The Matador

2005, US, directed by Richard Shepard

Rating: ***

Although it's neither as slick nor as hip as it would like to think, The Matador is lifted well above average by Pierce Brosnan's delightfully rumpled performance as an assassin who's experiencing something of a mid-life crisis. The film's morality doesn't bear much examination - it's queasy at best, and downright tasteless in a montage sequence that outlines Brosnan's global exploits over a six-month period - but there's tremendous fun to be had with Brosnan's characterization of Julian Noble, whose verbal ineptness continually causes offense to those he attempts to befriend. His meeting with the milquetoast Danny Wright (Greg Kinnear) isn't especially convincing but once the two are thrown together, Noble's attempts to come across as a halfway decent human being generate much uncomfortable humour. While John Cusack's similar character in Grosse Pointe Blank was far too cute to be convincing, Brosnan summons up the essential seediness of his chosen profession, turning his Bond and Remington Steele personae on their heads, and showing a considerable grit in the process.

Memories of Murder

2003, South Korea, directed by Bong Joon-ho

Based on the real-life events surrounding South Korea's first recorded serial killer case in the mid-1980's, Memories of Murder is closer to (very) black comedy than it is to police procedural. While the cops come off pretty well in the average detective film (after all, they usually solve the crime), this movie is unlikely to be a hit even in Korean squadrooms. Any rural police force would be overwhelmed by the events that transpire in the film, but the three detectives at the heart of the case are left to their own devices to a quite remarkable degree, and their investigative methods are, to say the least, unconventional (when not downright incompetent).

There's a strong political point being made here, with broad suggestions that the government of the time was much more interested in suppressing democracy demonstrations than in catching a rapist/killer, but the absence of central investigational oversight is lacking in credibility (and doesn't seem to fit with the facts). That said, the sense of South Korea as a country ill-prepared for its headlong entry into the global economy, and still existing rather pathetically in the shadow of its American benefactor, is powerful, while the portrait of a small town in the grip of fear is generally convincing. Director Bong Joon-ho never quite settles on a unified tone, although he has a knack for atmospherics and off-kilter humour.

Vera Drake

2004, UK, directed by Mike Leigh

Comfortably Mike Leigh's strongest film since Secrets and Lies, Vera Drake carefully evokes a very specific time in British history - the austere post-war years - as the backdrop for a tale of quiet yet radical rebellion. Imelda Staunton is astonishing, delivering the performance of her career as Vera, a gentle, caring woman who works as a house cleaner and who, in her spare time and in secret, conducts back-street abortions at no charge. Her clear-eyed view of the realities of the world is calculated to sow confusion in the minds of those who disagree with abortion; there's no doubting her integrity and her attempts to restore some kind of dignity to those around her, and her lack of eloquence doesn't prevent her from expressing her views to telling effect. The sense of time and place are brilliantly created through a series of apparently unconnected early vignettes, intermingling scenes of home and workplace life to great effect (one scene where the men discuss 'what kind of war' they had is especially telling); the actors who play Vera's family are uniformly strong, creating a detailed set of character studies. The one downside is Leigh's inability to create rounded middle- or upper-class characters; as in his other films, his class views are so narrow that the upper-class characters, especially, are almost without exception insufferable or unsympathetic. As a consequence, a subplot about a wealthy young woman having an abortion seems heavy-handed, over-emphasizing a point already made subtly throughout the film.

Les Dames du bois de Boulogne

1945, France, directed by Robert Bresson

Unlike the austere films that Bresson began to make from 1950 onwards, Les Dames du bois de boulogne drips with the style and melodrama of classical Hollywood (it's not hard to imagine someone like Bette Davis in the role so perfectly played here by María Casares). A tale of very chilly revenge (a society lady takes such exception to the end of her relationship with a rather feckless aristocrat that she engineers his reputation-destroying wedding to a prostitute), the film has dialogue by Jean Cocteau, and it's not hard to see a trace of fairy tale in the conclusion, although it's closer to the redemptive power of the concluding moments of Bresson's own Pickpocket rather than the texture of Cocteau's La Belle et la bête, which was being shot when this film was released. The film's great weakness is the insipid Paul Bernard, who plays the aristocratic lover; Cocteau's occasionally delirious meditations on the turmoils of love fail to convince when uttered by such a bland leading man. It's the same problem that hampers Brief Encounter: the passionate declarations of a passionless individual, but then that, too, isn't entirely uncharacteristic of Bresson, who often favoured remarkably flat performances.

Sisters of the Gion

1936, Japan, directed by Mizoguchi Kenji

A beautiful early feature film from Mizoguchi, which overcame the terribly poor transfer available for viewing [I subsequently saw a restored version], Sisters of Gion is a fascinating portrait of a vanished time in Japanese history, set before the Second World War in Tokyo's geisha district. The film makes clear that this way of life is already disappearing: the two sisters of the title are divided on the proper behaviour expected of a geisha, with one searching for a striving patron, the other loyal to a diminished benefactor. Although the film is bursting with incident - the fate of the two sisters seems to hang in the balance until the final moments - it's shot in a very simple, direct style, with many of the carefully composed long shots, often using frames within frames, for which Mizoguchi is famous. He intersperses that straightforward style with several gorgeous tracking shots, including one that opens the film, which reveal he was already master of the mobile camera. If there's any weakness to the film, it's perhaps the overly didactic ending, which tends to repeat what the director has so eloquently conveyed throughout; it's reminiscent of the conclusion of Sembène's Mandabi, which also crosses the line from account to pamphlet, but in both cases that may be illustrative of filmmakers in the process of finding the voice with which to express their committed social vision.

Common Wealth

2000, Spain, directed by Alex de la Iglesia (original title: La Comunidad)

A wacky Hitchcockian riff, Alex de la Iglesia's film is the blackest of comedies, with Carmen Maura as a real estate agent who discovers riches in an old apartment building only to find that the other tenants are determined to get their hands on the money (and they're prepared to take some pretty extreme measures to do so). The opening half-hour, during which the cash is uncovered, is laden with suspense; the direction is taut and the set design is eerily clever. The strange events that follow are amusing but certainly over-extended, straining credibility even in this outlandish genre, though the references to Hitchcock films consistently hit the mark, while de la Iglesia has a devilish sense of humor that pops up at the most unexpected moments. Carmen Maura is a standout in the lead, playing it straight in the midst of a building full of crazies, and clearly enjoying the wild antics; it's great to see that Almodóvar isn't the only Spanish director capable of creating a meaty role for an actress over 50, and a shame that American movies can't follow their lead.

Shark Tale

US, 2004, directed by Bibo Bergeron, Vicky Jenson, Rob Letterman

With the bar set so high by the Pixar films - especially Finding Nemo and The Incredibles - and Dreamworks' own Shrek films, it's hard not to be a little disappointed by Shark Tale: while it zips along nicely, with little wasted time, the basic storyline is a little trite, and the lead character (voiced by Will Smith) is a too hyperactive and self-obsessed to really prove endearing. However, while the overall framework isn't a success (and can't help but suffer when compared to the undersea antics of Finding Nemo) many of the incidental details are extremely enjoyable. Robert de Niro and - especially - Martin Scorsese are entertaining in a Mafia-movie parody (the Scorsese-voiced character has amusingly bushy eyebrows), and even funnier are Ernie and Bernie, a pair of rasta jellyfish, one voiced (for full authenticity) by Ziggy Marley.

El Bola

2000, Spain, directed by Achero Mañas

Spain's contemporary film production is so dominated, in English-speaking countries at least, by Pedro Almodóvar that it's refreshing to come across a film that eschews his sometimes melodramatic stylings and embraces the gritty realities of a Madrid neighborhood. El Bola (Pellet) is a kid with a rough home life whose friendship with a new kid, Alfredo, seems to offer a form of escape; his friend's unconventional father is especially appealing in comparison to his own authoritarian dad. Although the contrasts between the two homes are occasionally drawn a little too sharply, there's a powerfully humanist impulse behind director Achero Mañas's storytelling, dignifying more than one marginalized character in a manner reminiscent of Benito Zambrano's beautiful 1999 feature Solas. Like that film, El Bola is generally clear-eyed in its view of humanity, steering clear of sentiment while finding a surprising beauty in the small events of everyday life; there's also a powerful critique of the frustrations of ordinary people in their dealings with the irrational workings of officialdom. The performances throughout are excellent: the two young actors who play El Bola and Alfredo are wonderfully natural, and free of the trappings of onscreen cuteness, while Alberto Jiménez is outstanding as Alfredo's father, a part that in less capable hands might well have strained credibility.

Fools Rush In

1997, US, directed by Andy Tennant

For every romantic comedy that works, there's are three like this, where it all falls apart: there's no chemistry between the leads, the supporting characters are no fun, and worst of all, it goes on far too long. While Matthew Perry's shtick was enjoyable on Friends, here he's unconvincing as an allegedly hard-charging nightclub designer, while Salma Hayek's performance is awkward; her line delivery is especially distracting, although the clanging script hardly helps (the writers really have a tin ear for the nuances of dialogue at times). The portrait of the intersection of a warm Mexican family and a chilly WASP clan has some potential as it overcomes the initial clichés, but ultimately the film can't do much with the fact that we just don't care about the central pair.

Mission: Impossible III

2006, US, directed by J.J. Abrams

Rating: ***

The third entry in the MI franchise marks a step back up after the silliness of the John Woo-directed second installment; the slow-mo action scenes are mercifully absent, and director J.J. Abrams uses a hand-held camera to capture some of the adrenaline of his TV hits Alias and Lost (his transition to the big screen is pretty successful, too, while his sense of the all-seeing eyes of the CIA-like Impossible Mission Force is of a piece with the mysterious organizations of Alias). This time around, though, the support group is colorless: while Ving Rhames is always enjoyable, his character hasn't developed much from the overgrown teddy bear of previous films, and the remainder of the Tom Cruise-led crew is anonymous. As the villain, Philip Seymour Hoffman has fun, generally refraining from chewing the scenery (it's nice, too, that the film doesn't waste time on a elaborately silly back story; he's bad, and that's about all you need to know).

From Russia With Love

1963, UK, directed by Terence Young

It didn't take long for the Bond producers to figure out the magic formula, for this second entry in the series is probably the best of all the Bonds. Like its predecessor, it's relatively small in scale: although über-villain Blofeld is introduced, the real threats are in the more down-to-earth forms of Robert Shaw and Lotte Lenya, two of the most memorable henchmen in the 40-year-plus history of the films. Shaw is perfectly cast as a blond ex-army man, credibly suave when required, and equally credibly thuggish when the time comes (especially in a great fight scene in the cramped confines of a train compartment). The exotic location this time around is Istanbul, conjured up with plenty of cinematic charm, and an enjoyable performance from Pedro Armendáriz (in his last film role) as Bond's man on the ground. Although Bond has had just one film to establish his reputation, it's clear that SPECTRE considers him the biggest threat to their activities, and they concoct an elaborate false plot to entrap him -- with Bond happy to take the female bait. The comically over-the-top sets, and even more comical killing methods, of later films are absent here, but Desmond Llewellyn makes his first, brief, appearance as Q, a fixture that is one of the most enjoyably playful aspects of the series.

Kanto Wanderer

1963, Japan, directed by Suzuki Seijun

As Tom Mes writes in the DVD liner notes to Kanto Wanderer, this isn't as balls-to-the-wall as some of Seijun Suzuki's later work, but it's a great primer on his subversive experiments within the studio system, experiments that would eventually get him fired from Nikkatsu studios. The core of the film is a pretty conventional story of honor and loyalty among thieves, or more precisely the yakuza. Even as Suzuki throws in some reflection on the changing role of the yakuza in post-war Japanese society, there's no doubt he contributes to the romanticization of the old gangster ways, sympathizing with the old warrior types as they deal with the rise of the oafishly criminal new generation. Suzuki is really more interested, though, in playing with genre form: his lovely widescreen camerawork and brilliant use of interior spaces - most especially in the anti-climactic climax - are the beginnings of a path of consistently playful experimentation. The picture of 1960's Japan, on the cusp of a serious boom, is fascinating; the struggle to retain some of the good of the past, even in the gangster context, is sometimes surprisingly poignant.

The Nest

2002, France, directed by Florent-Emilio Siri (original title: Nid de guêpes)

Although it's jam-packed full of allusions to other films, The Nest still manages to feel surprisingly fresh, dispensing with the often hackneyed backstories with which action characters are burdened in favour of delivering elaborately choreographed thrills and spills with considerable style (director Florent-Emilio Siri showed similar technical mastery in his American debut, Hostage). Like Hostage, the film's set-up is complex, with intersecting stories, but Siri sketches the details in efficiently; even though the plot depends on a preposterous coincidence, the action is so breakneck that there's no pause for reflection on this at the time. There are obvious reference points in American films like Assault on Precinct 13 and Die Hard, as well as to such Hong Kong actioners as Hard-Boiled (like that film, it does occasionally beggar belief that a small war could take place in an urban location without anyone noticing), although the first 20 minutes are a homage to the masterful French crime flick Du rififi chez les hommes, with its famously silent heist sequence. While it might seem to be something of a bastard child, there's still a definitely local feel to events, with allusions to crimes in the Balkans and the clever use of a Bastille Day background. Though it is, in the end, slick commercial fare, Hollywood could learn a thing or two from this kind of lean performance.

Cure

1997, Japan, directed by Kurosawa Kiyoshi

Like many J-horror movies, Cure is concerned as much with atmosphere as it is with conventional narrative logic. Although it has an obvious affinity with the American film Seven, it lacks that film's ruthlessly unspooling plotline, preferring to concentrate on shadings of mood and background. The who and the how of the film's crimes are revealed early on, with director Kurosawa focusing instead on the far more unsettling 'why?' after a wave of inexplicable murders hits an unnamed Japanese city (the Seven comparison is heightened with the use of an anonymous but grimly run-down location: the decrepit buildings, cold weather and trash-covered beaches are the antithesis of the usual cinematic images of Japan). The agent of the killings comes to see like a kind of urban terrorist, arming new weapons in the most insidious and inexplicable of fashions, such that everyone is suddenly a suspect. Although Cure shares a few too many traits with other J-horror films to be truly original - the pacing and atmosphere are similar to films like Ringu, while there's even a video at the center of the mystery - the chilly camerawork and unsettling use of industrial sounds lift the film well above the standard genre confines, while Kurosawa displays a subversive sense of humor at times, perhaps most notably in his perverse choices of music at certain key moments.

The Break-Up

2006, US, directed by Peyton Reed

Rating: ***

After seeing The Break-Up I had to go back and watch the trailer again, having formed the impression that this was the usual 90 minutes of problems and all's-well-that-ends-well template; apart from noting that much of the trailer never made it into the movie, it didn't seem like an unreasonable assumption. Instead, this is about as close to the bone as mainstream Hollywood fare gets - and not necessarily the funnybone, although there are some extremely amusing sequences (often of The Office variety: funny and yet painfully embarrassing at the same time). There's real fire and vitriol here as Jennifer Aniston and Vince Vaughn go their separate ways (onscreen) after two years under the same roof, with extended and nasty fights that showcase Aniston's acting skills (already seen in films like The Good Girl and Friends With Money) and Vaughn's ability to deliver astounding chunks of text with nuance and rhythm (part of what made Wedding Crashers so manically funny). There's good support - and consistent fun - from Jon Favreau and Judy Davis (though you'd wish that an actress as fine as Davis had better parts, she has fun with this one), while Vincent D'Onofrio brings his full bag of tics to the part of Vaughn's older brother, and Jason Bateman does well by the role of the one rational friend the pair has left between them. Some fawned over director Peyton Reed's last effort, Down With Love (enjoyable though hardly original: haven't these critics seen the musical episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer?), but this is much flatter; the script and a bunch of actors who know their stuff do the heavy lifting.

Maria Full of Grace

2004, US/Colombia, directed by Joshua Marston

A stripped-down story of a Colombian woman's experience as a drug mule, Maria Full of Grace is a grimly believable account of the realities of the drug industry at the ground level (we never see beyond those immediately involved with preparing the drug-couriering women). Whether in Colombia or in the US, the film rarely leaves the side of Maria (played with great conviction by newcomer Catalina Sandino Moreno), deftly sketching in small-town Colombian life in the opening stages, and giving an equally vivid picture of Queens's Litte Colombia neighborhood later on. First-time director Joshua Marston has a documentary eye for detail, and it's fascinating to be brought into parts of the world (distant and near) that are usually invisible (the intricacies of the mule's tasks are also conveyed unflinchingly). If the film is lacking in any respect, it's perhaps in its unwillingness to more rigorously reflect on Maria's motivations; the drug-running experience comes to seem like a bizarre kind of self-affirmation, as if the consequences can be shrugged off in the headlong pursuit of the American Dream. That somehow seems like a slap in the face of the truly decent people she encounters.

Ugetsu Monogatari

1953, Japan, directed by Mizoguchi Kenji

One of those rare films that fully lives up to its advance billing, Ugetsu Monogatari is a unique blend of realism and fantasy, told with great cinematic virtuosity. Set in the 16th century against a backdrop of civil war, the film opens, nonetheless, in a bucolic village, and the first 40 minutes are an exquisite depiction of peasant and family life, focused on tiny details of craftsmanship and family relations; the cooperation between farmer/potter Genjuro and his wife Miyagi is both convincing and deeply moving. Even as her husband senses the opportunities for enrichment created by the still-distant war, Miyagi makes clear her own contentment at her small family's place in the world; Mizoguchi delicately conveys the sense that there's much to lose even in this apparently simple way of life.

The carefully rooted realism of the village sequences ensures that the ensuing developments - as the film departs in directions both mysterious and and tragic - are all the more effectively disturbing. Genjuro's encounter with the mysterious Lady Wakasa (played, to startling effect, by Machiko Kyo) is a wrenching viewing experience; that the depths of Genjuro's betrayal can only be revealed by a fatal obsession says much about Mizoguchi's unsentimental world-view. Visually, the film is a feast, with gorgeously composed shots and a camera that seems constantly on the move, rising high over the action, then prowling at ground level, perhaps never more effectively than in the beautiful shot that accompanies Genjuro's return home, and which perfectly encapsulates the film's otherworldly feel. The Criterion Collection treatment underlines, again, what a shame it is that more of Mizoguchi's films aren't available on DVD [this situation has, happily, improved a good deal since 2006, not least through the efforts of the Criterion Collection].

Dr. No

1962, UK, directed by Terence Young

The first Bond movie, despite its exotic trappings, is one of the most restrained in scale: almost all of the action takes place in relatively tiny Jamaica (or on Pinewood sets), rather than the near constant jet-setting that often proved confusing in later movies. While the overall template is already firmly in place - Bond takes on a sinister megalomaniac intent on world domination - many of the flourishes that would later prove so critical to the franchise (Desmond Llewellyn's turns as Q, for instance) have not yet been grafted on.

While the supporting structure is thus not quite as comfortingly familiar, Sean Connery, as Bond, appears to have been born fully formed into the part: from the first moment he appears onscreen, he exudes a charm and assurance that transcends the often rickety plot and the archly incredible villain. Though Ian Fleming's first Bond book had appeared almost a decade previously, Bond seems a perfect 60's hero: he embodies the attractions of the golden age of jet travel, apparently possessed of infinite resources and resourcefulness, and engages in casual sex and even more casual violence in a manner that seems to typify that decade, throwing off the comfortable but dreadfully unexciting 50's with glee. The first 'Bond, James Bond' and the familiar Bond theme remain as stirring as ever, while Ursula Andress's emergence from the sea is one of the franchise's most iconic and enjoyable moments.

Poisson d'avril

1954, France, directed by Gilles Grangier

It’s odd that the disc this film appears on is marketed as part of a collection of films featuring the hugely popular French comic Louis de Funès, since he appears in just two scenes, and his performance, the broadest of caricatures, is hardly his best work. The star of the film is the subtler Bourvil, cast, as so often, in a salt-of-the-earth part; the actors would be reunited a decade later in Le Corniaud and La Grande vadrouille, two of the French box-office’s biggest all-time hits. Although Poisson d'avril is exactly the kind of simple, production-line fare that prompted so much dismissive comment by the nouvelle vague critics and filmmakers (often one and the same) just a few years later, Bourvil’s easygoing charm and the often witty script (with dialogue by the great Michel Audiard, whose phrasing and rhythms cast a long shadow over French popular filmmaking of the 1950’s and 1960’s) ensure that the film remains very watchable. Gilles Grangier, who directed many of Jean Gabin’s later films, gives his actors room to savour the script’s best lines, while there’s a surprising vein of commentary on attitudes to the wartime experience.

De battre mon coeur s'est arrêté

2005, France, directed by Jacques Audiard (The Beat That My Heart Skipped)

Director Jacques Audiard has carved out one of the most interesting resumes in recent French film, with his own very particular take on noir themes of violence and redemption, and fine skills as both a wordsmith (hardly surprising given that his father was the great dialoguist Michel Audiard) and a director of actors, especially of younger actors like Mathieu Kassowitz, Emmanuelle Devos and, here, Romain Duris. Though Duris has taken on edgy material before, he’s never been more convincing than in this film; the conflict between his professional violence and the calm he seeks in music is brilliantly conveyed in a performance of control mixed with explosive aggression. The plot is taken from James Toback’s 1978 film Fingers, but the adaptation is so seamless that it feels as though it was conceived in the underbelly of Paris, while the addition of a subplot involving a piano tutor who speaks no French is highly effective. Duris's Thomas should be exceptionally unsympathetic, given his unpleasant work in the employ of his slumlord father, but his desire for a better life, and his dedication to what seems like a foolish dream, not to mention the actor’s energy, render the character complex, confusing and appealing. There’s able support, too, from a rumpled Niels Arestrup, the underused Emmanuelle Devos, and Linh Dan Pham (who reveals her own capacity for anger to startling effect) as the piano tutor.