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Two mothers (Jessica Chastain and Anne Hathaway, both of whom give stellar performances) are next-door neighbours who lead seemingly idyllic 1960s lives. They each have an eight-year-old son; the boys are best friends.

Then a tragic accident occurs, and one of the boys dies (not a spoiler, it's in the trailer). The rest of the film is about the way in which the women, and their husbands, and the surviving boy (newcomer Eamon Patrick O'Connell, who is excellent) deal with the aftermath of the tragedy. The answer is: Not well at all.

We see the expected stages of grief, but overlaid with finger-pointing and suspicion, leading to a descent into madness. But just who is going mad? The film very cleverly wrongfoots the viewer, first suggesting that this is a simple tragedy, then that there might be something sinister going on, then that there might not be...

The result is a wild ride, with an ending that will live long in the memory.

Civil war grips America. The states of California and Texas (hardly natural partners, I would've thought) are in rebellion. Florida might be as well. The reasons for this war are not even touched on, other than the fact that the president is a sleaze-ball (well, he's a politician, so what's new?)

Kirsten Dunst is a veteran photo-journalist. Wagner Moura is her reporter side-kick. Stephen McKinley Henderson is the father-figure of journalists. Cailee Spaeny is a wannabe photo-journalist. The four of them embark on a road-trip to Washington to net a scoop by covering the Battle for the White House.

That's basically it by way of a plot. Along the way they meet a succession of gung-ho morons with assault rifles (that's everyday America, isn't it?) - via a surreal encounter in a clothes shop - until they arrive at a military encampment.

Once there, they just announce themselves as Press, and are allowed to follow the action from a suicidally-close range without anyone asking the questions which ought to be obviously necessary.

Then there's a big shoot-out. Not all of our quartet survive, but no-one seems to mourn (or even care) about those who don't. Then the film just ends.

This is a film for people with learning difficulties: who can go along with shooty-shooty-BANG sequences, without bothering themselves with big words like "Why?"

Given the state of the USA, this could've (ought to have) been a thoughtful film that asked important questions. Instead, it has the intellectual heft of a shoot-em-up video game.

It's one of the worst films of the year.

We've got James Bond, we've got John Wick, we've got Ethan Hunt. We've got Denzel Washington's Equalizer. We've got Jason Statham and Vin Diesel in their various guises. From an Indian perspective, we've just had Yodha. The action genre is a crowded one, and a film needs to *really* stand out if it's going to be noticed.

Monkey Man is clearly a passion project for Dev Patel, who is writer, producer, director and star. That's a lot of hats to wear at once. He plays a wrestler who wears a monkey mask in the ring, and who has a grudge against a certain corrupt police chief and a certain false guru, yada yada yada, seen it all before.

The result is not, by any stretch of the imagination, bad. Unfortunately, it's not original or memorable enough to truly recommend. Trying to link the film to the legend of Hanuman isn't enough of a USP.

Hot on the heels of Immaculate, we have another American would-be nun (Nell Tiger Free) travelling to an Italian convent to be initiated. As in Immaculate, things seem off from the start; as in Immaculate we have creepy nuns, a creepy cardinal, spooky visions and a death.

Unlike in Immaculate, we know exactly where this film is going (the big reveal can't have surprised more than a handful of viewers) but, to its credit, this film ties itself in neatly to the original Omen, and manages to do so with some style.

Despite the title pretty much giving away the whole plot, the film manages a decent level of suspense, and the visceral nastiness is well-handled. The performances are faultless throughout.

There's a surprise extra element to the ending, suggesting that a sequel is at least planned, though how this with fit into the Omenverse (everything's a Verse, these days) remains to be seen.

Franky (Vicky Knight) is a nurse who's badly scarred by a fire that happened when she was a child (Knight herself was burned as a child - the scars are real). She believes the fire was started deliberately by her mother's friend, who's now in a relationship with her (Franky's) father from whom she's estranged. Fifteen years on, Franky still dreams of revenge.

In hospital, Franky meets Florence (Esme Creed-Miles), the survivor of a suicide attempt. The two develop a friendship, and later become lovers, though they later break up. Prompted by Florence, Franky's quest for revenge develops into something more tangible.

The rest of the cast have their own stories to tell: Franky's mother, who spends her entire life on the sofa; Franky's sister, who's dabbling with Islam (she has a shawl and a prayer mat, but hasn't cottoned on to the fact that she's no longer allowed alcohol); Florence's grandmother (the excellent Angela Bruce) who has terminal cancer: Florence's brother, who has learning difficulties...

It can't be said that any character in the film is less than three-dimensional, but for me this added up to too many sub-plots and an over-crowded film.

As a depiction of British working-class life it's sharp and observant (without stooping to poverty porn) and the acting is solid throughout - as is the direction.

The ending is not the on the viewer expects, and might leave some disappointed by its slightly ambiguous nature, but I thought it worked well.

People are always drawn to the idea of a better life, and all too many of them are fooled (or fool themselves) into believing that all they have to do is to find their way to America or Australia or (as here) Europe, and they will have found paradise. Many thousands of people set out on these journeys of hope every year. What proportion of them make it? No-one knows, but it's unlikely to be that high. What proportion of those that make it think it was worthwhile? No-one knows that either.

Seydou and Moussa are teenaged cousins from Senegal who have come to believe in the dream. They've saved what they think is enough money, and set out without telling their families.

Then they face reality. Their journey leads from Senegal to Mali; to Niger; to Libya; and then across the Mediterranean to Italy. Or so they hope. What they soon realise is that the the people-traffickers through whose hands they pass are simply after their money. If some poor souls die along they way, who cares? The least brutal encounter is with a border guard who says "I recognise a fake passport when I see one. Fifty dollars to ignore it." The most brutal is very brutal indeed.

At one point the cousins are separated, and the film follows Seydou. He makes it to the shores of Libya via a stroke of luck that strikes the viewer as a bit too convenient. He is then reunited with his cousin via another all-too-convenient stroke of luck.

The last act of the film is the crossing of the Mediterranean, with Seydou tricked into skippering a boat that looks as though it's already been scrapped twice (hence the title, Io Capitano which means I am the Captain. Most of the cast speak a dialect which it took me a while even to recognise as a sort of Pidgin French).

The film is beautifully shot and the cast (largely non-professional as far as I could make out) are superb throughout. I do, however, have a problem with the ending. It's too optimistic, too upbeat. The mass migration of so many desperate people (and their ruthless exploitation) is the great crisis of our age. I'm not going to pretend I have an answer, other than the fact that the necessary first step is for as many people as possible to know what's going on. To this end, I would've thought a more brutal - even depressing - ending would've driven the necessary message home more effectively.

Still, this is a first-class film, which will live long int he memory.

Jack Delroy (David Dalmastchian) is the host of a 1970's late-night talk show, which is popular - but not popular enough to beat Johnny Carson in the ratings. In a bid to fix this, he plans a Hallowe'en special, featuring a medium, a professional sceptic (Ian Bliss, doing a nice impersonation of James Randi) and a possessed girl who was rescued from a Satanic cult. She is accompanied by her therapist, who is also her guardian. What could possibly go wrong?

The film is ostensibly that of the original broadcast, plus "found footage" of what went on behind the scenes during the ad breaks. Not having watched any TV in America I don't know if programmes of the sort really were three minutes of show followed by five minutes of "messages" (and, if so, how anyone found the patience to watch) - but this certainly helps the structure of the film.

Naturally, things go from weird to weirder, nasty to nastier. There's a lot of Exorcist, including one line delivered in a way that's laugh-out-loud funny; and in the last act the viewer has to wonder whether they're seeing genuine found footage or a series of hallucinations within hallucinations.

The cast give good value throughout, especially Rhys Auteri as Jack's side-kick and Josh Quong Tart as the producer who cares about nothing but dollar signs.

And, having lived through the decade, I can confirm that back in the seventies, sets were that tacky, and fashion choices that questionable.

New York is a city populated by anthropomorphised animals, including the central character, who is a dog called .. Dog. He's lonely, and decides to buy a robot.

After assembling his new friend, Dog shows him the city. The two hit it off and develop a simple but beautifully-observed friendship.

Unfortunately, the two are then separated. The rest of the film is told from two separate points of view, as they seek to reunite. Some of the scenes from the robot's point of view are revealed to be a series of increasingly bizarre dreams - and what better proof of sentience is there than the ability to dream?

The ending's not the one the viewer expects, but is nevertheless charming and life (and friendship) affirming.

The animation is simple (in every sense of the word) but incredibly expressive at the same time. It's amazing how much emotion can be expressed by two dots and a few short lines. There's virtually no dialogue, but again the animation makes this unnecessary.

I wouldn't go so far as to call this film a masterpiece, but it's certainly better - and more enjoyable - than many another animation with fifty times the budget.

Every country has its special forces, and I'm sure every nation on Earth likes to think that theirs are a bit more special than most. Yodha seems to be the Indian version of the SAS (whether they really are, or were made up for the film, I don't know).

Just about every film about special services centres round an inividual who's jolly good at killing bad guys, but whose disregard of protocol annoys his superiors. Then an operation goes wrong (not our hero's fault, but he's conveniently placed to take the blame). He's suspended.

Then the film moves to the main event. Our hero is drawn into something really big. Not only that, he's set up to make it look as though he's gone rogue, so that even his former comrades are out to get him. Yada, yada yada, shoot-out, big explosion, guess who saves the day and is reinstated?

It's a tried and trusted formula, which needs a certain amount of style to lift it out of the very ordinary. James Bond has this style; John Wick has this style; Arnie had it in his earlier films. Yodha doesn't.

The fight scenes are well-choreographed, but the pulse doesn't race. The twists aren't too difficult to see coming; the hero's relationship problems are a yawn.

This isn't a bad film, but it's formulaic, predictable and - for all its action sequences - pedestrian. Oh, and the villain's disappointingly short on charisma.

This is also the first film I've seen that had an actual interval in the cinema since Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.

A film about fanatical beliefs and the horrors they can lead to.

Sydney Sweeney (who's certainly been busy lately. Anyone but You, Madame Web, and now this) plays Cecilia, a devout American girl who enters an Italian convent. From the start, it's plain that there's something creepy about the place. Admittedly, a cardinal only needs to put on cope and mitre to seem creepy, but there's clearly more to things that that. Some of those Cecilia meets there seem a little too friendly, others are downright hostile.

Strange and disturbing things happen, including a death. Then it's discovered that Cecilia is pregnant. The powers that be announce that this is The Immaculate Conception: the Sequel. They seem to be convinced of this rather too easily, but then we find out why.

In the last act, matters resolve themselves violently and nastily. I felt that credulity was stretched much too far here; Cecilia seems capable of an awful lot of physical activity for a woman in labour, for example.

Sweeney radiates a convincing aura of naive innocence (though it's probably time for her to stop playing teenagers) and the rest of the cast pull off the difficult feat of radiating nastiness without over-acting.

Short and anything but sweet.

Leonardo da Vinci was one of the most fascinating men who ever lived, but this film fails to do him justice.

Quirkily animated (part puppetry, part cartoon) it centres on the last years of da Vinci's life, when he joined the court of the French King Francis I. His most famous paintings (the Mona Lisa and the Last Supper) are referenced, as are his plans for eccentric machines of war, but we see nothing of their creation.

Instead, the film concentrates on da Vinci's plan for an ideal city (which never got beyond the planning stage) and preparations for an important royal summit.

The latter is presumably meant to be the Field of Cloth of Gold, at which Francis and Henry VIII of England tried to out-do each other in ostentation. For some reason, a third potentate is added - the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V, who was not present. Worse, the film ignores the fact that da Vinci had died the previous year.

There's much to like here. The voice performances are excellent, especially Stephen Fry as da Vinci; and there's a decent amount of humour amidst the philosophising.

Unfortunately, however, the film can't quite make up its mind what it's trying to do. This may be because of the extraordinary number of production companies involved in making it, resulting in a hodge-podge of compromises from a dysfunctional committee.

An interesting film, but ultimately a disappointing one.

Family moves to creepy house; a young child has paranormal experiences; a moody teen does moody teen things; not all the adults are what they seem; a character finds repressed memories are dragged up; yada, yada, yada.

It's not quite bad, but it certainly isn't good. There's a bit of Poltergeist, a bit of Nightmare on Elm Street, a bit of Labyrinth - and it's unclear whether this is meant as an homage-melange, or a pilfering of tropes from a variety of better films.

The film relies heavily on jump-scares, but there's little sense of terror. The twists can be seen coming a mile away. The ending is frankly lazy.

The cast do their best. Young Pyper Braun is good as the girl at the centre of things, DeWanda Wise OK as the step-mother trying to penetrate the mystery. The rest are either under-used or let down by a thin script and unimaginative direction (or both).

The special effects budget was clearly painfully small, and no-one was able to anything convincing or scary with it.

Not a film that will live long in the memory.

Given the lead time for any film, one assumes that this was planned, shot and mostly edited before the recent wave of atrocities (on both sides) broke out in Israel/Gaza/Palestine (choose which name you will). Nevertheless, the timing of its release is poignant.

The film is set in British-controlled Palestine in the thirties and forties as Jewish settlers clash with the indigenous Arabs, sparking off a wave of atrocities and counter-atrocities with the British finding themselves taking increasingly rigorous measures to suppress the violent factions on both sides, to the extent that they pretty much become a third terrorist force.

The Arab point of view fades from the film fairly early on (which is a shame) and the drama centres around two British policemen (Douglas Booth and Harry Melling - who's done some very interesting work since his Harry Potter days) and their attempts to track down and arrest a Jewish terrorist leader played by Aury Alby. Matters are complicated by the fact that one of the officers (Booth) is in a relationship with the titular Shoshana (Irina Starshenbaum) whose sympathies lie with those who wish to create a Jewish state, if not necessarily with those who employ indiscriminate violence to this end.

Things spiral out of the control of all parties as violence begets violence and the body count rises exponentially.

It's difficult to sympathise with either side, nor does the film attempt to do so (one well-known incident is depicted in a deliberately ambiguous manner). Are there any good guys? Maybe there are some well-meaning individuals caught up in events they can neither control nor comprehend, but the viewer is left shaking their head at the barbaric futility of it all. Who's to blame? Everyone who's set foot in the region over the last three thousand years, probably.

It's impossible to watch this film and not think about the events there today. The British may have gone, but the violence still remains - and is only getting worse.

The cast all do a terrific job, and the film's not short of tension. I just wish that a more positive message could be drawn from it.

In 1755, retired soldier Ludwig Kahlen (Mads Mikkelsen) decides to attempt the impossible - to cultivate the Danish Heath. This is a bleak and infertile wilderness which produces nothing but gorse and heather (though there are forests nearby, for some reason). He hopes to win honour and renown thereby.

Kahlen builds his house, and collects a motley crew of workers, including a priest, a pair of runaway serfs, and some lawless folk akin to gypsies. He sort-of adopts a gypsy girl. With much labour, he clears some land, then unveils his secret weapon - the potato.

Unfortunately, he runs foul of a sadistic local landowner (a wonderfully sinister performance by Simon Bennebjerg), who considers himself above the law and has no problem with violence.

The film follows Kahlen through one growing season, at the end of which his feud with the landowner reaches a bloody climax.

The epitaph on screen seems to suggest that this is based on a true story, but I don't know if that's the case.

The performances are excellent throughout; the landscape is compelling, and the cinematography superb.

Hirayama leads a simple life of routine. He lives alone in a small flat. He rises early, waters his plants and drives to work where he cleans - with messianic thoroughness - a series of public toilets. He eats lunch in a park, where he photographs trees. After work, he goes to a bath-house, a cafe, a bar, a bookshop. In each of these places, he's a regular. He listens to music in his van; he reads books at home. His only other ports of call are a shrine, and a camera shop where he has his films developed. He's a man of very few words - at cafe and bar, he's served "The usual" without having to ask for it.

And he's happy.

He has a series of encounters - with an unreliable co-worker, his niece who drops in on him unexpectedly, with an unknown person with whom he plays noughts and crosses; with the former husband of the owner of the bar he frequents. None of these disturb him any more than momentarily.

All of this is beautifully observed and beautifully shot, and Koji Yakusho gives a wonderfully warm and understated performance.

Hirayama's ought to be a sad tale - a small man living a small life - but it's anything but. Hirayama has learnt that happiness isn't having everything you want; it's not wanting anything you don't have.

I wonder how many of us can heed the lesson?

I am, I admit, a Crocodile Dundee cook - you can live on it, but it tastes like s*** Nevertheless, I revere those who are masters in the gastronomic arts.

Set in the 1870's, this film is a hymn to the pleasures of the table. The camera lingers lovingly over every pot and pan, every ingredient, every procedure, to the extent that it would have been wrong for the film to have been in any language but French. Anyone who can watch this film without salivating has no soul.

The plot is secondary to the food. Dodin (Benoit Magimel) is an expert, though amateur cook, whose hobby is hosting dinner-parties for a group of friends. For twenty years, Dodin has employed Eugenie (Juliette Binoche) as his cook, though she's far more than that. They sleep together, though she repeatedly declines his offers of marriage. Both performances are nigh-on perfect. There's also a young girl, the daughter of a neighbour, who has superlative taste-buds, and who wants to be taken on as an apprentice.

There's a bit more plot than that, including a comic dig at those who equate excess with excellence, but everything is subordinate to cooking and eating - and the actors do actually eat the food. One thing that grates with me is films where people don't actually eat the food in front of them.

I left the cinema hungry, and wishing that I had the patience and the dedication (and the time) to cook like that.

Oh, and though I grudgingly accept that, with the possible exception of the Chinese, the French are the finest cooks on Earth, I draw the line at ortolan.

Tierra del Fuego early in the twentieth century. A rich Chilean landowner finds that the land can be exploited most profitably by turning it over to vast numbers of sheep. His problem is that the indigenous population aren't too keen on being elbowed aside. His solution is to hire armed guards.

Three of these - a former British soldier, an American hired gun and a. Mestizo chosen because he can shoot straight - are sent to find "A route to the Atlantic." Off they set, through awe-inspiring scenery wonderfully photographed ... and that's it.

They have three encounters. First with an Argentinian survey team, second with a group of indigenous people, third with a group headed by another former British soldier, whose motives are unclear. The first encounter is comedic, the second and third brutal.

The problem is that there's no resolution, no coherent story-arc. We cut from three riders on a beach to "Seven years later" when it's revealed that one of the original trio went on to commit other brutal acts on a larger scale, but is no longer living. These acts would've been powerful if shown on screen, but have much less impact when blandly recounted. Nor are the circumstances of the perpetrator's death disclosed. Then the film just ends.

There's much to like here, but the overwhelming feeling is that it could've been so much more.

It's a superhero story. It covers the bases and ticks all the boxes - and gives us nothing we haven't seen done much better a dozen times before.

We get an origin story involving a spider (where have I seen that before?), a character growing up not knowing the powers they have (where have I seen that before?), a villain whose sole purpose in the film is to be villainous (where have I seen that before?), and so on and so on. Plus lots of plot conveniences that just suggest lazy writing.

As an aside, five different people are credited for writing the story or the screenplay (or both). The result was not an example of committee work at its best.

Naturally, it all ends in a flashy bashy crashy sequence - but this one was so tame and so lacking in thrills, excitement, or anything superheroic that they might as well not have bothered.

To top it off, we get Sydney Sweeney playing a teen less than a month after we saw her playing a mid-twenties romantic lead in Anyone but You. Has Madame Web spent five years in limbo whilst someone tried to get something watchable out of the mess? If so, it was five years wasted.

Madame Web's superpower, of course, is to see into the future. It's a shame she didn't see clearly enough to stop this being made.

1) Meet cute.

2) Misunderstanding.

3) Unexpected reunion.

4) Series of barbed insults.

5) They were always meant to be together.

I believe those are the chapter headings from RomComs for Dummies - and, to its credit, Anyone But You does do it by the numbers.

Sydney Sweeney and Glen Powell do their best with a wafer-thin plot and an even flimsier screenplay; but nothing can stop the feeling of Seen-It-All-Before-Loads-Of-Times. Not to mention Seen-It-Done-Better-Loads-Of-Times.

It's not terrible, but the plot contrivances are ludicrous; every time the writers got stuck they had someone take their clothes off; and including references to Much Ado About Nothing doesn't raise this to the level of high art.

A couple of good jokes.

Nice scenery.

Cute koala.

This is one of the most unsettling films I've seen in a very long time. Rudolf Hoess was the Kommandant of Auschwitz, and oversaw the murder of around three million people.

At the same time, he was a devoted family man, who lived with his wife and children in a large house just outside the camp. The camp itself is hinted at but not seen. Instead, we see Hoess taking his children on picnics, boating trips and horse rides. His wife and her mother talk about how wonderful the garden is, oblivious to the sound of gun-shots and columns of smoke rising from the crematoria just beyond the garden wall.

Christian Friedel's Hoess is nothing like Ralph Feinnes' Amon Goeth in Schindler's List. The latter radiated sadistic evil; the former is terrifyingly normal. He sees the running of a concentration camp as a job and nothing more; a series of practical problems to be overcome through hard work and organisation. The Hoess children seem terrifyingly well-adjusted as well. The worst that can be said of any of them is that one boy can be mean to his younger brother.

There's no real plot. The only significant events are Hoess' wife becoming upset because her husband's transfer might lead to her losing her idyllic house and "idyllic" lifestyle; and Hoess' later re-appointment to Auschwitz. Thanks to that nice Mr Google, I can reveal that these events took place in November '43 and May '44. The film ends shortly afterwards. We see nothing of Hoess' trial or execution. Just a family man with an odd haircut.

It's easy - all too easy, probably - to regard Hoess and his ilk as one-dimensional villains; evil in the way that Bond villains are evil, or Darth Vader is evil. Nothing to do with us at all. The Hoess we see here IS like us. He can oversee the deaths of thousands of people during the day (and off-screen), then come home to read bed-time stories.

Nor are Hoess and his ilk firmly in the past. For all I know there are Israeli politicians and leaders of Hamas who think nothing of bombing their perceived enemies, yet who love their children and are loved in return.

Towards the end of the film there's a scene shot in the Auschwitz of today - but even here expectations are defied. We see the early-morning cleaning shift arrive before it's opened to visitors. It's a place of horror, but there's still a need to sweep the floors and clean the windows. Why? It's a very human contradiction.

The message of the film is simple but profound - and also terrifying. We're ordinary people, but so was Hoess, at least on one level. That thing we call civilisation is a wafer-thin veneer. If we don't look after it, we'll lose it.

Max McCandles (Remy Youssef) is a medical student engaged by the brilliant but grossly disfigured Dr Godwin Baxter (Willem Defoe) to mentor and record the progress of his patient Bella (Emma Stone) - beautiful but physically awkward, and with a vocabulary of about a dozen words.

It soon transpires that Emma is Baxter's creation (she calls him God; short for Godwin, but with an obvious double meaning). She learns fast, but has no grasp of social norms: at one point she's annoyed by a baby's crying and threatens to punch it.

Bella and McCandles become engaged (we never quite work out whether his motives are good, bad or in between) but Bella decides that before marriage she needs to see more of the world. She therefore runs off with the sleazy Duncan Wedderburn (Mark Ruffalo). He introduces her to sex and hedonistic living (she likes both, especially the sex) and it's fascinating to watch her grow (intellectually and emotionally) at the same time as he diminishes. They fall out when she experiences a moral dilemma, to which she reacts with extreme passion and equally extreme naivete.

Bereft of funds, she takes employment in a Paris brothel (run by the wonderful Kathryn Hunter) where her outspoken honesty shocks and attracts in equal measure. There's a lot of very explicit sex here.

Intercut with her travels are scenes of McCandles and Baxter, where the latter reveals details of his hideously unconventional up-bringing.

Returning to London, Bella's wedding is interrupted by General Blessington (Christopher Abbot) who knows something significant about Bella's past.

The performances are superb throughout, especially those of Stone and Ruffalo. The cinematography is excellent, and the set design - weirdly magnificent steampunk cityscapes - is the best I've seen in a very long time.

There's much humour in the film (not so much dark as pitch black) and it also packs an intellectual punch as it holds up a (distorted) mirror to society and makes the viewer ask, "Yes, why do we do it like that..?"

I know it's only January, but I already know one of my films of the year.

This was advertised at my local cinema as a Comedy Drama. Well, there's no comedy in it.

In 1877, Tchaikovsky married Antonia Miliukova. Six weeks later they separated, although they remained legally married until the composer's death. This is the story of that marriage and its aftermath, told from Miliukova's point of view. It's clear from the outset that she's an unreliable narrator of her own life, and we can never be sure how much of what we see is real, and how much is happening in her head. This is made clear in one early scene (probably the best scene in the film) which does at least pack a surprise.

The rest of Miliukova's descent into madness is shown in a way that is intended to shock, rather than surprise. There's a lot of frankly gratuitous nudity depicted in a manner which is (presumably deliberately) as subtle as a brick and as tasteful as a colonoscopy.

The performances of the two leads are good, the cinematography is excellent, the set designs are interesting and the level of surreality is dialled up to the max.

The problem for me was that Miliukova was not in any way portrayed as a sympathetic character, and it's not very easy to warm to Tchaikovsky either. The only really likeable characters are the roguish Bochechkarov, and a gossipy woman whose name I missed, who get all too little screen time.

The sound-track is atmospheric, but features none of Tchaikovsky's music, which was a disappointment.

An interesting film, but not really an entertaining one.

Turn on the news and what do you see? Man's inhumanity to man. Ukraine, Gaza etc etc. It's enough to make you lose faith in the human race - or it would be were it not for the occasional story of humanity at its best.

In Czechoslovakia in 1938-9, a small group of people (Nicholas Winton is the best known as he was the last survivor of that group) are appalled by the plight of mainly Jewish refugees, and resolve to do something. Despite opposition from governments (German, Dutch, British and American) they manage to evacuate 669 children and provide them with foster families in the UK, where many of their descendants live to this day. A further 250 children were on a train that was scheduled to leave on the day war was declared. Two of them were still alive at the war's end.

Then the story was forgotten for more than forty years, until at last Nicholas Winton was given the recognition he deserved (not the least astonishing part of the story is that Robert Maxwell did one decent thing in his life).

The film is in two parts; the younger Winton being played by Johnny Flynn, the older by Anthony Hopkins. Both give stand-out performances. Also excellent is Helena Bonham Carter as Winton's mother. The scene where she tells a bureaucrat what she thinks of him is priceless.

But the most important aspect of the film is its message. Human kindness is still a force in the world. Everyone can make a difference. No good deed, be it great or small, is ever wasted.

If only governments were run by people like Nicholas Winton.

Enzo Ferrari - a brilliant engineer, a significantly less than brilliant businessman, and - I now learn - a man with a complicated private life.

This film centres on events in 1957. Ferrari is going broke, and needs an injection of capital, which can only be gained by signing a deal with either Ford or Fiat. This was a major point of confusion for me, as pretty much the same dilemma was faced by Enzo Ferrari in the film Le Mans '66, set (counts on fingers) nine years later.

Ferrari is told he needs to win the 1957 Mille Miglia (a thousand mile race over public roads) for commercial reasons. At the same time he's being pressured by his semi-estranged wife, who holds half of the stock in the company. The situation isn't helped when the wife finds out the Enzo has a mistress and a son who are being supported out of company funds.

So far, so good. The race itself features five Ferrari cars, plus some from arch-rival Maserati. This is where things get hard to follow. All the cars are the same shade of red. I realise this was historically accurate (back then, a car's colour was determined by nationality - Italian cars were red, French ones blue, German ones white and British ones green) but this is one area when I wish historical accuracy had been sacrificed for narrative clarity. Add in the fact that the drivers were difficult to distinguish in identical helmets and goggles, and the race became next to impossible to follow. This is not to say that the racing scenes aren't spectacular - they are, and there's a dramatic and visceral crash.

Unfortunately, the film just sort of ends there. Enzo reaches a kind of equilibrium in his private life, the company survives (even if we're not sure how), there are a few pre-credit notes, but that's it.

There ought to be a good film to be made about the life of Enzo Ferrari, but I'm afraid this isn't it.

A middle-aged pair of ex-lovers meet by chance after twenty-five years whilst changing flights. The weather closes in and they're stuck in the airport until it clears.

They've nothing to do but talk to each other, mostly about old times. There's little to no recrimination; instead there's a light touch to the dialogue as they strike sparks off each other, and it's clear that a great deal of affection remains, even though they've moved on with their lives. Naturally, the audience gets the idea that the film's going to end with them reconciling (no spoilers - maybe they do, maybe they don't).

Then however, the film takes an unexpected turn. The airport terminal becomes more and more surreal, and what is basically a two-hander acquires a third character in the form of the airport tannoy announcer. There is enough wit on display to prevent this becoming silly - and the chemistry between Ryan and Duchovny is believable and touching.

I admit that I was hoping for a more dramatic (and weirder) ending, but overall it was an enjoyable watch.