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OK so it’s no act of divine intervention but Ron Howard’s Angels and Demons marks a considerable improvement on his wretched Da Vinci Code (a film experience that invites comparison to having an enema). The Roman Catholic Church voiced its predictable dissent before revoking it in realisation that the film is pure Hollywood fluff, nothing more. That reveals more about the film than any review could.

   Recognising Dan Brown’s prequel to Da Vinci (although it’s a sequel on-screen) as nothing more than the enjoyable airport trash it is, Howard sensibly foregrounds the suspense and action this time. With brilliant use of the lavish Rome locations (although all the Vatican scenes were done on-set), the film feels, without ever labouring it, on a grander and more portentous scale.

   Devoid of the road kill mullet, a trim Tom Hanks is clearly more comfortable this time round, reprising the role of Professor Robert Langdon. This time the archival Indiana Jones is urgently summoned to Vatican City where the present Pope has passed away and the bishops are about to seal themselves in Conclave, in preparation for the election of the new Pontiff.

   One problem: the so-called ‘God Particle’ has been stolen from the CERN laboratory in Geneva and planted somewhere in the Vatican. Evidence points to the secret society the Illuminati, who have come for revenge on the church after a history of persecution. Should it go off, the entire city will be decimated, and only a hidden trail through Rome will lead Langdon to the device. To make matters worse, several cardinals have been kidnapped and will be executed in accordance with the four elements (earth, air, fire, water) as time ticks down to midnight.

   Although as dialogue heavy as before, Demons is a much pacier beast, charging past the frescoes, churches, fountains and statues of the beautiful city with doomsday ticking down on the horizon. Several silly aspects of Brown’s novel have been altered, namely the jet that transports Langdon from Geneva to Rome in a matter of minutes (in the film he doesn’t set foot in CERN) and changing the Illuminati’s chief assassin from shadowy stereotype to someone more urbane and unnerving (Nikolaj Lie Caas).

   Cryptologist Sophie Neveu doesn’t turn up in this story so we’re mercifully spared from some perky Audrey Tatou miscasting. Instead, the more authoritative Ayelet Zurer (Munich) as Vittoria Vetra, under whose nose the anti-matter was stolen, is on the same page as Langdon, keeping pace both physically and intellectually (although chemistry is inevitably non-existent). Ewan McGregor, for once, is used well in a big budget feature as the young Camerlengo struggling to assert his authority, although the actor also struggles with a wobbly accent (viewers from Ulster will giggle incessantly).

   Painted on a lavish scale that only Hollywood can do (Hans Zimmer’s thrilling score virtually screams bombast), it’s nothing more than a daft thriller but one done slickly and efficiently. For all the church’s pessimism, it turns out to be ill-founded: the film’s ongoing theoretical battle between science and religion, rather poignantly (and with more than a hint of irony), sees faith as the one coming out smelling of roses.  

As if the retro Universal logo and portentous opening bars of Christopher Young’s marvellous score didn’t make it obvious enough, Drag Me To Hell is a delightful return to schlocky, icky, goopy horror for Sam Raimi.

   Bouncing back from the misfiring Spiderman 3, Raimi’s first proper exploitation outing since his classic Evil Dead trilogy came to a close marks his most confident helming in years – unlike Spidey’s frequent feel of moviemaking by committee.

   The director is back on more personal and fertile ground here, playing the audience like an expert violinist with a classic campfire/morality tale of a sweet natured loan officer, Christine (Alison Lohman) in competition with a brown nosing colleague for an assistant manager’s post at her bank. Keen to make headway with her boss, Christine chooses to foreclose on the house of Mrs Ganush (Lorna Raver, superbly revolting), an elderly gypsy woman.

   A gypsy, it transpires, also with a line in supernatural curses. The unfortunate Christine finds herself the recipient of a diabolical hex after a car park scrap both hilarious and horrifying with the sinister Ganush. Raimi’s bold Looney Tunes aesthetic and kinetic camerawork make a thrilling return in this pivotal scene where a stapler and some misplaced dentures will have audiences both gasping and grinning (the emphasis on fluids and the mouth also results in several other memorably horrible moments).

   Tormented by the Lamia goat demon who will after three days drag her soul into the fiery abyss, Christine’s only hopes are her sceptical boyfriend (Justin Long) and a medium (Dileep Rao), the only one who understands what is haunting her. A pleasingly sick strand of humour finds the beleagured heroine returning to her old comfort food of ice cream that marked her younger, plumper years when she was a simple farm girl (how satisfying it is to have a halfway believable character reaction to an outrageous scenario).

   Raimi, working from a script he co-authored with his brother Ivan, continues to mine a potent mix of belly laughs and boo gotcha shocks out of this deceptively simple premise. While clearly functioning with a lower budget than he has become accustomed to of late, ironically the director’s imagination is the most unfettered it has been in ages, putting the gorgeous Lohman through the wringer by flinging her into walls, almost drowning her in muddy graves and forcing her to make some unsavoury sacrifices of her own. One priceless moment involving flying eyeballs will invite welcome memories of The Evil Dead (as will a séance conducted with a pulse pounding dash of Grand Guignol).

   Although never in a mean spirited or sadistic vein, Raimi proves that his skill at audience manipulation hasn’t slackened with brief lulls shattered by another moment of expertly timed fright (the film is a self-described 'spookablast', akin to a classic fairground ride). Lohman and Raver do brilliantly with physically demanding roles, veering just the right side of parody in both cases (although both Long and Rao come across as bland fodder). Forgoing gore (mostly) in favour of the hokey B movies of old – a storm-lit reveal of a graveyard couldn’t signal Raimi’s intentions more clearly – Drag Me To Hell proves there’s no director more adept at finding the funny side in macabre horror. And you won’t look at hankies in the same way again…

Throughout it’s 40 odd year existence Gene Roddenberry’s Star Trek has had something of a chequered history, veering from camp (the original TV series), to pseudo intellectual (The Motion Picture) to Patrick Stewart’s mainstream exploits on Next Generation.

   Now along comes new whiz kid on the block JJ Abrams (Lost, Mission Impossible III) and injects something long absent from the series: fun. The results are terrific.

   Beginning with a striking and emotional opening sequence, in which baby Kirk is born while his father sacrifices himself by charging into a Romulan attack ship, commandeered by the ruthless Nero (a chilling Eric Bana), Abrams’ populist mix of character smarts and thunderous action immediately establishes a new tone (similar in fact to last years Iron Man) for the series.

   The multi stranded story then picks up with the rebellious, fatherless Kirk showing a penchant for joyriding, while on the other side of the universe, young Spock is having trouble reconciling his half human, half Vulcan nature. Probably the most eloquent and engaging sequence in the film, the parallels between the two characters set up their collision course later in life, with Kirk played with boyish zeal by Chris Pine and Zachary Quinto giving the finest performance as the older, emotionally neutral Vulcan.

   The film then jumps ahead again three years, with the hard living Kirk, having been encouraged by Captain Pike (Bruce Greenwood), enlisted in Star Fleet. The universe spanning narrative then serves to bring the rest of the familiar Trek characters together in their battle against the nefarious Nero, including the perpetually frustrated Bones (Karl Urban, excellent) and the luminous Uhura (Zoe Saldana).

   It transpires that the evil Romulan is seeking revenge for an, as yet, undisclosed tragedy in his past, resulting in a mass genocide on a certain iconic planet that provides opportunity for more emotional impact allied with a gigantic space drill and a thrilling mid-air pursuit.

   The central narrative in fact becomes so confusing when time travelling ships are thrown into the bargain that it reps the film’s weakest point – but it propels forward at such a ferocious and thrilling pace it hardly seems to matter. Refreshingly for a blockbuster, character is never compromised, the human element always being at the centre (especially the dramatic Kirk-Spock conflict). 

   Chock full of striking imagery (the opening reveal of the Romulan ship is magnificent), excellent effects and careful production design (the sleek white interior of the Enterprise has obviously been modelled after fan memories of the original), Abrams clearly has great respect for the franchise. Leonard Nimoy even gets a substantial role as opposed to a mere cameo.

   Despite the absence of William Shatner and an underused Simon Pegg (as Scotty), the director demonstrates Spielbergian flair at fusing intelligent thrills with the latest in effects and entertainment. The film’s sense of humour is also delightful and remarkably confident, being worked into some of the busiest scenes. There’s also a pleasing sense of franchise expectations: when Pine’s Kirk finally takes up the Enterprise’s hotseat for the first time, there is the real sense of a new generation of filmmakers aware of what’s gone before but taking it in a new direction.

   And when Michael Giacchino’s sweeping choral adaptation of the classic theme tune kicks in, the next franchise instalment isn’t only anticipated: it feels necessary. With so many more universes for Abrams and his crew to explore, even at warp speed it can’t come soon enough.

Washington DC; a mugger ploughs into the rainy night; taking refuge in an alleyway a gunman emerges and assassinates him and another man, inaugurating a gripping tale of corporate conspiracy.

   Based on the acclaimed BBC TV series from 2003, the opening sequence of its big budget adaptation proves director Kevin MacDonald (The Last King of Scotland) is excellent at handling sophisticated, adult subject matter.

   A troubled pre-production has led to the film being formed and re-formed, making one curious to know how it might otherwise have turned out. Brad Pitt was originally on-board but walked because of the Hollywood writer’s strike. With the production delayed, his prospective co-star Ed Norton had to jump ship too. However fascinating it would have been to see the Fight Club co-stars back on-screen, whether it would have made the film any better than it is, is doubtful.

   Now Russell Crowe leads the new cast (and it’s still an excellent one) as Washington Globe journalist Cal MacAffrey, investigating the double shooting on the same day that congressman Stephen Collins’ (Ben Affleck) – coincidentally Cal’s old roommate- aide dies under a subway train. Sensing a connection, McAffrey teams up with blogger Della Frye (Rachel McAdams) and soon an intricate conspiracy involving the future of American national security is looming.

   Despite the threat of familiarity (Cal is the atypical chubby, slobby, streetwise journo; there’s a riveting but clichéd underground car park chase), MacDonald’s film is nevertheless an authentic looking and intelligent thriller. Shot with a feel for the corridors of journalism and politics (cramped, newspaper stuffed desks versus the whitewashed expanse of the CapitolBuilding), the decision to update to America’s capital adds a timely, post-Iraq relevance.

   Streamlining the original 6 part series into two hours is a tough call but the film does a good job of it, with its relentlessly gripping conspiracy narrative never letting go. For every piece of Hollywood theatrics (the creepy ex-marine presented as a sub-Terminator character), there are some fascinating nuances to be gleaned from the merging of media markets at Crowe’s newspaper (presided over by Helen Mirren’s editor) to the updated references to blogs and the internet.

   As was evident from The Last King of Scotland, in itself a clever blending of fact and fiction, MacDonald has a sure hand lending credibility to outlandish scenarios. More often it’s the little details that grab the attention: a secretive relationship with Collins’ wife (Robin Wright Penn) leads her to accusing Cal of mixing people with sources. Elsewhere, a detective states, ‘This is not a story, it’s a case’. The result is a richly layered entertainment, more so than most.

   In fact, bizarrely, the only false notes come from Mirren as Cal’s no-nonsense editor. While Affleck and McAdams are ideally cast as the oily politician and perky wannabe respectively, Mirren’s jolly hockey sticks British patter seems strangely out of place in the ball-busting world of American journalism. Elsewhere it’s pleasing to see Jeff Daniels get more work as a corrupt senator and Jason Bateman does a great turn as a drug addled would-be informant.

   Crowe’s dog-eared reporter steals the show however, with the actor proving there are few better at the moment at portraying understated, world weary heroes. In the increasingly cynical climate, portrayals such as Crowe’s Cal will only become more relevant to the mainstream Hollywood genre piece.

Another month sees another eerily accurate performance from Michael Sheen, this time resurrecting controversial, outspoken footie manager Brian Clough and his doomed 44 day stint at Leeds United.

   Fresh from widespread acclaim from his uncanny turn as David Frost in Frost/Nixon, Sheen (working here once again with writer Peter Morgan), further seals himself as the premier chameleon actor of his generation, giving birth to a character who superficially bears similarities with his Frost portrayal – but contains more darkness beneath.

   This isn’t to say that Tom Hooper’s The Damned United is a gloomy, psychological, navel gazing portrayal of ‘The Greatest England Captain That Never Was’- far from it. Hooper’s film is an incredibly fair, reverential and affectionate portrait. Distancing itself from the source material (David Peace’s much darker, more internal ‘biography’ – dismissed by Clough’s widow), the film demonstrates a much lighter, more entertaining touch. If much of it is fictionalised, scripter Morgan’s loyalty to the character of Clough is nothing less than admirable.

   Zipping back and forward between the aforementioned 44 day run and his earlier days as manager of Derby with remarkable coherence and clarity (the intervening years brilliantly played out as a shifting football league table), we first zero in on Clough as he has dragged Derby County out of the mire with a combination of brains, even more brawn and a crucial partnership with Peter Taylor (Timothy Spall). Poised on the cusp of great change, Clough runs into controversy by signing £225,000 player David Nish without consulting the board of directors, presided over by Sam Longson (Jim Broadbent). When Clough attempts a resignation – despite overwhelming support from fans and players alike – to his horror, the board call his bluff, and his future career, including the aborted Leeds stint, unfolds.

  Already forming itself as not only a fascinating snapshot of a key period in UK social history (Nish’s signing foreshadows the million dollar deals done today; the football matches themselves are a bruising display of mud, sweat and tears) but also a gripping character study, the film creates a neat psychological arc for Clough by emphasising his rivalry with stoic manager Don Revie (Colm Meany, another coup for the film, bearing a remarkable likeness), whom he finally confronts in a television interview. One of the greatest incidental pleasures of the film is its recreation of such real life events. On his arrival at Leeds, the famous incident where Clough demanded the players dump their medals in the nearest dustbin is also played out.

   With Sheen’s skill at understated character work forming a rock solid centre, the film brings to life the man who was bold, brash and ultimately responsible for his own undoing at Leeds: namely that he took charge of a team whom he looked upon less than favourably. Never judgemental, the film posits Clough’s failure as a character flaw, never anything more. It also pleasingly doesn’t cop out at indicating his later successes at Nottingham Forrest.

   Although not daring enough to paint a truly complex picture, it’s certainly a cut above the standard biopic and Clough’s career (as it’s condensed on-screen) makes for fascinating albeit dramatized viewing. Authentic looking in its recreation of stand-only stadiums and dreary looking 1970s England (although ardent followers of the period will inevitably pick holes), The Damned United is that rare thing: a football film for those who know nothing about the ‘beautiful game’.

Richard Curtis’ films are like a rich chocolate: sweet, fluffy, maybe even saccharine, and always polarising when it comes to popular opinion. Curtis is always more successful when scripting, as opposed to directing, and The Boat That Rocked plays to these core strengths so successfully that one can overlook the lack of experience behind the camera. The result is one of the funniest films in years.

  Less based on, more inspired by, the exploits of real life pirate radio Caroline in the 60s, Rocked chronicles the journey undertaken by Carl (Tom Sturridge), the newest recruit to a free spirited, fun loving offshore crew of DJs, among them leader Quentin (Bill Nighy), lustful Dave (Nick Frost), respected yank The Count (Philip Seymour Hoffman) and others. Why Carl has been seconded to the vessel remains a mystery, but his parentage may have something to do with it…

   On the other side of the fence is humourless Minister Dormandy (Kenneth Branagh, wasted in an anonymous role) who is attempting to shut the station down with the help of an assistant (Jack Davenport) whose name begins and ends with a‘t’ and contains an ‘a’ in the middle. Funny the first few times, the joke on the name soon wears thin and marks the weaker side of the film (the dull government drones are also none too subtly represented through bleached, drab lensing).

   As it stands, this segment of the film takes up so little of the running time that the focus soon shifts back to the boat based frolics – where the real fun lies. Playing it like an extended TV sketch, the marvellous ensemble clearly had a whale of a time filming, and it shows on-screen.

   Generating peerless chemistry (which is surely one of the hardest things to get right in any movie), the mix of veteran and relative novice comic actors works a treat, even, in some cases, favouring the less famous faces. Rhys Darby (most familiar from Flight of the Conchords) brilliantly works in his character Angus’ fear of water in the latter stages, Chris O’Dowd (TV’s The IT Crowd) is winningly earnest as likeable Simon (reputedly based on Tony Blackburn) and Tom Brooke as Thick Kevin brings the house down with his dunderheaded observations.

   The star turns (on the boat, at least) are also excellent. Bill Nighy has the lanky, louche thing down pat by now but he does it so well it’s a joy to watch. Nick Frost offers a slightly seedier slant to his cuddly big screen persona and, mercifully, Curtis resists the temptation to waste Seymour Hoffman, giving him a poignant soliloquy where he laments the future of pirate radio, while also playing to his underrated strengths as a brilliant comic performer.

   Yes, it’s all very obvious, very shallow and much romanticised (the real job was surely much more claustrophobic and intense, not to mention lonely – women weren’t allowed on-board, unlike what the film suggests). But then this is a Richard Curtis film – no-one expects incisive cutting humour or subtlety. For that, audiences can turn to Armando Ianucci’s brilliant new political satire, In The Loop. Boosted by a predictably superb soundtrack (featuring The Kinks, The Who and even Ennio Morricone), Rocked is content with merely providing a great time…and at that it rocks.

'My name's Charles Bronson...and all my life I've wanted to be famous'. So begins this lean, bizarre tale of the notorious criminal (embodied in charismatic, hulking glory by a beefed up Tom Hardy), originally born Michael Gordon Peterson and raised in Luton, UK. Jailed at a young age for a post office robbery, Bronson quickly learns he can make a name for himself with violent antics within the penal system itself.
   There's perhaps more than a passing echo of Goodfellas in those opening words but Windig Refn is playing a tricky game with the audience, risking, with his niche subject matter and unsavoury title character, alienating many viewers while failing to attract new ones.
   After all, how is one supposed to feel about a man who has spent most of his life in prison, 34 years of them in solitary confinement? Refn's film sensibly doesn't patronise the audience by presenting him as a hero but this is itself part of the problem. Why bother making a film about Bronson at all? The film's failure to provide a solution to these questions will surely divide reaction.
   One thing it does have in its favour is a superb title performance from Tom Hardy (Star Trek: Nemesis) who consulted with Bronson himself prior to filming and has built himself in a mammoth giant of a man for the part. It's not just the physical qualities that speak of committment to the role: from the moment he dares stare down the viewer to camera, twitching and wheezing guttural belly laughs, it's an intimidating turn.
   The most memorable and clever parts of the film deal with Bronson's delusions of grandeur and celebrity head on by having him present on a dimly lit stage to an imaginary captive audience who rise and fall at his every anecdote. The man himself occasionally appears in grotesque clown like make-up, and it's in these moments that the film best approaches the subtle psychological profile it badly wants to be.
   Elsewhere however, the film is content merely to be a meandering portrayal of institutional violence, leaving the experience a hollow and unpleasant one. This is in spite of Hardy's best efforts (including a nerve wracking scene where he takes a prison guard hostage and forces him to daub him in 'war paint'). To director Refn's credit, he should also be applauded for avoiding the straighforward biopic route, aiming for something more challenging.
   However the lack of background social commentary can be galling (Bronson claims that growing up in Luton was challenging in the 70s but the film refuses to go further as to how this may have shaped his character). As infuriating as it is intriguing, Bronson is at least likely to go down as one of the more original films of 2009, as inscutable as the eponymous character himself.

In 1977, an audience of over 400 million watched a wounded Goliath fall on national television. Disgraced former US President Richard Nixon had candidly admitted to being responsible in the 1972 Watergate cover-up and offered a humble apology to the American people. The man who took him down was jet-setting British TV personality David Frost. Ron Howard’s fascinating dramatization of the above events, based on Peter Morgan’s stage play, takes a step back behind the cameras to examine what was at stake that day, and how the result transpired.

   Both men, as seen in the film, have a lot to play for and Howard displays great balance and compassion. Frost puts his own money and an Australian-based show at risk to move the project forward, one that he hopes will secure him as a serious journalist. In the other camp is a Nixon who is keen to prove to the American public that his actions in Watergate weren’t born out of evil; more misguided. The interviews will provide the perfect gladiatorial arena.

   It helps that the two actors who brought the characters to life on-stage have taken the leading roles. Michael Sheen is uncanny as Frost, his bluff charm and ingratiating smile covering up a real desire to prove himself. Frank Langella doesn’t look or sound like Nixon, but this aids the film enormously. Instead of being overwhelmed by make-up and vocal tics, he instead brilliantly embodies the hulking, desperate, sympathetic characteristics of the man named ‘Tricky Dick’. Both characters are real, tangible creations: amusing, flawed, frustrating, manipulative. It’s a credit to the performers, and scripter Morgan, that they let events speak for themselves, without resorting to overacting.

   Waiting in the wings are a superb supporting cast. Standouts are Kevin Bacon as Nixon’s unstintingly loyal aide Jack Brennan, whose off-hand comment about Frost’s so-called effeminate shoes provides a moment of unexpected humour; and Sam Rockwell as James Reston Jr, a member of Frost’s team who takes the project most personally. For him, the ultimate concern is not to let the President exonerate himself on television. Reston’s desire for the truth, one that is mirrored in the collective American public, provides one of the film’s most satisfying sub-plots, giving a human face to the unfolding drama.

   Zipping between the large cast and disparate band of characters is Dan Hanley and Mike Hill’s slick editing, effortlessly unifying the conflicting viewpoints into one tense, riveting whole. Hans Zimmer’s choppy score also provides a sense of palpable momentum. Bringing it all together is director Howard: his greatest achievement is the refusal to dress up events (bar a fictional scene where a drunken Nixon lays bare to Frost the enormity of what they each have to lose). The cinematic proceedings are themselves perhaps more inherently gripping than the stage play they take their origins from. All the more relevant when applied to cinema are James Reston’s summary words about the incriminating power of the televisual close-up. After all, in a film centering around a one on one interview, that’s essentially what we’ve been watching – and we hardly even notice the strings.