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.

★★★★

REVIEW: Straight Outta Compton

This NWA biopic may be both overlong and overstuffed, and may have little to offer in terms of narrative or cinematic invention; but its message is so readily immediate and, in a sense, heartfelt, that I found it almost impossible to dislike.

The story goes that five young boys from Compton, California - one of the most dangerous cities in the state - came together to form a unique music group, that would go on to become perhaps the most influential movement in West Coast hip-hop ever, and achieve an astonishing level of mainstream success. That their origin story is so turbulent is hardly a surprise considering the unmatched personality and talent of its line up; the fact that names such as Eazy-E, Dr. Dre, Ice Cube and even MC Ren have such powerful connotations pay tribute to the fact that it was such an absurd moment of history, an impossible matchup of unique voices that, somehow, harmonized. (It's as if Jimi Hendrix, BB King, Ry Cooder and Eric Clapton met in a bar one day and decided to make an acoustic album in their parents' basement.)

Again, the journey itself isn't particularly inventive. We go through a checklist of biopic clichés: the pre-fame gigs in dingy bars and clubs; the magic moment in the recording studio; the signing of the dodgy manager; the record deal, the initial surge of success and the tour; then the falling out over money, the splitting apart, and the final attempt at reconciliation - in this case, marred by the tragic death of Eazy-E from AIDs in 1995.

Yet Straight Outta Compton does what the best biopics do, in that it captures the spirit of the music. It is perfectly aware that the first three tracks on NWA's first album (called "Straight Outta Compton", oddly enough) are among the most memorable explosions of musical artillery fire in recorded history. The second track in particular - the radio unfriendly "Fuck Tha Police" - came to be adopted as the national anthem for a disenfranchised black America which, in the wake of the disgraceful Rodney King trial, was at a dangerous tipping point. (A memorable section of the film shows the 1992 Los Angeles Race Riots, where the boys see their lyrics scribbled on the walls.) The film is also unafraid to defend NWA from controversy - the complaints about lyrics glamourising drugs and violence are explained to be their art reflecting their harsh reality, and acting as almost a form of non-violent protest, of being unafraid to say what you want to say even in the face of systematic oppression.

Having said that, their casual misogyny is practically given a free pass - even played for jokes at one point - and there's an uncomfortable sense that, with Ice Cube and Dr. Dre attached as producers, they are favourably re-writing their own history. I'm mostly referring to the omission of Dr. Dre's several domestic abuse charges that, apparently, "didn't fit the narrative." It may be true that this would have made the audience lose some sympathy for the character, but its omission is a mistake - even if they have come a long way, these guys weren't necessarily heroes, and nothing can really change that. It's the same story with Jerry Heller; he may well have been a greedy record producer, but the prejudice against him that both Dre and Cube have elsewhere made vocal almost works against the narrative at points (though the always excellent Paul Giamatti tries his best to give him a sad, sympathetic side, particularly in his final scene.)

Your enjoyment will hinge on your interest in the source material - and how interested you are in seeing the origins of Tupac's "California Love", or Suge Knight's bullying management of Death Row Records - and it is terribly, terribly long. But it's a story that, a year on from Michael Brown and Eric Garner, still feels relevant, and still burns at 200 degrees, long after you thought the band's fire had gone out.

★★★

REVIEW: Ricki and the Flash

Do you have an overwhelming desire to see Meryl Streep pretend to be a rock star? If so, then this is the film for you. As Ricki Randazzo (yes, really) she hits all the right notes, sporting a husky voice and a rebellious hairdo, and she brings a tremendous amount of energy to the role - she throws her guitar about, she jumps about on stage, there's even a bit of gyrating. However, those looking for something more substantial should probably steer clear, because there's nothing really new here. After performing at a bar, Ricki receives word from her ex-husband Pete (Kevin Kline) that her daughter Julie (Mamie Gummer, Streep's own daughter) has tried to kill herself in the wake of a collapsed marriage. Ricki returns home to her estranged family to find that everyone resents her a bit for buggering off to become a rock star and never bothering to write an email. But that won't stop Ricki from trying to put old ghosts to rest and convince her family to finally accept her for "who she is".

The problem is that there's no real drama. The stakes are too low: you initially think Julie's depression will be the centre point of it all, but that goes away once Ricki takes her to get a makeover (while avoiding her professional therapist, no less). There's some stuff about a love triangle between Ricki, Pete and his new partner Maureen (Audra McDonald), but that dissipates as quickly as it arrives. When we reach a natural lull in the plot towards the middle, it's filled by Streep and her boyfriend Greg (Rick Springfield, who has really weird eyes) performing not one but two full-length songs. It might be enjoyable in a stick-on-some-music-on-a-Sunday-afternoon kind of way, but in the middle of a feature film it feels as lazy as slotting in some Bangles concert footage and calling it a day.

And considering the talent attached, I really expected better. Diablo Cody has proved to be one of the most acidic and witty screenwriters in Hollywood, particularly with the terrific Young Adult, but this just seems borrowed from what she learned in Scriptwriting 101. And Jonathan Demme is in familiar territory here - his Altman-esque Rachel Getting Married covered almost identical material - but here he's just showing up to collect a paycheck. He doesn't try hard enough. None of them, bar Streep - who could make eating a bowl of peas entertaining - try hard enough.

★★