I went into Death Wish expecting a laugh a minute, but the movie was never meant to be a joke. In fact, the film is as earnest as it is clumsy, and it’s plenty clumsy. It has heart. And if you squint hard enough, it might even have a point or two worth listening to.

There are quite a few similarities between this movie and Rambo and Rocky. Death Wish carves out a high water mark that its sequels fail entirely to reach, and does a decent enough job of capturing the spirit of its time. The film even has a certain cultural cache, as do the two Stallone vehicles. One major difference however, which should not be overlooked, is that Rambo and Rocky are better in almost every way.

The plot of Death Wish is straightforward enough to make the average Troma film seem labyrinthine. Charles Bronson plays a mild-mannered conscientious objector of an architect who lives in New York City. His wife and daughter are attacked and brutalized by a trio of vicious, animalistic thugs while he is at work, and he goes a little insane. He repaints his living room a ghastly color and proceeds to walk around New York shooting vicious thugs. The media turns him into a modern-day folk hero, and aside from reducing the crime rate and empowering the average citizen, he begins to make the powers-that-be nervous that they might lose control.

The only detour the movie makes occurs shortly after the death of Bronson’s wife, when his boss sends him out to work on a development project in Tucson, AZ. The visit to the country is one of revitalization and recentering, and while it does serve to further the plot a smidge, its primary purpose is symbolic and metaphorical. Every part of the movie but particularly this section creates a dichotomy between the city and the country. The civilized and the frontier. The cowardly present, and the self-reliant bedrock on which America was built.

During this section we have numerous scenes of Very Important Dialog. There is also a mock old-west style gunfight in a tourist trap that proves formative for Bronson, and a scene in which he communes with nature. Towards the end, Bronson takes a trip to the gun range with the cowboy hick (warrior poet) developer who gives him the pistol he uses throughout his vigilante rampage.

Sometimes I’m tempted to make excuses for movies because of their age, but don’t be fooled. Plenty of Death Wish’s contemporaries are not just good but excellent. A short list might include Midnight Cowboy (1969) and Harold and Maude (1971), The Godfather (1972), Chinatown (1974), and One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1975). In fact, Taxi Driver (1976) is one of the best movies of the decade, and it examines many of the same themes as Death Wish.

Never forget that there are plenty of better movies out there. But if you want to go slumming, you could do worse. Don’t expect the world when you rent it, and you won’t be disappointed.

The novel’s greatest distinction is the care with which its characters are drawn. The focus of the story lies squarely on four special children, each of whom comes from a uniquely broken home and has at least a small amount of fairy blood in their veins. Malachi is half-fairy, and the most fey of the four. He lost his mother when he was an infant, and he is constantly teased at school. Total bummer for sure, but the other kids have it worse. Russell is beaten by his father, and he is perceived both by himself and others to be slow. Jeff was repeatedly raped and abused by his father, and his mother ran out on them both. Hazel is the last of the four children, and her burden is more subtle than the others’. She was taken in by her grandparents after the death of her parents, and though they mean well, her grandparents are incapable at some fundamental level of providing her with the care and nurturing every child needs.

Other major characters include Ben, who is Malachi’s father; Jack, their family friend; Father Jamey, a Catholic priest; and Thomas, Jack’s son, a black witch and pawn of the evil faeries. There are lesser characters scattered throughout the story as well, each depicted with admirable clarity and given as much depth as the size of their roles will allow.

Great care is taken to render all the major characters human, even those like Thomas who have made it a point to destroy as much of their humanity as they can. Anyone who has had their heart broken, or suffered a moment of doubt and insecurity, or tried their hardest and failed anyway, will recognize something of themselves in the characters. And ultimately these readers will be uplifted, because the protagonists do learn from their mistakes, and they do grow, and only those who choose it are bound by the negative cycles of their past.

This cast of thousands is successful primarily because of the calculated method with which the prose is crafted. The story jumps from perspective to perspective in rapid succession. Each transition helps add to the web of knowledge that connects every part of the story and gives weight to the setting, the action, and the characters. Journal entries and transcripts of radio and television broadcasts are intercut throughout the other, more intimate and character-oriented segments. These documentary style “artifacts” lend a sense of context and authenticity to the story even as they color (and are colored by) what the reader knows of the characters.

But these are realizations that come primarily after reflection. The screws begin to tighten on page one, and the stakes are constantly on the rise. Fans of fast-paced, character-driven fantasy will find it well worth their time to ferret out a copy.

Yet the religious aspect is one of many things Weitz handles with delicacy and aplomb. If you look for it, it’s there - the movies’ villainous and oppressive organisation The Magisterium can be seen as the Catholic church, but equally as any totalitarian authority if you prefer; the daemon creatures that accompany characters are referred to as their souls in the introduction, but the point isn’t laboured; the mysterious Dust that drives the plot may relate to original sin, or as easily be a handy mcguffin. The religious subtext is still there and it’s not far below the surface, but neither is it heavy-handed or intrusive.

It would be wrong to suggest that Weitz’s adaptation never stumbles; the truth is that it spends more time stumbling than otherwise. But again, the fault lies not such much with Weitz but with Pullman’s rambling and exposition-laden plot, and the fact that he rarely explains his concepts, leaving much for the film-makers to try and rationalise. The Golden Compass exceeds two hours and still feels rushed, but only because it’s an hour and more before it can settle into anything like a linear story. For what seems an age it bounces from scene to scene, desperately trying to set up a world that doesn’t really make much sense, and to cram in pages of explanation in a remotely subtle fashion.

More often than not it fails on both counts, but again, it’s a doomed attempt, and at least Weitz makes the failure a stylish one. The Golden Compass, with its airships, witches, armoured bears and ever-present animal daemons, looks fabulous; some reviews have criticised the CG animation, but the only possible criticism seems to be that there’s a lot of it, because with very few exceptions it looks splendid. The cast is marvellous and well-chosen, with Nicole Kidman surprisingly creepy and the ever-reliable Sam Elliott offering some much needed warmth. More impressively, Dakota Blue Richards - who seemed desperately wooden in the trailer - actually manages to carry off the difficult character of Lyra.

Make no mistake, this is a flawed film. But it has way more going for it than many critics have allowed. It’s often confused and confusing, but thanks to the marvelous, meticulous production design and Weitz’s invention, it’s always watchable and rarely dull. It also has some tremendous scenes, most of them in the latter half and involving Ian McKellan-voiced armoured bear Iorek Byrnison. At its best The Golden Compass is a surprisingly mature (and kiddie-unfriendly) slice of intelligent fantasy; go into it with an open mind and you may find more to like than the critical savaging would suggest.

You’ve got the plot in there, for starters: Robert Ford shoots Jesse James. There’s a bit more to it, but what we essentially have is the death of Jesse James and the events that lead up to it. It’s not exactly a patch of history that film has traditionally ignored, and the supposed difference here is the promise of a demystified account, complete with the realism and psychological insight that’s been absent in previous takes.

But that title is also clumsy and horribly overlong, and that sums Dominik’s movie up just as well. There’s a superb ninety minute film here, and it’s a crying shame that no one - not the writer, not the director, producer or editor - registered that fact and cut away the acres of fat, that frequently turn The Assassination of Jesse James from a sharp, insightful ‘elegiac’ western into a bloated mess.

Make no mistake, that ninety minute masterpiece is there, plain to see, and if you can tolerate the remaining hour then you may think this is a classic. It looks better than any film this year, like an animated all-seasons calendar of the old west. It sounds nearly as good, thanks to Nick Cave and Warren Ellis’s subtle, jaded score. Casey Affleck as Robert Ford gives a stunning performance of self-doubt, frustration, and roiling emotion, no actor has done better work this year. There’s an awful lot to like in Andrew Dominik’s film.

It’s just a shame that it so often gets lost amidst the clutter. It’s not just that The Assassination of Jesse James is slow; it’s that it’s obstructively slow, in a way that serves no purpose except to make Dominik look terribly smart and artistic. It plods from one gorgeous, pointless set-piece to another, saying little, and worse giving no insight into a character that has become a cliché over the years, namely that of James himself. Brad Pitt, an actor just as mythologized as the character he plays, is miscast here - he gives an excellent portrayal of James the legend, but few of the clues towards James the human being that would warrant yet another treatment.

Add in a portentous voice-over - excellently written but clumsy and self-indulgent, since it frequently describes exactly what’s happening on screen - and the general impression is of a film struggling to be clever while tripping up over its own pretensions. Ford, as played by Affleck anyway, is an intriguing figure, the question of why he killed James an interesting one, and when Dominik’s focus stays on him it at least makes for an involving character study. In other moments, like the occasional and shocking explosions of violence, the film comes jarringly to life. But all these scenes do is remind you how sedentary the rest is.

Ultimately, The Assassination of Jesse James will surely prove to be a love it or hate it film. Personally I didn’t quite hate it, but I did find myself painfully bored and praying for it to end, which is hardly a recommendation. Still, there are bound to those who’ll not be put off its crawling pace, find its pretensions revealing, and - perhaps more to the point - admire it for its undoubted artistry. If you think endless, ponderous silences are revealing, or that shots of beautiful scenery are more valuable than insightful character development then chances are you’ll fall into that category and fall in love with Dominick’s sprawling, painterly take on the James legend.

Clearly Sir Ridley has decided it’s time to plug one of the few remaining gaps in his CV.  What we have here, in case that title didn’t give it away, is his stab at the gangster epic.  Whatever his other merits, Scott has always been a canny businessman, and the timing seems well judged: with films like Inside Man, The Departed and Zodiac all performing well in the last few months, the crime movie appears to be undergoing something of a renaissance. 

One element of that comeback is a return to the kind of smart, thoughtful crime films that flourished in the seventies, as epitomised by the work of Sidney Dog Day Afternoon Lumet.  American Gangster follows that trend too, not only on the obvious level that it’s set in the seventies, but with its grim urbanity, its muted colour palette, and its attempts to say something intelligent and to reach outside the specific sphere of crime and punishment to make wider social and political points.

Perhaps taking hints from HBO’s superb series The Wire, American Gangster follows the careers of Serpico-esque Police Detective Richie Roberts and titular criminal Frank Lucas (Denzel Washington), until eventually the former - as head of a joint narcotics taskforce - sets out to take down the latter, now risen to become the most successful drug dealer in New York. 

It’s based on true events, and the one aspect that disappoints is that American Gangster doesn’t manage to sustain its narrative energy all the way through.  At one point Scott tries to build tension for a twist that, if you know anything of the true-life events will be no surprise, and the first third suffers particularly from setting up situation and character that will only pay off much later.  It could easily have been trimmed, too; do we really, for example, need to see Detective Roberts battling for custody of his son?  Though it’s for the most part solid and often good, there are other frustrations with Steven Zaillian’s script too: most annoyingly that he can’t make a point without having one of his characters just come out and say it. 

Script and pacing niggles aside, though, it’s hard to find fault.  Washington is as good here as he’s ever been, as is Crowe, and either of them could justifiably walk away with prizes at Oscar time.  Scott, meanwhile, shows more directorial acumen than we’ve seen from him in a long time.  The brutality and gritty setting mean that he can’t get too diverted by pretty shots of scenery, and has to focus on storytelling instead.  It’s a reminder of how tremendous an artist he is at the top of his game, and a remarkable return to form for someone who just turned seventy.  American Gangster is perhaps the best crime film of recent years, (which taking into account my earlier list is truly saying something), and is good enough at its best to stand amongst the seventies classics it references.

Add to that career-best performances from pretty much everyone involved - particularly stars Harrison Ford, Sean Young and Rutger Hauer - and some astounding technical support, and it really is bewildering that Blade Runner suffered so much in its infancy.  Baffled test audiences led to a studio-driven re-edit, and the addition of possibly the most half-arsed voiceover ever recorded, courtesy of a frustrated Ford, as well as a preposterously forced happy ending.  It was only in 1992, with the so-called Director’s Cut, that Scott’s masterpiece could be seen in its true glory, and fully receive the acclaim it deserved.

That being said, is there really any need for yet another cut?  Blade Runner has had more than its fair share of versions, and the director’s cut has served perfectly well since its appearance.  It’s hard to argue with a polish of the audio and video, but talk of insertion of new footage and new special effects rings alarm bells after George Lucas’s “improvements” to the Star Wars trilogy.  Do we really need Ridley Scott to fix what isn’t broken?

Well, there’s a big difference between broken and subtly flawed, and thankfully it’s a difference that Scott has recognised.  The Final Cut, for the most part, barely qualifies as a new version.  What very little meddling there is, including the newly shot footage and SFX, is in the nature of fixes - a couple of continuity errors, some bad lip sync, wires marring the odd effects shot, all these cracks and more are neatly and invisibly plastered away. 

It’s hard to imagine that any fan, no matter how devoted, could take exception.  The only change that might be considered controversial is the addition of some surprisingly hard-to-take gore and violence.  Batty’s assassination of his maker, Pris’s fight with Deckard, and Batty’s self-mutilation with a rusty nail are all bloodier than in previous editions.  Some will object - Tyrell’s end is particularly nasty - but it’s easy to see why the move was made.  The action in Blade Runner was always unsettling and unglamorous for something billed as a thriller, but now it’s downright repellent.  The impact is greater, the sense of threat and consequence more acute, and some elements - noteably the Pris / Deckard fight - make considerably more sense. 

So, should you see this so-called Final Cut?  Well, if you’re a big fan of the film then that question pretty much answers itself; likewise if you’ve never seen it and want to then this is the perfect opportunity.  But even if you have seen it before, even if you own earlier versions, it’s still worth another look.  The editing differences may not add up to much, but the improvements in quality make a colossal difference - it really does look and sound astoundingly good.  This is without doubt the best version of Blade Runner and if you have the opportunity, it’s an incredible experience to watch it on a cinema screen. 

But at least with his previous films there was a joke to get. If there’s one in The Darjeeling Limited then either I missed it completely or (my personal theory) it just wasn’t very funny. Certainly I could count the points where I laughed on one hand, and even that’s perhaps over-generous. Of course that criticism only holds up if you choose to think of it as a comedy, and often it’s hard to tell. The clincher isn’t that small handful of laughs, but the air of smug knowingness, and recurring visual and dialogue oddities, which seem to imply the build-up of jokes that just never pay off.

There’s a sense that Anderson got stung for trying to experiment in Life Aquatic, and has not only retreated back into safer territory, but made a holiday with his mates out of it. Everyone involved seems to be having fun, but almost none of it translates to the screen, so that the experience is one of watching a party you’re not invited to.

Both of these problems stem from the same source, a decision on the part of the writer-director and his troupe to improvise much of The Darjeeling Limited. Ironically, what on the surface looks like risk-taking may be exactly the reason we get stock Anderson characters in stock Anderson situations - few directors could be less well-suited to such a freewheeling approach. There’s a setup, of three brothers, Peter (Adrien Brody), Jack (Jason Schwartzman) and Francis (Owen Wilson) setting out on a journey of spirituality and self-discovery in India, which in fact is an excuse for them to run away from their respective problems, and … well, that’s pretty much it. They have some disconnected adventures, argue a lot, visit their absentee mother in a Himalayan monastery, and possibly bond or learn life lessons or something, though it’s hard to tell because they’re hardly less precious and self-obsessed by the end than they were at the start.

Of course, even a terribly off-form Wes Anderson is still one of the more interesting of modern directors, and there are a handful of moments in The Darjeeling Limited that just about justify the watching. What sticks in the memory most is a magnificent shot along the cut-away side of a train, where all of the characters (even ones who we know aren’t aboard) are shown in carriages that double as revealing vignettes. That one shot, and the short preceding film Hotel Chevalier (which is only showing in select screenings, though it’s available to download*) achieve as much and more than the entire rest of Darjeeling Limited, with a damn sight more subtlety and panache. If you’re not a raving Anderson fan then perhaps download Hotel Chevalier and take the plunge if you really dig it; and if you are a fan then no doubt you’ll accept this latest outing despite it’s many and obvious flaws.

* If you have iTunes, that is.

Brick Lane follows Bangladeshi woman Nazneen, who’s taken away from her home and sister in an arranged marriage to a much older man, Chanu, who’s fat, ugly, and none too bright, and whose only apparent virtue is a good education.  Early in the film, and nearly twenty years after Nazneen’s arrival in England and the grim London estate of the title, he decides to quit his job, throwing their tenuously-balanced life and marriage into turmoil.  Nazneen befriends a neighbour, takes work sewing clothes, becomes involved with a local political action group, and finally embarks on an affair with her new boss Karim.

Through all of this, Laura Jones and Abi Morgan’s script seems to give tacit approval to everything their heroine does, as though it’s okay for her to cheat on her husband because he is, after all, not much to look at and a bit of an idiot.  To some extent it’s also a fault in Tannishtha Chatterjee’s performance that her pursuit of happiness and fulfilment at the expense of her family comes over as selfish and slightly brattish rather than sympathetic.  Probably this is one element of the media furore surrounding Monica Ali’s book and this adaptation.  We’re given Nazneen’s perspective but little else, so that the Bangladeshi community she’s isolated from, her unloved husband, and her newfound country are portrayed in a way that’s bound to raise a few heckles.

In another sense, though, Brick Lane’s subjectivity is a strength, and it starts to improve if you recognize that all we’re being offered is Nazneen’s singular and very biased perspective.  Director Gavron seems much more interested in that kind of intimacy than in any larger questions surrounding the immigrant experience.  It’s a sensible move that eventually pays dividends, but Gavron could have made more of it.  Sometimes the camera gives insights into Nazneen’s world - her childhood in Bangladesh is shot with the unreal beauty of a fairy tale - but Gavron likes her pretty shots too much to let us see real ugliness, so that even inner city London is oddly attractive.

As I said, Brick Lane recovers remarkably in its final third, changing from an intermittently dull study of one woman’s quest for fulfillment to something altogether more complex and impressive.  The reason for that is husband Chanu - as played, superbly, by Satish Kaushik - and the way his character develops.  Very slowly we start to see (as Nazneen sees) that he’s something more than the blundering fool he first appears to be - he’s a man terribly aware of his own weaknesses, who’s floundering in life, but at the same time utterly devoted to his family and, by the end, possessed of real nobility. 

His transformation, like much of the closing third, is handled with a sensitivity that seems absent from preceding scenes until you look back and realize how deftly it’s been set up.  Brick Lane turns out to be more sophisticated, and far more poignant, than you’d think it could be from the first hour.  It takes an age to go somewhere, but really is worth persevering with, because by its end it offers some of the year’s best and most touching drama. 

It’s not that it’s awful, just than it never gets far beyond okay.  Take the acting for example - Josh Hartnett does a good job of keeping things together with another one of those gruff heroes that are becoming his stock in trade, but almost no one else holds the attention, to the extent that it’s occasionally hard to remember who’s who or just how many survivors are left.  Melissa George, stuck in the overwhelmingly unnecessary role of love interest, makes little impression.  Only Mark Boone Jr really stands out, with some hearty scenery-chewing as the local survivalist redneck type.  When someone points out that vampires don’t fall over when shot, he boasts, “Hell, neither do I,” and manages to sound convincing rather than stupid.

After this and Hard Candy, David Slade is looking increasingly like a director of pretty but empty films.  At least Hard Candy made an impact, albeit a sleazy one, and at least it was involving.  30 Days of Night manages often to be dull, even when things are going on that should theoretically be exciting.  Part of the problem is Slade, who can’t provide the new take on old ideas that’s needed (and that the comic itself managed); another part is a plot structure that doesn’t work well on film.  There are too many questions left unanswered, and the survivors’ staying alive seems both inexplicable and arbitrary. 

Added to that is the issue of just how dumb these vampires are - in fact, their blinding stupidity is the scariest thing about them.  Although they look great, with weirdly distorted, blood drenched faces, the moment they open their mouths to make bodysnatchers-style shrieks or to talk bollocks in a daft-sounding made up language, it becomes very hard to be afraid.  Add to that the aforementioned stupidity, whereby they’re constantly outwitted by humans who barely have the sense to turn the lights off, consider locked doors an adequate defense, and could be easily rooted out with a quick door to door search - well, frankly, it’s no wonder they’ve been keeping their heads down for the last few centuries.

In fairness, 30 Days is on a par with most modern horror, and - in terms of cinematography, effects, and acting - better than most.  It’s a decent B-movie, just original enough to justify its existence and with sound production values, but it could have and should have been so much more.  Almost entirely absent is the eerie unreality of Ben Templesmith’s artwork, gone too (despite his hand in the script) is the freshness that made Steve Niles’ writing stand out.  It’s always watchable, often likeable and occasionally outstanding.  The only really gaping flaw is the editing, which is inexplicably terrible.  For most of the running time it seems to have been badly cut for violence, but there’s an outrageously gory bit towards the end, which suggests that maybe it was just lousy editing after all.  Taking that into account, it may be that a more satisfying cut with surface on DVD.  In the meantime, if you want to see a decent horror movie you could certainly do worse, but for what might have been the year’s best comic adaptation, that still makes it a heck of disappointment.

Apparently Cate Blanchett was always on board with the idea of a second film, and the only reason for the considerable wait was her insistence on being a suitable age to play the Elizabeth of the script.  It’s a nice idea, scuppered slightly by the fact that Blanchett is in her thirties, while Elizabeth was in her fifties when the events of the film occurred.  Unfortunately for anyone who worries about such things, this level of inaccuracy is more the rule than the exception.  Frequently The Golden Age offers little more than a veneer of history, and much of that anecdotal and oversimplified. 

This Hollywoodisation of history has left its sticky fingerprints pretty much everywhere.  We have a slightly kinky love triangle between Elizabeth, her companion, and piratical Walter Raleigh, played with perpetual smugness by Clive Owen.  We have a thoroughly booable villain in the shape of bandy-legged goth Philip of Spain, accompanied by his creepy infant daughter (in reality in her twenties at this point) and the evil Catholic hordes, who want to take everyone’s religious liberty away, and torture god-fearing Christians.  We even have, in one really cringe-inducing sequence, Clive Owen single-handedly taking out the Spanish Armada by going all John McClane on their asses with a burning ship. 

As history it’s all quite rubbish, in places very silly and offensive if you happen to be Spanish, Catholic or generally aren’t convinced that Elizabeth was the greatest monarch to have ever lived.  But as a populist interpretation of what history might have been like if it had just been a lot cooler and more exciting, it’s absorbing and mostly fun.  It’s also extravagantly beautiful in its sets, clothing, hairstyles and furnishings, perhaps the lushest film since Curse of the Golden Flower.  With Remi Adefarasin’s sumptuous cinematography and director Kapur’s engaging direction, The Golden Age often looks beautiful enough to divert you from how much it’s mangling the past.

What really saves it, however, is the acting.  Almost everyone is very good, with a returning Geoffrey Rush as excellent as ever, and Samantha Morton giving a moving, complex performance that rescues Mary Stuart from being just another villainous Catholic.  But as with the first Elizabeth, it’s Blanchett who shines, giving dimension to her character as both a larger than life monarch and a flawed human being.  Largely thanks to her, The Golden Age is often intelligent as a study of power with all its pitfalls, and of the kind of isolation and pressure that would drive most of us insane.  So while the original Elizabeth may have balanced reality and dramatic necessity much better, if you can put that aside you’ll likely enjoy The Golden Age, pop history and all.