Film Reviews by AS

Nothing but an endless car chase, on and on and on and on. . . Characterisation all over the place. No plot, barely a narrative, just cars and other vehicles smashing into each other, jumping over each other, causing each other to explode, on and on and on and on. . . Might appeal to six-year-olds who enjoy chucking their Dinky toys at the wall.

This has no plot, no narrative and no ending. By using saturated colour the director seems to think he can elevate the dingy, some might say squalid, subject matter to artistic height. All it does is exaggerate its baseness. A wholly meaningless exercise in pretentious movie-making. If you enjoy watching an obscenity-spewing young woman working as a cheap prostitute, while her obscenity-spewing offspring run amok, this is for you. If the thought of that sort of thing turns your stomach, stay away.

A movie about heroes, men who daily put their lives on the line to protect others from the monster that is forest fire. No, this is not another cliché tale populated by Hollywood types pretending to be brave. This is a true story. The narrative is simple but compelling, with a couple of engaging sub-plots. The dialogue is sharp, the acting emotionally satisfying. The director strikes a perfect balance between the character-driven scenes and the action sequences, the latter of which are brilliantly photographed. It is worth stressing again that this is a true story, and if you aren't familiar with it, don't look it up before you see the movie: the ending will then have its full heart-wrenching impact, and will stay with you for a long time.

Why is Branagh made up as a Victorian conjurer? That is just one of dozens of questions that could be asked of this travesty of Agatha Christie's masterpiece. Watch it for free if you want to see the vainglorious actor/director disappear up his own flue in a display of utter self indulgence; but do not squander money on it. For the definitive, elegant, intelligent movie of the novel go to the 1974 version, beautifully directed by Sidney Lumet, and starring Albert Finney in the perfect in-depth portrayal of the inimitable Poirot.

Amid a clutch of well-knowns - Douglas, Malkovitch, Collette, Bloom - Noomi Rapace is the standout as she kicks, punches, stabs and shoots her way through the tortuous plot with nary a hint of emotion invading her face (of course, this may or may not have been acting). Don't look aside for one moment or you'll be lost forever in the maze of blind alleys and double crossings. Almost unique in a genre infamous for its holey plots and loose ends, the storyline is kept leak-free and all threads deftly gathered by writer Peter O'Brien. No surprise that direction is razor-sharp by Michael Apted (Gorky Park, Enigma, The World Is Not Enough). It won't come as any surprise if Ms Rapace returns to mete out further measures of mayhem in the near future.

Starts promisingly, with an ordinary guy caught up in a random act of violence. Mystery develops. A twist occurs and the mood becomes darker. The plot promises to become grippingly convoluted. Then Don Johnson turns up as a ridiculous cowboy character and the movie snaps into comedy caper mode. The twisty plot evaporates, the comedy abruptly forgets why it came in and pretty soon all that's left is a hackneyed vigilante tale. Into the final 30 minutes the ordinary guy who led the narrative has been left completely behind along any shred of commonsense as the action rushes mad cow-like toward the slaughterhouse climax.

According to movie makers the world is overrun (or overshuffled) by old geezers who one day suddenly acquire the skill and vigour to knock over high-security banks.Here's another superannuated trio doing their stuff. Writing and direction keep this effort moving along somewhat faster than the pensioners portrayed by Freeman, Arkin and Cain, who seemingly phoned in their performances, took the money and ran (or hobbled) back to their old folks' homes. There's nothing new here, but if you appreciate the laid-back technique of the three principals you probably won't dislike this creaky caper. Two plus points: Ann Margaret (never ask a lady's age) as attractive and sexy as ever; Chistopher Lloyd, barmy as only he can be.

Is Brian Cox the world's busiest actor? Does he ever make a bad movie? Here he is again in yet another small but (almost) perfectly formed gem. Just when you thought the doddering horror genre was on the verge of finally frightening itself to death, up comes this shot in the arm to resurrect the stretcher case. Okay, there are a few seen-it-before moments, but overall this is a fresh (if anything in the underground morgue location can be called fresh) take on ghoulishness. If you are remotely of a nervous disposition, do not watch. . But if your thing is having your heart stopped every five minutes then you'll love it.

To make a slow-moving courtroom drama you need a powerful writer, a powerful director and, above all, a powerful cast. Then you come up with 'Anatomy of a Murder' or 'Witness for the Prosecution' or 'In Cold Blood'. When you have none of the essential ingredients you come up with this dross, a tale peopled by stock bigot citizens and bent cops, and an investigator played by Colin Firth who wanders through the ruins wearing a perpetually bemused expression as if he has no idea where he is or what he's doing there. The pity is, this could have, and should have, done justice to a real-life criminal case in which justice was very badly served.

Like Abel Magwitch in the swamp, director Ralph Fiennes wallows hopelessly through this mire. His only admirable skill is the ability to turn what was probably a half-page synopsis into an almost two-hour movie. Yet, even given this duration, there is a complete failure to get a grip on Dickens the man. The author's novels are tales of sex, violence and passion, shot through with dark memories of his own childhood. He had a wife, a mistress and fathered umpteen children. He was a ruthless exploiter of celebrity, travelled ceaselessly in pursuit of money, financed plays, theatres and businesses. Fiennes, both as actor and director, fails utterly to convey this character, depicting him as a cavorting jolly good sort, his moments of emotion conveyed by staring extendedly into space. The invisible woman of the title, Dickens' lover Nelly, played by Felicity Jones, is just that, making love and lust look as exciting as ludo on a wet February afternoon. If you want to learn about Dickens and his passions, read his books, steer clear of this emasculated wraith.

An old guy and his son, both of whom aspire to be writers. Neither of them are as good as they think they are, rather like the writer-director of this movie. He has a basic idea, but no plot and a very scant narrative. He ends up with what looks like an overlong and repetitive documentary. The two leads show off their acting skill, but this too becomes a somewhat boring exercise in emotions going nowhere.

The story is nothing new, love affair/power struggle, set against an everyday backdrop (if the White House can be called everyday). But this is great movie making. Reiner puts not a foot wrong, following confidently in the steps of Capra, Cukor and Wilder. Brilliant screenplay, sparkling dialogue and a pitch-perfect performance from Douglas who steals the show by a landslide

Woman blows up elevator, killing a man, a woman and a child. Her excuse: she meant to off her husband's drug dealer. In jail, apart from crying a bit, she shows scant remorse. We are expected to feel sorry for her. This premise is ludicrous. So is the fact that a young police officer falls abruptly and hopelessly in love with her and then abandons his family, his career, his entire life to help the woman escape. This escape seems to last for ever, and, throughout, the woman never considers she should give herself up and face justice for slaughtering innocent people. We are supposed to applaud her attempt to avoid capture. The final scene teeters towards fantasy, leaving us wondering what the hell that was about. What little action there is is regularly dragged to a halt by man staring into space, woman staring into space, man and woman staring into space.If you're a Cate Blanchett fan you might get to the end of this without gnawing your hand off. Otherwise, avoid.

The fault here is writing and direction, both as dull as the apartment the action is set in. The narrative seems to have no purpose, so neither do any of the characters. Thomas, Kline and Smith do their best with the desultory dialogue, its themes of love, loneliness and the meaning of life. But it's been written plenty of times before and with far more emotion. Virtually nothing happens and at the end of ther day the entire exercise has become pointless.

As with all Nordic noir everybody looks dour and it's always snowing. But this is entertaining stuff - if you don't mind the gory splashes all over that white stuff. Sharp, dark and complex with flashes of dry humour. Stick with it through a slow start and those disappearances begin to come thick and fast. Spot the signal for the old men's light at the inevitable end of their tunnel.