REVIEW: Spectre

Where to start with Spectre? The James Bond films are on what seems to be their seventeenth resurgence into the world of cool - Casino Royale made us forget about Die Another Day, of course, whereas Skyfall did more than simply best Quantum of Solace - it was, for many without rose-tinted glasses, declared to be the best Bond ever. Not only was Sam Mendes' first effort beautifully shot, well-acted, and fantastically exciting, it also had a proper story, that gave Bond the most personality and depth he's had in years.

This presents a bit of a problem with the follow-up. It's the old sitcom problem - you're always having to reset to square one by the end of the day, ready for the next adventure, so how do you incorporate genuine character development while still finding time for explody-runny-gunny-action that will rake in the big bucks?

Bringing back Mendes is a good start. He's laid the foundations for a new era of Bond, so why not let him build on it? Daniel Craig, too, is at the very height of his powers in this role. Still retaining his originality intensity, whilst having recently picked up a dry sense of humour, his Bond has become one of the best: he commands the screen with a confidence that never spills over into cockiness, and the audience is quite prepared to follow him to the ends of the earth.

There's also the central theme of the film, made explicit in the opening title card: "The dead... are alive." Not literally, of course. That would be ridiculous. But, mostly through grainy photographs and videotapes, Spectre tells us that the presence of those we have lost, be they friend or foe, will echo in how we think and act for eternity, or at least until we lose the very capacity to retain memories.

Which means that the opening scene of the film involves an explosive chase through a Día de los Muertos festival. Hey, I never said it was Shakespeare. But the incredible 4-minute-long Touch of Evil-style opening shot kicks things off on an impressive note, and for a while it doesn't let up. While MI6 faces the threat of being swallowed up by a drone-happy multinational corporation, faced by a sneering Andrew Scott (whose name is "C", entendre intended), we once again see Bond go rogue, as he chases up on information regarding a mysterious organisation named "Spectre".

He enlists the help of his old pals; brainy Q (Ben Whishaw), flirty Moneypenny (Naomie Harris), the newly-christened M (Ralph Fiennes); he also encounters new faces, some well-utilised, some not so much. The former consists of Léa Seydoux, a spiky French accomplice who dives head-first into the action sequences, even if she is treated as a damsel-in-distress; and Christoph Waltz, who may be an obvious choice for a villain, but he's one that lights up the screen with his charisma and signature German drawl that simply says, "I'm an absolute bastard." The latter includes Dave Bautista, basically a rehash of Jaws, and Monica Bellucci - who Bond has sex with then discards like a used napkin, in the film's most erroneous instance of dinosaur logic.

It's certainly true that, compared to the grand departure of Skyfall, this is a return to more traditional action-adventure storytelling, one that seems partially geared to ticking off boxes of repetition in fanboys' notebooks. See: a punch-up on a train, a chase between a biplane and a car, a showdown at the villain's lair. But many of the individual ingredients are so well-realised that they're almost destined to become classic Bond. Mid-way through there's a brilliant, excruciating torture scene for the ages, one that, at the screening I went to, made the audience literally jump out of their seats. And that opening I mentioned earlier, replete with an upside-down helicopter sequence, is as pulse-quickening an action scene as they come.

It's deeply silly, it's overlong, it's perhaps a little rote. And it's sorely lacking the heart that Judi Dench brought to the table. But it's still one of the most fun things you can see at the cinema this year. Bond's back, baby.

★★★½

REVIEW: Crimson Peak

This one really caught me off-guard. Having lost faith in Guillermo Del Toro in his slightly questionable Hollywood period - his last feature being the dismally written Pacific Rim - I fully expected Crimson Peak to be a campy phantasmagoria of empty special effects. But it is nothing of the sort: Del Toro is back on form, and he has crafted a rich and disturbing Gothic chiller to be ranked with the best of his work.

The film follows pure-hearted heroine Edith Cushing (Mia Wasikowska, pale but steely), a woman who has always been haunted by ghosts: she was visited by her mother after her funeral, who simply delivered the warning, "Beware of Crimson Peak." She pores these interests into fiction, yet most loutish eighteenth-century men only see fit to compliment her on her handwriting. Only the handsome English stranger, Sir Thomas Sharpe (Tom Hiddleston), seems to understand that a ghost story is about more than its spectral shapes - it is what they represent that matters, a sad or painful past that chains them indefinitely to the world of mortals.

Thomas eventually marries Edith - her father, an obstacle, brutally beaten to death in his washroom by a mysterious assailant - and whisks her away to England, and to his dilapidated mansion. As anyone who has ever spent a night in Shropshire will testify, it's a bleak fate being resigned to such a remote corner of the world, with little for Edith do but wander the halls and play fetch with an irritating, yappy dog. The mansion is a real fixer-upper, too - Del Toro brings to life a world where snow filters down from patchwork roofs, moths flutter across its walls, and even blood oozes from the very floorboards. (Apparently it's some abnormally red clay.) Worse still is the prospect of sharing a house with Thomas' sister, Lady Lucille Sharpe (Jessica Chastain), who is so icy that her breath practically frosts glass. Nevertheless, Edith sets about discovering the dark mysteries of her environment - one she later learns has been given the unfortunate nickname "Crimson Peak"...

Never a stranger to genre fiction, Del Toro fully embraces the tropes of eighteenth century horror with the infectious enthusiasm of a dedicated fan. Yet never does this get in the way of the masterfully constructed narrative, whose mysteries and tricks are steadily leaked through an enveloping wall of haunted house atmosphere. I described it as a "chiller" earlier in that, in spite of a few moments, for an audience raised on Paranormal Activity and The Conjuring, it's not particularly scary, per say. But Del Toro realises that there's more to a horror film than making the audience jump out of their seats: and instead of relying on basic jump scares, he opts to disturb with bloody set-pieces and monster design, and with some delightfully nasty psychosexual connections between his characters. (Freud would have a field day.)

Some have suggested that the film is old-fashioned, even lacking any kind of surprise in its storytelling. But I found that it went through the motions with such earnestness and beauty that I couldn't help but be swept along by it. Also, I think it furthers the notion that Del Toro is one of the only storytellers around who truly understands ghosts and the stories we tell about them. One could pair this with The Devil's Backbone, a film that contained a wonderful description of a ghost: "A tragedy condemned to repeat itself time and again ... Something dead which still seems to be alive. An emotion suspended in time. Like a blurred photograph. Like an insect trapped in amber." Hollywood might not be Del Toro's immediate comfort zone, but films like Crimson Peak show that he hasn't lost his soul amidst the madness - and that he can still tell a ripping good yarn.

★★★★½

REVIEW: Steve Jobs

Aaron Sorkin and Danny Boyle have created one of the best possible films you could make about the late Apple founder - though therein lies the problem. Emerging from a troubled, Sony hack-shaded production history that, at one point, had such talents as David Fincher and Leonardo DiCaprio attached, the result still feels somewhat together, with a typically thorough and compelling performance from Michael Fassbender and an unconventional story structure that places a worthy emphasis on the character development.

One can't help that the project has survived this long based on the strength of its screenplay. Aaron Sorkin is the only screenwriter I've seen whose name on the poster is as large as that of the director and star, and for the fanboys it's suitably Sorkin-esque. Words are his weapons, his scenes of action and emotion rolled into one multilayered entity, and his verbal showdowns here are as good as we've come to expect. Jobs' final conversation with Steve Wozniak, for instance, is a spine-tingling culmination of their frictional relationship, even if it never actually happened. Some might be disappointed by the fact that there's a relative lack of humour compared to his other works: though, of course, Jobs was made infamous by his ill-temper and ruthlessness in the workplace, one that won Joanna Hoffman (Kate Winslet) an in-joke award from Apple employees surrounding her ability to stand up to him.

If I sound lukewarm in this assessment, it's simply that I just don't find the story of Steve Jobs that interesting. Yes, he brought forward a future that Arthur C. Clarke predicted (as we see in a clip placed at the beginning of the film), and yes, he helped make some damn good phones and computers. But I find the arguments about his abilities as an "artist" rather unconvincing. Did he "lead the orchestra", or was he simply a CEO who helped cultivate his own cult of personality? His political manoeuvrings were clever, yes, and the relationship we see with his daughter and mother is somewhat interesting: but at the end of the day, do we care about him enough to overlook his flaws, to get involved in his story? I don't think so. Maybe that's the point - the ending, where Steve's face is lit up by the epileptic glare of several stage lights, certainly indicates that there were many facets and angles from which to view this undeniably important man. But still. Compared to the grand political drama of The West Wing or the demandingly relevant character conflicts in The Social Network, the stakes here just feel too low.

★★★

FEATURE: My Favourite Film Soundtracks

There's a phrase out there that I can't quite remember. It basically says that about 90% of a film's tone and emotional impact is accomplished not through its screenplay or direction, but through its music. This sounds about right. When you think about all those wonderful, iconic moments in film history - ET flying across the moon, Janet Leigh being stabbed in the shower, Optimus Prime acquiring "the touch" - often it will be the music that dictates our reaction, and hearing that music in isolation can conjure up the emotions we felt in that moment almost immediately.

A bad film can have a very good soundtrack, but a good film ceases being a good film when it has a bad soundtrack. Of course, a great film will have its soundtrack and content merge in perfect harmony, where each one feeds into each other to craft something beautiful. It's this quality that characterises most of the choices on this list - not only should the best film soundtracks be listenable in isolation, but they should make you want to go back and watch the film again, just to have that shudder of perfect recognition.

Also, while my choices are as informal and messy as they come, I've only gone for incidental scores in my list, sheerly to bring down the numbers. This means that there's no Raging Bull, no Goodfellas, no Pulp Fiction and no Trainspotting, to name but a few. I suppose I'll save those for another moment of boredom.

Blade Runner (1982)

Starting off with an easy one, Vangelis' score to Ridley Scott's sci-fi masterpiece - practically unavailable to own until the early 90s - is music that is both of its period and timeless in its spine-tingling beauty. The ominous Main Titles introduces us those iconic synth cords that made rain-drenched 2029 Los Angeles seem so awe-inspiring, legitimising and transporting us to an imaginary world of flying taxis and 50-foot-high Coca Cola billboards. Later tracks like Memories of Green and the saxophone-driven Love Theme inject tender humanity into the mix, while Tears in Rain beautifully underscores the greatest death scene in all of cinema. Heavenly stuff.

Days of Heaven (1978)

Ennio Morricone is, like Vangelis, another one of the all-time greats, whose lengthy discography could be the subject of an entirely different list. But it was on Terence Malick's 1978 masterwork that I thought his work reached an all-time poetic high. His opening track, lifted from Camile Saint-Saëns' "Carnival Of The Animals" and played over sepia-toned photographs of the Great Depression, is like a musical time machine, driving out thoughts of the modern world for something simpler, more innocent and more basically American. He reinforced it with the toe-tapping Enderlin which, accompanied by Linda Manz's wonderfully underplayed narration, takes on an Old West mythology, like a musical adaptation of the first act of a John Steinbeck novel. And the flute-inspired tracks Harvest and Happiness distil Malick's complicated view of nature into its essence, whereas The Fire - used to describe an invasion of locusts - is perfectly hellish. One to be listened to on an old gramophone player on a summer's evening, possibly while smoking a pipe.

Magnolia (1999)

Some film soundtracks are comfortable to stand outside the action and play in their own little world, whereas others take off their wellies and get stuck into the trenches, becoming inseparable from the action happening on screen. This is the case in most of Paul Thomas Anderson's films, but none more so than with Jon Brion's score for Magnolia, that not only compels but catapults the action into fifth gear - perfect for a film that somehow maintains an absolute fever pitch of emotion through its three hour-plus running time. Showtime is the best of the bunch, one that recurs a lot - notably during that long shot at the TV studio - and that gives a punchy, purposeful, even epic drive to the action. Of course, much like the film, the emotions are all over the place, giving us the moving Jimmy's Breakdown, the epic Stanley-Frank-Linda's Breakdown, the downbeat Magnolia, and the surprisingly Gaelic So Now Then. Though again, like the film, these tonal changes never feel less than organic. And neither to the memorable contributions from Aimee Mann: while only two were written explicitly for the film (I've already broken my own rules, so what) it's Wise Up that we remember best, that wonderful moment where the traditions of diegesis becomes blurred and the main characters begin singing together like a chorus of lost souls. It's something that music and cinema were invented for.

Spirited Away (2001)

There are composers that make music, and there are composers that open a direct line to your soul. Joe Hisaishi  is definitely the latter. No matter where I am and what I'm doing, if I hear One Summer's Day I'm probably going to cry. It perfectly sets the tone for the film: a young girl, moving to a new home, is adrift, depressed, and maybe a little scared that her childhood is speeding along so fast and that she'll be expected to grow up soon. Like most of Hayao Miyazaki's films, it's all about trying to recapture something lost while learning to move on with the future, and Hisaishi's wistful piano chords manage to connect with the lonely child in all of us. His score is also magnificently exciting at times: Dragon Boy plays twice during the film, once during the brilliant opening sequence where the spirit realm descends on the abandoned fairground, and again during the scene where Haku is attack by animate paper airplanes (it's more affecting that it sounds). But the undoubted highlight is The Sixth Station. It plays over the most adult sequence in the film, and it's emotionally devastating - though I still don't quite know why. Whenever I watch it, I always wonder about that distant house with the washing line, or that ghostly girl on the platform who we only glimpse briefly, but who seems to be looking directly at us. And what's Chihiro thinking when she stares out the window? Frankly, when the music's this beautiful, I don't really care.

The Thin Red Line (1999)

We're back to Malick, though this time we couldn't be further away from Days of Heaven. Returning from a twenty-year absence, the reclusive director had cultivated such a legendary reputation that everybody in Hollywood couldn't wait to get their hands on him. While that didn't work out so well for people like Adrian Brody, we were blessed with an career-high performance from Hans Zimmer, one of the all-time great composers. His score to The Thin Red Line remains his most well-judged and restrained, even if most of it didn't make it into the film itself. The opening tracks of The Corall Atol and The Lagoon are like Malick's films in minature: epic and sweeping in scope, but infused with spirituality and an unfailing admiration of the natural world, represented here by Asian instruments and haunting Melanesian choirs. The most famous track from the album is Journey to the Line, that has been used repeatedly in film trailers (including X-Men: Days of Future Past and 12 Years a Slave), but this still hasn't dulled its impact - the first five minutes are still unmatched in their capabilities to inspire cinematic awe, especially when paired with the great scene where Allied troops invade a Japanese village. Equally beautiful is Zimmer's next track, Light, that plays over Elias Koteas' moving dismissal from the army, whereas the choral piece that closes the film - God U Tekem Laef Blong Mi - is effortlessly appropriate.

The Third Man (1949)

While most scores are written to match the film, many are there to throw you, to feel so out of sync from what's happening on-screen that it completely changes the effect of the narrative. Anton Karas' slide guitar is relentlessly jovial, yet when paired with Carol Reed's one-of-a-kind noir it changes: it becomes dark, sinister, dreamlike. When Holly Martins (Joseph Cotten) arrives in Vienna, he doesn't understand the people he meets, not only because of the language barrier but because of the criminal conspiracy that he accidentally stumbles upon that prompts several people to try and kill him. Karas takes the action into the realm of the absurd, as if there's a great puppet master controlling the figures on the screen, bashing their heads together and laughing as he watches the commotion unfold.

Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me (1992)

Is this a great soundtrack from a bad film? Or is it just one ingredient of an overlooked masterpiece? I think my views lie somewhere in between, but even the detractors of David Lynch's follow up to his legendary TV series argue that this is one of the best things composer Angelo Badalamenti has ever done. Beginning with a masterful subversion of the Laura Palmer theme, his Main Theme, played over the image of TV static, established the film as just that - a proper, cinematic offering, part-noir, part-horror, part...well, something implacable. These incredible jazz elements run throughout the remarkably consistent album, notably joining with the haunting vocals of Jimmy Scott in Sycamore Trees - though Badalamenti goes to alternative places, including a grinding, dangerous nightclub theme in The Pink Room, and, of course, incorporating Julee Cruise with Questions in a World of Blue: a heartbreaking lament of a damaged soul trapped in a neverending nightmare. While I still think there's a lot to love in Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me in spite of some of its excesses - Sheryl Lee's brilliant performance, the disturbing power of the Bang Bang bar and Red Room sequences, the fact that Lynch dared to unearth the dark soul of his supposedly mainstream hit - it's the soundtrack that almost everyone can agree on, as an accomplished yet intimate journey through a very personal vision of Hell.

And if that wasn't enough, then here's some more:

Angels in America (2003)

I know it's not technically a film - though with Mike Nichols directing and Thomas Newman composing stuff as wonderfully as the Main Title, it might as well be.

Don't Look Know (1974)

Pino Donaggio contributed a vast amount to Nicolas Roeg's masterpiece, but his Love Theme remains the most significant for turning a supposedly profane sex scene into one of the most beautiful scenes of marital love in the history of cinema.

Far From Heaven (2002)

Hollywood legend Elmer Bernstein's final score before his death is both an evocation of those over-the-top 1950s melodrama scores and reflects a more modern, subtle quality. It's really lovely.

The Godfather (1972)

Who cares that Nino Rota re-used music from his score to 1958's Fortunella? If I wrote something as good as Love Theme I'd re-use it a million times.

In the Mood for Love (2000)

If Yumeji's Theme doesn't make your lips purse and your lip stiffen with the longing restraint of an unfulfilled romance, you might as well be from an alien planet.

Inside Llewyn Davis (2013)

Fuck everyone who says folk music is rubbish.

Jaws (1975)

Du-duh-du-duh-du-duh...

Lawrence of Arabia (1962)

Deeeee, duuuuuuh.....deeduuhdeeduuhDEEEEE...DUUUUUUH...

Miller's Crossing (1990)

It's only really one track, but my God... The image of that hat blowing in the wind was forever seared into my brain by Cartel Burwell's transcendent Opening Titles. Look into your heart!

Mulholland Drive (2001)

Angelo Badalamenti's chords are so basic but so good. Hey, while you're at it, why not throw in Blue Velvet, Wild at Heart and The Straight Story? Dude's a genius.

Paris, Texas (1984)

Legendary musician, songwriter, film score composer and all-round badass Ry Cooder plucks his guitar in an oh-so-lovely way in Wim Wenders' vivid slice of Americana.

The Piano (1993)

How Michael Nyman can play a wooden box with a few sticks of ivory attached so well is beyond me. Frankly, I don't want to know the creative processes behind The Heart Asks Pleasure First - it is, and shall remain, an act of musical witchcraft.

Pride and Prejudice (2005)

Will have you shedding your rigid undergarments and jumping into a lake faster than you can say "henceforth."

Psycho (1960)

VWING VWING VWING VWING

South Park: Bigger, Longer & Uncut (1999)

Any musical with a song named "Uncle Fucker" gets my vote.

The Village (2004)

James Newton-Howard elevated M. Night Shyamalan's cack with his elegant, violin-based score.

The Wizard of Oz (1939)

The best Hollywood musical ever (yes, really) with some of the best 'choons on offer. Somewheeeere...

REVIEW: Macbeth

Is this the most Scottish version of Macbeth ever made? The accents are thick, everyone's faces are covered in mud, blood and warpaint, there's punching, there's swordplay, it looks like it's about minus twenty degrees... It's like a night out in Glasgow, just with a bit more infanticide.

Snowtown director Justin Kurzel is in charge of helming this tale of toil and trouble, and he makes a pretty good stab of it. It amps up the violence and Catholic guilt, but flourishes on atmosphere: you really do feel like you're there with Macbeth (Michael Fassbender) and Banquo (Paddy Considine) during the first battle sequence, even if there is an irritating overemphasis on slow-motion. It untethers itself from the necessarily grounded space of the theatre with intense visions of colour, replete with dream-like throat slittings and wordless exchanges between the very manliest of men, brutalised by warfare. There's nary a bubbling cauldron in sight.

Kurzel takes some bold leaps with the material, too: he opens with the funeral of Macbeth and his wife's (Marion Cotillard) child, only alluded to in the play through their childlessness and a reference to breastfeeding. It's a gamble, but it pays off, as the couple's political ambitions are refracted through the embitterment of grief - seldom before have Lady Macbeth's cuckolding jibs felt so raw and emotional, and there's a great scene where Macbeth idly twists a knife against his wife's stomach.

And he does what the best cinematic adaptations of Shakespeare do: he strips back the verbal language in favour of visual invention, of showing and not telling - in spite of how pretty the Bard's words sound - while still keeping (and re-shuffling) the best lines.

Michael Fassbender is, as you'd expect, a commanding presence. He completely encapsulates the savagery of the play, choosing to growl many of his lines from behind his shaggy beard while still remaining perfectly legible. He also brings out Macbeth's most adolescent aspects of madness: spending most of the film in his pyjamas, he prowls about Cawdor Castle, sweating and sincere one minute, giggling the next. His abilities are on full show during one of the play's best scenes, where Macbeth sees the ghost of Banquo at a feast.

Yet for me, the show was stolen by Marion Cotillard. It's maybe an odd choice, casting a French woman to play the most Scottish of wives, particularly when she retains her original accent. But it works. It makes her character an even more distant and ethereal presence, never quite able to fit in with her community and all the more driven to spur her husband on. Of course, as her guilt mounts we see a sad desperation emerge, which crystallises in one of the most incredible readings of Lady Macbeth's "sleepwalking" speech that I've ever seen. She'd better be in the running for an Oscar.

It should be noted that, in spite of everything, this is still blockbuster Shakespeare, in that it occasionally loses subtlety and nuance in favour of big, bloody action. (A production with James McAvoy at Trafalgar Studios did the same thing, though it was much, much worse.) But there's plenty in here to love and lose yourself in: a tale of sound and fury, told by someone who's certainly not an idiot.

★★★★

REVIEW: The Martian

The Martian is the most consistent - and coherent - film Ridley Scott has made in years, perhaps since Gladiator, perhaps since Thelma and Louise. What a relief. It is an old-fashioned Hollywood barn burner, a jolly among the stars that retains a healthy amount of humour and optimism throughout its long (but not flabby) running time.

Adapted from Andy Weir's book by Buffy alumni Drew Goddard, the story follows Mark Watney (Matt Damon) a chiseled astronaut on Mars who, after a major storm, is left behind by his crew and presumed dead. But he's saved by a shard of debris plugging the hole in his suit, and, like a space-MacGyver, he manages to limp back to home base, stitch himself up, listen to disco music and grow potatoes using his own poo. Meanwhile, grumpy NASA director Teddy Sanders (Jeff Daniels, in one of his most Jeff Daniels-esque roles to date) is faced with the embarrassing situation that, thanks to the way information is now freely distributed across the world, a lot of people are expecting them to spend a lot of time and money to save this man. He brings in a team of boffins (Chiwetel Ejiofor, Donald Glover, a cheerfully northern Sean Bean) to solve the problem, and the film alternates between both of their efforts and Watney's efforts to survive right up until the climactic, satisfying rescue.

Special effects-wise, Mars has never looked so good, and neither has space and its 2001-inspired spacecraft - though of course, it's all about the Earthlings, who are dwarfed by the time and magnitude of their surroundings. (The film takes place across four years, since the journey between Mars and Earth takes such a flippin' long time, and this is often indicated by Damon's increasingly thin, disheveled appearance.)

Having said that, I don't think the film takes the time it needs to really develop its characters. Sure, many of them make some good wisecracks every now and then: at one point Mark, recalling international Maritime law, dubs himself a "Space Pirate": and there's a terrific reference to The Lord of the Rings. But for the most part, we don't find out much about our titular Martian beyond his capabilities for survival. Does he have a girlfriend back on Earth? A dog he forgot to feed? Does he have anything more interesting to say than, "In your face, Neil Armstrong!" The most interesting moment of the film comes when he tells his commander,Melissa Lewis (Jessica Chastain) to pass on a message to his parents, saying: "Tell them I love...what I do," which maybe hints at the cost of absolute devotion towards an admittedly worthwhile cause. But the film never builds on it: it's all just "Fuck yeah! Science!" from start to finish.

Perhaps hoping for a modern-day version of the The Right Stuff was stupid. It's clearly a different beast - an upbeat, accomplished sci-fi adventure that'll make the time fly. But there were times when I was hoping for something a bit more tangible to grasp while drifting through the depths of space.

★★★

REVIEW: Beasts of No Nation

Newsflash: a town in Uganda has been butchered by a gang of soldiers. The report begins with a wide shot of the local area, then shows grainy mobile phone footage of men firing guns at each other. We see pictures of the bloody aftermath; the reporter conducts interviews with the witnesses and survivors; and finally, a picture is shown of an 8-year-old child in a green military jacket with an AK-47 slung over his shoulder.

Question: when would you change the channel?

Perhaps you wouldn't. Perhaps you'd sit through the entire thing and try to process it; ponder how such terrible, primitive evil can still exist in our supposedly gentrified world with iPhones and the internet and UN peacekeepers and the like. Then, you'd probably go about your day as per the norm - since how much difference can you realistically make?

Whether we like to or not, we compartmentalise the news we receive in order to make our existence more bearable. But, every now and then, a film like Beasts of No Nation will come along and try and shake us out of our mundane reality: remind us that, yes, even now, there are parts of the world that are practically unliveable, be you old or young, man or woman, a member of an army or a member of a rebellion. Or, if you're a young boy like Agu (Abraham Attah), caught somewhere in between, with no place left to run but into the arms of the devil.

The film takes place in an unnamed African country and centres on Agu and his family, who live in a village on the UN buffer zone by a neighbouring state. He lives a happy, stable life with his family; his father provides land to the refugees from a nearby civil war, which has angered many members of his own community. (Does this sound familiar?) However, it's not long before the village hears reports that the war is moving closer. Agu's mother and sister get away, but after being captured by the army Agu sees his father and brother brutally murdered, and he is left scared and alone in the vast African wilderness.

Enter Idris Elba's Commandant. He is swaggering, ruthless and, above all, charismatic, so much so that he has compelled a battalion of (very) young soldiers to swear their loyalty and fight for him. He finds Agu in the jungle and sees potential in him, and decides to induct him into the tribe. Agu has to learn how to fire a gun, take a beating, and participate in an unforgiving initiation ceremony, where the price of failure is having your throat slit.

The Commandant's appeal is cultish - he has soldiers fire blanks at the boys to make them believe they invincible, and he even has them believe they are part of his "family", saying: "I will always protect you because you are my son. And a son always protects a father." Of course, this results in an almost unwatchable sequence where Agu is told to kill a man with a machete. "These are the dogs that killed your father," he says, even as the man pleads he is only an engineer out to fix bridges. Inevitably, Agu and his friend Strika end up hacking the man to bits.

This is a very nasty and violent film. Yet I think it would be disingenuous to make it any other way. To truly understand a world where this can be allowed to happen, the film has to submerge the viewer in a world of blood, sweat, mud and more blood, and take the most sacred of cinematic icons - the innocent child - and crush it into dust, to devastating effect.

Cary Joji Fukunaga, the director, is a master of storytelling and atmosphere, as both Sin Nombre and True Detective proved. But this is arguably his best film. It takes a clear social message and imbues it with astonishing cinematic ability: an amazing sequence sees Agu rub hallucinogenic drugs into his wound that transform his environment into a reddish alien environment, one where he no longer finds himself shocked by the violence around him.

The performances are also superb. Elba is, as you'd expect, dominant as a villainous evil allowed to enact his savagery across the land; though he finds himself frustrated by the fact that his government superiors are constantly yanking on his choke chain. He certainly deserves an Oscar nomination, if only for the sickeningly physical scene where he pumps up his soldiers for a fight. But the real revelation is Abraham Attah, a newcomer who is utterly convincing as a child whose expression becomes dead and glazed as he sees a vast menagerie of terrible acts against humanity.

It's also worth noting that the film's cinematic references are vast, ranging from the muddy landscapes of Apocalypse Now to the balletic duel between nature and war in The Thin Red Line. Yet I'd say its closest relative, in terms of sheer brutality, is Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian; it shares the atmosphere of a gory, savage journey through an unremittingly bleak warscape that overwhelms the senses and destroys any sense of hope. There are also more than a few parallels between Elba's Commandant and McCarthy's Judge, their evil manifesting itself in child rape and their superhuman ability to compel others to commit violence in their name; and both instil respect through fear, to the point where their subordinates cannot bring themselves to shoot them, given the chance, for fear they might miss.

Beasts of No Nation marks the start of Oscar season in earnest. It is a tremendous success for Netflix - who prove that it is the message that matters, not the medium - and it is one of the best films of the year.

★★★★½

REVIEW: Sicario

Denis Villeneuve's latest thriller, about an elite government task force assigned to tackle the escalating problem of Mexico's drug cartels, is ruthlessly efficient - a real thrill ride, though one that exhibits a necessarily pessimistic philosophy. Emily Blunt plays Kate Macer, a tough and idealistic FBI agent who, in the opening minutes of the film, we follow on a drug raid gone explosively wrong. While they fail to catch their man, the higher-ups are nevertheless impressed by Kate's initiative, and she's recruited by Matt (Josh Brolin) to serve on his team down by the Mexican Border. Matt is clearly a dodgy character, if his taste in footwear is anything to go by, but Kate goes along with his promise that they can make a real difference in the "drug war" - which shows no signs of slowing down.

She's also introduced to the enigmatic Alejandro (Benicio Del Toro), who doesn't talk much. In fact, not many people talk to her. They treat her as if she's not there. But it's not until she goes on a ride-along that turns into brutal bloodshed that she really begins to doubt the purpose of her mission and, along with her partner Reggie (Daniel Kaluuya), she begins to look for answers. She might not like what she finds.

Emily Blunt really is superb in this role. She has grit and machismo, but is a clearly defined female character in a world of men, the kind of role that we don't see enough of in films like this. She's a bit like a more hardcore version of Maya from Zero Dark Thirty. (Oddly enough, there's a strikingly similar night-time raid sequence here.) Benicio Del Toro is also terrific - his implacability is one of his greatest traits as an actor, as he can easily swing between playing a good guy, a bad guy or, most frequently, something in between. He's clearly in familiar territory here, having played characters on both sides of the drug conflict (Traffic and Escobar: Paradise Lost to name two), but he still gives a great performance as Alejandro - the tense interplay between him and Kate is one of the film's strongest elements.

Yet the real star of the film is Villeneuve, whose perfectly tense pitch of action never falters. The aforementioned sequence, where Kate rides along with an armed patrol responsible for delivering a hostage - all the while watchful of an ambush by the cartels - is particularly brilliant, and will have you chewing your fingers off from the moment a helicopter reverberates through your lungs. But everything that comes before and after it is equally important, perfectly paced, and without unnecessary auteurist meddling that can bog down such thrillers of its type. (It's gorgeously shot, too, by the great Roger Deakins.) Part of what works is its simplicity - there are no sub-plots, no pointless dialogue, and the convolutions are minimal. It just whirs along like a well-oiled machine. Michael Mann would be proud.

★★★★