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.