Reviews

Mick Jackson's BBC docu-drama opens with one implicit warning:

"In an urban society, everything connects. Each person's needs are fed by the skills of many others.

Our lives are woven together in a fabric, but the connections that make society strong also make it vulnerable."

His warning concludes with a fragile strand of spider silk and fades into a fully woven, menacing orb of spider web.

I saw this post-nuclear apocalypse film on the force of Guardian's recommendation for scariest horror films. But I don't consider it the scariest horror I've seen for two reasons: Threads is not really horror by formalistic standards as it can't be qualified by the usual sub-genres (slasher, supernatural, psychological to name a few). Second, it didn't induce a sense of mounting dread (so keenly attempted by most horror movies) in all 112 minutes of running time.

Yet it gave me a nightmare the same night I was done watching.

So what's the big deal? There are tonnes of shows (about wars, nuclear disasters, end-of-the-world) trying to frighten us with gruesome make-up and special effects anyway: Pearl Harbor, The Hills Have Eyes, Children of Men… Well it is here that the film's choice of fictional news footage and anti-aesthetic photography by Andrew Dunn and Paul Morris deserve mention. Amplified by the context of nuclear radiation in a densely populated urban centre, human disfigurement occurring in the thick of those post-disaster scenes were absolutely disturbing to witness.

I haven't seen imageries this persistent and lasting since defective humans and severed limbs in movies by Jodorowsky. The video's grainy resolution — likely the result of analogue format on Super VHS back in the 1980s — adds to the tone of cinéma vérité very well. Overall effect is creepy like a scratchy washed-out video in Hideo Nakata's Ringu, combined with the haunting cruelty in war photos captured by James Natchwey.

Screenwriter Barry Hines hypothesizes the fate of people living in Sheffield when the Soviet Union detonates a warhead above the North Sea. I will not delve into details with a blow-by-blow account of the fictional brinkmanship in Threads, but essentially, a failed US- led coup in Iran escalates into armed confrontation with the Soviet Union. This crisis culminates in nuclear attacks on NATO bases throughout the region, with the city of Sheffield being one of several targets.

Three narrative viewpoints drive the film: documentary aspects are narrated by an omniscient man whom earlier, had warned us of the vulnerability in a system held by connections that interlock too closely. He explains in chronological sequence: how early days of the crisis lead to the melt down of society's economic, social, medical and environmental conditions. And finally, the ultimate collapse of humanity itself. Dramatic arcs are painted through the story of young lovers, Ruth Beckett and Jimmy Kemps. An unplanned pregnancy introduces their respective families (the Becketts and the Kemps) in the mix, effectively setting up these ordinary characters as victims who will suffer for generations to come, acutely and chronically, the full blown effects of this event when nuclear radiation rises and peaks after 3000 megatons of TNT. Another viewpoint follows a small group of council members in Sheffield's Emergency Operations Team.

All three units engineer in full force; a scientifically eloquent, nightmarish and realistic narrative of total devastation caused by a nuclear holocaust.

Threads may be a faux-documentary but still, it makes for a terrifying watch. Miles ahead of fly-by-night Hollywood disaster flicks, this is a deeply intense social realist drama anchored in credible visual tone and political language. Don't let the fact that it was made back in 1984 fool you into thinking otherwise. Not for the squirmish or faint-hearted.

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I've never been a fan of Darwinian theory: why interfere when mother nature will straighten out the weak? Not especially after watching this simple, yet powerful film.

The Dardennes do not make make morality tales. Even though their characters navigate practical dilemmas that challenge their moral stance. This moral stance in turn, corresponds with realities in which these characters exist — it is a ramification of larger economic forces that govern the poor and working-class.

It is with that in mind, that the Dardenne's narrative strategy reflects neorealist tradition and normative ethics. The main point has always been for us, the audience, to observe the conditions in these characters' daily lives, how they conduct themselves or negotiate problems and resolve dilemmas. In a Dardenne film, we're allowed to engage unobtrusively, without passing judgements on what they choose and how they arrive at those choices eventually.

Two Days, One Night is set against the backdrop of an industrial town in Liège, Belgium. Sandra Bya (Marion Cotillard) is a working-class wife and mother who earns her living in a solar panel factory. After a nervous breakdown, she is forced to take a break from work. The duration of her absence isn't known to viewers, but sufficient for supervisor Mr. Dumont to notice it was possible to cover Sandra's work if all 16 workers pulled an extra 3-hours per shift.

Soon, the factory's management proposes €1,000 bonus to each staff if they agree to make Sandra redundant. By the time Sandra returns to work and knows what happened, majority of her co-workers had opted for the bonus. Factory foreman Jean-Marc influenced their votes by saying if Sandra wasn't laid off, maybe they (her co- workers) would be. Regardless, her fate has been sealed via democratic means.

Concerned friend and colleague Juliette appeals to Mr. Dumont and negotiates a secret snap ballot. Everyone will vote first thing Monday morning — will they choose the €1,000 bonus or Sandra? Because the factory's management surely could not afford both.

Two Days, One Night refers to the weekend: rest days where hard workers retreat in comfort to the sanctuary of their homes and private lives. When Sandra is forced to intrude people's lives on a precious weekend, visit each and every one of her 16 co-workers in a bid to change their minds before Monday (I use the word "forced" because clearly, Sandra was embarrassed and reluctant to do it), at one point she laments in self-disgust saying "I can't stand it. Every time I feel like a beggar, a thief coming to take their money. They look at me ready to hit me. I feel like hitting them too." But kitchen worker and husband Manu urges with maturity and understanding, "You have to fight for your job." Both knew Sandra cannot quite walk away and abandon work at the small factory. The family of four has just recently moved out of public housing. Sandra needs the minimum wage job to keep their heads above the water, to keep from going back to welfare assistance.

Much of the film has Manu drive Sandra around the small town of Liège, as the 48-hours clock goes ticking down with growing intensity. The first dilemma is presented as she goes knocking door- to-door, trying to convince fellow employees to give up a salary bonus that they too, badly need. Times are hard and money is tight, her interactions with each co-worker and their subsequent response to her plea is compelling to watch. Lesser film-makers will settle with a cookie cutter protagonist in need of sympathy, but this isn't the case with Luc and Jean-Pierre Dardenne.

There is a real sense here that the space and reality of this film has the relevance of modern social-political commentary. "Will you vote for me?" — the same question when asked repeatedly, becomes illuminated by varying personal realities. Thus allowing the audience to consider the same situation with changing arguments and evolving perspectives. Every step of the way, the audience absorbs a broad spectrum of humanity as reactions toward Sandra ricochet between doubt and certainty: selfish and cruel, unapologetic and indifferent, defensive and guilt-ridden, conflicted and hesitant, kind and compassionate. At one point, it had me wondering if Sandra, for the sake of some colleagues so dangerously close to the margins of poverty, probably shouldn't be appealing at all — after all, their knapsacks are so much tinier and more fragile than the sling bag draped across her hunched, bony shoulders.

All the above reflects just one, out of several more thought experiments found in the plot design. One particular sub-plot examines Sandra's level of resilience as a recovering depressive, and culminates in an episode involving a box of Xanax. Here, Marion Cotillard turns in her role with master class technique — she applies subdued, matter-of-fact emotional tone with the kind of authenticity and resignation made possible only by an exhausted, dehumanized, defeated soul. Less is accurately more.

When I saw L'Infant at the Alliance Française de Singapour back in 2005; I was a young adult in her early twenties with the intellectual capital and moral patience of a fish. Coming out of my first experience with the Dardennes, my opinion towards main character Bruno, was straight forward and quite simply, disapproving — what kind of person sells his own newborn child for a meagre sum of money? I left the small theatre with obvious answers and a snap conclusion, partially dissatisfied and disappointed with the film's ridiculous premise.

Nearly a decade has passed and now having watched Two Days, One Night; I find myself weighing all variables in the complex social totality embodied by one simple observation: "Some people are so rich they don't know what it means to live with so little." I no longer believe in moral absolutes with the reckless naiveté of a youth. What an honest, complex and thought provoking film. How wide-ranging and realistic.

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Jarmusch's decision to cast Tilda Swinton and Tom Hiddleston as cultured star-crossed lovers married for centuries was on point — I could not imagine anyone else carrying such performances otherwise.

The exquisite detail in which we witness the immortal passion and passing frustrations of suave, retro-rock lovers Adam and Eve gives Jarmusch ample chances to weave his signature cinematic style. Everything from the stylish soundtrack, to the surreal photography, to hip-heroin-chic-like performances that mirror the love and longing felt by these two lovers left me wanting more.

This is both a cinephile and Swinton or Hiddleston fan treat where every sidelong glance carries a meaning and every drop of blood is given its own unique trail.

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I'm So Excited is every frame a Pedro Almodóvar film (Talk to Her, Volver, The Skin I Live In): bizarre characters are painted in warm, luscious hues; politically incorrect dialogue are infused with a hint of cheerful irreverence. This saucy Spanish comedy revolves around three gay stewards, two bisexual pilots and a flurry of passengers bound for Mexico.

The main narrative occurs against the backdrop of the plane interior itself. When the landing gear of Peninsula Flight 2549 malfunctions, sexual tensions escalate and inhibitions are shed in tandem to the knowledge of impending death and doom.

We meet the trio of raging queens Joserra (Javier Cámara of Talk to Her), Fajas (Carlos Areces ) and Ulloa (Raúl Arévalo), chief pilot and Joserra's married lover Alex, his co-pilot and one-night-stand Benito. Seven passengers venture in-and-out of the cramped and narrow-spaced cockpit to interrupt this nervous dynamic. Hyper sensitive virgin psychic Bruna (Lola Dueñas) reacts to her powers of ESP and detects the "smell of death" in certain parts of the plane. Norma (Cecilia Roth), a demanding corporate highflyer in business class has mysterious connections to the oligarchs of Spanish society; she fears the malfunction is an assassination attempt to bury the secrets she knows as a high-end dominatrix. A mysterious and nameless Infante, scandalous middle-aged celebrity Ricardo, troubled husband and father Sr. Más and a pair of dopey, drug smuggling newly weds occupy the rest of Flight 2549's fuselage.

Attempts to communicate with family and loved ones ground below are made possible by the only cabin handset that functions — but conversations can be heard over the PA system. This narrative device connects passengers in the plane to various characters on the ground; thus giving shape to back stories that serve to stress and accentuate the panicky mood unfolding within the plane.

This latest offering by Almodóvar is an unbridled, satirical film with flashes of political and sexual humour. In many ways, I'm So Excited is a valuable testament to the hedonistic cultural wave of La Movida Madrileña (the famous Spanish 80s) where freedom of expression, transgression of taboos imposed by the Franco Regime, use of recreational drugs all exist to celebrate a new spirit of freedom in the streets of Madrid.

Far from existing in a farcical vacuum, it would be prudent to consider the historical undertones in this excellent film — it is a subtle reminder of how far the Spanish identity has since evolved in post-Franco years.

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This film is fairly divisive and I'm aware of the naysayers that find those "lame jokes trashy", "character development problematic" and "dialogue full of clichés". In defense of these three major complaints, I say well of course it's not the funniest film there is, but no less humorous than any other film in the superhero genre. Pretty damn entertaining on the overall and casting did a great job with Quill the Starlord.

What I find earnest about this film, is James Gunn's intentional treatment of the space western being a different beast entirely from conventional superhero flicks. Whether in conscious revolt to self- important straight-up Marvel movies, OR mere satisfaction of style and whim consistent with career trajectory as an indie writer- director of B movies (Dawn of the Dead, Slither) I can't say with certainty. Maybe a combination of both. With that in mind, is James Gunn officially an auteur? Yes. Does being one also make him an artist? Maybe, maybe not. Anyway, considering Kubrick's axiom that "a film is or should be, more like music than fiction." I'm inclined to agree with all final verdicts that declare "Guardians of the Galaxy being an unpretentious, fun and likable mess."

Too many cling to the naive belief that a movie rises and falls with character development — not necessarily. While it is okay to care about character development, over insistence is to place too much emphasis on just one element and overlook the rest.

What matters is the overall design works in favour of story material using suitable language. GotG is geared towards the edgy, cheeky and comical. Bunch of goofs and misfits become friends and save the galaxy.

It's a real shame that clichés in the film intentionally deployed before being voluntarily jettisoned by self-awareness midpoint (as a form of comic device) has completely escaped the naysayers.

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As I write this entry, I still find myself wondering how many viewers have misplaced their fondness for this film simply because the same composer Cliff Martinez, scored Harmony Korine's visceral neo-noir teen drama, Spring Breakers.

The most problematic and fallacious point in Only God Forgives positioning itself along the genius of Jodorowsky and Artaud's "Theatre of Cruelty", is that of unfortunate difference in the way hyper violence was used — as a discipline to uphold thematic ideas (anti-bourgeois), or a desperate tool to imply macho substance. In the case of El Topo for example, Jodorowsky expanded both the visual and narrative capabilities of violent cinema by fusing and rewarding it with vibrations in religion and mythology. Refn on the other hand, asserts himself only in the literal vacuums of mise-en-scène and the concrete word. At best I'd call it an objectivist's notion of… surrealist drama. At worst, just another anti-revenge flick seeking to exploit and to emulate, yet severely underestimating the real point of Artaud's pursuit. I find it terribly unconvincing and pretentious.

Can't decide whether Nicolas Winding Refn was crying out for a Lars Von Trier or Park Chan-wook but either way, the film is self- indulgent, boring and full of tired clichés.

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The first thing that came to mind was, what exactly is director Joshua Oppenheimer trying to "investigate" about genocide and defense mechanisms, that viewers familiar with the definition of genocide and defense mechanisms don't already know? That the act of killing is vile, that some extremists are unrepentant sociopaths while others are now regretful, or that the corrupt and evil are still in power in Indonesia today?

Twenty minutes in I could almost see this amateur shock doc running out of steam before relaxing back to the standard formula of trying to supply more jolts, shock and contempt towards Anwar the straw character per minute with each pointed question being asked behind the camera. In one particular re-enactment of the massacre staged in a burning forest as well, choice of composition technique abruptly switches from realistic vérité to subjective theatrics. With that done and repeatedly done, the fact that this "documentary" claims to have brought the truth is a little dishonest. Then again, maybe they were being practical. Why risk it by interviewing genocide victims (illegal in Indonesia) or analysing the implications and effects of this historical event, when simply portraying pompous caricatures of the Pancasila as pompous caricatures of the Pancasila will do?

C-grade shenanigan earning more praise and attention than it deserves… meh.

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When reading internet reviews of Paradise: Love (Paradies: Liebe) — the first in a trilogy of films by Ulrich Seidl, never have I been greeted with such a narrow variety of perspectives. From adjectives limited to a spectrum anywhere between grotesque, obese and tubby, comparisons in style between Seidl and fellow Austrian Michael Haneke, to referencing the exact same quote by Werner Herzog (used in describing Seidl's 2011 documentary Animal Love), I could not help but wonder… what the heck is going on? And when did pundits unite in thinking that female sex tourism in cinema would die eight years ago, after Laurent Cantet's Heading South (Vers le sud); a French film based on three middle-aged women and their search of sex and intimacy with Haitian men?

Herzog's candid remark, conflated into a handy, overused critique isn't worth repeating here.

Loneliness, exploitation, the prison room of cultural and self- repression are themes in this Austrian drama. Cruelly soaked in the warm currents of colonial past; Ulrich Seidl meticulously, sincerely, unapologetically paints the portrait of Teresa (Margarete Tiesel) — a 50 year old woman living in Vienna, upper middle-class, divorced mother of a teenager. Most of the film depicts events that gradually unfold during her lone vacation on the shores of Kenya.

Sex tourism is probably only part of the canvas, though. For in the process, it scratches and destroys the heteronormative lenses with which we understand taboos. Written by Seidl and Veronika Franz; Paradise: Love is a film so explicitly honest to the point of being awkward; that most viewers, embarrassed for Teresa, will look away during moments of vulnerability and self-revelation. The camera of cinematographers Edward Lachman and Wolfgang Thaler looks on unflinchingly during a scabrous encounter with her first companion: does he find her attractive? Isn't she too old for him? Why would he want to make love to her — a beached whale with sagging upper glands, belly full of fat, soggy exterior flawed with celluloid? But most pressingly, having considered the social realist tradition of framing with minimum distortion, why would anyone wince and look away when confronted with mirrors reflecting the consequence of corporeality?

This seventeenth feature by the controversial auteur has been slammed, shamed and shunned for being brazen in its visual audacity. Suggestions that Seidl manipulates viewers with exploitative logic are also suspect in affecting the film's overall reception. Yet, it would be prudent to withhold from believing such. In Paradise: Love — seekers, movers, malcontent inhabitants are drenched in the rich, luxurious texture of a sunlit paradise. The narrative path however; doesn't build up to sex, love or Maslowian truth as its payoff; lesser films would.

I have no doubt this film is a difficult watch because Ulrich Seidl forces Teresa (and us) to acknowledge the naive illusions of paradisaical beauty. But in rhythmic throes that oscillate between anguish, ecstasy and depravity — the African rendition of La Paloma; perhaps a bit saddened by its contrast with the ugly, ordinary trading off between flesh and soul — Seidl derides the remarkable irony of what it means to be human. The dewy-eyed bourgeois privilege suffers. I suppose this is the real reason why Paradise: Love can seem so offensive and unglamorous.

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Unbearably tense and anti-aesthetic.

For his second directorial feature, Tobias Lindholm (co-writer of Jagten) delivers the kind of indifferent, matter-of-fact realism not experienced since the early days of Dogme 95. And because it cuts through all the fluff and artifice that has invaded commercial films without compromising momentum as a situationist thriller, one must concede that Kapringen has upped the ante on Danish rebellion against the Hollywood system.

The refusal to include actual scenes of the hijacking in a film specifically titled "A Hijacking" is no accident.

A cargo ship MV Rozen is hijacked by Somali pirates in the Indian Ocean. Among the eight men crew taken hostage is Mikkel (Pilou Asbæk), the ship's cook. A translator for the pirates issues demand for $15M in exchange for release. But back in Copenhagen, CEO of the shipping company Peter (Søren Malling) learns that gaining the upper hand demands patience. And so negotiations play out in silence like a sociopathic Fischer-Spassky game: cold, calculated, unyielding.

I can't think of any movie in which I have wanted so much to resist and cease watching, yet fail to do so because it has a quality so raw, unsympathetic and intuitive. In keeping with Lindholm's debut feature (a prison drama "R"); Kapringen is filmed on location, in chronological sequence and on board a sea freighter that was hijacked in the Indian ocean. Casting also features a real life hostage negotiator as the central figure and naturally, Somali pirates.

Arguably, mechanical reproduction of genuine conditions doesn't guarantee a convincing film but in this case, it does — Kapringen looks so suitably stained with normality that one instantly recognizes the absence of gimmicky aesthetics. Unmanipulated (or to be PC about words, "seemingly so"), you resonate with the film's fabric of reality while searching for something more, and in the process, gain access into psychological domains that underpin both Peter and Mikkel.

It's not for nothing that Lindholm went through great lengths to replicate an uncomfortable, pressing scenario because the film offers reflection on an overlooked form of terrorism. Corporations may be showing it to employees as a resource on how to respond during such crises, but Kapringen's master stroke — is the revelation of an impasse between the moral versus the practical. There is no payoff at the end of this film, it is one the most sophisticated vérités I have seen, the meta-argument leaves you deliberating, and the film takes off like a thinker on paradox.

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tl;dr - Set aside expectations related to the zombie genre and enjoy World War Z as a disaster popcorn flick.

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Max Brook's muscular, world weary "oral history of the zombie war", a thinly veiled geo-political mouthpiece on the world at large seen through the eyes of an agent working for the UN, has taken shape and form through a movie of the same name — World War Z. But make no mistake about both being made from the same mold.

Rather than pander to the novel's ambitious fictional output of global perspectives (survivors from virtually every continent on Earth were interviewed by the novel's narrator) — this summer flick directed by Marc Forster (Quantum of Solace, Finding Neverland, Stranger than Fiction) is sensibly scaled down on politicking and military machismo. With a tried and tested sci-fi disaster formula, the result works fairly well on its own terms.

Vastly different from Brook's scathing, testosterone driven bestseller and the archetypal zombie gore fest; this latest End-of-World extravaganza is less tired and less verbose. By virtue of that, translates to a much more engaging experience.

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Brief Synopsis: After decades of living in risky, high-stakes existence as a UN investigator; Gerry Lane (Pitt) is now comfortably retired to a cozy, domestic life in Philadelphia with loving wife, Karen (Mireille Enos) and two young daughters. Problem is that a mysterious virus has spiraled out of control and gone global, resulting in a win-win proposition from former colleague Thierry -- the state guarantees refuge and protection for Gerry's family in exchange for his unrivaled field expertise.

Thus we are immediately whisked to the main exposition -- Gerry, accompanied by the Navy SEAL and a virologist (developing the vaccine) traverses international borders in search of patient zero -- the journey spans South Korea and Israel, to the WHO in Wales and eventually Canada.

Trivia: The novel places origin of the zombie outbreak in Dachang, Hebei. Incidentally, the film hypothesizes with narratives about the spread of SARS as a deadly epidemic. It can therefore be understood, that the virus in WWZ is implied to have begun in Northern China.

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It is no controversy that World War Z is plagued with production troubles and the screenplay has undergone a few re-writes, but manifestations of this in film authorship isn't grave or jarring. To the contrary; Forster's version has softened Brook's high-minded hyperbole in exchange for a modest, grounded and back-to-basics approach — this makes for undeniable commercial appeal.

Visually, after a cumbersome and erratically edited zombie rampage sequence in the first act, DP Ben Seresin (Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen) and special effects rebound with impressive large scale photography. The outbreak of zombie hordes in Jerusalem's disaster sequence deserve mention — it is here that the narrative's kinesthetic urgency receives a healthy dose of adrenaline. Action aficionados will be pleased.

Seresin's chaotic apocalypse overrun by waves of running undeads is also given counterweight by a quiet, noble dimension found in Gerry's measured and cool-in-crisis stoicity. Brad Pitt's iconic persona as a humanitarian in real life, may very well have influenced his portrayal of Gerry, infusing the kind of personality and screen image that transforms naturally in a Hollywood film.

But the cleverest stroke in characterization, is that of Israeli soldier Segen (Daniella Kertesz). A sound approach in keeping characters fresh and creative is that material be produced with caveats in mind. Flat, boilerplate stereotypes of women being one example of many. For this reason, I was surprised to discover that much of the film's feistier, more relevant survivalist moments originate from her flair for timing and intuition.

All being said, preconceived notions about what zombie films should and ought to be have divided zombie lovers into two main groups. Fans of Romero's classics may prefer depictions of slow-moving zombies (Night of the Living Dead, The Walking Dead), while others embrace the idea of super sprinters (28 Days Later, 2004 Dawn of the Dead). The good news is that this debate, when filtered through the lens of a global disaster flick, becomes irrelevant (or less so). I guess my point is the EOW genre is constantly evolving, there is no reason why this film should be limited in terms of narrative scope.

The only real complaint is an excessively dramatized, prolonged exchange between an infected doctor and Gerry in the film's final act. You get less awkward, more authentic moments between Rick Grimes and the bicycle zombie girl back in Atlanta. But that's another apocalypse.

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At the end of Zack Snyder's Man of Steel, we agreed that 2013′s Superman is a real sight for sore eyes. But I fell out of love with the caped crusader many years and caricatures ago... as handsome and smoldering hot as the leading man in Henry Cavill could be, I wasn't invested in the outcome of Clark Kent's fate as much as I'd wanted to originally.

Maybe these things are no different from passionate affairs that burn and fizzle out all in the thick of a night — one realizes what a massive waste of time it'd been only after waking up the next morning with gathering clarity.

The magic stardust that co-writers Christopher Nolan (also the film's producer) and David S. Goyer sprinkled around The Dark Knight has disappeared. At a running time of 144 minutes with less than 20 lines of dialog given to its key protagonist, this film might as well be titled "Friends of the Man of Steel". When supporting characters are constantly forcing the narrative with long, loud and generic speeches; perhaps there is a grave problem with the focus and design of this story.

Man of Steel is also an unimaginative reboot of the Superman franchise. The first act is devoted entirely to a lengthy do-over that begins with dad Jor El (Russell Crowe) and mom Lara Lor-Van (Ayelet Zurer), deliberating their newborn's fate on planet Krypton. Here, cinematographer Amir Mokri (Transformers: Dark of the Moon) is limited to the same weary CGI effects and steel-silver-black palettes seen in techy Hollywood films. Ditto for composer Hans Zimmer's deafening crash-bang cues each time something very bad is about to happen on screen.

Even the awestruck respect I had for Michael Shannon's acting chops as a corrupt officer of the LAPD in Premium Rush, gradually faded away as General Zod's gormless, permanent frown kept spacing off and staring into the depths of some grand, epic unknown — it must have been just as tiring for him.

Why did I fork out money to watch a run-of-the mill movie I'd seen several times before? Why would anyone make the same mistake repeatedly and still believe things would finally change the next time round? Perhaps wild idealizations that accompany the search for what was once perfection are responsible for my predicament the morning after.

There is little left to remind me of why the mention of Christopher Nolan's creative input sparked assurance in quality mainstream films. Flashes of grit and style so keenly felt in 2004′s Dawn of the Dead are missing as well. After the awful Sucker Punch, tiresome Dark Knight Rises and now, Man of Steel... the mature, sensible side of me hopes to never sit through another Nolan-Snyder collaboration again. You have to be 12 to enjoy watching this.

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Upon finishing this urban road movie starring Robert Pattinson as a genius multi-billionaire; I ran a Google search for its director, hoping to uncover a precious list of must-watch titles. As it turns out, I've seen virtually everything on David Cronenberg's resume. To name a few: The Fly, Spider, A History of Violence, Eastern Promises and A Dangerous Method…

The verdict for his twentieth feature, is bugger-all to accusations of pseudo intellectual posturing. I imagine watching this Canadian drama-thriller as akin to knocking back a few drinks, with the cinema politica and George Orwell for company.

Adapted from Don DeLillo's dystopian novella of the same name, Cosmopolis is a post-modern inquiry into the lifeblood and executioners of contemporary culture — technology, power, capitalism. Sex, rage and rapture. Solitude, overcrowd and alienation. Dreams, successes and ultimately failures.

The film follows currency analyst Eric Parker (Pattinson in a surprisingly sharp performance) throughout the course of a single day. Protected by a bodyguard, he cruises and works in the privacy of his tinted stretch limo, meeting employees, lovers and acquaintances while making his way to the barber for a haircut.

What Cosmopolis captures so well, is the systematic collapse of Eric's self-erected and self-imposed demarcation. As he weaves through the ebb and flow of Manhattan with progressive chaos and claustrophobia closing in, a furry of encounters with the characters boarding and alighting unfold with rigorous unpredictability. Throw in implausible chance meetings with a ravishing poet wife Elise (Sarah Gadon); and I often found myself wondering if Eric's final awakening, will inevitably persist beyond the reach of his mortal capacity.

This is easily one of the best among David Cronenberg's introspective repertoire of works. Without veering off from the main rhetoric; it is humorous and anti-humor, logical and anti-logic all at once.

"I'm looking for more. Even fire. Show me something I don't know."

Precisely.

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Psychology tropes in films first gained momentum around the same time Freud's psychoanalytic movement did. Specific to the subjects of repressed memory and dream psychology, Alfred Hitchcock's Spellbound back in 1945. As time went by, these tropes have evolved steadily and provided theses in many popular films ranging from those aiming for up market sophistication in Inception, to those going for labyrinthic enigma in The Butterfly Effect.

They are now joined by another psycho-thriller — the trendsetting, highly modish Trance — a sexually-charged investigation into the whereabouts of Francisco Goya's romanticistic portrait of "Witches in the Air".

Based on a modest telemovie by Joe Ahearne (also screenwriter of this film); famed British director, Danny Boyle and his long-time cinematographer Anthony Dod Mantle (127 Hours, Slumdog Millionaire, 28 Days Later) add the glitz, narrative technique and manic energy necessary to crank it up a notch for the silver-screen.

Trance unfolds against the setting of cool, angular skyscrapers in modern day London with young auctioneer Simon (James McAvoy) weighing easy solutions against a difficult problem. He gambles way too much and in a bid to repay massive debts owed to suave criminal supremo Franck (Vincent Cassel), agrees to steal Goya's $25 million painting. But the heist goes unreasonably wrong when a violent escape traumatizes Simon into a state of amnesia, leaving Franck with no painting and no payoff. So it goes that Franck and his ruthless associates spare Simon's life on the condition that he cooperates with a beautiful hypnotherapist, Elizabeth (Rosario Dawson) to regain that crucial fragment of lost memory.

As therapy sessions depart from professional encounters and take on the vibe of bold, smoldering eroticism; the depths of Simon's repressed thoughts begin to unravel complicated truths framed in glossy, visual allegories (that do not preclude pseudo-psychological importance).

I've seen Trance twice, and find it heavy on tired clichés on both times. Haven't we seen and heard it all by now? Sure, it is reasonably entertaining and culminates in a (standard) cataclysmic showdown between the three leads, but I could not help but wonder — why are many so eager to lavish the film with excessive praise? I suspect what makes Trance such a hot favorite is Attitude — as with Gaspar Noé's Enter the Void — a stylish, dangerous synergy of altered consciousness and hypnotic rapture with strands of blood and violence thrown in. Besides, when composer Rick Smith's defiant electroclash of modus machismo strikes the right chord, one must concede and nod along with a hipster head bob.

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Oh man... this is so good in an unfamiliar way. It has rekindled the spark of a teenager trapped in the shell of a cynical adult movie goer.

In a race that began in 2008 to be crowned Hollywood's Coolest and Most Awesome Superhero Movie, the score is now 3-1 with Iron Man on a two- point lead.

The screenplay, co-written between Shane Black (Lethal Weapon, The Last Boy Scout) and Drew Pearce is cleverly penned and packs the right punch for an action movie. By drumming up the significance of Tony Stark's development from previous films (The Avengers, Iron Man 1 & 2) without losing grip of dramatic unity as a whole; Shane Black (also the film's director) conceptualized a heroically simple, winning formula.

Another satisfying aspect of Iron Man 3 (and this converts to audience payoff at the end of 130 minutes), is the sweet simple fact that narrative does not detain viewers with unnecessary exposition and scenes. The big bad guys waste no time playing mind-games for the sake of delaying a final showdown, thus one-upping other blockbusters where it counts. Ergo, no shortchanging and an effortlessly fluid plot.

Things kick off with a flashback to 1999 during pre-Iron Man days, establishing Tony Stark's first meeting with future adversary — a then crippled scientist named Aldrich Killian. Desperate for resources from Stark Industries to develop experimental virus "Extremis" (yet turned away so unceremoniously), sets off rising malevolence from Killian (played by the unforgettable Guy Pearce, even more loathsome here than when he was hateful Charlie Rakes in Lawless). There's also brazen, immediate threat from a grim terrorist leader (Ben Kingsley's prowess and versatility in full glory here as both The Mandarin and Trevor Slattery) — bent on blowing up America at whatever cost necessary. And for what it's worth, I like the spin on Pepper Potts' (Gwyneth Paltrow) damsel-in-distress anticipated — compelling touch to an otherwise archetypal character.

To further inject urgency in the conflict, Tony Stark wrestles with the aftermath of New York (from The Avengers) and taunts The Mandarin on national TV, further exacerbating his wrath. A strike against Stark's mansion hatches a loosely comedic, coming-of-age with 10 year old Harley — it is here that leading man Robert Downey Jr. ingratiates himself as one of the best personality actors in Hollywood — incensed with moral rage at the right moments, oozing unsentimental smooth in others.

I had fun spotting flashes of nostalgia in favorite superhero moments (Spiderman, Superman, Batman and even Transformers) throughout the show as well, and still can't believe they destroyed a fine looking limited edition Dora the Explorer digital watch. Nor of the fact that a highly entertaining movie just ended. What a generous, high-octane hell of a ride.

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65 years after his courageous voyage; 10 years after his death, Thor Heyerdahl's legacy continues to inspire and fascinate. This time through a hybrid of sea adventure and historical drama in a film named after the wooden raft used in his 1947 expedition.

A mesmerizing epic set against the thick of post-World War II, this Oscar nominee (in best foreign language category) is a dramatization of the writer-explorer's 97 days journey sailing from South America to the Polynesian Islands. In an attempt to prove his theory about South Americans being capable of migrating to Polynesia by sea; Thor (played by Pål Sverre Hagen) built a privately funded balsa raft, gathered a five-men crew and embarked from Peru. By using the same technology that would've been used in pre-Columbian times, he had hoped to disprove anthropological skeptics.

Yet to me… this film is more than just sprawling tribute to a grand Norwegian odyssey. It has been said that all exterior scenes of the ocean were captured in open sea (as opposed to interiors of a film set). This strategy paid off for directors Joachim Rønning and Espen Sandberg because the result, is visually rich and emotionally authentic. "And you're going to spend the rest of your life chasing sunsets." Thor's wife wrote in a letter — indeed. Isolated and dehistorized, Kon Tiki captures Thor in a state of pre-famous existence and restless idealism. All thirst for adventure completely intact and willing to trade everything he has in exchange for whatever it is that he seeks.

This film is receiving polarized reviews internationally. Part of the problem may be that exposition begins on the vigor of elegant biopic and takes on the energy of an action-thriller, before it finally concludes in nostalgic sentimentality. But these things are mostly a matter of pre-conceived notions about narrative tone and limits of what a historical drama should, or ought to be. It would be prudent to withhold from such expectations. Rønning and Sandberg have done Thor Heyerdahl's legacy justice.

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The calm, composed quality about Malcolm Campbell's screenplay, is that it casts no immediate judgment on something committed by Richard Karlsen. Ambiguous film title is succinct, yet enough because it raises three simple questions, each substantially more important than the other as the plot unfolds and your curiosity piques — who is Richard, what exactly did he do and why did he do it.

Jack Reynor is lead character in this loose adaptation of a novel by Kevin Powell, Bad Day in Blackrock. Meet Richard, epitome of born winners in post-Tiger Dublin. Privileged millennial soaking in the comforts of upper-middle class. Pre-university, popular but somewhat elusive, likable, virile star captain of the rugby team. Alpha male among a pack of young Irish blood just like himself. They are well- heeled teenagers with bright yuppie lives ahead of them, and this summer, Richard spends it like any teenager would: attending parties and keeping his boys out of trouble.

So early on and yet, Richard lives a rewarding life full of promises. The turning point being that one day, Lara (Roisin Murphy) finally meets his gaze of male desire. Both are visibly entranced and reasonably soon, they get together. Life tastes sweeter when you're a handsome couple but something happens one night, and it alarms Richard. He considers the gravity of this transgression with as much clarity as he could.

In this sophisticated post-genre directed by Lenny Abrahamson, a critical yet low-key scene between Richard and his father (Lars Mikkelsen, elder brother of Mads) suggests the rational imminent and unavoidable. From time to time, we observe Richard's rage and self- reproach, before finally considering his vulnerability as a by-product of larger socio-economic forces. I've heard negative feedback deploring What Richard Did for a lack of closure or resolution but more to the point, what would I have done?

An intelligent, troubling litmus test for Kantians.

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For his thirteenth feature film, French New Wave director Francois Ozon has outdone all acclaim given to his 2002 remake of "8 Women" with a mischievous and dysfunctional tale, of what can be perceived as… coming-of-age.

A black comedy conflated with so much grandeur from literary greats to post-modern poioumena, you cannot help but wave the white flag and just go along in service of jest and sheer curiosity.

Adapted from a brilliant play written by Juan Mayorgo, this film is a meta-narrative centered on Claude Garcia (Ernst Umhauer) -- a sixteen year old loner who intrudes upon the home life of fellow student Rapha Jr., and writes about it. What begins as a one-off weekend assignment for literature class, escalates with great passion and frequency when Claude's teacher, Germaine (Fabrice Luchini) detects flashes of talent and decides to groom the teenager.

Here, Ozon proposes a three-fold narrative weaving through the surface of three realities -- Germaine's growing obsession with Claude's story imitates the viewers' relationship with Ozon's film (and perhaps soap opera addiction), and Claude as a self-conscious narrator of the events occurring inside Rapha's house.

When the film begins, Claude is unhappy with a lonely life and clearly needs to distract himself with wholesome family warmth. Having witnessed Rapha's close relationship with parents Rapha Sr. and Esther at the school gate, strikes a friendship with the boy when semester begins. Establishing himself as a math tutor and study mate, Claude quickly wins their affection and trust. Thrilled by this opportunity to experience life with a sense of belonging, yet predisposed to primitive urge, Claude's desire swells into furtive yearning for Esther. And naturally, things get complicated.

As Germaine's involvement with Claude's writing departs from passive reader, to that of a story-telling coach superimposing rules of dramatic structure, it occurs to the viewer that he may very well be a shaping hand in the outcome of this voyeuristic experiment.

Of course, the fabrics of fiction and reality overlap but they do not confuse -- the satirical logic unfolds in ways that are thought- provoking, humorous and downright captivating.

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Preceded by Tony Manero and Post Mortem, No completes Pablo Larrain's loose trilogy about life under Chilean dictator, Augusto Pinochet. Albeit conceived in strong historical and socio-political context; this story is a simple tale centered on young advertising executive, René Saavedra (portrayed with flair by enigmatic chameleon, Gael García Bernal) — thus making the film accessible to a wide range of foreign viewers.

The time is 1988 and Pinochet has been in power since 1973. In a calculated move to mitigate external pressure against his ironfisted regime, Pinochet confidently initiates a national referendum calling on citizens to vote and decide, whether an eight-year extension into 1996 is valid. The probabilities of course, are carefully measured and his likelihood of winning is rock solid.

In this heartfelt homage to Chilean history, both sides are attempting to secure voters by fighting it out via 30-minute spots on TV — 15- minutes for the "Yes" camp and 15-minutes for "No".

An agency that employs René has been commissioned to design a series of ads for the Government of Junta; with bossman Luis Guzmán (Alfredo Castro) helping Pinochet. Conflicts of interest arise when René exercises his liberty as a freelancer in contra — to formulate the opposition's campaign.

Story begins with a cold open showing creative grit — René is previewing a new commercial with clients in the beverage industry. Within the first few minutes, we find out who he really is — a shrewd and introspective creative director, highly sought after in the business, bit of a rebel in the vein of Don Draper — someone who believes in unorthodox methods and selling the notion of freedom.

A sudden visit from opposition manager José Tomás Urrutia, interrupts his meeting with the clients. In conversations between René and José interfused with a dinner scene between René and his boss, Luis — we drift through a climate of skepticism surrounding the legitimacy of Pinochet's reign, residual fears evolved from the red scare, and reservations about United States after their alleged involvement in the Chilean Coup of 1973. Accusations and recriminations are spewed in hushed, civil tones. Disparity in views (as they are in life) are documented in raw, unfiltered strides.

In a sequence depicting René's journey home on a skateboard, audacious visual-aural symphony amplifies his transformation, and the situation about to unfold. A representative of young blood, it is here that Larrain's spunky protagonist displays progressive streak coursing through his veins, thus establishing an emotional, life-affirming choice provoked by his earlier exchange with Luis.

The film charts two narrative blueprints juxtaposed next to each other: the No campaign from inception to post-referendum, and how it is inextricably linked to René's democratic ideology. Against the backdrop of fierce competition between both camps, his middle-class existence as a single father still harboring feelings for the ex-wife comes into close, thematic focus.

When public opinion becomes cultural movement and things begin to swing in favor of No's provocative campaign; hinting at political activism cleverly cloaked in neutral concepts such as love, happiness and freedom, Pinochet's lackeys begin a series of menacing threats that hover in dangerous, unpredictable shadows. Shot with an aspect ratio of 4:3 using analogue tape; the format also implies a cautionary facet to this film — concerned with lasting effects created by commercials in the heydays of TV, suggesting how a simple medium and viral marketing can radically influence political views of the masses, creating landslide victories for the underdog.

Things comes to a hauntingly ironic conclusion, that much is obvious, but No is a tremendously simple film that burns with quiet ferocity. Pablo Larrain displays talent in using visual moods, incisive dialog and dramatic scores; giving shape to the social atmosphere in 1980s Chile — rife with unquenchable thirst for liberty and change, yet pensive and scarred by a violent past.

Although punctuated with flashes of humor and scathing wit, this Oscar nominee in foreign language category is an intense historical drama that works on a deeper level by finding resonance with universal emotions. Passion seeps through every frame, culminating in a mood most aptly expressed by Tchaikovsky's valse sentimentale.

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