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.