The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies

After 13 years, 6 films and countless dead orcs, Peter Jackson's visa in Middle Earth has come to an end. And what a gap year it has been. Many will have grown up with Jackson's films or, at least, have read the book which started it all off: J. R. R. Tolkein's The Hobbit. For some, Jackson got a little carried away in his turning of 350 pages of text into 8 hours of film but the last filmic foray into Middle Earth is confident, engaging and impassioned film making.

The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies kicks off right in the middle of the action which we left in film two, The Desolation of Smaug. The angry dragon (voiced by the man of the moment, Benedict Cumberbatch) is still angry and raining fire down on the poor people of Laketown. The dwarves and Bilbo are still hanging around on the slopes of the Lonely Mountain, watching the unfolding drama and Gandalf is still hanging around (quite literally) at Dol Guldur, where Ringwraiths and Sauron make a threatening appearance.

If you haven't seen the previous two films, this all may seem a bit confusing. However, The Battle of the Five Armies does a good job of getting everyone back up-to-speed fairly rapidly. And this is one thing that the film does well: it romps along, quite unlike the first film, and (as the title would suggest) there's a lot of fighting. A lot. Indeed, the end battle sequence runs to some 40 minutes and beats the audience into submission. But the fighting is well-choreographed, exhilarating and the ranks and ranks beautifully-armoured elven soldiers will make even the most faint of Tolkien fans smile with joy. Jackson has again used the technical wizardry which was pioneered in The Lord of the Rings and the resulting battle sequences are very impressive.

The downside to these extended battle scenes is that the emotion of the narrative is sometimes lost, and the multitude of characters, together with their stories, are swamped under the weight of swords, breast plates and war cries. This has, for some critics, been a fundamental problem with the film: that the spectacle suffocates any true meaning in the film and that the film's plot rather is anaemic. I disagree as this film is the culmination of the previous two films' narratives and deserves to be all-singing and all-dancing. To go out without a bang would have been very dissatisfying.

Martin Freeman shines again as Bilbo, having perfected his quizzical look and character integrity and it is with genuine affection and warmth that characters from The Lord of the Rings make a return. Ian McKellen is Gandalf. No doubt about it. And it was nice to see the return of Cate Blanchett, Hugo Weaving and Christopher Lee. The “new” cast – mostly men and dwarves – also gave good performances and Richard Armitage's Thorin was quasi-Shakespearean. Billy Connolly even makes an appearance.

One of the most impressive things about The Battle of the Five Armies is the way it paves the way for The Lord of the Rings. The heartbeats of fans will be set racing when Legolas is sent at the end of the film to track down “the one they call Strider” and the film's close offers a definite, pleasing conclusion (Peter Jackson has certainly learnt from his mistakes with the never-ending endings The Lord of the Rings trilogy).

The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies is a very enjoyable and satisfying film which appropriately concludes Jackson's time in Middle Earth. The film – and, indeed, the trilogy, doesn't have the weight or emotional punch of The Lord of the Rings but Jackson plainly cares deeply about the world of The Hobbit and the sincerity with which the films are approached has to be admired. The film is visually-spectacular and narratively-troubled, but I can forgive it almost anything. The chance to revisit the characters and the world of Tolkein, one last time, is not to be missed.

Clapperboard Rating: * * * *

Fury

War is hell. Many a war film seeks to represent this oft-quoted phrase in cinematic form and David Ayer's WWII tank action drama certainly seeks to give its audience a glimpse of the depravity of war. But above all the explosions, expletives and terror, does Fury manage to be more than a solidly made piece of entertainment?

Amongst Fury's impressive cast there's a more unusual character: Brad Pitt's hair. Never before have I seen such coiffured locks in a war film and hair which never strays out of place, even when confronted with a grenade or two. Such a resilient hairdo belongs to Staff Sergeant Don “Wardaddy” Collier (Pitt), who commands a tank known to its crew as “Fury”. But when Don and his crew are sent on a mission behind enemy lines, disaster strikes and the tank team find themselves out-gunned and outnumbered against the Nazis.

Let's begin with the good things – and don't get me wrong – there is plenty to be admired in this film. From a pacing perspective, David Ayer strikes an appropriate balance between action and scenes showing the soldiers during the more banal moments of war which sees the tanks trundling through the German countryside and the tank crews interacting with one another. The battle sequences are shot with a raw intensity and shocking realism which serves to hook the audience and draw them into the theatre of war. That said, such competent cinematography could have been used to trap the audience into the claustrophobic world of the tank, possibly one of the most hellish machines of battle. In a film about tank warfare, the camera felt rather under-used within the confines of the tank.

Just as the fog of war spread across Europe during the final, messy stages of WWII, so too does the screenplay of Fury (which was, incidentally, written by Ayer) create ambiguity through its characters and situations. The audience is, for example, first introduced to Brad Pitt's character as he pulls a German soldier from a horse and stabs him in the eyeball. A little later, he forces naïve new recruit Norman (Logan Lerman) to shoot a captured German soldier in the back. This is what war is, we're told. The other members who make up Fury's crew are a suitably motley bunch: Shia LaBeouf plays gunner Boyd “Bible” Swan, Jon Bernthal plays loader Grady “Coon-Ass” Travis and Michael Peña gives a good performance as the driver Trini “Gordo” Garcia.

All these characters are both endearing and repulsive simultaneously and I often found myself wondering whether or not I should be rooting for them. This is a great credit, I think, to Ayer's writing and the overall tone of the film. The film's denouement is an exhilarating and tense affair and, whilst the film's ending won't win any awards for originality, it is very satisfying.

Despite all the positives, I was left feeling that something was lacking which would make Fury a truly affecting and powerful film. Yes the fighting is thrilling and yes, the performances are assured, but the whole experience feels rather superficial. Fury might not quite achieve its quest to represent the actualities of war, but its dynamic set pieces, enjoyable performances and nicely choreographed action create a punchy and compelling film.

Clapperboard Rating: * * *

'71

Perhaps one of the most startling things about '71 is that it is the stuff of recent history: a dreadfully tragic and violent past which many alive today still remember. The characters and events in '71 may be fictitious, but the film's setting of the Northern Irish Troubles is a sad landmark in British twentieth-century history.

In '71, the troubled streets of Belfast become even more dangerous for the fresh-faced and rather naïve Private Gary Hook (Jack O'Connell) who is accidentally abandoned by his unit during a riot in 1971. Lost and with no way of telling friend from foe, Private Hook must find his own way back to the barracks and avoid the many who would wish to see a British soldier dead.

Directed by Yann Demange, '71 is a taut and compelling action thriller, anchored by an impressive and vulnerable performance by Jack O'Connell, an up-and-coming British actor last seen in the visceral prison drama Starred Up. O'Connell's performance is both powerful and engaging, and I'm sure that we'll see much more from him in the future.

The film excels in its threatening and unsettling tone and Yann Demange's recreation of the bleak streets of Western Belfast, where burning cars stand as eerie monuments to Catholic and Protestant conflict, creates an almost suffocating atmosphere. Such an atmosphere, lit by unforgiving amber street lights, draws the audience into the awfulness of The Troubles and, in particular, makes the predicament of O'Connell's character all the more tortuous.

A wide ensemble of characters, from Unionists to Nationalists, and army officers to undercover agents, are managed with skill by the director, who cleverly orchestrates the cast into the 140 minute running time and never allows individual situations to be sidelined. Each death, betrayal and loss feels immediate and affecting. There were one or two plot points which were rather predictable but the performances, haunting cinematography and urgency of Hook's perilous situation mute such concerns and result in a film which is powerful and horrific in equal measure.

Aside from well-crafted action sequences and appalling moments of violence, the film's frenetic pace and dark thrills come from the pulsating soundtrack from David Holmes. If ever a film's soundtrack could take credit for the sense of drama on screen, this would be a prime example. Although the events in '71 are a result of intense and violent politics, the film itself is not a political work and does not seek to comment on the politics of the era or the ignorance of some who fought in the conflict (indeed, when Hook is asked whether he is Protestant or Catholic, he tellingly replies “I don't know”). Instead, its sole focus is survival, the survival of Private Hook and his desperate attempts to escape the hell hole of Belfast in 1971.

'71 is a bold, thrilling and harrowing piece of film-making which never releases its stranglehold on the audience. While its performances, plot, action and score are all impressive, the film is at its most striking when you consider its basis in very recent – and tragic – fact. 

Clapperboard Rating: * * * * 

What We Did On Our Holiday

Like most genres of film, comedy has many sub-genres. Recently, for example, The Inbetweeners 2 has shown that gross-out comedy can make millions at the box office (£22 million in a month, to be precise) and 22 Jump Street capitalised on the popularity of the action-comedy genre. 

Just as The Inbetweeners 2 made the transition from TV to cinema, so too does the style of comedy found in the BBC series Outnumbered. The translation from the small screen to the cinema is not always smooth, and TV comedies sometimes struggle to find a cinematic sensibility. But What We Did On Our Holiday, from the writers of Outnumbered, manages to not only make the transition, but does so in an engaging and feel-good way.

Andy Hamilton and Guy Jenkin have a very recognisable style of comedy, characterised by low-key and rather mundane set-ups and semi-improvisational scripts, all of which create humour which is funny because it is instantly recognisable. For their first cinematic outing, Hamilton and Jenkin have continued to play to their strengths by writing dialogue with which the audience can identify and by letting the child actors improvise, often to hilarious effect.

What We Did On Our Holiday is not, however, a just a rehash of Outnumbered. It provides the audience – as all TV comedies must in a move to the big screen – with something new and, in this case, a new family and an altogether more extraordinary plot. The film follows the McLeod family as they visit Scotland for their grandfather's (Billy Connolly) birthday party. The only trouble is, Abi (Rosamund Pike) and Doug (David Tennant) are embarking on a divorce and must attempt to keep this secret from their extended family. But when a day out to the beach takes a tragic turn, the three McLeod children (Emilia Jones, Bobby Smalldridge and Harriet Turnbull) take matters into their own hands.

The quirks of family life are amplified in What We Did On Our Holiday and whether it is the youngest McLeod child's perverse attachment to a brick called Norman, or her older sister's insistence on keeping a notebook with all the lies that she must remember to tell her family about her parent's situation, there are some very touching moments in the film. The absurdity of Billy Connolly's situation cannot fail to generate a laugh and even if the film just manages to stay on the right side of cinematic, the style of comedy shines through.

The cast is, most certainly, very watchable and features a whole host of British acting talent. Tennant and Pike play the antagonistic couple very well and Billy Connolly is on fine form as the grumpy, but sweet-natured grandfather. Ben Miller and Celia Imrie add to the ridiculousness of the story, but it is the child actors who give the most laughs and are a joy to watch. The snappy and funny dialogue sustains the film's running time and, for the most part, keeps the audience on-side even when the more sentimental sections of the plot threaten to spill over into saccharine schmaltz. The most affecting performances come from Tennant and Jones (who plays the eldest daughter) and their father/daughter relationship explores many themes with which any family can identify.

Love, death and familial bonds are all explored and it is credit to Hamilton and Jenkin's writing that the film always feels good-natured and warm-hearted. Although the whole set-up is ludicrous (in contrast to the everyday normality of Outnumbered) and the plot's resolution rather predictable, What We Did On Our Holiday rings true on many levels and is a well-judged observation of family life and its myriad of troubles and delights. 

Clapperboard Rating: * * * * 

What We Did On Our Holiday is released nationwide on 26^th September

What If

Hazza Potts is trying his hand at something new: romcoms. Daniel Radcliffe's post-Potter career has been nothing if not varied. From frolicking naked in the stage show Equus to wandering around haunted houses in The Woman in Black, it would seem that Radcliffe is willing to try his hand at anything. And so, his latest film What If sees him attempt to update that age-old question: can men and women really just be friends?

Many things in life annoy me. Slow walkers, people saying “myself” when they really mean “me”, dog owners who think that everyone else likes dogs, and film dialogue which sounds like the writer has thought about each line for two weeks. You know the sort, dialogue that's hugely contrived, trying to be clever and zany and ends up being nothing like conversations which take place in the real world. Many of the conversations in What If fall into this trap. Take one of the opening scenes, for example, where Wallace (Radcliffe) first meets Chantry (Zoe Kazan) at a house party. It's a scene conducted entirely with one-liners and is far too hokey to be engaging. Indeed, I wanted to give all the characters a good slap. As the film progressed, the dialogue did get a little more tolerable but the damage had already been done.

Aside from scripting issues, the overall tone of the film is really rather annoying. You only have to read the characters' names – Wallace, Chantry, Dalia and Allan, with two 'ls' – to guess at the 'alternative' aspirations of the film-makers. But, far from being a novel reinterpretation of When Harry Met Sally for the texting generation, What If squanders any potential with its ending, which is as predictable and unsurprising as England's World Cup performances.

However, despite all the try-too-hard hipness, unrealistic characters and unremarkable plotting, What If hit home. There were individual sequences, moments of snatched dialogue which rang true. When Harry Met Sally is, without a doubt, a far better exploration of male/female relationships and the definitive film on the topic. But the awkwardness of Radcliffe sometimes cuts through the kookiness and mirrors the best of When Harry Met Sally, updating the themes for the present day. Before you think that I got sucked into the film and developed an affinity for the characters and their predicaments, I didn't. But What If is a great example of the mantra that you get out of a film what you bring to it – in other words, certain moments struck a chord with me and made me reflect on real-life issues. The characters may not be likeable but that doesn't stop you transposing your own concerns onto them and leaving the cinema with a fresh-perspective.

I'm glad I saw What If. Not because it's a good film: it's rather forgettable and unsuccessful at contributing to the debate on friendship and love in the twenty-first century. But if it sets you thinking, makes you realise the priorities in your own life and sparks a new momentum in your thoughts, then it can't be all that bad. 

Clapperboard Rating: * * * 

Walking on Sunshine

Anyone who knows me will know that I have a bit of a thing for Mamma Mia!. Then again, who can possibly resist the tidal wave of Abba cheese which sweeps over you as Meryl Streep blasts out “The Winner Takes It All” atop some hilltop on a Greek island and the likes of Colin Firth and Julie Walters throw themselves whole-heartedly into camp dance routines. Even – and here's where the true genius of Abba's songs lie – even Pierce Brosnan's fog-horn attempts at singing “SOS” can't disrupt the joy. Mamma Mia! is so astronomically, staggeringly bad that it comes full circle and becomes, paradoxically, brilliant. And so, when I first saw a trailer for Walking on Sunshine, a musical with hit songs from the 1980s, I thought it would be the new Mamma Mia! (just with bigger hair). It's not.

Let's begin with the plot – a good a place to start as any. Set in a coastal town in present day Italy, Walking on Sunshine opens with Taylor (played by Gemma Arterton's older sister, Hannah) ending a whirlwind holiday romance with the dashing Raf (Giulio Berruti). She's about to start university and, you know, can't possibly begin a relationship. Fast forward three years and Taylor has graduated and returns to Italy for her sister's wedding. And guess who the lucky guy is?! The same guy who Taylor had a fling with all those years ago! Crazy. Do Taylor and Raf tell her sister Maddie (Annabel Scholey), or should they keep quiet and hope she doesn't find out? There, in a nutshell, is the plot which, at times, runs rather close to that of Mamma Mia! (sorry, I'll stop mentioning it).

One of the first scenes sees Taylor arrive at the airport and the passport man asks her: “business or holiday?”. And then, because it's a musical and people do this sort of thing, she launches into Madonna's “Holiday”, complete with stupid dance routines and from then on, we know we're stuck in this musical hell. The songs don't get much better when the ensemble cast join in. Leona Lewis makes her film début and, although the girl sure can sing, her acting leaves less to be desired. In fact, you know what, the whole cast looks like they had a ball filming the movie: always a sign that the audience will definitely be having less fun!

To be fair to the cast, they do have plenty of energy but the singing is auto-tuned to within an inch of its pathetic life. We're treated/subjected to vacuous renditions of classics such as “Eternal Flame” and “If I Could Turn Back Time”. More generally, the songs (of which there are far too many) share no common theme or thread, aside from the decade of their release and the plot lists from one to another as a drunken man does when bothering people for loose change.

Greg Wise plays Doug, Maddie's ex who attempts to win her back by, basically, stalking her. In any other film, he would have been arrested for sexual harassment. The comedy – or lack of – is another problem. Some really rather crude jokes seem rather out of place from the saccharine schmaltz and predictable dialogue which characterises the film. The narrative's twists and turns are inexplicable, drawn-out and really rather dull and offer no satisfaction at their resolution. Yes, I get that this isn't going to be Citizen Kane but...

The central problem with the film is that it takes itself far, far too seriously. The drama played out on screen is, quite frankly, ridiculous, the characters irritating and I sat there with a look of bewilderment on my face. In fact, things got so bad at one point that I was eyeing-up the pills which an old dear sat next to me had got out from her handbag. Something to dull the pain...or end it all: either would have been preferable to the utter tosh which was slowly draining the life force from me.

Walking on Sunshine is garish film-making by numbers. A limp script, heavily-produced musical numbers, uninspiring characters and terrible direction all mix together creating a lethal cocktail of cheese, sun and sickeningly perfect smiles. It was enough to make me run home and stick Mamma Mia! in the DVD player.

Clapperboard Reviews: *

Jimmy's Hall

Ken Loach is angry. The director in the social realist sub-genre, Loach recently claimed that film critics find the idea of a politically informed and free-thinking working-class as “abhorrent”. His latest – and, if initial rumours were to believed, his last – film Jimmy's Hall, features many scenes of a rural Irish community discussing politics, freedom and religion in 1930s Ireland. Quite why Mr Loach believes all critics view such scenes as “fantasy” is rather perplexing and a little bemusing. However, what is clear is that Jimmy's Hall is packed full of political statements and ideology. It's a shame, then, that none of it really sticks.

Set in rural Ireland during the “Red Scare” of the 1930s which saw a wave of concern sweep the establishment about communist activity, Jimmy's Hall is inspired by the real life political activist Jimmy Gralton, who was deported from Ireland by authorities who were worried that he was stirring up trouble in County Leitrim. On arriving back from ten years in America, Jimmy returns to his home to find a dispirited and battered community, a result of the recent Irish Civil War. Jimmy takes it upon himself to re-open a community hall and hold dances and classes for the benefit of the locals. The local priest (played by Jim Norton) and other officials, however, object to Jimmy's actions and, in particular, his political views.

Now, the first thing to say about the film is that it wears its political opinions on its sleeve, which sometimes presents a problem. It is packed full with political opinions, debates and ideals and lacks a subtlety which would have made for a more multi-layered, deeper film. There's a sequence when Jimmy makes a rousing speech to the assembled community and shouts “we need to take control of our lives again!”. He references the stock market crash, the power of the elite and the inequality which is widespread. Loach may as well have held up a placard to the audience: “Note Parallels With Today After The Financial Crisis”. The whole film feels, in a way, a bit too axiomatic in its approach to its subject matter.

Barry Ward plays Jimmy with gusto and his relationship with old flame Oonagh (Simone Kirby) is convincing. The two stand-out performances, however, come from Jim Norton as the zealous Father Sheridan and Jimmy's mother, excellently played by Aileen Henry. The heartbreak of watching a mother lose her son for a second time was very affecting to watch and Henry's understated performance was fantastic. Norton's character, on the other hand, is rather ambiguous. He begins the film vehemently opposed to everything that Jimmy is and stands for and yet, by the end, is – if not sympathetic – rather more complimentary about certain aspects of Jimmy's character. It would have been nice had the film stuck to its guns and convictions when it came to the motivations of Father Sheridan but Norton, nonetheless, just about holds the whole thing together.

Jimmy's Hall is shot nicely, looks the part and has some great individual moments (especially musical scenes inside the hall) and is a pleasant watch. It screams Loach and screams its politics at the audience – not always a bad thing but a little nuance never goes amiss. 

Clapperboard Rating: * * * 

Grace of Monaco

Olivier Dahan, the director of Grace of Monaco, was adamant in an interview that his film about the post-Hollywood life of Grace Kelly was not a biopic. “I need to make films that resonate with me and my feelings”, he continued. “I would find it boring to have to depict facts only focusing on a character's story”. Heaven knows, then, what Grace of Monaco would have turned out like had he focused on the facts because, as it stands, the film is a bland, uninspiring and wholly misjudged affair.

Dahan's ill-fated quest to discover Grace Kelly in a more “personal” way begins with Alfred Hitchcock (played by Roger Ashton-Griffiths) visiting Princess Grace in her palace in Monaco, attempting to persuade her back in front of the camera for his upcoming film Marnie. But Grace is concerned that a move back to Hollywood, if only temporary, would spell disaster for her marriage to Prince Rainier III and for Monaco, embroiled in a diplomatic crisis with France. And so, the film sees Princess Grace attempt to reconcile herself with her potential roles in the world: those of film star, princess and mother.

In many ways, this had the potential to be an intriguing, dynamic character study, following one of the most famous actresses of all time as she made a radical transition from Hollywood to European monarchy. In reality, however, it seems as though screenwriter Arash Amel grew the script in his garden: it is unbelievably wooden and totally superficial. In fact, you could fashion a very nice side-table from the dialogue which is both toe-curling and uninspiring in equal measure. Nicole Kidman does look the part of Grace Kelly, floating around the palace in pretty frocks and occasionally butting in on matters of politics (much to her husband's annoyance). Each scene, however, is plagued by the appalling and lethargic screenplay which is the film's fundamental weakness.

Much of the plot is centred around the – frankly rather dull – minor diplomatic crisis in 1962, which saw France briefly blockade Monaco as Charles de Gaulle was angered by its reputation as a tax haven. Cue, then, dramatic shots of Grace marching up to the barbed wire, offering food to the French forces and tense scenes in the palace as she rushes down the corridors in search of a traitor in her husband's court, and a plethora of dodgy French accents, last heard coming from the mouth of Inspector Clouseau. The whole thing is laughable.

Tim Roth, in the role of her husband, seems to get through about five cigarettes per scene and lounges about the palace as if he's given up on the whole monarchy thing: quite why Grace married him is a mystery. Surely it can't have been for the countless dresses, hats and diamonds which make the film look like an extended Dior commercial. The camera certainly moves with a deferential and rather inert attitude towards its subject: Dahan seems so keen to get under the skin of Grace that his extreme close-ups threaten to become medical examinations of Kidman. Emotional turmoil must be in there somewhere!

In an attempt to secure favour with the people of Monaco, Grace seeks education on matters of etiquette, history and language from Derek Jacobi's Count Fernando D'Aillieres and confides in Father Francis Tucker for guidance. Frank Langella plays Father Tucker and seems to be the only cast member who can make the dialogue seem less hammy and more like a natural conversation, but even he can't lift the film from the depths of awfulness to which it plunged in the first fifteen minutes.

Both Kidman and Dahan have emphasised that Grace of Monaco is not an historical film or an accurate biopic of Kelly's life as a princess. But if it is not this, just what is it? There is no reason for its existence, no spark, no energy which could have made for a deep and telling film. In the end, the whole affair is poorly-constructed and staggering in its deference to characters that, surely, have an interesting story to tell. Kidman's performance is to be admired, if only for its sheer good-will. In the end, Grace of Monaco is a film so limp that not even Grace Kelly herself could have saved it.

Clapperboard Rating: * 

Edge of Tomorrow

Some people have a big problem with Tom Cruise. And it's not just the whole Scientology thing. He is somewhat of a divisive screen presence but, love him or hate him, he can certainly claim to be one of the biggest film stars in the world. Personally, I find him to be an engaging leading man and far from irritating (if the role is suited to his performance style, that is). In Edge of Tomorrow, Cruise starts out (or at least his character does) as an arrogant, pathetic and oily army officer but by the end, is transformed into a character with which the audience can empathise. And he acts the whole thing rather well.

Edge of Tomorrow is based on a science fiction novel by Japanese writer Hiroshi Sakurazaka and sees Cruise play military PR guy Major William Cage in a future world, who is deployed on the beaches of France to fight an alien invasion which is threatening the whole of humanity. Major Cage is, quite understandably, rather unwilling to march – or in this case, be dropped from a plane – to certain death, but despite his protestations, finds himself in the midst of a beach battle which looks rather like a futuristic version of the opening of Saving Private Ryan. In a plot twist, Cage gets sucked into a time-travelling system which means that every time he is killed, he is transported back to the beginning of the previous day, only to do it all again.

Now, many films have tangled themselves in fatal knots when it comes to time travel plot devices but director Doug Liman (The Bourne Identity) manages to keep the narrative relatively-coherent, whilst exploring many engaging moments which such a concept offers. Cage soon becomes entangled with bad-ass soldier Rita (played by Emily Blunt) and the two set out to destroy the alien monsters by fighting the same battles over and over again and learning something new each time.

It sounds as though this could become very tiresome, very quickly, but the film's skill in its action set-pieces and its use of humour means that the whole time travel gag works quite well. Of course, it can't run for the entire film but Liman performs a good juggling act between rather abstract ideas and adrenaline-pumping fighting. Just what the characters were fighting for, however, was rather intangible. Sure, the survival of humanity was at stake but the shots of London and a Paris felt rather idea empty: there was no real sense of the high stakes for which the characters were fighting for.

Both Cruise and Blunt put in nice performances, although some have complained of a lack of chemistry between the pair. But this isn't, in my mind, the point of the film and I found it quite refreshing that their relationship took a secondary position in narrative terms. The script kept the time travel stuff in-check and contained one or two good one-liners which lifted the film at the right points, just when it threatened to take itself too seriously.

Edge of Tomorrow is not ground-breaking or anything extraordinary but it is a solid, well-constructed and entertaining piece. It plays the time-travelling gimmick with enough invention and cohesiveness to carry the audience along and it does get rather exciting. Oh, and if you still don't want to see it because of your dislike of Tom Cruise, think about this: you get to see him killed over and over and over again. This is the perfect film for you. 

Clapperboard Rating: * * * 

The Other Woman

There is, unfortunately, a widely-held belief that 'chick flicks' or romantic comedies are, by their very nature, rather inferior to other film genres. Time and time again I've heard people review a romantic comedy with words to the effect of “well, it was never going to be good, what did you expect from a chick flick?!” It's almost as if people automatically enter the cinema with astronomically low expectations and simply accept a film's faults because it is a rom-com. This is both unfair and illogical. Look at the fantastic films which can be classed as chick flicks: Mean Girls, Breakfast at Tiffany's and Bridesmaids all have something intelligent and funny to say. And then there are films like The Other Woman.

Whilst reading this, just imagine me sighing throughout and you'll get the idea of just how rubbish this film is. Indeed, I'd rather not waste precious energy on lifting my fingers to type a review of a film which is completely without merit, inventiveness or spark. The Other Woman follows three women who have all been seeing the same man (played by Nikolaj Coster-Waldau). Leslie Mann plays his wife who lives in a big, lovely house and when Cameron Diaz's high-flying lawyer character turns up at their front door, the two realise that the man of their dreams is, in fact, a serial cheater. Then, would you believe it, they find out that he has been cheating on them both with Kate Upton. Mental. The trio then decide to team up and get their own back, with hilarious consequences. Or so the trailer would have you believe.

So, from the set-up, we can hope for a film about sisters doing it for themselves, a triumph of feminism, female empowerment and a witty subversion of gender roles. In reality, the resulting film is a vacuous re-hash of banal stereotypes with a limp script and none of the biting wit which could have worked so well in such a set-up. From a characterisation perspective, the three women are standard constructions of Hollywood femininity: there's the intelligent one, the busty one and the mad, cries-all-the-time kooky one (it's all about feng shui darling). Wow, that's so innovative. Indeed, there's a tendency nowadays in comedy to simply fall-back on actors shouting and gradually becoming more and more hysterical in a scene in order to create laughs. Whilst this may work for the first few occasions, a film which relies on such humour quickly becomes dull. Leslie Mann's character, in particular, suffered from this and her performance quickly grates on the audience. Cameron Diaz played, well, Cameron Diaz.

The fundamental issue with the film is this: if its main theme is one of female empowerment and women getting one over nasty, horrible men, then why are the characters themselves so hypocritical. The Other Woman would totally fail the Bechdel Test (Google it) as nearly every conversation in the film is about a man. The women initially bemoan the loss of their man, then realise they can get revenge with hair removal cream, growth hormones and laxatives, only to then to come to the conclusion that they can not live without a man for a few months. But never mind, these women are independent and head-strong, who can afford to fly off to Barbados at a moment's notice, stay in posh hotels, drive nice cars and waste time spying on their ex. Oh no, sorry, in the end they have to fill their vacuous lives with a rich man and a guy who owns a beautiful house on a beach front. I get that it's a film, but really?!

For a film with a good concept, The Other Woman simply fails to deliver anything new, witty or engaging. Annoying characters, contrived plot points and a lack of a decent script all amounts to a film with very questionable gender politics and tired jokes. Do yourself a favour girls, go and see When Harry Met Sally and see how it's really done. 

Clapperboard Rating: * *  

Bad Neighbours

It would be very easy for me to overuse a certain adjective in this review, and that adjective can be found in the film's title. Bad Neighbours (or, as it is known in America, Neighbors) will, I fear, perform well at the box office (indeed, it has knocked Spiderman 2 off the top spot in the US). This is both depressing and indicative of a cinema audience that has come to accept bawdy, lowest common denominator humour as the best that Hollywood comedy has to offer.

From a plot perspective, Bad Neighbours is very simple to explain: a couple (played by Seth Rogen and Rose Byrne) with a young child are enjoying suburban life until a college fraternity – led by Zac Efron – move in next door and disrupt their quiet existence. What ensues promises to be (from the trailer, at least) an exciting riot of sex, parties and sparky humour as two lifestyles collide head-on. In reality, however, the film is annoying, boring, under-written, unfunny, crude, narratively-anaemic and disappointing in almost every respect.

Let's begin with the performances. To say that Efron spends half of the film with his shirt off would be unfair, but it is apparent that his casting was largely based on his star power and physical screen presence; his character is certainly not likeable. Rogen plays the standard, shouty and slightly irritating frat boy character seen in many an American comedy and only Rose Byrne adds any sense of comedic subtlety to proceedings.

Despite a cast which is sure to attract audiences, the main issue with the performances is that they are not controlled or moderated by director Nicholas Stoller (Get Him to the Greek, Forgetting Sarah Marshall). The actors certainly seem to be having a whale of a time in front of the camera, but at the expense of comedic tempo. Stoller seems to have just shouted “action!” and let the dialogue run aimlessly without any discipline over the improvisation. As a result, jokes fail to hit their mark time and time again and I was left totally uninterested with the whole thing.

It is not just the lack of control over the comedy, the type of humour in the film presents significant problems. The jokes either centre on sex or bad language and the script's fundamental reliance on these begins to grate after only twenty minutes into the film. There's little true wit, comedic intelligence or engagement with such jokes. As a result, the performances struggle to rise above such a dull approach to laughs and Efron, in particular, feels underused and rather objectified. As for a narrative, well, you'd have to look pretty hard for one which has any sense of logic or which is remotely engaging.

Bad Neighbours is, in a word, bad. Badly-written, badly-directed and badly-constructed. Its style of comedy has the potential to shock and is almost as bad as the film's narrative which meanders all over the place. The end result, I'm afraid, is a boring and inert film – quite the opposite to a college fraternity party. If you still want to watch it, watch the trailer: all the best gags are in there. 

Clapperboard Rating: * *  

Pompeii

Don't get me wrong, I do like a bit of nonsensical entertainment every now and then. Sometimes, there's nothing better than sitting back in a cinema seat and letting bonkers visuals, thundering explosions and ridiculous story lines sweep you along in a cinematic whirlwind of delight. There is, however, a small caveat to this: no matter how mindless (and I don't use this term in a detrimental fashion) a film is, there needs to be some sense of an engaging narrative and compelling characters. Pompeii, marketed as a historical disaster epic, offers few surprises and even fewer thrills, mindless or otherwise.

It won't take much to explain the plot of Pompeii (which is, after all, one of the most famous stories from ancient times). Slave-turned-gladiator Milo must rescue his love from the corrupt Roman Senator Corvus against the backdrop of Mount Vesuvius, which erupts with devastating consequences for both Milo and the people of Pompeii. Kit Harington (of Game of Thrones fame) plays our hero and, it has to be said, does a fairly decent job, given the hammy dialogue which plagues the whole screenplay. He is, however, far too well-groomed for a Roman slave. Kiefer Sutherland's accent as Senator Corvus is certainly questionable but as a baddie, his performance is perfectly watchable. Every single role, however, felt under-written and lacked any true emotional depth. Whilst I was watching Pompeii, I was constantly comparing it with Gladiator and, as a result, the whole film felt rather sub-standard, superficial and flat.

In terms of spectacle, director Paul W. S. Anderson clearly set out to create a film which would make the most of the 3D format. The screening I attended was, however, in 2D (not a problem for me!) and it was plain to see that much of the shot construction and camera movement was geared towards 3D. I suppose that, if any film was going to use the technology, then a film with spewing lava, violent ash clouds and pyroclastic flows was probably going to make the most of the medium. Whilst the erupting Vesuvius was quite a spectacle, it seemed as though all the special effects budget had been blown (sorry!) on the volcano sequences, at the expense of the CGI city, which was a bit creaky at best.

That said, the fight sequences were quite exciting and woke me up when I found myself slipping into a stupor during the dull drama scenes. There was, fundamentally, a lack of emotional depth for a film about mass death and destruction: indeed, I've seen TV docu-dramas reconstruct the horror of Pompeii in a more affective and effective way. The love story narrative was absurd, making the Rose/Jack romance in Titanic look like Romeo and Juliet, and the contrived motivations for Milo's seeking revenge on Senator Corvus (who killed Milo's family) felt predictable and tired.

All in all, Pompeii simply lacks any realistic feeling, is undermined by poor characterisation and any compelling narrative. For all its crashing visuals, blood and epic ambitions, it is somewhat unremarkable and rather inert. Ironic, really, for a film with a massive explosion.

Clapperboard Rating: * * 

Noah

Noah has been banned in Bahrain, Qatar, UAE and in Egypt. Paramount Pictures test-screened three different cuts of the film to Christian audiences, all of whom hated it. Moreover, it hasn't picked up much positive praise at all, in religious circles or otherwise. This is rather surprising as, conversely, Noah is as about un-biblical as a biblical epic can be.

From its opening sequences, it's obvious that Noah isn't going to be an end-of-term DVD choice in every R.E. teacher's arsenal: it deviates from its source text to such a great extent that it has more in common with the sci-fi genre than a religious epic. Starring Russell Crowe in the titular role and Emma Watson as his adopted daughter, the film is, first and foremost, bonkers. Indeed, it is so ludicrous and frenzied that any sense of a serious religious or moral subtext is, ironically, drowned out.

The action takes place in an unidentified land where humans have corrupted the Earth and our hero Noah receives instructions from the Creator (the word 'God' is never used in the film) to build an ark to save the creatures of the planet when the floods come to cleanse the world of evil. So far, pretty standard biblical fare. Where it departs from this narrative – and I'm no Biblical scholar – is when fallen angels arrive on the scene in the form– rather bizarrely – of rock monsters with glowing eyes and voices which sound like Brian Blessed through a sub woofer. Throw in a few animals which could be straight out of The Lord of the Rings and the whole thing becomes rather bemusing. Add in a lot of shouting, Russell Crowe's every-changing hair style and some battle sequences and you've got a very confused film.

Crowe's performance is somewhat disengaging. One minute, he's the saviour of the world (quite literally) and the next he's a manic and self-destructing murderer, intent on wiping out the human race at any cost. I'm not even sure the audience are meant to like him. Any empathy which can be given lies with, instead, his wife (superbly played by Jennifer Connelly) whose emotional turmoil and outpourings of grief give the only sense of humanity to the character of Noah. Emma Watson is fine, but her role – along with the other female characters – felt a little underwritten. Ray Winstone is just about convincing as the bad guy Tubal-cain, intent on surviving the floods and Anthony Hopkins (for it is he) plays Noah's grandfather Methuselah.

Whilst the story of Noah and the drowning of millions was never going to be an easy narrative to translate to film, for a 12A, I was surprised by its graphic and, at times, very harrowing moments of death and destruction. The rousing score by Clint Mansell complemented the impressive visuals which director Darren Aronofksy clearly spent much time developing. All in all, however, the film doesn't know quite what it is or what audience it is playing to.

In the end, the biblical references feel like they have been shoe-horned in, the script is far from perfect and the total ridiculousness of it all will leave many feeling alienated. The countries mentioned at the beginning of this review really shouldn't get so worked up: in many ways, the only thing the film shares with its source is lots and lots of water.

Clapperboard Rating: * * * 

300: Rise of an Empire

If there's one thing which can be said about 300: Rise of an Empire, it is that it shouldn't be screened in an A Level Ancient Greek revision class. Its history is, to say the least, rather suspect and will certainly do the student of Ancient Greece no favours. More fundamentally, however, it shouldn't be shown because it is absolutely rubbish.

300: Rise of an Empire developed from the cult success of Zack Snyder's 2007 film 300, a movie with distinctive comic book visuals and with a slow motion, voyeuristic fascination with spurting blood and violence. The original saw Gerard Butler shout his way through the Battle of Thermopylae and 300: Rise of an Empire takes place at the same time, albeit on the other side of the Greco-Persian wars. Snyder's film had a lot going on in it: a beguiling visual aesthetic, intense violence, a coherent narrative and a camp undertone which didn't take itself too seriously. Oh, and lots of topless men.

Its sequel/prequel retains the topless warriors but dispenses with everything else, resulting in a film which is flat, narratively garbled and rather boring. Director Noam Murro shows a fundamental lack of understanding when it comes to narrative cinema and the film appears to sleepwalk between one battle and another, interspersed with rousing speeches (often delivered by our hero Themistocles, played by the Australian Sullivan Stapleton), which are neither rousing nor engaging.

Themistocles leads the Athenian army (who, I must point out, are much less ripped than their Spartan counterparts) and Stapleton's performance is just about adequate, even if his accent does jump around as much as a gap year student. The trouble lies, however, in the film's plot – or lack of one – and whilst the action sequences may be filmed and constructed well, this amounts to little when the audience have no investment in the characters and the narrative leaves each battle sequence high and dry (slightly ironic as most of the battles take place on the sea). It is not enough to throw blood-drenched battle after blood-drenched battle at the audience and hope that they'll find it interesting. Without the crucial narrative framework, there's more excitement to be had at a bingo hall than during the 102 minutes of 300: Rise of an Empire.

Perhaps the only saving grace of this film is Eva Green, who is ravishing as the baddie Artemisia, and she really does throw herself into the role and shows herself to be more than capable of wielding a sword. The original 300 had much to say and it appears as if its sequel is attempting to do the same. In reality, however, its self-awareness is lost and it tries rather too hard to be both visceral and edgy. Half way through the film, we're treated (or should that be subjected?) to the most bizarre one-night-stand you will ever see in the cinema and the film misjudges its sexual politics to a great extent. Naked men may be plentiful but the film's male gaze is firmly directed at women: evident in the costumes in which Eva Green is placed.

300: Rise of the Empire may have the blood, violence and visuals to make it a companion piece to300, but its lack of any semblance of narrative will leave you thinking “and so what”? There's only so much shouting and inspirational speeches that one can take. The overall effect is rather anaesthetising.

Clapperboard Rating: *

The Grand Budapest Hotel

Wes Anderson is one of the few directors whose work is instantly recognisable, such is his visual flair and narrative quirk. The Grand Budapest Hotel continues his tradition of perfectly-staged and ordered chaos, infused with rich dialogue and wit and it is a film which is charming whilst being slightly melancholic.

Set in the fictional middle-European state of Zubrowka and at the institution of the Grand Budapest Hotel, an establishment frequented by duchesses, politicians and high society alike, the film uncoils like a spring. Opening with our narrator (played by both Tom Wilkinson and Jude Law) recounting his meeting with the hotel’s owner Mr Moustafa (played by F Murray Abraham and in youth by Tony Revolori), who in turn introduces us to the protagonist M. Gustave (Ralph Fiennes), the hotel’s 1930s concierge. The film focuses on Gustave and Moustafa’s friendship as the latter becomes the former’s protégée as a hotel lobby boy. Got that? Good.

Ralph Fiennes is, perhaps, less well-known for his humorous roles, but here his comedic timing and physical acting is assured and engaging. As the disarming and rather sanguine concierge, Fiennes’ performance zips around the screen with great energy and intensity as M. Gustave attends to the every need of the hotel’s guests (needs which, he informs the young Mr Moustafa, must be anticipated before the guests themselves realise). Indeed, it is not only Fiennes’ talents which are worthy of praise: the entire cast are aware that they are in a Wes Anderson film and, as a result, give performances which are simultaneously controlled and dynamic. 

The cast list reads like a who’s-who of the acting world: Adrien Brody, Willem Defoe, Jeff Goldblum, Harvey Keitel, Bill Murray, Edward Norton, Tilda Swinton, Saoirse Ronan, Jason Schwartzman and Owen Wilson all make appearances. The plot jumps around, one minute murder is the topic of the day, then art theft, jail breaking and then all-out war, all grounded by Fiennes’ delightful performance and Anderson’s immersive style of direction.

Anderson’s film-making is all about artifice: every camera angle is worked out to the most exact of degrees, each tracking shot stops at a precise point, the actors move as if programmed by computer and the sets have more detail in them than the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Anderson’s visual craftsmanship is plain to see and there is not a single scene in which characters are not framed by something, reinforcing the stage and performance aspect of the film. Staying at the Grand Budapest Hotel is all about theatrics and performance, and the audience are not allowed to forget that. The film’s aspect ratio jumps around, title cards appear at regular intervals and carefully considered colour schemes permeate each frame.

This is scientific film-making. But none of this detracts from the charm and warmth with which Anderson approaches his subject matter – subject matter which addresses themes of age, loss, nostalgia and progress. With its collection of odd characters, sharp script, perfectly-pitched performances and stunning visuals, The Grand Budapest Hotel is a gem in the canon of Wes Anderson. Just like the cakes which pop up throughout the film, it is a sumptuous delight of film-making. 

Clappeboard Rating: * * * * 

Non-Stop

One of the best ways (in my mind at least) to pass the tedium and discomfort of long haul flying is to watch a film…or three. Last summer, I went travelling and suffered ten flights in ten weeks and all but two had a great selection of in-flight entertainment (the two without a personal screen at your seat were operated by Bangkok Airways, who instead opted to show an episode of Mr Bean – bizarre). The choice of genres on aeroplane flights is usually very good and sometimes a film is enhanced because of the context of watching it on a flight. Non-Stop, a film about a hijacking, really does deserve to be seen on a plane. And here’s why…

Liam Neeson has taken on a variety of roles over the years: the loving father in Love Actually and the killing, don’t-mess-with-my-family father in Taken and Taken 2. And it is the latter “I will find you and I will kill you” character which pops up again in Non-Stop. Neeson plays a US air marshal who, we establish within the first minute of the film, has a drink problem. On a flight to London, he starts receiving mysterious text messages from one of his fellow passengers who threatens to kill a passenger every twenty minutes unless his demands are met. And this is all you need to know to explain the subsequent ninety minutes of Liam Neeson running around, beating up passengers and brandishing a gun as if it were a news reporter’s microphone.

Put quite simply, Non-Stop is ridiculous. Preposterous. Absurd. So ludicrous that it makes Star Wars look like a Ken Loach work of social realism. The film’s third act will leave you slightly bewildered and the characters, the dialogue and the plot arcs are sensationalist to say the least. Indeed, quite how a plane-full of people can’t hear a fight-to-the-death happening in the cabin toilets is a mystery.

Neeson’s performance is standard fare – gruff, hulking and a bit unpredictable, but totally in keeping with the film’s tone. And I’ve nothing against him being an action hero – I’d even say he’s quite good at it. Julianne Moore plays his only supporter on the flight and Michelle Dockery (of Downton Abbey fame) is the slightly suspicious, always polite stewardess. For a film which is predominantly set in the confines of an aeroplane, I have to say that it never drags and the action keeps the film rolling along at a fair old pace.

I’ve said that Non-Stop is a ridiculous film but in many ways, this isn’t to its detriment. For what it is – a no-brain, bang, crash, whallop action thriller – it does go through the motions in an entertaining manner and Neeson is absolutely fine as its protagonist. It’s just a shame that the initial intrigue and (dare I say it) potential for intelligent discussion of issues affecting today’s society (which was setup in the beginning) was totally forgotten about, to be replaced with more shouting and violence than at Primark’s Boxing Day sales. But, in many ways, this was never going to be anything more than a standard thriller with our man Liam.

Non-Stop is as outlandish as it is loud. It makes, however, for a fun and solid action film and I started this review by saying that it would be the perfect movie to watch on a plane. A hijacking film may seem like an odd choice, but it is so ludicrous that you can be safe in the knowledge it will never, ever, happen. 

Clapperboard Rating: * * * 

12 Years a Slave

Film is, fundamentally, an entertainment medium. As such, a trip to the cinema should be fun-filled, engaging and worth the extortionate price of a box of popcorn. Whether it's comedy, drama, romance or horror, a film's primary function is to entertain audiences and, if using this as the sole method of judging a movie, film criticism should be quite straight forward. However, every now and then, a film like 12 Years a Slave comes along which disrupts this notion. You will not enjoy 12 Years a Slave: indeed, it can't be classed as a work of entertainment. This, however, does not reduce its value or, moreover, its cinematic power.

We are told, from its very opening, that 12 Years a Slave is based on true events and, more specifically, on the 1853 memoirs of Solomon Northup, which gave an account of his being kidnapped and sold into slavery. The film is a gritty, shocking and emotional account of his life and the terrible situation in which he – and hundreds of thousands of other blacks – found themselves in nineteenth-century America. Solomon is played by Brit actor Chiwetel Ejiofor and a supporting cast reads like a who's-who of current British acting talent. Indeed, 12 Years a Slave is an overwhelmingly British feature, directed by Steve McQueen (Hunger, Shame) and also starring Michael Fassbender and Benedict Cumberbatch. Brad Pitt, too, pops up for good measure.

12 Years a Slave has picked up nine Oscar nominations and will, no doubt, go on to win many of these, and deservedly so. McQueen's film manages to address the historical issue of slavery with an immediacy and urgency which is rarely found in historical dramas. In the film, 1840's America is a potent mix of brutality, injustice and hypocrisy, where a black man can have his freedom and identity stripped from him, literally overnight. John Ridley's screenplay follows Solomon from his beginnings as a talented violinist in a well-to-do position to his kidnapping by slavers and sale to William Ford, a plantation owner (Cumberbatch). Cumberbatch's character is a moderate and benevolent master (but nevertheless a slave owner) but when Solomon has an altercation with Ford's carpenter (Paul Dano), Ford is forced to sell Solomon on to save his life. Solomon then ends up in the ownership of the cruel and violent Edwin Epps (Fassbender) and his situation becomes intolerable.

Chiwetel Ejiofor's performance is nothing short of masterful and his physical ability to show such a range of emotions through his facial gestures is exploited to the full by McQueen, who lets the camera linger on the actors, well after any other director would have cut to the next scene. Ejiofor's representation of a man who must disguise his literacy and his freedom in order to survive is captivating and heartbreaking to watch, as is the rest of the cast who make for convincing watching.

The brutality experienced by the slaves is portrayed on screen with a frightening realism and an unflinching commitment to reality which makes the story all the more affecting. It is certainly not an easy watch, especially in sequences which see floggings by Epps on his slaves for the most incomprehensible of reasons: one slave is hideously punished for wanting to use a bar of soap. At times, McQueen's film feels vivid and contemporary, far from a work of historical fiction. The ultimate irony of slavery is highlighted when two men argue over Solomon's freedom, watched by other slaves who must suffer simply because they were not born free.

There is, perhaps, one issue with the film and the satirical magazine Private Eye has summed it up rather well. In a section about Oscar nominations, it fabricated Oscar categories in which the film will win. Amongst these were the awards for “Most Guilt-Inducing Film To A White Middle-Class Audience” and “Film Most In Need Of A Bit Of Light Relief”. As flippant as this may sound, it does ring with an element of truth: does 12 Years A Slave deserve all its praise or are critics and audiences simply praising it because of its subject matter? A film's subject does not inherently give it substance, importance and value: it is up to the director to do that. But, with 12 Years a Slave, Steve McQueen has done just that. This is a film not to enjoy, but to admire for its immense skill and an immediacy which will, paradoxically, allow it to become a classic work in years to come.

Clapperboard Rating: * * * * *