Reviews

Among so many other wonderful things, Persepolis is an example of a graphic novel that has been lifted to the cinema screen without the aid of wondrous and realistic digimation, but rather hand-drawn monochrome shadow theatre. People move in mysterious ways, buildings look ominous, and many animated details are thinly layered. But the cartoonish simplicity of the visual aesthetic serves this, actually rather human, story so remarkably well. It is the kind of movie that marries the personal and the political perfectly, to be informative as much as it is entertaining and moving.

We are following the trails of a young Iranian girl from Tehran called Marjane. Around the late 1970s, just before the fall of the Iranian Shah, Marjane is still carefree and blissfully unaware of her country's struggles against an oppressive Shah. She loves Bruce Lee and jamming to Iron Maiden records. But her leftist politically-conscious family make sure she is aware of what is going on. She learns why Iran has a monarchy in the first place, and what role the West had in making sure they didn't institute a republic. Her communist uncle Anoush tells her of how an uprising would only help Iran, since nothing could be worse than living under the Shah. We then live through the revolution with Marjane's family, as the country goes from an oppressive monarchy to an even more oppressive Islamic fundamentalist republic. All women are required to wear veils, and many cultural items, including alcohol and Marjane's Iron Maiden records, become illegal. Public displays of affection are frowned upon. What the film captures brilliantly is the struggle her family faces in trying to raise a normal girl in an oppressive environment. At one point her mother turns to her now grown-up daughter, who hastily married her boyfriend, and says "When I was your age, your father and I could hold hands in public". As a youngster she tries to remain true to herself, and even goes as far as wearing a jacket with "Punk is not ded (sic)" written on the back of it, much to the chagrin of her neighbours and city-watchmen.

Her parents eventually decide Iran is not good enough for their daughter, and send her to Vienna for education. With a new country, comes new ideas, but fresh problems. She experiences the snooty racism of the west, and becomes embarrassed by her own identity. The movie also demonstrates the naivety many westerners share about the middle east, or just the world in general, by their apathy to political causes. Marjane was raised by a politically-literate family, and feels strongly about the causes many Iranians died for.

Where the movie really shines is showing Marjane become a woman. Although Persepolis is much about the political struggles that one faces in 1980s Iran, it is also about the personal struggles of an every-day woman. Marjane discovers boys and parties, but also the heartbreak relationships bring. Eventually she returns to Iran where said parties and relationships are frowned upon.

Persepolis is about a world far too often untouched by western filmmakers, but it is a film that tells a universal story. The filmmaker, Vincent Parronaud, uses pop-culture references allowing us to easily relate to the film's protagonist. Indeed so much of Persepolis entails the struggle one has of freedom under an oppressive regime, but Marejane remains defiant throughout the film. She is the antithesis of the stereotypical meekness of middle eastern women; proud of her heritage, literate and consistently questioning the world. In many ways Personalise is a tribute the female spirit. Marjorie never gives up hope, even if the first image of the film is of a grown up Marjane sitting in a Parisian airport, looking forlornly at the ground. We know melancholy will accompany the following story, but what beauty it pays to it's inhabitants. Marjane's grandmother, who advises her granddaughter throughout her life to stay true to herself. Her parents who try their best to raise a smart, independent girl. And her uncle, who died because of what he believed. Such tragedy, and yet a movie as funny, moving and generally uplifting as Persepolis demands to be seen by everyone.

21 is the kind of movie that ensures you even if your knowledge and tolerance of card games is zilch and thin, that they are sexed up enough to keep you watching. Ben Campbell is a young student, with a genius-like understanding of numeracy. This interests his lecturer (Kevin Spacey, clearly on weekend night-shift form) who assembles a crack team of young geniuses, including Kate Bosworth as a rocket scientist (don't laugh), to rip-off the Vegas casinos through card-counting. The movie's intellect never aspires to the level of it's subjects, but the visual aesthetics and bouncy tone are enough to wet even the most ardent of anti-gamblers' appetites.

Set in 1982, Son of Rambow potentially pictures itself as a madcap send-up of 1980s cheese-fest First Blood. But the film actually celebrates the creative outflow of the childhood imagination. Even if that creativity is inspired by Rambo, the young protagonist of the film Will (Proudfoot) is part of a ultra-conservative Christian sect known as the Plymouth Brethren. He is prevented from watching television, movies and even reading books (that aren't the bible). He runs into discouraged fellow classmate, and renowned outcast Lee Carter (Poulter), who uses him to make a home-movie sequel to First Blood. At first, Carter bullies him into making the film, but eventually the boys form a bond, one that is strengthened due to each boy's disassociation with their family. Lee is ignored by his bigger brother, and disowned by his natural parents, whereas Will is condemned by his mother for his supposedly hedonistic detachment to the Plymouth brethren. The film is consistently funny, unashamedly retro and nicely touching. And features two strong debut leads from Bill Milner and Will Poulter.

This hauntingly brilliant horror film stars Belen Rueda as Laura, a woman who brings her family back to her childhood home in order to re-open it as an orphanage. Once there, her son's imagination is reawakened by the home, but his childhood fantasies and games become sinister when his "imaginary" friends may not be so imaginary after all. Unlike many modern horror films, Juan Antonio Bayona does not wash the cinema screen with explicit torture candy, but rather skilfully weaves cinematic shocks through intrigue and suspense. His movie is all the more terrifying for what it does not show than for what it actually reveals. And there are at least four big moments that will leave you trembling in your seat, if you have not already jumped out of it.

The supposed taboo of teenage pregnancy is tackled full on in this smartly-written but still hugely enjoyable comedy. Rising star Ellen Page plays Juno, the girl in question, who discovers that she is pregnant at the age of 16. At first, she wants to abort it, but soon decides the best thing to do is give it up for adoption. Written by Diablo Cody, who has gained mass amounts of publicity for her previous career as an exotic dancer, Juno combines jug-loads of wit and charm with a brilliant cast featuring the ever watchable JK Simmons as the smart-but-firm father, Jennifer Garner as the uptight but well-meaning adopter-mother and Michael Cerna, who carries over his awkward nerd shtick, perfected in such laugh-a-thons as TV cult series Arrested Development and gross-out comedy Superbad. Although some have complained the dialogue is unrealistically smart for pre-graduate high-schoolers, you will lose yourself in the story too much to bother caring.

Paul Thomas Anderson's mesmerising oil saga about a gold digger who strikes oil around the turn of the 20th century enraptured audiences as much as it disoriented them. The critics were wowed mostly by the majestic acting talents of Daniel-Day Lewis, who plays the titular anti-hero, a man slowly dissenting into a purgatory netherworld of moral and social bankruptcy. But it is far from just his film, or indeed Anderson's. The brooding score by Johnny Greenwood is mournfully unnerving, and the cinematography creates a vision of both a man and his hellish world that would give any monster movie a run for its money. It is difficult to comprehend the profoundly enigmatic aura of the film, without repeating the sound bites of a thousand other cineasts. you know what you have just witnessed is some kind of masterpiece, but you can't explain why.

In this rip-roaring, home-movie styled monster movie a group of teenager partying for the departure of one their closest friends find themselves amid a blaze of destruction when a giant 'thing' starts ripping the city to shreds. One of the unlucky scamps happens to be filming the entire thing, and thus we get a faux-documentary much in the style of a megabucks version of The Blair Witch Project meets Godzilla. Although the shaky camera and choice of the 1st person view may put off some viewers who suffer from motion sickness, Cloverfield for the most part is barnstorming entertainment, fully exploiting the resources available to it. The idea to shoot entirely from some poor sap's camera is not entirely original, dating back to the Italian cannibal movies of the early 80s. But it does make for an interesting take on the monster movie.

No Country For Old Men's opening prologue, spoken carefully and wistfully by Tommy Lee Jones' weary sheriff, tells the story of him having to put a 14-year-old killer in the electric chair. He killed his girlfriend, not because he had a motive, but to see what it would feel like. This opening speech sets up No Country For Old Men, the new release from Coen Brothers - Joel and Ethan, which then goes on to explore that baseless type of evil in the form of Javier Bardem's ruthless, mop-topped killer. He plays Anton Chigurh (how you pronounce his last name is dependant on who says it), a stone-faced killer trying to track down a missing bag of drug money, after a deal goes horribly wrong in the Texan desert. Josh Brolin's local simpleton Llewellyn Moss is the man who took the money after stumbling across the aftermath of the deal-gone-wrong. Everything seems to go remarkably well for Moss until he makes one fatal mistake, leading Chigurh onto his tail. Tommy Lee Jones' sheriff Ed Tom Bell attempts to find Moss before Chigurh does.

Apart from being an amazingly tense, and brilliantly shot straightforward genre movie, No Country For Old Men is also a faithfully adapted story that encompasses all the philosophical debates present in Cormack McCarthy's novel. Ed Tom Bell, the beleaguered sheriff weary with the modern world is wondering where the hell society is leading itself. He is convinced, at his mature age, that the world is going to hell in a hand basket, and morality is being sapped from society. But is that really the case, or has the world always been an evil and dark place? The Coens, like McCarthy, clearly think so, despite themselves being at an age when conservative nostalgia evokes a form of pride when you could remember the "good old days" of yesteryear. Days when, in your own interpretation, people were nicer and less evil to each other. Anton Chigurh embodies the new kind of evil that people like Bell are forced to face. And Moss is simply the small time player who thinks he can play along with the big guns.

The performances are roundly fantastic, but no one draws the audiences' attention quite like Javier Bardem. The Spanish superstar dares the camera to look at him with his almost lifeless eyes, and the cattle gun he uses to mercilessly kill his targets. Undoubtedly, however, the real star of the movie are the Coens themselves. Along with famed cinematographer Roger Deakins, Joel and Ethan have made their best movie in years. After dabbling in fairly flimsy-but-throwaway material like The Ladykillers and Intolerable Cruelty, this sees them back on the form of edgier films like Fargo and Blood Simple. Even though many found themselves at sea with the head-scratching ending, there is no denying that as a piece of genre cinema, this is top quality stuff. As a poetic meditation on the new evils of the world, it is even better.

This sharply written political comedy stars Tom Hanks as a 1980s womanising, whiskey-gulping, senator, who finds himself the middle man in an American effort to fund the war in Afghanistan. His financial backing, scary socialite millionaire Joane Herring (a heavily made up Julia Roberts) sends him to the refugee camps on the Pakistani borders in order to further his mission. Although the movie fails largely to acknowledge the huge consequences of the war's aftermath, Charlie Wilson's War for the most part contains enough zingy one-liners and larger-than-life characters to please audiences. Although Roberts and Hanks have attracted the lion's share of publicity for the film, it is Philip Seymour Hoffman who steals the show. Playing a brash and hilariously frank CIA agent Gust Avrakotos, Hoffman executes some of the film's funniest lines with effortless panache.

Ridley Scott's best film since Gladiator tells the true-life tale of Frank Lucas, a delegate of the Harlem crime scene who rises to become the biggest importer of the heroine drug in American history. Played brilliantly by Denzel Washington, Lucas is an ambiguous character, one who justifies his heinous business through everlasting love and devotion to his huge family, notably his mother. The film also explores the story of the cop who rigorously fought to bring him down - Ritchie Roberts, an equally impressive performance from Rusell Crowe. Eschewing his typical manly marauding screen presence, Crowe's Roberts is shlubby, awkward and difficult with his corrupt co-workers. The film is both reminiscent and directly referential of the great 70s cop thrillers that inspired it, such as The French Connection and Serpico. Although it never aspires to be on the same level as those films, it does make for a ripping and insightful crime saga.

After buying his first car, gawky high-school nerd Sam (Shia Leboef) learns he has actually stumbled across Bumblebee, one of the transforming 'autobots' from planet cybertron. He is there to warn off an impending attack from the decepticons, an evil brand of transformer, who are hell-bent on launching an all-out invasion. Together he teams up with high school sex-goddess, borderline lap dancer, Mikaela (played by Megan Fox who looks a lot older than most high school girls). The original series of Transformers was nothing special, but admittedly had charm. Michael Bay's latest crime against cinema takes that charm, and turns it into a great big two hour advert for a mobile phone. Every girl who shows up just happens to look like Paris Hilton, and you could probably fill a beach with the amount of gruff dirt and manly sweat dripping from the eyebrows of our beloved human heroes. Even the action is underwhelming, devoid of menace or subtlety to underplay the visual vasectomy that your eyes will suffer from. The only redeeming quality is Shia Leboef, who is so charmingly funny amid the preposterousness of the actual Transformers, almost validating the movie's ballooned sense of silliness.

When a western housing compound is bombed by terrorists in Saudi Arabia, an international incident occurs. The US government sends Ronald Fleury (Foxx) and his capable band of compatriots to investigate the situation, and hopefully discover the identity and whereabouts of the central perpetrator. Although The Kingdom was largely advertised as a straightforward actioner, the film itself is some what of a political thriller first, albeit a dumbed down version for the casual popcorn munchers. It is a shame really, as the film only really kicks into gear when the politics are not the focal point. There are some thrilling action set-pieces, and the film as a whole is stylishly shot. But it is nowhere near as smart as it wants to be.

Clunky editing, grainy filming, laughable stories, ultra-violence and exploitation in the guise of feminism and blacksploitation. Not the most appealing of conventions when it comes to the modern cinema audience. Perhaps this explains, to a certain extent, why the old drive-in formula of watching back-to-back trashy hardcore exploitation films was lost on American audiences. Grindhouse took a paltry $4.2 million on its opening weekend and has thus far failed to make back even half the double movie's budget. This despite most critics who went to see it having nothing but praise for Tarantino and chums. But apparently only seeing the numbers, Quentin and co-director Robert Rodriguez decided it would be best to split their respective stories apart, and release them as two movies in the UK, flying in the face of Grindhouse logic.

The first of these films, is Death Proof, Quentin Tarantino's homage to the likes of producer Roger Corman's Deathrace 2000 and director Jack Hill's Switchblade Sisters (1975), with Kurt Russell's Stuntman Mike having an unhealthy obsession with crashing into cars driven by young ladies. An appropriately stupid premise tailor-made for a grindhouse market. Why then does the film seem so incidental when attempting to recreate the vibe of a Corman-style trash fest? The long and short answer is that this isn't really a grindhouse film. It is a Tarantino film with the ghosts of so many bad old movies hovering over it. Yes you get the grainy film footage, and the purposefully poor editing that raise the chuckles they crave. But that quickly fades away, and Tarantino very quickly moves into familiarly talkative territory akin to hit men talking about European hamburgers or bank robbers musing about the veracity of Madonna's hit single "Like A Virgin". Although this is not entirely a bad thing, it is not inherently valid for this type of material. Tarantino can't help but overload his scenes with meaningless meandering, almost as if he has reached the point of aimless directorial swaggery. One scene, for instance, involves one of the girls buying a magazine at a gas station. A simple interaction that goes on forever it would seem, failing to tell us anything about the characters or indeed the plot. At least Pulp Fiction had meaning behind the mundanity of its own inhabitants. I did often wonder if much of this was down to Tarantino having to bulk up his film after splitting it from Planet Terror. It has the veneer of a movie in desperate need of a good editor, much in the same way that Kill Bill vol. 2 needed a good spit shine. And then we have the actual car scenes. Well barring the ultra-violent central car crash that splits the film's two female groups, and the climactic car chase (expertly executed) Death Proof is nothing more than a girls gone hiking film. Again, blame the editing, for an awful lot of this movie creates a hugely diverting story of girls pontificating the kind of popular interests that only Tarantino would make them do, such as a love for the film Vanishing Point or Dave, Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick & Titch. Is it stylish? Absolutely. No Tarantino film could ever bore you aesthetically, or indeed talk you to death with insipid dialogue. Even if it is uneven and ponderous, listening to these characters waffle on about nothing in particular is still executed smoothly and embodies that Tarantino air of coolness. Maybe the inevitable release of Grandhouse as a whole will win over my heart more. It's a bit of a mess, but like all car crashes, you can't help but stare at it.

In this typically unsubtle Farrelly Brothers comedy, Ben Stiller plays bonafide bachelor Eddie, unscrupled to the art of wedding bells and flying bouquets, despite his family and friends all bemoaning his dormant state of being single. Through a complicated set-piece of purse snatching, he happens across a seemingly charming young lady, to whom he eventually becomes besotted. Unfortunately for him, after the wedding bell tolls, he begins to regret his decision, as she turns out to be a complete freak on their honeymoon, eschewing any sense of her former charm. Whilst faux-canoodling on his Mexican excursion, Eddie becomes acquainted with another seemingly charming young woman, and develops conflicting desires. Although it is not quite as rancid in nature as their benchmark work, The Heartbreak Kid lacks the kind of wit and invention that made belly-laugh behemoths Dumb & Dumber and There's Something About Mary so enjoyable. Ben Stiller is perfectly fine at what he does, but it isn't enough to carry this film through the mindless schlock that drag it down a notch or two. Among the mishurdles is a sex scene far more reminiscent of a David Cronenburg horror than a Farrelly's film. And Ben Stiller's father Jerry, playing the archetypal potty-mouthed dad is sorely misused. It may charm die hard toilet-humorists but will fall flat to most audiences familiar with this kind of comedy.

Another year, another gross-out teen comedy about horny high-school losers attempting to vanquish their virginity. Two co-eds who are attempting to woo a group of girls by supplying their party with booze end up having the most elaborately awry night of their life. Going into the screening one could be forgiven for fearing the worst with the sheer number of schlock that had been farmed out of Hollywood since American Pie made the teen comedy cool again. Fear not, Superbad is a riot, and so for two key reasons. One - it is produced by Judd Apatow, comedy auteur of such hits as Knocked Up and The 40 Year Old Virgin. Two - its two stars, Jonah Hill and Michael Cena are fantastic finds. Hill takes an obnoxious, porn-obsessed oaf of a kid and laces him with bags of charm and great comic timing. Cera goes one step further, engulfing his character with the kind of nervous stuttering that only a Ricky Gervais sitcom might dare make funny. It may be crude, crass and deeply superficial. But sex is never funnier when high school kids try it.

Atonement is a film exploring the consequences of love, and the guilt one carries when attempting to destroy it. Starting in the hot British summer 1935, we join a courtship between Robbie Turner and Cecilia Tallis, told through the eyes of Cecilia's 13-year-old sister Briony. Peeking from inside a house window she views her sister stripping off in front of Robbie and then plunging herself into the fountain in the garden of their country house. By the end of the day their lives will have changed forever, as the scheming imagination of Briony will have run its rage over the lives of the two lovers.

Cecilia (Keira Knightley) has travelled down from Cambridge; Robbie (James McAvoy), her university contemporary and son of her parents' housekeeper is dabbling with landscape gardening; and her brother Leon (Patrick Kennedy) is coming to dinner with a friend, the arrogant industrialist Paul Marshall (Benedict Cumberbatch). The performances are enjoyable and spot-on: Cecilia's brittle beauty; Robbie's educated but tempered confidence; the wily camaraderie between Leon and Marshall.

Cecilia clearly harbours an attraction to her university contemporary, but her inherent snobbishness towards his attachment to the more servile classes stilt her feelings somewhat. The class divide is tested even further, when her younger sibling Briony (a fantastic turn from Saoirse Ronan), who herself is dabbling in the arts of playwriting and novels, envelops her own imagination with a warped perception of their relationship. Robbie is branded a "sex maniac" and accused of raping Briony's friend and cousin Lola (Juno Temple). The accusations and stigma will haunt Briony, Cecilia and Robbie for the rest of their lives, the next chapter of which follows them through World War II. Briony, staring at her deathbed in the contemporary era, attempts to atone for her guilt by writing what she really saw, and what really happened during the summer of 1935.

Joe Wright, at the age of 35, clearly has a interesting future ahead of him There are times during Atonement when the style and flourish of the film's movement is elevated through its direction. He sees his films intricately and along with cinematographer Seamus McGarvey paints them vastly and beautifully. When he made Pride & Prejudice, the popular call was that he had made Jane Austen "muddy", despite the fact it was as pastorally arresting as any of Austen's novel's should be. Atonement is the same. It switches from the beauty of the Tallis country home to the grotty urbanism of wartime London with equal aplomb. He is clearly a director with an interesting style of film-making, but it is questionable whether he is utilises his gifts appropriately during the film. One sequence, a breathtaking long-take following Robbie's worn-out soldier walking along one of the French beaches, is both visually arresting and technically marvellous. But all it accumulates to is visual swaggery on Wright's part. What Atonement lacks in buckets is the kind of emotional attachment any loves story desperately relies. Wright attempting to make up for the general lack of involvement in these latter sequences resorts to showing off his technical hands, maybe hoping we haven't noticed how engaging the story is getting. It is a darn shame, far too much of one unfortunately, since the ambition and weight of Atonement make a movie you will want to love. Some people do, and it leads me to question my own interpretation of the film that they something out of it to treasure. But in my opinion there are far too many problems that match the movie's huge ambition. Keira Knightly, for all her hard work, doesn't possess the dramatic weight to make us feel for her character. Far too often is the pain lacking, when it is clear we are meant to be heartbroken at both her's and her lover's fate. I wanted to feel the sorrow of her character, and the closest you come to that is through the guilt and anguish displayed through Romola Garai's performance as the wartime Briony.

When the end reveals itself, it is genuinely moving, but a part of me felt as though the film had not earned the right to take me to that place. I still feel there is a great movie to be made on this subject, one that overcomes the literary trappings of the novel, and doesn't give distance to the audience through its more dramatic scenes. I still think people should see it, there is enough worth discussing and much to be admired. It is a beautiful, ambitious and weighty failure. One that will stay with you after you've seen it.

Attach a camera to a stampeding bison and convolute his bulrush with a myriad of flaming obstacles. Lend the scene some gritty urbane shades of grey and you might just get a sense of what watching The Bourne Ultimatum is like. It is the third and final instalment of the best Hollywood trilogy since Lord Of The Rings. A cataclysm of chase sequences all brought together through an incredibly well managed story of searching for identity. Jason Bourne is now closer to finding out the truth than ever before. But those who rely on secrets and lies fully intend to make sure he never does. His journey brings him from Moscow (where we left off from Supremacy) to London, Tangiers and finally New York. Our main man has kept himself busy, amid trying to solve the riddle of why so many want him dead.

Paul Greengrass may just be the finest director working in Hollywood at the moment. After the admirably harrowing exercise in recreating the brave but doomed lives of those aboard United 93 last year, Greengrass has returned to what brought him mainstream acclaim, with Matt Damon as the man with many names. He is Jason Bourne, a man who pulsates his way through the journey faster than the camera can catch him, dispatching of his enemies in skilfully undetectable panache. He is the anti-James Bond, a man who achieves his goals through relentless determination but secretly just wants to let it all go and get back to being a normal person. Greengrass manages to capture the unclothed torture that occasionally surfaces in Bourne's demeanour during the film. In the few scenes between the break-neck action set-pieces it is almost as if Greegrass has been studying the characters' biorhythms, as the camera learily explores the meaning of a tapping finger, or a nervous twitch of an eye. The faux-documentary style allows for the camera to be as intimate as possible when needs be, and as explosively dynamic too. It is that wonderful mirage of cinematic excursions that lend The Bourne Ultimatum a sense of intimacy and substance. But that is not all that gives the movie its edge. Indeed it has political undertones too, with one brilliant sequence inside Waterloo station exploring the effects of being watched through CCTV. Not so much being watched, but who controls the cameras. Secondly, those who attempt to assassinate Bourne are all under the banner of the CIA, and references aplenty are made to waterboarding, black ops and rendition, as if the movie is questioning the humanity of those methods.

But the real stars of the show are the incredible action chases. Whether it is the roof jumping in Tangiers, or the car chase in New York, The Bourne Ultimatum is never short of being unrelenting. No other director could ever perfect this pace, for anything faster would be overkill, and anything less would diluting the frenetic energy that charges the movie screen. Greengrass is a master at roping his audience in and never letting go of that leverage. He can take the most basic of action sequences like a man running and make it feel like a helicopter exploding. Whether it is too frenetic or not, the one thing that is impossible to feel is boredom. Even the rare tender scenes are utterly compelling in their delivery. This is Matt Damon's finest work. He has always had a fluctuating career in terms of quality, despite being a very bankable star in the process. But his subtle raggedness, and penchant for looking unperturbed in the face of great danger is what makes Bourne seem like the classic no-man. He is an anomaly in terms of James Bond bewitchery, but perfect for the role of Jason Bourne – handsome, rugged and steely eyed. Not a flicker of doubt ever crosses his mind whilst fighting for the truth. And not a flicker of doubt ever crossed mine when reviewing this film.

In what has perhaps been one of the drollest and most insipid summers in recent Hollywood history, it is not surprising that the "saviour" of the cineworld would turn out to be those weird, squiggly-lined, yellow folk from the tellybox. Yes it's The Simpsons movie, or rather, at last it is The Simpsons' movie, for we have waited many a full moon (and many cries of D'oh!, most of which from me whilst watching the latest series) for Matt Groening, James L. Brooks et al to finally enlighten us as to what Springfield's finest would add to grand old experience of the cinema. Indeed, that curiosity slowly but severely began to wain, with every passing series of The Simpsons becoming even more depressing than the last. As a huge mark for the programme I felt increasingly concerned about the motivation for diluting what was once the pinnacle of television programmes into a sad pantomime of its former self. Homer, despite being wackier than ever, was no longer funny. And Bart, ever the smart mouthed rebel, was just not cool anymore. Had the series lost its edge? Or was it just impossible to keep up the unenviable task of maintaining the quality of the greatest TV sitcom of all time? All the reasons questioned are valid, but milking the cashcows that are The Simsons means that long after their peak (a good solid decade now) we are still enduring our yellow friends deep into the 21st century. Like any great pugilist staggering on his last legs, The Simpsons refused to stop running, even after its creator, Matt Groening, left the show. So forgive me for approaching The Simpsons Movie with considerable trepidation.

So given the stigma of what The Simpsons had become still fresh in my mind, I am proud to say I entered the screening with an open mind. And despite what any expectations were, despite how sick I had grown of hearing Homer or Bart belt out yet another token catchphrase, in the 87 minutes I spent in and around Springfield that night, I laughed harder at the movie then I had at any movie seen this year. And it isn't hard to explain why. The writing is back. The team that made the Simpsons what it is reminded me of what made the series great. It is politically savvy, boisterously inventive and the stupid jokes are actually smartly played. The movie doesn't rely on audiences trusting Homer's reputation enough to laugh at anything he says. When a character makes you laugh, it is because they are are funny, not because of nostalgia. Even silly jokes that don't mean anything like the now infamous "Spider pig" have a sense of investment behind the delivery.

And all of this is crucial, because as far as the story goes, The Simpsons Movie is as mundane and formulaic as the dumbest Hollywood blockbuster around. There is little room for Lisa's new found romance to mean anything, and Bart's desire for fatherly support in spite of his own will seem recycled to regular Simpsonites and clichéd to the uninitiated. It is also worth pointing out that the movie fails to fully realise the potential of the cinematic medium, with only the score, and an abundance of undercooked character cameos (Mr Burns only gets two scenes!) failing to convince the cinema that it belongs there. And yet none of this matters much, for you will be laughing too hard to care. The important thing is that faith has been rightly restored in a series that had stubbornly refused to get off the TV train when the lights were still on. But smiling at the word "Doh!" for the first time in years is something worth forgiving for all its faults.

Inside every great dumb gross-out comedy is a smarter film just waiting burst out of that film's womb. In the case of Knocked Up, we have a movie that presents itself in the American Pie tradition of fart gags and sex jokes, but that has aspirations to higher levels of cinematic purity. LEvels where it isn't just teenage boys who are given permission to laugh at the screen. Or indeed teenagers at all. Judd Apatow, the film's director, is more Woody Allen than Porky's revenge. His movie's are filled with observational humour, cultural and societal situations and questions of morality when pregnancy is concerned. How should a man finally "man up" when it is time to play the role of daddy-to-be, especially when his whole existence seems so peripheral, his claim to fame is a working part-time on a website that allows to find which movies your favourite actresses have been nude in?

Seth Rogen plays Ben, a podgy, unemployed stoner-slob who lives in an apartment with four other similar friends. When at a club one night, he meets Alison, a recently-promoted TV presenter, who is initially charmed by the lovable oaf. Several empty beer bottles later, they end up spending the night together, only to discover their real personalities the morning after. During breakfast, Alison soon becomes repulsed by Ben's oafish opinions and demeanour, and soon decides it is best to leave the situation as a one night stand. Several weeks later Alison discovers she is pregnant, and decides to keep the baby. Without much thought into how she might achieve such a feet, she decides to give Ben another chance, for the sake of the baby, to make a relationship work between them.

The great achievement of Knocked Up is that it is a comedy for adults, that has not been dumbed down for kids. Yes there are many crude jokes, similar to the filmmaker's previous effort - The 40 year Old Virgin. But the crudeness is shown up for what it is, and Ben's slacker routine is not glorified over Alison's sensibility. This is a movie where, like American Pie, the women have someone to look up to just like the men do. And a year in which American comedies have sunk so low that Will Ferrell is considered high-end, it is refreshing to see a new breed of smart filmmakers come out to give rebirth to the dumb comedy genre.

In this chirpy romantic comedy, Keri Russell plays Jenna, a waitress at a pie diner in the middle of nowhere. She passes the time by inventing a new pie everyday, often with neurotic names like "I hate my husband and want to leave him pie". Her life is a mess, she is married to a pig she yearns to escape from, but soon realises he somehow managed to get her pregnant. Deciding she wants to keep the baby, she hides the news from both her work and her husband for as long as possible. She meets a neurotic doctor (Nathan Fillion) who initially charms and repels her in equal proportion, before both of them start a hidden affair together.

Although Waitress has received a few lousy reviews, there is nothing in the movie worth getting terribly irked about. The cast are all charmingly played, and even if the writing is not up to scratch, the chirpy charisma of the characters allows you to see through the script. But the real star is Nathan Fillion. Every scene he is in is lit up with warmth and charm - and his talent for making ordinary dialogue seem funny is as prominent as ever. Yes it is predictable. No it is not anything truly substantial. But true fans of the genre will get their money's worth.

In the fourth instalment of the Die Hard series, John McClane is caught up in a wicked game of cyber terrorism when asked to transport young computer hacker Matt to the department of homeland security. After an assassination attempt on both men at MAtt's apartment, the conspiracy becomes reality as an elite group of cyber terrorists attempt to shut down America's computer infrastructure and bring the country to its knees. Their only hope is John McClane shooting the hell out of everyone, including logic, originality but sadly not cliché.

Whilst there is some fine action in Die Hard 4.0 to please even the most cynical of cinema dwellers, the definitive arm that shielded the Die Hard franchise from ham-fisted hokum has now unclutched itself from the franchise. In the original Die Hard - John McClane was an everyman. An ordinary schmo, who just happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. It is made abundantly clear from the first frame occupied by My Willis that McClane is now a walking monolith with god like tendencies, that no amount of criminal minds can figure out. In this movie alone our protagonist is thrown out of a speeding car, falls out of a jet fighter into a the back of a lorry taxi, gets shot at and walks through a whole host of things that diminish any sense of believability in the subject. It is credit then, to the film's hugely entertaining action set-pieces, that none of this bothered me to any great extent. It may look like a thousand other action movies, but it doesn't slug along quite as slowly.

This collaborative amalgamation of 18 short stories (each by a different director) do not compile to deliver a universal message, but rather each one delivering perhaps its own unique interpretation of what love is. Or maybe what Paris is. Or in a few segments, what love in Paris is. And in a few other segments, what loving Paris is. No it is never quite made clear whether this is more of a celebration of the city of love, or the celebration of a love of the city. Perhaps both, but each unique segment has its own way of explaining that. Whether it is Gus Van Sant's typically arty-realist segment about a Frenchman enchanted by the arrival of a British art student, and explaining his fascination to him in a way that the young man will probably never realise. Or Vincenzo Natali's ultra-stylised Gothic fantasy about Elijah Wood being sexually ravaged by a werewolf. Each transition is instantly recognisable through the directorial style that flourishes it. One of the best segments, by the Coen bros, involves nothing but non-translated French dialogue, and a masterfully comic performance from Steve Buscemi who proves that great acting can be achieved without uttering a word. At times the segments vary in tone from each other so much, it almost becomes a frustrating experience. Moving from fantasy to mime, to socio-realist cinema all in the space of two hours is nothing if not testing. And the film itself over-stretches its running time. But even if at times it resembles a glorified travel log, Paris Je T'aime did prove a mostly compelling diversion into the varied lives of so many different souls. More importantly, it managed to convince me that Paris is a genuinely lovely place. Something I have contradicted for years.

In the third instalment of this glossy franchise, heist-mogul-turned hotel entrepreneur Reuben (Gould) finds himself double-crossed out of a deal to open a new hotel-casino on the Las Vegas strip, by evil co-dealer Willy Banks (Pacino). This lands Reuben in hospital after a near fatal heart attack. After hearing of the deal, Danny and his crew decide to exact revenge on Banks by sabotaging the grand opening of his new venture. Perhaps what Ocean's Twelve lacked was the glossy (although admittedly tacky) aesthetic that Las Vegas rewarded the first film with. Because even when Ocean's Thirteen doesn't quite work, such as during the odd faux-romance scenes between Ellen Barkin and Matt Damon, at least the scenery jumps out at you. Yes Clooney, Pitt, Pacino and Soderbergh are way better than this - but the movie is fun, and in comparison with the utter mess that was Ocean's Twelve, it's nothing but a sprightly addition to a series that has probably run its course.