Cloudy With A Chance Of Meatballs (yes, that's what it's called...stop scoffing at the back)

With its daft title and modest "never-heard-of-it" presence in the public consciousness, telling people about 'CLOUDY WITH A CHANCE OF MEATBALLS' is always met with the same furrowed brow and up-turned nose response that is typical of the so-called "Dragons" of 'Dragons' Den' (though I'm convinced that none of them apart from that old woman are actually Dragons, even if they do breath fire...or is it smug, self-congratulating wankeriness?).

But having visited my favourite mulitplex last friday and made the last chance decision to choose it, having heard other good things, over 'Surrogates', I can safely say that I would happily sell this film, with all the gusto and nerve of a West End caricaturist, to anybody, anywhere, at any time. I am the new face of this film. And I'll be knocking on your door any day now.

Before then though, here's a quick low down, brief as I can...

Flint Lockwood (voiced by Bill Hader) is an aspiring inventor who lives with his father on Swallow Island. The small town is famous for producing sardines, but the industry has gone bust, and the locals now find themselves with nothing to eat but the "really really gross" fish. But Flint has an answer. Having invented a machine that can change water into food, Flint believes he will finally achieve the recognition he has always craved, but then an accident sends the contraption soaring into the sky, where it becomes stuck in the clouds.

Soon though, the machine gets to work changing the precipitation in the sky into delicious meals, and cheeseburgers begin tumbling down to earth. The crowd are jubilant, and when Flint finds a way to control the output of his machine from his home, he is soon inundated with orders, and is the town's saviour. Soon the streets are covered in different foodstuffs; breakfast, hotdogs, ice cream, everything anyone could ask for. Flint also has the pleasure of meeting Sam Sparks (voiced by Anna Faris), a former nerd like Flint who has ditched her glasses and her brains in favour of highlights and a microphone, and is a novice reporter for a cable weather channel.

The story continues as you'd expect; just your average mix of gummy-bear obsessed monkey's called Steve, flying rats, adult-sized babies and nacho cheese fountains. In the end, Flint has to save the day when his machine, now out of control, starts churning out over-sized pasta and meatballs that threaten to destroy Swallow Island (now renamed "Chew and Swallow Land" by the town's greedy, tourism obsessed mayor). What's more, he is still battling to gain the respect and love of his humble fisherman father.

With an innocence and energy that surge from the screen (even though I was watching in the far-preferable 2D format), 'Cloudy...' does everything it possibly can to instil a sense of child-like wonder and fun in every cinema. The jokes are rapid-fire and hilarious, the characters loveable and heart-warming, the comedy reminiscent of Morecambe and Wise or Monty Python, or more recently the irreverent and ridiculous Mighty Boosh. It is an almost tear-inducingly enjoyable and uplifting experience, and I would recommend it to anyone, no matter what age.

What's more, the incredible cast of voices includes - apart from Hader and Faris - James Caan, Mr T, Bruce Campbell (of the Evil Dead series), and Andy Samberg. I couldn't ask for anything more. So I implore you, do the right thing and go and see this movie, if for nothing but to avoid me going door to door.

Creation

Little known facts about Charles Darwin:

1. Few people know that Darwin was addicted to cherry flavoured Halls Soothers. Apparently he saw the advert with the woman having her neck kissed in a lift and thought he give them a go. Now he's on ten packets a day.

2. Darwin's nickname at school was "Ugly Chris", as other children believed that he resembled a slightly less aesthetically pleasing version of football player, pundit and legend Chris Kamara.

3. Darwin's first daughter, Annie, died at the age of ten from scarlet fever, though some believe that she suffered from tuberculosis. Often considered to be Darwin's favourite of his children, her death was a huge blow to Charles and his wife Emma. Darwin wrote later in a personal memoir: "Oh that she could know how tenderly we do still and shall ever love her dear joyous face."

Alright. Two of those facts are dubious. I found them on the back of a toilet door at Warwick services (which, by the way, has improved immensely since it installed the M&S Simply Food). But the third is solid fact. And how do I know? Because CREATION, the new film directed by Jon Amiel, and starring real-life husband and wife team Paul Bettany and Jennifer Connolly as Darwins Charles and Emma, told me so.

The slow-moving and contemplative story follows a young and handsome Darwin (not the bearded and cumbersome figure that we are used to seeing) as he struggles to deal with the pressures of life; of the demand on him to finish his most famous work 'On The Origin Of Species', of an illness that has been affecting him for months, of his battle with those who oppose his radical anti-creationist views, and of his strained and dysfunctional marriage to Emma, whose devotion to the church is built like a concrete wall between them. What's more, Charles is visited on regular occasions by the ghost of Annie, his deceased daughter and one his biggest fans, and it is this that troubles him the most; his sadness at the loss of his beloved child but also the anger and guilt that he feels towards the way in which she died, and the part that he himself had to play in the event.

With a fantastic central performance by Bettany, by far and away a career best, leading the way, Creation is satisfyingly engrossing and heartfelt for much of its 108 minutes. Written with flair and structurally challenging, it does well to take an otherwise tired period genre and inject a sense of real darkness and a journey of real emotional turmoil. Amiel's direction does at times take the dreamy visions a bit too far, and there is a bizarre circle-of-life sequence somewhere in the films middle that sticks out like a sore thumb, but otherwise the film is very nicely balanced between costume drama and modern character study.

What is important to note if you are thinking of going to see this film is that it is NOT, as I believed and as others will be convinced as well, a sparring session between the two eternally opposed camps of Darwinism and creationism (or even science and religion, if you were to go so far as to reduce them to that...).

What I really appreciated about the film, and about Amiel's handling of the subject matter, was that it could, in the wrong hands, have become a banner-waving, my dad's bigger than your dad, finger-pointing in the face of modern creationist thinkers. It is not, as you might expect, cinema as a vehicle for personal or political motive. This is not Michael Moore, and is clearly better for it. Instead it is a captivating, mature and intelligent study of one of history's most important men, one who's research and writing transcends the boundaries of modern influence, but also a man who, despite his almost otherworldly grasp of science, was just as loving and passionate, as fragile and vulnerable as any other.

There are no great surprises in Creation, and it closes with a well-played and pleasingly different moment of catharsis for both Darwin and his wife, followed by a predictably uplifting and inspiring ending, but the appeal of the film is that it gives much more weight to the survival of the human spirit, the survival of Darwin himself, than the survival of the fittest. With good turns from Connolly and Jeremy Northam, who plays a sort of antagonist as local church man Reverend Innes, along with a wonderful cameo from Jenny the orangutan, Creation stands out this week as a good, honest piece of film-making. Simple, yes, but perfectly designed for its function.

Away We Go; hugs, jugs and enough love to make Shakespeare wretch

In recent times, American "indie" cinema (and I use quotations because, like in music, the word 'indie' has been severed from its original meaning and come to refer to a style, as opposed to method, of film-making) has become instantly recognisable for its tales of quirky, irreverent, imaginative people searching for meaning in their drab and seemingly inescapable lives in the various backwater towns of America. These films are usually written with a deadpan, human sense of tragic comedy, and convince that we cannot expect to find happiness with others before we find the beauty in ourselves.

No change here, then, with AWAY WE GO, the new film directed by Sam Mendes of 'American Beauty' fame and written by author Dave Eggers and his wife Vendela Vida, as Burt and Verona (played by John Krasinski and Maya Rudolph), set off on a journey around North America to visit family and friends and hopefully find a place suitable to raise their fast-approaching first child.

It is a film about motherhood, about love and family and individuality, and it is crammed from start to finish with emotional turmoil and insecurity; indeed the film's over-riding theme and driving question is posed by Verona late in the story's first act when she asks Burt "Are we fuck-ups?". He replies with a defiant and supportive "No, we're not fuck-ups." and yet of course we are well aware that this is not set in stone, such is the weight (and time), given to this moment in the film.

And so it continues - back and forth, back and forth - as the couple travel from family to family across the country and discover a world of people obsessed and defined by their children. Some of them are fearful, some pitiful, some downright unbearable, and none of them as loving, warm and charming as our two protagonists. Inevitably they come to realise this themselves, and the film ends on a moment of overwhelming emotional catharsis, but though this is logical in its concept, the execution of the story is lacking in the sort of depth of reflection and discovery of character that made films like 'Juno' or 'Little Miss Sunshine' or even the somewhat self-satisfied 'The Squid And The Whale' so effectively touching and moving. Though Burt and Verona are perfectly endearing people, their failures and short-comings as human beings are glossed over with a thick, and occasionally sickly, layer of love, and rather than see them complete their emotional journey, as is expected in these sorts of films, we watch as they bare witness to a series of severely dislikeable, self-obsessed and often idiotic characters before returning home safe in the knowledge that they might as well have never left in the first place.

This is unfair of me, I guess, because there is more to the story than a mere cyclical journey with a "well, maybe we are fine after all..." answer at the end. Of course there is. But whilst Burt and Verona do indeed experience change in their view of the world, and continue to suffer from doubt in their own relationship and the meaning of love, there exists no real threat to their future, to their survival as a couple. Therapy does occur, but it is largely superficial, and rarely life-changing.

There are some very funny moments in this film, along with some truly touching ones and two very accomplished performances by Krasinski and Rudolph, but they seem unsupported by a flossy script that leads awkwardly from one set-up to another and often without motivation. As a result, the film feels like a series of vignettes that could just as easily be named "Diaries of a Disillusioned Couple". It is not though, at the end of everything, really a film, but it is still very comforting, heart-warming and well-meaning, and deserves applause for showing us a love, in Burt and Verona, that can survive even the most testing of climates and conditions.

Funny People; the day I spent two and a half hours watching Adam Sandler say 'dick' a lot...

Love him or loathe him, Judd Apatow has done pretty bloody well for himself over recent years. Like National Lampoon's farcical tomfoolery in the late seventies, Jim Carrey's rubber-faced mania in the mid-nineties or the so-called Frat Pack films in the new millenium that have inevitably starred one of Ben Stiller, Owen Wilson, Will Ferrell or Vince Vaughn, Apatow's movies have carved their own snug space in the comedy genre that means that they are instantly recognisable, bankable and keenly sought-after.

Now, though, Apatow has reached that stage where his movies are such an event that they come under particular scrutiny from both critics and audiences alike. And like many comedy franchises before, the work has struggled to live up to the demands of the different camps; of those who would be happy to see the same jokes rolled out over and over, comfy in their familiarity with the actors and set ups, and those who would like to see Apatow's clear talent for dialogue and his gift for bringing humanity to the seemingly basest of characters put to better use than in the kind of meaningless stoner-farce that was Pineapple Express. Whether he be writing and directing, as he did on '40 Year Old Virgin' and 'Knocked Up', or is involved on a lesser scale, as in films such as 'Step Brothers' and the recent 'Year One', Apatow is a money-making machine, but also an expectation magnet.

FUNNY PEOPLE, then, is Monsieur Apatow's latest offering to the world. It has been written and directed by the man himself and is therefore pure, undiluted Judd, and it has easily been the most highly anticipated movie of his to date. Released in a hail of two-page reviews and industry fireworks, it has garnered mixed but generally very positive reviews, and has been praised by its fans as a film that takes the world of comedy and shows us the darkness that lies beneath, the humanity behind the chuckles. Adam Sandler, who plays the lead character George Simmons, has been said to show a different side to his bumbling, gurning comedy persona of the past, and has been applauded for taking on an emotional role that reflects somewhat his own career. This dropping of the defenses, both on Sandler's part and indeed his character's, is a clear attempt to suggest a new vulnerability to these hardened characters and bring further dimension to what would otherwise be a very superficial and venal group of beings, and is what has endeared this film to much of its audience thus far. But is this a breakthrough in meditative comedy? Was it ever in fact a comedy to begin with? I, personally, am not so sure.

The story begins with Sandler's George, a once popular stand up comedian who has made a fortune taking starring roles in a series of trivial Hollywood comedies called things like 'Merman' and 'Re-Do', wakes up in his mansion and travels to the doctors where he is told, within the first five minutes of the film, that he is suffering from AML, a rare form of leukemia, and has little chance of surviving. He leaves the clinic, his mind heavy with the news, and proceeds home, signing autographs and posing for pictures along the way.

Meanwhile elsewhere, Ira Wright, played by Seth Rogen, is an aspiring comic with a poor act and two flat mates who are considerably more talented and successful than he is. Though he refuses to give up, the long time he has spent trying to break onto the scene has left him weary and tired. But Ira's life is about to change, as George catches a glimpse of a performance and takes a shine to his work. Quickly, Ira is approached by George to work as his joke writer and PA, and soon he is following George into his private jet, keeping girls company until his boss has time to sleep with them, and talking to George so that he might fall asleep.

Soon they develop a bond, and are close even to being friends (though this is something that George refuses to accept), and Ira convinces George to talk to his friends and family, or what little of them he has left, in order to tell them the news of his approaching fatality. He does so, taking the opportunity to reunite with his former girlfriend and the love of his life, Laura (played by Apatow's extremely talented wife Leslie Mann). Accepting of his fate, George has found a strange comfort in knowing that all he will lose in death is his crushing loneliness and the money for which he has no use.

So, when he is told that the experimental treatment he has been under is working, and that he is no longer sick, George is faced with a conundrum. What to do now? How now should he live his life? Should he continue to re-evaluate who he is, taking the opportunity of a second chance to begin afresh? Or should he again indulge in his own reckless and selfish ways? Well, as it turns out, people do learn, but not really enough, and George takes his new beginning as a chance to win back Laura, who is now happily married with two children, and live the life that he always wanted.

In the end there are destined to be complications, and George will have to realise that it might be more beneficial to change who he is before trying to change what he has, and the story comes to a predictably cosy and hand-shaky close.

Now there are certainly various positives in Funny People, things that demonstrate the fantastic command that Apatow has over the art of comedy, and his control of things like dialogue and, as well, of group dynamics. The banter between Ira and his housemates (played by Jonah Hill and Jason Schwartzman) is as electric as it was in 40 Year Old Virgin, and almost as good as in the brilliant Knocked Up, though the balance of the characters, and the bond between the three of them, doesn't translate nearly as well as it should do.

Along with this, there are many moments of touching warmth that, for me, are a sign of Apatow's intelligence as a director of comedy, that he uses laughs as a means of seeing the humour in humanity. In his previous films there has always been a crushing innocence to its central characters, and as such the audience have been lead to feel compelled to support them as they journey into this new world, helping them on their voyage of discovery into adulthood and emotional maturity. And there are certainly times in Funny People where you feel a strong connection to the troubled and stressful lives of its protagonists. Not so much in George as in Ira and Laura, there is real, honest heart in their actions, and want and urge to do well by others, even if that means sacrificing their own pride or security. This is what makes a lot of the film work, and I wish that there was a way to inflict the same emotive drive on the parts that didn't, but there is one inherent problem that I feel undermines much of the good work that Rogen and Mann, as well as Apatow, have done, and that problem is Adam Sandler.

Many people have said of Sandler in the past that he has a different side to him, one that is intelligent and mature and in know way wants to pull funny faces or punch you over a fence in a fit of child-like rage, and I agree. In films like 'Spanglish' and the altogether astonishing 'Punch Drunk Love', Sandler displays a keen knowledge of the nuances of real acting, and that he can prove a brilliant on screen presence when his urge to be funny is controlled and restrained by a director. However, in Funny People it is clear that Sandler, an old friend and room-mate of Apatow's from "college", has been given too much room to be himself, and though he is playing a comedian whose instinct is to be cutting and nasty, he is unable to show us that this is just an act, and quickly, with every remark about dick sizes or the need to take advantage of groupies, we grow to dislike him in a very thorough and saddening way.

Sandler's insistence on playing the filthy-tongued, sex-obsessed uber-male could be seen as another attempt to deconstruct the machismo and testosterone that dominate modern comedy and have therefore trapped him in his unlikeable persona. But even off stage his foul character is unrelenting, and even quite boring, and I began to wonder whether it would have been best if George had in fact died, leaving Ira and Laura to pick up the pieces and learn to accept what it was that made him so hard-edged. This would at least have afforded George some forgiveness and empathy, whereas with his regeneration and recovery he is presented with, and snaffles up, the opportunity to show us that he will never really change, no matter how many times people tell him to. For me, this does not work in the context of this story or these characters, and what results is a stream of under-cooked jokes and purile humour.

Elsewhere in the film the infantile brand of humour that Apatow has made synonymous with his name has no frame of reference in the story other than to suggest that in order to succeed in stand up comedy it is necessary to talk about your arsehole or how often you masturbate using hand-cream. Whereas its effect in Knocked Up, for example, was to show the purile, immature nature of the film's leading character so that we might feel validated to watch him grow to realise the importance of maturity and adulthood. The jokes then were a bond between him and his friends, and was justified. In Funny People, though, there is a real sense that jokes will make everything better, and this goes against everything that the film is trying to say. Comedy is not supposed to save us, it has imprisoned George and has tortured Ira for years. And yes, of course it is a passion that they both hold, but surely it cannot be the light at the end of the tunnel... Even as the story comes to a close, and George has wrecked his relationships with everyone who might have cared for him, there is a sense that although he might be unable to show love for others, or be unable to communicate on any real emotional level other than "Why do you want to be with him? He's a dick!", he will be okay, because after all, he can still make fun of his cock.

Is that redemption? Is that growth? You tell me. I personally think not, but then I'm not Judd Apatow, and I don't know best. What I do know, though, is that there was neither enough decent humour or real human development for this film to be successful as either drama or comedy. It had not the heart, or the guts, to make me believe that Judd Apatow can show me the way. Yes he is superior to almost the entire rest of the field when it comedy at the moment, but then we must realise that the "field" itself is about as thin on the ground as a duck's feet.

Oh, and another thing, it's fucking two and a half hours long! Two and a half hours!!! That's just not on! Someone, not me clearly, could run a bloody marathon in two and a half hours, for god's sake. I know that the average length of the modern movie is about three weeks but still, do us the decency of not having to take a beard trimmer and a tent into the cinema with us. For the love of Pete. Or should I say for the love of Judd?

District 9, god damn it!

Oh you loveliest, loveliest of readers, I owe you the gravest of apologies...

It has been almost a whole month since I have put my greasy hand on the rickety wheel of the car that is blogsville, and I have missed it so, I truly have. I have been busy completing a small academic course but now that I have my sanity back, my pen in my hand and my unlimited cinema pass polished and at the ready, I have returned, with aplomb, to earth, and the movie-going world.

But all is not well it appears. No, not well at all. In fact according to Neill Blomkamp, a new director bringing us the highly-fetted 'DISTRICT 9', our planet, and more specifically the city of Johannesburg in South Africa (Blomkamp's home country), has inadvertantly become a site of refuge for a breed of alien whose mothership has accidentally and inexplicably arrived and is unable to leave. With the aliens proving less of a threat and more of a destructive nuisance, they have quickly been herded into slums, where they have become addicted to cat food as if it were Pringles, trade weapons with wheelchair-bound Nigerian warlords and chew on tires because they 'feel like marshmallow'.

With Blomkamp's film taking on a very natural, almost mockumentary style, with fake interviews and home video footage used to give the images an effective air of authenticity, it would be easy, were it not for the impossible nature of the situation, to believe that this film were based in fact and not fiction, so impresive are its use of reportative devices like news broadcasts and Blair Witch (or even Cloverfield) style handycam claustrophobia. Blomkamp's intelligent use of his actors and the camera, along with some expert production design and pitch-perfect visual effects, means that this film, instead of waging war on the senses like so many other films of this scale and genre, makes a beeline for the mind and the heart from an early point. In fact, the first face we see is that of never-before-seen actor Sharlto Copley, who plays government agent Wikus Van De Merwe, and whose performance is one of brilliant humanity and energy that drives the film forward at a brisk and exciting pace.

The story follows Wikus as he and his organisation, MNU (Multi-National United), are trusted with the responsibility of forcibly evicting the 'Prawns', as they have been named, from their homes in the slums (called District 9) and relocate them in a refugee camp. 'It's more like a concentration camp' says Wikus at one stage, and his words highlight the fascinating political and social questions that drive the first half an hour or so of this film and separate it in quality from the more superficial fugitive story that follows.

Clearly there are reflections on South Africa's own political history, that of the appartheid and racial persecution, but what interested me, the film being of the science fiction genre after all, was the insight into how we, as humans, might respond if an alien species were to come to earth and be vulnerable as opposed to aggressive. Unlike in 'Independance Day' or 'War Of The Worlds', the human race in District 9 is not challenged with a fight for survival. Instead they are given the chance to offer help and support to a race in need. But in reality, our fear of the other is too strong, and Blomkamp's society is quick to persecute the seemingly lesser race, seeing them as leeching from the economy and resources that should be being spent on those who live outside District 9.

When Wikus is infected with a strange alien substance whilst inspecting one of District 9's shacks, he begins to change, and soon realises the reality of what it is like to be a Prawn in Johannesburg. Hunted and victimised by the public and by the powerful organisations that he has worked for, Wikus has to escape to District 9, the only place that will accept him and, as he slowly realises, the place that holds the key to his savour.

As the film changes from taught political science fiction drama to hi-concept fugitive romp, some of the substance is lost amongst the squelching, Thing-like horror of Wikus' transformation (clearly influenced by Peter Jackson, who produces this film and began his career with gross-out schlock-horror movies Bad Taste and Braindead) and the sparkly explosions inflicted by the Prawns hi-tec weaponry. This is inevitable, but Blomkamp does well, helped especially by Copley's wonderfully varied and multi-dimensional performance, to make the transition into action extravaganza a gentle one, and by the end of the film I was gripped to the screen, and truly impressed.

District 9's ending is left wide open, leaving the door very much ajar for any sequels or prequels that a Hollywood studio might want to produce, and though I think that movie works perfectly well in its singularity, I for one would not begrudge Blomkamp or any other of the people involved in this film the funds and the support to go and make more films like it in the future. It is a wonderfully engrossing and original film, and one that is a breath of fresh air after a depressingly low quality summer.

News and Views and Troos (that's trousers in Scottish)

Ah, hello everyone. Now, I'm terribly sorry for not posting a post for a while (is a week 'a while'? It probably isn't is it...), however i've been awfully busy doing all the things that I do that aren't this blog - you know, the charity work, the general adventurous lifestyle I lead, the witchcraft, that sort of thing - so I just haven't had the time. I also haven't visited the cinerooms for a while, and as such am HEINOUSLY ill-equipped to write a review of anything.

I do want to upload another trailer though, and it's something i'll hopefully be doing more and more, in the hope that somehow it's not entirely illegal and I don't get fined like those pirate guys, the music stealers, and have to sell my arms or something for medical research cash. Here's hoping.

Here it is, the trailer for 'Gentlemen Broncos', a new film made by the people who brought us 'Napoleon Dynamite' and 'Nacho Libre'...

Now, I wasn't a particular fan of Dynamite, or indeed Libre (though that isn't as much of a crime apparently). I always thought that much of the comedy was bizarre just for the sake of being that way, and though it was interesting at first, it was essentially just the same joke over and over without any real plot or character to engage you. It was like a long sketch, and didn't impress me all that much. I certainly didn't rush out to buy a 'Vote For Pedro' t-shirt.

This film, however, appears to have found a comforting combination of the surreal comedy and awkward characters that made that first film such a success, and the kind of linear story that supports those comedy moments and allows us to feel relaxed, safe in the knowledge that we're not waiting for a plot that's never coming.

With a line up that includes Jemaine Clement, Jennifer Coolidge and the mighty Sam Rockwell, I see nothing but brilliance for this film, and can't wait to go and see it.

Return of TRON!

The other day, in my usual scatter-brained way I happened upon this wonderful little ball of beauty, the new trailer for TRON: Legacy...

Now, ooh, doesn't that just make you tingle? The thunder; the big, shiny virtual landscape; lightcycles; Jeff Bridges... It all just tickles my tastebuds to a strangely euphoric point. It is one of those trailers that I could watch over and over.

The only thing that remains now is to hope and pray that the finished product, due for release in 2010, will deliver a similar thrill. Of course, I've never been much of a sci-fi lover, but this story - about a son who, in looking for his disappeared father, finds himself pulled into the same dangerous virtual world of games and challenges in which he has been trapped - reminds me of other "dangerous game" films that I loved like Running Man and Battle Royale. Hell, even Jumanji does it for me.

If the film isn't such a success then so be it; the original Tron didn't exactly set a fire underneath the world. But this time it seems that visual effects might be able to do justice to the expansive and fluid action sequences (especially if they can project those eerie faces onto the helmets), as well as the tone of the film seeming to have fallen into the new-age noirism of so many other successful summer blockbusters these days. So fingers crossed.

Either way, I'm just glad I got to see this trailer. In fact, i'm going to watch it again. Excuse me.

Movie Posters; The Art Of The Sell

Good and honest film-going people of the world, lend me your eyes...

In a bit of break from my usual sombre and analytical tone, I have decided to venture out into something more visual. Fitting, I think, for a blog that owes its existence to such a glorious aesthetic medium.

The impetus behind this picture-based jaunt is simple. On a typically lonely visit to the cinema some time ago I was stood on an escalator and felt, not for the first time, my face contort and twist with confusion as I gawped at the various gaudy banners dangling from the walls like Olde English drapes. As if witness to a motorway crash, I was unable to look away from the gargantuan moody faces, side-lit and airbrushed, that I could only imagine were meant to be advertising some sort of film. But for the life of me I could not seewhat film that was. There was no title. No director's name. Not even a release date. Nothing.

What, I wonder, are they promoting? I thought. Is it so monumental an event that it need not even advertise its own title? Are they waiting until the last minute to decide on one fitting enough? Or is it that Tom Hanks is merely in need of a little boost, a little pick-me-up, and has resorted to paying for his own face to lit by burning embers in front of a stone-carved angel and then stretched to super-size and dangled from Wandsworth's premier multiplex for all to see?

The answer, of course, was the former. Angels and Demons was clearly anticipated by the general public with such earth-shattering intensity that to put the title on the posters would have been nothing short of irresponsible. Men and women alike would have dropped to their knees on the rising escalator and burst into tears of joy before being hoovered up at its peak, disappearing into the dark cavern that lurks below, just above MacDonalds. The only way to avoid this terrible feat, it seems, was to drip feed us lowly mortals with glimpses of steeples and clouds, therefore building our excitement gradually before delivering the title, the money shot, a few months later. That way we would be safe, and able to handle the news rather than pissing ourselves in the foyer like nervous old men.

Had I been so naive as to think this was the only way that film posters could exist, I would perhaps have lived a life until now of blissful ignorance. But no. I have been plagued ever since, desperate to prove that cinematic advertising, a once proud and respected artform, does not have to exist purely to provide page space for an actor's face or a bulbous list of a-list names. No, I was sure that film posters could be more than that, that they could still be beautiful, alternative. I was sure that they could stand alone as pieces of art or design that could be appreciate not just by film fans but by art fans.

This feeling was left unsatisfied for a long time, as more and posters came and went; all of them lacklustre, lazy and incredibly, undeniably ghastly. All shocked expressions, flashing lights and acrobatic silhouettes, they had sacrificed aesthetic beauty for functionality, wanting to deliver a clear message of what would be involved, but most did nothing more to enlighten me as to their contents than a picture of a basket of fruit would have done.

Take this lovely creation for example...

Now tell me, please, how this abomination of design advertises anything other than the fact that Robin Williams has children who really, really, like him, and have decided to show this appreciation of his whimsical parenting skills by crushing him to death with a huge, tumbling pile of over-sized letters. Honestly, what a bag of shite.

And if you didn't think it could get any worse...

Again, another film starring the once-respectable comedy beanbag that is Robin Williams. This time he's brought his one-handed hairdresser with him. Oh, and a nosey dog with a black eye as well...

The only thing that makes me happy about this poster is that fact that Williams looks like he is HATING every moment of it. Maybe it has finally dawned on him that he'll never receive another script like Good Morning Vietnam!, or maybe Travolta has leant over and whispered in his ear that he likes his new hair plugs. Either way, I am cheered by the fact that Robin looks moments from smashing that coffee mug on the table and stabbing the handle into his temple.

MORE! And to remain in the extremely loosely defined genre known as "comedy":

Now I can hear you, the few of you who saw this film and didn't think it to be a steaming great pile of unfunny, misogynistic, ego-maniacal tripe, claiming that 'no, come on, this one isn't that bad...Look! They're on a boat, and, okay, it's not rocking exactly in a literal sense, but at least they're walking like the Beatles so we know that it's a film about music...".

Well, okay, they are walking like the Beatles, I'll give you that. But in reality this isn't a film about music, and especially not about the Beatles. It's a film about a load of water-bound wankers who think they're the Beatles, instead of just a bunch of sad old perverts with vinyl collections.

What this poster actually is is a fantasy. My fantasy. That every character in this pointless film would march like lemmings along a splintered plank and into the deep blue sea. I would watch them from the deck, bobbing away towards the horizon as I cackle maniacally to the wonderous sound of Metallica's 'Battery' blasting out of the speakers.

Next, another beauty, and a cracking offering from a new genre, sponsored by Kleenex and based almost entirely on literary adaptations of things like The Kite Runner, that I like to call 'misery-porn'...

If you couldn't tell already from the heading that reads 'From the director of The Notebook', this is a film that is going to do nothing, I repeat nothing, but make you cry like a little girl. Like a little girl that, judging by the character in the bottom right corner of the poster with the beanie on blowing innocent puffs of her childish breath into the weirdly aquamarine sky, has some sort of debilitating disease. Because clearly, as shown by the girl in the beanie, this film is going to be nowhere near as much fun as the smiley people at the top would have you believe. No, no. This is going to be a sobfest. How do I know? Well, for starters, there are no men on the sheet, and men don't cry in films. Not unless they've lost at football or stubbed their toe on their shotgun. And secondly, those droplets on the right side, next to Cameron Dizzle, are tears. They are tears, I tell you, filmed in one of the film's preview screenings and replicated perfectly on this poster.

For another example, see this beauty, due for release soon, just in time for a new type of razor blade to be introduced to the market I'm sure...

Now I can only presume that whoever designed this poster for the film adaptation of "acclaimed bestseller" 'The Time Traveller's Wife' was so blinded by sadness, his eyes awash with salty droplets of emotion, that he neglected to realise that he's printed the image of a romantic embrace on it's SIDE.

Look at it! It looks ridiculous, and all it tells us about this film is that apparently Eric Bana likes to surprise the lovely Rachel McAdams, before she's even had a chance to untangle herself from her lovely bed sheet, and involve her in a reconstruction of the iconic moment in Spiderman where Kistern Dunst puckers up and gets a faceful of Maguire. Down he comes, harnessed to the ceiling, half asleep and with a silly goatee, ready to receive her. And LOOK, he's even managed to recreate the rain by severing an electric cables in the ceiling and filling the room with orange and blue sparks. Oh, no, wait, those are tears. Sorry, should have known.

Now, I understand that this rant seems somewhat biased, what with me having picked out a series of posters for films that I clearly am NOT a fan of, and therefore cannot wait to pick apart. And its true, I do indeed dislike these movies greatly. But then again, there are some very good films that have bad posters and also some very bad films whose advertising is perfectly acceptable.

Par example...

24 Hour Party People was a great film. A great film. But this poster... Well it's shit, isn't it. Not only does this film appear to tell the story of what happened when Neo from The Matrix discovered he could earn good money as a Parisian rent boy, but it also seems to suggest that he would befriend a group of pikeys with debilitating spinal injuries. It's awful. The colour is awful. The bizarre ransom note lettering they've used for the title is awful. The tagline is about a million words long, and awful.

So proof, there, that good movies do not necessarily produce good advertising campaigns. But what of the bad movies that have produced successful artwork. Well a bad movie is hard to define, as is a successful artwork. But in this, I may have found both:

Now I defy anyone to look at that poster and tell me that there's not something inherently cool and suave about the way it's been put together. The idea of designing the poster in the format of a graphic novel cover is great, and even though the image of Jackson and Ricci is clearly a photograph, there is something lovely about the use of contrast and saturation that makes it look dark and dirty, everything the film wanted you to lust after, believing that it could satisfy those urges.

Unfortunately it couldn't, it was a bit rubbish. But still, you'd have that on your wall, wouldn't you? And not in a sexist, 'ooh it's a man holding a woman capture in chains, like all woman should be...' way, but in a kitsch, Grindhouse-revisited, artistically inventive way.

Anyway, I'm getting to the end, but I'd like to share with you some of the recent posters that I think show how movie posters can be truly, truly pleasing whilst still doing their job. The most recent is an alternative version of the poster for Duncan Jones' 'Moon', and is, I think, a truly classic piece of poster design; intriguing, beautiful, informative and true to the film's own personality.

For those of you wondering why I have not used any foreign language posters, I have absolutely no answer for you. I just haven't. Maybe because I was using largely English websites to yank the photos from, or maybe it's just because I hate foreigners. Who knows. Well, I know, it's the first one, I just didn't spot any. I don't hate foreigners. I love them. All of them.

To prove that, I dug up some posters that are absolutely, truly and indescribably odd. They were designed by various Polish artists and designers who, when Polish distributors decided that it was no use trying to use English language posters in their own country (the loglines, faces and names that would usually have been used to sell the film at home would have been near useless), were assigned to different films and given the freedom to create whatever they pleased, however they pleased.

The result is a collection of distinctive and bizarre images, some more recognisable than others, but all of them infinitely preferable to the mugshot parade that we have come to accept as the norm here in the UK...

POTTER! (said, enthusiastically in an overly pronounced English accent)

To get down to the REAL nitty gritty, having done with all that independent, minor production guff (PAH), I will continue hastily to give my two cents on the latest addition to the Harry Potter franchise, entitled 'Harry Potter And The Half Blood Prince'.

Even as I write, this latest instalment of the bespectacled wizz-kid adventures has grossed close to $405 million, a fairly impressive sum, and as such my thoughts on the film are rendered almost entirely inocuous. However, as someone who has never read a page, a sentence, even a word of one of the Potter books, I am intrigued as to how my take on the fast darkening procedings might differ from someone who has.

Now I must confess that I'm not entirely devoid of Potter experience. I'm not a rosey-cheeked Potter virgin as I have seen, and indeed enjoyed, the films that have been released so far, and I am glad to see it doing so well because lest we forget, Harry Potter is about as homegrown a blockbusting franchise as we in 'The Kingdom' are ever likely to find. Directed for the most part by British directors, this one (as was the last and will be the final two to come) by the brilliant television helmsman David Yates, performed by a stunning repertoire of British stage and screen actors, and shot for the most part in British studios and by a largely British crew, it is a wonderful advertisement for the amazing concentration of talent that this little island has and will continue to produce, and especially in a summer in which we are pelted with unforgiveable star-spangled tripe the likes of Transformers, Fast And Furious, Angels and Demons and Terminator: Salvation.

And I am happy to report that The Half Blood Prince is already a sturdy competitor for the blockbuster of the year award (an award that does not exist, because there are not enough viable candidates of sufficient quality. And because I have absolutely no authority on the matter...). It is long, but necessarily so, as it ambitiously marries the larger-than-life story of Voldemort's past, his relationship with Dumbledore and the emergence of the evil within, with a far more human story of teenage angst and tangled, hormone-fuelled romance.

It is a morbid, often harrowing tale, and there is a question to be asked as to whether the recent success of similarly blackened films like The Dark Knight, Quantum of Solace and to some extent Spiderman, suggests that the way to an audience's heart now leads along the path of darkness (something I'm sure Dumbledore would shed a hairy tear about). Yet Yates, cleverly, has balanced the horror elements of this film with some brilliantly funny scenes of romantic mishaps and teenage tomfoolery. It is a reminder that Harry, involved in his quest, has been plucked from normality, and challenged to face the evil that exists both within himself and around the corner. And face it he does.

The central theme of this film, it seems, is choice, or free will. It is a theologian's dream that so often in the story there is talk of choice and control, both of oneself and of others. Ignoring for a moment potions that can force love to be directed at its creator, or the idea of liquid luck, a magical juice that brings guaranteed success to its drinker, it is of course Harry's actions that pose the biggest questions, and more specifically the demand by Dumbledore that Harry not to come to his aide, even if he be in serious peril (a concept that returns with magnificent force at the film's climax, but has left many devotees hugely unhappy). It is an intriguing idea that Harry might be beginning to act consciously rather than automatically, as his actions until now have, for the most part, been driven by necessity. Until now, Harry has functioned with perfect moral order, the very definition of 'doing the right thing'. But in The Half Blood Prince the question is raised of whether Harry values more his own actions, or the wants of his mentor. Is it preferable, the film seems to ask, to be able to act on free will and suffer the consequences of your decisions, than work under the control of others and therefore be without responsibility? And what then does it mean to refuse to act, even though you are well within your means?

Overall, though, it was a hugely enjoyable film, taken with a pinch of salt and an open mind, and despite some cringe-worthy crowd scenes of children cheering (always a thron in my side for some reason) and the return, if just for one scene, of the insufferable ginger tag team, the Weasley twins (now built as some sort of hideous duo of Mr Magorium impersonators), there is more than enough to applaud in this film. It is, I would like to highlight, absolutely beautiful. Wonderfully soft, as though painted with oils, and a feast of design and effects, it really is a treat on the eyes. Along with this, the performances of Alan Rickman as the dastardly Snape and Jim Broadbent as Professor Horace Slughorn are hugely engaging, and the children themselves have emerged as very decent actors indeed, especially Rupert Grint as Ron. All in all it is a successful outing, and I am hungry, as I often am, for more of the special one.

MOON

Science fiction, I will happily announce as a way of cutting the ribbon on this week's entry to Blogland, has never been my closest love. To me, little miss sci-fi is a topsy-turvy ride, pleasuring me one minute with such magical gifts as the Alien saga, Blade Runner, E.T., 2001, or Close Encounters, before running off to cheat on me with that spottiest of nerds, the Star Trek franchise (please), or jumping into the back seat of George Lucas' diamond-encrusted shag-wagon and jetting off to another planet named by a toddler (Tatooine? Naboo? Really?).

This time though, with a new independent British production entitled MOON, that girl sci-fi, well, she's done good. Very good indeed.

Directed by Duncan Jones and co-written by Jones and Nathan Parker, Moon is a complex, moving and insightful story about Sam Bell (Sam Rockwell), an astronaut who lives alone in a mining facility owned by Lunar Industries and located on the surface of the moon.

Coming to the end of a three year contract, Sam is only three weeks from returning home to his loving wife and daughter when he begins to suffer from visions. After three years of isolation, with no-one for company but a talking robot called Gerty (voiced by Kevin Spacey), it seems logical to Sam that his mind might play tricks on him. But when one of his visions causes Sam to be involved in an accident, things begin to take a more sinister turn, as Sam wakes up to find someone else in the base with him: himself.

There are not too many adjectives that you couldn't use to describe Moon, such is the brilliantly varied nature of the story and of the film's construction. It is sprawling yet incredibly intimate, frightening but also strangely calming. The story itself is predictably complicated, and centres around such weighty ideas as humanity and identity, existentialism and free will. Yet the plot is unravelled with great delicacy, allowing the charming characters (or should I say character?) to develop and engage us with a wonderful mix of wit, vulnerability and intelligence that is missing from so many of the laser-toting space cowboys of recent years.

Rockwell's performance is nothing short of spectacular, and Jones' decision, aided of course by the film's chicken-feed budget (about £2.5m), to use the camera rather than expensive effects to duplicate his character, only heightens the intimate bond that Bell and himself develop throughout the movie. I have come to expect a lot from Rockwell, consistently impressed by his performances in films such as 'Confessions Of A Dangerous Mind', 'The Assassination of Jesse James', and most recently 'Frost/Nixon', but I think that the depth with which he manages to bring to life the two different versions of Sam's character with such an acute balance of sadness, humour and charm shows an intelligence and awareness that raises him above so many others in his trade.

Rockwell aside there is still so much more to praise about this film. It is expertly designed and crafted - from the complex lunar base that has the same funky atmosphere and cold functionality that made Ridley Scott's 'Alien' so cold and inhospitable, to the bleak and dusty plains that make up the moon's surface; sparse and infinite like the lands of Sergio Leone. This atmospheric nature is complimented, as well, by some superb work by the sound, lighting and camera departments, all of which provide more than enough to support and often enhance the feelings of isolation and sterility that backdrop the action.

So it is safe to say that I enjoyed Moon very much. So much in fact that there is little I would have altered about it, had I the possibility. There were times during watching that I was expecting Gerty, the Spacey-voiced robot, to continue its logical journey to a more sinister, controlling role (much like the obvious comparison of Hal in Kubrick's 2001:A Space Odyssey). Yet, again, I was proved wrong, as the film's dark tone gave way in the final forty minutes or so to something far more endearing and Jones's ability to amalgamate different genres and themes took the story into a new and invigorating place. In fact, as the film ushered me joyfully towards its conclusion, and as Sam learns about himself, about the other him, I felt as though I was watching an intergalactic 'Rainman', so touching was the relationship that had formed between the two men.

Adventureland: Now, That's What I Call A Soundtrack!

Film soundtracks are a curious art form. At once both separate from, and melded to, the more vital action of a movie, they are, like the eerie wooden mask that clung to Stanley Ipkiss' face in '94, entirely dependant on their controller. In the right hands they are wonderful beings (see Reservoir Dogs, Grosse Pointe Blank, anything by Wes Anderson); a part of a film's identity, often acting as a musical time capsule, they celebrate the brilliance of the songs themselves whilst making sure to embrace, if not enhance or even set, the film's tone and tempo; they are proud and vital, never distracting.

Go the other way, though, and this is sadly more often the case, and a soundtrack more than likely becomes one of two ugly, venal creatures. The first is a tell-tale sign of egotistical film-making; a vehicle by which a director can be found flicking through his iPod and appropriating his favourite songs to any old scene in order to massage his own musical ego. The second, though, is almost more deadly. It is the seediest of beasts; the compilation CD built, most probably by music management bosses, with an eye to promoting the next American anthem-rock band or heart-on-the-sleeve crybaby (see Twilight in both cases, nay, EVERY case, see Twilight for everything unsacred and unholy). This is my vision of hell, a place where every inch of art is tainted with the brush of commerce, where the marketing department is paid more than the camera crew. Is this true already? Most likely.

ADVENTURELAND, the new movie from 'Superbad' director Greg Mottola, is an autobiographical coming-of-age story set in a run down amusement park somewhere is no-place, USA. Young James (Jesse Eisenberg), has a place at Columbia grad school, with dreams of writing travel diaries like Dickens did, yet when his parents tell him they will not be funding his further education, nor his oncoming summer jaunt to the cultural super-power that is Europe, James is forced to take a job at Adventureland, a low grade fun park teaming with stoners, oddballs and unattainable disco chicks. Stuck in a personal hell (god forbid there should be no-one around who understands the theological symbolism of Moby Dick), James' life is salvaged only by a burgeoning romance with the punk-liking, band t-shirt-wearing, straight-talking Em (Kristen Stewart).

The film is decidedly ordinary from the outset, seemingly confused about whether or not to give more importance to comedy or drama, and as such giving not enough time to either. It is a blur of eighties nostalgia, spinning like a half-baked teacup ride around an unrelenting stream of tracks from some of the era's musical stalwarts like Lou Reed, David Bowie, INXS and The Cure. Though emphatically, and endearingly, reproduced, it quickly becomes clear that Mottola is struggling to paint his own picture with any panache, presumably aware of the fact that James's story, no matter how closely tied to his own, is really quite boring. His reaction to this appears to have been to build a film which is, in itself, an 80's-sponsored theme park where everyone looks and sounds uncannily like the past, and in which we, as an audience, are more interested in the clothes we used to wear or the songs we used to hear than the badly made waxworks wearing them.

What remains, I am sad to say, when the Whitesnake and leg-warmers are removed, is a fragmented mess of stagnant comedy set-ups (often involving the dullest Hollywood devices: weed, alcohol and genitals), piled up around a series of melodramatic outpourings and arguments that have the icky smell of a Dawson's Creek or an O.C., the kind of tangled teen romance story that makes you want to pull both characters aside and tell them to walk away, lest they be trapped in a never ending circle of fighting in the street and re-uniting in the rain.

Where the quality lies in Adventureland is in its supporting cast. Though Eisenberg and Stewart are both clearly capable actors, they have been given too much to do, too many lifeless lines to say and too much coo-ing and whining to force down, and as such they often look tired and out of ideas. Luckily, where these two fail to make gripping their quite banal issues, the slack is often picked up by the park's scatty but loveable management team, Bobby and Paulette (Bill Hader and Kristen Wiig) and James' new found friend Joel, played with verve by Martin Starr, all of whom provide an affectionate chaos to proceedings.

Yet it is, to return full circle, the biggest sign of the film's shortcomings that the funniest joke of the entire two hours (seems long doesn't it, for a teen rom-com...) is a recurring one that depends, just as the movie's success will do, on the audience's ability to remember the 80s (and more specifically the track 'Amadeus' by Austrian electro-dandy Falco). It is the case with Adventureland, as it has often been with films with such little confidence in the quality of their product, that it is the soundtrack that will be remembered when the audience have left, and nothing else. And where for some movies it is because the music is so good that it comes to dominate, with Adventureland it appears to be because everything else is, well, not-so-good.

The Hangover: Too Old To Really Care

I'm going to make this one a quick one I think...such is my mindset today and the extent to which I care to comment on the latest comedy that proves that comedy is not a one-man show (cough, cough, Judd Apatow, cough), THE HANGOVER.

Now the hangover is, oh my god, like, so an American road-movie-cum-mancom, it's, like, so weird. Directed by a Todd (dude), written by a Jon (rad) and a Scott (gnarly), and starring Brad, Ed, Zach and Justin (yeah...way), it might as well be screened on the back of a Yankees jersey and open for Lynyrd Skynard.

But it isn't. It is, hold thy breath, a movie. Not a frat party, a movie, and a decent enough one at that. It isn't, I don't think, deserving of the four stars it has received widely across the board, more like a three or three and a half, but it is certainly watchable, and preferable definitely to a lot of the other run-of-the-mill high-jinks comedies released so far this year (see 'Paul Blart: Mall Cop', 'Observe and Report', 'Bride Wars' etc...).

It is a very bright, very beautiful film, helped greatly by the natural Nevada sunlight that makes everything and everyone look unbearably attractive, and features some very funny moments, as well as some less funny and far more predictable ones.

You probably know the story already; three incredibly hungover men scour Las Vegas for their missing best friend, and the groom, the day after a triumphant bachelor party. What stands in their way, though, is there own amnesia, as none of them can recall anything from the night before.

The themes (self-realisation, coming-of-age, proving of worth etc...) are familiar, and the crass and slapstick humour reminiscent of every stoner or teen film ever made. Men fall over, men get hit in the balls, men with silly accents call people "mother-fuckers" and tell them to "lick my Chinese balls". And notice the prevalence of the word "men" in these sentences. What role do women play in this film? None whatsoever I'm afraid. The only female part with more than a handful of lines is Jade, played by Heather Graham; a stripper with a heart of gold and who opens the eyes of the straight-laced and under-the-thumb Stu. Of course she does.

So be under no illusions that this is a man's film; made by men for men. Well, boys. It's not really for men, it's for teenage boys and stoned students, and I don't care who says otherwise, it's still not as good as Knocked Up or Superbad, or even I Love You, Man. It doesn't have the heart, the crushingly sharp dialogue, the charisma of most of these films. Not close. It harks back a little to Swingers, my favourite film of all time and a truly original piece of work, in its male camaraderie and love of Vegas. But it lacks so much of what made Swingers great; the romance, the emotional development, the satire.

To summarise, The Hangover is a film that is watchable, yes, but not memorable. One that has the strength to push forwards, but not the guts. I, for one, need not a scene in which the film's heroes steal Mike Tyson's tiger, pretend to hump it, and then vomit on a stolen police car's bonnet. That, for me is a step too far...backwards.