darkness achieves the rare act of bringing light to a cruel and harsh time in history, so heavily steeped in turpitude.

Identity is complicated. Knowing who you are, figuring out how you got there, wondering who you’re meant to be. It’s the kind of thing that could drive a man crazy, thinking about it too much. So its not too surprising that a film attempting to tackle this, amongst a plethora of other seemingly random themes, could potentially be a tad dishevelled. Well it’s exactly what This Must Be The Place, the latest film from Italian director Paolo Sorrentino, attempts to do, and it’s a meandering disaster as a result.

Cheyenne (Sean Penn) is an aging rockstar irking out a humdrum royalty fuelled retirement in his vast country estate in Dublin. Upon hearing his estranged father in New York is terminally ill, he travels to reconcile with him, but instead ends up on a continent spanning road trip to find both his own misplaced identity, and his father’s one time Nazi persecutor.

This Must Be The Place is a film split sharply in two. The first act, set in Dublin, introduces enough characters, conflicts and relationships to fill an entire film of its own. These are all essentially ditched when Cheyenne hits the road, and the effect is distinctly unsettling. From here the film proceeds to introduce a smorgasbord of odd encounters and new faces, though none of these are ever developed, and exist solely to allow Penn’s character a moment of self-reflection. This constantly in flux cast of half characters are too busy monologuing or looking longingly into the distance to allow time for any meaningful plot developments, and the result is frustratingly tedious. It also means the only person the audience has any continuous interaction with is Cheyenne, an eccentric mope with a grating voice, who is far too introverted and aloof to ever grow attached to.

The film is rough to the point of amateurishness. The direction is solid, but the editing is slapdash, many scenes drag on for too long, and the sound can distinctly be heard peaking shrilly on a couple of occasions. Beyond the meandering nature of the script, the dialogue itself is weak, especially exposition, which is delivered like a ham-fisted afterthought.

Much like its protagonist, This Must Be The Place has a serious identity crisis. It brings on board too many characters, locations and themes, and doesn’t have the plot or time to make sense of them all. To make matters worse, the film seems to flaunt its philosophising tone as an excuse for this messiness. Don’t let the title fool you, if you find yourself in a screening of This Must Be The Place, you’re most likely lost.

Just when you think you’re out, they pull you back in. It’s the motif of a thousand crime films. There’s always that dark past ready to be revisited, that one last job needing to be done. Predictably the same applies in Contraband, a remake of 2008 Icelandic feature Reykjavík-Rotterdam from director Baltasar Kormákur, Though perhaps Kormakur should have taken a tip from the big book of crime clichés himself, as this was one job not worth revisiting. Contraband is an aggressively sub-par action thriller, that attempts to define itself with a twitchy sense of flair that only serves to highlight how utterly generic it is.

Mark Wahlberg is Chris Farraday, a retired smuggler trying to make an honest living selling house alarms or something. But his peaceful existence is interrupted when bla bla bla, whatever. The plot to Contraband is so entirely by the numbers it might as well be a lottery ticket. What’s truly unfathomable though is that it’s a remake. How Kormákur looked at the original and felt like it was a story that simply had to be retold, we’ll never know. Even more puzzling is that with the hindsight of a remake, couldn’t the script have been tightened up, made more exciting, more original? Maybe Reykjavík-Rotterdam was a solid film and Contraband has simply lost everything in translation? It seems unlikely many viewers will ever be equipped to make the comparison, A single viewing of Contraband will be enough to strike the though of watching the original from most peoples mind.

The film boasts quite a cast, including the aforementioned Wahlberg, plus Kate Beckinsale, Ben Foster and Giovani Ribisi. However the hopelessly bland script leaves the unfortunate cast adrift. Wahlberg performs as well as can be expected as Faraday, but the character is miserably dull and has no arc to speak of. Foster and Ribisi fill the most interesting roles, as Faraday’s old partner and a prickly drug lord respectively, yet neither character is developed in a meaningful way.

Though predictable, the story does allow for a single surprising turn towards the end of the second act. As if suddenly becoming aware of just how bloody boring it is, the film suddenly decides ‘what the heck, now I’m an art heist flick!’. What follows is actually a pretty decent action set piece that’s almost impossible to appreciate considering how out of place it feels. This surreal twist is made all the more odd by the fact that it completely ignores the stakes and sense of urgency that had already been established in the movie.

Kormákur has clearly set out to make a ‘cool’ looking film. Unfortunately the presentation of Contraband is an overdoses of hyperactive close ups, erratic zooms and a mind-bogglingly inconsistent use of focus. These techniques can be used to great effect in moderation, but they permeate Contraband with such frequency that it’s just frustrating. They serve neither to ramp up the excitement and drama, nor to disguise the lack of it. The camera trips through scenes like a hopped up crack addict. Not cool, just plain bizarre.

Full disclosure, I had secretly hoped that Contraband would be kind of average. The reason being I had a killer pun up my sleeve and I was dying to use it in this review. ‘ContraBLAND’. Good, right? Unfortunately I’m not going to use it, because it isn’t an average film. The ho-hum script, misguided sense of flair, the complete disregard for pacing and tension. Contraband is quite simply a bad film, no pun required.

The art of adaptation is one which many writers and directors are now intimately familiar. As original films dry up faster than fossil fuels, Hollywood has developed a love affair with anything it can squeeze a license out of; theatre, tv shows, remakes and of course books. Which brings us to The Hunger Games, a movie that more than anything in recent memory proves that there is indeed an artistry to adaptation. Gary Ross’s film of Suzanne Collins’s mediocre teen novel trims the fat and delivers a slick and thrilling blockbuster.

The Hunger Games takes place in a dystopian future, where the ruling class inhabit a lavish secluded capital, while the subjugated working classes provide them with raw materials from the far less glamorous twelve districts. As penance for an ancient uprising, the districts must each year offer two children to be entered into the titular Hunger Games, a televised week long battle to the death, overseen by the thoroughly sinister President Snow (Donald Sutherland). The story follows the tributes from district 12, Katniss Everdeen (Lawrence) and sort-of love interest Peeta Mellark (Hutcherson), as the fight for their lives in the arena.

What makes The Hunger Games such a triumph is Ross’s ability to take the basic structure established in the book, ground it, enrich it, and give it a new found flavour. The once bland tale has been unwound by the directors steady hand and remade in a captivating new form with likeable characters, tension and emotional weight, none of which were present in the novel. Ross has made few compromises for the novel’s young audience and the film tackles its brutal subject matter head on. From the downtrodden and ramshackle districts, to the resplendent architecture and frivolous fashion of the capital, the world is so thoroughly realised that it’s easy to be almost instantaneously wrapped up in it. Unfortunately, much like the book, the actual hunger games themselves are by far the least compelling part of the story. After setting up such a richly detailed world and cast of characters, it’s disappointing to spend the last hour or so locked away from most of them. This is only magnified by the rushed ending which fails to give the supporting cast their due.

The Hunger Games delivers a diverse and genuinely congenial cast of characters, realised both through the writing and performances. Lawrence is captivating as no nonsense protagonist Katniss. Much as her character must vie for the crowd’s support in the games, Lawrence defies the odds by making self serious Katniss an easy heroine to root for. Josh Hutcheson is charming and competent as Peeta. The supporting cast is equally engaging, if not more so, standouts being Woody Harrelson as pessimistic mentor Haymitch, Elizabeth Banks as pedantic and aloof escort Effie Trinket and Stanley Tucci as the oddly loveable games presenter Ceasar Flickermann.

The action in Hunger Games is distilled through the consistent use of turbulent hand held and point of view shots. Not only does this allow for violence to be implied with out too much gore, but it serves to give audience a visceral sensation of inhabiting the world. That said, while the effect masks the action for younger viewers, it also makes certain action set pieces a little difficult to follow.

With The Hunger Games, Gary Ross has crafted an almost flawless template for adaptation. It takes a distinctly average source material, tweaks and hones it, cuts out the fluff, and delivers not just a different, but a vastly super interpretation of the material. However it’s still beholden to some of the weakness of the original story, and some of its own. Despite this, The Hunger Games delivers something special, an adaptation that surpasses the limitations of its source to become a film that can -and will- be enjoyed by anyone.

Paul Rudd, boy oh boy, he really should know better. A romantic comedy – albeit the new ruder and cruder Judd Apatow inspired type – with Jennifer Aniston? Did alarm bells not ring? He was in Friends, right? In fact, he was basically the best thing in it for a while, and he had to share most of his scenes with Lisa Kudrow. That can’t have been easy.

In Wanderlust, Rudd sticks with his niche and plays an everyman whose occupation can be defined as “works in an office”. He tested it in Friends, molded it in Knocked Up and nailed it in I Love You, Man. This is completely fine because funnily enough, he’s exceptionally likeable and seems like a regular guy. Aniston plays his wife, an upstart filmmaker with ideals on a HBO series about penguins with testicular cancer. Hey, I guess that’s why they call it acting. After taking a plunge and buying a loft apartment in New York before the job market crashes, they decide their panacea lies in a free-loving, pot-smoking hippie commune. Modern day allegory or cautionary tale, what could it be?

Teaming again with Role Models director David Wain has seen Rudd yet again assume the role of Atlas, lugging a globe of comedic mediocrity on his shoulders. Jokes? They don’t come easily here, a mishmash of varying eccentricities from beatniks, mandatory peyote-induced hallucinations and the continuing trend of “dick in the face” gags are played for muted laughter. It says a lot of the supporting players that the film’s funniest moment is played out by Rudd alone in front of a mirror, psyching himself up with a scattering of chameleonic smut.

After shifting, ever so slightly, out of her comfort zone with her nymphomaniac dentist in Horrible Bosses last year, Aniston resorts back to romantic comedy autopilot, known more commonly as Rachel. Her one shining moment, a beautiful opportunity to take a pop at the quasi religious HBO, is terribly underdeveloped and overshot. Elsewhere, Justin Theroux continues to prove he needs to stop answering phone calls from director’s not named David Lynch while Malin Akerman follows in Aniston’s career as a desperate rom-com actress. Minus, you know, starring in the biggest comedy show of all time.

After Role Models, Our Idiot Brother – (still unreleased in Ireland with good cause)– and now Wanderlust, all movies with Rudd playing point and running the show, Rudd hammers it home that he’s at his absolute best when operating as a comedic wingman. Please revert back, Paul. Please.

Fans of Notorious BIG may already be familiar with Rampart cops. Those who’ve seen Nick Broomfield’s Biggie And Tupac will know all about them. The alleged involvement of three L.A. police officers – at the time working night-time security for Death Row Records owner Suge Knight – in the shooting of Biggie was a smaller incident in a sprawling scandal that ripped through the L.A.P.D in the late ’90s when evidence planting, shootings, beating suspects and dealing drugs were all commonplace. By the time all the cases were cleared, the city of L.A. was down nearly $150 million.

In Rampart, Woody Harrelson plays a fictional version of one of the worst cops around the L.A. beat, Dave ‘Date Rape Dave’ Brown; a bigot, racist, sexist, chauvinist, misanthrope – all the words of his own daughter, Spiraling debts, a crumbling family life and a lengthy suspension following a very public beating lead Brown to put things straight the only way he knows how, by doing exactly what got him there in the first place.

Coming from the pen of James Ellroy (L.A. Confidential and The Black Dahlia), a man who writes two things well, Los Angeles and Los Angeles cops, you’d be forgiven for having a moderately high expectation. Sadly, with Rampart, he bombs on just about every turn. Once a bastion of on-screen banter, Ellroy serves up dialogue without even a modicum of what he’s capable of. Lines like, “I’m not a racist, I hate everyone equally” and “I don’t cheat taxes…you can’t cheat on something you’ve never committed to”, would struggle to make even a bargain bin video game. In fact, for a better study of C.R.A.S.H cops, you’d be better served getting out your PS2 and dusting off your copy of Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas.

Teaming with director of The Messenger, one of Harrelson’s best roles and a deserved Oscar nominee, must have seemed a no-brainer. His performance is the one redemptive light in a muddled mess. He portrays Brown as far smarter than you’d expect – it’s revealed he took, and failed the Bar exam – and seemed destined for a bright future before resigning to let his soul rot in the L.A sun. His supporting cast makes for impressive reading yet ranges from the acceptable (Wright, Beatty and Weaver), the oh so bad (Ice Cube, Heche and Nixon) to the “Hey wait! Was that…” (Buscemi and Foster).

The dirty cop film schtick is becoming a laborious one, save for those with an injection of iguanas and breakdancing souls, and Rampart is no different. Repugnant law abusers seeking solstice has been old-hat since Abel Ferrara’s Bad Lieutenant, each narrative beat metronomic in structure. Rampart had a chance to be different, to tell the story of a legal pandemic, but settled to use the L.A. backdrop for a poor man’s Training Day. Antoine Fuqua’s 2001 film had Dr. Dre, Rampart has Ice Cube. Kind of says it all, doesn’t it?

There’s always been a problem with watching a movie based on a play. It’s glaringly obvious you’re watching a play. You can dress it with elaborate sets and locations, garnish it with evocative orchestral scores or contemporary pop tunes and frame your shots seven ways from Sunday. It’s still a play. Not that that is something to be criticised, and with Carnage, Roman Polanski’s adaptation of Yasmina Reza’s play God Of Carnage, we see exactly why.

Set with in one single New York apartment and spun around a simple premise, it sees two couples; neurotic art snob Penelope (Jodie Foster) and her gregarious oaf of a husband Michael (John C.Reilly), along with sheltered Nancy (Kate Winslet) and nihilistic lawyer Alan (Christoph Waltz) meeting to discuss a playground spat between their two eleven-year-old sons. A simple discussion on rights and wrongs soon evolves into a manic meditation on Darfur, unethical pharmaceuticals practices, hamster homicide, misogyny, rare art books and splendid shit-talking.

Polanski executes the whole proceeding with a nod to the WWE. What starts as continuous goading pushes to snide one-upmanship before 18-year-old scotch pushes it from a tag-team bout into a Royal Rumble of a scenery-devouring proportions. You know they should know better, yet you can’t help yourself from egging on their infantile potshots. Like wrestling, it’s evident you’re what you’re watching is scripted and hyper-realistic but Christ, is it ever fun to watch.

It’s hard to pick a winner in it all. Waltz brings some of the smarm that made Hans Landa such a deplorable villain to the fore, his constant torturing of Foster’s highly strung do-gooder gets played for a high proportion of the laughs. Kate Winslet gets to flex a rarely seen comedic muscle, as her mild mannered nature soon gives way to a bile spewing, literally, foul mouthed monstrosity. As Michael, John C.Reilly first plays the diplomatic mediator whose conflict resolution lies in more servings of apple cobbler before torching a cigar and watching the magma erupt from his co-stars.

A checkered and well documented history has left a lot of Polanski’s films cold and removed, and while Carnage isn’t exactly feel good territory, it’s nice to see him massage his funny bone for once. At 78 minutes too, it knows exactly when to stop – just before it’s fatal four-way of foils chomps it’s way through the Brooklyn high-rise apartment leaving only Dogville styled chalk outlines.