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.