'Silver Linings Playbook'

Pat is bipolar. Tiffany is depressed.

Pat nearly beat his wife's affair to death and has just left the mental institution where he spent the last eight months. He longs for a reunion with his wife, restraining order notwithstanding.

Tiffany has developed nymphomaniac tendencies after the death of her husband and battles a severe depression.

Sounds like the newest Ken Loach? Nope, here comes David O. Russell's Hollywood rom-com in the tradition of a 30s screwball comedy. Like the flawed individuals that people this film, the latter is at odds with itself. First things first though.

Pat then returns to the family home in Baltimore in order to live with his Dad, an OCD bookie who comes to regard his son as the good luck charm his team needs to win, and his mum, a woman of near saintly patience who seems to constantly be churning out sausages and meatballs from her kitchen.

When Pat is invited to dinner by his friend Ronnie and his dominating wife Veronica ( Julia Stiles here, again superb in her signature role as the Ice Queen), he (re-)meets Tiffany. Pat has no qualms about using Tiffany as a courier to get a letter to his wife, seeing as he isn't allowed to approach her. Tiffany in turn, fully aware of being used, strikes up a deal in which she forces Pat to take part in a dance competition to be held at a local hotel.

It is rather surprising how O.Russell tries his hand at formulaic cinema, especially with the last scene gaining in immense importance and momentum through a bet placed on the outcome, the presence of an emotional rival and a public platform for the couple's blossoming romance.

This is a film that lives through smaller moments as the plot is short of ludicrous sometimes. I won't say too much, but the bet? It seems as if the screenwriters constantly tried to find solutions to narrative hiccups and the film never quite feels a unified whole and always slightly out of sync. That being said, it thrives in its careful weaving of a rich character fabric, especially in the care and attention to detail given to the supporting roles, first and foremost of course Pat's dad and mum and the relationship they have, which comes across as very real in Pat's mum's acceptance of his dad's violent streak and the latter's apologetic and absolute loving of her. Everyone in this house is a culprit, his mum for her acceptance and negligence to act, his dad for the violent outbursts which resemble his son's in a way which he fails to see and Pat, in his absolute expectancy of complete tolerance from his surroundings. At the same time, no one's guilty as his mum's passivity becomes patience, his dad's aggression is coupled with a sincere desire to connect with his estranged son and Pat's self-involvement is fueled by the will to be a better man.

It is in O. Russell's never judging his characters that the film excels. While most of the audience accepts the ludicrous plot-line of the bet as we're so used to the cinematic code of 'if it's in the plot it must be true', the directorial restraint, however, also gives the spectator the chance to follow and evolve with the characters at his/her own pace, resulting in an emotional participation rarely found in contemporary mainstream, and make no mistake, mainstream this still is.

Pat's motivation and enthusiasm are a near-scary thing to behold. Remember Tom Cruise in Magnolia? You get the same vibe from Pat here. Pat is an incredibly dislikeable character at first, obnoxious, volatile and self-centred. This does provide, however, for the funniest scenes in the film. O. Russel unobtrusively manages to let the audience warm towards this self-proclaimed self-help pseudo-psychologist in letting us discover the genuine despair and honest will for betterment behind it all. One cannot help but feel admiration when faced with a man who has such a strong will for happiness. Still, the film seems to have done better with American audiences, maybe because the very themes of self-actualization and betterment through emotional bonding just seem more embedded in the cultural fabric of the States. At the same time, scenes like Pat freaking out because he cannot find his wedding video ring uneasily true and have an anguished authenticity to it; in moments like these character-development moves away from narcissistic self-entitlement as the magnitude of Pat's day-to-day struggle of keeping it together becomes apparent. Cooper's performance is loud, but honest and, I say this in full conscience of my own arrogance, a little unexpected.

Teaming him up with Jennifer Lawrence seemed even more of an odd choice to be honest, but proved to be one of the best of the film. Lawrence is as unafraid an actress as they come, she's not only constantly in Pat's face, she's in ours too. She plays Tiffany with a brashness which is as refreshing as it is, at times, uncomfortable to watch. She throws the offer of sex in Pat's face, hiding the vulnerability which inevitably accompanies asking someone to be your friend, even in your twenties. Tiffany becomes the voice of self-acceptance: yes she's dirty, but she also likes that about herself and can he say the same thing about himself. And can we? This scene by definition should have been uncomfortable to watch, yet, wasn't. Lawrence's performance is genuine and, most importantly, never over-the-top, which is not a given, considering this role. There's an appealing sloppiness to Tiffany with her low-cut cleavage and foul mouth, as she is the only one not afraid to tackle Pat.

Her quest for something joyful takes the shape of the dance competition and O. Russell deliberately chooses to make them pretty much suck as dancers, while in a clever twist on the joyful spectacle the musical interlude, he makes us watch a scene from Singing in the Rain. It is here, that the message hits home, as while the audience accepts joyful eruption in musicals or the modern equivalent of dance films, we absolutely refuse to integrate it into daily life. Yes, the final scene was incredibly cringe-worthy to watch, mainly because of its normalcy, at the same time, however, the spectatorial mood shifted from embarrassed to cheerful and here lies the film's greatest achievement. This might seem banal, yet, it has been a long time since I was involved and not merely observing characters on screen.

It further seems as if De Niro is back on track, playing the dad with an emotionally charged intensity and, lo and behold, funny subtlety at the same time, which make his performance a joy to watch, especially in combination with the wonderful Jacki Weaver who acts almost solely with her huge eyes, filling the screen in puppy-like dismay. Then there's Chris Tucker in the role of Pat's friend Danny. He's, and I never thought I would say this about Chris Tucker, but, surprisingly low-key, yet delivers some of the funniest lines of the film. Remains for me to mention Anupam Kher as Pat's therapist, who seems to take Pat with exactly the right kind of low-beat humour the latter needs.

Yet, there's an elephant in the screening room and here I'm left in two minds about the film. As such: Can mental illness be used as romantic premise of a screwball comedy? Love as miracle cure for mental issues, self-betterment and redemption through personal discipline and emotional connection almost seem like a chapter from screen-writing 101 under the heading of character motivation. Only in Hollywood. Even accepting the argument that it might be a useful thing to depict mental illness in its most rudimentary form and remove the stigma by putting it in the context of a romance, I still cannot rid myself of a slight feeling of exploitation when it comes to the use of bi-polar disorder as character-motivation and a happy ending which seems to advocate the fact that no matter how ill you are, the puritan values of a working discipline and the following of a value system helping your re-integration as full member of society, will miraculously cure you. Just like the American ceremonial nature of sporting and sport outcomes take on a nigh-ritualistic spirit, almost standing in for a substitute of sense-making in life. As such, the film, in raising these questions, leaves an after-taste completely counter-productive to its actual outset.

The American pursuit of happiness has a darkly hysteric underside in Silver Linings Playbook and the audience becomes an emotional participant after having witnessed scenes of an accuracy so utmost it becomes painful to watch, even if never in a voyeuristic, but in a compassionate manner. The film has its merits, foremost in its all-round excellent performances and genuinely funny moments, such as my absolute favourite, the Raisin Bran scene, absurd and original. Then again, the mixed message the film conveys never really sits easy as I'm not sure if dancing and free will cure bi-polar disorder and post-traumatic depression. Soundtrack's good though.

'Gangster Squad'

Ruben Fleischer's already proven his ability to gleefully play with extreme violence in Zombieland, so it seems it would only be a matter of time before he would turn to the potentially most violent period in American history, namely post-war LA.

Gangster Squad opens with the typical noir voice-over, here in the form of some such nonsense about badges men wear and how it defines them. It's that age-old American question dating back to the pioneers of who 'owns' a town. The answer is always the same: the wrong guy. Here, in 1949 LA it's Mickey Cohen, former boxer turned Jewish mobster whose physique resembles a squashed pit bull while his behaviour is not of much better quality. Cohen's got the whole town in his pocket and after getting rid of, whatchamacallit, his mobster superior Dragna, Cohen runs the show and there's not much anyone can do about it, especially with most of the police force on Cohen's payroll, unless one does it off the books that is. Which is exactly what police chief Parker, one old-school bastard and only incorruptible in the force proposes to Sgt. John O'Mara, war hero and straight shooter all round. Nolte's voice here sounds as raspy as wrapping a glass vase in tin foil and throwing it down some stairs, it's downright scary to watch at times.

O'Mara, with the help of his wife, The Killing's wonderful Mireille Enos, sets up a small squad with which to go after Cohen and his operation. The team consists of a nice bouquet of noir stereotypes, you've got the drunk cynic who has to be convinced by a dramatic event to do what's right, the crazy gun nut, the young tag-along, the street-wise uniform and the bespectacled intelligence genius. Leaving the badge at home, armed with righteous intentions, but never able to be accused of subtlety, O'Mara and his team hit Cohen where it hurts. Follows a visual feast of violence. Plot-wise this is pretty much it, with a sub-romance between Sgt. Jerry Wooters and Cohen's girlfriend Grace Faraday.

Remember that time when we were all able to sit in the cinema or in front of the TV on Sunday afternoons and just have fun, a kind of childhood ideal situation, uncritical and unbridled joy in film, no matter how good or how bad? Well, this is it people! There is nothing, I repeat, absolutely nothing subtle or refined about Fleisher's film. The clichés are milked for all it's worth and the characters almost seem like stereotypes of stereotypes, if you know what I mean. Nevertheless, it has been a long time since I was so thoroughly entertained for two hours. Gangster Squad will never be a classic, I'm not even sure it's a particularly 'good' film, but the thing is, it doesn't set out to be. It never pretends to be anything else than what it is, namely a good time in cinema. It's a sensationalistic vehicle, handsome in all its artificial glory, funny, though never witty, while the performances are good enough to save the one-liners from unbearably cringe-worthy to delightfully cheesy.

If you're looking for real noir or a Scorcese-like gangster thriller, you will inevitably end up wanting to hurl your cheesy nachos (Yes! I'm talking to you, you smelly pseudo-film buff in Metallica shirt and fuzzy facial pubes in the third row) at the screen. Do us all a favour and put Gangster Squad in context. This is pop-art cinema at its best, a shallow pastiche and I mean this in the best possible way. Cinema for the eyes, not the brain.

Anyway, it wouldn't be a critique without the criticising part now, would it? Surprisingly here it comes in the shape of Sean Penn's performance. It remains uncertain whether Penn's Cohen is supposed to be a spoof of the gangster or a chilling rendition of the alleged real-life lunacy of one Mickey Cohen. As it is, Penn's performance shifts uneasily between frightening intensity and a strange goofing around. I'm not even going to start on the deformed facial implants he wears and which seem to move throughout the course of the film. Or maybe it's got to do with the fact that we’re not used in seeing the method actor in an entertainment blockbuster of this scale. 

Josh Brolin is the one thing that saves his character from incredulous huffing on the audience's part, as he infuses O'Mara with a believability that is hard to explain, but has to do with the physicality of his performance. His body language tells you without the slightest doubt that this guy does believe in the black-and-white moral code he has created for himself. When Keeler questions their actions as the difference between cop and gangster vanishes, O'Mara seems downright taken aback.

Gosling plays Wooter with what he hopes is the suave laconic irony of a Kevin Spacey and even though Wooter has some of the best lines of the film, there is only one Spacey and Gosling's high pitched voice does not help his virility. Nevertheless, Gosling delivers a solid performance and especially stands out in the combined scenes with Stone, who plays the femme fatale with a sultriness which has mostly to do with her voice. Unfortunately the verbal pin ball dialogue between the femme fatale and the anti-hero, the life-blood of all noir, falls just short of witticism here. There is a lot of potential left unexplored in the Grace character, as Stone's screen time is slightly too limited and there is no sassy boldness or any sense of real danger to this dame, apart from the one inherent in the very idea of messing with a mobster's girl.

Michael Pena, Robert Patrick and Giovanni Ribisi are all underused in terms of their potential talent for that matter, nevertheless, quality lies in the detail, and all the performances are a joy to watch.

There has been quite a strong negative reaction to Dion Beebe's digital cinematography. Ironically, the very noir period was all about glitzy shallowness and the beginning of the materialistic age with the coming of the 1950s. Let's not forget that noir has always been a style rather than genre. If they would have had the digital means back then, I guess, they would have. The shoot-out in the lobby with the Christmas tree at the end is a thing of sheer beauty. Why Fleischer and Beebe felt the need to up things a little digitally in the fight scene at the end I'll never understand as it only disturbs the smooth sleekness of the visuals in general.

Gangster Squad is a swanky feast for the eyes. Its overblown silliness, both visually and thematically are a joy to watch, if that is your cup of tea. There's a comic-book feel pervading the film and, yes, the violence is glorified and stylish, but , come on!, this is pure entertainment as the numerous shots of the Hollywoodland sign keeps reminding us. Who says formulaic film-making must be bad as sometimes you want poptarts, not paté.

'Jack Reacher'

Christopher McQuarrie is mostly known for his work on The Usual Suspects and his directorial début, the hugely underestimated The Way of the Gun, so it was with an open mind ( and despite Tom Cruise) that I went to see Jack Reacher.

The opening sequence is one of the most suspenseful seen in cinema since, well The Usual Suspects, well crafted, shot in that subdued grey-colour scheme giving you that tingling hopeful sensation that you might just see that unexpected cinematic gem you never thought of looking for in this very film. Unfortunately, these hopes are soon bashed, but first things first. JR then opens with a sniper in a garage shooting five seemingly random people. The patient handling of the camera has you gripping your seat in anticipation and really conveys that horrible principle of completely random and thus absurd selection. It's knowledge McQuarrie plays with in this sequence, the horrible spectatorial knowledge that people are going to die and the terrible observation of the unknowing soon-to-be-dead. The mise-en-scene is more terrifying for its apparent simplicity and understatement, there is no blood to be seen, no brains splashed on the pavement and the screams remain muffled as if heard from a great distance, maybe a garage on the other side of the river, in which a sniper is taking his terrible pick.

On investigating the crime scene, Officer Emerson finds a fingerprint on a coin in the parking meter and a bullet overlooked by the rest of the police. A culprit is soon found in Iraq veteran Barr. The latter refuses to talk only advising the investigators to get Reacher. This becomes a problem as Reacher is the proverbial ghost, an ex-military who just vanished off the face of the earth, no phone number, no address, no credit card, just a social security number and the occasional money withdrawal, hey, dental is important ! Good thing then, that in exactly the moment they talk about him, Reacher walks through the door. I think that was meant to be humorous, but only came across as anti-climactic and slightly, erm, dumb. The rest of the film follows the Quincy principle: You know: Quincy deduces something the others don't believe, because, plainly they're too stupid, so he spends his time being admired by the ladies and patiently collecting evidence for what he long knows. All this is not a bad thing in itself, we've all seen films with less to offer plot-wise and enjoyed them, but here, things never quite take off. There's a veil that cannot be lifted, it seems, a shallowness which is never broken even if at times the film offers glimpses of McQuarries' talent.

Even Tom Cruise is, how shall I put this, alright? He does look a bit squashed though. Physique aside, he does seem to do justice to the Reacher character from Lee Child's novel series (I never read one) at least in terms of cockiness and the looming larger than life part. Fans of the cheesy one-liner will have a field day with this one, however, any form of witticism goes completely amiss in JR, as Cruise hasn't got the self-deprecating smirk of a Bruce Willis, neither are the lines of the excessive stupidity resulting in a hilarious action-thriller self-reflexivity of, oh, I dunno, a Schwarzenegger film. One line cannot be faulted however and that is: 'I mean to beat you to death and drink your blood from a boot.' It was as if the eighties came back and gave one big, comforting hug!

Don't get me wrong, I'm no big fan of the vigilante self-serving message the film conveys, but then, action thrillers are generally not designed for the politically sensible! So enough said about the issue of killing guys because the system might let them go! At least McQuarrie is carrying on the American cinematic tradition of regarding the law as intrinsically corrupt and against the little man!

Rosamund Pike plays Helen Rodin, daughter of the DA and smart idealistic defense lawyer of Barr. She spends her screen-time with her arms pressed together to emphasize a cleavage one has not seen on her before! There is no chemistry whatsoever between her and Cruise which is a good thing as I always find female interest in Cruise to be the scariest part of the fiction! Pike 's daddy issues seem to be the sole motivations of her career. All in all, she seems to be a projection surface upon which Cruise can alternately bounce ideas or polish his male ego. In one of the funniest scenes, though unintentionally so, Pike cannot concentrate as Cruise walks around with his bare torso! To be fair, I had a hard time looking away, however more in the I-shouldn't-but-cannot-stop-looking-at-the-accident kind of way. The strangely off angle of the shot with Pike centre-stage and Cruise's chest just sticking in the frame is just too weird. It's as if Cruise's nipples just popped in to say 'Hi'. Anyway, enough bare chested nonsense, back to Pikes' performance and my lament: Why, oh, why, did she ever accept this role? Pike is a good actress, on the way to being great, but even she cannot save this shallow character and Cruise-admiring dialogue from the most simplified form of misanthropy. In the end, most of the time, she resembles a Playboy version of a lawyer. This is female empowerment as imagined by Hollywood: Yes, she's in heels, but only because she chooses to as an educated adult and her salivation whenever Cruise enters the frame is one of empowerment. Yes, right!

My near-obsession with Richard Jenkins is well documented, but even he cannot weasel his way out of poor character conception. Jenkins' acting relies mainly on his world-weary, droopy-eyed slouching, but here it constantly seems as if Jenkins was really just sad and depressed about the quality of the lines he has to offer. Richard Jenkins cannot and should not under any circumstances be used as cannon fodder. That's what we got Donald Sutherland for!!!

The reason why JR is not a complete failure is two-fold: Werner Herzog and Robert Duvall! When coming upon Herzog's name in the opening credits, it felt as if the world had shifted out of place, kind of like what you imagine Middle Earth must have felt like when Sauron took over the show! But then, we have come to expect the unexpected from Herzog. Herzog's character Zec is the stuff of European medieval fairy tales. Why he is blind on one eye is never explained, however, it helps create a character who is vividly nightmarish, ironically not so far off a Kinski performance. Maybe Herzog picked up a few things on the set of Aguirre! When he gnarls: I spent my first winter as a prisoner in Siberia wearing a dead man's coat. I chewed these fingers off before the frostbite could turn to gangrene – one cannot help but salute him. Werner, you the man!

The other performance gem comes in the form of Duvall's character as gun-nut Cash, one of the craziest and most likeable characters on screen. Duvall plays Cash with exactly the right kind of devil-may-care crazy-son-of-a-bitch attitude that the genre needs and it's only when either Duvall or Herzog appear that the general stagnancy of the film is broken and the action really comes to life. Sadly, their screen-time is too limited for those two to save the film.

McQuirre is clearly fascinated with pulp fiction, from Hammett and Chandler to Higgins and most recently Child- their influences are felt. The protagonist, type lone vigilante gun-man, is as noir as they come. The world-weariness and jaded sense of justice are as old as cinema itself. The double-crossings, set-ups and innocence corrupted, the whole thematic shenanigans - all present. So, by definition, this should be one amazing two-hour ride. Except, it never takes off. Cruise cannot pull Reacher off, Pike remains stale and doll-like, the action drags on, never reaching the point of explicitly boring but never far off. Duvall and Herzog manage to infuse some life into this over-reaching (Yep, I went there!), but, unfortunately, Jack Reacher remains one of those films you can watch hungover on a Sunday afternoon with a box of greasy take-away and that hair-of-a-dog pint. This vehicle for Cruise's ego does, however, not warrant an eight-quid ticket. Money better invested in buying a Richard Jenkins poster to put over your bed...just a suggestion!

'Killing Them Softly'

Killing Them Softly opens in quintessential crime thriller/mobster fashion with a robbery committed by two less than bright petty criminals. Deadbeats Frankie and Russell rob a card game, organized by mobster Markie. As Markie is known to have robbed his own game years ago, they figure that they're on the safe side and no-one will come looking for them, as everyone will blame Markie. Here's the general principle of crime and capitalism though: someone always has to pay and before they know it, the two guys and their shady boss aptly named 'Squirrel' have a contract out on them. Enter Cogan, your friendly neighbourhood killer. Cogan only has one problem: He can't kill anyone he's met, so seeing that he knows Squirrel, he gives the job to Mickey, his old pal. Mickey's all washed up though and is only interested in the booze and hookers the town has to offer. Needless to say, the top dogs are unsatisfied with the run of things. One fuck-up follows another as the people who should make decisions don't and the people who shouldn't do.

The film is set in 2008 at the time of the Bush-Obama handover. As such, the characters listen to the Obama campaign on the radio or Bush defending his political choices on TV in the background. Whether mobsters really tune in to current events during a card game remains questionable, but at least the technique allows Andrew Dominik to hammer his point home. In the end, the only difference between crime and politics is in the name, as both operate according to the same economic principles or as Cogan would have it: America is a business. Set at the time when the American government asked the taxpayer to show solidarity and 'bail' the American banks out, it is hard not to see parallels to the Markie plot, as someone always takes the fall. Reality here does not exist, only the perception of it is important. And if the little man has to take the fall, so be it, even if 'Everybody loves Markie' as Cogan cynically states at the end. There might be a certain naïve simplicity to the points Dominik makes, but at the same time, it illustrates the cynicism of a society which knows perfectly well where it all goes wrong and renders itself guilty by compliance.

There's a three-level structure to the character built-up: there's the top level, the decision makers whose corporate thinking paralyses them and leads to unnecessary and expensive measures as they continuously lose their head. These guys remain anonymous, they are never named. Then there's middle management, mostly represented by Cogan, Driver, the lawyer figure (get it? As he drives the action forward) and the familiar cinematic figure of the alcoholic who's on the path to professional destruction in Mickey. Last there's the work force, the plebs so to speak, aptly represented by Frankie and Russell. So, during recession, the working class is fucked, the middle management is about to get fucked and the top management remains invisible and is looking to place the blame. There's a certain comfort in knowing that even hitmen have to take a paycut.

Corporate thinking has taken over crime and consumerism is the religion of the economically viable. As such it comes as no surprise that one of the murders is shot in a beautiful slo-mo mostly seen in perfume or car advertisements. The style here makes a direct comment on the essentially capitalist nature of this act, which has nothing to do with motive and all with appearance.

The film script is based on George V. Higgins' novel Cogan's Trade, which explains its heavy reliance on dialogue and a good thing this is too, as the strength of the film lies in the witty, fast, noir-ish quality of characters jabbing. Quite often, and hilariously so, the conversations between the criminals are in no way different from the ones had by office drones at the water cooler, including a lot, and I mean, a lot of bitching and moaning about management and bosses, over-blown stories of sexual achievements and piss takes at colleagues. This is a character-driven piece which lives through the quality of its actors. Pitt, who's already worked with Dominik on The Assassination of Jesse James, once again proves his versatility as an actor, a fact sometimes overshadowed by his celebrity status in the public opinion. Pitt renders Cogan utterly likeable and his actions understandable and we're talking about a psychotic sociopath here, but look: He takes care of is friends and can't kill anyone he knows. Pitt plays Cogan with an authority and twisted sense of fair-play one would wish for in a boss. He delivers Cogan's last speech of the film with an anger and cynicism that render the overall bleakness of this world, and indeed, our own world, even more explicit. Yes, we can? Actually, erm, you'll find that we can't.

One of the highlights of the film, of any film with him in it, and, yes, I am biased, is Richard Jenkins. Jenkins is just one of those completely underrated actors that most people kinda know, but confusedly turn to their partner to ask: What was he in again? Well, let me tell you this: As soon as you read his name on a poster, go and see the film! Jenkins has an understated style of acting which can be threatening, subdued, condescending, kind, dumb, pitiful, pathetic, empowering, all conveyed with the minutest twitch in facial muscles. Here then, he plays a middleman between Cogan and the top guys. His rhetoric wouldn't be out of place in a boardroom meeting, which renders the actions discussed even more disconcerting. As friendly and average as Cogan and Driver appear in their dealings, the last scene reveals them as the ruthless and cynic bastards that they are as a direct result of our living in times of extreme individualism. I mean, what did we expect?

Apart from these two outstanding performances, James Gandolfini makes a cringe-worthy (the character, not the performance) appearance as the washed-up Mickey. It sometimes seems as if Gandolfini acts with his eye-lids solely and here they're almost dropping to the floor which gives him the look of a beaten puppy that can snap at the same time as you try to pet it.

Then there's Scoot MacNairy and Ben Mendelson as the downbeats Frankie and Russell. Both of them ooze shadiness and Mendelson's sweaty, unwashed appearance just makes you vividly imagine what he must smell like and it really does make your stomach churn. MacNairy's character is a long way off from the clever US government employee in Argo as he physically turns into this nervous, weasely guy who knows he is losing control. One of the best scenes of the film definitely has to be the 'conversation' Frankie and a very stoned Russell have, in which Russell keeps drifting off and Frankie gets more and more panicky, realising that Russell just signed their death sentence. Those two young actors certainly have the most visceral and physical performances of the film, in which their body language tells you just as much about their disenfranchised status as their actions.

Even Ray Liotta is surprisingly good as Markie 'the scapegoat' Trattman, even though I have to say I am not a big fan of his. However, he does hold up well and especially his performance in the beating scene stands out as one of the best in his career.

This world is indeed the bleakness of a senseless noir universe in which motive plays no role and sense is a futile concept. Once the events are initiated by a stupid idea, there's no end to the spiralling into a mindless violence. This world is stifling and arbitrary, there is little or no hope and in this, the atmosphere of the film can almost be called coen-esque. No wonder then that the finishing monologue by Pitt bears an uncanny resemblance to the opening monologue of the Visser character in Blood Simple: In America, respectively Texas for Visser, you're on your own. This is the underside of the American pursuit of freedom and personal gain, not so much the liberty of the pioneer spirit as the pettiness of the criminal mind and the corruption of political acting.

Dominik is known for his neat, tight mise-en-scene and this film is no different. The colour scheme is one of subdued greys and blues, with an iconography of rainy streets, urban warehouses, empty roads and a general atmosphere of hopelessness. I'm not selling it to you? The thing about Dominik's style is that it catches you by its serene roughness, yes, I know, that's an oxymoron, but I really can't explain it any better. There's beauty in these essentialist and ordered visuals. It's clean and unemotional which might or might not be your cup of tea, as a matter of fact, the whole film will divide the audience, that much can be seen coming. Following our current obsession with cultural similes, think HBO, more specifically The Sopranos, rather than Scorcese, with a little bit of Winding Refn thrown in visually for good measure. As it is, for me, this is one of the most surprising features of this season, cynical to the point of down right apocalyptic, beautifully subdued in which the visuals enhance the overall bleakness, cleverly written, well adapted and incredibly funny when it comes to the dialogue, even if the play with radio interviews and TV comments borders on the blunt sometimes. This is film noir in spirit, without the melodrama and theatrics and makes for the perfect anti-Christmas viewing.

'End of Watch'

David Ayer is by far no stranger to cop fiction, not with the likes of Training Day and Street Kings under his belt. In End of Watch he goes about things differently though. This is no portrayal of police corruption reaching to the highest level in the force, but a depiction of two street cops and the friendship that binds them together. Officer Taylor and Officer Zavala are partners in South Central , one of the roughest neighbourhood in LA and that is saying something. They patrol these ganglands on a day-to-day basis and their experiences range from domestic disputes to finding bodies, guns and drugs. More often than not they get shot at before the day is over.

When Taylor has detective aspirations and decides to investigate beyond his duty call, things start to get out of hand as the two manage to get on the radar of the South Central's Mexican drug cartel, run by a gentleman with the very telling name 'Big Evil'.

Presumably to add to the authenticity, Ayer lets his characters shoot half the movie. Taylor, under the pretext of filming for a college application project, films most of the proceedings on their watch. The gang members film their drive-bys and some of the footage is captured by the cameras on the police officer's uniforms. As a result of this found footage aesthetics, the visuals remain shaky, unstable, often disconcerting and fragmented, mimicking the general confusion of these sometimes extreme situations the two cops find themselves in. Ayer throws the spectator in the thick of things, peeping around hallway corners, never knowing what might expect one on the other side. It's a video game gimmick, but it does work as it adds to the nerve-racking intensity of this job in which one might very well get killed. At the same time, the imagery works by contrast, the wide sun-drenched LA streets contend with the crammed, claustrophobic interiors in a set-up in which houses and homes become crime scenes. The gritty feel of the hand-held camera might not necessarily be the most original directorial choice, the visual feel of the film does however help underline the emotional background that comes with the police territory.

The first half of the film thus consists of these images captured by the characters themselves and it is only in the second act of the film that a further perspective becomes clearly noticeable and thus somewhat distracting. This third camera, neither handled by either of the cops nor by the criminals introduces questions of authorship as it is never clear who is wielding the device. It's the intrusion of an outsider to the diegetic universe which results in a spectatorial disruption and opens this closed world of extreme realism to one of fictional drama, a transgression which does not sit well. As the visuals remind of a reality TV cop shows so popular in the US of the 90's, this third camera bears reference to the presence of an outsider to the LAPD, a TV person recording events for entertainment thus putting in question the very authenticity of the latter.

These are, however, only minor hiccups which do not hinder the greater purpose of the film. If you're looking for an action-fuelled cop thriller, you won't get your money's worth with this one. End of Watch is a character study, a Bildungsroman so to speak, more interested in how the average cop thinks, feels and often justifies in order to handle this job and the constant pressure and risk-taking. These cops legitimise each other and affirm each others choices and action. Only in living this existence as police officer rather than seeing it as a mere job, can these characters make sense of the horrors they see and deeds they commit in the name of the law. It thus comes as no wonder that the characters of the wives seem to be nothing more than supporting roles in the bromance of the police partnership.

Taylor and Zavala are your quintessential 'boys will be boys' figures who spent their time between calls taking the piss out of each other and their respective ethnic backgrounds. This environment oozes Machismo no matter what the sex of either cop or gangster. The verbal 'Fuck' count goes through the roof, indeed, Fuck is used as verb, noun, adjective, substitute...it might be authentic, but most of the characters just sound incredibly stupid and the whole respect through violence goes back to a primitivism one would have hoped society as such had passed beyond. I heard the pubescent boys behind me whisper : Fuck Yeah! when Zavala beats Mr Tre up, who sees the beating as a mark of respect and thus Zavala with the soul of an original gangster. It's not the authenticity of this world I question, it's the depiction of this attitude as something to be aspired to. Sometimes the film sits within the uncomfortable likeness to a recruitment video for the LAPD. In fact it hits the tone of adolescence perfectly with its black and white virtues of honesty, honour, male friendship, the making sense of an incomprehensible world and the unquestionable integrity of the rules of the street.

Jake Gyllenhaal and Michael Pena both deliver straight forward and honest performances, but where they excel is in the depiction of their friendship. The banter and conversations they hold feel incredibly natural to the point of seeming improvised. Without question these characters represent the very core of the film and neither their performance nor the character development can be faulted. All the while they present the red herring of the plot. The structure of the film tends to be categorized into episodic sequences rather than representing a homogeneous whole again tying in with the cop show concept. Ayer takes his time, there seem to be no clearly defined goals and aims to this narrative, rather the film is an observation and description, accompanying the characters for a certain amount of time before releasing them back to their lives. This, of course, never means that there are no action scenes, violence or car chases, in short any typical iconography we've come to associate with cop movies, but they are not of the first priority.

The banal day-to-day conversations in the car, the private glimpses into the lives of these cops is what makes the film well worth seeing and raises it from a mental wank for the pre-adolescent to a strong realist drama which despite of a few hiccups manages to make good on its promises.

'Argo'

Ben Affleck's Argo takes us back to 1979, more precisely to the Iranian revolution, the overthrow of the shah and the consequential taking hostage of the body of staff of the American embassy in Tehran. Out of these, six manage to escape and seek refuge in the house of the Canadian ambassador and his wife.

Meanwhile, in the US, authorities are helpless as to how to, not only free the hostages, but furthermore get those six out of the country with Iranian revolutionaries scanning every corner of the streets for Americans. A battle against time ensues and CIA agent Tony Mendez is enlisted as the top go-to-extrication-guy.

After some ludicrous suggestions as to how to get them out, ranging from posing as teachers when all the schools have been closed by the Ayatollah, to getting them bikes to cycle a mere 300 miles, Merndez comes up with 'the best of the bad ideas'. Based on the simple question: Who's crazy and self-indulgent enough to travel to a country in the throes of a revolution? Only one answer presents itself: Hollywood. A plan is born. Mendez sets up a a fake movie, complete with producer and film production office, in order for the six refugees to pose as a Canadian film crew (presumably because Canadians are more likeable, even in the Middle East, note, however, how the production itself is still from Hollywood). Mendez convinces the Iranian authorities that they're looking to shoot a ludicrous Science Fiction film called 'Argo' in the Iranian desert and mountains.

Based on true events as related by Tony Mendez himself in a magazine feature, Argo presents a solid, unflashy portrayal of the exfil mission, even if the real Mendez still found Affleck's take on the events to be slightly over-dramatic, but that's Hollywood for you. The feel of the film is one of 70's crime thriller, however, not in a aesthetically self-indulgent manner, but authentically so, as if one was watching a film from the 70's rather than watching a post-modern homage to the 70's, if you get my drift. The iconography is one of dirty beige and greys, smoky without being glamorous. Think Tesco on a Monday night in 1978, tinned baked beans and yellow moustaches rather than Sean Connery having a fondue in Aspen, on New Year's Day, with a blonde, playing the flute, in a red jump suit...atmospherically speaking, of course.

Anyway, Affleck plays Mendez himself, he seems to be attracted to the 'decent guy' variety, world-weary and melancholic, but with an ever-so-firm belief in what is right. There's a whiff of the self-righteous about him, but the performance is beautifully understated and humanly grounded. Affleck manages to infuse the character with some real depth, a character which otherwise might have been in great danger of succumbing to yet another vessel for patriotic exclamations and unequivocal motivations. There's a few of those what I like to call 'Oh, Come On!' moments, as when Mendez decides to give his real name and history to two of the six embassy employees in order to convince them to escape with the rest of them. Really? What agent would risk it? And couldn't he have made up a fake 'real' name and history? Apart from these minor motivational hiccups, every character is well drawn, especially for the limited space every figure is granted. I was especially impressed by Scoot McNairy whose performance is of one much older than his actual age.

The atmosphere is tense and decidedly level-headed, at times even claustrophobic. Enter the counter balance: The Hollywood connection. It is an absolute delight to watch John Goodman and Alan Arkin play off each other, a bit like watching a game of table tennis. Here's to comic relief. Affleck even allows a few stabs at himself in, for example, having Arkin declare that 'You could teach a rhesus monkey to direct a film in a day'. At the same time, even if they're cynic about the Hollywood industry or poke fun at the business, it is done with an affectionate regard of one who belongs to the inner circle. As if to say: Look: In Hollywood we're big enough to laugh at ourselves, Haw, haw, haw. Both Goodman and Arkin play the Hollywood types with obvious glee, only to become serious in times of national crisis as if to show that, in the end, they're Americans first and Hollywoodians second. Nevertheless these Hollywood sequences are well integrated within the overall structure and save the film from being overly matter-of-fact and pronounced.

The Iranian revolutionaries coincide with the Hollywood stereotype of the dirty, loud, fanatic, uncultured Middle Eastern. The only redeeming Iranian character is the housemaid of the Canadian ambassador. Now, it is always tricky to portray an anti-Western revolutionary from a Western perspective, but one has to ask: Was the Iranian people in its entirety exactly on the same page as the revolutionaries taking the hostages in the embassy, or might there be the slight possibility that not the entire Iran is of a fundamentalist frame of mind? I am not attacking Affleck as he does a decent job of an immensely difficult portrayal, nevertheless I would have welcomed an introduction of some representatives of the Iranian people within the overall plot structure as well as the terror this regime instilled within the natives.

With the Bond franchise well and alive and the latest instalment in the cinemas at the same time as Argo, it proves almost impossible not to draw parallels, or rather state differences. I have to say, Bond does feel awfully gimmicky after Mendez' self-effacing realism. One does tend to forget that the highest virtue of an agent is invisibility, not flashy cockiness. As such, Mendez is not the guy to get the girls, no, he's average Joe on the verge of a divorce, although, as a concession to film aesthetics, with slightly better abs.

The overall feel of the film is one of taking its audience seriously, which is a relief. Affleck manages to tell a rather unbelievable series of events in a calm and surprisingly uncomplicated manner, without ever descending into banality. It does not bare thinking about what someone like Emmerich would have made of this script. All the while, one of the most distinguishing features of the film, and indeed, Affleck as a film-maker, is the playful handling of the suspense element. Both in 'The Town' and his first feature 'Gone Baby Gone', Affleck is most skilful in having his audience sit on the edge of their seat. Most of the nail-biting tension is induced by crafty editing and the solid sobriety of the mise-en-scène, which makes the imagery ever more powerful. The extrication scene at the end will have your stomach in a knot, that I promise you and the only slight reproach I have is that Affleck never left it there. In all his previous films as well as this one, one major hindrance to truly great work crystallises: namely the inability to end his film at the right time and on the right tone. As such, the end drags on for too long as if Affleck is reluctant to let his characters go and also to 'explain' what the film wanted to 'say' in the first place. This is a real shame, as the spectator was treated with obvious respect to his/her own capabilities throughout the text, only to be slightly patronised at the end. Also the tone descends from one of intelligent commentary to one of emotional patriotism. Still, even the last ten minutes cannot spoil the experience of an affecting and astute thriller, skilfully handled and firmly setting Affleck on the plan of politically motivated and intelligent film-making. (Yes, yes, mention of Clooney dutifully included right here, who, by the way, functioned as executive producer on this film. Now go away and don't bore me!)

Attention to detail, dark humour, grown-up plot and character treatment, understated realism, simple thus believable plot structure, 70's thriller iconography, and nail-biting suspense, make Argo one of the unexpected highlights of the autumn releases.

'Savages'

You ever just really wanna go to the cinema, no matter what's on? More often than not, afterwards, you know you just wasted 106 minutes of your life that could have been invested in, oh, I dunno, your tax return or a root canal at he dentist.

Cue the new Oliver Stone film 'Savages'. Set mostly in California, the film follows two drug dealers, but they're good ones, you know, they're really handsome and do charity stuff in, like Africa, and last but not least, they're American. When they refuse a deal with a Mexican drug cartel, who want in on their business, coz their stuff is really crap, shit hits the fan, plot-wise and, I'm afraid cinematographically as well. Disguised as gardeners (!) those Mexicans are a murdering bunch, who, more often than not wear dirty clothes. Benicio Del Toro is particularly bad, dressed in T-Shirts that carry the greasy remnants of the last lunch-burrito. Racial stereotypes, anyone? But, no, assures us Stone, this is all in the name of depicting the war on drugs and the savagery that is inherent in the business.

As if aware of this stereotyping shenanigans, Stone desperately wants to introduce some redeeming features. Salma Hayek, as the reina of the cartel, really is a big softie once her mother-instinct kicks in. Yes, she murders people for a living, but look, she really doesn't want her daughter involved. AAWWWW, it's all good!

Then there's the love interest, or blonde plot-device as I like to call her, in the form of Blake Lively, yes, yes, the one from Gossip Girl, who really is a bit of a greedy bastard as she not only sleeps with one of the guys, but both of them. But it's all really lovey-dovey, but you know how people are: They don't understand these bohemian youngsters. Don't get me wrong, faced with the numerous shots in which the two hunks have their top off, I don't blame her one bit, if I didn't have the over-bearing voice-over shoved in my face constantly: 'Chon is cold like metal, Ben is warm like wood'. COME ON!!! and it's all like really deep, right?

Anyway, Barbie is kidnapped by the evil Mexicans and kept as a continued guarantee for Chon and Ben's cooperation. Good thing Chon is an Iraq veteran who knows shit about building bombs and the like, whereas Ben is the smart one, who, unfortunately has to give up his decency in favour of lighting people on fire. Well, you really can't have it all! Otherwise we'd all be going into the drug business willy-nilly and, then, where would we be? Someone needs to keep making Cappuccinos.

So, waiting to be rescued, Barbie is kinda tortured by Benicio Del Toro, who must have really thought at the film première: Fuck! How did I go from 'Traffic' to this? She then forms a weird relationship with Elena, the queen, and explains to her how her rich mother never really had any time for her. Elena, being the ruthless drug-bitch that she is, really sympathises. 'I could be your daughter' Ophelia brokenly whispers into the CCTV camera in her prison cell and, Bob's your uncle, she's out of prison and in the guest-house in the Tijuana mansion.

Then there's John Travolta, a corrupt cop who's playing all the angles. So, he's switching sides quicker than a naïve country girl in a gay bar in London, and it all works out. You don't mess with the Travolta. Pay attention! Coz this is the really controversial bit Stone subtly shoves in your face with a sledge hammer! In the American war on drugs, corruption often keeps the upper hand. Of course, all the Mexicans end up dead or in prison, while the Californian excuse for a ménage-à-trois heads off to a beautiful beach in Indonesia. What? I'm spoiling the ending for you? You never got the point of this review then, which is: Do not, under any circumstances, even under the threat of Benicio Del Toro coming to your house, disguised as a gardener and force-feeding you Tacos, go and see this film!

Don't even get me started on Stone's mise-en-scène! If I see another colour-tinted or black-and-white shot of clouds racing across the sky, I will personally swim to L.A. and beat Stone up. The whole film is interspersed with shots of wild animals in the sun-drenched desert, yes, exactly, like in Natural Born Killers, but its all to do with the savagery in human nature, you see. It's kind of a big deal in this film, but in the name of the whole human race, I'd like to apologise for the symbolic abuse that all those coyotes had to suffer at the hands of Oliver Stone!

Stone was never a brilliant film-maker, let's face it. But, here, his obsession with the media really goes through the roof. As such, the gangsters Skype, text and probably update their Facebook status in the lines off: just taking this guy's eye out, then off to have a ham sandwich!

At least, the title's appropriate: This film really does bring out your savage side! As such, as soon as a release date comes out for a new Oliver Stone film, call your dentist! Coz you just found the date for your next appointment.