TL;DR: Truly spectacular action set pieces and stunts let down by an over-extended and poorly-paced plot 3.5*.

The Mission Impossible series has made a great job of turning out highly entertaining, tongue in cheek action blockbusters, taking the mantle for such glossy movies ceded by the ailing Bond franchise.

Mission: Impossible – Dead Reckoning Part One, partially succeeds continuing in this vein. Its production values are of the highest order – it makes the very most of its glamorous locations and sets, Venice in particular – and its action scenes are exhilarating; the car chase through Rome is both brilliantly filmed and executed; Tom Cruise’s motorcycle stunt eclipses the memory of Steve McQueen in The Great Escape.

There is a very strong ensemble cast who all get a chance to shine alongside the film’s superstar who remains a highly credible action hero despite his relatively advanced age.

The concept of the plot is fine – the good guys and gals desperately trying to prevent a malignant AI megalomaniac from obtaining world domination, but always some doubt as to who is on the right side. Again, it’s the sort of storyline James Bond would battle with in years gone by. But there was always a sneaking suspicion that this being the first installment of a two-parter, and 167 minutes long, it might just be over-extended. Sadly, this proved to be the case.

Director and co-writer (with Erik Jendresen) Christopher McQuarrie must shoulder the blame for this. He has done a sterling job on two of the previous MI films, but on this occasion his pacing is off and the film ending without conclusion is ultimately unsatisfactory. Compounding this is the near total lack of humour. Previous outings have been infused with a bit of levity encouraging the audience to overlook plot contrivances and preposterous scenarios. When a film seems not to be taking itself so lightly the audience is likely to be more critical.

Even so, the memorable parts of the film are several and to be lauded. I enjoyed watching them greatly and imagine I’ll be near the front of the queue when Part 2 is released next year.

TL;DR: A bitterly sad film infused with whimsical humour. 4*

Black comedies are possibly the hardest films to first get right, and then market – that’s why they are few and far between. In the last twenty years I’ve seen two superb films of this genre: the Argentine portmanteau film Wild Tales, and the Anglo-Irish In Bruges.

Despite generally great reviews and being one of the best constructed (and funniest) comedies I’ve ever seen, In Bruges did very moderate box office. I think this is where marketing is a problem. “The hilariously funny story of a hitman who shoots dead an innocent small child and is ordered to lay low in Belgium till the heat dies down.” is a synopsis to have the best marketing executive running for the hills and joining a monastery.

Fifteen years on, the team behind In Bruges, director Martin McDonagh and stars Brendan Gleeson and Colin Farrell, reunite with another dark film, The Banshees of Inisherin. Set on a remote island off the west coast of Ireland, the bitter Irish Civil War a distant backdrop, it tells of two drinking buddies, Pádraic Súillebaháin and the older Colm Doherty (Farrell and Gleeson), in the small isolated community where everyone knows each other’s business. When the fiddle player Colm advises Pádraic that he wants nothing more to do with him – he’d rather spend his remaining days creating music, not talking alcohol-induced inanities – the younger friend cannot accept the rejection and tragedies resultantly occur.

Both lead actors are excellent, playing off each other brilliantly as they did fifteen years ago. A strong supporting cast is near flawless, and Kerry Condon as Pádraic’s astute sister Siobhán deserves a mention in dispatches.
But it’s a haunting and heartbreaking performance from Barry Keoghan as the mentally slow Dominic Kearney which nearly steals the show. Sir John Mills won an Oscar for playing an Irish village idiot in David Lean’s Ryan’s Daughter and it would be fitting if this young actor gets the same accolade.

The screenplay from Martin McDonagh is purposefully bleak, containing whimsical rather than belly laugh humour albeit with a few exceptions – the first confessional scene being prominent amongst them. Cinematography from Ben Davis surely his best work to date.

Did the film have a message? I think so. Pádraic’s observation toward the end that he believes it may be a good thing there are some things that cannot be moved on from, and the film’s era setting, possibly hold the key to its inherent tragedy.

In his superb 1996 crime novel, Quite Ugly One Morning, Christopher Brookmyre opines that ‘proactive’ is the most useful word in the English language as it immediately gives away the person who said it as being a complete wanker. The modern day equivalent would appear to be ‘problematic’.

That some people find this movie ‘problematic’ may well say more about them than the film they would decry.

Green Book is a traditional odd couple road movie telling of a talented black concert pianist, Dr Don Shirley, (Mahershala Ali) and his uncouth, Italian-American working class chauffeur, Tony Vallelonga, (Viggo Mortensen) as they travel around America’s Deep South in the early 1960s.

Don Shirley is a prim, refined and rather pompous character, classically trained but having to earn a lucrative, but unfulfilling living, by playing pop recitals; it’s believed audiences won’t accept classics played by a black man. Tony ‘The Lip’ is an ill-educated racist, a bouncer by trade, whose answer to most problems is a jab and an uppercut.

There’s wonderful chemistry between the two lead actors as their relationship develops as they drive through regions increasingly hostile to the pianist on a two month tour.

The first half of the 130 minute movie is a little sluggish, but it quickly picks up momentum thereafter and is ultimately charming, leaving a glow. There are several neat tricks from director and co-screenwriter Peter Farrelly, deliberately misleading the audience as to the film’s chartered course, keeping the story fresh and avoiding cliché and stereotyping.

There’s a line of dialogue in this well-written film advising that it takes more than genius to change hearts – it also takes courage. Green Book is superbly produced and entertaining, never once preachy. I suspect that films of this nature do more to change hearts and minds than well-meaning but sanctimonious diatribes glorying in sackcloth and ashes.

The film ended so strongly, and with Sinatra on its soundtrack, it took great self-control not to increase its 4 star rating. There won’t be many better films this year.

Directed by Armando Iannucci who co-wrote the screenplay with Simon Blackwell, The Personal History of David Copperfield was never likely to resemble a BBC Sunday tea time serial that some of us remember from childhood days.

Messrs Iannucci and Blackwell have previously collaborated on such satirical comedic work as The Thick of It, The Loop and Time Trumpet – Armando Iannucci also wrote and directed The Death of Stalin, a superb piece of satire, in 2017.

So hopes for this first film adaptation of Dickens’ classic in over 50 years were exceptionally high. They were met in full.

From the little I’ve read of Dickens (Great Expectations, A Christmas Carol) I’m aware that he enjoys creating ridiculously comic characters with bizarre behaviours and physical oddities. And in this tale of the little loved, little wanted boy maturing into a young gentleman, the ensemble cast is given free rein to indulgently over-act to their hearts’ content; it works brilliantly. There’s not a weak link, every actor seems to be thoroughly enjoying themselves and this fun emanates from the screen. This is complimented by set, production and costume design all of which is flawless and adds to the sense of enjoyment. Cinematography from Zac Nicholson is also to be commended.

The script is sharp and there are many laugh out loud scenes, with jokes both visual and verbal, especially in the film’s first half. Social commentary is almost entirely visual. And it’s moving; when the older David Copperfield speaks to his younger self at the film’s end, I’m sure I wasn’t the only one to well up.

Mr Iannucci directs with energy and has a few tricks up his sleeve to keep the audience engaged.

My only question is why Mr Micawber is not given his famous line: ‘Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen nineteen and six, result happiness. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure twenty pounds ought and six, result misery.’ I can only guess the filmmakers are exponents of Modern Monetary Theory so decided to give this principle a swerve.

The Personal History of David Copperfield is an unfettered delight from start to finish. I think this is going to become an annual Christmas treat for me.

Many Hollywood classics in the golden era of films, 1930s – 1940s, were restricted in what they depicted due to the Motion Picture Production Code. Commonly called the Hays Code, it, with Presbyterian zeal, prevented the depiction of lascivious, immoral behaviour as well as crime going unpunished. The Code wasn’t completely done away with until the late 1960s. However, one of its tenets, “Wilful offence to any nation, race or creed.” seems once more to be popular with those who like to impose moral standards.

Alfred Hitchcock’s 1940 Hollywood debut, Rebecca, had to make a fundamental change to Daphne du Maurier’s 1938 novel for code compliance which weakens what is nonetheless a superb piece of filmmaking, rightly perceived as a classic. There are no such limitations to contend with in this British-produced remake.

Rebecca tells the story of an extremely wealthy British socialite, Maxim de Winter (Armie Hammer) who woos and marries a young and naive slip of a girl (Lily James) after a whirlwind romance on the French Riviera. He takes her back to his gothic estate in south west England dominated by the cruelly manipulative housekeeper, Mrs Danvers (Kristin Scott Thomas) and the memory of his first wife whose death is something of a mystery.

Direction from Ben Wheatley is competent, if uninspired, the story progressing in a monotone manner. Cinematography is impressive as are the production values – sometimes the film appears overproduced. The acting quality is mixed. Armie Hammer is suavely debonair without ever bringing any depth to the brooding Maxim; Lily James has little to offer but pouting to the role of the second Mrs de Winter. Kristin Scott Thomas is perfectly cast playing the role of an evil harridan; Sam Riley hammily overdoes the unctuousness in the supporting part of love rival Jack Favell. Jane Lapotaire excels in an all too brief cameo as Granny. The near continuous incidental music is intrusive, often incongruous and at all times completely unnecessary.

This 2020 Rebecca is a passable, lightweight period drama with marvellous scenery and locations always easy on the eye. You’ll likely forget about it soon after watching.

In 2008 the Australian MSM enjoyed whipping up a moral panic when police raided a Sydney art gallery removing naked photos of young teenagers taken by the celebrated photographer Bill Henson. The then Labor Prime Minister, Kevin Rudd, stated he found the photos to be ‘absolutely revolting’ adding that he hadn’t actually seen them. The future Prime Minister, the nominally conservative Malcolm Turnbull, defended the photographer adding that he owned two photos taken by him.

I found the photos to be tastefully understated and was in no way surprised when it was advised there’d be no prosecution and the Australian Classification Board rated them PG only.

So when #cancelnetflix started trending over the controversial film Cuties, I was curious to know what was shown in the film to provoke this outrage.

Cuties tells the story of a Senegalese family living in a socially-deprived suburb of Paris. The film centres on the 11-year old Amy who is expected to follow a servile and subjugated life to the menfolk – her father is returning from Senegal with a second wife and she’s expected to celebrate. Amy’s ambitions are aroused when she oversees a neighbour’s girl twerking; she finds freedom from her stifling life in joining a group of girls in a raunchy adult-style dance troupe.

Written and directed by debutant filmmaker Maïmouna Doucouré, Cuties is extremely well shot on the whole and there are strong performances from what I imagine is a largely non-professional cast. But Ms Doucouré has made gross errors of judgement in including overtly sexually provocative dancing from her young players; others in the making of this film with more experience should’ve ensured these scenes hit the cutting room floor.

For Netflix to defend Cuties, saying that the film is a piece of ‘social commentary against the sexualization of young children’ is rather like defending a Snuff Movie by saying it’s against murder.

The film’s moral compass is also wonky. A scene where Amy twerks the girls out of trouble by, it’s implied, turning on a pedophile was unpleasant to watch; her extreme bullying action against fellow troop member Yasmine, bordering on attempted murder, passes without commentary.

Little Miss Sunshine (How come so many haven’t picked up this is a comedic remake of The Grapes of Wrath?) showed with great skill how to satirise the sexualisation of children, and is one of the finest comedies of the last twenty years. Unfortunately, Cuties comes nowhere near in reaching this film’s heights.

Much has been made of 1917’s cinematography which, through very skilful editing, makes it appear that the film is shot in one continuous track. It’s done extremely well, although there is a very clear, deliberate and unambiguous break slightly over halfway through.

1917 is the latest film from director Sam Mendes, who co-wrote the script with Krysty Wilson-Cairns. Its story is of World War 1 lance corporals Schofield and Blake (George Mackay and Dean-Charles Chapman) who are commanded by General Erinmore (Colin Firth) to run a message to a battalion of 1,600 men to call off an attack the following morning which will result in their massacre.

The film takes on the character of a portmanteau piece as the two messengers run into each episodic scene before moving on to the next one. Some of these scenes work better than others. And it has the drawback of too many shallow cameos from actors unable to bring any depth to their part. The one exception to this is the excellent Mark Strong as a gruffly benevolent and politically-savvy captain who clearly knows the best way to keep his men alive is by being supremely efficient at his job.

The plot has soap opera elements to it – lance corporal Blake is told his brother’s one of those about to be slaughtered. And there’s plenty of contrived happenstance; suspension of disbelief is sorely tested more than once. The lingering doubt that the mode of delivering the message isn’t perhaps the first option that would come to mind is never really dispelled. But perhaps the film’s main failing is its emotional sterility, only at the end is it moving.

Sir Sam is a director of deserved renown whose two recent films for the Bond franchise, Skyfall and Spectre, are amongst the best of that canon. And his skill as a director is shown in 1917; despite the negatives it remains a film with some great merit. I feel Sir Sam has simply allowed technical wizardry and the bait of Oscars to take precedent over storytelling. He’s a good filmmaker. He has more good work inside him.

Much has been made in the publicity material that this is very much a re-telling of the Louisa May Alcott classic. This is nothing less than you’d expect from Greta Gerwig. And a film telling a story that’s been covered so often can best be justified by putting a different spin on it.

Little Women tells of the artistically talented March sisters, living a comfortable life in Concord, Massachusetts. The Civil War, at which their father is away fighting, seems a far distant conflict not in any way impinging upon their lifestyle and artistic dreams.

The film is shot beautifully, its production values superb. The scene on the beach with children flying kites will surely take your imagination to a Paris art gallery where you’re viewing Victorian masterpieces; it’s delightful.

But the film broadly fails to make its characters interesting. Only Saorise Rohan as the headstrong Jo imbues her character with any spirit. Her sisters are all too anodyne and homogeneous, their talents coming too easily. And the lack of any character flaws makes them all rather dull. They come across as prototype Stepford Wives. Amy is allowed, once, to show a lapse in perfection, yet this seems to be merely a contrivance for her to show contrition, and for Jo to display forgiveness. Timothée Chalamet as a foppish Laurie fails to convince he could cause one sister to fall for him, let alone two. Character development is also hampered by Ms Gerwig’s unnecessary non-linear storytelling.

Little Women is always good to look at and should keep your interest throughout, just. But go expecting to see a dramatic re-imagining of an old story and you’ll be disappointed.

In all Guy Ritchie’s crime caper movies there is, perhaps, an amorality and glorification of violence which ordinarily I would find unedifying. But only once, in the morally bankrupt RocknRolla, did this ruin the film and have me booing, metaphorically, at the end; his undoubted talent as a filmmaker has glossed over these shortcomings on all other occasions.

The Gentlemen is the latest in the series, written and directed by Mr Ritchie. Matthew McConaughey plays drug lord Mickey Pearson who is looking to sell his British interests, attracting the attention of other underworld figures keen to inherit his thriving empire.

Guy Ritchie’s sharp direction and non-lateral storytelling are on top form. The script is crisp and witty, the continual plot twists keep you on your toes. If you feel some of the Mockney dialogue is a little bombastic, well, it’d be like going to watch a Carry On film and then complaining about double entendres – over the top dialogue is what he does; it’s his trademark. And his homage to The Long Good Friday is a nice touch and contains a further surprise.

Most of the cast are also on top form, clearly enjoying themselves. Special mention to Hugh Grant playing a seedily odious private investigator-cum-blackmailer. His portrayal is something of a meta joke, channelling his hatred of the British tabloid hacks who have famously pursued the illegal tactics which his character practices. Perhaps the only failure is Henry Golding, in his first role outside rom-com, not quite convincing as a would-be Pablo Escobar. And it’s a shame the excellent Colin Farrell’s role isn’t beefed up more. But these are mere quibbles.

The Gentlemen is a fast paced and laugh out loud action movie, an enjoyable holiday treat for adults. ****

Released in the U.K. and other markets under the far better title, Le Mans ’66, Ford v Ferrari is an exhilarating biopic telling of Ford’s attempts to challenge and outdo the beloved cars of genius Enzo Ferrari in the world famous French 24 hour motor marathon.

Seeking the prestige of the Ferrari badge, Henry Ford II (Tracy Letts), is humiliatingly rebuffed in his attempt to buy a controlling interest in the Italian motor manufacturer. In a fit of pique, he orders his executives to create a car that can turn the tables on Ferrari. Retired racing car driver now designer, Carroll Shelby (Matt Damon), is engaged by Ford executive Lee Iacocca (Jon Bernthal) to do just that. Shelby in turn recruits the cantankerously bloody-minded British racing driver Ken Miles (Christian Bale) to put his foot to the floor and hopefully secure the chequered flag. The project is to be overseen by Ford Senior Vice President Leo Beebe (Josh Lucas).

The film is centred on the dynamic between Shelby and Miles, their awkward relationship and history of confrontation ameliorating as they are both driven, no pun intended, to achieve victory. Their efforts are constantly frustrated by the unhelpful and self-serving Leo Beebe following his own agenda.

Direction from James Mangold (Walk the Line) and cinematography from Phedon Papamichael are both first rate. The racing scenes are truly immersive and you smell the octane. Screenplay from the British pair Jez and John-Henry Butterworth with American Jason Keller, never gets bogged down in technical detail, it simply allows the story to flow, a story so engaging that the running time of two and a half hours never flags; it’s not just for petrol heads. And it says much of Matt Damon’s progression as a film actor that he easily holds his own in his many scenes with Christian Bale. Irish actor Caitriona Balfe as Miles’s wife Mollie provides a strong foil to her husband’s headstrong ways.

Is the film slightly formulaic with stock characters? Maybe so, perhaps. Henry Ford II is shown as a bombastic bully, Leo Beebe an unctuous Uriah Heep-style sycophant. But when all other aspects of a film come together, who cares? Besides, most people love pantomime villains. And whether unwittingly or not, the film shows that maverick genius needs the boring business acumen and the politics inevitably attached to succeed. Both Shelby and particularly Miles are shown as pretty hopeless in their business dealings, neither would’ve got a car anywhere near Le Mans without the bean counters from Ford. The film is also mercifully free of modern day political analogies, concentrating instead on telling its tale without distraction.

I have a feeling this film will become a perennial public holiday favourite.

4.5*