It’s a beautiful end too. No crashing bridges and falling Empire States; no tidal waves. Lars Von Trier is unlikely to be interested in the science and dynamics of the end of this world. Perhaps it’s just enough for it to end; gorgeously, sadly; cloaked, sometimes comically, in German Romanticism.

Listen. Our end sounds like this.

Justine (Kirsten Dunst) has just got married. She travels to the reception in a stretch limo which has no hope in hell of getting around the twisty dirt roads that lead to the mansion home of her sister Claire and brother-in-law John (Charlotte Gainsbourg and Jack Bauer… sorry, Kiefer Sutherland). She has a go driving, as does her sweetly hapless new husband (Alexander Skarsgard), but they struggle and arrive at the reception hopelessly late.

And I couldn’t help feeling they should have stayed in the car. Forever. Wedged between bushes, constantly going back and forth, one step forward, one step back. This is the nearest we get in the film to a ‘happy marriage’.

But no, they get to the reception, and it’s awful for all involved. Justine’s mother (Charlotte Rampling) is sensationally rude… she really shouldn’t have been invited. Justine’s father (John Hurt) is separated from her mother and spends his time collecting spoons and chatting up any girl available (calling them all Betty, like a lairy, hairy Frank Spencer). Her poor sister Claire has tried to keep on top of all the organising (including organising Justine’s fragile mental state) and daft old rich John can’t believe just how ungrateful Justine is when he’s spent a fortune on the event.

Can money buy happiness? In Camus’ A Happy Death money can be seen to buy time… time free from work… time to be happy. These folk have all the money, but time is not on their side. Nevertheless, there may be room for at least one happy death in this film.

It’s not John’s though. Watching John is like watching Jack Bauer go through his worst 24 hours yet, as he wanders his mansion, muttering “unbelievable” at every little inconvenience. As the guests wait for the cake to be cut Jack/John faces the biggest insult yet to his largesse when mother and daughter both go missing; “those bitches have locked themselves in their bathrooms and now they’re taking a bath”.

Bring on the crashing planet.

The film is split into two major chapters; first the wedding sequence, titled “Justine”, then part two, “Claire”, which takes place some time after the disastrous wedding (we never find out what happened to the hapless husband. He’s gone. He was sweet and really tried hard to deal with Justine’s crippling depression. I hope he survives the planetary collision… he doesn’t).

No one does. Claire panics, John assures them the planet won’t hit, Justine just waits and says things like; “life is only on Earth. And not for long”.

And this is how sad the film is. It’s gloriously sad, and so enjoyable for it. Others have compared it to that other cosmic film of 2011, Terrence Malick’s Tree of Sleep… sorry, Life. I see Melancholia almost as an antidote to the single-minded indulgence and incoherence of Malick’s undoubteldy beautiful snorefest.

I don’t know what Malick was showing me. I didn’t understand it.

I’m not sure I know what Von Trier is showing me. But it’s more beautiful, moving, depressing, funny… it’s achingly beautiful to watch.

It’s the Sisters Grim.

It’s a week later now so forgive me for not having a clue what I saw in Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps. Or not remembering. Some people do some bad things, some bad things happen, oh and it’s all bad. Gordon Gekko and Josh Brolin are bad, but some are badder than others. Maybe not bad, maybe amoral. Who knows. There’s a scientist; he’s good doing good green energy stuff. And Frank Langella isn’t bad, even though he works on bad Wall Street. He’s from the good old days when bankers were good, not bad. He doesn’t get the current bad way of doing things. Nor do I. ok, money may never sleep, but it’s no use telling me that. My money fell into a coma way back, and I did the only decent thing; assisted money suicide.

Maybe it just wasn’t the film for me. I’m never sure where I am with Oliver Stone. My brain rattles inside my skull as he whacks me around the head with his film baseball bat. Sometimes, like in the enjoyable Any Given Sunday, I can just about hold it together. But these Wall Street ones, he loses me.

Allan Loeb, one of the writers of Wall Street blah blah blah, is a licensed stock broker. Aaron Sorkin, the singular writer of The Social Network, isn’t. Heck, he’s not even on Facebook! A film about Facebook where the writer isn’t on Facebook?! What?!! and the director David Fincher isn’t either? And the star, Jesse Eisenberg, playing Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg, he’s not pokeable? What in hell’s name is going on here?

I shouldn’t be comparing and contrasting; it’s a little bit foolish. But, hey, la-di-da. Wall Street blah blah blah wanted to let me in on just what went on back there when all the banks went boom and all the bad things happened because everybody’s bad. But I couldn’t keep up. I couldn’t follow. It was bad this, bad that, and ultimately just all too damn… technical.

The Social Network has little interest in Facebook. And nor have I. I’m on it but I hardly ever go there. I don’t like the look of it. I don’t get the layout. I’m not sure what I’m meant to do with it. But I loved seeing how it all came to be.

I’ve spent too long not writing this review. I’ve been distracted by social media. I’ve been twittering. I’m a little lost.

Look. You know what to do. This film is written by Aaron Sorkin. He wrote the bloody West Wing. A Few Good Men. Charlie Wilson’s War. Sports Night! If you’ve never seen Sports Night get series 1 and 2 now! I command you. I know I’m powerless, but still, I command you.

The Social Network. It’s written by Aaron Sorkin and directed by David Fincher. David Fincher! Fight Club! Zodiac! Seven!

I’ve left it too late. I don’t have the energy for a review. This is a recommendation. You can ignore it. You can block me. Confirm. Not now.

It needed it. I saw AVP, I saw AVP: Requiem. But I can’t remember a damn thing about them. not one thing. Not one moment. This from films where Aliens fight Predators! What went wrong?

The first Predator was pretty good. I remember things. I remember Arnie meeting his old pal; they shake hands and the camera moves in on the most ridiculously bulging biceps ever. I remember cigars. I remember Arnie taking the predator’s helmet off and saying a funny line about him being ugly. I remember Arnie getting his kit off and covering himself in mud. Let’s remember some more.

Yep, pretty good. Knock knock. I like that.

So, this new one, Predators, it’s trying to be the first proper sequel. And it’s, well, pretty pretty good. By putting an ‘S’ on the end instead of a 2 it’s wanting us to think “hey! This might be a bit like Aliens; more creatures and more mayhem and more fun.” And that’s what we get, more predators, more weaponry, more craziness and a motley bunch of people who are all, if we’re being kind, archetypes. Possibly stereotypes. No, let’s go archy on this. There’s a feisty hispanic lady, a bullish, big-boned Russkie, a loopy nutty Paxton-like criminal, an African Warlord, a too good to be true “innocent” doctor, a yakuza with no fingers but a big gun and bigger sword, someone else, oh and replacing the Governator, none other than… Adrien Brody?????

Ok, we bought Nicolas Cage when he went all topless and greasy and hairy in Con Air, but… Adrien Brody?

Arnold Schwarzenegger… Adrien Brody.

If you aren’t living in Britain this next bit may make no sense to you. Here goes; it’s like watching Alistair McGowan doing Bear Grylls.

The shock is he’s ok. He’s pretty good. The film’s ok. It’s very exciting. It’s great. No more though eh?

And finally, a mention for Predator 2. The classic that’s been overlooked. It’s got Busey, Glover and, crucially, Paxton. What more do you want? If it has to be remade I hope they call it Predators and the City.

Aaaaaah…. Paxton! There was a time when you knew where you with with a Paxton film. He’d cry and whine and whimper and snivel and we all loved him. And now it hits me… earlier I said “someone else” because I couldn’t remember the final member of the film’s octet. It was Danny Trejo! Where would a Rodriguez film be without an appearance by the scariest man ever. Well done tattooed dude.

In 1984 I walked out of a screening of Hardbodies. Since then I’ve managed to sit through all the films I’ve been to see. But sorry Cop Out, you’re up there with a film full of women in bikinis that still couldn’t hold my attention.

Now, of course, a film with Joe Hallenbeck and Tracy Jordan in it should be a corker, but right from the first scene (the only scene I saw) it’s clear something’s up.

Tracy interrogates a suspect as Joe/John/Bruce looks on through a two-way mirror.  And the big comedy idea is that Tracy interrogates using lines and characters from hip/cult films and Bruce fills us in as to what the film is and who the actor/character is.  Yes, He has to tell us! At one point Tracey uses Bruce’s/John’s Yippee kaye aye motherfucker line and Bruce has no idea which film/character he is referencing. This should be funny. Could be funny. But the scene suffers from so much overkill of schtick that I found myself wanting to shout “Stop! Stop! You can’t just reference stuff and hope that will do! This scene makes no sense!”

I had to leave. If Bruce could have left I’m sure he would have. I could see it in his eyes. He looks like he hated making this film. He looks like a man questioning his own sanity and wondering if The Last Boy Scout ever happened.

The film may well get better as it goes on. I don’t know. I can’t say. I couldn’t stay. I felt too sad. I hear Sean William Scott puts in a good turn.

I’ve just tried to watch the trailer on YouTube but my computer, maybe sensing that something was up, refused to play it, jumping thousands of frames at at time, making Tracy and Bruce sound like the bastard offspring of Norman Collier. You might have better luck.

My computer was happy to play this, no jumps, no gaps. It likes this. it likes Shane Black.

Here’s the last film I walked out of. What was I thinking? Maybe I need to give Cop Out another go.

The Bad Lieutenant- Port of Call; New Orleans (the full US title… catchy eh?) claims to not be a remake or sequel to Abel Ferrara’s Bad Lieutenant of 1992. The director, Werner Herzog, claims he doesn’t even know who Abel Ferrara is! It’s cheap, I know, to use an exclamation mark so. I just couldn’t bring myself to type “gosh”.

This new Bad Lieutenant is more mad than bad. Sure, he does bad things, and I won’t tell you what; after all, with films that declare their depravity in their title, part of the fun is going along to see just how low they can go. Well Cage goes pretty low. Early in the film he’s doing your bog standard Bad Lieutenant stuff, shaking people up for drugs, having crazy sexy stuff with young girls in car parks. You know the drill. It’s when he goes to the old people’s home that things start getting tasty. I knew a good scene was coming up when his character hid behing a door and decided to have an electric shave. That’s it, no more info. Just go and see it. Watch out for the crocs, the iguanas, and Brad Dourif (the voice of Chucky) as a sweety pie bookie. Oh, and the always entertaining Val Kilmer. And Fairuza Balk. There’s lots to recommend this slow creeper of a crazy film. And the ending is just perfect.

TBL-POC:NO is great, but Nic’s not The Bad Lieutenant. He’s just a Bad Lieutenant. The bad one’s Harvey. Nic wears Swiss cotton underpants. Harvey, well, he wears none:  Naked Harvey, sticking his belly muscles out and crying like a cow.

I hope Abel takes Werner up on his offer of a chat over a bottle of whisky. I can see a third Bad Lieutenant being born, Cage and Keitel going head to head, crack to crack, bet to bet; The Bad Lieutenants- Bad and Badder: Port of Call: Midford Castle. Or TBL-B&B:POC:MC for short.

Still, I have less of a memory of the original. It went something like this:

Maybe it’s an age thing (mine, not yours) but I always thought of it as the poor bastard offspring of Jason and the Argonauts. Sure, a flying horse is a good thing, but can it really compete with sword-fighting skeletons?

Anyways, it’s not a story that’s stuck in my head, and so I find myself laughing at lines such as:

Who did this?

Soldiers from Argos.

Like Big Brother and Room 101, now reduced to TV formats, Argos will always make me think of the shop where everything is hidden. Soldiers from Argos… perhaps like this.

So, these soldiers from Argos knock over a statue of Zeus. Zeus, unhappy, gets his bad brother Hades to wreak some vengeance. But Perseus is having none of it. He’s a Demi-God. Not, as I was hoping, some kind of transsexual GI Jane type, but rather the son of Zeus and some earthly mother who Zeus shagged to get back at some king or other (these gods are petty and silly things). See, he came to Earth as a big bird… Oh, it’s really to daft to explain.

Then Zeus says “release the kraken”, and that’s a bad thing. But Perseus (who really should, by now, be a car, or a washing up liquid, or a mobile phone) can kill the Kraken if he goes to the Underworld (not, sadly, the knicker factory in Coronation Street) and chops the head of the Medusa (not a team from The Apprentice) and waves her snakey face in front of the Kraken (destined to become a rice crispy based snack bar- a cake bar even).

And he does and it’s all fine and there’ll be a sequel.

I’m sorry if I’ve spoilt it for you. If it is any consolation, I may have got it all wrong.

There’s a trend for reimaginings. For remaking classics (and Clash of the Titans) and putting a new dark spin on them. They call it Reinvigorpeating. They being me. But this Clash of the Titans has decided to buck the trend. It tries; Perseus calls Medusa a bitch, and the clockwork bird from the first go gets short shrift. Oh, and Pegasus is black now. But that’s it. the rest is just daft camp nonsense.

It’s directed by Louis Letterier. Or, as I prefer to think of him, Louis the Terrier. I imagine him snapping at the heels of Ralph Fiennes as Hades, barking “madder, more like Richard III, and croaky like a wheezy frog”.

Then there’s the baddy from Casino Royale. I’ll look his name up in a minute, but hazarding a guess I’ll go for Mick McManus.

Close. It’s Mads Mikkelsen. Cripes, he’s beefed up. He looks like a mad bad plastic surgeon’s attempt at blending together The Rock, Lance Henrikson and William Fichtner. Another beefed up actor I like to see is Liam Cunningham. One day he will play Elvis Costello in the Elvis Costello biopic, My Aim is True. I imagine.

This is no 300. It’s not even a Troy. But it is fun. I think. I’m trying to remember.

Release the Kraken! Limited edition with vinyl roof and alloy wheels.

The erotic thriller.

Have I scared you? Is it one of those genres, like the zombie comedy, where maybe, at best, there are two good films, and from that point on filmmakers should just stop?

My two favourite erotic thrillers are Final Analysis (dubbed into French) and Match Point (dubbed into Italian). I saw Final Analysis on a lone cycling trip around France, way back in 1992. It was a miserable and sad affair and my cycling trip was no better. I burnt my arms on the first day of cycling. I cycled 70 miles a day (usually in rain after the first and only day of sun) and then, in a forlorn seaside resort callec Pornic, I sat in a hut and watched Kim Basinger, Uma Thurman and Richard Gere frolic around, speak French, get nasty and do something with a lighthouse. That’s all I remember.

Last year I ran away to Sardinia for four days. There I saw Match Point with Scarlett Johanssen and Jonathan Rhys Meyers jabbering away in Italian. The holiday was a punishment for something or other, and so, duly, I enjoyed the film.

Today I went to see Chloe. I wasn’t punishing myself for anything. I had gone into town to see The Hurt Locker, but it was sold out. So Chloe beckoned. Sadly it was in English.

What was Atom Egoyan thinking? I don’t know all of his work but I have seen Exotica and Felicia’s Journey, the latter based on the book of the same name by the fine short story writer, William Trevor.

See them. Then see Chloe if you want a laugh and you like looking at tits and women kissing women.

Ok, I’m being flippant. Just.

But really, honestly, despite a few attempts, and despite a final lingering shot that suggests the truth lies elsewhere from where we have been shown to see it lies (no, I don’t know if that sentence makes sense either, but hey, I’m writing this in the foyer of the RFH and my beer’s finished and I’m off home soon, but I’m just suggesting that Atom wants us to think more, and maybe, just maybe, he knows this material isn’t up to what he can do best)… now, where was I? Cripes, this post is like an erotic thriller without the thrills. Or tits. Merci blah blah.

So, yes, I’m trying to be serious. Like the film.

But come on! Would anyone really cheat on Julianne Moore?

Sorry, I am trying.

Did I tell you Julianne Moore strips off regularly? As does that girl from Mamma Mia. And they snog. You really should see it.

Poor old Liam Neeson. I like him. I saw him in The Plough and the Stars at Manchester’s Royal Exchange Theatre when I was a teenager. There was something about him. It stuck with me and it came as no surprise when he cropped up as a bigwig in films. Heck, I almost felt I had discovered him.

Release the Kraken!

After seeing Sharukh Khan on Friday Night with Jonathan Ross and discovering that he is the biggest star in the World; bigger than Cruise, bigger than Eastwood, bigger than Bullock; and I’d never heard of him, I decided I had to do something about this and so I headed off to see his latest film, My Name is Khan.

I’m so ignorant and ill-informed I presumed I would be seeing a film full of dancing and songs, and I was curious as to how this would blend in with the film’s post 9/11 theme.

Well, no dancing and no songs. Actually, yes songs, but only three and all used extra-diegestically to accompany story-telling montages.

The film tells the story of Rizwan Khan (Shahrukh Khan), a sweet character with Asperger Syndrome who has been brought up by his mother to understand that there are only two types of people in the world, regardless of race or religious belief; there are good people and there are bad people.

At the start of the film a disclaimer pops up, but it is there so briefly I didn’t have time to read it all. The gist was;  this guy’s autistic. We’ve done our best to be accurate, but this is a film, not real life, and we’ve made him a little bit daft, a little bit Rain Man, a little bit Chauncey Gardiner.

Maybe I’m being a little bit unfair there. He’s clever, unlike Chauncey. And Sharukh’s performance is charming.He’s funny, he’s loving, he’s kind, and he’s possibly the kind of character that could only exist in a movie.

In adulthood he moves to San Francisco and pesters a gorgeous hairdresser, Mandira (Kajol), to marry him. And she does! Marry me, marry me, marry me. Until she gives in.

All’s well, until 9/11 happens. The film moves into darker territory then as Muslims become the targets of racist abuse and Mandira (a Hindu) turns against her husband (a muslim) after suffering the most awful of personal tragedies. She’s taken her husband’s name (a name synonymous in unthinking American circles with terrorist) and now she is tormented, screaming at her husband to leave; to go and tell the President that he is not a terrorist.

And Khan has Asperger Syndrome, so he takes everything literally. He sets off on a journey. A journey to meet the President of the United States and say “my name is Khan, and I am not a terrorist.” And in so doing win back the love of his life.

Well, I’m a sucker for a film like this. The characters cry enough, but I think I outcried them. If you like laughing and crying and don’t mind your politics being watered down to a world of good people and bad people, where good deeds save the day, and where goodness is all that is needed in the face of evil;  if you like Oliver Stone films, where you are bashed over the head with a baseball bat until you get it, then you’ll like this.

If all this seems like harsh criticism, it isn’t. I loved Sharukh and I loved the film. It’s sweet and moving and full of gorgeous people. It looks gorgeous too, full of wonderful shots of San Francisco. And when trouble hits, such as a Hurricane Katrine like scene where Khan saves the people and the day, well, it looks gorgeous. It rains, everyone gets wet, and they all look great.

The film could be in trouble for the way in which it glamorises serious and affecting issues. But it’s just too damn moving and loveable for the likes of me to get picky with it.

Go and see it and laugh and cry. Sink into it and let it overwhelm you. But, if you’re the cynical kind, maybe don’t bother.

Knowing and 2012 are great fun. I am sure, in time, Knowing will become a favourite of all right-minded cineastes (la di da). All About Steve… well I put that in as a joke. I tried watching it recently on a plane. I like Sandra Bullock but 2o minutes in I was hoping for a crash (primarily of the plane’s onboard video system, though any kind of crash would have been welcome). I stopped watching and swapped to Love Happens (Aniston, not Bullock; though they share a quality that both seem to have developed over the last few years; they look like they are made of teak). It was better. Much much better. This is not necessarily a recommendation.

This weekend I had a post-apocalypse double bill. The Road and The Book of Eli. In that order. I wanted my end of the world to be fun.

The Road is adapted from the book by Cormac McCarthy. A book I read recently for Book Club (la di da again). And it’s a fairly faithful adaptation. It’s the story of a man and his boy, their struggle for survival in a sparsely populated wasteland, their search for food and their desire to get to the coast; a place the father believes may offer some hope for humanity. That’s pretty much it.

The film’s good, but I preferred the book. And here’s why; I’m a slow reader.

It took me a week or so to read the short novel. 35 pages in I was thinking of giving up. Not much had happened and I felt weak. But I carried on, and slowly I was dragged in. There are lots of sections in the book where not much happens. Brief episodes now and then when “action” breaks out, but mainly the trudge, and the fight to eat and survive in a world where you can go weeks without finding any food, cowering under a tarpaulin, trying to sleep and keep the rain off. Starving, dying, struggling, battling to keep your son alive.

Being a slow reader the space in the book and the spaces between me reading it dragged me into this most horrific of worlds.

The film is two hours long, lurching from one set piece to the next; all disconnected, all episodic. It worked in the book, maybe because I’d been trained to expect this. For those who haven’t read the book the film may seem a little random.

Sad though.

The Book of Eli isn’t adapted from a book. It’s most definitely a movie. And a Denzel Washington movie, written by Tottenham Hotspur fan Gary Whitta and directed by the Hughes Brothers.

Okey doke, I’n been a little lazy here. I started this post a few days ago… and then I just left it. And now. Well, The Book of Eli has sort of just gone. I know I saw it. I have the ticket stub somewhere, but… heck! I’ll do my best, but I’ll be brief:

Denzel’s guarding a book. He wanders into town. It’s a post-apocalypse town but there’s a hint of High Plains Drifter here. And Gary Oldman’s the “sheriff”. He’s all bad like Gene Hackman in those bad sheriff/cowboy films you’ve seen. And he likes books. But only good ones. We knows this because he tosses The Da Vinci Code to one side like it’s rubbish. He wants Denzel’s book and then there’s a few chases and fights and things. Oh, and a good scene in Michael Gambon’s house. He’s married to Frances De La Tour from Rising Damp, and they like to eat people. This is all true.

It’s ok. but you might be better off getting Mad Max 2 out on DVD. And High Plains Drifter. And Rising Damp. Or… A Boy and his Dog.

In The Book of Eli Denzel sleeps beneath a poster for this kinky tale of survival, and I’m guessing it’s the greatest post-apocalypse film ever. Take a look, and if you like, have a vote.

A quickie review here. I don’t know what to make of this film. I’m the one up in the air. The trailer could get you very excited. It’s a good trailer. But, after seeing the trailer for Clooney’s goat film, which I found laugh out loud funny, and then seeing the non-film that it promoted, I’ve become a little wary of good trailers.

George Clooney plays a… well… just what? A man who flies across America sacking people from companies where the bosses are too cowardly to do it themselves. Do such jobs exist? (A later development sees people being fired over an internet link, or through a monitor). I guess it’s all possible. I’ve certainly been fired by e-mail in the past.

More pertinently, he plays a charmer incapable of committment. So he plays George Clooney. And he plays him well. And it’s a good job he does. For without such a charming and charismatic actor this possibly unlikeable film would have proven to be an intolerably cruel watch. (I say possibly to help reserve my right to change my mind should I ever see it again).

George (let’s just call him George, because that’s who he is) lives in the air and in hotels. He seems to like it that way. Until, of course, he starts to have doubts; he sees the troubled but fulfilled lives his family lead, he comes close to falling in love with a fellow female rootless high flyer.

But then the film cheats us. I won’t spoil it for you, but somewhere in the third act George discovers something that doesn’t quite fit with everything we’ve seen before, and a major character shifts perpsective in a way which only serves as a plot device, and in a way which I simply could not buy. Even if his/her ( anti-plot spoiling device) actions are believable, the cruel way in which they deal with our George seems greatly at odds with all that has gone before.

The film is likeable and unlikeable. Maybe one day I’ll land on one side of the fence. It’s been talked about for major awards, but I can’t see that. It’s a zeitgeisty film, maybe it’ll capture a few nominations, but…

I don’t know. I said this would be a quick review. I’ve neglected 20th Century Mummified Fox for a while and I’m using this troubling film to try and get back in the game.