david-meldrum

There's an argument to be made that the Mission Impossible is the most consistently enjoyable franchise of its era, the second film notwithstanding. That having been said, this film does show signs of weariness despite the spectacle. The plot is scarcely worth bothering with, which is admittedly not the point fo these films; and it's trying to be of the moment with a focus on A. I., and allusions to post-truth politics. That the A. I. is imbued with what is close to quasi-mystical powers shows just how little we understand one of the big issues of our age; that the film doesn't understand either doesn't seem to matter. It's directed with a degree of flourish, and there's no doubt that the action sequences are viscerally thrilling and spectacular. But without any real stakes that we can relate to, it can feel a bit like Marvel's jeopardy-free excursions into the multiverse. The director said that when he and Cruise met to plan the film, they did so by deciding on the two biggest stunt sequences, and stiched the film around them - and it shows, in the film's lack of structure and genuine tension. But all that matters little when it looks so good and thrills so much. It's a blast, despite the faults.

If there's such a thing as an uncanny valley for the era a film is set in, then All Of Us Strangers plunges you into it for much of its running time. Andrew Scott meets Paul Mescal in his otherwise empty London apartment complex, whilst also finding his parents who he told Mescal's character were killed in a car-crash. For much of the film there's a strange sense of dislocation that - assuming it's deliberate - is masterfully evoked. It is deliberate, the film's resolution makes clear; and though the unwinding of what the film-makers have so skillfully constructed is artfully and sensitively done, it does feel to me a little too easy, and maybe just a tad on the naive side. Without spoilers, it presents a scenario around death and loss many of us would love to be able to experience, and it does so to discuss and portray the different ways we navigate those losses. I just can't help but feel that ultimately it's more convenient wish-fulfillment than it is genuine depth. Maybe a second viewing will change my mind. The two central performances from Mescal and Scott are superb, as are Jamie Bell and Claire Foy; the music is skilfully used, the cinematograpy gorgeous, and the courage to use long periods of silence refreshing. It just didn't quite make that final step to move me the way I wanted it to.

When we say a film, or any work of art, is raw we usually think that it's loud in some way - angry too. Mass is certainly raw and angry, but loud it is not. In many ways a simple film, it gives us a deeply truthful and complex insight into what it means to try and live in the wake of the unexplainable.

It's about two couples who come together in a room in a church to talk. One couple lost their son in a mass shooting at school; the other also lost their son in the same mass shooting, of which he was the perpetrator. Written and directed by first-time director Fran Kranz it's immaculate in almost every regard, portraying the nuances of uncomfortable silences and the silly little words and deeds we undertake to fill such gaps. It uncovers aspects of what has led the couples to this point over the past years with delicate, unhurried ease; each individual and each relationship is drawn with sensitivity and grace. The nuances of guilt and the quest for understanding ring true; the quiet risks taken by those who undertake such processes of reconciliation portrayed with a just kind of honesty. It's a remarkable, brave film that deserves much more attention than it has had, and one which will reward thoughtful rewatching.

I'm aware that it's a hard film to get hold of. At the time of writing this, it was available in full on YouTube.

Fury Road took us by surprise; none of us expected a film from a long-neglected franchise by a director at that stage of his career to be as kinetic, risky, vital, and exciting as it was. So Furiosa faces an uphill struggle to honour the film's legacy and chooses to attack the challenge by telling the story of how Furiosa becomes the woman we meet in Fury Road. The result has only a little more dialogue than that film and a more swollen running time, and if the plot does feel disjointed at times that's more than made up for by some brilliantly staged action sequences. Anya Taylor-Joy proves herself more than up to the challenge of carrying the weight of a film of this size, and she's well supported by the increasingly busy Tom Burke in a key role - I rather suspect he is not far away from leading a tentpole film of his own sometime soon. I'm still not persuaded by Chris Hemsworth, but he just about gets away with it. Inevitably suffering in comparison with its blistering forerunner, Furiosa could have done with some more disciplined, focussed cutting and a firmer hand on the plot. But it's still the sort of singular vision of a blockbuster that we need - and as long as Miller can make films like this, he should be empowered to do so.

A film about people making a film is always going to run a risk of being tiresomely meta and self-referential. This flirts with that, but never goes the distance up itself. A group of young filmmakers go to an out-of-the-way house in Texas to make a porn film and find their elderly hosts to be more than they bargained for. The result is a genre-literate, expertly crafted slasher film with an eye for the gruesome. You can't help but feel the film-makers are having their cake and eating it in the way they depict the making of the adult film, but this is has a brilliantly evoked setting and some excellent performances from Mia Goth and Jenna Ortega. It's no surprise that it's spawned a couple of prequels.

A terrific document of the band at the height of their powers - inevitably I'd have preferred to have seen it in the cinema, on an IMAX screen. But even on my own TV it's spirit-lifing, life-improving stuff. Freddie really is at the top of his game here as a front man, and he exhibits his soaring voice to beautiful effect ... also showing off the benefits of his opera training by repeatedly fitting more words intelligibly into one breath than should be humanly possible. The only down side is that directors of these films really should remember in the edit that I, like most other concert-goers, never left a gig thinking 'Gee, those drum solos should have been longer.' See also a couple of other noodly instrumental passages. Otherwise, highly enjoyable.

I was sure I'd seen it, but I can't point to proof - so it has to go down as a first watch. Either way, does the world really need another white guy's take on this? Essentially perfect, deftly illustrating everything about Spike Lee at his best: urgent, effortlessly shifting between comedy and drama or tragedy, shocking, daring, musical, shot with verve. If there's one thing that feels like it hasn't aged quite as well as it could have done it's that at times the first half of the film feels a bit like an adaptation of a stage play - but even that is really just that this a more focussed disciplined film then others of Lee's. That was so of the moment, and so prescient is the film's ultimate tragedy - and the proof that it remains essential viewing.

Genre labels for books, films and the like are useful; if you're parting with hard-earned money then you need to have some idea of what you're going to get in exchange. But they can also be problematic, and can easily become a coded system for judging and separating 'high' art from 'low' or 'popular' art. Witness the idea of literary fiction in books - the implication being that it's not something crassly popular like horror or a thriller. God forbid anything people enjoy be good.

But how do you classify a film like this, which is itself at least about how we classify art? Forgive me if that's a bit meta, but that's in keeping with the film itself. Jeffrey Wright is an author who has grown cynical and jaded about the way a largely white literary elite profits from Black entertainment, and he writes a novel under a pen name that unwittingly puts him right in the cross-hairs of what he despises. It's a film that takes on, and skewers, white liberal racism in the way that Get Out does; not as a horror movie, but as an indictment of what so many people like me (and like I do, probably) look for and celebrate without any understanding or experience. British people of my vintage will think of Pulp's 'Common People' as a musical analogue.

When a film is this layered and meta-textual, you find yourself wary of having a take on it in case you inadvertently fall into one of the traps its laughing at; but that's the point, of course. The script is very, very funny; the comedy played to perfection and perhaps only some of the family drama subplots not quite striking the right note. The performances are wonderful, led by Jeffrey Wright - but special mention should also go to Tracee Eliss Ross as the central character's sister, and Erika Alexander as the neighbour he strikes up a relationship with.

Justly praised, this will inevitably make you laugh and think, and no doubt you'll be second guessing your takes on the issues it raises for weeks after.

Boys State was - to me at least - a little terrifying. It doesn't help that I'm not American, and that for some years I've been of the view that patriotism is usually dangerous. Whilst the film wasn't without some boys who made me a little hopeful, it wasn't a film that has left me feeling hopeful.

Coming to Girls State, it's hard to shake the feeling of a little tokenism, a little that this was a project riding the coattails of the former film's success. I don't know how much of that is true, and it's hard not to see this in the shadow of Boys State. The film itself actively encourages that - much of the first act sees the girls complaining that they don't spend much time talking politics on the programme and complaining about inequities between the boys' and girls' events (in the year this was filmed, taking place for the first time on the same campus, at the same time). Whilst the first film spent much of the time focusing on the boys bidding to be elected Governor, the equivalent here is a relatively small part of the story; as much, or more, time is given to the assembly's Supreme Court, and to the young woman writing an article for the newsletter about the inequities. It's all given context by the uncomfortable reality that over the week of the assembly news was breaking in the 'real' world of the leaked Supreme Court decision that would go on to overturn Roe vs Wade.

Parts of it scared me once again. The unaccompanied girls singing a patriotic song might be inspiring to many Americans, but to me felt chillingly cultlike. I'd have loved both films to have critiqued this more; and how the apparent majority of girls who disagreed with that infamous Supreme Court ruling felt they could sing that song with a clear conscience. And whilst all the words of empowerment and envisioning are present and correct, it's hard to shake the feeling that whilst Boys State prepares boys to govern, Girls State exists to give girls a cruel glimpse of something that will be shut off to many of them - or at least much harder for them to reach.

The closing credits play out to Taylor Swift's 'The Man, which under the circumstances feels apposite. I'm not clear what story the film-makers are wanting to tell here, but that may be the film's most important point. As a pair, these films are quite the double-bill.

My teenage daughter wanted to watch "a scary movie" with me; scrolling through the options she alighted on Jaws. I really couldn't have been happier, anticipating a fulfilling father-daughter time introducing her to one of the greatest films ever made, expanding her sense of what films can be and do. Then she had a last minute change of mind, picking Slender Man instead. What a come down; an artistry-free bore-fest that tries to make a teenage slasher flick out of an internet urban myth, and churns out something so non-sensical and uninteresting that its biggest achievement is an overuse of expositional dialogue when there's almost nothing for said dialogue to deposit. Do not waste your time on this.

In which Millie Bobbie Brown is a young woman married to a prince to avert a crisis in a her homeland, and finds herself being unwittingly sacrificed to a dragon to pay off an ancient debt. The result is an enjoyable action-fantasy romp as she battles for survival.

You can't tell a story like this without invoking Alien, and this film does so on several occasions. Millie Bobbie Brown is a convincingly bad-ass action heroine who deserves an even bigger vehicle than this one. And whilst the homages to Alien are clear, it has other connective tissue to the superior Ready Or Not, a film which is elevated above Damsel by managing to find more than a dash of wit when this is just a bit too po-faced to really sing.

The dragon is beautifully realised (and voiced - when the dragon started to speak I wasn't sure it was going to well, but it's carried off well). The film sits squarely in the young adult space, and light enough on gore to be appropriate for the intended audience; there is a world where we see more of the gore, and the film becomes more of a horror story. But what we have is what we have; we already knew from Stranger Things and the Enola Holmes films that Millie Bobbie Brown has the capacity to carry to a big franchise. Damsel is another feather to that bow; I'm intrigued to see where her career carries her.

Ridley Scott's Napoleon biopic is an agreeable Easter Day afternoon watch; an engaging blend of high camp, bloody spectacle, and pretension puncturing humour. Phoenix is well cast for this take on Napoleon; whilst his Emperor lacks a sort of predatory danger that the script hints at, his performances lances pomposity and is devoid of po-faced seriousness. Vanessa Kirby is the one who really shines as Josephine, however; every minute she's not on screen feels a little less than it could be.

The wit and the action are all welcome and enjoyable, and it slips down nicely; but it's hard to shake the feeling that it ends up being neither one thing nor the other. I'm tempted to think what a Director's Cut of this might reveal; which of the constitute elements would it bring out more of, suggesting what the film really could have been.

It's undemanding, enjoyable fare that leaves you sated but with that slight sense of what could have been.

We all know that it's our real or perceived weaknesses, mistakes and transgressions that keep us awake at night; left to themselves they can run riot. Unable to rest, we lose perspective, our memory plays tricks on us and guilt - justified or not - can become overwhelming. Soon we're caught in a circular trap, from which we can only be freed by sleep or the morning.

It's precisely this insomnia that haunt's Nolan's third film; Dormer (Pacino) is haunted throughout by an assortment of vulnerabilities. Some of these are a simple fact of the passage of time and humanity - the threat of a turned ankle after a jump, slipping under the logs giving chase, an inability to sleep in bright light. Others are real guilt, an increasing doubt of his own motives, or the temptations of being away from home and whatever his more 'normal' family life might be. This is all given force by the parallelisms between Dormer and Robin Williams's character, and the Internal Affairs investigation with the central murder.

These are all strengths of a script that, unusually for a Nolan film, isn't written by the director. I haven't seen the film it's a remake of, but certainly it's a film that unlike many of Nolan's other films (which he at least co-writes), its main female characters are complex, interesting creations with genuine agency. Photographed by long-term collaborator Wally Pfister, the film is soaked in cold, almost metallic shades (amongst others) of blue, lending a sense of the eerie to a film which, driven by a Pacino performance that for the most part avoids his latter-day tendency to self-parody, brilliantly evokes the way an inability to sleep feels all the day round. Unlike many Nolan films, the story is entirely linear; but it retains his obsessions with how our past informs our present, and the film plays with that as the flashes of visons that haunt that Dormer suggests a suppression of his past that threatens to overwhelm in - and by the end, does.

This is often seen as a minor Nolan film, on the way to the more successful and lauded films that lay in his future. But it deserves attention for all these reasons, not to mention the much missed Robin Williams's haunting and controlled performance. If Inception would take the cinema of dreams to somewhere new, this asks uncomfortable questions about what makes us unable to sleep ... and therefore to also dream. Showcasing as it does a deft thriller plot, his customary technical excellence and female characters who are better drawn than his usual, this is a corner of the Nolan filmography ripe for a revisiting.

Another country house whodunnit, with a deliciously comedic and modern twist. Some young, wealthy 20-somethings gather for a party to celebrate a big hurricane, when a game of Bodies Bodies Bodies/Murder In The Dark/Mafia/Whatever You Call It gets darkly out of hand in the midst of it all.

The plot sets the deliberately unlikeable characters adrift into the chaos of the storm outside, a killing spree inside, and a power cut which deprives them of light, and cell phone service and Wi-Fi. It could all seem a bit 'hey kids, how cool are we?'; but it doesn't because though it's not afraid to laugh at the expense of its Millennial ensemble, it's never cruel or condescending - despite the gore. This is, after all, a well executed comedic slasher movie, with an artfully held-back final reveal that's just one of many laugh-out loud moments that pepper the film.

Director Halina Reijn has her cast depend on the light they themselves produce - cell phone torches, glowing party gear and the like; there's no film-maker's lighting, and together with the deft cinematography and editing the overall effect is immersive and engaging. The ensemble's performances are similarly enjoyable, with no egos in sight - whilst Rachel Sennott stands out, it's not at anybody's expense. It's not a weighty film, but it's really well executed and never less than confident and enjoyable.

A beautiful, hypnotic, close to flawless film.

Paul Mescal is the father taking his eleven year old daughter on an annual holiday; this being the late 1990's, much of the holiday is recorded by the daughter on vjdeo camera. The film is the story of that holiday - both how it happened, and how it's remembered ... and it's about who our parents (and children) really are when we don't see them.

Paul Mescal's performance as a man desperate to connect with his daughter who he clearly loves dearly is brilliant; as the performance portraying a man who is struggling to hide his deep depression is remarkable. One short scene of him naked, back to camera, sitting on his bed, wracked by sobs is unforgettable. Even better is the performance by first-timer Frankie Corio as his daughter; it's a faultless, astonishingly subtle and measured performance that is utterly believable. Fairly normal holiday incidents are suffused with the cringing embarrassment, intimacy, and love that is at the heart of almost all parent-child relationships.

The music - both the original score and the needle drops - is exceptional, the later often used to deeply moving effect; the closing scene to the sound of Queen's Under Pressure is exquisitely tender and moving. The camera lingers on the edge of scenes, causing us to question whose memories are reliable; the colour blue suffuses and punctuates the narrative, clear blue canvasses onto which memory is projected.

An exceptional, beautiful, tender, and truthful film.

Like Love, Simon, there's nothing radical about this film other than all the most important parts. Like that film, Rye Lane is a joyously enjoyable, funny, warm romantic comedy that it would take a stony heart to dislike.

Two young black British people randomly meet in the wake of bad break-ups and spend most of the rest of the film walking through East London. As they do so both of them end up undertaking selfless displays of care for the other; inevitably they fall in love. All the romcom beats and tropes are present and correct, but it's the setting and the way its populated that's new.

When I was living in London I spent time living and working in communities like the ones portrayed here, and whilst the film is very much 2024 in terms of its pop culture, it's instantly recognisable in terms of its geography. Feature debut director Raine Allen-Miller is putting on the screen an underseen part of London life that she mines with a deft, sure touch.

The cinematography lends an almost widescreen cartoonish feel even on your own perfectly normally sized television; at times it flirts with becoming a musical in the way musical performances of different, organic types stud the narrative, and the humour is laugh out loud brilliant from the throw-away one-liners, to well executed physical comedy, to an ending that may fulfil a genre trope but is none the less satisfying for all that.

With a sub-90 minute running time, this hugely enjoyable film never feels less than fresh; its light touch suggests it will invite re-watching, and we may well look back on it as the announcement of some significant new talents.

In which one of the great directorial talents of his generation feels like he's going through the motions.

Adapted from a graphic novel (about which I know nothing), this is a thinly-plotted thriller about an assassin who messes up a job and spends the rest of the film killing his employers to cover his tracks. Fassbender is the lead, burdened with a seemingly omnipresent narration to deliver as well, a narration that often feels disjointed and disorganised. This may be because it's something close to a stream of consciousness, but this is a character who is presented as coldly calculating and methodical and his narration is neither of these things. It all feels a bit pulpy and B-movie; not bad things in and of themselves, but somehow it manages to be those things, and also a little dull. There's no character to connect with in any emotional way; there are a few stylishly constructed action scenes, but none of them hit the heart of the viewer because there's nothing there to feel much about. Attempts at character development feel tokenistic and shallow; Fassbender's assassin listen's only to The Smiths music (something which for no good reason disappears completely at some point around two-thirds of the way through). I love The Smiths (the person Morrissey has become rather less so), and there's never a bad time to hear parts of one of rock's greatest back-catalogues ... but why does he listen to just The Smiths? There's no discernible reason. Like so much else in the film, this brilliant music is just there, taking up space.

On the plus side the film is beautifully shot and lit, and frequent Fincher collaborators Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross produce a fantastic score. It's not a bad film; but David Fincher can do so much more than this, and at this stage of his career it's easy to see that this could and should have been much more.

This low-key Netflix release is dystopia in a minor key; imagine a Mike Leigh style take on a nightmarish near future London with more than a hint of the series Top Boy about it, and you're somewhere near this.

Unlike many dystopian dramas, it's much more of a straight social issues family drama, eschewing metaphor and allusion for something more thematically direct for all the film's low-key nature. Kano - excellent in Top Boy - is on similar form here, meeting his son for the first time after the boy's mother's death; the boy is played by young Jedaiah Bannerman in his first role, and if this is anything to go by, then he has a promising future ahead of him. English football legend and all-round national treasure is well cast as a pirate DJ, around whom the plot pivots.

The film is beautifully shot and the production design is excellent; clearly and unsurprisingly Blade Runner influenced, but this is very much a London vision of the future. The alarming gap between rich and poor is an urgent theme, one we need explored from more perspectives than the more prevalent 'eat the rich' films doing the rounds. In that respect the film is refreshing; it feels as if it's genuinely grappling with the issue rather than just laughing at the absurdity of the super-rich. This is a film about the other side of the equation.

It's let-down somewhat by a lack of narrative momentum; the plot drifts too much, and though the central father-son relationship is convincing, it needs more to really pull us in. When the narrative really kicks in the final thirty minutes or so it's well executed, but we needed more of it.

Music is excellently used throughout, and as a whole there's much here to suggest those involved behind and in front of the camera have good things ahead of them.

I feel similarly about this film as I do the first one; together they stand equidistant between Quentin Tarantino at his best and his worst. I don't hate, or even dislike it; but it's hard to imagine taking this film or its predecessor to my heart. The self-consciousness that characterises so many of him films threatens to drown the whole thing. And this is a film that did not to be split into two; then it really would be the one film that the director insists it is.

As with the first film, Uma Thurman is brilliant - star power made incarnate, eating up the screen whenever she's on it. None of the supporting characters really carry much weight, and though there's one brilliant action sequence, there's nothing to really compare to the standout sequences of the first film. Stretched so far, the film's emptiness is too apparent; there's little really going on here, for all the technical excellence.

Another day, another Eat The Rich film to catch up on. This one is a scabrous, hard-edged satirical comedy which is all text with little in the way of subtext. That's not necessarily a bad thing, but by the end I was left desperate from nuance or surprise; the film has plenty to shock (or at least, try to shock), but it doesn't always work. And shocks are not the same as sup rises. I did find myself chuckling throughout; there are plenty of genuinely funny moments, and there are moments of intelligence in the screenplay, which a decent cast are doing their best to flesh out when they have the chance.

Mentioning the cast, Harris Dickinson is the standout, and Charbli Dean shows promise which we will tragically never get to see realised (she died shortly before the film's release). There's an extended sequence that attempts to outdo Monty Python's Mr Creosote sketch from The Meaning Of Life; there's more bodily fluids in that sequence then you're likely to see in many other contexts. The narrative is too episodic, and some characters are set up only to seemingly disappear from consideration for no real reasons. The most concerning aspect is that its take on the gap between ultra-rich and poor can come across a middle-class view of what poverty is like and how 'poor people' (advisedly in quotation marks) think and act. I was left with the nagging feeling that it would take much more courage to allow the real poor to speak for themselves, rather than to put words in their mouths and versions of actions in their minds.

It's not unrewarding; it will provoke thought and it does entertain, but there are better films in this popular sub-genre.

With all the richness of horrific possibilities a carnival setting provides, this seems to be an odd choice of story to tell for del Toro, a director most at home with horror and fantasy/sci-fi genres. I haven't seen the 1940's original, but this version plays with the supernatural and flirts with horror, but is ultimately a character piece masquerading as a psychological thriller.

Bradley Cooper is good as the central character, a man who exists whenever he can in liminal spaces - corridors, paths, travelling on a train when we first meet him, the travelling carnival and touring mentalist shows in which he spends most of the film. Every time deeper relationships peel of layers towards the core of who he is, he runs. Rooney Mara as his partner is miscast - she's a good actor, but this part and her are a mismatch, and it threatens to undermine the film. That it doesn't is largely down to the arrival of Cate Blanchett, whose scenes with Copper are electric, easily the highlights of the film. The film is stuffed with great actors in largely well-defined roles, but the screenplay does suffer from an episodic feel which at times undermine the plot's momentum; at times it lags a little, and the two and half hour run time feels baggy.

As usual with del Toro the technical sides are beautiful - production design, lighting, cinematography, to name three. As a whole, however, it falls short of the director's best work.

To say this is the least interesting of Villeneuve's three big science-fiction films is a little unfair. Most film-makers would struggle to follow up Arrival and Blade Runner 2049 with something roughly their equal. Adapting a source novel as dense and mired in cod mysticism as this makes it all the harder. That the finished project is both coherent and enjoyable enough to not only more than justify its existence but also to justify a sequel is a significant achievement on its own terms.

The screenplay works something close to a miracle by being economic with quite a significant of exposition and spoken world-building, and the direction is characteristically interesting enough to get us past the denser parts. Like most of Villeneuve's films it is visually stunning; the whole film looks simply stunning, and some of it is expertly designed - I especially liked the shield, which shimmers and hums tangibly.

I read the book as a teenager - now too long ago to really remember anything - so coming to this as an effective newcomer I did find that some plot developments seemed to appear out of nowhere; but not enough of them to distract. The biggest issue for me is the film's star. To this point I've been a Chalamet skeptic, and here I saw little to change that. It's true that in epic adventures like this the central character is rarely the most interesting, and it may be that the character flowers and emerges in the second film. That would make more sense of the performance choices; but the combination of the way the character is written and performed makes Paul too much of a blank space for ... what exactly to be projected on to is not entirely clear. There's not enough charisma or interest to anchor the film emotionally; Rebecca Ferguson's character has similar traits (or lack of them), but for me she's a naturally more interesting actor to carry her role past these weaknesses.

We'll see how the second film may change or confirm any of this It's looks (and sounds, especially with Zimmer's brilliant score) quite magnificent, and does more than enough to bring you back for seconds.

As the credits roll at the end of Black Hawk Down, the names of all the American servicemen who died in the events portrayed so viscerally are listed. We are also told that 'more than 1000 Somalis' were also killed. None of them are named.

Therein lies my main problem with this film as I revisit it for the first time in a very long time. When Ridley Scott get things right, he gets them very right; he has made at least two films which are immovable from my all-time favourites. When he gets things wrong, they tend to go quite badly wrong. Black Hawk Down is not a total disaster; in terms of cinematic portrayal of war, there are few better sequences. The fighting is brutal, nasty, and hard to look away from. The first 40 minutes or so are effective in setting the tone of the units involved. Once the fighting starts it's hard to tell the difference between the soldiers, but this matters surprisingly little; few people can direct action with the narrative clarity Scott brings. The problem is that this could be happening anywhere, against anyone; we don't understand anything about 'the enemy' or the city and country they're fighting in (despite the usual banal on-screen explainer at the beginning). They are bullet-fodder; civilians are non-playing characters with even less dialogue. When the Americans are fleeing on foot at the end, they are surrounded by cheering locals for no real reason. It's the same with the Pakistani UN troops the Americans are waiting for; the delay in their arrival is only mentioned as as a source of anger, the fact that the Americans had failed to mention the mission to their colleagues skated over. When they do arrive, you barely have a chance to lay an eye on them. At the end one soldier gives a banal, insulting speech about not choosing to be a hero. Hero for who, exactly?

In the current political climate, this sort of film does not age well; it's far too 'America first', America as global policeman, Africa as a white-man's playground. There's much that will grip you and sear itself into your memory; but really Western filmmakers have to do better than this with these stories.

With its often-stated resemblance to deep space, the deep sea is one of the most visually fertile of settings for story-telling on film. Combine that with a narrative that's moving in and of itself, and you have documentary material that is perhaps almost irresistible to the film-maker. Netflix's The Deepest Breath tells this story with all the requisite tension (assuming you, like me, don't know the story beforehand), using a combination of original documentary footage and reconstructions. Some of the images are heart-stoppingly beautiful, the use of light especially deft at emphasising the narrative arc. The final reveal runs the risk of feeling a little exploitative or manipulative, especially given how tragic the final result of all this was - scarring real people in the real world for life. It also lacks a little in terms of understanding why people engage with such extreme sports, but it's a visually striking and undeniably moving presentation of a remarkable story.

Emerald Fennel's Saltburn is a caustic, funny, disturbing contribution to the burgeoning sub-genre of 'Eat The Rich' films, which like to make you chuckle as much as they try to elicit gasps of shock. It's a sign of growing societal anger at the super-rich that such films are finding such willing audiences and creators, and anger is an emotion that shone through Fennel's previous film, the similarly tonally mixed Promising Young Woman.

If that film announced the arrival of a significant directorial talent, Saltburn cements her in the top division. Brilliantly written, technically flawless, and acted to perfection by a superb cast, it's a film that's notable for so much. It's firmly written and shot with the female gaze even if the central characters are male, deft tracking shots punctuate the film as layers of plot and character are peeled back, there are subtly brilliant tricks of cinematography, production design, sound design, and lighting, and music (to name a few) that mean it will reward multiple re-watchings. It's also, surely, the final confirmation of Barry Keoghan's arrival as a major player; his towering central performance allowing us to ruminate on the film's concern with how we are forced to play out pre-determined scripts for our lives, and what happens when we try to deviate from those willingly or unwillingly. I've seen the film criticised for unoriginality, which is surely to miss the point; not only does it wear its influences and sources on its sleeve (naming some of them explicitly), but it's precisely this complex meta-textuality that allows the film to work on so many levels and not just as a one-note satire.

It will inevitably alienate some for whom the material is too shocking or too graphic, which is understandable; if that's not you, it's an invitation to something as deliriously entertaining as it is disturbing.