Reviews

TL;DR A fascinating story, moderately well told 3.5*

There's an old adage that World War II was won by American steel, British Intelligence, and Russian blood. Simplistic and trite, but like so many clichés there's an element of truth to it.

Operation Mincemeat was the name given to the British ruse of attempting to fool the Nazis into believing the assault on southern Europe would not come through the obvious stepping stone of Sicily but through Sardinia and Greece. A dead body, supposedly of a Royal Marines major, was placed to wash up on the shore of the Gulf of Cadiz carrying documents to support this scheme. The subterfuge and planning to make this seem believable was incredible. It was one of a multitude of such deceptions from British Intelligence but is arguably the best known and one of the most effective.

The story has previously been told in a very decent film, The Man Who Never Was, made in 1956 when many details pertaining to the operation were still firewalled. The full facts, now known, are so amazing they don't need any embellishment. Sadly, director John Madden and screenwriter Michelle Ashford can't resist adding a few contrivances which are as obvious as they are unnecessary, their resolutions implausibly weak - exactly the same issue that blighted the otherwise good film Hacksaw Ridge a few years ago.

I accept it's not a documentary and adding a few fripperies can be effective from an entertainment point of view. This is well shown in Bond creator Ian Fleming's very peripheral role being greatly increased; this allows for a couple of James Bond meta jokes, which raise a smile, and a wonderful small supporting role from James Fleet as Charles Fraser-Smith, the real-life inspiration for Q. Most of the acting is first rate, especially Penelope Wilton doing what she always does best, although Simon Russell Beale is unconvincing as Churchill.

The film is at its strongest in the first half as the scheme is hatched and planned, but it loses focus after the body is placed and recovered when the contrivances come to the fore and a gratuitous love sub-plot distracts. But at least it's better than John Madden's previous attempt at a WW2 story, his deeply disappointing adaptation of Captain Corelli's Mandolin.

It's an absolute pity that what could, and should, have been a classic film, a tribute to the men and women who did so much to defeat the Nazis, should ultimately be a bit of a let-down, albeit still always watchable.

TL;DR Corny. Clichéd. Totally exhilarating. 4.5*

It's a Tom Cruise Top Gun film and it delivers exactly what you expect, and exactly what you want.

Reprising his role as Maverick, Tom Cruise is ordered back to the Top Gun School by Admiral 'Iceman' (a short cameo from an ailing Val Kilmer) to train the current generation of super pilots for a near mission impossible. Dramatic tension is inevitable with one of the pilots, Rooster Bradshaw being son of Goose, Maverick's wing man in the iconic 1986 film of which this is the sequel.

The plot is completely derivative and predictable, the characters two dimensional. But you know that before the film begins. Don't whinge about it.

The flight photography is constantly stupendous and never confusing; the story rips along, very well paced by director Joseph Kosinski. There's a few meta jokes pertaining to the first film, again as you'd expect, and the soundtrack is superb.

The film's main flaw, such as it is, is its casting imbalance. Tom Cruise dominates throughout; with one notable exception toward the end, none of the supporting cast ever really get a chance to shine. I guess this is near inevitable, however, when you're one of the greatest film stars of all time and also the film's producer. No different to Hamlet though.

This is a beltingly good action movie which will disappoint very few who enjoy this genre of film. And who doesn't?

Directed by Armando Iannucci who co-wrote the screenplay with Simon Blackwell, The Personal History of David Copperfield was never likely to resemble a BBC Sunday tea time serial that some of us remember from childhood days.

Messrs Iannucci and Blackwell have previously collaborated on such satirical comedic work as The Thick of It, The Loop and Time Trumpet - Armando Iannucci also wrote and directed The Death of Stalin, a superb piece of satire, in 2017.

So hopes for this first film adaptation of Dickens' classic in over 50 years were exceptionally high. They were met in full.

From the little I've read of Dickens (Great Expectations, A Christmas Carol) I'm aware that he enjoys creating ridiculously comic characters with bizarre behaviours and physical oddities. And in this tale of the little loved, little wanted boy maturing into a young gentleman, the ensemble cast is given free rein to indulgently over-act to their hearts' content; it works brilliantly. There's not a weak link, every actor seems to be thoroughly enjoying themselves and this fun emanates from the screen. This is complimented by set, production and costume design all of which is flawless and adds to the sense of enjoyment. Cinematography from Zac Nicholson is also to be commended.

The script is sharp and there are many laugh out loud scenes, with jokes both visual and verbal, especially in the film's first half. Social commentary is almost entirely visual. And it's moving; when the older David Copperfield speaks to his younger self at the film's end, I'm sure I wasn't the only one to well up.

Mr Iannucci directs with energy and has a few tricks up his sleeve to keep the audience engaged.

My only question is why Mr Micawber is not given his famous line: 'Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen nineteen and six, result happiness. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure twenty pounds ought and six, result misery.' I can only guess the filmmakers are exponents of Modern Monetary Theory so decided to give this principle a swerve.

The Personal History of David Copperfield is an unfettered delight from start to finish. I think this is going to become an annual Christmas treat for me.

Much has been made of 1917's cinematography which, through very skilful editing, makes it appear that the film is shot in one continuous track. It's done extremely well, although there is a very clear, deliberate and unambiguous break slightly over halfway through.

1917 is the latest film from director Sam Mendes, who co-wrote the script with Krysty Wilson-Cairns. Its story is of World War 1 lance corporals Schofield and Blake (George Mackay and Dean-Charles Chapman) who are commanded by General Erinmore (Colin Firth) to run a message to a battalion of 1,600 men to call off an attack the following morning which will result in their massacre.

The film takes on the character of a portmanteau piece as the two messengers run into each episodic scene before moving on to the next one. Some of these scenes work better than others. And it has the drawback of too many shallow cameos from actors unable to bring any depth to their part. The one exception to this is the excellent Mark Strong as a gruffly benevolent and politically-savvy captain who clearly knows the best way to keep his men alive is by being supremely efficient at his job.

The plot has soap opera elements to it - lance corporal Blake is told his brother's one of those about to be slaughtered. And there's plenty of contrived happenstance; suspension of disbelief is sorely tested more than once. The lingering doubt that the mode of delivering the message isn't perhaps the first option that would come to mind is never really dispelled. But perhaps the film's main failing is its emotional sterility, only at the end is it moving.

Sir Sam is a director of deserved renown whose two recent films for the Bond franchise, Skyfall and Spectre, are amongst the best of that canon. And his skill as a director is shown in 1917; despite the negatives it remains a film with some great merit. I feel Sir Sam has simply allowed technical wizardry and the bait of Oscars to take precedent over storytelling. He's a good filmmaker. He has more good work inside him.

Much has been made in the publicity material that this is very much a re-telling of the Louisa May Alcott classic. This is nothing less than you'd expect from Greta Gerwig. And a film telling a story that's been covered so often can best be justified by putting a different spin on it.

Little Women tells of the artistically talented March sisters, living a comfortable life in Concord, Massachusetts. The Civil War, at which their father is away fighting, seems a far distant conflict not in any way impinging upon their lifestyle and artistic dreams.

The film is shot beautifully, its production values superb. The scene on the beach with children flying kites will surely take your imagination to a Paris art gallery where you're viewing Victorian masterpieces; it's delightful.

But the film broadly fails to make its characters interesting. Only Saorise Rohan as the headstrong Jo imbues her character with any spirit. Her sisters are all too anodyne and homogeneous, their talents coming too easily. And the lack of any character flaws makes them all rather dull. They come across as prototype Stepford Wives. Amy is allowed, once, to show a lapse in perfection, and this seems to be merely a contrivance for her to show contrition, and for Jo to display forgiveness. Timothée Chalamet as a foppish Laurie fails to convince he could cause one sister to fall for him, let alone two. Character development is also hampered by Ms Gerwig's unnecessary non-linear storytelling.

Little Women is always good to look at and should keep your interest throughout, just. But go expecting to see a dramatic re-imagining of an old story and you'll be disappointed.

In all Guy Ritchie's crime caper movies there is, perhaps, an amorality and glorification of violence which ordinarily I would find unedifying. But only once, in the morally bankrupt RocknRolla, did this ruin the film and have me booing, metaphorically, at the end; his undoubted talent as a filmmaker has glossed over these shortcomings on all other occasions.

The Gentlemen is the latest in the series, written and directed by Mr Ritchie. Matthew McConaughey plays drug lord Mickey Pearson who is looking to sell his British interests, attracting the attention of other underworld figures keen to inherit his thriving empire.

Guy Ritchie's sharp direction and non-lateral storytelling are on top form. The script is crisp and witty, the continual plot twists keep you on your toes. If you feel some of the Mockney dialogue is a little bombastic, well, it'd be like going to watch a Carry On film and then complaining about double entendres - over the top dialogue is what he does; it's his trademark. And his homage to The Long Good Friday is a nice touch and contains a further surprise.

Most of the cast are also on top form, clearly enjoying themselves. Special mention to Hugh Grant playing a seedily odious private investigator-cum-blackmailer. His portrayal is something of a meta joke, channelling his hatred of the British tabloid hacks who have famously pursued the illegal tactics which his character practices. Perhaps the only failure is Henry Golding, in his first role outside rom-com, not quite convincing as a would-be Pablo Escobar. And it's a shame the excellent Colin Farrell's role isn't beefed up more. But these are mere quibbles.

The Gentlemen is a fast paced and laugh out loud action movie, an enjoyable holiday treat for adults.

Released in the U.K. and other markets under the far better title, Le Mans '66, Ford v Ferrari is an exhilarating biopic telling of Ford's attempts to challenge and outdo the beloved cars of genius Enzo Ferrari in the world famous French 24 hour motor marathon.

Seeking the prestige of the Ferrari badge, Henry Ford II (Tracy Letts), is humiliatingly rebuffed in his attempt to buy a controlling interest in the Italian motor manufacturer. In a fit of pique, he orders his executives to create a car that can turn the tables on Ferrari. Retired racing car driver now designer, Carroll Shelby (Matt Damon), is engaged by Ford executive Lee Iacocca (Jon Bernthal) to do just that. Shelby in turn recruits the cantankerously bloody-minded British racing driver Ken Miles (Christian Bale) to put his foot to the floor and hopefully secure the chequered flag. The project is to be overseen by Ford Senior Vice President Leo Beebe (Josh Lucas).

The film is centred on the dynamic between Shelby and Miles, their awkward relationship and history of confrontation ameliorating as they are both driven, no pun intended, to achieve victory. Their efforts are constantly frustrated by the unhelpful and self-serving Leo Beebe following his own agenda.

Direction from James Mangold (Walk the Line) and cinematography from Phedon Papamichael are both first rate. The racing scenes are truly immersive and you smell the octane. Screenplay from the British pair Jez and John-Henry Butterworth with American Jason Keller, never gets bogged down in technical detail, it simply allows the story to flow, a story so engaging that the running time of two and a half hours never flags; it's not just for petrol heads. And it says much of Matt Damon's progression as a film actor that he easily holds his own in his many scenes with Christian Bale. Irish actor Caitriona Balfe as Miles's wife Mollie provides a strong foil to her husband's headstrong ways.

Is the film slightly formulaic with stock characters? Maybe so, perhaps. Henry Ford II is shown as a bombastic bully, Leo Beebe an unctuous Uriah Heep-style sycophant. But when all other aspects of a film come together, who cares? Besides, most people love pantomime villains. And whether unwittingly or not, the film shows that maverick genius needs the boring business acumen and the politics inevitably attached to succeed. Both Shelby and particularly Miles are shown as pretty hopeless in their business dealings, neither would've got a car anywhere near Le Mans without the bean counters from Ford. The film is also mercifully free of modern day political analogies, concentrating instead on telling its tale without distraction.

I have a feeling this film will become a perennial public holiday favourite.

4.5*

Hot on the heels of a raft of films using classic pop as their driver - Bohemian Rhapsody, Rocketman, Yesterday, Blinded by the Light - comes Last Christmas.

Directed by Paul Feig and co-written by Oscar-winner Emma Thompson, who also appears, Last Christmas uses the music of Wham! and George Michael in its bid to usurp Richard Curtis's copyright on all things London rom-com.

The story centres on Kate/Katarina (Emilia Clarke), the daughter of Croatian refugees (Thompson and Boris Isakovic), who works as a sales elf in a Covent Garden Christmas store. Recovering from life-saving surgery, her chaotic lifestyle leaves her dependent on the goodwill of friends for places to live. Unfortunately, her annoying habits soon dry up any good will and she is constantly moving on. Into her life comes the mysteriously benevolent Tom Webster (Henry Golding) who flits in and out seemingly arbitrarily.

Perhaps Emilia Clarke plays the irritating Kate too well as it's difficult to have much sympathy with her homeless plight; she rather brings it on herself you feel. Henry Golding as Tom is expected to do little but smile and look winsome, as he did in Crazy Rich Asians, and he does this with consummate ease.

The script from Emma Thompson, her husband Greg Wise, and Byrony Kimmings is low on humour, preferring to take aim at what it perceives as a xenophobic strand of British society. Yet Emma Thompson herself goes for cheap laughs with her fractured English and misunderstanding of English idioms. It culminates in a penile joke, the like of which hasn't been aired since Mr Humphries asked if he could have Spotted Dick in the Grace Bros staff canteen circa 1975.

The film's use of George Michael's pleasant pop also misfires through lack of imagination. In Rocketman, Elton John's music was used extremely well as a compliment to the evolving storyline. Here, the songs simply strike up on random play adding nothing to the plot or purpose of the film.

Oh, and 'the twist' and its denouement was a carbon copy of a Hollywood classic from twenty years ago. This, and the obligatory shots of a gleamingly lit pre-Christmas London seen many times before, sum up the whole film as derivative and unoriginal. It was also unforgivably tiresome.

Is there anything good to say about Last Christmas? Well, after watching this you'll probably think of Love Actually as being a seminal work of art.

As the whole film was a self-contained cliché, it seems quite appropriate to describe it as a Christmas turkey to be avoided like the plague.

Blinded by the Light has all the subtlety and finesse of a sexual advance from Harvey Weinstein.

It follows the well-worn story arc of a young man at odds with his cultural heritage, family values and expectations, while experiencing prejudice from a narrow-minded and racist society. It's choc-full of caricatures and one-dimensional stereotypes.

Set in late 1980s Luton, a working class and ethnically diverse town outside London, it tells of an aspiring young writer from a Muslim Pakistani background who's expected to subdue his artistic ambitions to study economics and make a living to support his family. Introduced to the unfashionable music of Bruce Springsteen, he relates to its lyrics which inspire him to write about his situation and surroundings.

It's all very formulaic and laboured; its political statements and observations delivered with all the delicacy of a barrel of rancid mullet being poured over your head. The anachronisms are also impossible to overlook. Unemployment in the UK peaked in 1982 and by the time the film was set was falling fast. Yet we are supposed to believe it was on the opposite trajectory passing 3 million. Likewise, racial attitudes depicted were probably more relevant in the 1970s.

The film's composition is random, an uneasy mix of drama, social commentary and comedy; a few Mamma Mia-style musical set pieces were half-hearted in choreography and execution.

If you're in the market for a musical film which far better captures the zeitgeist of the late 1980s, I recommend strongly you look up the Irish film Sing Street from a couple of years ago. You won't be disappointed.

Sometimes the story is all you need.

Apollo 11 is a 93 minute doco comprising almost entirely of original film with actual-time commentary from NASA officials and technicians, television coverage, and the astronauts themselves.

There are no talking heads, no gratuitous celebrity anecdotes, no retrospective 'contextual analysis'. All these absences are to be lauded.

The film is very much a celebration of courage, technological advancement and history making. With much unfamiliar film footage, director Todd Douglas Miller simply and deftly tells the story of events over a one week period - the launch, landing, moon exploration and safe return of Apollo 11 and its crew. A brief reference to the Vietnam War is the only external event allowed to seamlessly intrude.

The whole film is absorbing, you live every moment. And within it, nothing quite matches the visceral thrill of the rocket's launch. With close up camera shots and strong vibrations shaking the whole theatre, it was immersive cinema at its best. A soaring and portentous musical score from Matt Morton adds to the exhilaration.

Given the concept of the film, it's something of a misnomer to describe Todd Douglas Miller as Director - Editor would seem far more appropriate. But his title is barely relevant. What's far more important is his capture of the heady excitement and non-jingoistic pride that the Apollo Program brought, especially its eleventh mission. It is these emotions that Damien Chazelle's moon landing drama, First Man, failed to deliver only last year. His flat film made the climax of Neil Armstrong taking that giant leap for Mankind about as exciting as ironing a nylon shirt. Apollo 11 leaves you in no doubt as to the magnitude of the event.

It was most pleasing to see that in a near sold-out large theatre, there were many young children brought to see this amazing achievement of human confidence. Let's hope it rubs off on them.

On a final note, I'd recommend strongly that the film is seen on the biggest screen available, preferably an IMAX.

Despite pre-release Australian reviews for Danny Boyle's Yesterday being decidedly underwhelming, it had a full house at the large theatre at which I saw it on a Sunday afternoon. Apart from a few young shavers, In my fifties, I was at the youthful end of the watching demographic - there were several blue-rinses.

Yesterday tells of The Beatles becoming wiped from history after a 12-second world power outage. A young and unsuccessful songwriter from a sleepy English seaside town, Jack Malik (Himesh Patel), is seemingly the only person now alive who knows of the band and their catalogue, having received a concussion at the precise moment of the power cut. After realising he's not victim to a large scale meta joke, that The Beatles really have been expunged from memory in this parallel universe, he starts 'composing' their songs, ultimately to be lauded as the world's greatest songwriter. But does it bring him happiness and love?

The idea is great, the execution less so.

Screenplay is from Richard Curtis who seems to have been on auto-pilot during its writing. His CV in the last 30 years is beyond impressive, but we all have off days. Its well-worn and simple premise of guilt and unacknowledged love ran very shallow, its jokes often laboured.

And too many of the support characters are plain annoying and irritating rather than endearing; sadly, the usually marvellous Sanjeev Bhaskar as Jack's Dad is the chief culprit in this regard. An extended support performance from Ed Sheeran stretched his limited acting experience beyond credibility.

Likewise, in his first big screen outing, Himesh Patel as the film's star had difficulty imposing himself. His delivery of the Lennon-McCartney and Harrison songs was, however, generally impressive, a lack of tone only occasionally showing.

Cinematography from Christopher Ross was first rate, the concert footage especially so. The mainly English locations showed that country in a good light - including a brief montage of Liverpool's exceptional civic architecture.

The film is inoffensive, the soundtrack exceptional (does that need saying?), but ultimately extremely lightweight. But it's always going to be worth seeing for the tunes.

For me, 2006 was the best year for cinema in the last two decades. There were three films so well made and enjoyable, Little Miss Sunshine, Pan's Labyrinth, and The Lives of Others, that in most other years they'd each have been runaway winner of my Film of the Year.

More than a decade on, the director of The Lives of Others, Florian Henckel von Donnersmark, has created a film which is as good as, possibly surpassing, his earlier work.

Never Look Away is a sweeping drama following the story of the young and talentedly artistic Kurt Barnert, and his nemesis, gynaecology Professor Carl Seeband. The film follows their intertwining stories from an oppressed pre-war Nazi Germany through to their lives in a prosperous, increasingly decadent, West Germany after their unrelated defections from the east.

Tom Schilling as the adult Kurt, and Sebastian Koch as Professor Seeband, both give strong, nuanced performances and are aided by a flawless and large supporting cast. The themes of love, war, betrayal and death are timeless.

Direction from von Donnersmark, as it was in The Lives of Others, is taut and focused, occasionally providing a deliberate false narrative. Cinematography from Caleb Deschanel is excellent.

Incidental music from Max Richter, which would be overbearing in a lesser film, is totally in keeping with the scale of this magnificent story. And the subtitling is so good, you'll forget you're reading a film.

It's a recurring theme of mine to berate filmmakers for releasing films too long for their storyline. Not this time. Although Never Look Away comes in at over 3 hours, there is not a wasted scene, not a superfluous line of dialogue in the entire piece. The pace is consistently level and, if the large audience I saw the film with is typical, at all times captivating.

And another lesson for other filmmakers. One of Herr von Donnersmark's greatest strengths is his ability to make political points for you to observe and work out by yourself, rather than the crass, sledgehammer 'in your face' method used by so many - Hollywood please take note. In Never Look Away he makes an historic case, showing Professor Seeband segueing seamlessly from committed arch-Nazi to committed apparatchik of Soviet-style Socialism, the difference between the two being infinitesimal.

One of the very best films, if not the best, I will see this year.

Sometimes a film can have a warmth and charm transcending its failings to be thoroughly enjoyable; The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel was brim full of corny jokes and a pretty ordinary plot - its reviews in the MSM were at best mediocre. But its solid cast and theme of older people who had not given up on the idea of love and sex touched a chord with a mature audience, and it ended up at number three in the Australian box office in 2012 as word of mouth spread.

When a film has warmth, and charm, and little to no failings, then you have an instant classic.

Everything about Paddington 2 is nigh on pitch perfect; the wonderful cast of British and Irish character actors don't put a foot wrong; Ben Whishaw's voice characterisation now the definitive Paddington; the CGI so good you forget the bear's not real; costume and set design which is inspired; an inventive and amusing plot touched with whimsy; jokes slapstick and meta which rarely miss the mark - look out for the calypso version of the Love Thy Neighbour theme song; locations both London and rural which showcase Britain at its very best; an ending inspired by Capra's It's a Wonderful Life.

To make a criticism that the pacing in the second half of the film perhaps fell away just a little at one stage would be like criticising the entire Apollo Space Program for Neil Armstrong's failure to use the indefinite article when saying 'That's one small step for a man'.

And the best thing about the movie is that you'll leave the cinema with a fuzzy warmth. Guaranteed.

No bear is a failure who has friends.

Lion is the story is of a very young Indian street boy (Saroo) separated from his mother and brother and falling into destitution after an involuntary train journey of 1600km takes him to the Bengal area of India where a different language is spoken. His life turns around when he's adopted by a loving and wealthy Tasmanian couple (Nicole Kidman, David Wenham) and flown to a new life in Australia.

The film skips 20 years and we find Saroo, now played by Dev Patel, a happy and well-educated young man on the brink of a promising adult life. But a minor incident causes a flashback and he becomes obsessed with finding his original family to the detriment of his career and Australian relationships.

The direction is solid and acting good - Nicole Kidman and Dev Patel particularly; the story rarely falters.

Most films are manipulative to some degree, and Director Garth Davis occasionally lays it on a bit thick. But when you leave the theatre and find you're in a majority of the audience with swollen red eyes, who cares?

Nearly all dud films fall into one of two categories.

Sometimes, you sit watching in open-mouthed disbelief that such a pile of rotting effluence ever got a green light – I still break into a cold sweat when I think of the talented Brendan Cowell's clichéd cricket comedy, Save Your Legs.

And sometimes it's easy to see what the film was envisaged as being but, somewhere along the way, it just failed to come together.

Robert Zemeckis's Allied falls into the latter camp.

The story of spies, love and double agents with the backdrop of Casablanca and London in World War Two surely had the hallmarks of a winner. Add the directing pedigree of Mr Zemeckis and a strong, mainly British cast headed by international stars Brad Pitt and Marion Cotillard and you'd probably bank on this one being a commercial and critical blockbuster.

Sadly, it just doesn't work.

Screenwriter Steven Knight has enjoyed success and Oscar and BAFTA nominations for Dirty Pretty Things. But other work of his has been found wanting – The Hundred Foot Journey, Closed Circuit – were both decidedly mediocre. He has filled Allied with implausible plot devices, unconvincing characters and some pretty average dialogue.

The film starts with Brad Pitt, an intelligence officer with the Royal Canadian Air Force, teaming with French Resistance heroine, Marion Cotillard, in Casablanca to assassinate the German Ambassador. Their goal is achieved with too much ease, their escape far too easy as row upon row of German soldiers run into their path to be mowed down like hapless aliens in a computer game. How you longed for an ingenious escape route such as Ryan Gosling's at the start of Drive.

Swiftly falling in love, the couple heads to London for marriage, a child and domestic bliss. But this ideal is turned upside down when British Intelligence inform Pitt his wife is suspected as being a German agent. He must feed her false information and then kill her should it become clear she's passed the bait to the Goons; should he fail to do so, he will be hanged for treason. It's preposterous stuff, and following events and the film's denouement are equally ludicrous.

Robert Zemeckis must take the blame for the film's poor pacing. Events in the first third of the film in Casablanca whizz by too quickly, but when events move to England, it drags. Zemeckis also has no feel for a war-torn and blitzed London, seemingly unaware of rationing, shortages and severe austerity. The scene of Cockneys round a pub piano singing The White Cliffs of Dover was trying too hard.

Cinematography, production values and costumes were good; the actors did their best with the given script. But it wasn't enough to save a film which promised so much.

It's questionable whether or not The Beatles will ever be matched as a pop culture phenomena. As they returned from their first ground-breaking tour of America, BBC television covered live their arrival home to Britain. The Saturday afternoon sports show Grandstand was jettisoned, its long-standing presenter David Coleman dispatched to Heathrow to interview the group fresh off the plane. It's difficult to imagine such coverage for any band ever occurring again.

Snippets of the broadcast were shown at the beginning of Ron Howard's documentary which promised a story we didn't know.

Taking a chronological stance the film proceeded to tell the tale of the pleasantly naïve, mop-topped heart throbs transforming into more cynical businessmen touring solely for the wealth it brought them, their record contract giving them only scant royalties. Sadly, as the Fab Four tired of the constant demands of touring and its lack of artistic integrity, the film tired with it.

Most of the footage shown seemed pretty familiar and the film failed to bring many fresh insights into the band or its culture. Some celebrity interviews interspersed throughout the film proved to be a mixed bag. Those telling contemporary tales of how they remembered the tours were more relevant than later era artists putting their hearsay opinions forward.

Ron Howard is all too often an under-rated director but on this occasion, his work does come across as a little slapdash and superficial. It's difficult not to compare with Martin Scorsese's far superior, and much longer, doco, George Harrison: Living in the Material World. Scorsese's film, which was clearly a labour of love for him, was filled with interesting vignettes, treating its subject matter with respect but never falling into hagiography.

The Beatles, quite rightly, occupy a hallowed place in the history of British culture. Their importance exceeds that of Kipling and Elgar, surely on a par with Charles Dickens and Jane Austen. This inconsequential film is pleasant viewing and the music always toe- tapping but it is far from being definitive and lacks gravitas.

A few years back, I was advising a Francophile mate of the virtues of the wonderful French comedy, The Intouchables. I mentioned also that the subtitling was superb. 'How would you know?' he asked, aware that I had but a smattering of schoolboy French. I explained that the grammar and syntax was perfect, and colloquialisms clearly caught the spirit of the piece - you simply forgot you were reading script, allowing you to concentrate on the visuals.

Sadly, the taut Argentine crime thriller,The Clan, looks as if it's been subtitled by a dyslexic alcoholic using Google translate. It was extremely frustrating. I was clearly watching a very well made film, based on real events, about a Mafiosa-style family engaged in kidnapping and extortion; this was at a time, the 1980s, when the government was up to similar tactics - many dissidents simply disappeared. Keeping Police and officials sweet, the family could act with near impunity.

Everything about the film - its story, pacing, acting, direction was top notch. But the constantly poor subtitling proved too great a distraction and detracted from the film itself.

I can recommend the film without hesitation to any fluent Spanish speakers among you.

Many years ago I saw, or read, an interview in which Alan Bennett described the difference in getting a play commissioned by the BBC and getting the green light for his first film project.

He detailed how the BBC would seemingly take forever before agreeing a script, putting it through committees, raising objections and queries, before finally giving it the nod. On the other hand, the film company had no such qualms signing up his script without a moment's hesitation.

Then came the rub.

Mr Bennett went onto say that having committed themselves to a piece, the BBC saw it through meticulously without another word. On the contrary, the film company very soon, and very often, started demanding changes: Do you need 20 extras for that scene; does that really need to be shot on the Forth Bridge - wouldn't Hertfordshire do? He complained that the finished film, the mediocre A Private Function starring Maggie Smith, bore little resemblance to his original script.

Perhaps then it's no coincidence that his latest film, The Lady in the Van also starring Maggie Smith, is a BBC Films production.

Now, BBC Films itself is not beyond reproach. I've been scathing in the past that they allow political proselytising to dominate their films all too often - the dreadfully sanctimonious Salmon Fishing in the Yemen springs all too readily to mind. But there was little danger of that happening with Alan Bennett. Despite being strongly political, his writing talent is such he allows his storytelling to carry his piece with political and social themes as a strong undercurrent.

The Lady in the Van is a self-acknowledged mostly true story of an elderly itinerant who in 1970 parked up her van in the well-heeled street in which Alan Bennett and other luminaries lived. After a passage of time, she is invited onto Mr Bennett's drive where she remains for many years.

The film's themes revolve around society's attitude to mental illness, the elderly, sexuality and family relationships. In the talented hands of Alan Bennett it keeps the right side of being thought-provoking rather than preachy.

Maggie Smith is simply wonderful as the eponymous character. It would've been all too easy to overact such a role but Maggie Smith is far too good an actor to ham it up. She knows that a withering look or tilt of the head can speak volumes and she uses such devices to devastating effect. Alex Jennings as Alan Bennett has a double role playing both the man and his alter ego, the writer, often in conflict with each other. It's a neat device which works well. There is quality depth in the supporting cast who present interesting characters with whom Alan Bennett has great fun, often presenting them as stereotypes before showing latent depth.

Unfortunately the film has some pacing issues. Director Nicholas Hytner allows the story to lull on more than one occasion, the film meandering and drifting just a little. But he clearly has Alan Bennett's confidence having directed the film version of The History Boys - most of whose cast appear in one or two line cameo roles.

Let's hope Alan Bennett, now a sprightly 80 something shown riding his bike at the film's end, and the BBC can make more material of this quality.

There is something eerily enigmatic in seeing a lone teacher in a one-room school in the middle of nowhere. It was used to great effect in Ted Kotcheff's re-discovered 1971 Australian classic Wake in Fright and director David Oelhoffen conjures similar ambiance in his ultimately gripping Algerian-based drama Far From Men.

Set in 1950s Algeria against a backdrop of growing civil unrest to French colonial rule, Daru (Viggo Mortensen), is an apparently unassuming French teacher in a remote and barren outpost, educating young Arab children on matters French with no apparent nod to their own heritage. His isolated retreat is broken by the manacled arrival of Mohamed (Reda Kateb) on a charge of the murder of his cousin. He is ordered to take the prisoner to the nearest French administrative centre where he knows full well that after a perfunctory trial, the Arab will be found guilty and executed. More than reluctant to undertake this task, which he clearly views as accessory to a killing, events take a dramatic turn leaving the diffident teacher with no moral alternative but to Do as instructed. The film then follows their journey as they head out over rocky, mountainous terrain.

Oelhoffen and cinematographer Guillaume Deffontaines take full advantage of the Algerian desert landscape, frequently showing the two men pitted against its magnitude and harsh, extreme conditions. It is exceedingly well shot, drawing the audience in with its captivating imagery. Music from Australians Nick Cave and Warren Ellis was unobtrusive.

Initially slow-burning, the film bursts into energy with gripping drama, twists and turns. As the back stories unfold, the surprising resilience and phlegm shown by the quiet teacher is understood. The conclusion was unexpectedly poignant.

The concept and themes of two diverse men on a road journey pitted against elements and events far bigger than them are not unfamiliar. But the injection of unexpected plot devices and character development keep the film fresh and the audience engaged. Performances from both Mortensen and Kateb are strong and the two actors gel together well.

Brendan Cowell's previous screen writing credit was for the woeful comedy Save Your Legs, a film so poor in concept that how it ever came to production simply beggars belief.

Ruben Guthrie, fortunately, proves to be a few notches above his Indian-based cricket caper. Adapted by Cowell from his own stage play, he also directs with some confidence.

The film centres, as the title eponymously suggests, on the character Ruben Guthrie (Patrick Brammall), a high-flying advertising guru enjoying the hedonistic excesses that are perceived as integral to that profession; his persona neatly fits the acronym Lombard – a lot of money but a right dick. Enjoying the trappings of his lifestyle, he drunkenly jumps from a ledge as a stunt narrowly avoiding fatal injuries. This proves too much for his beautiful and long-suffering Czech fiancée who walks out on him but advises she could return if he can stay off the drink for a year and turn his life around. The film then chronicles Ruben's life as he attempts to do just that.

It is at this juncture that the film is at its strongest. Ruben's journey takes something of a random trajectory as he finds a lack of support from close family, colleagues and friends all of whom seem to have their own selfish motives in their dealings with him. Patrick Brammall brings great nuance to his role, injecting depth into his character and carrying the film squarely on his shoulders. The supporting cast – Jack Thompson and Robyn Nevin as the estranged, alcohol-soaked parents; Alex Dimitriades as the caustic gay best friend; Jeremy Sims as the troubled boss and Harriet Dyer as the superficial flake from the AA group who ends up in his bed are all assured in their roles. The less said about Brenton Thwaites' poorly acted, poorly written role as the new social-media face of advertising, the better.

Direction from Cowell was well-paced and cinematography was good, only occasionally let down by some sloppy editing. Locations were well chosen and Guthrie's exclusive waterfront property in which many scenes were shot, always gave the impression of being a trophy house rather than a home. His over the top bar, which amusingly stayed in situ during his abstinence, would not have disgraced the swankiest New York private club.

But at just over 90 minutes the film needed more. It lacked enough wit to be considered a full comedy and required more bite. Guthrie's story alone was not enough for a cinematic release. Although it rarely betrayed its theatrical origins, the story needed to expand to explore more themes, to perhaps satirise the advertising industry and those who inhabit its self-absorbed world. Nonetheless, the film still delivers some punches and Patrick Brammall's performance alone merits great praise.

What works in a book doesn't necessarily transfer well to celluloid.

Brighton Rock is rightly regarded as a classic – both Graham Greene's novel and John Boulting's 1947 film – for which Greene co-wrote the screenplay with Terence Rattigan.

At the book's conclusion, Pinkie's naïve young widow, Rose, hears the disc her psychopathic husband had recorded prior to his death in which he spits out his vitriolic contempt for her. Realising this would lack dramatic impact, the screenwriters changed the scenario so the needle sticks on the vinyl giving Rose the mistaken belief that Pinkie was actually expressing his love.

Unfortunately, David Nicholls' screenplay for this latest version of Thomas Hardy's Far From the Madding Crowd fails to take such liberties to enhance the storytelling. I've always preferred filmed versions of Hardy's work to his own rather bombastic prose, although his stories are, in the main, strong. But here, the tale of a young woman Bathsheba Everdene (the ever reliable Carey Mulligan), inheriting a farm and and defying expectations by running it herself, there are far too many happenstances, too many coincidences to give credibility. This is especially true for events surrounding her suitor and eventual husband, Sergeant Francis Troy (Tom Sturridge); as the plot evolves, plausibility is stretched beyond limit.

Plausibility is also in short supply for the sudden capitulation of Bathsheba to the young soldier's wooing. The heroine is, to that point, shown as a strong willed and fiercely independent post-feminist. She rejects the marriage proposal from the inherently kind and handsome Gabriel Oak (Matthias Schoenaerts) as well as those from the wealthy, if rather dull and middle-aged, William Boldwood (Michael Sheen). Yet we are somehow expected to believe that as soon as Sergeant Troy enters the fray and flashes his sword, she immediately starts behaving like a simpering fifteen year old at her favourite boy band's concert. Bathsheba herself states she can't believe she's behaving so. The trouble is – neither can we.

This is due in part to miscasting. Tom Sturridge, who also failed to make any impression as Allen Ginsberg in On the Road, lacks the screen presence and smouldering sexuality for the audience to accept he could reduce a fair maiden so; Matthias Schoenaerts might very well have achieved it.

The Danish team of director Thomas Vinterberg and cinematographer Charlotte Bruus Christensen, whose last film was the exceptional 2012 drama Jagten (The Hunt), capture wonderfully the beauty of the Dorset landscape and its changing moods. Perhaps it takes an outsider's eye to do this with such clarity – rarely can early morning autumnal mists have looked so appealing. But Vinterberg must take the blame for a rushed ending; far too much was shoe-horned into the final fifteen minutes.

The film is always easy on the eye, its production values are stand out and costumes and locations are extremely well done. To borrow from Dr Johnson, the film is worth seeing, but not worth going to see.

On VE Night 1945, the Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret Rose were allowed to leave Buckingham Palace, mingle incognito with the crowd to watch their parents accept acclaim from the balcony, then return to their cloistered world. That's it. Nothing more. But it happened.

Undoubtedly, that sure wouldn't make an interesting film. So A Royal Night Out concocts an entire fiction of the princesses slipping their chaperones from the stuffy ball they had been allowed to attend and escape into the celebrating crowds to find excitement amongst their subjects.

If you can allow yourself to believe that the army officers, charged personally by The King to look after the heir presumptive and her younger sister would abandon their duty to engage in carnal pursuits; if you can believe that the 14 year old Margaret Rose could end up in a knocking shop and lose consciousness after being given a Mickey Finn; if you can believe the coincidences allowing Princess Elizabeth to continually find her airman minder Jack amidst the throbbing thousands; if you can believe that both princesses went back to a working class house in Battersea to clean up and have a cup of tea before returning to the Palace, then you might just get some enjoyment from this lightweight piece of nonsense. If, on the other hand, you find it all too tiring and ridiculous, then it is a film to be given a wide berth.

The film's one redeeming feature was Jack Reynor as the RAF corporal, Jack, who most reluctantly finds himself looking after Princess Elizabeth. He has seen the horrors of the war and having been busted down for seeking compassionate leave after witnessing the slow death of a mate on return from a mission, sees no reason to celebrate; he has no time for the Royal Family and has no idea the young woman who has attached herself limpet-like to him is heir to a dynasty he does not support. Despite the paucity of good material, his screen presence and charisma shine through, and he gives a depth of character performance out of kilter with the rest of the film. He is a young actor to watch.

Oh, and a note to the film-makers. A Pink Gin consists of a slug of gin with just a dash of Angostura bitters giving it the slightest blush of pink. It is not a garishly opaque quarter pint drink looking like Barbara Cartland's face.

The only feasible explanation for the near universal plaudits being garnered on Citizenfour is that people are recording their approbation of Edward Snowden's actions, not the film itself.

Laura Poitras's doco is an execrable piece of film-making with no saving grace. The greatest proportion of the film takes place in a Hong Kong hotel room as 'Call me Ed' relates fragments of his reasoning and rationale to two journalists from The Guardian - when he's not seen gelling his hair or musing what length his stubble should be. He is far from articulate and there were no insights or revelations to capture any interest. We don't see his asylum flight to Russia as the director had hot-footed it back to Berlin after believing that she was being followed.

Snowden came across as something of a narcissistic dreamer with a Year 10 mentality. Like the British Cambridge spies before him, he's probably now doomed to see out his days in alcoholic Moscow isolation when those who currently laud him lose interest when the next specious hash tag campaign comes along.

In Clint Eastwood's 2009 film, Invictus, there is a scene in which Morgan Freeman as Nelson Mandela absents himself from state business and heads off to a meeting of the Sports Council where he has been told they are passing a motion changing the name of the South African rugby team from the Springboks to the Proteas. It is put to him that he surely has more important things to worry about than the name of a sporting team. Mr Mandela disagrees.

He explains that, to the contrary, this is a crucial moment in the reconciliation of South Africans. He advises that during his long incarceration, he studied the Boer – their language, their culture, their poetry. He got inside their head to understand what made them tick, what motivated them. Through this study, he knew just how important the Springboks were to the white South Africans and that a name change would be a grievous error. Putting his authority on the line, he managed to overturn the original decision and retain the Springbok name.

This was a crucial scene in the film, demonstrating Mr Mandela's wisdom and erudition. A small vignette, it did much to explain Mr Mandela's character and why he proved so successful and commanded such respect following his release from prison.

Unfortunately, there was no similar moment in Justin Chadwick's Mandela: Long Walk to Freedom.

The film took a sprawling, episodic approach to its subject's life and as such could only touch superficially on its aspects. Mr Mandela's first forty years were covered at break neck speed as we saw him pull himself up by his bootstraps to achieve a fine education, witness injustice and state sanctioned violence, then have his first marriage fail due to his commitment to the cause as well as his own infidelity. Only after his trial – at which he and his co-defendants fully expected to receive the death penalty – did the film take a breath and attempt a deeper approach. But even then, it missed its target.

Perhaps the most interesting story to emerge from this film was toward the end of Mr Mandela's imprisonment. Seeing the writing on the wall, the white minority government set up meetings with him to try and establish a power-sharing agreement acceptable to both sides. Nelson Mandela's fellow four prisoners all voted that he should not respond to these overtures, they saw it as a trap. Ignoring the strongly held views of people with whom he had fought alongside and been jailed with for over 20 years, Mr Mandela went his own way moving to upmarket and comfortable accommodation in a residential area . Here, he discussed with his jailers their country's future.

This was an episode ripe for exploring – how did his long-term prison friends and ANC members view this? Did they feel betrayed? Did the friendships endure or did they feel unable to forgive him? Did Mr Mandela himself suffer sleepless nights questioning his own actions and motives? We don't know. We were never made privy to their inner feelings or reactions. This was such a pity – I wanted to know so much more. Had the film concentrated more on this single aspect in its over long running time, it would have been so much more successful.

The film's direction, cinematography and acting were all competent. As Nelson Mandela, Idris Elba had a thankless job to show him ageing from a youthful man into old age – and he wasn't helped by ineffective make-up and talcum powder grey hair. But he lacked charisma and the film's script also failed to evoke the spirit of one of the greatest figures from the second half of the 20th century.

The film was average. Mr Mandela deserves better.