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Eight years into Marvel Studios' multi-property film franchise and its increasingly convoluted continuity, a movie as good as "Captain America: Civil War" (2016) is truly and delightfully surprising. While I doubt it could stand alone, and is guilty of a few shoe- horned cameos and more than a few plot contrivances, the second instalment from Joe and Anthony Russo (directors of the previous and similarly impressive Captain America: The Winter Solider {2014}) is a success. As an action spectacle it is above par; as a springboard for future franchise films it is reinvigorating; and as a meditation on the problem of superheroes' power and sovereignty it is the best since Zack Snyder's "Watchmen" (2009). We are not likely to see critical reception that puts it in league with Christopher Nolan's "The Dark Knight" (2008), rather condescendingly hailed by non- superhero fans as something "more than a comic book movie" (Roger Ebert). But "Civil War" is every bit as engaged with themes of authority and morality as Nolan's seminal work, and borrows much credence from the Marvel Cinematic Universe's well-established lore and cast of characters. It is as close to the true, transcendent experience of comic book fandom as we have yet to see on the big screen.

Following the events of the sadly inferior "Avengers: Age of Ultron" (2015), Steve Rogers as Captain America (Chris Evans) leads a new team of superheroes in pursuit of a minor villain leftover from "The Winter Soldier", only to sustain a large number of civilian casualties. It's the final straw for the governments of the world, says long-absent Marvel player General "Thunderbolt" Ross (William Hurt, last seen in 2008's "The Incredible Hulk"). Now a superhero registration act is in order, rendering all enhanced individuals legally beholden to the United Nations and impotent to act without democratic approval. Humbled by the weight of failure from previous films, Tony Stark as Iron Man (Robert Downey Jr.) is in favour of the proposal. Rogers, ruffled by his intimate experience of governmental corruption from previous films, is suspicious, but might have agreed to compromise if not for the involvement of his life-long friend turned Soviet sleeper assassin, Bucky Barnes (Sebastian Staan - the aforementioned Winter Soldier). Barnes has been framed for a terrorist bombing in South Africa and Rogers is alone in defending his innocence. With the help of a mystery malefactor (Daniel Bruhl), the rift between heroes grows into civil war...

The basic premise of this film was adapted from a cross-over Marvel comics event of the same name (published 2006-7), and represented a major paradigm shift in post-9/11 superhero narratives. This arose from the undeniable fact that it was becoming impossible to appreciate large-scale urban destruction without qualms, and that superheroes have always left large-scale urban destruction in their wake. It is something that has been addressed in previous films, particularly "The Avengers" (2012) and "Age of Ultron", in which writer-director Joss Whedon made a point of conflict containment and showed Rogers doing everything possible to clear the battleground of bystanders – maybe that way we could cathartically enjoy New York's decimation again. But the Avengers are making one hell of an omelette here. "You try to save as many people as you can," Rogers confesses. "Sometimes that doesn't mean everyone".

This is Captain America's polite way of using the phrase "collateral damage", a theme that has wormed its way into the heart of superhero culture over the last ten years, and to great effect. That "Civil War" takes an issue like collateral damage so seriously is its finest quality: we have here a film that does adhere to a fairly formulaic script wherein a villain turns the heroes against each other (seen in both Avengers movies), but not one that lets the heroes off that easily. While much of the story is somewhat contrived - utilizing the classic trope of villain-as-impossibly- prescient-mastermind-who-knows-what-every-character-will-do-every- step-of-the-way - the conflict at its heart is not. It is a very real ideological difference that exists between Rogers and Stark, and not a misunderstanding used to justify a series of fight scenes. "You're wrong, you think you're right, and that makes you dangerous," claims the film's most exciting cameo character. It doesn't matter who he's talking to.

At the same time, the movie remains a solid melodrama, such that we feel the personal stakes which all stories require to function at an emotional level. Stark and Rogers take their sides on principle that is not abstract, but informed by personal tragedy. Bolstered by thematic ties to the story's two main antagonists, "Civil War" works as drama as well as dissertation. This is all especially impressive given the studio mandates which must have been weighing upon it, to consolidate the plots and characters of Marvel's eleven preceding films and set up the seven films slated for release by 2019. This is a juggling act of economic, thematic and storytelling responsibility that is rarely executed with such aplomb in the arena of Hollywood blockbusters. It will make money and please fans, an increasingly difficult double threat for superhero cinema. And while it requires a baseline of fandom to operate as a good film, it does do it. It is a story about power; it is a story about people. After all, every story is.

Following a movie event like Christopher Nolan's "The Dark Knight" (2008) is a dangerous game, but then Nolan is a dangerous player. His curious obsession with masculine identity, psychological schisms and the dark night of the soul gave "Batman Begins" (2005) a sense of edgy 'reality' that ingratiated him to critics and a good deal of the public, even if it alienated some hard-core Batfans with its customized and highly Nolan-esque take on the Caped Crusader. When his second installment braved the frontier of openly post-9/11 superhero parables, and in so doing gave the late Heath Ledger platform to truly wow audiences and critics the world over, the British director seemed to have galvanized 'superhero noir' as the new benchmark in comic book film adaptation. "The Dark Knight Rises" (2012) is his final word on the subject, and while this reviewer feels that it is not a film fit to win over any dissenters or greatly deter any fanatics, it is very largely successful in what it tries to do and its failings are certainly not for a lack of trying.

The first hour or so of the film is a whirlwind of plot necessities that, despite the running time of 165 minutes, probably needed another half an hour or so to unfold with sensicality. They involve introductions to John Blake (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) - a rookie cop raised in a city orphanage who apparently "still believes in the Batman", even though as far as the audience is concerned he may as well have just moved to Gotham last week – Selina Kyle (Anne Hathaway) – a cat-burglar who is therefore Catwoman – and Miranda Tate (Marion Cottilard) – a high society Gothamite monetarily invested in a renewable energy program at Wayne Enterprises that has apparently gone bust, even though it seems to work just fine. Excusing a twist in the tale that seems to be there for its own sake, however, Nolan and his co-screenwriter (also known as his brother Jonathan) do not really abide loose ends, and by the commencement of the film's some hour-long climax all the story elements that feel disparate and murky in the beginning have intertwined and solidified into the kind of philosophically powerhouse narrative that made the first two films so effective.

What makes the Nolan films effective is how they appropriated the inalienable tenets of the Batman legend in pursuit of an apocalyptic allegory about the post-9/11 western world. "Batman Begins" was a film about fear; the double edged nature of fear's power over a people and how the conquering of fear is invaluable for the pilgrimage of moral valor. "The Dark Knight" was a film about Terror, the kind George Bush Jr. declared war against in the early twenty-first century, and about how the greatest tool against Terror is the adherence to moral principles, even if sacrifice and compromise must be allowed for.

"The Dark Knight Rises" provides a more accurate depiction of terroristic motives in its central villain of Bane than the "The Dark Knight" did with The Joker, because he holds Gotham in contempt for its status as a symbol of American first-world 'imperialism'. There has been some critical backlash against Bane as a Villain Without A Face, but this severely undermines Tom Hardy's performance, which actually achieves remarkable presence through nothing but body-language, vocal theatricality and disturbingly expressive eyes. Even without a face, Hardy effortlessly paints a convincing portrait of one who wants to dismantle the lie of Harvey Dent's legacy and incite Gotham into class-warfare riots. He purports to "liberate" Gotham's people, but his ultimate goal is to feed Gotham false hope before destroying the whole darn thing and everyone in it. Bane's genuine ideological conflict with western civilization is centered around the power of hope in the eventuation of despair. More than it is a film about fear or Terror, "The Dark Knight Rises" is a film about hope.

In accord with the rest of the trilogy, Bruce Wayne is not the only protagonist whose arc is built around the movie's central thematic concepts. Even the arc supplied for Selina Kyle ends up justifying her seemingly arbitrary insertion into this filmic imagining by providing a suitably dubious object of moral faith for the fallen Dark Knight. She begins with similar outlook to Bane, but the Nolans don't buy into Ra's Al Ghul's assertion that criminals aren't complicated. Everyone, and everything, is complicated.

Oddly enough, it's this principle that is behind most of the shortcomings of the film. It's a little *too* complicated, with the rushed series of first-act events seriously paling in comparison to the emotional impact of the conclusion, and an aforementioned twist that doesn't make much sense. There are also a lot more impossible feats performed by Bruce Wayne here than before, including a near-superhuman healing ability. And where "Batman Begins" and "The Dark Knight" stood alone very effectively, one can't help but feel that both films are practically required viewing for this one.

But none of that really outweighs the sheer, touching veracity of this finale and its philosophical/moral ambitions, which are all up to par with the predecessors and pay off a great deal of things with a genuine craftsmanship. This "Batman" series has always been about the power of symbols in a corrupted world and personal accountability in a society of structural shackles, and when Batman returns to Gotham at the top of the final act to brand his symbol in flames upon the city's largest bridge structure, we are reminded of the paradoxical purity of his message. Even as part of a system that is broken, even funded by a wealth that would perhaps do more good dispersed amongst the third world, even if no one ever knows his name, the Batman fights for the goodness of fallen people (be they cops, cat-burglars or orphans) who may otherwise have never had the chance to rise.

NOTE: The following comment is written under the assumption that readers are familiar with the franchise and its general plot arc.

Saw V is a pretty lackluster film, a retread of themes, plots, characters and even specific events from the previous films of the canon. It fails on a lot of levels, but the main one is its insistence on telling us things we already know. The identity of Jigsaw's operative in the police force was revealed at the end of IV (a much better film in every way), and if we even WANTED to know the reasons that this particular cop 'went over to the dark side', we certainly wanted it to be a much more interesting and involving story than the one V gives us. We could, and a lot of us probably already have supposed every generic plot point in this character's origins story. We wouldn't have guessed the specifics, but as usual, the specifics don't matter.

Once this recurring flashback tale of transformation has revealed itself to be pretty un-challenging, we're left only with the even blander present-day plot of The Other Cop (excluding the cutaway sequences of an ongoing five-person 'game', which is robbed by its very cutaway nature of any tension and which feels pretty irrelevant throughout). This non-flashback story has nothing to it: the cop who survived the last three films without being Jigsaw's buddy is onto the one who is, and he very stupidly spends all his time walking from dark room to dark room, talking to himself and failing to report his incriminating findings to anyone. Needless to say, things do not end well.

And it *is* needless to say this: that's another thing Saw V seems to forget. The film treats its fatalistic and unhappy ending as though it retains the shock that the first film's equally fatalistic and unhappy ending delivered. It doesn't. We are by now very, very wise to the franchise's policy on endings and closure, and we know that the good guys are all doomed. When we get what we know is coming, the natural response is to be quite profoundly unimpressed.

I loved the fourth Saw film. I thought it did really new and exciting things with a premise that didn't even originate with the intelligence that was eventually given it. I thought it made really relevant points about ideological warfare and the fundamental horror of terrorism. And I thought it set the series up for some great explorable terrain. What follows is a monumental backslide, a film that does nothing new and doesn't even revert to used material very well (fans who are just after gore are also going to be disappointed - there's not much of it). I came out of the theatre feeling like I was still waiting for the fifth Saw film to get made.

The notion of User Comments for individual episodes of television series' seems at the outset an elaborate and nerdily elitist exercise. Of all the T.V. shows that I love, I'm pretty convinced "Buffy" is the only one this function of IMDb is really useful for. Insofar as you have to already be an avid follower of the show to appreciate them, "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" did harbor some of the most amazing and unforgettable singular works of serial narrative ever put on the small screen. It had, in my opinion, more truly great episodes than any other television series of its time (with the possible exception of "The X Files"). "Conversations With Dead People" was the last of them.

The episode is perhaps the most strongly themed of the entire show - while the motifs of loneliness and disconnection had been prominent in the series since the beginning of its sixth season, "Conversations With Dead People" is the only single episode to really commit itself thoroughly to these ideas and their bearings on 'our beloved characters'. From structure and form (five separate stories involving five separate people who never intersect or move from their isolated settings) to the focus of the dialog and nature of the narrative events, the episode concerns itself *only* with the very secret, deep and personal feelings of each of the characters, and the varying degrees of lonely pain that they experience. It's quite a daring and firm shift from action to meditation, and although Dawn's story involving a poltergeist preventing her from communicating with her dead mother has multitudes of violence, loud noises and explosions, the emotional need driving her character through the mess speaks for itself.

These defining, formal peculiarities aside, "Conversations With Dead People" also makes my top ten on account of two quite astounding performances: Alyson Hannigan as series regular Willow turns out one of her most amazing crying sequences, as she mourns openly to a ghost medium about the sudden death of her lover from the previous season. Deemed by fellow Buffy actor Tom Lenk as "one of the best criers in the biz", Hannigan makes good on that quote in this episode, creating some of the most real and heart wrenching emotion seen on commercial T.V.

More surprising though, is the thoroughly compelling performance of one-time guest Johnathon Woodward, as Buffy's undead, Freudian confidante and old, unremembered high school companion. Woodward went on to have cameo spots in each of Joss Whedon's television ventures, but he works enough magic here for all three: his comic balancing act between deep, three-dimensional character and mere physical opponent for Buffy's obligatory fights works splendidly with its own good-humoured ridicule.

Moreover, his remarkable psychoanalytical insights into Buffy, while making no sense by the principles of Vampirism that have been established in the show (Woodward's vampire seems, like James Marsters' Spike, to be some kind of miraculous deviation from the Vampiric model that classically has no human emotion), are dead on and as poignant as any comments made by any character in the history of the series. His compassionate yet matter-of-fact summation of her problem stands as one of my favourite lines of the show: "It all comes down to you feeling alone. But Buffy, everybody feels alone... Everybody *is*. Until they die." His and Buffy's incredibly short-lived relationship establishes such a strong bond so succinctly that for the first time, there actually is pathos in a no-name vampire's death. It's an inarguably bizarre usage of the standard Buffy-kills-a-newborn-demon-in-a-graveyard shtick, but also an incredibly successful one.

Although very clearly *meant* to be a different and radical take on the "Buffy" episode formula, "Conversations With Dead People" benefits beautifully from its very late status in the series by existing against all the expectations built before it. While there had been episodes earlier on in the show that had stood as pretty universally innovative television (that is, unusual for TV) this final-season oddball was able, due to the strength of the series' innovation up until that point, to get by on simply being unusual *for a Buffy episode*. It is perhaps more thematically impenetrable than most, but for the fans in the know, it's a goldmine.

I'm amazed that "Buffy" fanatics don't like this episode. I honestly had more faith in them than that. I assumed that because this series was a remarkably innovative and intelligent production which recognized the boundless potential of the television medium that its followers would largely share similar traits. The feedback I've heard on this Season Four closer is that it's dull, confusing and pointless. I sorely beg to differ.

What I understood of "Restless" the first time I saw it (and have been consolidated by every further viewing) is that it is an unadulterated Freudian character study, realized with lite David Lynch methodology. It's true that there is SFA of the formulaic Big Bad plotting that "Buffy" episodes usually revolve around, but I was actually somewhat thankful for this. "Restless" is a denouement - a reflection and a meditation, and although there is an obligatory evil at work, the villain here is vague and besides the point. "It's all about the journey," says Giles and despite the obviousness, he's right.

I don't know about everyone else, but I love these characters. In that cathartic, fanboy, TV-show way, I care about them. And by God, I'm excited when I get the chance to learn something about them - I loved the in depth character studies of other such low-key episodes as Season Three's "Amends" and "The Zeppo", Season Five's "The Body" or Season Six's "Hell's Bells". And I'm not saying all this to alienate non "Buffy" nerds or prove myself "Buffy" nerd supreme, just to illustrate that the episodes that have enough impact on me to make me remember their names are the ones where I feel like we've gotten somewhere with the people we watch, and we understand them just a little bit better. To me, no episode ever did this better than "Restless".

So have your way and think your thoughts, but I like to have a little shared humanity with the objects of my fandom now and again, and "telling statement" dreams of hidden fears and desires just does more for me than fist fights with interchangeable Evil Dead. As far as I'm concerned, this mid-series nap by our drama-heavy protagonists gives more multi-viewing rewards than most feature length films. Not only this, but it is essential viewing in any attempt to understand how Joss Whedon's cheesy-by-premise, Supernatural soap opera became and holds a place as one of the most compelling television experiences of all time.

Here's what I think: a good portion of the world has waited for a long time to see the Simpsons on the theatre screen. This kind of anticipation for a film has no precedent, as far as I know. It's absolutely huge. The logical, human extension of this anticipation is that many people are going to be disappointed. Others are going to be thrilled that the moment has finally arrived. I tend to think of it this way – recall the dizzying excitement that you felt as a child when you were going to stay the night at a friend's house. You would stew it over, hype it up, bounce up and down at the thought the entire day before. Sometimes you couldn't sleep. Now imagine that excited anticipation, subconsciously preserved for fifteen years.

Because I think it needs to be understood that for a lot of us, "The Simpsons" is more than a show. It's a cultural load bearing pillar of our childhood. It's a resource of knowledge and life. So as much as it is impossible to live up to the expectations of a generation still bouncing up and down at the thought, and as much as no film could ever encapsulate the breadth of "The Simpsons"' brilliance (from 1992 to 1997), there is still a part of me that feels some deep untouchable itch put to blissful rest at the mere sight of Springfield on the big screen.

Is it a good movie? I think so. Kinda. It has a plot, and character arcs, and jokes, and all that. But truth be told, it's just about impossible to think of it as a film. When people ask if it's good, they don't mean "Was it a good film?" They mean, "Was it good "Simpsons"?" The answer to this question is, again, I think so. Kinda. There are definite upsides to it: writing credits include some of the most prolific writers from the series' golden years: Mike Scully, David Merkin and John Swartzwelder highly amongst them. These people were big believers in taking the show "back to the family", and though the character stories cooked up for the film are retreads (Homer endangers the family, then endeavors to save them; Marge's relationship with Homer is put into question; Bart feels he'd be happier with another father), they're at least done by writers who know the characters better than any. There's also some of that good old fashioned *tasteful* celebrity cameo usage which has grown short these past few years: Green Day, Albert Brooks and Tom Hanks lend their voices to mostly great effect.

But there are problems as well. Some computer animation here and there puts us just a little bit out of it, we're not used to seeing the camera of Springfield move in that bizarre two dimensional three dimension way that computer assisted cartoons do. This isn't as big a distraction as the fact that "The Simpsons" simply works best in an episodic format. It's hard work to enjoy them through one solid plot for feature length. It can be done, but it's a slightly strained kind of enjoyment. Like you're giving the film a hand when it slips a little. Kind of an interactive experience, if you want to be optimistic about it.

And the film does slip. I'd say roughly sixty per cent of the jokes got laughs out of my full theatre, and me personally. This is no criticism – at the rate the show's been going, it's practically a miracle. Add that to the aforementioned fact that the film format isn't what "The Simpsons" was made for, and you've got yourself what's really a pretty funny production. The film's opening scene, of the Simpson family watching "The Itchy and Scratchy Movie" and making amusing parallels, Homer's "spider-pig" bit and Bart's naked skateboarding sequence are even downright hilarious (see also 'President Schwarzenegger'). And even though the scenes that cop the ungainly task of moving the plot forward do feel something like awkward punctuations, they need to be there to keep the relatively consistent laughs coming and they don't stop the show completely. We may be able to see the seams, but like an old soft toy, we love it anyway. And really, if you don't; if you're not willing to cut this movie some slack for old time's sake, what are you doing watching it in the first place?

"Running With Scissors" is a film that perfectly demonstrates the difference between what's important to one person, and what's important to everybody else. You can tell somebody that your cat died, and they will feel sorry for you, but they won't feel your pain. And they probably won't feel that your cat's death was a time in your life that would be a well rounded exploration into your character or have any specific thematic resonance.

Somebody should have explained this to Augusten Burroughs before he decided to turn his memoir (which, for all I know, is a ripping read) into a star-studded feature film. His young life, the sole subject matter, was probably interesting at the time, but on screen, it goes exactly like this: Young Augusten (Joseph Cross) has a mentally unbalanced mother (Annette Bening) and a hopeless alcoholic father (Alec Baldwin). The dad gets sick of it, and leaves. The mother, who fancies herself a brilliant poet, sees a shrink (Brian Cox) about all the grievances she has with her life-long oppression. His solution is to, ultimately, adopt Augusten and act as both his father and psychiatrist in a home only fractionally worse than the one it replaces. Everyone in this home is ludicrously damaged in the head. It's strange, and at times it's a little sad, but still, no one really wants to hear all about your dead cat.

As it happens, a cat does die in this movie. Not to give too much away, or give the wrong idea, but the pet dies as a result of a sorely dysfunctional household that, despite the profession of its patriarch, is entirely tolerant of mental illness. Yes, that's a shame. But this is the film's only punch line. A dead cat, a few broken homes, a demolished kitchen ceiling, wasted human potential, a lot of wasted money. All because of what? A sorely dysfunctional household that, despite the profession of its patriarch, is entirely tolerant of mental illness.

There are points that seem like they might have had a greater social relevance, commenting on things like feminism, sexuality, psychology. Sadly, these things don't ever really leave the Finch house, so even in such an obviously 70's set and style, nothing has much of a context. I, more than anyone, hate a film being dismissed as the sum of its parts, but in all honesty this felt like nothing a hell of a lot more than two hours of strange people doing strange things. I will say, however, that despite all these gripes, it's very hard to take it out on the actors, and given everything this is an achievement and a half. The performances here are all of a respectable standard, with particular attention being demanded by Bening and more subtly roused by Joseph Fiennes and Evan Rachel Wood (Baldwin and Paltrow are very generous here and they come out richer for it). The problem is not at all the acting, it's the characters themselves. Nothing happens to them. Even things that should create change in personalities or arcs, such as losing virginity at 14 to a much older male, don't seem to have any such effects. And yes, it is misguided to criticize lack of character development in a memoir piece, but that doesn't change the fact that a key part of the decision to film this autobiography should have been to acknowledge popular expectation of the film medium, and people expect movies to entertain.

"It doesn't matter where I start" Burroughs tells us over a black screen in the opening segment "You won't believe me anyway" I can't help but think that the mentality that it doesn't matter where you start (or where you go from there) is probably what brought this ship down, and not to be overly mean about it, but for future reference, audiences will believe what you tell them. They won't necessarily care.

Just last week, in one of my Screen Analysis tutorials, our tutor good-naturedly decided that if we were going to be film students we needed to be exposed to disturbing things. What he showed us was an excerpt from an expressionist French film made in the late 20's, the name escapes me. Before we had reached the climactic scene, every one in the class had already guessed it, as we had seen images so far of a man purposely sharpening a razor blade, and then approaching a complacent woman in a chair and holding wide open one of her eyes. At this point one of the girls in the room rather loudly asked of the tutor, jokingly but in something of a shaky voice, "Why are you doing this?"

This question, I think, could well be the definitive mark of really effective horror, and it was certainly in the back of my mind nearly all of last night as I was watching David Cronenberg's "The Fly" for the first time. True horror films, by their nature, should strive to get their audience to ask this question, because it means that they are transcending the illusion of moving pictures and becoming a film – suspending disbelief and getting under your skin. Effectiveness aside, however, I believe that the mark of exceptional horror is when the question stems from a concern for the characters' wellbeing, and not your own. With both these thoughts in mind, I suspect that "The Fly" could well be the second best horror film of all time (behind Kubrick's "The Shining", which, I admit, got to first place by completely different criteria. Such is life, I'm afraid).

Remade from a 1958 concept starring Vincent Price (and later popularized by "The Simpsons"), the film follows a pretty archetypical horror premise: science gone (of course) horribly wrong. In this case, Jeff Goldblum (in his tour-de-force performance) plays Seth Brundle, an independent scientific visionary who has been slowly designing a device that will "change the world as we know it" – a Teleporter. When he shows his invention to romantic interest Veronica (Geena Davis), it is not quite ready to handle living tissue (demonstrated on screen in the first instance of quite confronting gore), but as the two grow a relationship and fall in love, the wrinkles in the technology are ironed out and so Brundle takes one small step for man and tests the machine on himself. Unfortunately, in the process of teleportation, his DNA is mixed up with that of a common housefly, and although not immediately transformed, as in the original, the two species soon begin to genetically merge and transform Brundle into a creature that has never existed before – and for damned good reasons.

Cronenberg, of course, never shortchanges his audience with graphic gore, and even viewed with the critical eye of Generation Y, the film's mid-eighties effects are still quite sickening, none more so than Goldblum's slow physical transformation. What makes this whole affair really outstanding, however, is his psychological transformation: the truly disturbing thing is how front and centre the humanity of these characters and their world is kept. Davis and Goldblum are the heroes in this regard – their chemistry is palpable, and her affection for him struggling against her disgust at what he is becoming, coupled with his own struggle to keep the fly in check, create the kind of riveting discomfort usually only commanded by train-wrecks.

I was, in fact, quite strongly reminded of Darren Aronofsky's 2000 film-adaptation of Hubert Selby's novel "Requiem for a Dream" – although the subject matter differs greatly, both films derive their horror elements most strongly from a place that is completely removed from Horror – and in both examples the source is basically Love. In this sense, the film affects a lot like real life tragedies do, because it begins in a place truly pure and good and unsuspecting, lets its characters discover how wonderful life can be, and then Horror is unjustly, and irrevocably, forced upon them. This is why it is genuinely moving, instead of tacky, when Goldblum resigns to Davis with a regretful and yet matter-of-fact air that "(he is) an insect who dreamt (he) was a man, and loved it. But now the dream is over… and the insect is awake". And in true Cronenberg style, this prophecy becomes quite literal in the third act (think Vincent D'Onofrio in "Men in Black").

Now, in a film that had spent more time on sinister close ups of flies and haunting music cues and not on the bare and essential humanity of the doomed lovers, at this point I probably would have asked "Why are you doing this to me?" and that could have been the end of it – dismissed as senseless disturbing cinema and forgotten. As Cronenberg, Goldblum and Davis have done it, what I asked was "Why are you doing this to them?" And that's the kind of film that you don't ever forget.

I saw an advanced screening of "Perfume" at a local revamped theatre with Christmas vouchers. When I told my parents of my plans before leaving they, having read the book, gave me a look which read "Good Luck". Around three minutes in, I concluded that I probably needed it. My main mistake in retrospect was, I think, that I chose to interpret the deliberate stark contrast between the film's title (Perfume) and subtitle (The Story Of A Murderer) as tacky. In truth, it's more or less the entire film in a nutshell: a promise of beauty facilitating hideous dark action, and this realization could have saved me some bewilderment and, I won't lie, horror. It also could have brought my appreciation of the film forth a lot sooner.

Jean-Baptiste Grenouille (Ben Whishaw) is a gutter birth in 1600's Paris and he is raised by a rather indifferent orphanage until he is turned over to a brutal tannery owner. He is also one of the most extraordinarily gifted "personages of his time", narrator John Hurt informs us. His gift is unique, and is more or less the fuel for the existential fire that burns, almost without much thought as to whether the audience quite understands, throughout the film: he has an unfathomably strong and accurate sense of smell. To give you an idea, this guy can smell underwater, through glass and over twenty or so miles. He can also instinctivey recreate any perfume he smells, even in trace amounts.

This gift of his draws him to work in the perfume shop of Has-Been perfumer Giuseppe Baldini (Dustin Hoffman), but when he catches a whiff of a beautiful red haired girl selling plums on the streets, the film's true nature, and his defining obsession begins – he wants to learn to preserve the scent of beauty.

I won't go into any more detail, suffice it to say what I'm sure you all know anyway, which is that this obsession of John-Baptiste's leads him singularly and irrevocably down a path of darkness and murder. It's a path on which the light that began it - the dream, if you will - soon becomes obscured to the audience until what we see is no more a 'gifted personage', nor a 'murderer', but a madman.

And here "Perfume" joins the ranks of the all time great filmic portrayals of mad people – it declines to relate to them, it refuses to excuse them, but it offers something of an explanation, presents something in the way of their mindset so that we are put off just enough to wonder if there might ever have been hope for the lost cause we're watching. In this case, it's the amazing representation of smell – tracking shots across landscapes and through intimate spaces, a swelling and yearning string-based sound track and rather remarkable acting from Whishaw. These things all, for most part, manage to give the impression of a man who, although sociopathic, hasn't set out to cause harm, only to find cathartic relief. The film's grandiose treatment of the least film-friendly of the five senses creates a sort of awe in the audience that leaves us actually able to conceive of just what Scent means to John-Baptiste… even if we're still not sure what it all really means in the grander sense.

That's where the picture is a bit of a let-down and, incidentally, a lot like another of this year's ambitious art house attempts, "Babel". It's clear there's supposed to be an epic relevance to the whole thing, it's just not clear what it is. There are, as mentioned, fierce existential themes (highlighted by a scene in which Jean-Baptiste realizes he has no scent of his own and perceives it as an invalidation of his earthly existence). There's also surplus evidence to suggest we're seeing a study of dark human desire, necessity and obsessive nature. And, perhaps most confounding, unmistakable religious overtones (I doubt many will forget the 'execution' scene as long as they live) that may have, in a film less certain of itself, sought to excuse the actions of its protagonist. It does not seek to do this at all, however, and by the end most will be wondering what exactly was being sought all this time.

Remember once again, as those of us who haven't read the book must, that it is indeed an adaptation and it becomes probable that "Perfume" seeks to do nothing more than interestingly, inventively and (I imagine) faithfully bring Patrick Süskind's novel to the screen, do disturbing justice to its dark central character and put us inside his perception of the world. Say what you will, you probably won't see a film this unique again anytime soon. What on Earth Süskind was thinking, or what he was trying to say is, I think, quite another matter.

It's a funny thing that in this day and age of internet society through which it was able to take root and grow, the first I ever heard of "Broken Saints" was by old fashioned window shopping. This alone, I think, means that I have missed out on a gigantic part of what made the series so enticing to many; not only that it was completely free but that it stood as a testament to the Internet's fulfilled promise of a global community and prosperous mass medium for independent artists. This was not the first internet series I have purchased on DVD; Rooster Teeth's "Red vs. Blue", an online Machinema production created by independent Texan film-makers, remains one of the most delightful discoveries of my life. However, "Broken Saints" is the first independent internet project I have bought entirely on spec, and this goes towards proving that there is more to the series' appeal than its initial medium.

Brooke Burgess' flash creation is one of the most unique works of art I have ever encountered. Consisting of 24 episodes of increasing length (beginning at 10 minutes and eventually running for over an hour), the series uses a fusion of comic narration, flash animation, music and, in the case of the remastered DVD version, voice acting to propel its story, the premise for which is inherently twisted. As the slow reveal is a major part of the series' deep intrigue, I will try to reveal nothing further than might be read in a blurb: On the unsuspecting cusp of a new technological age, four complete and diverse strangers begin to simultaneously receive violent spiritual turbulences; seizures, visions, crises of faith, inexplicable emotions. Strange, disturbing events in each of their lives drive them desperate for answers, and the harder they search for absolution, the closer they come to each other and the higher the stakes climb.

Now what I am about to say is something that really confused me at first: as a story, I didn't like "Broken Saints" all that much. It uses a very David Lynch style kind of linear narration (borderline nonsensical), and although all the vague poetry and metaphors are probably all made clear in the end, this happens in an overly preachy and bombastic sort of way. As a fierce atheist, I actually quite like bold agnosticism in a film, which is probably why I cared enough for the plot to see it through to the end (uncertainty of a higher being is held brilliantly throughout most of the series). But by the end I couldn't help but feel that the collective twelve hours I had spent watching the series had been a ploy to impose some kind of Faith on me. Hey, maybe I'm just interpreting the whole thing in a defensive way.

But what drove me to nonetheless give this series full marks and resolve to watch the whole thing again is really a deep respect for the creators: Brooke Burgess, Andrew West and Ian Kirby. These guys may hold a slightly different opinion to me on a spiritual level (I happened to agree with their politics, though), but they sure know how to argue their point. The sensory impact of "Broken Saints" is quite remarkable; the artwork and music cues (by Tobias Tinker, check him out on Myspace) are some of the most haunting and beautiful I have seen. The genius of this is that it keeps you interested long enough for other things to grab hold; empathy for the characters, intrigue into story development, and all that.

This is why, eventually, you never really hold much against a series like this. "Broken Saints" is a pretty broad web of appeal; if it loses your interest in one regard, it will catch it somewhere else. You don't like the alien culture of Shandala's Fijian islands and Oran's Saudi Arabian deserts then maybe Raimi's dark, post-modern America and filthy mouth will make you feel more at home. You don't like the preachy, new age gospel of the believers, then maybe you'll buy the more understated search for purpose; not necessarily God, just purpose. You don't like the politics, then just enjoy the art. You don't love the art, then respect the history of the project. In the end, whether you've been converted to a higher perception of life or just entertained for a few empty nights, the closing credits of "Broken Saints" will see you, however subconsciously, respecting one of the most finely argued contentions of artistic creation the world has ever seen. Word is Bond ;).

What is it about irony that tickles us so? In some ways it reminds me of films that I find delightful in their atrocity: "Doom", "DOA", "Snakes on a Plane" are some recent prime examples of Goodness By Antithesis; films that are so brazenly and proudly bad that you have to like them. Irony, as we like to see it, is similar in that it is Humor By Antithesis: situations and events that are so mundanely tragic, so cringe-making and excruciating that we just have to laugh. It is a bizarre logic, it's a twisted logic, but it's also worth noting that it's a line so fine that only the cleverest and subtlest of writers can really make it work. America's Larry David is one. England's Ricky Gervais is the other.

In creating a follow-up series to "The Office", Gervais risked destroying a damn-near flawless career. It's hard to imagine there wasn't a niggling in his ear telling him to quit while he was ahead. What would really be the harm in letting the world remember him as David Brent? Apart from the nature of the character, the real harm in this would have been that to deny us Andy Millman would be to deny himself status as one of the world's most brilliant comic minds. "Extras" doesn't just further establish Gervais' incredible comedy prowess, it deepens it.

On the surface, the series patiently shows us the mundane and rather fruitless life of a working film Extra, Millman (Gervais), who fancies himself a "real actor" but has never gotten any real acting work. He bitches about this to his friend, confidant and fellow Extra Maggie (Ashley Jensen), who also shares her problems with him. Deep down, however, "Extras" is a deliciously satirical look at the ambitions of the human heart, the ironic overthrow of those ambitions and the emotional chaos of breaking the unspoken rules of society (such as 'Don't Lie To A Catholic Priest About Your Nonexistent Catholicism', and 'Don't Tell Your Best Friend's Colleague That Your Best Friend Said He Was "Too Gay"').

Other reviews have called "Extras" a watered down "Office", and I think this is a fair observation, but not at all a bad thing. After all, despite sequential order "Seinfeld" is much more diluted than "Curb Your Enthusiasm", but the former is still a far superior show. Not that any inferiority between Gervais' shows is being inferred, of course. Where "Extras" is softer than "The Office" is not in humor, or intelligence, merely in character. Andy is really quite a nice guy; insensitive at times, but only in a mild, charming kind of way. Your pity for him is genuine, and not the result of a deeper emotion such as bewilderment or frustration.

The David Brents of "Extras" are not Gervais at all but the transient side characters, and often (brilliantly, fantastically) the celebrity cameos. In short, and this is said with no inflation whatsoever, Celebrity Cameos as a film/television device has its worth made and sold in "Extras". We thought we'd seen self-parody work before. We were wrong. The sheer reckless abandon with which Gervais and the gallant celebrity meat send themselves up (and up and up) practically creates fireworks. Ben Stiller, Kate Winslet and Patrick Stewart are not only the draw cards but the dazzling high lights. They are forever heroes in my eyes.

Maybe it's this ultimate irony that galvanizes "Extras"' brilliance: the celebrity personalities who live the life Andy dreams of reveal themselves exclusively to him as being petty, irresponsible, greedy, insensitive, sexually perverted megalomaniacs, while he, the nobody Extra, cops all sorts of cosmic flack for, mostly, trying to do the right thing. Naturally, this kind of thing borders on cruel, but just before we begin to feel bad for laughing at his hopeless misfortune he lets us know it's alright by cracking a smile himself, telling a joke to Maggie and shaking it off. Then Cat Stevens washes us clean with "Tea for the Tillerman". Yes sir, Ricky Gervais knows how to make it work.

We're probably living through a period in film history that will be remembered as the emergence of CGI: leading the pack and ahead by a mile are Pixar, whose productions consistently set examples of how children's movies should be made, but walking the trail that Pixar have blazed over the years, other film-makers have contributed admirably to the newfound medium of animation. In doing so, artists and audiences alike have finally been able to find visual confirmation (in the 3 dimensional animation renderings) that nearly all elements of Live Action entertainment are absolutely compatible with animation, and that they will in fact be enhanced exponentially by the novelty of the medium collision alone.

Cory Edwards' "Hoodwinked" is yet another example of modern animation's increasing shift toward older age groups. As all will already know before viewing, the story is a reworking of the classic Little Red Riding Hood folktale, and borrowing heavily from the premise of the immensely popular "Shrek" films, the setting and characters in the film remain anachronistically traditional while the plot details, character treatment and especially dialogue are made fiercely contemporary. While this simple film device is bound to outwear its welcome one of these days, "Hoodwinked" is a clear demonstration that it hasn't done so yet. Add a little nonlinear, intertwining subplot, a hint of the "Rashomon" Effect and a few immature giggles and you get what proves to be perfectly entertaining.

Said entertainment however, will only take effect pending one contribution from the audience: we must give the animation criticism a rest. Some might say we must forgive the animation, but I refuse to say that because I don't believe there is anything here to forgive. Granted, there have been some simply stellar animated productions whose visuals have stunned audiences worldwide, such as "Princess Mononoke" and "Cars", and granted, the animation in "Hoodwinked" is on a par with a video game of two or three years ago. But what has been forgotten in the haze of elitist visual critique, and what needs to be remembered, is that films are not moving pictures, they are stories. A great story, a great screenplay, will carry a film with or without mind-blowing effects and it has never, in the history of the world, been the other way around.

This is what "Hoodwinked" has to offer audiences: a broadly engaging story, sassily scripted and deliciously delivered by all, yes, all of the leading actors. If one were forced to split hairs and pick the highlights of the voice talents, Patrick Warburton and Andy Dick would emerge at the top, as the Wolf and Boingo the Bunny respectively. And again in the tradition of "Shrek", (despite cynical reaction, the film remains inspired by rather than derivative of its Green Ogre predecessor), the pop culture satire, both filmic and general, old and new, is nearly always spot on. Admittedly, scenes such as Granny Puckett "talking Black" with her snowboarding homies will probably render the film very dated in a few decades, but so what: right now it's hilarious. This is the kind of film that is willing to sacrifice timelessness for laughs, and its audience is mostly the kind that is willing to let it.

In fact, overall enjoyment of the film is largely dependant on this: audiences letting it be what it is. Go ahead and laugh at the Generation Y culture references, at the 70's culture references even, at the hyperactive squirrel, the bunny aware of his cuteness, the 'Turtle scene', and just don't hold any grudges against the rest. You'll feel better for it, trust me.

Teen-horror, as a genre, is one that society tacitly understands is not to be taken seriously. The dialogue is largely failed by both writers and actors, the plots are ridiculous and the gore is excessive. It is in this light that the "Final Destination" series, most of which were directed by James Wong, is really the A-Grade franchise of a C-Grade genre; the premise is promising and the direction is impressive, but at the end of the day the films have no choice but to submit to a lousy formula and pander to a supposedly brain dead demographic. Sadly, this means that all three films are effectively moderated down to a generous "B".

In the latest installment, the trendily abbreviated FD3, near-graduate Wendy Christensen (Mary Elizabeth Winstead) and her near-graduating class take a year-book photo trip to the local carnival (effectively portrayed by Wong and cinematographer Robert McLachlan as the Festivities of Satan), where she has a horrible, graphic and suspenseful premonition that the Roller Coaster of Attraction will malfunction and derail. Petrified, she evacuates the ride and manages to take 6 others with her, including her best friend's boyfriend Kevin (Ryan Merriman). When her premonition indeed comes to pass, Wendy is initially wrenched with guilt that she was not able to save her boyfriend and best friend, until she realizes she has a whole lot more to feel guilty about: as was the case with the doomed Flight 180 from "Final Destination" (2000), Death is being a stubborn bastard and coming after the survivors of the wreckage to claim the 7 fish that got away.

In keeping with tradition, and following a formula obvious from the moment the original film was released, FD3 is, more or less, exactly the same as its predecessors, even if the plot is becoming a little worse for wear. In all fairness, anything less would have been an outrage to hardcore fans of the series, who really just enjoy watching cynical teenagers get their grisly, grisly comeuppance. And as long as we know what we're in for, we shouldn't be too horribly disappointed (at least until the very last 15 minutes, which entail an embarrassingly bad ending). This is mainly because James Wong is actually a very talented director, one who has managed to, momentarily at least, breathe the long-lost art of suspense into the genre. For instance, the opening premonition scene is a rather splendidly devised crescendo of paranoia, whose tension is practically palpable. The climax of the introduction is also surprisingly exciting.

However, it soon becomes clear that the film makers had not thought any further than this one scene, and so decided it would be safest to simply repeat these techniques over and over and over again. In between scenes of Wendy and Kevin investigating their predicament to give the illusion of plot development, two airhead 18 year old girls (Chelan Simmons and Crystal Lowe), an aggressive black football player, (Texas Battle) a Sherman-like sex-obsessed geek (Sam Easton) and, my personal favourite, a cynical Emo couple (Alexz Johnson and Kris Lemche) meet their maker in imaginative ways, many involving disfiguration of heads. By the half-way mark, the spooky scenes of infinitesimal happenings and chain reactions of inanimate objects resulting in roastings and decapitations has pretty much lost whatever it was that made it interesting and it wouldn't surprise me if most of the audience walked out thinking they liked this idea a lot better six years and two sequels ago.

Be that as it may, any one who honestly expected something in the vein of "Misery" or "Don't Look Now" going into this picture deserves the nasty shock they got. You can't order fast food and complain that it's not healthy. And every one else will hopefully be able to see that this was as good as it could possibly have been and reserve harsh judgment. If not, then perhaps a brief viewing of "I Still Know What You Did Last Summer" will help put things in perspective.

When a teen comedy is released, everyone knows just about what to expect. There'll be a unpopular high school student ("Van Wilder" chose the maverick route and made him popular) who suffers from either sexual or emotional problems, there'll be a group of flawed but nonetheless faithful friends to help them out and there'll be a hot girl who takes inexplicable interest in Unpopular Student. There'll be a message, a moral, a contemporary soundtrack and a lot of sex. Such were everyone's expectations for "The Girl Next Door" Luke Greenfield's 2004 contribution to the genre, starring Elisha Cuthbert and Emile Hirsch, the advertising emphasis on the former.

Matthew Kidman (Hirsch) is a slightly repressed, highly unfulfilled near-graduate who aspires to win a scholarship to Georgetown on the basis of Moral Fiber. His dissatisfaction with overall life stems from his seeming incapacity to take a risk, to do something spontaneous and wild. Enter Danielle (Cuthbert), the gorgeous, free-spirited young niece of Matthew's next door neighbor, who is house-sitting for a few weeks. Immediately Matthew falls in love, and it would seem that the attraction is at least semi-reciprocated; for once he is feeling really, truly good about his life. What tips the film over from romantic comedy to teen comedy is not the presence of teenage characters, but the point when Matthew learns the perfect Girl Next Door is a porn-star.

If the premise sounds 'typically teen' and derivative of the much more successful 80's flick "Risky Business", then that's because it is, on both counts. However, as much as I'd like to dismiss this as yet another thoroughly forgettable, sexploitative perpetuation of a film-genre that hasn't been truly inspired in 20 years, something holds me back. There's a touch of admirableness to this film, a hint of maturity, a vague, familiar scent of a movie that wants to say something, that had more in mind than an admittedly beautiful girl taking her clothes off. The real problem is that, as sweet as the message of love clearly is, the film is just too inconsistent. One moment it's making an almost pertinent point, the next it's having a go at teenage virgins. One moment it's witty, the next it's vulgar. One moment it's smart, the next it's stupid.

It's this kind of inconsistency that gives you the feeling that the film-makers had a half-decent idea in their hands, but were, like their lead protagonist Matthew, afraid to take a risk. They border on breaking the mold at some points, but then they lose their nerve and retreat back into familiar but tired cliché. For instance, the opening 45 minutes or so of "The Girl Next Door" had me thinking I'd pegged this movie all wrong, even after the revelation of Danielle's profession. The whole thing was handled with astounding maturity, considering what kind of film we're dealing with. "How do you want me?" Danielle asks seductively of Matthew as she lies topless on the motel bed, aware now of his confused motives. The scene plays with unbelievable ridiculousness that even the fans would have to acknowledge, until Matthew comes through and speaks on behalf of the audience; "Why are you doing this?" Danielle then starts to show the kind of emotional damage we would realistically respect from her; "Isn't this what you want? To f*ck a porn-star in a cheap motel?" Hurt, she leaves Matthew to think about his careless actions, in turn leaving us thinking this bears startling resemblance to something that could actually happen in real life.

Unfortunately, this feeling doesn't last long. Strangely it is the entrance of the film's show-stealer, Timothy Olyphant, which marks the beginning of the film's decline. Olyphant's character Kelly, Danielle's former producer and charismatic sleaze is superbly acted and written, but seems like he's gate-crashing a film he doesn't really belong in. Ensuing his arrival are the much less interesting and involving (if, granted, rather humorous) aspects of the film: Danielle leaves peaceful suburbia with Kelly to resume her life of degradation, Matthew sacrifices his grades and potential scholarship to attend the Adult Film Convention to bring her back, and ends up bloodied, wanted by authorities and high on ecstasy; a state in which he must give a speech to a hall full of people on why he must get a scholarship for Moral Fiber. And of course, in true romantic comedy tradition, the speech is completely improvised, all about Danielle (who has returned out of true love) and receives heart-felt applause. The only typical cliché that wasn't used was to end the film there; it's just too bad that what followed was ridiculous, tedious and dragged on for far too long.

So I suppose you could say I'm in two minds about it. In a way, the film for me was a bit of a catch 22; all the faults would not have stood out or mattered nearly as much if it hadn't opted to show potential to be a much better, more interesting movie. On the other hand, the pleasant surprises it had to offer were, along with Timothy Olyphant, by far the best things about it. I guess what it all boils down to though is this; "The Girl Next Door" was not a film I expect to have strong opinions about. And it sure showed me.

If you asked an average movie-goer why the like movies, the responses you'd get would be things like, "I like to laugh", or "I like good twist endings" . Or possibly, "What the hell kind of question is that?" What it all boils down to, though, is that we go to the movies to experience things above and beyond real life; a funny movie is funny because expert screenwriter worked for months on the jokes, a thriller is thrilling because professional directors shot and put together the film in a thrilling way. Real life, of course, never plays out like that... so we often seek entertainment, even comfort in imitation of real life that has a meaning, a point, a message. When films like "Wolf Creek" come along, however, the effect it has on most people is one of violation; no one, no matter what they say, goes to the movies to be traumatized.

What this means is you get "controversy". Critics like films to be thought-provoking, but there is something about this kind of brutality that, in Roger Ebert's words, "crosses the line". I think what lies at the heart of this is that this kind of film evolved from the genre "horror", and it is still put under that category, whereas in fact "Wolf Creek" is amongst a select few contemporary films to have taken "horror" so far that it has become something else entirely, something worse, something better, something almost outside the universe of film.

There have been examples of this in the past, from 1978's "I Spit On Your Grave" to 2006's infamous "Hostel", films that have called society's bluff on the extent to which a movie can take its audience on a ride. It is almost a new, neologistic use of the word 'film', like an infiltration, or hi-jacking of both the medium and the audience. Giving them more than they bargained for. Some of the bad reviews and harsh criticism of the film comes from judging it by the same standards and measures as other, normal films. "Wolf Creek" is not one of these, it is a deeply disturbing imposition on a somewhat unsuspecting audience that, like it or not, is extremely effective.

Of course the issue of whether this makes for good entertainment is debatable. Teenagers will probably love "Wolf Creek", now that it's out on DVD where they can access it no hassles. There are probably some old school "Texas Chainsaw Massacre" fans who saw something special in this. And it certainly shows a diversity to the Australian film industry, which has never before produced anything this nightmarishly brutal. But I would, regardless, not be the least bit surprised if this movie is seen as one of the definitive instalments in a new, darker, dare-devil type of film.

David Spritz (Nicholas Cage) is a Chicago Weatherman whose career is blossoming and fruitful (to the tune of over $100 000 a year), but who is a complete failure in every other aspect of life. He lives in the shadow of his Pulitzer-Prize winning Father, Robert (Michael Caine) and his attempts to follow in Robert's footsteps as a novelist are not blessed with success. His estranged wife Noreen (Hope Davis) is considering divorce and his attempts to reconcile are not blessed with success. His daughter Shelley (Gemmenne de la Peña) and son Mike (Nicholas Hoult) are both experiencing frighteningly mature reality while he struggles to relate by taking them out and buying them things, but he doesn't feel he's getting any where in any facets of his personal life. To top it all off, he regularly has fast food thrown at him by the public with the insulting exclamation of "Hey, Weatherman!" and his father has recently been diagnosed with terminal cancer. The story sees David attempt to resurrect his family life and secure a happy ending before his father dies.

"The Weather Man" could be described as an inner-city "American Beauty". Both films explore the struggles of men undergoing mid-life crises, and both use first-person narration and striking cinematography, as well as a balance of interesting, interactive characters as seen through the eyes of a central protagonist. The difference lies in the tone; "American Beauty" was a masterful blend of humor and melancholy, where as "Weather Man" is a not-so-balanced blend of humor and absolute misery. This causes a slight problem, not because it makes the viewer feel miserable (although it may well do so), but because it makes it hard to explain just why it is one would want to watch it. It's important to understand that the film has, in this viewer's opinion, many redeeming qualities; the direction, the afore-mentioned cinematography, the score, to say nothing of the fine performances. What's also important to understand is that these things are not necessarily going to guarantee an enjoyable experience. The fact is that David Spritz is a desperately miserable man, surrounded by a mass of misery and, unlike in "A.B.", the wit and touching honesty of the both the writing and acting never fully overwhelm that misery.

What this means essentially is that it is then up to the viewer to see past that misery to the positive qualities that the film has to offer; of which, rest-assured, there are many. Gore Verbinski's direction is one; for those who have seen 'The Ring' or 'Pirates of the Caribbean' this will undoubtedly be a huge shock. It is a film most unlike any other Verbinski has done, but what's more impressive is that he handles it so differently. He pays attention to things that we would have not given a second thought to otherwise, and in doing so helps bring out the symbolism and sympathy in what otherwise might just be a bizarre story. Working with him on this is Phedon Papamichael, whose cinematography highlights the glum winter of Chicago (the weather playing an obvious ironic role) in a strangely beautiful light. Touches like these make one think twice before dismissing the film as… well, just about anything.

The mood established by the tasteful work of Verbinski and Papamichael is greatly refined by Cage's narrative voice-over. Dave Spritz' own thoughts reflect perhaps more than anything else just how readily, even seamlessly the film changes from funny to sad. "(It's) always fast food" he muses rather wistfully, after one of his many incidents with projectile take-away "Sh*t people would rather throw out than finish. It's easy, it tastes alright, but it doesn't really provide you with any nourishment." Such odd observational humor almost seems suited to the film's idiosyncratic style; then he dejectedly adds, "I'm fast food" and it becomes perfectly suited. This mood is a direct result of a film that understands how one man's joke is another's pain: What would happen if the Weather Man on TV was really just that and nothing more? He'd be a living joke… and in practice that is a truly tragic existence.

All this strangeness may seem like its ready to fall apart, but never-fear, because at the centre of it all, keeping it together is the sensational Nicholas Cage. Cage has made some very interesting, some ill-advised choices in his career. He has played buff ex-convicts (Con Air), obsessive-compulsive, agoraphobic con-artists (Matchstick Men), even the villain and the hero in the same film (Face Off). To date, however, none of these compare to the oddity that is David Spritz. Perhaps the most amazing thing about his performance is the degree of sympathy he is able to generate for a rather unlikable character, one who reverts to insults instinctually and doesn't like to talk to members of the public when recognized, one who betrays trust and lets down his wife and then claims he is trying to "make things work". The sympathy we feel then, is not really for the written character so much as Cage, and this may be because he makes us feel that he really, truly does want to "make things work", even if it is purely in his own interests. Or maybe it's just because it's natural to feel sorry for one as hopelessly pathetic as Cage appears to be in this film; either way it is a remarkable acting accomplishment from an increasingly remarkable actor.

It's not hard to see why audiences were stupendously under whelmed with "The Weather Man"; it's a film about a miserable man with a depressing life for whom almost everything goes wrong and it set in Chicago during winter. Behind all this, however, lies a rather fantastically unique display of many talents, all of which have executed their roles to near perfection and in doing so created an exceptionally rare type of film. If for no other reason than this, "The Weather Man" deserves sincere respect.

For the inexistent number of you who weren't aware, "The Lord of the Rings" trilogy, based on J.R.R. Tolkein's epic novel, was one of the most popular film ventures in the last century, owing its vast positive reception mostly to director Peter Jackson's astonishing visionary style. The New-Zealand born film-maker got his start with no-budget gore-fest productions like "Bad Taste" (1987), gradually to more commercial but still artistic projects, including the true-crime thriller "Heavenly Creatures" (1994) and 1989's adult puppet production "Meet the Feebles". It turns out however, that from a young age what the eclectic director has really had his heart set on is a remake of the 1933 cult classic "King Kong". It was only after the success of LOTR that Universal Pictures let him fulfill his dream, and now, in 2005, the world gets to see the result.

The story is a stone-cold classic, one of the greats. A crew of film-makers venture to an uncharted island to shoot their picture, wherein dwells a giant prehistoric ape that captures their lead actress. Jackson's version, however, has a few elaborations. It is set in 1933, the year the original "King Kong" was released, and starts with a rather colorful depiction of depression-era New York. Carl Denham (Jack Black) is an ambitious and unethical film-maker whose latest movie is about to be scrapped by his investors. Before they can officially call it off, he plans a quick escape with his haphazard crew to head for an uncharted island for filming. There is one problem: he has no leading lady. In a rush to find one, he meets talented but unlucky vaudevillian Ann Darrow (Naomi Watts), whom he instantly recognizes as perfect for the role. Won over by mention of screenplay writer Jack Driscoll (Adrien Brody), for whom Ann has much admiration and respect, she agrees to come with them on their deceptively hazardous journey into the unknown…

Much like agreeing to adapt a beloved masterpiece like Lord of the Rings, Jackson takes a huge risk by remaking what many consider to be one of the great American films. There will be a lot of disgruntled fans of the original who will demand to know why he felt it necessary to redo something that they might call perfect. But there is a very simple explanation for it that is evident throughout the whole film: Jackson just loved this story. It's not hard to see that this was a real labor of love for the acclaimed director, and this alone acquits the movie of any flaws.

Running at over three hours, the experience may get a little tiring, particularly the middle section which brims with monstrous beasts of all shapes and sizes, many of which have been inserted into this version, presumably just for visual impact. Whether they achieved this is a matter for debate, as excessive use of CGI can and has proved fatal. The visual effects in the film are, however, quite stunning; King Kong himself is a sight to behold. In thirty years the film will no doubt be laughably unbelievable in production and effects, but by today's standards it truly does look for all the world as if we are watching a 20 foot gorilla. Even the facial expressions are exquisite, which of course is the work of actor Andy Serkis, whom most will know as Gollum from "The Lord of the Rings" trilogy.

Thankfully, though, these visual effects are not the focus of the film. Instead Jackson has, quite rightly, followed tradition and emphasized the essential 'love story' between Kong and Ann Darrow. In this respect Naomi Watts is as much responsible for the film's success as Jackson; she is quite sublime. It's no secret Watts is one of the best of her generation, but her conviction and vulnerability as Ann Darrow is a shock even after her equally impressive performance in "21 Grams".

Perhaps the ratio of remakes and TV Show adaptations to original screenplays has notably increased in the past few years; but as long as films of this entertaining quality continue to be produced, there's no reason for concern. A truly sweet and rewarding experience.

When you think of the magical, the fantastic, the imaginative, one name consistently comes to mind: Tim Burton. The man has made a career out of directing fun-loving fairy tales of many sub-genres, his most famous of course being the surreal "Edward Scissorhands", which, as everyone knows, featured long time collaborator Johnny Depp. In 2005, Depp and Burton team up yet again, this time for an adaptation of the Roald Dahl children's classic "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory".

Everybody knows the story: a famous, fictional candy factory, run by mysterious and eccentric "chocolatier" Willy Wonka (Depp) and renown for producing magical confectionery, unexpectedly announces that hidden in ordinary Wonka chocolate bars are exactly five golden tickets, each of which guarantees an all day tour in the long-secluded factory. The five ticket finders are all children, all but one of which harbor some horrible characteristic; Augustus Gloop (Philip Wiegratz), the greedy, gluttonous German boy, Violet Beauregarde (AnnaSophia Robb), the aggressive and competitive gum-chewing girl, Veruca Salt (Julia Winter), the obnoxious and spoilt brat, Mike TeaVee (Jordan Fry) a television-obsessed and revoltingly sarcastic little know-it-all, and lastly Charlie Bucket (Freddie Highmore), the little English boy who lives in poverty and is the only decent ticket-holder amongst them. When all five of the children, accompanied by one parent each, actually enter the revered chocolate factory, however, the fantastical and bizarre experiences therein give them much more than they bargained for.

The original film adaptation of Dahl's book, Mel Stuart's "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory" starring Gene Wilder, has undoubtedly set a precedent by which many fans will judge and perhaps condemn Burton's version, but there's no denying that the original was an infinitely softer interpretation of the story. This remake, while having changed a few things here and there, has what one can't help but call a delightfully sinister undertone, enhanced in no small measure by Danny Elfman's exciting score, and essentially makes it a lot closer to being a traditional Roald Dahl tale than Mel Stuart's version.

The reason for this is that Dahl's style, while never varying from children's stories, would always balance somewhat on the edge of maliciousness; he was prone to premises that somehow involved slightly sadistic, even if inadvertently so, punishment of young children, such as the abusive aunts in "James and the Giant Peach", or the recollection of his school-day beatings in his autobiography "Boy". Nonetheless, his stories were never truly disturbing or horrifying, because they interspersed the darkness with its equally fantastic antithesis and always resolved happily. Luckily "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" remains true to Dahl in this regard as well; even if somewhat perturbing, there is tremendous amounts of fun to be had along the way.

The enjoyment seems to be mutual between viewers and makers; not only has Tim Burton obviously had a ball with making this colorful candy film, but Johnny Depp seems to be thoroughly enjoying himself too. Almost unrecognizable in appearance and voice, Depp's interpretation of Willy Wonka is both very different from Gene Wilder's and unlike anything he's ever done before (if drawing rather obviously on Michael Jackson). He really brings out the eccentricity in the character, accentuating his anti-social genius mentality and throwing in a missing father complex to accompany the film's B-story about Wonka's dentist papa. If for no other reason than he thought it might be fun, Depp's performance is one of the most interesting things about this tasty treat of a film.

The children, its worth noting, also give very sweet performances; Freddie Highmore, having worked with Depp previously on "Finding Neverland", captures a caring innocence that even the original didn't match, although perhaps this has something to do with the omitting of the famous "soda scene". For the other children, what impresses most is their willingness to simply be horrible; an aspect of acting that is second nature to adults but implies a professional maturity when found in actors so young, mainly because in doing so they perpetuate stereotypes at their own expense. Jordan Fry and AnnaSophia Robb, particularly, are very convincing in their respective roles (see if you can spot Robb in her many upcoming projects; the young lady looks very different without her blonde bowl-cut and blue jumpsuit).

Perhaps the idealistic wonder of "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" that was present in the 70's version is subdued by the subtle darkness that comes with Burton's vision; but all round this is still a creative, faithful and most importantly enjoyable adaptation of an iconic classic. A colorful film that brims with all-age enjoyment and truly deserves the title of rewarding, family fun.

Sam Mendes has had a directional career as lustrous as it is selective. He picked one hell of a project to debut with; 1999's critically acclaimed and five-time Oscar-winning "American Beauty" was widely regarded as a modern masterpiece and Mendes' direction was highly praised. His follow-up feature, an adaptation of Richard Rayner and Max Collins' graphic novel "Road to Perdition", was a very different film, a gangster-oriented exploration of spiritual damnation against the backdrop of the Great Depression, but was nonetheless an impressive, artistic accomplishment. Mendes' third and latest film is another novel adaptation, this time of former Marine Anthony Swofford's autobiographical memoir "Jarhead", which details the experiences and psychological effects of operation "Desert Storm" on one young soldier during his stay in the Saudi Arabian desert in the early 90's. The film is a further establishment of Mendes' diverse filmography, tied in with his previous works by his supreme visual prowess and inclination to films with profound premise.

Jake Gyllenhaal is Marine Anthony Swofford, a disillusioned young man who has turned to the army both to serve his country and to give himself purpose. After a short, awakening stay in Boot Camp, where he confesses after one day that his decision to sign up may "not have been a good idea", he is shipped out to Iraq under the watch of Staff Sergeant Sykes (Jamie Foxx) where he is faced with the harsh mercilessness, the reckless frustration and the psychological horror of war. His reality is reflected by the observed behavior of his fellow "Jarheads", (Peter Sarsgaard, Jacob Vargas, Lucas Black, Evan Jones), which range from atrocious insensitivity and aggression to supportive encouragement and complacency, and it is in the heat and hell of the desert that Swofford's identity is forged.

Before beginning to consider things like direction, acting and script the most important thing to note about "Jarhead" is that, unlike most pictures with controversial content, the film and the characters' values are one and the same: the life of a Jarhead is one of boredom, of aggression, of violence and sometimes of humor, but it knows nothing of politics. This is an examination of war, not 'the Iraq war', as a personal experience and this distinction must be made, preferably before viewing the film.

It is, however, quite an amazing examination of war. The directional presence of Mendes consistently guarantees an artistic and thought provoking visual approach, regardless of the subject matter. This film is brimming with just that; the cinematography is magnificent, particularly the scenes of the burning oil fields, and in this regard "Jarhead" outdoes even such divine war-movies as Oliver Stone's "Platoon". All other aspects of the film do not quite live up to the promise of the film's overall look, although they work well enough.

Jake Gyllenhaal, it appears, is really attempting to break loose from his pigeonholed career. Coupled with his sublime performance in this year's "Brokeback Mountain", Gyllenhaal's solid lead in "Jarhead" will definitely put him in good stead for outgrowing the shadow of "Donnie Darko". Peter Sarsgaard and Jamie Foxx, in their supporting roles, also give stellar performances, and if Foxx had not already won an Oscar, he would be a serious contender for one this year.

As a continuation of Mendes' career, "Jarhead" is a logical and commendable step, and only just falls short of the quality of his previous films from a directional point of view. As a stand alone film, it will be visually stimulating, good for a few laughs and an interesting insight into the life of a soldier, but ultimately not the masterpiece that it could well have been.

Anyone familiar with Terry Gilliam's work will know he is a man who loves the weird, the eccentric and the bizarre. In case you were wondering, this is the guy responsible for Monty Python and the Holy Grail. It was this very tendency towards the outrageous that kept him at arm's length with production company Universal Pictures, up until the release of 1985's "Brazil", written and directed by Gilliam. When this risk of a picture paid off, it earned him some credit with Universal, allowing him to later accept the position of director for David and Janet Peoples' "Twelve Monkeys".

The year is 2035, and the dregs of humanity have been driven underground by the spread of a virus that has wiped out 80% of the population, leaving the surface to the animals. In an attempt to obtain a pure sample of the virus, scientists send "voluntary" convict James Cole (Bruce Willis) back in time to 1996. Upon arrival, Cole is mistaken for a crazy man and put into a mental institution. While here he meets beautiful psychiatrist Kathryn Railly (Madeleine Stowe) and deranged mad-man Jeffrey Goines (Brad Pitt). Soon he becomes irreversibly caught up in the lives of these people, and the lines between reality and insanity become dangerously unclear…

Who would've thought that one of the Monty Python boys could turn this rather clichéd Sci-Fi flick into something new and exciting? And yet that's exactly what's happened. Gilliam's extraordinary vision keeps the film just surreal enough throughout that the audience is guessing to the end as to Cole's true state of mind, in a masterful manipulation of audience response, on a par with David Lynch.

The most intriguing thing about Gilliam's characteristically idiosyncratic film noir venture is its eerie, almost apocalyptic depiction of modern America. Through the eyes of Willis' confused and emotionally vulnerable character, the world as we know it seems darker, more sinister and the society thereupon built seems to ominously and unknowlingly teeter on the verge of a inevitable tragedy. "All I see are dead people", Cole despairingly confides in Dr. Railly, with a depressing conviction that for once has the audience actually hopeful that the main character is crazy.

Working with this are some simply superb performances from the lead cast. It was agreed by both Gilliam and Willis from an early point that this was not to be a typical "Bruce Willis" movie, in that it was going to be more character-depth and less action. Willis delivers on his promise, giving an emotionally restrained performance as the confused and vulnerable James Cole, unsure of his own hold on reality in a world that feels strangely familiar. Madeline Stowe is competent as always, but it's no secret that the star is Brad Pitt, who should have won an Oscar for this disturbingly convincing portrayal of a complete and total nutter.

And if all this weren't enough, the film's been given an erratic, discordant accordion score to boot; interspersed when thematically necessary with more harmonious string section, depending, of course, on whichever of the two Cole is feeling.

All up, "Twelve Monkeys" manages to be a surprisingly unique interpretation of what could have been a dull repetition of decades of the genre, almost to the extent of which it creates a genre of its own. Impressive stuff.

The first time I reviewed "Reality Bites" I was 15, and I had missed much of the film's point, praising it without critique. The second time was after viewing the film again a year later, upon which I began to notice things that I had naively ignored, such as just what self-centred people the characters were. I re-reviewed it, this time with an overly negative response. It was not until my third watching, and third review, of the film that I returned to my initial opinion, this time with reasons rooted in aspects of the film it had taken me 2 years to spot.

Comedy star Ben Stiller is most well known for his comic portrayals of characters cursed with incredibly bad luck (see Meet the Parents, There's Something about Mary, Zoolander). His career as a director is not nearly as extensive as that of his acting, although he has appeared in every film he's directed. For those wondering, it all started in 1994, with romantic comedy "Reality Bites".

Winona Ryder plays Lelaina Pierce, a fresh-faced college graduate who works a frustrated job as assistant producer for a cheesy talk show, while in her own time she enjoys filming her friends Vicky (Janeane Garofalo), Sammy (Steve Zahn) and good-looking rebel Troy (Ethan Hawke) in an amateur documentary on the disenfranchised lives of Generation X called 'Reality Bites'. In a mild car accident she meets Michael (Stiller), a sweet-hearted businessman, and they begin a romantic relationship, from which sparks talk of taking her documentary to the commercial network Michael works for. Amidst this, tensions between Lelaina and Troy begin to rise as his feelings for her become clearer...

"Reality Bites" is the kind of film that is prone to misperception. The movie has an under-the-radar subtlety to it that was widely missed even by advocators of the film. While the characters are given sensitive treatment in the script and in performance, they are also portrayed with the hidden agenda of satirizing the generation they exemplify and the culture of that generation. On one level this is apparent: the constant 90's culture references, quotes such as Troy's response to promptings from Lelaina while documenting him: "I am not under any orders to make the world a better place". The more hidden layer of subtlety comes in the form of the film's general Hollywood treatment and product placement: the film makers chose a undeniably commercial approach to a subject that is widely presented as such (life and love in the 1990's), while the specific matters and characters in the movie were based around independent and "un-commercial" philosophy. This means the film is, by its very nature, ironic on more than one level.

Critics of the film were mostly irritated by the main characters' stereotypical personalities and subsequently found them to be boring. This misses another of the film's points: the characters are deliberately stereotypical and too often were the naïve and condescending opinions of these characters, namely Lelaina and Troy, mistaken for the morals of the film. "Reality Bites" doesn't believe that Lelaina is a genius documentarian, it doesn't believe that Troy is a brilliant and secretly reliable guy and it doesn't believe Michael deserves the rotten deal he gets. It just shows how this kind of cultural mentality plays out in practice.

That being said, one very straight-forward quality of the film is the acting performances. All four members of the lead cast do excellent jobs; they nail their characters with succinct accuracy. Ethan Hawke is the stand out performance, as the brooding and condescending Troy, a character most unlike any of the others he has played before or since. Ryder is at her best here, in a performance topped only by that of Girl, Interrupted. Stiller, too, delivers solidly, even if the role is very similar to others he has played.

"Reality Bites" may strike a resonate note of realism for members of Generation X, but that really isn't its ultimate goal. Essentially this is a film that doesn't necessarily wear its heart on its sleeve, but serves as moderately engaging entertainment of a slightly more insightful nature than others of its kind.

Director Ang Lee made his big Hollywood splash with the 2000 blockbuster "Wo Hug Cang Long (Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon)". This first film was a dazzling display of artistic flair, a talent lost on his later blockbuster "Hulk", starring Australian comedian Eric Bana. His 2005 project, an adaptation of the Annie Proulx short story "Brokeback Mountain", is in a very different style to his two previous films, and by a mile the most critically acclaimed.

Ennis Del Mar (Heath Ledger) and Jack Twist (Jake Gyllenhaal) are two lonely cowboys who meet while applying for work in the summer of 1963. Sent out on a sheepherding run up to fictitious Brokeback Mountain, Wyoming for several months, the two men begin to form a bond with one another, which grows into affection which becomes a passionate affair. At the end of the summer, they each go home, Jack to his sick father and Ennis to his fiancé. However, their fierce and undying love for one another stays strong through the following years, and they each must face great hardships and tragedy in their struggle between social responsibility and happiness.

"Brokeback Mountain" is the most talked-about film of the year, for many reasons; the subject matter, the direction, the cinematography, the acting. But it's not a film for everyone. At over two hours, it plods along with what will be for some an insufferably slow pace. This will be one of the main criticisms from viewers not overly interested or engaged by the story to begin with. But its celebrated success is by no means undeserved.

The most striking thing about the film is its infinite subtlety. Almost everything of importance is said without words. The opening scene of Jack and Ennis meeting each other for the first time is a beautiful example of this; and the two lead actors look so cute shying away from each other under the brims of their cowboy hats. Another thing that works with the subtlety of the film is the frustrated inarticulacy of Ledger's character; he has to communicate without words because he simply doesn't have the words he wants to say. It is, just quietly, a sensational performance from the Australian actor, a display of talent previously hidden in his other works.

Opposite Ledger, of course, is the equally good Jake Gyllenhaal, as the more honest and communicative of the duo. Jack Twist is not as deeply ashamed and mortified of his affections as his surly lover, but he nonetheless does everything society expects of him, including getting married and having children. Gyllenhaal shows a different side of himself than ever seen before in this suitably restrained performance, which simmers under the surface with a deep passion. If this is any indication of the direction Gyllenhaal's acting style is going, upcoming war-movie "Jarhead" promises to be even more rewarding than already imagined.

Performances from the supporting cast of women in the film are all quite stunning, especially the two cowboys' respective wives, Anne Hathaway and Michelle Williams (Ledger's real life partner). They don't get as much screen-time as the men, but they shine fabulously, even when somber or in pain. Their pain is, in fact, a central point of the film's message; far more people get hurt than are to blame.

Finally comes the picture's most memorable quality: some films are sad, some films are depressing, but "Brokeback Mountain" is one of the few truly heartbreaking films of the western world. For those unconvinced or uninterested by the subtle ingredients the movie has to offer, perhaps emotional turmoil will be out of the question, but for most the story and, more particularly, the acting will move you to tears.

There is no perfect film, to be sure; each has their flaws, and "Brokeback Mountain" is no different. A little editing would not have gone amiss, but aside from that, this is pretty brilliant stuff, well worthy of its high critical praise and, for my money, not likely to be rivaled for outstanding performances by any other film this year.

Before acclaimed author Brett Easton Ellis had even published "American Psycho" in 1992, the novel had generated great controversy, receiving heated protest from women's groups and death threats against Ellis. It's no surprise, then, that it was adapted to film less than ten years later, complete with rather graphic allusions to all sorts of sordid acts. What may come as a surprise, however, is that it also bore an edgy sense of intelligence, one that would perhaps further horrify some viewers, but nonetheless prove provocative.

Patrick Bateman (Christian Bale) is, in many respects, the perfect American man. He is 27 years old, in fabulous physical shape, he is handsome and intellectual and successful; he shares a Vice Presidency at a very important business on Wall Street. He has a fiancé, is well respected and well off. His only flaw, aside from a conditioned obsession with self-image, is that for reasons decidedly undefined, he is absolutely, irreparably, violently insane. Said insanity becomes increasingly evident over the course of the film, illustrated by Bateman's frequent surreal sex romps and horrific butcherings, for which he feels next to no remorse.

The film's deceptively simplistic title and premise perhaps deliberately sell it short as a senseless gore-fest. "American Psycho" is, quite simply, more than that. It is a challenge, a threat, a spit in the face of a society that promotes anti-individualism and bland conformity in the egotistical pursuit of a presupposed perfect existence, while accommodating brutal acts and sick attitudes of all kinds. Sure it's disturbing, sure it's offensive, but it's also the best dark satire of American culture since "Fight Club", and it is damn proud of it.

For this, we have two very important people to thank. The first is director Mary Harron, whose perceptive vision saw this project from potential catastrophe to a level for more intelligent and meaningful. Harron's take on the twisted story is considered and appropriate, delighting in subtle mockery but carrying a more serious agenda as well. She expertly intersperses horror and comedy, while managing to steer clear of anything gratuitous or cheap.

The second hero of the piece is star Christian Bale. With expressed interest in the lead part from the likes of Johnny Depp and Leonardo DiCaprio, some might have considered sticking with the lesser known Bale as a risk. They may have been right, but one thing's for sure; he was the perfect man for the job. He is sensational, superb, sublime and any other alliterate praise there is. His perfect rendering of a character forced to fake almost every facet of humanity, an effectual vacuum of emotion is by and large the most intriguing thing about the film. His uncanny ability to make the horrific humorous cements the viewers' interest in what might otherwise repel them; a terrific performance from Bale that illustrates a talent only hinted at in some of his later, more mainstream work like "Batman Begins".

For those who prefer their laughs guiltless, or their interest not bordering quite so much on disgust, then perhaps "American Psycho" is not for you. It's no secret that depictions of brutal violence and sickening themes don't hit the top at the box office. But an open mind goes a long way in the world of film, and it is controversial pictures like this one that continue to remind us why.

"We Don't Live Here Anymore", the latest film from Australian director John Curran (Praise) is an examination of the intertwining infidelities of two married couples: Hank (Peter Krause) and Edith Evans (Naomi Watts) and Jack (Mark Ruffalo) and Terry Linden (Laura Dern). When it becomes known that Jack and Edith are involved in a passionate affair, Terry and Hank begin a retaliate relationship and soon the four are all painfully and irreversibly trapped in a web or betrayal, forbidden passion and unspoken misery. Based on two short stories by Andrew Dubus, the film is very performance driven and focuses very heavily on human nature and behavior, as well as the tragedy of love.

These characters that we spend the length of the film with are not necessarily pleasant, but they are very interesting, sometimes compelling. The performances of the main four are fantastic, particularly Ruffalo and Watts, who are so subtly able to let us see how badly their characters are suffering. At the same time, they are not blameless victims. Truth be told, no one is blames in this dark but fabulously composed film, which draws on the modern disenchanted view of romances and love by showing the yearning of lust and guilty pleasures.

The direction has a considered tension to it, in keeping with the tense feel of these characters trying to keep their discrepancies secret. Some ambiguity as to which character we are actually watching, due to direction is very deliberate and effective. And there are moments that cut between two of the secret lovers, each alone, with a running narration that adds strongly to the implied isolation of these people.

The only qualm to be had is that the film seems to drag a little at the end, where nothing very much happens. Perhaps a more resolute conclusion could have been afforded, but the power of the performances and universality of the story more than make up for any faults. Top marks to the amazing cast and write Larry Gross, who has done an admirable job of transposing this sad story to film. Very impressive.

'The Cable Guy', Ben Stiller's 1996 bizarre take on comedy, is a very in-your-face kind of movie that has widely provoked mixed responses. Starring Jim Carrey and Matthew Broderick, the film, on one level, takes a multi-genre look at just how valued the unspoken rules of society are, and how violently disrupted life can be when these rules are ignored. But on another, more apparent level, it's just plain strange.

Lonely, heart-sick Steven Kovach (Broderick) has recently moved out of his girlfriend's house. After he proposed to her, she became troubled with their relationship and they decided it would be good to "spend some time apart". In setting up his new apartment, Steven organizes to have cable television installed. When what should've been a simple "hello, goodbye" interaction with cable guy Chip Douglas (Carrey) is forcibly extended by Chip into what he perceives to be a firm friendship, Steven finds himself stuck with this strange man he barely knows and whom he can't seem to give the hint to that he doesn't want to be friends.

Although the film begins as somewhat of a flimsy comedy in which audiences may chuckle occasionally at Chip's eccentric behavior and unhealthy obsession with television and film and at poor Steven's unusual predicament, around halfway through it breaks through the predictable elements and becomes an almost semi-horror. After finally biting the bullet and telling Chip that we would rather they weren't friends, Steven soon finds that Chip is more than just an oddball, but a sick sociopath who will not accept rejection. Feeling as though Steven has betrayed their non-existent friendship, Chip slowly turns Steven's life into a nightmare, and Steven suddenly realizes that he and the people he loves are in very real danger and he is the only one who can see it.

The problem to be had with this film is that so much time is focused on Carrey acting crazy that interest can soon be lost. The essential plot can very easily get misplaced in Chip's antics then the movie is nothing more than one of the 'Ace Ventura' films, which were entertaining for children but served as little else.

However, the performances in 'The Cable Guy' are surprisingly impressive. Matthew Broderick brings, as he always does, his sweet-hearted nature to the role of Steven to pull off rather well the image of a generally nice guy who is just really down on his luck. Jim Carrey, as the infamous cable guy, has actually begun to put his insanely comic behavior to good use in this film. Wild as always, he gives an irritatingly convincing portrayal of a man who has, in substitution of love, had to seek all his needs from television.

The film features some interesting cameos: Tenacious D members Jack Black and Kyle Gas appear, Director Ben Stiller also has a small role as the famous child-star whose court-case trial has been televised throughout the world. Even Stiller's long-time friend Owen Wilson pops up.

The concept of 'The Cable Guy' is a gem, and it has a lot of potential to be a great film. The writers were onto something, but unfortunately, the film-maker's approach was a little shallow. However, stylistically the film is quite remarkable.