Don Cheadle directs himself, Ewan McGregor and Michael Stuhlbarg in this funky, experimental sideway glance at the jazz icon’s life.

Put it this way, if you are expecting this to be a straight, solid, estate approved biography like Ray, Walk the Line or Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story then you are in for a shock. Cheadle does pay homage to landmark moments in Miles Davis’ rise and fall via discombobulated flashbacks – these are many and give you a good broad strokes and keynotes representation of the jazz pioneer’s chaotic reality. But it’s the framing device that takes up the bulk of the running time and causes as many distracting problems as generates much of the heat. A fictional wild weekend caper movie that owes far more to Midnight Run or Shane Black as it does one of those £3 paperback biographies you can buy in Fopp. As a gun wielding, fist throwing Cheadle and McGregor (a made up Rolling Stones journalist tagging along for a scoop) chase down some missing session tapes that might just inspire the coked up and reclusive Davis out of retirement, you can’t help but feel this aspect either should have been dialled back or embraced fully ( a la Bubba Ho-Tep) for at a more consistent movie. I respect the risk taken but you do feel hoodwinked when you check Wikipedia and discover just how much of the narrative is utter bobbins. Cheadle the star though shines, making the unpredictable, often admirably dislikable, Davis a captivating and credible protagonist.

6

Kenneth Lonergan directs Casey Affleck, Lucas Hedges and Michelle Williams in this superlative drama following a loner who returns to his hometown, where he is reviled, to take care of his teenage nephew after his brother dies. 

No one does bottled up feelings quite like Casey Affleck. His soulful, almost permanently wet eyes and his awkward scratchy voice just ache with repression. And now he’s gonna get the Oscar for it. Trust me… it has to happen for this amazing work. He’s always been outstanding, quietly stealing great movies like Gone Baby Gone, The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford and even his more mouthy, aggressive early small role in Good Will Hunting. This film shares some of that working class male weepy classic’s booze ridden melancholy, it is also surprisingly similar to the plot of his earlier little seen Lonesome Jim, though that venture was twee-er in it indie intentions. This movie explores the devastating affects of old love, tragedy, guilt and responsibility when it is inflicted on those who don’t talk through their remorse, don’t grandstand. Without saying much, it is epic in its emotional scope. Affleck bares these burdens stoically but in a way recognisable for those of us who didn’t grow up in a Woody Allen movie or an episode of Friends. And for all the misery it processes, it is an entertainment. Wryly funny, surprisingly sexy, craftily assembled. It gives room for Michelle Williams to do her equally always impressive acting thing (a short wounding burst near the end from her will break your heart and all it is, is an invitation to lunch) and introduce you to a name making turn from Lucas Hedges as the cocksure ward. I walked out of this and said to Natalie “That’s a great fucking movie.” And my second trip on a weekday afternoon only cemented that. Powerful stuff.

9

Mick Jackson directs Rachel Weisz, Timothy Spall and Tom Wilkinson in this recreation of the libel court case brought against a Jewish historian from a holocaust denier. 

Rachel Weisz is one of the safest pair of hands in modern cinema. Her great performances are numerate but she can even lift weaker blockbusters like The Mummy franchise, The Bourne Legacy or Constantine up to a degree above mere disposable entertainment. Which makes Denial frustrating. An interesting footnote in modern history handled with a calm, measured cinematic matter of factness.  One can’t help but think though given her actions, reactions and how her legal team deal with her, as presented here, that Deborah Lipstadt (the ostensible hero) is a person so annoying, and so lacking self-awareness, that she needs to be essentially muzzled in court so as not come across less sympathetic than a fucking posh, vainglorious holocaust denier! If that was the reality then it comes across insidiously in her representation here but why not lean into the problem that Lipstadt’s personality was a major hurdle to overcome for the legal team to gain further excitement? There’s satirical fun to be had there and a conflict for Weisz’ character to work off of for the running time. Or is it a problem with the script or performances? So as not to appear like Weisz becomes a passive sideline observer to her own trial from the second act onwards they have added blurty lines and idiotic responses that accidentally make her seem like a fucking liability? Either way, a fumble. What could make Denial a better film, and it is still a perfectly watchable one, is some formal risk taking with the narrative. More focus on the antagonist… Spall is not only excellent but his Irving proves quite the proactive and guileful customer. Would it have been in such bad taste to make a film where we follow a opportunistic right winger’s machinations until he is eventually hung by his own petard? The drama only really perks up after Irving lands a glancing blow in court, intentionally just in time for the tabloid deadlines. The movie comes to life in that 10 minutes as the defence team scramble around an enraged Lipstadt back at their offices… I wonder if a more ambitious script resembling 12 Angry Men or The Thick of It set within these after hour moments could have had more grip and grunt, while still easily getting the main points of the case across. The lack of ambition still doesn’t make it any less eyecatching a tale but just imagine if it was a bit more unfettered, a bit more experimental.

5

 

Robert Rodriguez directs Antonio Banderas, Salma Hayek and Steve Buscemi in this border town action western following a murderous mariachi.

Like Sam Raimi did with Evil Dead 2, here Rodriquez takes his $7000 home action movie El Mariachi and enthusiastically grafts on a a 7 figure budget, stars, and the sheen and energy of having more than himself as a crew member to bombastic effect. And for the first hour you get a bullet train paced down and dirty rumble pic -packed with crude jokes, sizzlingly sexy leads, snappy dialogue and cool entrances. It has the pace and funk of a trailer for a great action movie and still manages to be a great action movie. One of the amusing stories around the making of El Mariachi was Robert used all the tallest, toughest looking hombres in his hometown to play henchmen early on in the running time so that by the end it looked like the Big Bad was being guarded by mere young boys and wrinkly old men. Similarly here, the squibs and pyrotechnic frenzy runs out of muscle by the third act… slower, less certain of itself, less satisfying. That stumble holds it back from being a ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ classic. But show me a director who can sprint all the way through a marathon. You get the best use of Banderas ever, great turns from Hayek, Buscemi, Danny Trejo and even…. and I’m genuinely talking about acting here… enthusiastic amateur Quentin Tarantino. What’s not to love? “LET’S PLAY!”

8

Danny Boyle directs Ewan McGregor, Robert Carlyle and Ewen Bremner in this belated catch-up with the ageing population of Irvine Welsh’s Edinburgh skagboy universe. 

An absolute laugh out loud charmer this. Given the talent involved and the original’s untarnished importance to a generation, the weight of expectation should cripple this lesser film fatally. Boyle makes quite clear this is a cash-in, an exercise in nostalgia and sitcommy extension. You wouldn’t and couldn’t enjoy it as a stand alone film. It is a remix of all the old iconic moments imbued with streak of worry line maturity, balding self awareness and hope. Fuck it. It is fun and I can’t wait to bang it on the DVD player immediately after watching the true classic episode one. Renton and Sick Boy have become creaky watered down versions of their less interesting selfs. With the exception of a thrilling visit to a Unionist bar (let’s see how that travels overseas) their main plotline dawdles along, allowing echoes of the past to infect the film, pleasingly so. No… the fight is on between Begbie and Spud for who steals the show. Carlyle gets all the best lines and scenes, only his resolution with his son rings false. While Bremner must be kicking himself that T2  has been released on the far side of the moon for award contention. He takes the buffoonish role he perfected decades ago and amps up the pathos and the bathos to heart wrenching effect. Ya fucking beauty! Now Boyle is the one who you feel could have used this time making a better film, he rarely knocks out less than masterpiece but we’ll give him a pass here. He sticks surprisingly close to Welsh’ literary follow-up Porno, removing only what would truly date or restrict an adaptation. In fact a returning Welsh’ cameo as Mikey Forrester is telling, the fateful drug deal that ended the opening rush in ’96 and he’s the only one who has really benefitted from it. That’s quite the lock up for a fence, full of everything Renton choose to reject in his opening monologue all those years ago.

6

M. Night Shyamalan directs James McAvoy, Anya Taylor-Joy and Betty Buckley in this thriller about a nut with 23 personalities who kidnaps three girls.

A thirty something year old man convincingly dancing to Kanye as a nine year old boy would. Can’t be topped for laughs or creepiness. And pretty much sums this whole five finger exercise up. A rum cocktail of tense and daft moments but what more could you ask for from Shyamalan. McAvoy is pleasantly committed but you suspect there is no real sweat to playing a half dozen different caricatures if they only have to share the same face and no other attributes. Taylor-Joy is equally fine as the final girl… but she’s been better used by horrors of wavering quality elsewhere. The twist is there is no twist… yet one long drawn out narrative rug pull involves child abuse without exploring the emotional damage, just using paedophilia as a get out clause to a sticky situation, narrative shorthand, thus cheapening the whole thing. Meanwhile the coda makes you remember a little too keenly when Shyamalan was actually quite decent at this kinda of self important trash bobbins.

4

Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger direct Deborah Kerr, Kathleen Byron and Jean Simmons in this tale of nuns on a mission in the Himalayas driven to distraction by repression, jealousy and isolation. 

Cor! It all looks right beautiful. Fake vistas surround the fake location but all are mere mattes painted by some impressionistic old master. Essentially a staid drama about religious duty that has sequences of sex comedy and psychological horror embedded within it. The nuns all feel like fragments of Kerr’s youthful Mother Superior personality, with each one becoming more overwrought by their defining mania, dutifulness or nostalgia as the seasons change. Kathleen Byron’s hysteria gripped subordinate in particular often feels like a dark mirror being held up to the protagonist as much as a character in her own right. Then you have browned up Simmons, Sabu, topless David Farrar and May Hallat as the more acclimatised ‘locals’ lustfullily squawking around the nuns like tempting harpies. A strangely disturbing experience, as much parable as straight narrative, told in bold strokes and flashes… just as you’d expect from The Archers.

8

Gavin O’Connor directs Natalie Portman, Joel Edgerton and Ewan McGregor in this western about a woman in the desert who asks her ex to protect her wounded husband as a group of outlaws close in on her homestead.

A rare Western told from a female perspective and closer to the harsh realities a frontier venturing woman might have been threatened with than what your Barbara Stanwyck or Joan Crawford ever encountered. It is a bit too po-faced to gain any lasting pleasures from, a bit too obsessed with its flashbacks to create a captivating main narrative. The potential is there in cast, set up and intention just never capitalised on.

4

John Badham directs Johnny Depp, Christopher Walken and Charles S. Dutton in this real time thriller about an ordinary man whose daughter is kidnapped by a cabal who want him to kill a senator within 90 minutes. 

I remember this being a bit weak when it was released direct to video in my youth but over two decades the central hook was so strong (24 Series 1 managed to spin thrills and spills over a dozen episodes out of essentially the same premise), the two leads so intriguing and my own lack of faith in my teenager self’s judgement that I gave this another shot. Once again though, spotty, greasy, Oasis loving Bobby Carroll of days gone by was pretty astute. This is a waste of a brilliant concept producing, instead of a man pushed to the edge style Hitchcockian paranoia, entire quarter hours of Depp getting his shoes shined (twice) before pacing back and forth like a Type 1 security risk in the lobby of a decent hotel. The trap is so loose, so forgiving of his constant deviations, transgressions and backing out (Why 90 minutes for example? Why not a mere 15 to give him no wriggle room or time to deliberate?… PS I know the structural answer but seriously the conspirators have issued quite the length of rope for him to find his way out of this pit) that no tension is created. Beyond the fact that the film is quite a nice advert for the conference facilities of the Westin Hotel, are there any saving graces? Walken convinces as a man “who will make gravy of your little girl’s bones” even when he spends 90 minutes ignoring consistent provocations to do so, but I bet he convinces he is that type of guy when letting the gas meter man in to take a reading… we didn’t need this time waster to prove that. Depp however sleepwalks through it. Desperate family man is not part of his repertoire, any more than convincing Walken that his character needs at least one professional shoeshine an hour is.

3

Ben Affleck directs himself, Brendan Gleeson and Elle Fanning in this adaptation of the Dennis Lehane’s doorstop thriller about a decent man who controls a Florida city during Prohibition for the Italian mob. 

Affleck and Lehane back together again. Nothing could go wrong. Then I saw the trailer and it all felt a little Dick Tracy… did I flinch? Nah, it’s Affleck and Lehane. Nothing could go wrong. Then the duff reviews came in, and I don’t read reviews before seeing a movie… but sometimes the cacophony of glimpsed at 2 star ratings manage to distract you with their consistency and regularity. Did I stumble on my way to the ticket counter? Nah, it’s Affleck and Lehane. Nothing could go wrong. And the first 20 minutes of period Boston bank robberies, treacherous molls and Gleeson tearing up the screen as Affleck’s hard cop Dad… and I was relieved. It’s Affleck and Lehane. “Nothing has gone wrong.” I whispered to myself. But then things went wrong. And it is hard to put your finger on exactly what while you are watching… except you soon realise as Affleck is passively on the sidelines of various cliched subplots that squirm around each other, trapped in the beautiful two hour bucket, wrestling each other for air… just how boring it all is. Every now and again an impressive exchange of acting or gunfire wriggles free of the bucket, and slithers away, but in the main it’s just all writhing up there on screen, becoming more tangled and indistinguishable. Aside from costume and set dressing, it all feels lacklustre. It feels like everyone thought this was such a sure thing that no effort needed to be made to excel. It feels constrained by 120 minutes of running time, like Gangs of New York there are scenes edited to cut away so quickly you wonder what the point of including them was, and you hypothesise about a longer cut that might give all this unoriginal murmuration just a few extra seconds per moment to find its sure footing. Like watching a series recap of Boardwalk Empire, then some deleted scenes, then another series recap without ever getting to enjoy a well paced, keenly structured episode. You’ll never find me Affleck bashing, not Affleck the director, nor Affleck the movie star, but either on set hubris or some unspoken of studio constriant in the edit booth has hobbled what should have been movie gold.

4