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Another day, another messianic blockbuster to « save cinema », a state of affairs which, given Dune's themes, is rich in irony. Denis Villeneuve's DUNE part 2 continues the story of Paul Atreides as he joins the nomadic Fremen to wage war against his arch-enemies the Harkonen, hailed by many as their messiah and aided in that by his supernaturally gifted mother.

In the age of hyperbole, Dune part 2 has been hailed as this age's far superior alternative to Star Wars and Lord of the Rings, whilst also being decried as a shameful betrayal of its source material by purists. Predictably, the truth is somewhere in between. Where Lord of the Rings comparisons prove apt, is in the fortuitous occurrence of a gifted, resourceful filmmaker clearly in love with the source novel(s), and a very evident desire not to compromise in his artistic vision, hence the daring gambit to split the first book into two non-simultaneously shot films. The success of part 1 paved the way for part 2, itself promising an eventual follow-up or coda to the whole story. Like Jackson before him, Villeneuve is grappling with thematically dense material, and as in all adaptations, choices must be made, most of them - as was the case with the Rings films - for the better. Conflict, that crucial ingredient for effective cinematic storytelling, is emphasized on all personal fronts: between Paul and his vengeful mother (played by a scenery-chewing Rebecca Ferguson), between Paul and Zendaya's Fremen Chani, and in Paul's reluctance to accept the path laid out before him. The dubious nature of the prophecy and the weight of the evil it will cause Paul to commit is much more foregrounded here than in the original Dune book, something author Frank Herbert clearly cared about, since he leaned heavily into it in his follow-up, Dune Messiah. Similarities with the Rings trilogy extend to a gifted and committed cast, as well as technical credits that are all at the very peak of what the industry can offer in this day and age, with particular kudos to cinematographer Greig Fraser and production designer Patrice Vermette.

In terms of sheer spectacle, part 2 ramps things up ant the showstopper moments are truly inspired. An opening face-off with Harkonen shock-troops is tense and otherworldly-feeling, Paul's first attempt at riding a sand-worm will have you on the edge of your seat coughing up sand, and the ending is a thing of terrible, daring beauty. These set-pieces owe their effectiveness in no small part to quieter moments Villeneuve nails, such as Lady Jessica's scheming, the surreal awakening of Paul's gestating sister Alya, and frankly anything involving Javier Bardem's fundamentalist Stilgar.

Where comparisons with the Rings trilogy fall apart is in areas where this film - and its predecessor - fall short. The films clearly function as two halves of a whole, part 1 lacking a satisfying close. For all the visual splendor on display - and it is consequential, IMAX or no - and the immersive sound design, Dune part 2 suffers from strange rhythmic hiccups at times. Some narrative threads are given room to breathe (particularly the most important one of Paul integrating the Fremen), while others feel rushed, chiefly the central romance, to make room for scenes that add little in the way of the emotional core of the film, such as pretty much anything involving the Imperial family (a wasted Florence Pugh and a badly miscast Christopher Walken) or Bene Gesserit machinations. These are moments where you feel the filmmakers' desire to let you drown in this rich universe, and the central story suffers as a result. One could also argue that, unlike in moments of part 1, part 2 never makes you feel the scorching heat of Arrakis' deserts, and the Harkonen aren't quite as perverse as you wish they'd be. The real low-point, for me, was Hans Zimmer's uninspired score, the positive reaction to which has me sincerely baffled. As an extension of the sound design, it is sometimes effective, but in its utter failure to generate more than one passably memorable theme, it is an absolute waste. Think of what John Williams conjured up for that galaxy far far away, or Howard Shore's colossal scores for Middle Earth... in such venerable company, Zimmer's effort falls way short.

Thank God then for what does work, and there is so much to praise. These two films have stoked my interest in the Dune mythos, something I was, until now whole unfamiliar with. They deliver a phenomenal level of spectacle, the likes of which we only get too rarely. They push the boundaries in many respects, be it in the aforementioned cinematography, or in the special effects, which are not only seamless but also convey weight, presence and scale the degrees seldom seen before. The films also showcase many of the great screen talents of the moment. Chalamet owns every facet of the character and finally makes you understand what all the fuss was about, and Austin Butler does a wonderful Stellan Skarsgard impression. Acting-wise, the plaudits mostly go to Rebecca Ferguson, absolutely chilling, and to the wonderful Javier Bardem, whose presence, commitment and charisma no meme can dampen.

Dune part 2 is not the greatest film of all time, but it is a very welcome reprieve from cold filmmaking by committee that most of the prevailing franchises had gotten us used to of late. Like the recent Oppenheimer, it delivers the kind of spectacle you can only expect when a gifted filmmaker is able to deploy massive resources to tell a story they care about and remember to keep audiences emotionally engaged. Hopefully these two films' successes bode well for such productions in years to come.

Lancelot is back, and Camelot is tired. The famed knight of legend wants to put an end to his affair with Queen Guinevere whilst crushing any rumors of improper behavior on her part... and Richard Gere is nowhere in sight!

A look at the other reviews on this sight will have clued you in to the fact that this is as far from a Hollywood take as you can get on an old story of myth. Lancelot - and Bresson's filmmaking in general - can be described as minimal, clinical, cold, slow-burn... It is all those things, and yet it isn't. The very mannered, almost robotic performances, have a transe-like nature about them, and when a powerful emotion finally is allowed to burst forth, as with a sad look of hopelessness from Lancelot, or yearning from his Queen... It hits all the harder for it. Bresson strips back the elements we'd expect from such a story, but chooses instead to focus on gestures, repeated nearly to the point of a Buddhist mantra, until they either break the viewer or plunge them into a cathartic realm.

I still don't know whether I "liked" this film, whether I enjoyed it... but it was nearly impossible to look away, and the precision of the craft on display made the experience rather unique.

If this sounds like something you'd enjoy, consider deferring your gratification (or frustration) and check out the superior and more approachable Au Hasard Balthazar or A Man Escaped first, then come back here.

This was one hell of a strange ride!

You could apply this same sentiment to director Michael Bay himself, the mastermind behind this seminal blockbuster, but then you'd also have to admit this film makes him something of a pioneer. Let's rewind a bit first.

An asteroid « the size of Texas » is on a collision course with Earth, so NASA scrambles its finest to bring a team of drillers to the deadly rock, where they will plant nukes in it and obliterate before it exterminates humanity. You could fly actual space shuttles through the plot-holes in this film - the unlikely sum of six screenwriters' toil - but one of the many things Armageddon pioneered is a relentless style and pace that leaves little time to pause for breath, let alone ponder such things. So the man of the hour is grizzled drilling vet Harry Stamper (Willis, at the peak of his popularity), whose idiosyncratic crew includes son-in-law-to-be A. J. (Affleck in his first mega budget outing) and daughter Grace (Tyler, who can gaze wantonly at a monitor like few actresses before or since).

Here we need to pause in wonder at who approved such an awe-inspiring cast. Willis doesn't evoke financial risk, and it is nice to see him invest a character with feeling - one of the very last times he would do so - but the credits are something of a miracle. Billy Bob Thornton as a NASA head honcho, Steve Buscemi as a sex-crazed drilling prodigy (yes, yes, I know...), Jason Isaacs, William Fichtner, Owen Wilson, Keith David... Remember this is a blockbuster from the late 90s. It's just awe-inspiring to watch such talented performers rip into such ludicrous material and twist it around their little fingers like pros, and the film would never have connected half as well with audiences without them. But here the subtle pleasures of life end and we need to examine the very raw meat of this film.

Before it was even fashionable to do so, Michael Bay films every scene not just like trailer material, but like a set piece. No moment is too small to get the BIG treatment. He also ramps up the color saturation to something approaching pop art: skins are golden, almost orange, and deep space a frosty teal. You can see where this is going? The only director to have taken this approach any further - almost as a joke it would seem - has been George Miller with Mad Max Fury Road (an infinitely superior film to be sure but similar in its intent to be a purely visceral crowd-pleaser). The music is big and anonymous in equal measure and the pop song needle drops as refined as the rest of the product. Aerosmith's centerpiece « Don't Want to Miss a Thing » made many a desperate listener claw at their eardrums for relief in late 1998, and there is something deliciously sick in hearing Steve Tyler sing over scenes where Ben Affleck is an inch from banging his real-life daughter, particularly in a Disney production. The epilogue is legendary for its bad taste and sappiness... But if you're honest with yourself, you'll probably really enjoy yourself watching this film.

Armageddon is big, its stupidity at times overpowering enough to qualify as inspiring. But it does have a personality of its own, and that is definitely something to be treasured.

We're not far into the 2020s and it might be fair to say we already have two films that are emblematic of the state of modern big-budget filmmaking. On one hand you have the likes of the MCU - love it or hate it - displaying the unprecedented power and potential (and often pitfalls) of deploying an integrated cinematic universe. And on the other, you have a pervasive rehashing of past glories in the form of endless and often unlikely remakes. While the likes of Spiderman No Way Home exemplifies the former, I can think of no better - and thus, worse - example of the latter, than Coming 2 America. If you think the title is cringeworthy, you ain't seen nothing yet.

1988's Coming To America was a seminal experience at the time. It was my favorite comedy growing up, and it seemed like my whole generation could quote entire scenes from it on a whim. Little did I know what an unlikely miracle it had been, with a strained relationship between star and director on one hand, and a trailblazing near all-black cast giving studio executives doubts on the other. This second point was particularly a rarity in my native Europe, and looking back, the talent on display is just insane: Eddie Murphy and Arsenio Hall need no introduction, but the likes of John Amos, Samuel L. Jackson, Eriq La Salle, Madge Sinclair and James Earl James all shine here, and between their performances and the writing, the characters forge a place in your heart. What this film was not, however, was crying for a sequel.

Fast-forward 3 decades, and the prevailing risk-aversion of big studios meant such a sequel was rather overdue. Amazon, eagerly positioning themselves as the great artistic grave-robbers of the future, have enlisted Murphy, Hall and CO, as well as director Craig Brewer, fresh from the unlikely hit Dolomite Is My Name, to continue the story of Prince - now King - Akeem. Because current year politics are what they are, the new script feels obliged to comment on the first film rather than simply build upon it, following the adventures of Akeem's children. The neutered politics don't work. Neither does the often painfully drawn-out humor, reeking of undisciplined improv as was the case with 2016's misguided Ghostbusters reboot. Comedy is all about energy, contrast and timing, and none of these virtues apply in any way shape or form to the present film. What is worse: in its quest to meta-comment on the first film and provide a kind of soft-reboot, it does a huge disservice to the original's characters. Because Akeem is now put in his father's former role, it undoes all his arc from the first film. The only character who registers a bit is Wesley Snipes as a bonkers neighboring dictator, and even that could have been significantly improved.

Normally, knowing the colossal amount of work that goes into even the most underwhelming of films, I would try to compliment one aspect or other. With this sorry opportunistic mess, I can only suggest you spare yourself and find something better to do with your time.

Shame on everyone involved!

Batman is BACK!!!! Again!

What a long way we've come since 1989, and the supreme novelty of seeing the dark knight on the big screen. 3 decades, 9 films and 5 incarnations later, here comes yet another reset, and given how surprisingly but justly enamored fans were with Ben Affleck's take on the character, the odds were heavily stacked against this one. At this point, fans really ought to know better, but I digress.

Writer/director Matt Reeves, fresh from successfully rebooting another pillar of pop culture, set his sights on a vision for the caped crusader that harkens back to Darren Aronofsky's mad, pre-Batman Begins raw idea of a low-tech Bruce Wayne riding around Tokyo in a bucket of bolts with a hokey mask. Because the 20s are all about excess, we can't have something that low-key, but much of what made that idea intriguing translates to Reeves' vision. This is not an origin story - Thank God! - but we are presented with a relatively rookie Batman prowling the streets of a believable metropolis, and though he does take quite a few hard lickings, he does grunt more than your typical Batman. His flip side is a very insecure, younger Bruce Wayne, and as the usual lightning rod for fan scrutiny, our star has a lot to prove. Robert Pattinson slips effortlessly into the part, as do other veterans embodying quite fresh takes on very worn characters. But more on them later.

In this newest of reboots, we get our superhero mythos spliced with the likes of David Fincher's seminal Seven, and lo and he bold, « the world's greatest detective »(TM) actually does some detective work. The crime thriller format allows for the odd scuffle and some inspired stunt-work, but the altered focus is a breath of fresh air, particularly given how well using the Riddler as a serial killer substitute works. His motive and the nature of his eventual followers has a terrifyingly credible, grounded quality to it that makes the stakes feel more real than in any previous Batman film. Paul Dano is surprisingly chilling in the part. At a more cartoony end of the spectrum, an unrecognizable, gleeful Colin Farrell plays the Penguin as a mafia heavy, channeling his inner Goodfella to delicious effect. Sadly, Zoe Kravitz and particularly Jeffrey Wright aren't given much to do but mutter exposition to propel the Batman along his quest, and here comes the rub.

For a film that really wants to be - and then succeeds in being - smarter than previous Batman films, this one seems to often lose faith in its own audience. Many dialogue scenes go on for just a little bit too long, spelling things out for us more than necessary... Which given the daunting runtime does test your patience at times, not to mention your bladder's stamina at the theater. This is the longest Batman flick by quite a margin, and without a doubt, between some dialogue trims and a few endings too many, it could have been shortened by a good 15 minutes. It is, in effect, one good script polish short of greatness.

On the technical side of things, the result is as polished as you'd expect. James Chinlund creates magnificent sets, and cinematographer Greig Fraser - blasting his way to the top of the DP food chain these days - lights and frames the proceedings to perfection. The film's visuals do veer dangerously close to « anamorphic porn » at times, but on the whole, The Batman is a masterclass in how to shoot a modern blockbuster. A quick shout-out to some of Fraser's collaborators, Ukrainian vintage lens refurbishers Iron Glass, for the unique look of certain sequences. The only bum note from key artistic contributors is a truly uninspired score by Michael Giacchino, who basically tries to expand the opening bars of John Williams' Imperial March into something resembling a theme.

It may not be the best thing since sliced bread, but for a superhero film, it is surprisingly refreshing.

Andrej Wajda's Danton was mandatory viewing back in my schooldays. The consensus must have been that it was as good a film as any on the French Revolution's violent aftermath, a realistic look at a turbulent period that had important things to say about any revolution or extreme politics then and now. I don't remember enjoying my viewing experience at all. Something about it felt filthy, and almost two decades later, I understand the feeling much better.

Let's rewind a bit. Danton is far from the dusty historical film one might expect, and though the powdered wigs might put you off at first, the world on display could not possibly be further removed from the stately tableaux of, say, Barry Lyndon. This is a filthy, sweaty world on the brink of chaos, as dissimilar to Kubrick's masterpiece as Deadwood was to John Ford's Westerns, and though Wajda gives us leisurely dolly shots through both government sessions and disturbing scenes of street life, he also switches to a hand-held camera to emphasizes frequent bouts of frenzy.

Danton is not just about a clash of ideas - despotism vs freedom, democracy vs totalitarianism... - it is a clash of personalities: much has been made of Depardieu's whirlwind performance as the titular Georges Danton, but Wojciech Pszoniak's icy Robespierre is just as fascinating, playing a man made physically ill by his own moral single-mindedness, so rigid he might snap at any moment. It is all the more impressive because he spoke his lines in his native Polish only to be later dubbed into French - as was the case with many other characters. That his performance retains its power, and that his confrontations with Depardieu are so sparky despite this significant obstacle is nothing short of breathtaking. An early scene where the two leads attempt to reconcile over a meal is just one of many memorable highlights.

The performances give you a lot to latch onto in a film that doesn't bother with too much context, focusing instead on the kind of person and action it takes to undertake a revolution and its aftermath, as well as the kind of sordid behaviors and moral dilemmas involved in running a government, particularly a paranoid one the whole world's eyes were focused on at the time. It delivers meaty drama in spades, while raising questions that are very relevant today.

Perhaps that is what turned me off so much in my early teens. This is no romantic drama or heroic biopic. Though it has every ounce of technical proficiency of a Hollywood film, it has a very distinct character, and it positively reeks of death. The stench of murder and betrayal threatens to suffocate the film at any moment, making this viewing experience that as enthralling as it is draining.

Demanding but infinitely rewarding filmmaking!

Jean-Michel and Claudine enroll in a social experiment as the « model couple », a 24/7 live show where scientists probe them and examine them. The couple themselves try to play along despite increasingly surreal demands and tests, and the analysts surrounding them quickly give in to pure sadism. Madness ensues.

Ages before reality shows became a thing, The Model Couple saves its real venom for notion that there might even be such a thing as a standard couple or even person, and our pathetic attempts to design every aspect of human existence. At every attempt to be themselves, Claudine and Jean-Michel get slapped down, and every inkling of rebellion is manipulated into yet another weird test. Director William Klein doesn't go as far out as on his other film Mister Freedom, keeping the absurdity mostly just within the bounds of realism, and the film works all the better for it.

Fictional depictions of the future come and go, and because The Model Couple focuses on a timeless topic of adapting societies to the people in them and the other way around, it remains very relevant and effective in spite of its age and the quaint technology on display.

We need more films like this.

In an iconic line either repurposed in Godard's Contempt, or attributed to it, depending on which version of the truth you choose to believe - and with all things concerning Fritz Lang, there is never just one - the legendary director once said of the ultra widescreen Cinemascope format that « it is only good for shooting snakes and funerals ». Given my affection for his many classic masterpieces and his undeniable eye, I was quite excited at the prospect of what an actual Fritz Lang cinemascope extravaganza might entail, despite the ominous signs.

I have not read the novel this film is apparently very loosely based on, and by most accounts the many changes to character and plot have not been for the better. MGM must have salivated at the idea of making a bold, colorful Treasure Island style romp, and the differences are pronounced enough to make for something quite interesting. As the surrogate father-figure to our child POV character, Stewart Granger's Jeremy Fox is closer to a gentleman thief than a full-throated pirate in the Long John Silver vein, more of an enigma, and the best parts of the film are watching him turn from charming and charismatic to cold and ruthless, often on a dime. It is all the more praiseworthy because Granger reportedly hated working with Lang, and hated that MGM had mostly confined shooting to the studio backlot, rather than on location.

Other notable additions to the cast are the ever-dependable George Sanders (the voice of Jungle Book's Sher Khan, no less) and the amazing Joan Greenwood, criminally underused, though every chance to hear her pur malicious lines in that unique voice of hers should be cherished. Poor Jon Whiteley, on the other hand, 9 years old at the time of shooting this, is hung out to dry as our POV character John Mohune, very much stuck in late 50s child acting standards, which were mostly abysmal. This hurts the film because our emotional engagement with the central relationship suffers as a result.

I really wanted to like this. It had many of the right ingredients, not least of which is Miklos Rozsa on scoring duties, though this could hardly be called one of his finest works. Despite a few gothic flourishes, one of the main letdowns is Fritz Lang's obvious lack of inspiration with the format - or might it have been with the story as a whole? Images of his early works are seared into our collective unconscious, but you'd be hard pressed to remember a single vaguely memorable shot in this film. And lest you uncharitably attribute the visual dullness to an old artist's waning talents or inability to translate his skill to color stock and new technology, let me direct you to the visual splendor or his last masterpiece, the Indian Saga shot only a few short years after Moonfleet.

There is a reason this one is rarely mentioned. It is an interesting study of what might have been, but ultimately, it is too sedate a treatment of a story that demands far more verve and passion. Only check this out if you are a diehard Fritz Lang fan.

They say you can't teach an old dog new tricks. At 84, Sir Ridley Scott's output remains as prolific as ever, dwarfing directors many decades his juniors, and, you could argue, this has come at the cost of creating anything truly original. The man who once had « the best eye in the business » spent most of the late oughts and 2010s churning out films that were mostly visually anonymous, and revisiting past glories with mixed results. Ad to that a decidedly unremarkable promotional campaign and fiery online debate, and you'd forgive me and countless others for giving The Last Duel a pass.

No, this is not Rashomon in the Dark Ages. Wronged hero Jean de Carouges (Damon sporting the most epic mullet of the 21st century) sees his every noble effort at advancement thwarted by false friend Robert Le Gris (Driver) and their liege lord (Affleck), something he takes in his stride until Le Gris rapes his bride, the Lady Marguerite (Comer), who navigates this brutal time as best she can. But that's only one side of the story, and a very misleading one at that. Unlike in Rashomon, we do get the objective truth, but before we do we get to marvel at how each of the men - both Marguerite's tormentors in different ways - see themselves and their actions. Scott presents us with an - at first glance - by the numbers historical romp - before peeling layer after layer off and leaving us with something much more bitter, angry and interesting - not to mention entertaining. Despite what the trailer would have you believe, save for a few short flashes of brutality and a bruising final duel, this is not an action film. It is a character piece. It is also, against all odds, a damned good one.

As if it weren't bad enough that the ad boys botched their job selling the film, a torrent of online stupidity engulfed it shortly after. To some, this as a tone-def male-championing usurpation of a woman's suffering. To others, it was a revisionist, uber-woke pamphlet. It's hard to believe protestors on either side have even seen the film. Few have, judging by the depressing box office numbers.

By some strange miracle, The Last Duel is not only an expertly crafted film on every technical level - regular Scott collaborators Darius Wolsky and Arthur Max are back with their lights and set design respectively - but the script, for once, more than lives up to the rest of the work put in. Damon, Affleck and - crucially - Holofcener, split up writing duties, with the latter consolidating the whole, and the result the best screenplay Scott has had to work with since Matchstick Men. This - and the requirements of the particular mechanics of the story - in turn leads to magnificent work from the cast. Comer seems to have justly gotten the lion's share of the attention, but her male counterpoints turn in some of their best work in years, particularly the ubiquitous Driver. Well into his ninth decade - and his fifth as a filmmaker - Ridley Scott has finally switched off the auto-pilot and delivered his best film since the extended version of Kingdom of Heaven.

In this age of franchises, belated sequels and reboots, The Last Duel is exactly the kind of film people often bemoan the absence of. What a shame that it struggled so much to find an audience. Hopefully it will soon be seen for the undisputed triumph that it is.

Poor Venom. This misfit from the Marvel canon has had a decidedly ropy time outside the comics. Between a design that calls for only the most convincing CG and a requisite level of violence that would make investors queasy, it's not hard to see why a quality Venom film that pleases true fans might be a very unrealistic prospect.

Tom Hardy is a fan. Thank him for making what little fans got happen, and while the film surrounding him on his first outing was completely forgettable (down to an atrocious music score and even worse end song by Eminem), his turn in the title role was anything but. The interplay between Eddie Brock and symbiote Venom makes or brakes any attempt at an adaptation, and even part 1 delivered. Part 2, while not quite a triumph for the ages, gives us more of what worked well and minimizes what didn't last time around.

Hardy is no stranger to dual roles interacting with each other (see his wonderful work in Legend), and his solo scenes with Venom, be they of simple banter or domestic conflict, are the best things in the film, and set it apart in a very saturated superhero genre. Some of the more surrealist touches, like villain Cletus's animated story and Venom at a costumed rave, also take full advantage of the inherently bizarre nature of the premise. It is unfortunate then, that the rest of the film doesn't embrace the madness, or tones it down, courtesy of a studio mandated PG-13 rating (the source of much of the ire among fellow users' reviews). At times, what we get feels oddly sanitized, and thus nowhere near what fans of the character(s) hoped for or deserved.

I myself am not a Venom fan (or even a Marvel/DC comics fan at all), though I love the design and premise. It's easier for me to appreciate what did work here. At a slick 96 minutes, the running time did smell of studio interference, but on the other hand, it was nice to watch a more compact superhero film. The humor worked better this time too, with a meaner, darker edge to it that suited the character and again made it feel different from Marvel and DC's output. Same goes with the inky, fluorescent photography, by ace Tarantino-go-to-DP Robert Richardson (of all people...). Add in some loopy scene-stealing turns from seasoned pros like Woody Harrelson, Naomie Harris and Stephen Graham, and there's enough fresh stuff here to endear you to it.

There are far worse ways to spend your time.

Bond is back... in retirement... but not for long. Nefarious organization SPECTRE just won't let him and lover Madeleine Swann (Seydoux) enjoy life, and so it's back in action, until the evil cult is supplanted by something even more sinister, and the overarching story begun with 2006's Casino Royale comes to an end, as all things must.

What a tumultuous tenure Daniel Craig has had in the role. Before his initial outing even graced multiplex screens around the world, the verdict was overwhelmingly negative: too rough, too blond... yet wow us all he did, in his first and best Bond film, one that harkened back to the hard edge Timothy Dalton and CO had tried to infuse the series with in the late 80s. The world was not ready then, but it was now. Then the saga went on and did something unprecedented: it tried to create a multi-film arc. Sometimes, it succeeded (Skyfall), but more often than not, it stumbled, and No Time to Die finally comes after not only middling expectations, but also a long pandemic-induced delay and a massive social media ++++storm.

What does it all come down to?

The Good: when the film allows itself to have fun, it really delivers, especially in a trip to Cuba, where Craig dons the tux and Ana de Armas steals the show. Much has been made of Lashana Lynch's substitute 007, but I for one would gladly watch several films worth of Cuban agent Paloma's adventures. Cary Joji Fukunaga is also a confident hand at the tiller, providing both jaw-dropping vistas and precise action scenes that are always energetic and comprehensible, a rare feat these days. Lashana Lynch's 007 owes much of the hate she received - pre-release, as Craig did - to clumsy marketing, and the character registers as a credible threat to potentially give Bond a run for his money, their rivalry more playful and less grating than trailers and promo materials had implied. The threat is also quite fascinating, verging on horror territory. And lastly, if you had to dust off any old Bond tune, you'd be hard pressed to find a more affecting one than Louis Armstrong's "We Have All the Time in the World".

The Bad: No Time To Die's greatest sin is that of its forebears. It has a bigger story to wrap up, one that often compromises the better one being told within the film itself. It has to make us care about Seydoux's Madeleine (with whom he shares only an inkling of the chemistry he had with Eva Green's Vesper) something SPECTRE had failed at. It has to not just be a story in itself but be a definitive end to the Craig saga, a feeling that weighs heavy over the film. It shows us a more sensitive side to Bond, which is interesting in of itself, but would have worked better if either granted more time or introduced earlier in the 5-film arc. There's too much going on, and while this inflates the running time beyond reason (2.5 hours for a Bond film! With an opening credit number 20 minutes in...) The ending still manages to feel rushed. Hans Zimmer is wasted on music-duty, as he tends to be in most projects these days, only succeeding when evoking John Barry's hits, and the opening song is meh.

For all its faults, it certainly is worth seeing. Daniel Craig didn't have the easy suave charm of Sean Connery in his golden first 3 films, but he was credible and thrilling as a killing machine with human urges and charisma. Hopefully this concludes a narrative experiment and Bond can go back to a less weighty formula.

It's no surprise to anyone walking into Dennis Villeneuve's Dune that it is only part 1 of the story. The title implies a very different kind of missing ingredient. But let's rewind.

First, kudos to all involved for, at long last, the definitive screen depiction of Frank Herbert's gargantuan sci-fi classic. Finally, a creative team is able not only to merely hint at, but do justice to a dense plot and long list of players, all while keeping the audience's jaws sagging to the floor throughout most of the runtime. As most other viewers have already mentioned, this is spectacle on a very rare scale, and you would be well advised to view this on the biggest screen possible, in 2D.

Dune is the story of a galactic power struggle for Arrakis, the desert planet home to the spice melange essential to interstellar travel. They who control the spice, control the universe. As the film opens, House Harkonen fall out of favor (or do they?) and stewardship of Arrakis is handed to the noble House Atreides (but to what end?). There, young Paul, the heir to the latter house, discovers his role in the galactic chess-game, and his unexpected calling as a futuristic messiah.

Upon watching Dune, all the usual hallmarks of a Dennis Villeneuve production are again present and accounted for: top-notch casting, world-building and performances. Whereas the expansive nature of the story initially had me wondering why the decision was made to go with a theatrical project (rather than, say, a generously endowed HBO or Netflix miniseries), watching the Canadian auteur at work, it is clear that if Dune belongs anywhere else than on the page, it is on the big screen. The faults, so far, lie largely with the source itself.

The greatest hurdle in connecting emotionally with this film is that Paul, despite total commitment by Chalamet, is hard to relate to once his destiny becomes more clearly traced out. This makes the once controversial decision to beef up the characters of Lady Jessica (Ferguson) and Chani (Zendaya) all the more essential and understandable. Though their actions thus far in no way betray the Herbert tome, they, especially Rebecca Ferguson, become our emotional anchors, and perhaps the film could have weighed this consideration even more heavily.

Dune is awe-inspiring, its designs are fantastic, but it is rarely touching, or emotionally engaging. And somehow, Hans Zimmer managed to drop the ball, churning out generic percussion and throaty wails yet depriving us of a single, memorable cue.

Still, by rights this ought to be the real post-pandemic rallying cry back to the silver screen, and it is very possible indeed that Part II will even surpass and transcend it.

Aaron Sorkin is an incredibly talented writer. He is also a man with firm political convictions. Many of his best scripts and creations derive from a delicate balance of those two aspects of his being. The West Wing got that balance just right, and all the other elements (not least of which is casting, something we will have to cover here) fell into place by some wonderful serendipity. Other times, a strong creative partner can channel his words to beautiful effect, as was the case with David Fincher's Social Network, or Danny Boyle's Steve Jobs. Left to his devices, Sorkin will just revel in being Sorkin, for better or worse.

With that lengthy disclaimer of sorts out of the way, welcome to The Newsroom: star anchor Will McAvoy (Daniels) is paired mid-crisis of confidence with former lover and producer MacKenzie McHale (Mortimer), who awakens the idealist in him. Together, with their rag-tag team, they decide to, lo and behold, "do the news". What follows is a retread of some recent headlines treated with more honesty and clarity of thought than we got in real life, or sometimes simply through a lens that jives better with Sorkin's particular politics. The concept itself is a double-edged sword: it binds us to the real world (all news events covered are factual) and helps us engage with the content, but also deprives us of any big-picture tension. Where The West Wing had created fictional characters and had them behave in often eerily prescient ways, Newsroom constrains us to commenting on events that have spent most of their dramatic juice (such as the killing of Bin Laden or the rise of the Tea Party and short-lived Occupy Wall Street).

Deprived of real greater-world drama, the show goes overboard in creating inter-personal conflict. Without spoiling anything, the number of love-triangles/squares and conflicts of interest within the team itself strains credulity, and would never be accepted at any major news organization, especially given the number of professional screw-ups these relationships provoke over the course of the show. What makes matters worse is that not all the casting hits home. It takes a very unique kind of performer to pull off the blend of wit, arrogance and earnestness that are the trademark of Sorkin's characters and dialogue. Emily Mortimer, the ever-delightful Dev Patel, Sam Waterston and Thomas Sadoski walk that fine line to great success, but others falter. Jeff Daniels is just too sour and too good at being an a jerk to convince in the more delicate moments, whilst Olivia Munn does her best with a character who gets short-changed by her own creator at almost every turn. The real chink in the armor, though, is Allison Pill as Maggie, around whom many of the romantic intrigues unfortunately hinge. "Look at her", says Mortimer's Mackenzie to a fellow colleague in the pilot. "She's me before I got older." If only that were so. Where Mortimer sparkles and commands, Pill tumbles about, gracelessly, her lack of charm or likability undermining all her scenes. Only in Sorkinland would male colleagues all fall for her in an office peoples by the likes of the rest of the compelling female cast. Honorable mentions to two scene-stealing pros: Jane Fonda and Marcia Gay Harden.

There are some bright spots. Sorkin dialogue fizzles and a lot of his best work can be found scattered among the three seasons of this show. It's only when you pause for breath that you realize it's not quite that clever...

Still, not the worst way to spend your time.

Dogs of War is often lobbed into the often pulpy "mercenaries on a mission" sub-genre, and therein lies one of the main obstacles to its recognition. Looking at the marketing and poster, you'd be forgiven for equating this to your standard Chuck Norris actioner or, more charitably, to Wild Geese. But this minor masterpiece belongs in much more esteemed company.

Dogs of War is perhaps one of the best and most honest cinematic studies of the mercenary trade, and the cold cruelty with which the great powers toy with weak nations. After a nightmarish first half where Walken reckons an all-too-realistic dictatorship in Central Africa, he meticulously puts a team and plan together for a client-mandated assault. For the most part, this plays out like one of the great 70s procedurals, like 3 Days of the Condor or All The President's Men, where sporadic bursts of disturbing violence punctuate the building tension.

Plot-wise, the rug gets pulled out from under the audience's feet in many instances, not least of which is the silent horror and disappointment with which Walken's mere discovers the man he is meant to turn into a head of state following his engineered coup.

It all leads to a phenomenally tense and precise action climax, that is both powerful and cathartic, making this little-known cinematic curiosity the crown jewel of its star's career.

Box office results dictate that we will be stuck with Disney's remorseless plundering of its own back-catalogue for a while to come now, and while remakes can sometimes eclipse their original counterparts, the House of Mouse's efforts so far have fallen way short of the mark. And now this!

On paper this could sound passable, if you were to read only the most basic of post-it-fitting summaries. The story has potential, and there are a million ways to do it right, but remember, that's not what this is about. Oh no. The constraints are suffocating: you need to adhere as closely as possible to the animated inspiration, maintain the song and music format, hit as wide a demographic as possible, yet also pad tings out to match modern blockbuster runtime expectations. Okay then...

Since the source's appeal flowed largely from a central performance, it logically followed that Disney would want to re-create that as best it could... BUT they needed someone with real-life charisma, box-office appeal, minimal singing and dancing qualifications and character. Since the inimitable Robin Williams was a bit resentful of how Disney overstepped their rights on Aladdin and is also very dead, they went with obvious replacement... Will Smith?

I care nothing for Smith's beliefs or horrendous nepotism. The guy has incredible charm, and yes, he can act. But his energy is very different from Williams. It is laid back and ironic, not manic and over-the-top. Instead of adapting proceedings to his own type of charisma and humor, the filmmakers shoehorn him into a gaping Williams-shaped hole, and try as you might, you can never forget the extent to which the role was meant for - and in great part co-designed by - someone so different. The quality of Smith's blue CGI makeup is an abomination but it is kept to a minimum, and sadly, is not what truly sinks the film. It's the constant reminder of how wrong Smith is for the part as maintained by Disney, and watching him rap over Friend Like Me will make you feel sorry for the guy.

Speaking of casting, the demands of finding minority actors who can appeal to mainstream American audiences AND carry a blockbuster AND sing clearly proved to much for the studio (never a problem for an animated film where you can easily cheat your way past such constraints), and it's a shame, because in the moments between doing covers of famous songs and reciting inane dialogue, Mena Massoud is rather wonderful. Other choices mostly miss the mark, with Naomi Scott being completely flavorless and burdened with a useless subplot and Marwan Kenzari giving us a ridiculously young and neutered Jafar.

Other reviewers have commented on the cheap-looking visuals, and it often felt like characters were walking through the Magic Kingdom. Director Guy Ritchie brings absolutely no personality to the proceedings, and anyone involved in "adapting" the script for this ought to be ashamed of themselves.

No amount of nostalgia can save this train-wreck, and watching it I either felt embarrassed for the participants or yearning for the original. The only hope it raised was that of the perverse enjoyment some of us might soon experience at watching Disney completely butcher Lady and the Tramp.

Please, find another - ANY OTHER - use for your time and money!

Star Wars has been an interesting ride since the Disney acquisition, mixing financial success with timid artistic expression. Thank George Lucas for creating a universe that is very hard to get right, and for personally demonstrate how horribly wrong it can all go when one strays too far from the winning formula of the original trilogy (by creating the lamentable prequel trilogy). Disney has struggled so far to tell a compelling new story while remaining on safe ground: episode VII captured the tone perfectly but felt like too much of a reboot in terms of plot, while Rogue One tried something new and got bogged down in a dour mood peppered with weird fan-service. Measured against those two offerings, The Last Jedi is another step in the right direction. It still contains a bit too much that is familiar, but, for the most part, succeeds best when it tries to be different.

Plot-wise there is still a bit of confusion. Judging by our catch-up with Luke and Rey, we kick off the minute Force Awakens ended, but the opening crawl and action scene imply time has passed, mostly to the First Order's advantage (and on that front, there is still much confusion as to why there was a Resistance when there was a Republic, and why those resistance always allude to themselves as "Rebels"). From the opening seconds, though, it is clear that a new hand it as the wheel, and one soon understands why Disney seemed so impressed with director Rian Johnson's work here. The visual language is more poetic and effective than Abrams' anonymous work in VII and more appropriate to the universe than Gareth Edwards' more visceral experiment. Between a kamikaze jump to light-speed and Luke Skywalker showing us what a Star Wars Mexican standoff would look like, This is the first film in Lucas' galaxy far far away to carry images that will sear themselves into your retinae.

The plot, in Disney fashion, tries to offer us comforting beats from Empire Strikes Back, our reference episode from the original saga, but, more often than not, this is to subvert our corresponding expectations. A grand second-act mission does not go as one would expect, and, thankfully, potentially groan-inducing revelations are either handled very well or, thankfully, simply do not occur. Not all is perfect, and this film specifically suffers from issues with the Great Disney Plan: clarity of context, as with the First Order thing, clarity with the villains, some of which, such as Snoke and particularly Phasma, do not register as hoped... But the new ingredients, particularly the new lead trio of Rey, Finn and Poe, are definitely winners. Daisy Ridley carries most of the film's emotion on what turn out to be very solid shoulders, while Oscar Isaac is given more to do this time around. In the baddie camp, we're still missing someone with the cold killer poise of Peter Cushing (the real one, not Rogue One's CGI abomination), but Adam Driver continues to knock it out of the park in unexpected ways as Kylo Ren. It is the kind of part that could have gone either way - and, in the hands of a Lucas directed Hayden Christensen, went truly bad - so kudos to Driver for making us care for his conflicted antagonist.

Just as much of the early word on Episode VII was about a great return to form from Harrison Ford, so the internet has been on fire about Mark Hamill burning through the screen. I find the comparison unfair. While Ford merely tapped into that old magic - something he can do very well, admittedly - Hamill's turn as Skywalker here is something else. There are still deep, buried traces of the earnest farm-boy many of us grew up with, but when Master Skywalker decides to throw his weight in, Hamill unleashes a presence and charisma he had never hinted at previously, and it is a jaw-dropping joy to behold. The late Carrie Fisher also glows throughout, her gentle warmth giving the film a lot of its more touching moments.

All in all, this might be looked back on as the one where the new generation of Star Wars films finally decided what they wanted to be, and which language they wanted to use. It does not reach the lofty heights of Empire, nor does it slavishly adhere to that classic's structure. In fact, it offers a cleaner ending, one that opens a fresh horizon with new, established and compelling characters. It will be intriguing to see what happens next.

It is fascinating to see parts of the audience replay reactions to the original Blade Runner. You've heard grievances about plot holes, false set pieces and style over substance, no doubt, as well as something of an open-ended ending? While all these points are true in part, they also all constitute strengths within the context of this particular film, and do justice to its forebear.

Blade Runner 2049 opens as Agent K (Gosling) hunts down remaining Nexus 8+ replicants, against a backdrop of ecological collapse and mega-corporate rule. Tyrell Corp is gone and replaced by a bigger, more ominous force manufacturing a more obedient synthetic workforce. When the seemingly impossible happens, it sends K on a disturbing investigation with severe implications about whether these robots really are, as the original Tyrell tag-line promised, "more human than human".

Much has been made of the stunningly oppressive cinematography. Is it maestro Deakins' career best? It is hard to say, given the extent to which the phenomenal production design and the cinematography complement each other, along with effects that - save for one smartly played uncanny valley-leaning revival - make you wonder what is digital and what is practical. Director Dennis Villeneuve forges another mighty link in a very impressive chain of meticulous films, and while the film can never aspire to be as era-defining as its predecessor, it does convey more emotion and manages infinitely superior chemistry between its characters.

Ryan Gosling anchors and carries the film, despite the emotional distance deliberately placed between him and the audience from the onset. His is a quieter, more subdued tragedy than Rutger Hauer's fallen angel in the original, but his anguish and its pay-off resonate just as deeply. Harrison Ford bares his heart like never before, and his pairing with Gosling works wonders. The rest of the cast often acquit themselves very well despite sometimes limited screen-time or development, with the exception of a slightly underwhelming Sylvia Hoeks as the antagonist's hench-woman. For all his good work as a nightmarish version of a machine-linked Elon Musk, Jared Leto makes you wonder what original choice David Bowie might have done with the role.

In terms of collaborators, the only weak link, at times, is Hans Zimmer, who goes balls-to-the-walls with the more oppressive parts of Vangelis' concepts, but fails to blend those and the quieter moments into a cohesive whole. The music is, when present, also menacingly loud in the sound mix, and while this does reenforce the oft- present and appropriate sense of dread, it sometimes sets up summer blockbuster expectations, which this decidedly - and thankfully - is not. One wishes Villeneuve regular Johan Johansson had been given a chance to play in Vangelis' sandbox.

This is a rich and oppressive work, which refuses to answer all your questions, while evoking many fascinating ideas. It more than does justice to the original, and whatever throwbacks occur and, more often than not, thoughtful - even a reprise of the tears in the rain music theme, which Zimmer comes within inches or overplaying. What worked in the 1982 film still works here, and what didn't is actually improved, from the chemistry to the fact that our detective actually, you know, does some detective work for a change. It is that rare event film that has confidence in a more languid sense of pacing and textured atmosphere.

Imperfect, yes, but undeniably haunting. Much like the original.

They told me it was bad, but I went anyway. It's hard for me judge Ridley's work objectively, you see: two of his early masterpieces traumatized me as a kid and had a lasting effect on me, so I'm prepared to forgive a lot, perhaps too much. Except now, after 30+ years, I think I finally understand him.

Let's zoom out a bit. Ever since the first Alien sequel came out, Scott had been musing about what a sequel involving him might be about. Rather than continue Ripley's journey, he would rather investigate the Alien's origins, especially the colossal race briefly shown in 1979's Alien - in a massive, eerie set Fox almost had canned because it was pricey and did nothing to advance the plot. Think about it: had Fox had held a slightly tighter purse, there would be no Prometheus. Hardly a heart-breaking prospect for most people, myself included.

Fast-forward three decades and Scott got his chance. The answers to the questions nobody really cared about - since when does answering questions help a horror film? - were more puzzling than thrilling, and while you can commend Prometheus for trying something different, it didn't always do so successfully, chiefly in terms of design. Beyond the stupidity of the one-dimensional crew and the confusion of Damon Lindelof's rewrites, one of the greatest disappointments came from changing the engineers from Gigerian nightmares into gigantic blue Jason Stathams.

So Prometheus came and went. Ridley went from saying it wasn't an Alien film, to admitting it had Alien DNA. Audiences cried foul when they realized it totally was an Alien film but didn't feature the illustrious xenomorph. When the inevitable sequel came, it looked like audience feedback weighed heavily in pretty much every respect. You can be the judge of whether or not this turned out to be a good thing.

Alien Covenant reads like a wish-list of disgruntled Prometheus viewers. It fits in everything you liked last time around - Fassbender's android especially - and adds all the things you thought were missing, like the xenomorph (or is it still a prototype?), some brutal killings and echoes of the original film galore.

A new crew gets diverted by a rogue signal (ring a bell?) and discovers a terraformed world with weird idiosyncrasies. Before they can investigate bad things happen and synth human David (Fassbender) comes to the rescue. He is immediately fascinated with the crew's own android Walter (also Fassbender) and we see what he's been up to for the past ten years with engineer technology. Playing God on his lonesome, only a version of God that makes the Old Testament maniac come across as a choir boy...

From the get-go, Covenant goes out of its way to draw parallel's to 1979's Alien. Yes the prologue is pure Prometheus (in the best sense) but, form the way the titles pop up to plot beats, down to reuse of Jerry Goldsmith's score and the rehashed final 25 minutes, this really plays on your sense of nostalgia. It's a pity because while a lot of the newer ideas are a bit silly if you think about them for too long, they are the best things about the film. Them and Michael Fassbender. If you wonder why I haven't mentioned anyone else in the cast, it is because they are interchangeable and forgettable, but Fassbender is just so fantastic and put to such great use that he barely just about redeems the situation.

Quick aside on the music: the Alien saga is unique in the variety of its aesthetics, but it's worth adding that each film had its own distinct musical identity, with no effort ever made to carry over even the slightest theme. This has led to some fantastic music: from Goldsmith's understated eerie original to Horner's martial classic, all the way to my favorite, Godenthal's apocalyptic Gothic opera for Alien 3. Prometheus had a solid, inspiring theme as well, but still made no attempt to unify the saga. While it comes at the expense of creating anything new and memorable, it is commendable of Jed Kurzel to so successfully bridge the gap for a change.

Not all is perfect of course, for every awe-inspiring moment - a ravaged forest of giant trees, David's necropolis and attempt to "pet" a new alien, or his unleashing of deadly plagues - there is another of sigh-inducing stupidity: most of the crew's early decisions, a three-stooges-style alien VS rappelling proto-Ripley duel, or a twist you can see coming a mile away... and that shower scene alluded to in trailers is what you'd expect to see in Paul W. S. Anderson's Alien, down to its surprisingly inept execution.

My expectations were low going into this, mainly because of word-of-mouth, but then I saw it, and suddenly everything made sense. You have to think of it this way: before it was a phenomenon, Alien was a B-movie. Yes it was the best-looking B-movie of all time, but a B-movie nonetheless. That is also, in a way, what Ridley Scott has always been: a hack with a golden eye, who makes the most heartbreakingly gorgeous B-movies you can feast your eyes on. If you go into Alien Covenant expecting that, you just might love it. I can't say I did, but it did adjust my appreciation for it.

There are moments when it's a 1. Others (scarcer) where it could well be a 9 or 10. On the whole, I'll give it a 6.

From prodigy to punchline, M. Night Shyamalan has had fascinating highs and lows as a filmmaker. The man once hailed as the heir to Hitchcock or Spielberg was soon compared to Ed Wood and Uwe Boll... I always found this a bit unfair, due to the tasteful notes sprinkled throughout even his most inept films. But he's finally crossed a line.

Celebrated as a return to form for the creator of the Sixth Sense and Unbreakable, Split follows damaged teen Casey (Anja Taylor-Joy) and 2 cliché bitchy teenager friends, who get abducted by Kevin (James McAvoy). The catch being that his disturbed cranium houses 21 conflicting personalities, with the promise of a very sinister 22nd on the way. Intriguing concept. What might the twist be?

There are - contrary to what you might have heard - two twists in Split. The first is that it mostly does exactly what it tells you it's going to do. And boy is there a lot of telling rather than showing in this overdrawn yarn! The beats are telegraphed in advance and the jumps predictable. The second twist plays squarely in the current trend of exploiting viewer nostalgia: in what might be his most forgettable film, Shyamalan dares to shove in a horribly contrived parallel to his greatest work. If Split is meant as a parallel sequel to that other film, then it shares none of the stylistic identity, which makes the forced kinship feel unnatural.

Speaking of style, the filmmaker has also sadly broken with his earlier aesthetic in most of the ways you could imagine. The visual elegance and fluency of his first 3-4 films is gone - as, sadly, is longstanding collaborator James Newton Howard. After plumbing the depths of found footage in his previous film, Shyamalan delivers a film that is often bland and sometimes downright ugly to watch.

Any positive commentary on this film has to do with its cast, so let's give them their due: McAvoy has a ball with his various personalities. It's never subtle stuff, but he throws himself at it and hops effortlessly between all 21 personalities in Kevin's head. Taylor-Joy, a revelation in The Witch, is, once again, luminous, transcending a half-baked part and giving these dreary proceedings what little believability they have. Her partners in confinement barely register, and, hamstrung as she is with terrible expository dialogue, poor Betty Buckly as the caring psychiatrist manages to deliver the worst performance in a M. Night Shyamalan film - yes, even one that features the customary terrible director cameo!

By now the irony of this review's title - and of the situation itself - should be obvious. Shyamalan would have you believe he's come full circle, back to the glory days of his debut. The truth is much sadder: pushed to the limit and with nothing left in him, yesterday's wunderkind is left scraping the bottom of the barrel for echoes of past glories. In that sense, he is sadly representative of an entire industry with a crisis of creativity.

Mindenki transports us to a strict girl's school in Hungary, where our newcomer protagonist tries out for the renowned choir. Only there's a catch, and the reason she ends up making the list turns out to be a bit disturbing. To say more would be to spoil the story.

Like all art-forms, cinema has its fair share of "golden rules" aimed at steering filmmakers clear of potentially catastrophic mistakes: don't shoot at sea, don't use animals, don't use children... The secret being that if you can transcend the challenges each rule poses, you can make a film that is pure magic. Director Kristof Deak's cast is almost exclusively comprised of 10-11 year-old girls, and he plays them like an elite orchestra. Because the performances are so pure and natural, the storytelling so liquid, this comes across as effortless filmmaking, when in fact it pulls off some of the craft's most daunting challenges.

It will be very interesting to see what Deak and co do next, especially after whatever happens on Oscar Night where, if there is any justice, this little gem will walk away with a little golden statue.

Following a motley gang of rebels on the hunt for the plans to a planet-destroying super- weapon, Rogue One, the fist "stand-alone" Star Wars story, finally lands with a loud thud on our screens. Two films in and Disney's management of this golden franchise is already showing very troubling signs of laziness and risk-aversion. If you've come looking for something a bit more original than The Force Awakens, this will be a a very strange disappointment.

By now the consensus is in that Episode VII, while entertaining, is basically a soft reboot of Episode IV, weighed down a bit by a Mary Sue heroin (despite a personable and able actress in the role). What that installment did do right, however, was nail the tone, and perform at its best when offering new ingredients. Its original characters were, for the most part, interesting and fun to be around, and you wish there were less fan-service to distract you. I mention all this because, strangely enough, Rogue One has the exact opposite problem.

After a title that enigmatically promised X-Wing action, then a trailer campaign implying a kind of Dirty Dozen meets Star Wars, the resulting film is more a limp, flavorless war in space movie with bland, under-cooked characters embarking us on a mission we all know the ending to, and them peppering it very heavy-handedly with enough fan service to handicap any attempt at an original story.

An intriguing new villain is introduced... but the fans want to see Darth Vader (and, supposedly Grand Moff Tarkin from episode IV), even though they have nothing to do beyond look cool and menacing and defang the main villain. Each new character stumbles in and has to be introduced with words: so much for the visual fluency of the original saga. Everyone kinda pouts their way through this, and the mood varies through different grey shades of "subdued" in an effort to be edgy and dark... and instead coming across as completely joyless, a real first for the Star Wars saga.

Unlike Episode VII, the fan service moments will be the only ones to quicken your pulse, never mind their narrative redundancy or lack of sense. Cool! That's Vader's castle... but wait, why are we here? Wasn't Vader established as kinda subordinate to Tarkin in Episode IV? Yeah! We get to see the Death Star fire the big gun up close... Except wasn't Alderaan in Episode IV meant to be a huge surprise? Hey, there's Vader again... dispatching people nobody cares about... And on, and on... Everything "new" in between barely registers, with the exception of Alan Tudyk as K-2SO as a welcome but underused touch of vague humor.

On the strength or these two films, we can expect much of the same coming up. More of the same with fan service coming at the expense of a satisfying narrative. This isn't as inept or ghastly as the prequels by any stretch of the imagination, but boy is it just bland.

See it if you must, but if it's Star Wars in war mode you want, you'd be better off getting a used copy of the Battlefront video game, which probably has more character development and narrative cohesion. At least that will spare you the horrific site of dreadfully CGIed Carrie Fischer and Peter Cushing.

We've hit a point of no return in terms of remakes: the recent announcement of yet another Indiana Jones film, Disney's intention to produce a new Star Wars film every year, and a mooted reboot of Peter and Elliot the Dragon (!) go a long way to showing the complete inspirational bankruptcy of blockbuster filmmaking. And in case that picture isn't sharp enough for you, along comes Jungle Book to crystallize the issue.

The original is among Disney's most perfect creations, and simply reissuing it in theaters might have accomplished what the present abomination did financially, without any of the wasted effort. What we have here is a deconstruction of the original, where every spin on an old idea misses the mark and every new "idea" turns out to be pointless and predictable.

In true flop-fashion, the problems can be traced to before a camera was even unleashed: the casting becomes and end unto itself, despite a weird mismatch between voice and animal or performance. That blend manages to be less convincing than Homeward Bound (and they used real critters). Ben Kingsley barely pulls off Baghera, but Murray and especially Christopher Walken are embarrassing, especially during the latter's cringe- worthy rendition of "I Wanna Be Like You". The real disappointment is poor young Neel Sethi as Mowgli, who is hung out to dry, too often betraying the digital fakery around him.

The throwback moments are mostly appalling, and the additions, all padding, are yawn- inducing: King Louie has a huge temple? Of course it will crumble during a by-the- numbers chase scene, with none of the humor of the original. The film also awkwardly acknowledges its own pointlessness: since the only way to "improve" on the original is to make everything faster, louder and bigger, serpent Ka is bigger than even Anaconda's titular joke was, and Louie could take King Kong in a fight, while the climactic jungle fire setting the scene for Mowgli's showdown with Khan could probably, in this incarnation, be visible from space.

So there you have it, a tale full of sound and fury, told by idiots etc, as the poet said. White noise. Meanwhile, it hardly registers as a blemish on a more recent poet, original author Rudyard Kipling, who would simply be appalled.

Five films into their stewardship of the Batman legacy and DC expanded-universe-in- waiting, and we are seeing the serious limits of Christopher Nolan and his team's abilities. What is the most striking is that those flaws stem from what, in any other genre, would constitute a strength (as evidenced by the recent Interstellar): a profound sense of pathos, and fixation with characters who are obsessive and frail.

Batman V Superman is three things in one, and already that should be a bad sign for anyone expecting a satisfying experience beyond mere fan service. It is a new Batman. It is a sequel to Man of Steel. It is also the first Justice League film. it's hard enough to pull even one of these off properly, as Man of Steel sadly demonstrated, but three? Those can hardly be fair expectations, and yet, team DC believes we wanted all this in one helping.

Man of Steel was the dourest Superman film ever made. You could even argue this isn't Superman at all, given his constant scowl, anger and fear, and his apparent disregard for human life, as showcased in a final city leveling rumble that was spectacular as it was non-sensical. Except without it, you could never have this film...

If you thought our new Superman was an emo sad sack, wait until you meet the new raging, nightmare-crazed Batman. Ben Affleck does wonders with slim material, and at least the plot, contrived as it is, gives him genuine reasons to hate the man in the red cape. If you're even awake 90-minutes into this bleak, depressing mess there's even some joy to be had in watching them go at each other, and the moment many people had dreamed of one day seeing on the big screen often comes close to justifying all the effort and expectation... and then suddenly things veer back to a generic climax. The design is a bit of a letdown, especially an underwhelming CGI baddie with unfortunate resemblances to Lord of the Rings' trolls, but the writing is what crucifies the film: if you thought Batman's reasons for hating Superman were a bit flimsy, the moment that brings them together is beyond contrived and ridiculous.

I understand this is all an attempt to go a bit darker and more realistic than the Marvel universe, a willingness to try something different that, in principle, I can only applaud. But must these films be so dull, so charmless? Batman and Superman can only play off each other if they are a bit different. Here there is so much angst on both sides they cancel each other out.

The only moment that conveys any real excitement is the introduction of Gale Gadot's Wonder Woman. Not only does it ratchet up the silliness a bit but it also delivers a real sense of fun that is sadly missing from the rest of the film.

A lot of that is down to Zach Snyder's confused direction, treating each scene as if it were trailer material and strangely mangling the action scenes, none of which have the precision and clarity of Nolan's outings (or even Superman Returns for that matter), but the story on display is also clumsily told. As a result, much of the fancy effects and choreography fall flat because of dramatic stakes that are either murky or downright inexistent, in a way reminiscent - frighteningly so in the case of one dream sequence - of Snyder's own vacuous Sucker Punch.

Please D.C. universe, lighten the tone a bit next time.

Loudly heralded by flattering headlines and a record-setting budget (and box office in China, supposedly), The Monkey King crashes onto our screens and torrent servers in all its kitsch glory. Will the verdict be kind? Of course not.

First, let's get back to basics: the legend of Sun Wukong, the Monkey King, is a cornerstone of Chinese folklore and literature, and deservedly so. It is one of the great written human myths, and a large part of its appeal is universal, which would make it an ideal flagship project for a transnational production effort. You could adapt only select bits and end up with a great crowd-pleaser, as was done to hilarious results by Stephen Chow's A Chinese Odyssey.

The present effort aims to tell us the whole thing + prequel-style expansion in the form of a trilogy of 3D blockbusters. Ye shall be judged by the expectations ye set! Though the budget sets a record for China, the quality of the result in terms of effects (be they digital or makeup) is woefully sub-par, and the art direction is a mess, making this a frequently incoherent eyesore.

Then, let's look at the talent involved: Chow Yun-Fat and Donnie Yen's charisma and comic sense (respectively) eclipse anything else thrown up on screen, and might have gobbled up most of the budget. Yen gets away with it, wisely playing it both ways and seemingly the only person involved who knows this is all a big joke. Another contributor who barely gets mention in the comments section is Christopher Young, who's marvelous score annihilates anything composed that year and is worth discovering on its own.

It's worth pausing the sarcasm and shedding a regretful tear, for this whole enterprise could have amounted to something more tasteful - an animated feature could have been stupendous! - yet behold: the worst kind of fiasco, one that escapes financial disaster and thus runs the risk of spawning a whole host of similar horrors. But the real Monkey King is stronger than all that, and since filmmakers can't stay clear of his gravitational pull for long, one can hope in a few years time someone will do him justice.

Avoid this garbage and read the source, preferably while listening to this film's unbelievably great score.

Terrence Malick continues his quest to become an increasingly acquired taste, making up for the discrete decades between his second and third films with this hastily conceived latest offering.

Once more assembling an impressive cast, Malick follows a hollow shell of a man in an existential crisis, and here we have the biggest flaw, an unfortunate combination of subject and sensibility: whereas other masters like Scorsese take the otherworldly and make it grounded and relatable, Malick's strength is precisely the opposite, taking the ordinary and injecting it with grace and ethereal majesty that, at its best, can be a profound experience. At worst, it comes across as pretentious and arty for the sake of it. The combination of aloof character and aloof style makes this a hard one to relate to, and the stream-of-consciousness "structure" falls flat, when it soared in Tree of Life, a film grounded in a relatable, primal fear (the loss of a child/sibling).

Everything is left to rest on cinematographer Emmanuel Lubezki's virtuoso shoulders, and were he in rookie in need of a show-reel, this would provide him with a never-ending list of shots any lower-level DPs would kill for. But he isn't, and he's worth better than this slim material, and even his great work experimenting with wide-angle-only lenses and the odd GoPro doesn't make this indispensable viewing. You can see a maturing of this style in The Revenant, or put to playful use in Birdman.

Here's hoping that Malick doesn't lose the plot and instead manages to reconnect with more human stories. Rumor has it that the upcoming - at the time of writing - Weightless has more immediacy. One can only hope.

Sad to say you can pass on this one.