Film Reviews by MW

This is a dark exploration of two twisted minds brutalised by war. Charlotte Rampling, with her hooded eyes and ice-calm presence, is the beautiful victim who after the war turns the tables on her Nazi torturer in a strange act of sadomasochistic revenge. Dirk Bogarde, as in several of his films, is perfect at mixing quiet menace with sexual vulnerability. It's a perplexing story of loathing and desire but eminently watchable.

A very slow comedy of sorts made all the more ponderous by a plot involving endless repetitions of scenes in which the two kooky heroines learn a little more each time about a fantasy mystery which they conjure up by the sucking of a magic sweet. There's a faint, pleasing whiff of Magritte in the look and absurdity of the movie but this overlong shaggy dog story would have benefited from a seriously ruthless editor.

Magical and exquisite to look at but halting in its narrative flow, this a film of stunning images rather than scintillating dialogue; episodic in structure in keeping with Virginia Woolf's time-travel novel. The serene and beautiful Tilda Swinton, almost mute, is mesmerising as the androgynous Orlando.

Clever, if far-fetched, plot difficult to keep up with at times but worth it alone for the chase sequence on foot; a refreshing change from cars. Who knew paediatricians could be so athletic? Never a dull moment.

Masterfully constructed and magnificently filmed account of the friendship which turned to enmity between a Palestinian Jewish noble and his Roman overlord during the time of Christ. Charlton Heston, with his strong features and grave delivery, is the perfect hero and Stephen Boyd, handsome, sly and duplicitous, is the ideal villain. The scenes in which Jesus appears, although you never see his face, are done with surprising sensitivity. The celebrated chariot race, without the aid of CGI of course, remains one of the most thrilling episodes in all cinema.

Feeble, annoying, sentimental flower power era account of the life of St Francis of Assisi demonstrating just how difficult it is to make a drama out of peace and love. Zeffirelli was much more successful when tackling discord in his earlier, masterful interpretation of Romeo and Juliet which, admittedly, had a better script.

Excessively dark and gloomy monotone version of Shakespeare's tragedy with much of the text removed. Michael Fassbender's Macbeth is wooden and lacking in any emotion save a sort of determined killer look. The self-doubt and guilt of Shakespeare's anti-hero seem entirely absent. Marion Cotillard's Lady Macbeth appears far too subservient and little more than a one-dimensional cipher. The mystery and magic of the three witches is completely thrown away. The Scottish accents of the cast are a refreshing approach to the drama but its poetry is lost in a quagmire of violence and cinematic cliché.

Absorbing documentary account of the inspired and rackety life of the heiress who through a mixture of good taste - despite the sniffy condescension of at least one envious art critic - and good luck acquired one of the most remarkable art collections ever. Refreshingly, Guggenheim bought pictures and sculpture for pleasure rather than as investments and was in the vanguard of appreciating Surrealism and, later, Abstract Expressionism. Her astonishing, if rather tragic, love life, despite her plain looks, was something of a work of art too.

The poker-faced Johnny Depp and the still beguiling Faye Dunaway head an exuberant cast who readily immerse themselves in Kusturica's delightfully surreal world of lust and quarrels and broken crockery not to mention his trademark dotty contraptions (in this case a flying machine) to a musical background of Django Reinhardt and a manic accordion (another directorial leitmotif). But this foray into the English language doesn't quite have the engaging edge of Kuturica's native Serbian movies, so gloriously anarchic and wonderfully mad.

A charming, gentle but very slight account of the life of St Francis of Assisi. Its postwar low budget makes it somewhat repetitive.

Villagers tremble with fear and hope in the dying days of the Nazi occupation of Italy. A beautifully observed account of the chaos of war amid a bucolic landscape witnessed through the eyes of a beguiling little girl.

A bewildered Marcello Mastroianni totters through a hopeless, plotless series of semi erotic encounters with a monstrous regiment of females at the height of the women's lib movement. The women are presented as gorgons and Mastroianni as an emasculated lech. This is a middle-aged director's fantasy gone horribly wrong: Fellini suffering his worst ever writer's block.