Films of the year (in unfashionable ascending order)

1. Toy Story 3 – you will cry so hard, you will shed tears of blood – the 3D glasses needed their own windscreen wipers. Pushes the boundaries of what a kid's movie can do.

2. A Prophet – a 2 ½ hour prison movie in French is a commitment (although hardly the life sentence of its central character)– but this electrifying, well-acted tale grips like a hangman's noose

3. Somewhere - Two parts cynical Hollywood survivor's commentary to one part heart warming father-daughter movie – after the substance-free Marie Antoinette, it's a return to form for Sofia Coppola's unique, quiet voice. And Stephen Dorff is hot.

"Stephen Dorff is hot"

4. Kick Ass – although initially borderline amoral (which actually proved more difficult to get over than I thought), this superhero movie is a perfectly balanced cocktail of the original and the familiar. And there are surprises at every turn.

5. Ponyo – more kiddy than we're used to, but this Miyazaki is still the most charming thing I saw all year. The opening twenty minutes are majestic.

"Majestic"

6. Inception – a blockbuster that didn't patronize the shit out of its audience. Accusations of po-faced smugness aren't without merit but this is thought-provoking, visually dazzling hokum of the highest order.

7. The Secret in their Eyes – suspend your disbelief and trust the director, and this will prove to be a bravura, head-swimmingly unpredictable shot of South-Americana.

8. The Illusionist – rarely has a movie captured time and place so well. Although Sylvain Chomet never quite knows how to present the central pair's relationship, the attention to detail here in unrivalled

"Unrivalled"

9. Rare Exports: A Christmas Tale - Completely bizarre and really quite creepy, this alternative Danish Christmas movie presents a League of Gentleman load of bewitching watchability.

10. Cherry Tree Lane - Pant shittingly tense home invasion movie. Like Funny Games without the lecturing – it's an exercise in pure, nasty, undiluted horror. I felt sick throughout – and, for that, it should be commended!

"I felt sick throughout"

Honourable mentions: The Social Network (a great piece of drama, which due to its 12A certificate lacked a certain edge), I Love You, Philip Morris (uneven but warm hearted and endlessly entertaining con movie), The Kids Are Alright (although a little light in places, this was an intelligent relationship drama for grown-ups) and A Single Man (beautifully acted and moving if a little too refined and sculpted for my liking)

And a happy new year to y'all ...

Happy birthday, Dr Jacoby

Russ Tamblyn, AKA Dr Lawrence Jacoby from David Lynch's Twin Peaks, is 76 today.

And, for your viewing pleasure ...

Do I disappoint you?

The most disappointing films of the year

Before we get to the best films of the year (which will be winging its way at ya on 31st Dec) I've compiled ... another list!

This year has been a year of promise unfulfilled. I really wanted a return to form from Woody Allen. What I got was Whatever Works. I was in the mood for a intelligent country-set drama with a long-legged, big bosomed leading actress. What I got was Tron: Legacy. Oh, and Tamara Drewe.

So, behold! And hold the complaints.

"Scott, what have you done?"

5. Scott Pilgrim – a sugar rush of visual wonderment, but the plodding and episodic nature of the plot, and the charisma vacuum of Michael Cera meant I crashed quite quickly.

"I'm sure there is a good film around here somewhere"

4. Whatever Works – good notices at festivals and the appearance of misanthrope-to-the-power-of-three Larry David. Film as bad as anything the Woodman has released in the last ten years.

"It's not that bad, don't take to drink"

3. Chico and Rita. About as sexy as a plate of chorizo, this Spanish animation was beautiful to look at and featured a great soundtrack but had a script which totally lacked personality.

"Don't cry, it's only the end of your career"

2. Life During Wartime. Todd Solondz continues pissing over his considerable contributions to indie cinema, with this anaemic retread of former glories

"How can we be so hot, but the film turn out so tepid?"

1. Tamara Drewe. Like being shouted at for two hours by Hyacinth Bucket – this terribly middle-class comedy had a few good performances but was eye-gougingly smug and irritating

Year in Review Part II: "Most inadvertently distracting thing of the year" award goes to …

Occasionally there's something in a movie which quite accidentally diverts attention from the plot/scene/hot guy. In a bad way. Don't think of the lizards in Bad Lieutenant, Port of Call: New Orleans, or the bat scene in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Think of Judi Dench's curious contribution to the Chronicles of Riddick or John Travolta's hairline in everything since Get Shorty.

This year's 'most inadvertently distracting thing of the year' award features, quite extraordinarily, two things from the same movie. Although Tron: Legacy was quite extraordinary, in many ways.

5. Catherine Zeta Jones emanating at least half a degree of warmth in The Rebound

4. Russell Crowe's accent accident in Robin Hood

3. The joyous rowing scene in the otherwise claustrophobic, tense The Social Network. A massive tonal mis-step.

2. The sober-as-cancer Tron: Legacy: for either its see-gee-aye-yai-yai Jeff Bridges or Michael Sheen's camp as Christmas Thin White Duke

1. The first murder in The Killer Inside Me. A scene of jarring, leering and tonally inappropriate violence in a creepy, but otherwise 15-certificated, movie. I didn't have an issue with any supposed misogyny (I didn't see any) or over-indulgence on the director's part. It just genuinely seemed to come from a different movie.

And the twist of the year goes to ...

Rare Exports.

And, to make it even better, the twist in this Finnish christmas movie/monster movie (and there's a description that I thought I'd never see) is NOT EVEN AT THE END.

*spoiler alert*

The guy you think is Father Christmas - who starts the film being dug up from the inside of a giant, frozen mountain (as you do) - is actually just one of santa's little helpers (albeit an old, bearded and quite naked helper).

And, in a genius plot development, Santa Clause is something far more frightening - he's something more akin to a queeen bee who needs to be dethawed by a village's worth of radiators. Christmas films have never been so sizzling.

Runner up:

Tough call, but it's got to be Adrien Brody's six pack in Predators. I didn't see that one coming. However, a pleasant surprise I'm sure you will agree ...

Snowbound.

Things to do when snowbound:

1. Watch films on your Sky Plus box. I watched Woody Allen's Another Woman (where did that come from? What a great movie! I want Gena Rowlands as dinner party guest now … she's still alive, right?) and The Wackness (less great … steeped in nostalgia and weed, in a bad way. Also, I did want to take a razor to [Sir] Ben Kinglsey's itchy scratchy goatee beard).
2. Clean the flat. I managed a bit of the kitchen. By a bit, I mean washing three or four glass tumblers up. And a plate.
3. Watch more stuff on the Sky Plus box. Rupert Goold's Macbeth proved too much of a faltering high-wire act between theatre, TV and film for me. Although Patrick Stewart broods up there with the best of them.
4. Then, at 6pm, realize you haven't done anything all day apart from sit around in your pants (and dressing gown, 'cos it's well cold innit) and furiously make yourself busy until your boyfriend comes back.
5. Furiously write a blog entry and finish that washing up.

Art attacks

The five-yearly British Art Show arrived in Nottingham last month, and I was lucky enough to see it. Held in three venues across the city, the show’s admirable, if ultimately subjective, aim is to showcase the best of contemporary British art. The work on display covers a barrage of mediums, from video installation to drawing to oil painting through to mixed media sculptures. After the run finishes in Nottingham in early January, the exhibition will go touring to Glasgow and London’s Hayward Gallery.

Even for such an expansive show, it throws a lot at you. The segment in the Castle opens in particularly eye-catching fashion, with a large head - open mouthed, the monstrosity is dribbling out something like vomit. Thankfully not a metaphor for what is to come, although the art doesn’t immediately get much more savory. Through the door, Sarah Lucas produces one of her more distinctive pieces with the Anish Kapoor-esque NUD(3) which mixes up the sexual and the scatological. Performing a highwire act between these two (but not entirely opposing) extremes makes it hard to tear your eyes away – regardless of the seductive shapes, its power thrives in the indecision it leaves its viewers.

Not everything is as confrontational. Charles Avery’s drawings are from the David Shrigley school of scribbling, but retain a fun, if macabre, idiosyncrasy of their own. Elsewhere, Christian Marclay’s film Clock, which had also been playing at London’s White Cube gallery recently, is entirely beguiling (if at the opposite end of the city in the New Art Exchange, and a bit of a trudge). It’s both technically impressive and a reminder of how obsessed we are all with time – not just the passing of it, but the recording of it too. Best of all is Wolfgang Tilmans’ expansive frieze Freischwimmer 155 – an immersive, beautiful display of emerald green, laced with a dark, but intriguing, murk.

As is the nature of such a large revue, some of the artworks baffle rather than dazzle. The usually reliable Karla Black (whose solo show last year at Oxford Contemporary Art impressed) seems to be going through the motions with her two contributions, located in the multi-storied Nottingham Contemporary space. One of her works is even crammed into a corner, somewhat defeating the changeable, movable feast aspect which can make her so engaging – her plastic bag-esque hanging piece in Oxford, springing to mind in this regard. Also, Brian Griffith‘s leering, bug-eyed tent seems , at best, a fun party trick or, at worst, a wodge of recycled surrealism. When is a tent not a tent? When it doesn’t have a door, clearly.

That said, it’s hard to think – Saatchi’s latest survey of contemporary art included – which could be more provocative, discussion-worthy and exciting. And with its genius touch of opening in the provinces, it’s a move which requires those trendy Londoners who want to join in this cutting edge discussion to break out of the cosmopolitan confines of the capital.

Get Him to the Greek

Russell Brand's rockstar from Forgetting Sarah Marshall, Aldous Snow, proved such a hit with audiences, he's got himself a movie – Get Him to the Greek.

Jonah Hill plays the record company lacky who is instructed by Sean 'P Diddy' Coombs to get Aldous Snow to the Greek Theatre in LA. Diddy's farmed out the job to hired help as Snow is washed up, difficult and drug-addled. Hill discovers a hard truth – whilst being down and out means you're easy to find, it also means you are difficult to stay ahead of.

There's no doubt that Russell Brand is a singular, charismatic force of supernature – but Get Him to the Greek is certainly not the vehicle to showcase his unique presence. Brand is required to shout, gurn and gesticulate but little else. There's little fire or soul behind his eyes, as he has no choice to engage in an autopilot as predictable as some of the jokes.

Elsewhere, Jonah Hill does the straight man role well but, again, has little to work with. Half-cocked (or, indeed half arsed) jokes about anal sex, diarrhea and vomiting crust everyone's performance eventually however. Only Coombs, Mr P Diddy, manages to escape such a fate. It's probably because he has a small role – never has being underused in such a way saved so much face.

For someone who prides himself on his articulacy and intelligence, it's initially hard to see why the star chose this movie. If you're kind you could call the movie a misguided misfire. Being cynical, it's a lazy launch pad for a star who deserves, and should know, better.

The Social Network

For all those who can't see the grimy toxicity of David Fincher's finger prints all over The Social Network , I point you to several points.

Firstly, how was his last movie, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, a recognisable Fincher movie?

And, secondly, have you watched The Social Network? Lashings of paranoia, a choppy MTV style of editing and slinky, sexy visual flourishes are all married with a storming industrial soundtrack by Nine Inch Nail's Trent Reznor ... do I need to say any more?

It's a wonder how anything else survives, but it's thankfully one of many stars of this astute new movie. Aaron Sorkin's screenplay focusing on the rise and rise of Facebook founder Mark Zuckerbeg (played by Jesse Eisenberg) has already been feted to the heavens, and its hard to underplay how excellent it is. I did maintain some – perhaps slightly ageist – doubts over Sorkin's appointment here – how can a fifty-something year old tap into the socio-cultural maelstrom that is Facebook?

But of course part of Facebook's concern is universal – the airing of dirty laundry, the importance of popularity and the need to belonging are as important as technological aptitude and ease around a VDU. And his possible distance from the subject may have helped to make his points ever sharper. Fuck, what do I know? He may be an addict like millions across the globe.

Whilst Jesse Eisenberg and Andrew Garfield are, quite magnificently, jostling to steal the film from each other, there's an incredibly sad story here. The film ends on a character waiting for someone to accept his pending friend request. Despite how much we despise some of the characters actions, they're all painted as terrifyingly fallible. And as geeky and technological as it can seem to outsiders, Facebook is ultimately about connecting with people. What can be more human and accessible than that?

Spineless

Nine is a shoddy musical, but that's not its biggest problem. No, the big problem is that director Rob Marshall lacks the courage of his convictions.

Musicals are hardly the most fashionable things on the Hollywood screen of late. Despite the critical and commercial successes of Chicago, Sweeney Todd and even Moulin Rouge, we're still in an age where the teenage boy (or, at least, the studio's view of a certain type of teenage boy) still is the only demographic served by big-budget Hollywood cinema.

So it's great that any musicals get made at all. However it can't be too much like a musical. In Rob Marshall's world, musical numbers are interrupted by dialogue. All musical numbers are presented through the trope of a dream sequence or, at least, an unadventurous theatrical staging. We can't have them as anything interesting. They are also sexualised to the point of banality. You have to make a concession to the boys, after all.

Julie Andrews would be turning in her grave, if she were dead. And this might well just kill her. It says a lot that West End musicals are booming. Singstar is a new way of life to others. People want to see this stuff. I want to see this stuff.

The Cat Returns

The Cat Returns won't transport you through the same rapturous plains as Studio Ghibli's best films such as Spirited Away or Ponyo. But within its perfunctory whimsy and mild charms, lies a film which is, more than occasionally, a fully functional animated delight.

And like most of the studio's films, it brings you a pre-packaged universe of immeasurable imagination. Here, it's the Kingdom of the Cats; this is where our heroine Haru is taken, after performing a good deed for a moggy in distress. After rescuing the cat from what would have surely been death under the wheels of a lorry, she is rewarded by an invitation to a feline alternate reality. Although always a fan of cats since young, she soon is choking on her words as she finds herself in an arranged marriage to cat royalty, and sprouting whiskers of her own.

It's consistently odd, but it doesn't have the sly or nasty edge of the best work out of Ghibli's Hayuzi Miyazaki-directed animation. The gorgeous backdrops of Princess Mononoke are missing, and the characterisation of Howl's Moving Castle isn't here. The ambition is also somewhat tempered, as the movie nestles into a comforting groove of likeable craziness.

But we'd rather have the crags and blemishes of this comforting groove, than the much-furrowed safety of the latest Dreamworks, Pixar-lite creation.

Alice in Wonderland

Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland is a film of bits, all presented in the chocolate box grime he's become synonymous with.

This time, this bittersweet Gothic assortment comprises of his most CGI-oriented film to date. Aside from the opening ten minutes, in which an older, post-pubescent Alice, is attempting to ingratiate herself into the world of stuffy Victorian society, there's barely a shot which isn't bathed in a digital afterglow. This really shows up the problem with filming Alice in Wonderland; the material's charm lies in its literariness. The book is essentially about the breaking down of structure, language and convention. To film it, you have to invent a language and then actively destroy it. Burton has decided to speak the lingo of CGI – the only way to destroy CGI is by employing more CGI, and here he does this to the point it becomes almost unbearable.

Aside from the zealous, highly-constructed digitry, it's a film of barely structured tumbling. From when Alice skitters down the rabbit hole and enters Wonderland again, until Alice's final battle with Helena Bonham's bulbous-headed Red Queen, it's little more than a whistle-stop revisit of the source material. From Tweedledum and Tweedledee through to the Cheshire Cat, all the hits are here, which in combination of the indulgent visual gee-whizz, are all desperately trying to hide a creaking storyline.

Soon it emerges every one of these characters has been waiting for Alice; it has been foretold in some oracular scrolls held – and then stolen from – Absalom, the hookah-smoking caterpillar (voiced by a deliciously deadpan Alan Rickman). They also foretell a battle between Alice and the Jabberwocky. However, to do this, she needs a sword, currently held by the Red Queen. Unlike the first time around, not all of the characters are on her side. She does find support in Anne Hathaway's ethereal White Queen, and some unlikely camaraderie in the shape of Johnny Depp's bipolar Mad Hatter.

The film limps to a conclusion which is maddeningly dissatisfying, and when Alice eventually emerges from the rabbit hole, there is no sense of what she has learnt, why she was in Wonderland again and how she'll change her awkward life in high society. You're in awe of the many visual flourishes, Bonham Carter's impression of Miranda Richardson's Queenie from Blackadder II and Depp's effortless craziness. But to what end?

Worst of all, I felt my eyes were bleeding. Auteurism and individual style is a wonderful thing, however more is definitely less. For all its creativity, Alice in Wonderland casing is burnt to a crisp, while its centre is definitely undercooked

i love you, philip morris

'This really happened. It really did.'

As well as being a pre-credit statement, this may well also describe the hook behind I Love You, Philip Morris. Who thought when Jim Carrey broke through in 1993's The Mask, that he'd one day be playing a Texan and screwing Ewan MacGregor in an unlikely conman movie?

That's the beauty of indie film making and if any movie of the last ten years epitomised the spirit of it, this one is as good as any. Jim Carrey is a former cop who's new life as a liberated gay man has landed him in jail on the count of insurance fraud. To reinvent himself after coming out, he spent shed loads and needed a fraudulent source of income to fund it. In jail he meets fellow southerner (and car thief) Philip Morris (Ewan MacGregor), and falls in love.

But once a conman, always a conman. Once released from prison, he takes on a variety of jobs and schemes – whatever seems to take his fancy. And, of course, all of these vary in their ethical, moral and legal validity.

If this all sounds unfocused, episodic and free wheeling, then that's exactly what it is. However, for the most part, it's held together by charm and likability. Jim Carrey does revert to gurning mode a little too frequently for comfort, but with a character that's inherently outrageous, it's a forgivable affectation on the director's part.

Most important, as a film depicting a gay relationship, the film does well. It's still the case that a bankable Hollywood lead depicting a gay character will immediately attract the adjective 'brave', even if he doesn't have to kiss a man. And Jim Carrey only has to adapt his persona a little to accommodate his role. But the frankness of the relationship's depiction is welcome. The two do kiss, bedroom activities are hinted and they frequently exchange the 'I love you's. And MacGregor is depicted as the perfect bottom: he is both feminised and very, very masculine. He's pretty good at balancing the two.

The movie only falters when things turn serious in the second half. You know things are going wrong when a previously straightforward narrative jimmies in flashbacks for pathos. Too much effort is misplaced in trying to achieve a sudden tonal shift. Guess what? All actions have consequences! It's rubbed in a little too often. This isn't Crime and Punishment, this is still, essentially, a Jim Carrey movie. Still, the 'true story' aspect of the narrative goes some way to sweeten the pill. It really happened, it really did, after all.

A flawed and unlikely, but strangely uplifting and rewarding gem.

The Rebound in 100 words ...

Catherine Zeta Jones force-feeds some much-needed warmth into her CV with this
older-meets-younger romcom. The object of her divorcee character’s affection is
aimless 20-something Aram Finkelstein (Justin Bartha), the boy barista next door.
After babysitting, and growing to love, Zeta’s brats (clearly showing he’s a guy with,you know, feelings), the two start ‘dating’ like nobody’s business. Some cute hijinx ensue but any – limited – success forged by the rather likeable leads is bludgeoned into mediocrity with a patchy script. By the final globe-trotting, half-decade-spanning montage sequence, it becomes clear what this rebound really needed. And it was just a rewrite.
2/5

This slow train threatens to run out steam before it gets to The Last Station

A lot of us have had a relationship with an ego on legs. Some of us may have been unlucky enough to live with this suffocating presence. Of course, these things are largely unfounded. But imagine living with someone who deserves the hype, whose egocentricity is, to some extent, very well-founded indeed.

The Last Station presents exhibit A: Leo Tolstoy. Exhibit B is his long-suffering wife (played with a graceful but deadly fire and ice by Helen Mirren). The two are deeply in love and have been for years. But it doesn't mean that Leo's wife always enjoys living with genius. This is especially the case when a young interloper enters their midst; Bulgakov (James McAvoy) represents the state. They are keen to follow up on one of Tolstoy's more outlandish statements, in which he promised his wealth and land to the Russian people.

Although Tolstoy is spending his old age living in a large house surrounded by people who are - to all intents and purposes - serving him, he's doesn't believe in private property or wealth. His aims are pure - celibacy, vegentarianism, and the people surrounding him will continue to live on the land after he dies. If that didn't put a strain on the relationship with his wife, then Bulgakov certainly would.

When the film sticks to this plot, it's moving and intelligent. Unfortunately, it often indulges a parallel contrasting narrative involving McAvoy's sexual awakening. It does mean we get to see his bum, but otherwise the scenes are largely unnecessary and schmaltzy. Fleshed (ahem) out they could have been a nice commentary on the main plot. But this dishy side dish is simply too sweet.

If you can get past this, then it's easy to be taken in by The Last Station's gentle bubbling. Although the movie is a less inspiring affair when Mirren isn't on screen and the film's scales tip over to cloying sentimentality, it'll inspire a good discussion. It reminds us that behind most great men, there's a partner running around and picking up the pieces. And, without them, how great would these men actually be?

Life During Wartime

In the late 90s Todd Solondz's films were the last word in misanthropic chic. Forget the early stuff by Neil LaBute or any of Woody Allen's sour movies of the time (Deconstructing Harry through to Celebrity). Happiness and Welcome to the Dollhouse were blasts of ice cold, cruel air. They rallied against the increasing influence of romantic comedy and self-conscious, post-Pulp Fiction American indie. In his movies, Solondz delivered a very middle class psychological horror; educated, affluent people who offended ethically, morally and legally. This was real life in an accentuated scabrous ugliness.

In Life During Wartime, Solondz revisits the characters from Happiness, and asks whether we can forgive them. It's a tricky task as these people included narcissists, perverts and a paedophile. So, after a couple of recent misfires (the underwhelming Storytelling and the confused Palindromes), it's good to see Solondz returning to safer ground. Or is it?

Initially signs are mixed. The movie has been completely recast, which seems to serve no real purpose aside from to obfuscate and disorientate. Yet, in itself, the casting is consistently successful and distinct. Dylan Baker's paedophile dad is now played with a dour detachment by Ciarin Hinds. He is having problems clearing his subconscious of his victim, as he returns home from jail. Ally Sheedy's Helen is still a self-centred and thoroughly unlikable character, but now she is married to a celebrity. And her Plain Jane sister Joy is played with breathy earnestness by Shirley Henderson, and is now involved in charity work. Paul Reubens also turns up as the ghost of suicides past, in the role previously inhabited by Jon Lovitz.

They all do a lot of hand-wringing and moralizing , and it's all incredibly frustrating. There are moments in the script which are powerful; the film's last shot and a speech delivered by the film-stealing presence of Alison Janney. But none of it feels believable or real. Issues aren't fleshed out, and Solondz appears to be going through the motions. Depending on your view he either wastes a great cast, or uses them to shroud the movie's rather bare bones.

It is becoming increasingly clear that Solondz has seriously lost his way as a filmmaker. There are rumours that Life During Wartime may be his last film. Considering his success to failure ratio is now 2:3, it's probably for the best.

You've got the look...

There were two types of shock in the Tate Modern's new exhibition, Exposed: ... There was a visceral shock, seen with the images of a lynching, a man dying in the street and an execution in an electric chair (all within spitting distance of each other; an orgy of violence in which the first part of the exhibition culminates). And then were was a more insidious, moral shock. This occurs throughout; at the beginning with photos taken with hidden cameras, and slightly later with the celebrity pictures.

Either way, the exhibition is fundamentally about the voyeurism. The pictures are so shocking as they are taken illicitly, or are of illicit things. We are confronted with the dialogue between the pleasure and horror we get from looking at some of them. We are even asked to consider whether photography is itself an inherently intrusive medium.

But also, we have seen most of this kind of images all before. Just open up a classroom textbook on American history to seen lynchings. Broadsheet papers peddle images of death in the third world. For two quid we can ogle at exposed celebrities in Heat magazine. But their collective power in an art gallery is truly unexpected.

There are a couple of flaws we can level at the exhibition, but neither of these could be described as fatal. Firstly, it's pretty long. There are fourteen rooms in total, some of which are huge and others which contain a couple of dozen photos. Secondly, the last few rooms which focus on surveillance do seem somewhat superfluous. It's too much information, too much of an afterthought and, after all the shock and awe of the galleries before, an uncomfortable change of tack.

But by viewings everything which went before in the context of art deeply unsettles. Not only does it get us to question the artifice of photography, and how we view it, but it's a moral bludgeon. It could be described as overbearing and overegged, but I'm not sure how you can overstate the message. To me, it exposed a truly ugly side of human nature: the need to look.

Very Bad Things

Werner Herzog interprets the word ‘remake’ rather loosely in The Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans. It’s based on the controversial 1992 Abel Ferrera movie, which saw Harvey Keitel abusing his authority, rampaging around LA in order to find good drugs, bad sex and worse.

In Herzog’s remake, Nicholas Cage is the bad lieutenant. Cage’s ... resorts to self-medication after an accident involving a permanent disfiguration to his spine; his doctor’s prescription of vicodin clearly proving insufficient. One year - and one bravery medal - after the accident, things have changed. He has a prostitute girlfriend, snorts cocaine and smokes crack. He’s also investigating a gangland massacre, in which five people were shot dead in an apartment.

Essentially, Herzog is donning his Hollywood hat once more, after his first brush with the industry with 2007’s Rescue Dawn. Like that movie – and, in fact, like most of his movies – it’s another story of a man who is part maverick, part maniac. And again like that movie, it’s almost mainstream.

Do note the word ‘almost’ in that sentence. There is a lot of darkness in The Bad Lieutenant. Terrence violently uses an old woman as bait to get her carer to talk. Cage abuses both his weapon and his gun so a stoned woman can avoid prosecution.

And like Terrence, the movie is also off its rocker. The amount of depicted drug taking alone earned The Bad Lieutenant an eighteen certificate. Cage’s character ingests so many substances, he sees lizards on coffee tables and the souls of dead old white men dancing. The casting is also a little left-field. Jennifer Coolidge turns up as an old lush, Val Kilmer is a dour cop and 90s survivor Fariuza Balk is a bent cop with a great body.

It’s exactly what you expect from Herzog. It is inherently bizarre. Which, depending on how you look at it, is either brilliant or rather boring.

Lost and found

Modern Art Oxford is known for bringing the art of established and rising national - and international - stars to the city. In the past we've had works by Tracey Emin, Miroslaw Balka and Robert Mapplethorpe. So it's rare then to find an exhibition with such a parochial focus.

Maria Pask's Deja Vu centres around the deprived local area Rose Hill. The place exists maybe five or so miles outside of the city centre. Sadly, it has a reputation; it's often dismissed as a crime-ridden flea pit, populated by undesirables. Flea pit or not, it's somewhere to go if you're looking to save rent money (and still be fairly central; it's all of a fifteen minute bus ride to the dreaming spires). I almost moved there, in fact.

Pask has worked with local people (and a few professionals) to produce a series of sometimes interlinked short films exploring the idea of community in Rose Hill. All pieces revisit the fifties and sixties, in which one local resident tirelessly wrote and self published a newsletter entitled The Roundabout; copies of the newsletter are displayed alongside the films. The films show scenes inspired by the publication: fashion shows, local theatre productions and scenes down the pub.

It's a melancholy nostalgia. Although what we see is not entirely positive (there's some nastiness in the pub sequences, for instance), there's a yearning, here. It's the idea these very different people (of varying ages and social backgrounds) can come together to create something incredibly powerful. As the films show, it is something they are more than capable of doing again.

It's not all clear cut though. Interestingly, a number of the scenarios are replayed with different actors playing each part. They swap roles regardless of age or gender. It's playful and funny. But there is a sense of mobility here. It's about transcending convention and approaching a subject in a different way. It's a metaphor for what is needed to regain community.

Bird (and a wire)

No summer day is complete without a soundtrack of screaming children, the opening of tupperware boxes and birdsong. The Barbican clearly have similar views, and the latest installation in their 'Curve' space heralds in the upcoming season with a flock of zebra finches in a walkthrough aviary. However this is a aviary with a difference; it comes complete with Gibson guitars and cymbals (all liberally sprinkled with seed, pools of water and bird shit).

For this is birdsong with a difference. Presented in the bright, airy Curve, the birds flutter onto the symbols and strings of the guitars and create stabs of noise. It's all complimented by excitable orni-chatter and befuddled looks from the limited capacity crowd trickling through the curtained entrance.

Some critics have compared this bird-music to the last Sonic Youth album. It's a glib statement; clearly the sounds these birds make with the instruments is a lot more worthwhile. What we have is an adventurous, thought provoking and amusing installation. It'll be curious to see what the artist - Celeste Boursier-Mougenot - will do next; this unique spectacle is pretty memorable and difficult to out-weird. I advise you check it out in person; the much-viewed YouTube video doesn't do it justice.

Sad With What I Have

Some people shoot out the womb to a fanfare of YMCA, played by pink thonged muscle men. Rufus Wainwright is one of these lucky souls. He used to express this intrinsic camp with highly orchestral, over-produced classical pop. But now he's getting the orchestra to talk to the hand with Songs for Lulu. It's a naked record. It comprises of songs performed on a single piano and voice. And it's not just musically stark.

The record is being released in the wake of his mother's death. She had been ill for a while, and Rufus clearly believes in working his way through grief through music. It's most explicit, and devastating, in 'Martha', when Rufus sings 'Martha, it's your brother calling, it's time to go up north to see mother, things are harder for her now' and Zebulon ('My mother's in the hospital... there's so much to tell you').

But, being Rufus, things are more complex than the surface may betray. Martha is also about sibling solidarity in the times of troubles. Zebulon is about putting aside your own issues and reaching out to others. Both are a million miles away from 'Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk'; a song recorded less than ten years ago where he sings about his legal - and illegal - cravings. This new Rufus is more complicated, mature and, in these moments, world class in his songwriting.

Elsewhere success is more mixed. His trio of Shakesperian sonnets set to music are a little hard going, if admirable. 'Give Me What I Want...' is ambitious in its attempt to capture a stress-induced tantrum in two minutes, but ultimately as trying as the thing it portrays. Thankfully for every one of these there are two more tracks like 'The Dream', which come to the rescue by injecting some heart.

So while not as complete or as consistent as other albums such as the glorious 'Want One', 'Songs for Lulu' is an important album for Rufus. It shows the maturing of an artist whose glory days are clearly still to come. And I can't wait to see him perform it live.

Fatal Attraction: The Magnetic Fields live at the Barbican, 22nd March 2010

If The Magnetic Fields released a ‘Best of’ album, it would almost certainly be called ‘Fatal Attraction’. For in the songs of their main creative force Stephen Merritt, love is never easy. After all, at their Barbican show on Monday night, he introduces the head-swimmingly romantic ‘I Don’t Want to Get Over You’ with a short epithet. ‘It’s a total lie’, he deadpans.

And so it goes. The band’s new album Realism is the final instalment of their ‘no synths trilogy’, a response to the band previously being known for their knob-twiddling, and the Barbican is an ideal venue for the record’s mostly acoustic songs. Sonically, every one of their five pieces (authoharp, an acoustic guitar, a cello and a ukulele and keyboard), are pin sharp. But, together, an overriding impression is harder to pin down; the sound devastates and uplifts in equal measure. It’s beautiful, though.

And, according to the audience’s reaction, the album has already spawned its first classics. ‘Always Already Gone’ is one, leaking melancholy until its punch of an ending. ‘You Must Be Out of Your Mind’, is filled with the withering put-downs of a scorned lover, proclaiming –savagely- ‘I no longer drink enough, to think you’re witty’.

The set covers substantial distance and length. Material by other Merritt projects (The 6ths and The Archies) is featured, as is some plentiful back catalogue 'Fields material. It's sewn together by banter from Merritt and Claudia Gonson, which is, like the band, cute, playful and a little awkward. The show has it all; even an interval in the middle. It's a welcome palette cleanser, and you wonder how you manage to get through other gigs without one.

I admit I'm sad when the show ends. It feels like I've left a friend behind. But you've got to be pragmatic about these things. So, I get my iPod out and listen to Realism on the train home. Two days later, the songs are still in my head.

Micmacs

The accusation of style over substance does funny things to directors. In the case of Jean-Pierre Jeunet- helmer of visual chocolate boxes Amelie and Delicatessen - the response was obvious. He’s made a film about the heaviest of subjects: the arms trade.

We follow Bazil (a dour Dany Boon), in what can only be described as a French vigilante movie. Bazil's rally is against the weapons manufacturers that produced the bullet that put him in hospital and the landmine that killed his father,

But being Jeunet, it's a vigilante movie with a twist (and not least because it features a contortionist). Bazil enlists the help of an odd-bod posse featuring a mathematical genius and a human cannonball. The group’s den is an underground junk heap overseen by a rolling pin wielding matriarch and a wizened artist. It’s almost self-parodically Jeunet.

And this is the fundamental problem. MicMacs is what happens when a good director gets lazy. It's a film full of fun visual invention, but a lack of freshness or surprise. Not even the many crinkles of supporting actor Dominique Pinion's face can give proceedings a much-needed third dimension.

Micmacs is to the arms industry as Amelie was to photo booths. Bear with me. Both do prove important narrative elements to their respective films. But, ultimately, have little to do with what you feel when you leave the cinema. Another difference between the two is that Micmacs is just not very good. And, crucially, it's something we've seen before.

Oh, Julianne

Julianne Moore most recently adorned the screen in Tom Ford's A Single Man. She played a bitter alcoholic, raging at the loss of her husband and also at Colin Firth's single man, the one she believed had got away. She was great in it. She was only in a couple of scenes, but, as is her want, she owned them. 'Adorned' is the correct word; she was like this fabulous bauble. She glitters enough that her periphery position almost decentres the film.

Due to the strength of that performance, I decided to revisit some of her past work. And I came across 'Safe', a 1995 indie in which she plays an LA housewife who develops an allergy to modern life. It's directed by Todd Haynes, who she has since worked with in the widely-appreciated Far From Heaven.

Like much of Haynes' work, the film appears to be a head-slappingly broad approach to its material, and yet with his skill, is actually strangely oblique. The subjects: the sterile environment of a rich LA home, the rejection of certain Western twentieth century symbols of affluence (the home, the car, the air conditioning system and even the pest control) could be a little obvious, done to death and sterile themselves.

Yet, Hayes visual precision (it's the visual equivalent of Radiohead's disarming song 'Everything in its Right Place; a beautifully constructed, seemingly perfect veneer which hides an incredibly disturbing undertone) and the absolute stillness he creates, are completely disarming. This calm and controlled atmosphere is scary, and suggestive, stuff.

And Julianne Moore is no adornment here; the film drapes itself around her. And she looks stunning in it. It's an unusual role for her; she's not the strong, empowered woman of Magnolia or Hannibal, the intelligent but oppressed woman of Far From Heaven or The End of the Affair. Her character is completely unremarkable. Some may say she's a little slow. She's perhaps even, on a bad day, an empty vessel.

Yet there's no sneering or broad strokes from Julianne. She plays the role with conviction and compassionate. She let's the film do the talking, yet she is the film; she appears in nearly every scene.

All hail Julianne; her effortless grace triumphs again. In retrospect, calling her a bauble was a little unfair. She'll be the angel on top of my Christmas tree.

A Prophet

A Prophet is a messenger of God. In the film that shares the same name, the messenger is Malik El Djebena (Tahar Rahim) and his God is Mafia kingpin Cesar Luciani (Niels Arestrup). Malik delivers the word of this god (or godfather) to the inmates of the prison he is incarcerated in, and, later, beyond. This word often expresses itself in violence or money.

A messenger is also someone who experiences visions. Here, Malik is visited by the ghost of a man he murders. Is it a vengeful vision, or a vision that will help him along the way? To add another twist, Malik also experiences visions of a deer. Later on it appears these visions were prefigurative; in the final third, there is a spectacular (and pivotal) road accident involving a stag.

It’s this melding of symbolism and allusion with staples of the prison and gangster dramas (drugs, mob hits and the odd predatory inmate in the showers) that make A Prophet a surprising, original and gripping piece of filmmaking.

It also helps that its directed by the masterful Jacques Audiard, who was behind 2005’s sleeper hit The Beat That My Heart Skipped (which made an instant pin-up of star Romain Duris). Perhaps this movie will do the same for its young star; indeed, Tahar Rahim delivers a performance easily equal to Duris’s. Although perhaps lacking the star charisma of Duris, Rahim makes up for it in sheer ability.

The actor is integral- and in fact rarely off screen- in this tale of attempting to define an identity in a place so adamant to suppress any traces of individuality. It’s hard to say what the most defining aspect of the film is; it’s two and a half hour length is so rich in plot, character and thematic detail to almost prove overwhelming. However, it gives the viewer a more than worthy excuse to go back and watch it again. And again. It seems to be the case that this film will quickly become regarded as a classic, and rightly so.

Airy fairy

Up in the Air is more Thank You for Smoking than Juno. Jason Reitman’s third directorial outing is light, amusing and perspicacious; but all done in an undemanding and tasteful way. Its commentary on business travel, life decisions and relationships is cute, but never profound, or particularly moving.

Ryan Bingham (George Clooney) lives out of a suitcase, employed in a job which consists of terminating other people’s livelihoods. He doesn’t hate people; indeed, he meets his female equivalent, Alex Goran (Vera Farmiga), and soon enters a casual relationship with her. However, he also meets young Ivy League graduate Natalie Keener (Anna Kendrick), a 23 year old in a steady relationship, planning on a family and also planning on reshaping the company, and immediately dislikes her for her apparent precocity. Her suggestion of grounding the team and getting them to fire people remotely proves a winner with boss Craig Gregory (Jason Bateman). Gregory teams Ryan up with Nathalie, to give the girl the gift of first-hand experience, before implementing the plan for good.

The premise, indeed, is essentially a familiar one. It’s youth versus experience, in which each party learns something from the other. Perma-bachelor (and travel nerd) Clooney learns that there is more to life than his collection of loyalty cards (which, incidentally, form one of the most amusing scenes of the movie, in which he and Farmiga compare the contents of their respective wallets), although he has to get through several sanctimonious monologues from his 23 year old colleague and his sister’s wedding to get there. Simultaneously, Kendrick’s character learns of the nervous impatience of youth.

Many critics have criticised the movie’s final third, in which things tend to slop to the saccharine. What, I think, they were expecting was something a little more caustic and satirical. However, the signs are there from the beginning where this movie is going. Although Clooney’s realisations are somewhat clumsily handled by a script so quickly distracted by (some great) one liners and comic set pieces, it’s clearly a ‘journey’ movie, and in not just the sense it’s about planes. Surprisingly, it’s the downbeat ending which jars.

That said, it’s a diverting experience, and Clooney delivers a performance of surprising subtlety and versatility. He’s ably supported by Kendrick, and a sassy Vera Farmiga. It’s a shame its only veritable weight is more hand baggage than hold luggage.

Folked up

Since I threw that album by A Perfect Circle out the window, the idea of a supergroup formed out of intriguing artists worries me. For every good project (Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young or something by Cream) there have been inoperable blights on the musical landscape (the Travelling Willburys or Emerson, Lake and Palmer). As a precaution, I asked for the Monsters of Folk album from Santa. That way, I wouldn’t waste my own money. And, also, feel less concerned as I made the CD into another coaster.

With a few exceptions, the result is actually a fairly safe album, and allthe better for it. Indeed, there are songs clearly belonging to a Bright Eyes record (the mid-paced sprawl of Ahead of the Curve and, earlier on, Temazcal) an M Ward record (the low-key, hushed torchlight folk of Slow Down Jo, and the wistful Magic Marker) and a slightly out-there My Morning Jacket effort (Losing Yo’ Head, which also sounds a bit like a Tom Petty track).

The exceptions are a little odd. In true maverick style, the opener, Dear God, throws a curve ball; it’s an Al Green-esque slice of funky soul. Elsewhere, Map of the World begins like a Bright Eyes song but turns into an escalating melodrama a la Rumours-era Fleetwood Mac.

Less surprisingly, the album is glued together with a considerable amount of slow country-tinged folk, especially in its first half. It’s clearly something the four guys share as common ground, as these tracks are distinctly more genre-oriented than any of their own material. It’s still engaging work, however.

It’s a solid album, and whilst there are far fewer fireworks than there might have been, there are both highlights and surprises. And, at fifteen tracks lasting fifty-five minutes, it does not outstay its welcome.