Rama (Iko Uwais) is part of a SWAT team tasked with infiltrating a tower block controlled by drug lord named Tama and housing countless undesirables (but handily one decent fellow when they need a place to hide).

Unfortunately, despite the highly proficient work of the group to move up the first few floors bagging up criminals without making a sound or being spotted by Tama’s numerous CCTV cameras whilst he diligently sits at his monitors (you don’t need to be told to leave your brain at the foyer for this one, although the director quickly covers his behind at the film’s climax), a child spotter soon makes their presence known.

With Tama calling in reinforcements, and offering tenants free rent for disposing of these unwanted visitors, Rama will have to put those sit-ups at the start of the film to good use and kick some serious ass if he wants to get back to his wife and unborn child…

With a nod to Rambo 2, we see Iko ‘prepare for battle’ through dishing out a dizzying array of punches and elbows to his lifeless punch bag. A thankfully pointless goodbye to his pregnant wife (thankfully, only pointlessly referenced again later – Gareth is so eager to ‘destroy, destroy, destroy’ that efforts to give this film an emotional centre are baffling and jarring), a nod to Elite Squad 2 (a “game changer,” as the PR are unashamedly proclaiming, is perhaps pushing it when the reference points are so obvious and come thick and fast), and we are on our way. A pulsating soundtrack, lots of aggression – and plenty of blood!

In fact, the build-up is so absorbing that the finale is a bit of a letdown. A few contrivances (where on the few occasions Gareth muddles his steals), a half-arsed attempt at a twist/reveal that really isn’t, and a showdown that is unsettlingly lengthy and brutal but lacks in the ‘spectacular’ in the same way that, say, Chocolate left us flabbergasted with Thailand’s scant regard for Health & Safety.

The filmmaking arrogance on display makes scenes like this one irresistible.

Perhaps not a popular comparison post-Madonna, but the film does bring to mind the early work of another British filmmaking magpie, Guy Ritchie, with its almost intrusive use of music. Whilst this could have spoiled, it actually proves to be a vital element, especially early on, in creating tension and building apprehension for what is so obviously coming. There’s also a similar vein of dark humour – much darker – although Gareth, unfortunately, leaves this element behind as the film becomes progressively darker. A scene where Tama is executing five unidentified males early on is a particular standout. Kneeled in front of him, bloodied and duck taped, he walks behind blowing out their brains one by one (there’s nothing left to the imagination). When he pulls the trigger on the fourth victim, for once in this film, there’s no claret spray – he’s out of bullets! Leaving the gun on the unfortunate soul’s shoulder, he asks him to keep an eye on the weapon whilst he goes to fetch ammunition. Opening the draw of his desk, he ignores the bullets and picks up the hammer – thankfully, on this occasion, the camera cuts away. Again, it’s not original, but the filmmaking arrogance on display makes scenes like this one irresistible.

Once most of the cops have been despatched, the potential to reach the heights of a film like Elite Squad is gone, but for a martial arts film, it offers fight fans the best choreography since the aforementioned Chocolate. Eye wateringly realistic and unrelenting, Iko may not be as awe-inspiring technically as a Tony Jaa or Yanin ‘Jeeja’ Vismitananda for defying human capabilities, but he’s far  less showy and to the point – thankfully, not one slow motion roundhouse or ‘on loop’ flying knee.

It’s almost like Gareth Evans has set with a check-list watching every popular action and martial arts film since the 1980s and crossed out all the elements he deemed unnecessary – all the scenes fight/action junkies bemoan. There’s no pointless love interest/sex scene (where she keeps her bra on); no laborious build up; no comedy sidekick – if a slow-mo is necessary, then it’s going to involve a bullet exploding through a child’s neck, of course! But it seems, and perhaps it’s taken a film as lovingly crafted and well referenced as The Raid to realise it, that those scenes do serve a purpose, and after initially being blown away by the film’s sheer audacity, the unrelenting carnage proves to be a little too much.

Don’t believe the hype. Infinitely better than any action flick Hollywood has produced in recent memory – it’s easy to see why American’s have responded so positively – but if you visit this website, we suspect your viewing isn’t limited to what’s showing at the local multiplex and you’ll have seen films much more deserving of the praise heaped on this release in recent weeks – accolades equally as ludicrously over-the-top as some of this film’s more memorable despatches. If you’re a martial arts fan, however, with the scant pickings that are being made available to you (King Of Fighters, anyone? Anyone?!), this is essential viewing.

As extended peacetime in the Japanese region of Edo has left many ronin penniless, a dishonourable trend has begun to take hold among the desperate and poverty stricken. They try to extort samurai houses by threatening to commit hara-kiri on their grounds, hoping to appeal to the charitable side of the leader and be given money or a position within the house. Kageyu (Koji Yakusho), leader of the House of Ii, is fully aware of this scheme when Hanshiro (Ebizo Ichikawa) comes to his door requesting to commit ritual suicide on their grounds.

Following Hanshiro’s request, Kageyu responds by recounting the tale of Motome (Eita), a young ronin who came to Kageyu with a similar plea. We see the fate of Motome in its excruciating, tragic detail, but after Hanshiro hears of Motome’s fate, despite his shock at the story, he remains unmoved over his own decision. At this point, Miike’s film really hits its stride.

As Hanshiro’s fate is ready to be sealed, it starts to become evident that he indeed knew Motome. He tells his story to Kageyu and we see a moving, yet tragic tale unfold, all leading to an emotional and tense finale…

By following 13 Assassins with another samurai film, Takashi Miike has perhaps risked the disappointment of a few fans thinking he may be retreading the same ground. Aesthetically, the films are very similar, from the sets used for the House of Li to the cinematography in general (Nobuyasu Kita directing photography on both) and the engaging presence of Koji Yakusho; however, in its execution, Hara-Kiri: Death Of A Samurai is very different yet just as commendable.

This film takes a slow-burning story of poverty, honour and revenge and translates it with an understated beauty that is completely engaging. Lingering shots focus on natural beauty and complement wonderfully the stark, clean white House of Li and the immaculate dress of the samurai. The grim reality of the poverty that Motome, Hanshiro and his daughter, Miho (Hikari Mitsushima), share is also conveyed well, with claustrophobic settings and some harsh moments of tragedy.

The real triumph of Hara-Kiri is the way it ties together all the aspects of the film so that they all work in favour of the story being told.

Hara-Kiri: Death Of A Samurai wouldn’t be a Miike film without some moments of crude violence. And from the title alone, it should come as no surprise that some shocking and brutal scenes punctuate the film. But in contrast to the over-the-top, schlock-horror bent to the violent scenes in many of his films, this movie gives them a more realistic and therefore brutal feel. They complement the story and act as important scenes for the development of the characters, rather than being included for entertainment’s sake.

The real triumph of Hara-Kiri is the way it ties together all the aspects of the film so that they all work in favour of the story being told. Takashi Miike’s films almost always showcase his directorial prowess, and his work with gifted cinematographers has given his films an aesthetic advantage, but some of his work fails to bring all these elements together with the story, plot and acting performances to create a well-rounded picture. Not so with this film. There are four key performances that tether the film together, bringing you into a samurai story that could otherwise have quite easily alienated the audience. Eita and Hiakri Mitsushima (as Motome and Miho respectively) give touching performances as a young enamoured couple struggling in poverty-stricken circumstances. Their adopted father, Hanshiro, is played expertly by Ebizo Ichikawa and he leads the film convincingly with a performance that combines scenes of emotional desperation with a touching fatherly role – he is also convincing as a trained warrior. Lastly, Koji Yakusho brings real gravitas to the film as Kageyu, leader of the House of Li. Despite not having too much screen time, his air of authority is crucial to the story.

As you can see from the rather tacky ‘3D’ at the end of the title, this film, indeed, sees Miike follow other notable directors in embracing cinemas latest technological innovation. The effect is actually extremely subtle and certainly not jaw-dropping. The quality of the cinematography is engrossing regardless of the 3D effect, but it must be noted that having been filmed in 3D, there is no suspect retrofitting involved. This means that colours don’t appear dullened as in many 3D films. All in all, the film looks outstanding, but most likely does so regardless of whether it’s presented in two dimensions or three.

Pace-wise, Hara-Kiri is fairly slow. But this is appropriate for the story, and the quality of the cinematography will leave you wanting to enjoy more of the visual splendour of the film. The story is engrossing and you are thoroughly invested in all of the central characters and the themes of honour, class and family. At just over two hours, the film never feels like it’s dragging on and leaves you satisfied at its conclusion of a wonderful tale.

Hara-Kiri: Death Of A Samurai is a genuinely brilliant piece of filmmaking from one of Japan’s most talented directors. It combines cinematography of the highest order with a strong, engaging story and accomplished central performances. As a setting, 17th century Japan can be a difficult one to build a relatable, human story in, but Takashi Miike and his colleagues do so excellently to create something that can be counted among the classics of the samurai film genre.

Xan, Enk and Adi are the Amazing Adrenalini Brothers, daredevils and stuntmen with an almost suicidal disregard for their own personal safely.

Travelling all over the world – and occasionally, it seems, through time and into fiction – the fearless trio live for performing outrageous stunts for the entertainment of anyone they can get to watch, if only to satiate their own addiction to danger…

Even a children’s TV show is often only as good as their central characters, and the three protagonists of The Amazing Adrenalini Brothers are lovable balls of crazy. Despite the brothers being united by their love of outlandish stunts, their personalities are very different from one another. Xan is the oldest of the brothers and the leader insofar as he sees it as his job to tell the others what to do. Physically shaped like an egg timer, he is fixated on his appearance and believes himself to be considerably more charming than he comes across as. There is a running joke of him hitting on every woman who crosses into his field of vision, only to be consistently ignored or shot down. One of the few times he was successful in his wooing, the object of his affections turned out to be a man (French King Louis XIV, complete with flowing cavalier locks).

Enk is the smallest and youngest of the brothers, and, as such, he ends up doing most the dangerous stunts, mostly because Xan tells him to. Most of the time, he is  fired from a cannon, launched from a catapult or shot from a bow – ending up careering through the air screaming “Eeeeeeeeeeee!!!!” like a sausage-shaped Beaker from The Muppets. He is often distracted by shiny objects and will chase after them like a hypnotised magpie with the occasional cry of “Glinky!”

Adi is the largest of the brothers, his appearance of a square with limbs is akin to that of a circus strongman. Which is appropriate, as his strength is of almost superhuman levels. In the episode ‘Kilts Of Uproar’, instead of using a log for caber tossing, he uproots an entire tree and hurls it with such force it half-demolishes a castle. In contrast to his physical prowess, his personality is that of an overgrown child. In the beach-set ‘Waves Of Turmoil’, he is seen paddling in the sea wearing a rubber ring and giggling “Splooshy, splooshy!” as he splashes the water around himself.

Although the show is aimed at children, it is made with the assumption that parents will be watching it alongside their offspring.

The brothers are from Réndøosîa, a fictional Eastern European nation that borders the equally fictitious Grimzimistan, with whom they share a mutually antagonistic rivalry. None of them can speak any English, and the “Réndøosîan” in which they talk to each other is nothing more than pseudo-Slavic sounding gibberish. However, there is some consistency to it, allowing a portion of what they say to be understood. For example, Xan frequently begins his announcements of their latest “stunta grandi-max” with “Misi gooti ji misi hooti…,” which presumably translates to “Ladies and gentlemen…” Another repeated phrase “Botsna rata!” seems to be a catch-all exclamation for expressing confusion, irritation or anger. Although there is no indication of precisely what it translates to, when a schoolteacher looks it up in a Réndøosîan-English dictionary, she is quite embarrassed by what she finds.

Although the show is aimed at children, it is made with the assumption that parents will be watching it alongside their offspring. As such, a number of touches that give adults some satisfaction crop up here and there. Variations on movies such as Spartacus, The Fantastic Voyage, Chariots Of Fire, James Bond and Little Shop Of Horrors all make appearances. The episode ‘Heist Of Absurdity’ is a clear riff on The Italian Job, and the background music is of that peculiar legal loophole of soundtracks being altered just enough to avoid copyright infringement, but still close enough to their source to remain recognisable. The recurring lyrics of “Self-Conservation Association” only add to the audacity.

The artwork of the show is incredibly simple – it was originally developed as Flash animations – which befits the target audience of young children. Arms and legs are single black lines the same width as character outlines, and the bodies are little more than basic geometric shapes with brightly coloured clothes and faces. Despite this, the characters are still expressive enough to properly convey their emotions in a way that complements the tones of voice.

The series contains 78 episodes in all, but manages to maintain original ideas and settings in virtually every one of them. The short running time of each episode – around seven minutes – means that even the most attention deficit child will not get bored easily. However, the same can’t be said for adults. Despite each episode being an imaginative variation on a single theme, the baseline repetition does become a little grating if too many episodes are seen in quick succession.

Although The Amazing Adrenalini Brothers is very much a children’s cartoon, parents can still get a lot of enjoyment while sitting watching it with them. However, there is a definite psychological limit to how much of the primary colour fury they’ll be able to take in a single sitting.

The film takes place before the Mozart family met acclaim, when Wolfgang Mozart (David Moreau) was only 11 and the family were merely travelling musicians, plying their trade in front of an array of bemused and frequently disbelieving aristocrats. Nannerl (Marie Féret, René’s daughter) is stuck in the margins, merely playing accompaniment to Wolfgang, despite the fact that she has as many, if not more talents than Wolfgang himself.

Crushed under the weight of her father’s (Marc Barbé) obvious preference for her brother, as well as his insistence that she not play the violin or compose her own music (both considered too complicated for a woman), 16-year-old Nannerl is not happy. Desperate for her own talents to be recognised and her own identity established, she begins to rebel…

Mozart’s Sister seems to posit the idea that behind the history of every great man, there is the story of a greater woman who was sidelined and undermined. It is a feminist tale that pointedly tells a woman’s history, not well known precisely because it is a woman’s history. However, as well intentioned as the filmmakers may be, they do deliver a film that has little of merit.

While fantastic performances, an obvious love of classical music, directorial flair and a good sense of humour have proven that the story of Wolfgang Mozart can sustain interest for almost three hours, as in Milos Forman’s terrific Amadeus, there is little of interest in René Féret’s treatment of the life of Nannerl Mozart. His realist take on the story, complete with shaky camera and a lack of lighting – the only apparent reason for which is the possible unavailability of the equipment needed – is ultimately too dry and too sober.

The film itself is as bland as its protagonist.

The performances are all one-note, with largely young actors straitjacketed into period costumes and left with over-written and uninteresting dialogue. Nannerl is too reserved, a sullen girl who seems to lack a passion for anything. She may have been more talented than Mozart, but we never get the sense that music matters all that much to her. She plays begrudgingly, as if she was forced into it by her father and chose to exert her femininity and her wish for rebellion by being better than his preferred son. When, very late in the film, a music teacher says, “Pity the poor artist not driven by passion,” the camera awkwardly and pointedly zooms in on Nannerl wearing a sardonic half-smile. Feeling more like a writer’s convenience in a script that has heretofore ignored the grind of creating art, it ushers in a short sequence in which we see Nannerl composing all day long. But here, there is still no apparent love or devotion for her art. It is as if she is only talented because she is a woman. She can play, sing and compose in her sleep and, as the film shows it, probably does.

The film itself is as bland as its protagonist, adopting all the feminist clichés in the book, from that irrepressible ‘all in this together’ female connection that Nannerl has with the similarly ostracized Louise de France (Lisa Féret, another one of the director’s daughters). Of course, she will later only be able to communicate with her great friend through prison-like bars, symbolizing how trapped both women are. As well as this, she will hear her mother refer to her father as “my husband and master,” but not before redefining her future husband as “the man I shall love,” in preference to her mother’s “the man of your life.” Of course, opportunities do begin to come Nannerl’s way, but only when she dresses like a boy, a turn of events that is introduced as matter-of-factly as it is dispensed with. Mozart’s Sister comes to resemble a tract, but it is one that most of us have heard by now, especially those of us who would choose to watch a film called Mozart’s Sister.

Although the film nicely evokes the ‘reality’ behind the historical costume drama, successful as it is at showing how tiring a carriage ride would be and how dark a large, candle-lit house would be, it does keep the screen bland and uninspiring. The film also keeps things muted, so that scenes that might have marked emotional high-points go by unnoticed. Similarly, the film’s end should have been, and could have been, shattering were it not for the fact that Nannerl seems about as happy or as sad as she has always been – and for the fact that the material itself has been approached as dispassionately as Nannerl approaches her music.

Mozart’s Sister takes on many big themes – unrequited love, a search for fulfilment, abandonment, rebellion, anguish, great talent thwarted, a fight against prejudice – and renders them dull. It is historical revisionism without a tripod or a real sense of wishing for change. Nannerl is left as unknown as she was before the film started. Glumly accepting her place as a footnote in history, Nannerl, and the film itself, do not call for a reassessment as much as eulogize a dead issue.

On the 30th October 2001, Michael Perry and Jason Burkett were arrested for triple homicide. Several days earlier, they had murdered 50-year-old Sandra Stotler, her son, Adam, and his close friend, Jeremy Richardson. Perry, the older of the perpetrators, faces death for his crimes, while his accomplice, Burkett, faces life in prison…

Herzog establishes early on his objective approach to his investigation. Sitting opposite convicted murderer and soon-to-be-executed Michael Perry, Herzog says simply, “Destiny hasn’t handed out a good deck of cards to you. It doesn’t exonerate you and besides, it doesn’t necessarily mean that I have to like you.”

So begins the journey into the abyss, through which we are given a glimpse of crime and punishment from every angle. We are shown interviews with the criminals, the victims and a former-executioner, along with an in-depth life-story of the perpetrators from start to finish, thankfully sparing us the act of execution itself. In its structure, Herzog’s meditation on the death penalty is surprisingly reminiscent of Kieslowki’s Short Film About Killing, credited with the abolition of the death penalty in Poland. Where he differs is his aversion to pulling on the heartstrings of the audience.

Although giving considerations to the disadvantages suffered by the perpetrators, he examines the event of the murder and its consequences with the same meticulous neutrality as the police investigation.

Using an array of authentic police recordings, the retelling of the murders takes on a grave reality. The murders were committed at two separate points and both motivated by the hopeful theft of a 1998 Chevrolet Camaro, a shockingly small prize for the scale of the crime. Blood smears that we would normally gloss over on screen are all the more disturbing for the comprehensive examination of the implications of the murder. Most jarring is the tragic testimony of Lisa Stotler Balloun, daughter and sister to the Stotler victims. Her enduring depression and difficulty in coming to terms with the loss of everyone close to her is deeply moving, despite Herzog’s ability to steer the interview away from the sentimental.

The narrative is separated into six chapters, beginning with an exploration of the crime and unwinding into the back-story of the victims and perpetrators. While Michael Perry’s story is a rather conventional rebel-without-a-cause downward spiral of drug-addiction, homelessness and desperation, the story of Jason Burkett is much more provocative. In the Burkett family, father and both sons are condemned to spend the majority of their lives in prison. It was only for the tearful pleas of Burkett’s father and his insistence that a fatherless youth was the route of Jason’s criminality that he was spared the death penalty.

Into the Abyss seems to be the logical conclusion of so much of Herzog’s work.

Into the Abyss is as much a film about being poor and destitute in the US as it is about the death penalty. Herzog does an excellent job of isolating the influences on these young men, highlighting that they lived in a trailer park and were so destitute that the lure of a car worth only several thousand dollars led them to murder. Aversion to Crimewatch style reconstructions also lends strength to the documentary and separates it from a CNN style Thursday night documentary.

Personal testimony is given great gravity through Herzog’s interview tactics, managing to wean intimate confessions from murderers, victims and executioners alike. The latter providing the most startling depiction of the morose reality of the execution process.

Inevitably, Into the Abyss fails to deliver the stunning visuals that we are accustomed to in his documentaries such as Grizzly Man and Encounters At The End Of The World. Given the subject matter, it’s perhaps apt that in place of vast dazzling landscape shots we’re offered sobering images of the’death gurney’, the now-dilapidated stolen car, or the scene of the crime.

Herzog has claimed repeatedly that he has no political motive in Into The Abyss. When watching the film, one cannot avoid a streak of ideology flowing through the narrative. Fundamentally, Herzog is against the murder of anyone, whether by the state or by individuals. Like any great argument, he demonstrates both sides, but his eventual polemics are undoubtedly aligned against the death penalty and capital punishment.

Yet, Into the Abyss seems to be the logical conclusion of so much of Herzog’s work, which is a perpetual gaze into the recesses of human nature, often focussing on those on the outskirts of society. Grizzly Man, perhaps his strongest documentary piece, tackled a man against nature situation, but it also highlighted Timothy Treadwell’s alienation from human society, his decline into solitude and his eventual death-wish. Treadwell could have as easily been behind the bullet proof glass through Herzog which interviews the perpetrators.

Into The Abyss is no Grizzly Man – we are shown little to which we would not already be accustomed by Louis Theroux-esque BBC special docs. That said, it manages to grapple with the big questions with great success, and may leave you with a understanding of life, death and the vagaries of fate that has thus far eluded you.

In a very white, very modern mansion in the Dublin countryside, tired and retired rock star Cheyenne is dazedly living out his retirement with his wife in relative anonymity and boredom. Drifting between social interactions with a teenage girl who he seems to have taken under his wing and a thoroughly repulsive male friend, his life seems lost between his halcyon days of fame and his current identity, now that he seems too old for such grand pursuits.

The news of his estranged father’s death in America resurfaces family issues for Cheyenne in Ireland, as well as bringing to a head his crisis of identity. With his wife’s blessing, Cheyenne flies out to his father’s funeral, beginning an odyssey of sorts across vast and varied landscapes.

Taking up his father’s quest for revenge against a former Nazi camp guard, Cheyenne makes a ponderous journey across the country, clearing his mind in the process…

Somewhere in This Must Be The Place, underneath the cloud of a bizarre, ill-conceived sub-plot and a script peppered with bland, philosophical clichés, a charming film is struggling to get out. In fact, for a good part of the film’s beginning, with Dublin as the backdrop, we get to see just how impressive This Must Be The Place could have been. In supporting roles, Frances McDormand and Eve Hewson provide the film with its most enjoyable scenes. McDormand, as ever, is excellent in a quirky, comic role as Cheyenne’s wife, and Eve Hewson seems destined for great things, giving both a funny and tender performance in only her second feature.

In these opening scenes, we are introduced to Sean Penn’s Cheyenne through these two important relationships. And this is where the character is most effectively portrayed as an aged rock star struggling to find a place in the world post-stardom. Unfortunately, as the film heads off to America, the emotional nuances of the character are largely lost, along with most of the film’s charm and intrigue. Sean Penn’s performance is sadly hit and miss. When it’s good, it’s excellent, bringing a fragility and exhaustion to the character, but too often, it lapses into caricature; an amalgamation of Robert Smith, Edward Scissorhands and Ozzy Osbourne, but adding nothing new.

The script for the film is another area where there are at least as many low-points as there are high.

However, the main failing of This Must Be The Place is the decision to include a Holocaust revenge plot to underscore Cheyenne’s trip round America. It is both wholly unnecessary and quite poorly dealt with, caught between being a serious study of the legacy of the Holocaust and an irreverent revenge fantasy à la Inglourious Basterds. For long periods of the film, this element of the plot can be easily forgotten but, jarringly, when it is brought up, it seems that Sorrentino is intent on asserting it as vastly important, something that much of his film sadly betrays. If left alone, This Must Be The Place could well have been a perfectly pleasant film about Cheyenne and his search for recognition of identity and belonging, instead Sorrentino’s film is messy and indecisive of what it wants to tell us.

That is not to say there aren’t things to enjoy in the film. Aside from the aforementioned, well-crafted opening scenes in Dublin, the cinematography is largely flawless. A range of landscapes are beautifully shot and get across the majesty of the United States and its incredibly diverse scenery. Being Paolo Sorrentino’s first film outside of Italy, it is evident that he thoroughly enjoyed the freedom of being able to shoot in a variety of locations across the USA.

The script for the film is another area where there are at least as many low-points as there are high. There is a fair amount of solid, gentle comedy in there, brought out most notably by a cameo from Harry Dean Stanton, as well as Frances McDormand. But the far too prevalent addition of some clunky, drab philosophical lines drags the script down, and halts the flow of the film just as you start to enjoy it. There is clearly an effort to try and make an interesting film meditating on the philosophies of identity and place, but sadly, for much of the time, this is let down by poor scripting.

For fans of Talking Heads, one attraction will be the presence of David Byrne in both acting (thankfully, very brief) and composing roles. He scores the film as well as lending a Talking Heads song to Sorrentino for the title. But Byrne’s score doesn’t ever seem to dovetail with the film itself and, at worst, it comes across that the director has just decided to arbitrarily include his fandom of David Byrne’s band in the film. Although that was likely not the case, it is ultimately just another element of the film lost in a bit of a mess of half-ideas.

While delivering some visually excellent work, This Must Be The Place sadly lacks in quality of dialogue, as well as consistency in many other aspects. It suffers badly from the choice of Holocaust revenge sub-plot and, ultimately, appears unpolished and dull. This is a real shame, as the early scenes in Dublin promise an enjoyable, gentle comedy with emotional depth, but we simply don’t see anywhere near enough of this. The same goes for the screen time of the generally very good supporting cast. The positives prove that Sorrentino is a more than capable director and still one to follow, but This Must Be The Place is not the best showcase for his talents.

Based on stories told to Renoir by soldiers fighting in the WWI, La Grande Illusion begins with the capture of two French airmen after being shot down by Captain von Rauffenstein (Erich von Stroheim, a strange actor – and here at his most strange), an ace German pilot. The two French soldiers are working class mechanic Lieutenant Maréchal (Jean Gabin, a French star at the time) and the aristocratic Captain de Boeldieu (Pierre Fresnay). They are sent to a POW camp in Hallbach.

There they meet a range of people from different backgrounds, including Rosenthal (Marcel Dalio), a Jewish banker. Despite the fact that their treatment in the hands of the German’s is not very harsh, they elect to try to escape…

Jean Renoir’s film has always been considered one of the great anti-war statements in cinema (despite the old joke that it is somewhat invalidated by the fact that WWII began so soon after its release), but it is also a refreshingly humanist look at people during war. Although the Germans are largely the guards and the French prisoners, the film takes a multi-faceted approach, offering an array of emblematic moments to show that there is humanity on both sides. One sequence, involving the distribution of food in the camp, shows how everyone reacts similarly to their lot, regardless of whether they are French or German, working or upper class. Although the horrors of war are subtly apparent in the film, particularly in one haunting scene in which the French prisoners are silenced by the deafening and endless footsteps of hundreds of German soldiers, Renoir’s primary focus is on the relationships of a group of men thrown together by extraordinary circumstances. As such, the film is funny, moving and frequently surprising.

One of the film’s major assets is the precision of Renoir’s direction.

The performances are, for the most part, great. Fresnay is moving as a member of the old bourgeoisie who is well aware that his time is running out. Similarly, Stroheim, despite appearing battle-torn and trussed up in a neck brace that must have inspired the costume design of Darth Vader, is moving as a generally decent man caught in bad times. Captains de Boeldieu and von Rauffenstein find that they have more in common with each other than with their own men, making their exchanges amongst the film’s best moments. Less convincing, however, is Jean Gabin, who has always been a touch wooden. However, in the film’s final half-hour – a delightfully unexpected little epilogue to a film that has already reached a satisfactory conclusion – Gabin improves remarkably, perhaps suggesting that that star of so many bleak French films (Carne’s Le Quai des Brumes and Le Jour se Leve) really just needed to cheer up.

One of the film’s major assets is the precision of Renoir’s direction. He can say a lot with only a simple pan, as when the camera shows us similarly decorated French and German canteens. Similarly, in the above-mentioned scene, in which the French prisoners are cowed by the footsteps of the German forces, Renoir leaves the marching troops unseen, knowing the scene’s power comes from their powerful and doom-laden footsteps. Renoir uses his camera to tell the story, and while the film is playing, there is a strong feeling that we are in the hands of someone who knows exactly what they are doing.

The exact illusion to which the title refers is left open to many interpretations, allowing the film to avoid the didacticism of similarly pointed anti-war films. However, the film’s key value is its refusal to judge anyone, whether they are French or German. While a film like Saving Private Ryan may seem to be an anti-war film due to its attention to the horrors of war, it refuses to recognise that there may be good people on both sides, allowing the audience to enjoy the violent spectacle due to its apparent sense of justice. Renoir keeps what little in the film might constitute battle scenes unseen, grim and tragic rather than rousing. Although some of his techniques might be a touch on-the-nose today, it is worth remembering that there have been a proliferation of anti-war films that have since taken its ideas and diluted them by repetition, while not always presenting them with as much talent and flair as Renoir.

With great humour, precision, poignancy and performances, it critiques man’s inhumanity to man by suggesting that our greatest illusions are the boundaries that keep us fighting amongst each other. Almost destroyed by the Nazis during WWII, La Grande Illusion is a powerful and, ultimately, universal anti-war statement because of, not in spite of its humanism.

An ultra-violent allegory of Franco’s Spain, The Last Circus (Balada triste de trompeta) was surely one of the most prestigious films screenings at the ¡Viva! Spanish And Latin American Film Festival in Manchester’s Cornerhouse Cinema. Having won Best Screenplay, Best Director, and Best Film Venezia 67 at the Venice Film Festival in 2010 (the oldest international film festival in the world, for those who are interested), The Last Circus went on to receive a string of awards from all over Spain. Not bad for seasoned director Alex de la Iglesia, whose previous work has gathered cult followings but rarely enjoyed such mainstream success.

The film opens on a circus performance in the midst of the Spanish Civil War. The children in the big tent are happily distracted from the falling shells by two clowns; that is until a Republican Commander storms into the ring and demands all able-bodied men join them in the upcoming assault.

As their attack on the Nationalists begins, the sight of the fully costumed ‘Happy Clown’ (Santiago Segura) hacking-and-slashing his way through enemy ranks is a terrifying sight. Unfortunately, the Republicans are bested and the ‘Happy Clown’ is doomed to a life of imprisonment. Whilst in prison, the ‘Happy Clown’s’ son, Javier (Sasha Di Bendetto), comes to visit and tells his father he wants to be a clown when he grows up. His father warns him that, having suffered so much so young, the only way to avoid the humiliating life of the sad clown is to have revenge. Thus, Javier launches an assault on the camp in which his father toils. Unsuccessful, his fate is sealed.

Cut to thirty-six years in the future and Javier (Carlos Areces) has become a sad clown. We see him starting afresh in a new circus and, whilst being given the tour, he’s introduced to the various zany characters which populate the troop. Amidst the chaos, Javier spots a beautiful acrobat, Natalia (Carolina Bang), whom he instantly falls in love with. However, he’s warned to stay away from her, as she’s romantically involved with the boss. Said boss, it turns out, is the circus’ happy clown, Sergio (Atonio de la Torre). A violent bully, a drunken Sergio becomes enraged over dinner when Javier refuses to laugh at his gruesome jokes and beats Natalia unconscious. Later that night, Javier tends to Natalia and, having gained her attention, it’s not long before they begin something of an affair. Once Sergio realises this, their ill-fated romance sends The Last Circus spiralling into madness…

The Last Circus certainly doesn’t adhere to established genre boundaries and is perhaps best described as a black-comic allegory of Franco’s Spain – an exploration of how violent spectacles were used to vie for the soul of the nation whilst corrupting all involved beyond recognition. In the section of the narrative described above, it seems clear that Sergio and Javier represent the opposing forces of fascism and socialism, each of which is vying for the heart of Natalia, who represents Spain herself. Such depth of meaning makes scenes already full of drama much richer, allowing the film to successfully operate on many subtle levels. While the first section is greatly enhanced by this extra dimension, the last hour is so dominated by poetic symbolism that you’ll probably need a PhD in Spanish political history to decipher it. Veering into self-absorption, The Last Circus over-indulges in its forays into fantasy, and narrative cohesion eventually breaks down completely.

Alongside superb performances, the cinematographic flair demonstrated by Kiko de la Rica sets this movie apart.

While the story loses its way and never quite recovers, the cast are exceptional throughout and should be applauded for supporting this movie through all its bizarre twists and turns. Carlos Areces has a truly uncanny ability to switch from the loveable, pathetic Sad Clown to psychotic mass murderer and back again in mere moments. Antonio de la Torre captures the terrible charisma of a dictator; at once horrifying, pathetic, menacing and irresistibly charming. Carolina Bang manages to maintain a touch of glamour, despite being cast as an emotionally damaged floozy, and succeeds in bringing a healthy dose of madness to her comparatively tame role. Of course, the comic support provided by the circus performers themselves deserve special mention for propping up a film swimming in a sea of gory tragedy. It is through the combined excellence of its cast that The Last Circus remains entertaining, even as it becomes ever more incomprehensible.

Alongside superb performances, the cinematographic flair demonstrated by Kiko de la Rica sets this movie apart. Each setting has its own unique visual character and a wide variety of atmospheres are skilfully established. For example, the first shots in the bombarded big tent are a chiaroscuro masterpiece, perfectly setting up the operatic tone that follows. Later, the 1970s circus is filled with rich colours touched with hints of gold; the barren wasteland is given a nostalgic glow and elevated beyond the realm of realism. As a side note, the special effects and make-up wouldn’t look out of place in a Hollywood blockbuster and are a surprising treat.

A film with the potential to be amongst Spain’s best, The Last Circus is spoiled by tedious flights of fancy that quickly bore. However, in spite of itself, this is a hugely original and highly entertaining film. As such, it certainly receives a recommendation for those seeking a unique cinematic experience that, whilst flawed, will linger in your mind for months to come.

In an outsourcing manoeuvre involving transferring his whole department from Tokyo to China, Ryûhei Sasaki is left unemployed and too ashamed to tell his family. Still rising each morning, dressing in his suit and leaving with his briefcase, he fills his days in queues at the job centre or the food line, where he meets old school friend Kurosu, also recently ‘downsized’ and living the same lie.

Ryûhei’s wife, Megumi, meanwhile is tasked with keeping the peace between the aspirations of the couple’s two sons, Takashi and Kenji, and Ryûhei’s patriarchal desire, heightened by his sudden helplessness, to maintain control of his family. While Takashi signs up for the US Army through their bizarre (yet real) foreign national recruitment drive, younger son Kenji yearns to take up the piano. Both are forbidden to carry out these plans by their father, yet both find a way to subvert him: Takashi by threatening to seek sponsorship from an outside organisation (and thus bring further shame on his parents for not supporting him themselves) and Kenji by using his lunch money to pay for lessons.

As the lies begin to crack, the pressure of maintaining appearances begins to prove too much for Ryûhei, particularly in the wake of finding out that Kurosu has killed himself, taking his wife with him. News is also coming in of the US Army international volunteers being sent to fight in the Middle East, and between struggling to keep her unhappy marriage together and worrying desperately about her son, Megumi also starts slipping towards the edge of reason.

Everything comes to a crux one day when Megumi is kidnapped and Ryûhei’s secret is finally revealed. Over the course of the night, both are pushed over the brink and, by morning, what is left of their lives will never be the same…

This film is a staggering achievement; an epic story of a family unravelling told with restraint, poise and grace mixed with the darkest of humour and a sense of the absurd rooted firmly in reality. It manages to be both dramatic and ironic, simultaneously deadly serious and very funny. In a year dominated at Cannes by Italian heavyweights Il Divo and Gamorrah, Kurosawa probably deserved more than his relatively modest Un Certain Regard Jury Prize. This is a writer/director in his prime and the resulting film is utterly fearless. Along with Max Mannix       and Sachiko Tanaka, Kurosawa created a script that manages to include the grit, sadness and socio-political conscience of the best social-realist writing with the shamelessly improbably plot twists and dramatic extravagance of a Pedro Almodovar melodrama.

The script’s almost sadistic treatment of the lead characters, particularly of Ryûhei as misfortune after misfortune falls his way, is complimented nicely by the performances. Teruyuki Kagawa gives the family patriarch a simmering and occasionally explosive desperation, while long-suffering wife Megumi is subtly performed by Kyôko Koizumi.

This Blu-ray edition brings out the beautifully muted colours and composition of every shot in all their subdued elegance.

The ‘sonata’ of the title works fittingly as a description of the film itself: it feels like it is unfolding like a piece of music. It has movements certainly – definite sections where one mood or idea is explored, and even harmonies, and countermelodies where the different subplots compliment and intertwine with each other. Indeed, in a broader sense, its emotional treatment of reality, with the narrative paying greater heed to the expression of certain ideas than to ‘traditional’ storytelling (though that is not to say that this not a strong, coherent story), feels like a musical composition.

In terms of narrative, the film calls to mind both Peter Mullan’s 1998 film Orphans, for its depiction of the gradually worsening fates of a group of siblings over the course of one night, and also the downwards trajectory of Michael Douglas’ character in Falling Down. The portrayal of a man failing to keep the lid screwed on his desperation as his life falls apart is familiar in this sense, but after watching Tokyo Sonata, both of those films seem crude by comparison. They tell a similar story, but neither rings as true, nor captures the poetry, bleakness and beauty of life quite like this film does. This is, of course, helped by the setting; we are given the sense that the emphasis on work and reputation is far greater in Japan than it is in the West, so the pressures to maintain that respectable veneer are equally great. However, it is worth noting that this film is a slower builder: it does not have quite the foreboding sense of rising tension right from the start that Falling Down achieves.

This Blu-ray edition brings out the beautifully muted colours and composition of every shot in all their subdued elegance. The cityscape is made to look delicate, fragile even; these huge concrete structures dissected by roads and power lines are framed in such a way as to make them seem almost as vulnerable as the people they contain. The whole city seems to be barely held together by the belief that things are as they should be and that the status quo should not be challenged. Appearances really do seem to be everything.

This is a film and a filmmaker which demand greater recognition. To find humour and beauty in such bleak circumstances is one thing, but to combine this with a narrative which rips apart and then rebuilds its characters with such controlled drama, and in such a poetic fashion, is truly remarkable.

John Little’s documentary looks at the life of Bruce Lee, the martial arts actor and cultural icon. Beginning with his childhood, we see Lee learning Wing Chun under the tutelage of Yip Man and participating in unsanctioned brawls on the rooftops of Hong Kong. Lee later moves to the West and opens up a dojo, coming under fire for teaching his own modified version of Wing Chun to non Orientals.

Taking a keen interest in philosophy and constantly striving to innovate within the martial arts arena, Lee’s activities bring him to the attention of TV executives, who cast him as sidekick Kato in The Green Hornet. The show is a huge success, both in the US and in the East, and Lee is soon brought to China to act in fight films for Golden Harvest. Lee’s success encourages him to pioneer a new fighting style known as Jeet Kun Do (the way of the intercepting fist) and focus his attention on his burgeoning acting career.

Returning to America, he begins to cultivate his own cinematic style. His stardom grows, reaching its peak with Enter The Dragon, a film that was sadly released posthumously…

Bruce Lee’s life and work have long since passed into myth. He lives on, not only through his films, but also his enduring influence on the martial arts genre and popular culture as a whole. His photos still adorn bedroom walls all over the world, and his idiosyncratic approach to martial arts cinema remains a blueprint for the majority of modern fight films.

While he cannot be attributed with any form of genre creation, he is certainly responsible for the West’s love affair with Eastern fighting, his crossover appeal solidified by Enter The Dragon, a film that would have made him a global superstar had he lived to see its release.

Rob Cohen’s 1993 film Dragon: The Bruce Lee story offered up a stylised version of Lee’s life, taking true events and imbuing them with the kinetic energy of Lee himself, as an homage to the ‘little dragon’. It deftly mixed OTT action with the usual biopic tropes, and it remains one of the most potent depictions of its subject’s career.

John Little’s informative and reverent documentary offers an incredibly detailed look into Lee’s world and, while it works as a great companion piece to Cohen’s film, it quickly becomes evident that a stylised aesthetic is hardly needed to depict the extraordinary life of Bruce Lee.

Little begins, appropriately enough, at the end of Lee’s life, focusing on the principal photography of Game Of Death, a film that was intended to marry the philosophical ideology Lee had intended to communicate throughout his career with his versatile approach to the cinematic presentation of martial arts. If this documentary has a key failing, it’s that not much focus is placed on Lee’s final days, but since this is a celebration of his life and career, it’s hardly necessary to focus on its abrupt end.

His navel gazing forms the perfect soundtrack to footage of him in action both on and off the silver screen.

The documentary then segues to Lee’s arrival in the West and the controversy surrounding his decision to teach students of different race, presenting candid interviews with Lee’s wife, friends and former students, as well as archive footage and photography from the time. It’s a treasure trove for fans and Little manages to be informative and engaging without resorting to the maudlin traditions of a posthumous biopic.

Particular focus is placed on Lee’s philosophical leanings and his navel gazing forms the perfect soundtrack to footage of him in action both on and off the silver screen.

Then there’s the presentation of a previously shelved climax to Game Of Death, which serves to form a twenty minute microcosm of Bruce Lee’s idiom. The philosophy is there, the po-faced ruminations on the nature of combat and the pioneering sense of variety that he brought to the traditional martial arts set piece.

Of course, this being a ‘70s East/West crossover project, there are times when it’s almost too ropey to bear, and while Lee’s application of his own auteur-like signatures is admirable, they often become tedious and detrimental to the pace.

Aside from that, the rough cut sequence forms a touching and appropriate coda to this exhaustively detailed documentary, and the fights themselves are brilliant technical showcases, particularly when Lee shows off his nunchaku skills and battles his gigantic former pupil, Kareem Abdul Jabar.

John Little’s documentary a loving disquisition of an enigmatic cultural icon, combining archive footage, home movies and candid interviews alongside the climax to Game Of Death, further proof of Lee‘s skill and star power. This an informative documentary that any fan of Lee, or even the genre in which he plied his trade, should seek out.