Having recently seen Chris Pine reprising his role as the headstrong but heroic Captain James T Kirk in the latest Star Trek, it's a revelation to find him in this gritty tale of crime, punishment, righted wrongs and moral ambiguity. To his credit, he doesn't wilt in the glare of his co-stars Jeff Bridges and Ben Foster, both of whom are giving it both barrels here.
film reviews
Markie Robson-Scott
"Did she bite you often?" Julien Gahyde (Mathieu Amalric) is being questioned about his affair in minute detail, over and over again, by lawyers and detectives. This is an ingenious flashback device. We don’t know yet what crime has been committed, but his lover Esther (Stéphanie Cléau) draws blood right at the start of this claustrophobic and ambiguous film, set in a provincial French town somewhere near Poitiers.
james.woodall
It could be a book, film, TV or radio piece, essay or exhibition. If it’s about or based on The Beatles, the question is always the same: how on earth can anything new be said? In the case of Ron Howard’s Eight Days a Week: The Touring Years, surprisingly quite a lot, is the answer.
Matt Wolf
Whatever one thinks of Café Society - and responses to Woody Allen's latest as ever are likely to be divided - few will dispute the visual lustre that the legendary cameraman Vittorio Storaro has brought to this tale of love upended and deferred, set in 1930s Hollywood to a period-perfect soundtrack pulsing with the music of Rodgers and Hart.
Every frame has a ready-made, natural shimmer that communicates Allen's love affair with the cinema, however one responds to a narrative about displaced nebbish Bobby Dorfman (Allen soundalike Jesse Eisenberg), who falls hard for LA glamour girl Vonnie (a radiant Kristen Stewart), a one-time Nebraskan who by the final credits has against the odds become Bobby's aunt.
That might sound like a sort of inverted commentary on Allen's much-debated personal life, but it's possible to look past the writer-director's circumstances in a story which exerts an unexpected emotional pull. The ending, set on the cusp of a new year, finds its leading players casting a ruminative, regretful glance back at their pasts.
Allen devotees, too, will note the shift in perspective between the mockery to which a sunlit, soulless Hollywood is subjected in Annie Hall and the dreamscape captured so easefully by Storaro here. With Bobby we look on in wonder at a realm in which the likes of Joan Blondell and Adolphe Menjou are only an unseen phone call or canapé away, while Bobby's gangster-brother Ben (Corey Stoll, pictured above with Saul Stein) casually cuts short the lives of all and sundry on his grubby home turf.
The boys' echt-Jewish mother Rose (Jeannie Berlin, terrific) clocks but doesn't want to address how exactly it is that Ben spends his days. That, in turn, makes the itinerant Bobby's screen outings with Vonnie to catch the latest from Barbara Stanwyck seem a welcome alternative - at least for a while - to shadier goings-on back east, and Allen gets considerable comic mileage out of the disparity between Rose's beer-swilling, cantankerous husband (the wonderful Ken Stott) in the Bronx and the swellegant poolside environs newly available to Bobby. Eisenberg plays the perennial Allen surrogate with an open-faced gentleness that couldn't be further from the self-immolating distress he brought to his recent London stage turn in The Spoils.
The twist, of course, is that a glistening LA casts its own confusion and gloom when it transpires that Bobby's beloved Vonnie is in fact the mistress of Bobby's long-married Uncle Phil (Steve Carell, ably inheriting a role earmarked for Bruce Willis), the hot-shot agent who ends up taking Bobby under his wing, with Vonnie the appointed guide to his newfound home. The resolution lands both young lovers with a more-than-acceptable mate, even as they can't help but ponder the road not taken. Bobby, we're informed, has "a touch of the poet" about him (note the O'Neill reference), but the narrative, one feels, wouldn't be out of place in Chekhov.
Stewart, on this evidence, would make a natural Yelena in Uncle Vanya, and her performance is the revelation here, as Vonnie shuttles between Bobby and Phil, alive to the needs of both men yet dulled on some level to doubts she clearly harbours within and about herself. Playing an ad hoc philosopher who puts her life up for examination but only to a point, the actress finds a soulmate of sorts in Storaro, who gives Vonnie the shimmering entrance of anyone's dreams. And if Allen is heard but not seen in an intermittent narration, he continues to gift his performers with unanticipated grace notes, none more so than a leading lady whose triumph in society comes tempered by a sense of loss.
Tom Birchenough
One of the many astonishing things in Mia Hansen-Løve’s fifth film is watching Isabelle Huppert hold back tears. In one scene they smear almost involuntarily down her face, in another she transforms them into a bark of nervous laughter. Huppert plays Nathalie Chazeaux, a sixty-something Paris philosophy teacher, who paces the film with almost frantic speed while her life unravels around her.
Markie Robson-Scott
Red, the colour of blood, passion, love and hate, is Almodóvar’s trademark and in Julieta, his 20th film (and surely one of his most visually lustrous), it’s never far away. It’s there in the opening sequence, a close-up of thick folds of red fabric moving like a curtain. Then we see, as the camera cuts away, that it’s a dress worn by Julieta, a woman in her fifties (Emma Suarez, pictured below).
Tom Birchenough
Tough love doesn’t get much tougher. Ukrainian priest Gennadiy Mokhnenko has spent two decades trying to keep children off the streets, and away from drugs, in his hometown Mariupol, using methods that elsewhere in the world would count as vigilante. For him radical intervention was the only way of responding to the social breakup of the 1990s, after the Soviet collapse brought his society to a profound low point, both psychologically and economically, while those nominally in power were conspicuous by their inaction, or worse. He's been doing it ever since.
Markie Robson-Scott
A tousled-haired child wearing wings is framed in a candlelit casement window. It’s a beautiful, Georges de La Tour-like scene. He’s the angel of the Lord in a nativity play rehearsal: unto us a son is born, peace on earth. But hark – why is the soundtrack so piercing and Psycho-ish? And why has this little angel (Tom Sweet) left the rehearsal to throw stones at people in the darkness?
Nick Hasted
A woman cowers beneath her bedclothes, building a useless barrier against the thing she hears creeping and scraping across the room, the thing that only appears when she turns off the light. This is the most primal image of domestic terror in the homemade short film whose viral success took its Swedish director, David F Sandberg, to Hollywood.
Saskia Baron
If one was going to write the recipe for a classic British children’s film, it would probably include the following: adapt much-loved novel; hire fresh-faced young actors and well-worn comedians; budget for steam trains chugging over viaducts; ensure messing around in boats; add lashings of pop and sprinkle with a faint whiff of jeopardy.