Movies I've Seen at the Pics This Year (2007)

This action thriller does exactly what it says on the tin. It's undistinguished from a hundred similar movies, but it's enjoyable enough. Its most interesting feature is the way it constantly shifts the audience's perception of the character of Conners, and the twist at the end is pretty sweet.

The critics have been decidedly lukewarm. Either they're bored with the franchise, or they're getting their fangs in shape for the Summer of the Threequels. I thought it was great: awesome action with multiple villains, emotional turmoil, emo Spidey with eyeliner. It's nice to see that Raimi is as good with a $275 million budget as with a $350 000 budget. The most intelligent sequel of the summer.

Like everyone that grew up loving the book (a staple of sixth-grade curriculums across the States that, for some reason, has yet to touch many hearts on this side of the Atlantic), I approached the film with some trepidation --but, unless 'The Golden Compass' proves perfect in every particular, I don't expect to see a better children's film this year. AnnaSophia Robb is a radiant Leslie, flitting through the film with a smile like a ray of sunshine; while Josh Hutcherson, as Jess, can with one shift of his body language express a depth of emotion that puts many Hollywood actors twice his age to shame. The fantasy is kept to a minimum, and is blent with the real world in a way that reflect's Katherine Paterson's prose, whose sparsity of description evokes a heart-clenching longing for the power of imagination. And I spent the last third of the movie curled up in my seat crying.

I was pleasantly surprised. It's better than the first one. It's a little ham-handed in its critique of the US and the military: when the infected are running among the uninfected, the US Army is ordered to kill everyone, friend or foe, and it's, like, a political statement... The fantastic opening sequence is directed in a chaotic, frenetic style, though, and there's some decent gore. Highlight: lots of zombies (sorry, infected) + helicopter propellor = very happy me.

An interesting conceit, this -- a serial killer movie that is not about a serial killer. That is to say, it doesn't focus on the killins, but on the investigation, and its profound effect on the lives of three men: cartoonist Robert Graysmith (Jake Gyllenhaal), hack Paul Avery (Robert Downey Jr), and cop David Toschi (Mark Ruffalo). It's a thought-provoking study of the nature of obsession and investigation, and it's well worth sticking out the 2-&-a-half-hour-plus run-time.

Enjoyable cheesy fun. And John Travolta in a fat suit and drag.

Unfailingly predictable every single step of the way. Perfect for a girly night in.

Shot in black and white that not only evokes drab '70s Manchester but also hearkens back to director Corbijn's iconic monochrome photographs of the band, this is the story of Ian Curtis's relationship with wife Debbie, and his breakdown, owing to the band's growing success, his affair with a Belgian journalist, and his paralysing depression and sense of his own mortality following his diagnosis with epilepsy -- all of it culminating in his tragic suicide, aged just 23. The film explores the circumstances and character traits that could lead to somebody feeling that he'd screwed everything up beyond redemption when still so young: essentially, Curtis couldn't let anyone in, couldn't deal with who he was and what he did. The bleakness is occasionally lent a note of levity by humorous Hooky or Tony Wilson moments, or by a barrage of subtle late-70s hipster reference points, but otherwise it's two hours of non-stop depressing. A must for all Joy Division fans.

Neither good enough nor bad enough. Some amusing splatter set-pieces, but the combination of high amibition and flat-out stoopidity falls on its face. Not the new 'Shaun of the Dead', then.

Random observation: the actor playing the elder brother is the dead Kiwi spit of Bruce Campbell. Quite unnerving.

In the words of Roger Ebert: I hated, hated, hated this movie! It was an insipid distillation of the simplest level of its magnificent source material, treating the audience like retards. Director Weitz clearly made an eight-year-old read the book and summarize it for him, and wrote his cringeworthy script from there.

On the upside, it does look nice.