I can honestly say I was genuinely shocked to see The Artist bag SEVEN awards, scooping Best Picture, Best Actor (for Jean Dujardin), Best Director (for Michel Hazanavicius), Best Original Screenplay, Best Original Score, Best Cinematography and Best Costume Design. I had hoped Bérénice Bejo might also scoop Best Actress but it was fairly obvious Meryl Streep was going to bag that for The Iron Lady. If there was an award for Best Acceptance Speech, then surely Michel Hazanavicius should have won that, with his quick wit.

Now, I wasn’t shocked because I didn’t want The Artist to win. I did – I absolutely loved the film, and I was so pleased to see a black-and-white silent film do so well in an era almost wholly dominated by either ‘tear-jerking’ Oscar fodder, or messy CGI catastrophes. Director Michel Hazanavicius described the film as being a love letter to wife (and star) Bérénice Bejo, but I feel the film was also a love letter to cinema itself, made with the same care and attention lavished on films made in cinema’s silent era. True, Hazanavicius exploited some techniques not available to filmmakers in the 1920s, but The Artist was a beautiful example of ‘proper’ filmmaking, even down to the way he framed his shots.

It’s also an incredibly important pseudo-historical document, highlighting the huge impact that the coming of sound had on cinema. Not only were theatres forced to invest in the expensive new technology, sound also affected the way films were made. Cameras had to be static to allow for microphone placement, while actors famous for frenetic action sequenced, like Douglas Fairbanks, found themselves slowed down and hemmed in by the new frames. Legendary director, Sir Alfred Hitchcock, has to turn his 1929 silent film Blackmail into a talkie at the last minute (although he also filmed a silent version, which still exists at the BFI). Lead actress Anny Ondra had a thick Czech accent, which is no problem in silent cinema, but proves to be an issue when faced with voice acting. Hitchcock worked around it by having English actress Joan Barry standing off-camera to speak the dialogue while Ondra lip-synced. Ondra retired from acting in 1933. Somehow makes the coming of 3D seem fairly pitiful, doesn’t it?

I’d love to see The Artist go on to Oscar success, especially since it picked up three Golden Globes, including Best Actor, but I have a horrible feeling it won’t. Aside from those years when they’ve felt compelled to honour projects like Avatar (proof that a beautiful film can be entirely devoid of soul or originality) or Lord of the Rings, the Academy tend to favour those types of films which feature at least one tear-jerking scene, some kind of underdog triumphing in the face of adversity, a stirring score to accompany ‘heavy’ scenes of drama, or various emotional epiphanies attributed to an ensemble cast. Besides, The Artist was financed by French and Belgian money – over the last twenty years, only two films have won that were not financed by Hollywood (The King’s Speech and Slumdog Millionaire). The fact they’re both recent films makes me hope the Academy are a little more open-minded these days.

One final point I would want to make relates to screenplay. Some quarters have criticised the choice of The Artist as a deserving recipient of Best Screenplay. Erm, you do realise that a screenplay is not simply a compilation of the lines to be delivered by an actor? Just because a film has no spoken dialogue does not mean that it has no screenplay – after all, the actors need some kind of ‘instructions’ as to what to do and when. In many ways, it’s more difficult to write a dialogue-less screenplay, where the actors will need to work to communicate everything they would normally communicate through speech, than it is to write a list of lines.

In short, well done to The Artist…and good luck at the Oscars!

Thankfully, I can say I thoroughly enjoyed it, and I think the cast and crew deserve a hearty ‘well done’ for retaining the chilling atmosphere of the book, although I suspect this comes, in part, from the involvement of Jane Goldman as screenwriter. The story follows young lawyer Arthur Kipps (Radcliffe), who is sent to a remote northern village to wrap up the affairs of a deceased client. The village is suitably Gothic, and its inhabitants close ranks against this hapless newcomer. Desperate to do a thorough job and assure his place at his law firm, Arthur is insistent on exploring the mysterious Eel Marsh House. His sighting of the Woman in Black sets in motion a horrific chain of events in the village, and Arthur takes it upon himself to discover her identity and, hopefully, lay her to rest.

I was worried that Radcliffe would just be playing Harry Potter, and while there was the occasional moment where I thought a magic wand might have come in handy, he more than holds his own alongside more seasoned actors like Ciaran Hinds. Indeed, Radcliffe carries the movie well, and spends much of the film acting by himself. He’s matured wonderfully and cuts a rather dashing figure as the young widower. Hinds is likeable as local landowner Samuel Daily, a seeming voice of reason in a sea of superstition, and his views on Spiritualism are surprisingly relevant to today’s culture of TV psychics.

Director James Watkins uses the CGI sparingly, instead relying on subtle framing and the play between light and shadow to veil his spectres. He did miss one wonderful opportunity to employ the ‘Vertigo shot’ but that’s probably just me being overly picky. He’s quite clearly gone for the ‘chilling’ end of the ghost story spectrum, as opposed to the ‘visually arresting but ultimately meaningless’ option. Special mention goes to the art direction of Paul Ghirardani and set decoration by Niamh Coulter, with the decor of the eerie house adding to the feelings of claustrophobia and isolation. Indeed, I half expected Arthur to encounter Miss Havisham on the staircase, so total was its devotion to Victoriana.

I didn’t find the film ‘scary’ or ‘terrifying’, although I suspect this may simply be due to my own approach to the paranormal – a year spent investigating ‘haunted’ locations, along with a lifetime exposed to the possible existence of the supernatural, desensitises you somewhat. However, I did find myself wrapped up in the story, completely immersed in this lost pocket of Victorian England. It’s a wonderful slice of Gothic filmmaking, full of genuine uncanny instances. I thoroughly enjoyed the film, and would highly recommend it to anyone who has been waiting for a decent ghost story since The Others came out. Well done, Hammer – it’s good to have you back.

4.5 / 5

Oh how I wish I hadn’t bothered. The original Clink Prison was built in 1144, and the museum stands on the site.  After heading down below street level, I was confronted with just a handful of rooms containing replica instruments of torture and punishment, such as the Scavenger’s Daughter, the Ball and Chain, and the Scold’s Bridle. All well and good, you might think, and there were certainly plenty of information boards on the walls. In fact, I’d venture to say there were too many information boards, and many of them well over three feet long. The longer boards were written in such a dry, boring style that it was nigh-on impossible to maintain interest, and the task of concentrating on such a vast amount of text was made even more difficult by the deafening volume of the audio clips being played through hidden speakers.

Worse still, nearly all of the smaller boards were riddled with typos, spelling mistakes, and appalling grammatical errors. The facts displayed may have been correct but one has to doubt the veracity of the information on display if the writer cannot be bothered to use correct English. Indeed, many of the mistakes would have been highlighted in Word, and it would have been best if they’d hired a professional copywriter, or even just a proof reader, to check them before they put them up. One of them even had a handwritten correction emblazoned on it in black marker pen. Hardly a professional image, is it?

It took me just twenty minutes to get around the “museum”. I don’t feel I learned anything I didn’t already know, and if I’d wanted to see a collection of torture devices, I could have easily gone to either Ripley’s Believe it or not in Piccadilly Circus, or the torture museum at Chillingham Castle in Northumberland. I was incredibly disappointed by the visit, and considering the fact I’d paid a £6 entrance fee, I also felt vaguely cheated.

If you’re in London and looking for a way to kill half an hour, I’d suggest you patronise a local coffee shop, or just simply watch the boats on the river instead.

'Choosing', George Frederic Watts, 1864. National Portrait Gallery, London

It would be difficult to find someone who hadn’t heard of William Morris, James McNeill Whistler or Oscar Wilde, considering the level to which each name has penetrated the cultural social consciousness. However, it may prove more difficult to find a way to link such initially diverse figures. How many would realise that all three figures were leading proponents of the Aesthetic Movement in the late nineteenth century?

In response, the V&A have assembled their newest temporary exhibition, The Cult of Beauty: The Aesthetic Movement 1860-1900. Running from 2 April until 17 July, the exhibition examines the work of a movement which spanned fine art, textiles, furniture, jewellery, poetry and even photography, among others, in its forty year span.

The 1860s saw the rise of the so-called “Cult of Beauty”. Dante Gabriel Rossetti, William Morris, Edward Burne-Jones and James McNeill Whistler began exploring ideas surrounding female beauty. The traditional image of the corseted, prim Victorian woman was jettisoned in favour of a return to the flowing robes of Classical imagery. James McNeill Whistler was the first to explore the idea of “Art for Art’s Sake”, which was his defence against an attack by the influential critic, John Ruskin. Whistler extended his interest into architecture and interior design into the layout of galleries, and staged his own exhibitions to regain control of the viewing experience. Indeed, the idea of beauty was continued beyond simply that of the female, and the artists set about designing their own furniture and decorating their homes in a style that matched the opulence of their paintings.

Unsurprisingly, the fashionable and the wealthy caught onto the trend, and began to decorate their homes according to the styles and fashions favoured by the artists. Portraits were commissioned, women rejected corsets in favour of the more liberated Aesthetic style of dress, and manuals were published to help this new circle in choosing furnishings and decor. Much of the furniture and textiles was inspired by Japanese design, or even art from ancient Egypt.

By the 1880s, the Aesthetic Movement had become a figure of fun, with satire poking a stick at it from a distance. Oscar Wilde invented himself as the first celebrity style guru, and cartoons making fun of the Movement appear in Punch. It’s difficult to think of Wilde being a forerunner to the likes of Gok Wan and Lawrence Llewellyn-Bowen, but the parallels aren’t hard to see when you know where to look. By this point, the beginnings of Art Nouveau are self evident, particularly in the illustration work of Aubrey Beardsley.

The V&A have divided the exhibition into four major chronological periods, with each period subdivided into areas. It boasts a vast array of paintings, photographs, jewellery and home furnishings, and as ever, I’m bowled over by the sheer volume of things on display. When the news is full of dark and terrible things, the exhibition provides an opportunity to immerse yourself in a world of truly beautiful things that nourish the soul. Perhaps things can simply be gorgeous for the sake of it, and we should remember a time when art meant more than simply putting your bed on display.

Full price tickets cost £12, while senior citizens pay £9. Full-time students, 12-17 year olds and ES40 holders all pay £7. Art Fund members pay half price. For more details, see the V&A website.

Anyway. I saw the trailer for Source Code a couple of weeks ago and I wasn’t entirely convinced, not least due to the presence of Jake Gyllenhaal, an actor I’ve never been able to warm to. Still, I had a spare Saturday night and the very fact Source Code was a Duncan Jones film was enough to spur me to go. Thank God I did.

Source Code is, quite bluntly, fantastic. Blurring the lines between traditional “working against the clock to beat the bad guy” thrillers and science fiction, Source Code takes equal parts of quantum mechanics, time travel, and the threat of terrorism and ends up with intelligence and explosions. See, Michael Bay? It CAN be done.

Gyllenhaal plays Captain Colter Stevens, a helicopter pilot who fought in Afghanistan, and who now finds himself as part of a government project. The Source Code allows him to be projected into the last eight minutes of a person’s life – in this case, that of Sean Fentress, a teacher who is killed in a bomb blast on a train. Colter wakes up as Sean, and is charged with the task of discovering the identity of the bomber before he can strike again. Every time the eight minutes runs out, Colter wakes up in his capsule, and has to report to Goodwin (Vera Farmiga), before being sent back to relive the eight minutes.

It all sounds a little Groundhog Day, and naturally while Colter has the knowledge gained in each of his eight minute bursts to try something different next time, the people around him on the train are none the wiser, and believe him to be Sean. Colter is initially torn between wanting to find the bomber, and wanting information from those running the Source Code project. This parallel between his internal dilemma, and external mission, set up a constant source of tension – not least between Colter and his handlers. The fact that Colter, the mere practitioner, ends up understanding Source Code better than its inventor is a wry comment on our veneration of those who conceive new technology over those who learn to use it. Add to that the romantic subplot which sees Colter seek to save Christina (Michelle Monaghan), a woman he meets on the train, and you have three plot threads that Jones balances like a seasoned professional.

It’s a tense film, and Gyllenhall proves to be a compelling hero. It’s the kind of role I could almost imagine Matt Damon playing, except he’d probably get frustrated as there isn’t much cause for him to run around. Farmiga is also excellent as the conflicted captain, torn between doing her duty and obeying her conscience. The script by Ben Ripley is intelligent without being convoluted, and despite its reliance on quantum mechanics, still retains a human feel. Then again, like Moon did before it, Source Code manages to put a very human face onto science fiction. Christopher Nolan tried to make science fiction thrillers big news with Inception, and Source Code expands and improves the idea by not relying on set pieces.

All I can really say in closing is that Source Code has made Duncan Jones my new favourite director – and rekindled my interest in science fiction. Five out of five!

Limitless is based on the 2001 novel, The Dark Fields, by Alan Glynn. Bradley Cooper is Eddie Morra, a hapless writer who spends more time telling people about his book than he does actually writing it (the fact that he has a book contract without having written a word is cunningly glossed over). A chance encounter with his ex brother-in-law, Vernon, introduces him to NZT, the so-called ‘clear pill’ of the advertising campaign you may have seen. This drug, according to Vernon, allows an individual to access all of their brain, not just the 20% of usual use. NZT allows Eddie to finish his book in four days, learn the piano in three, and pick up languages with the barest of exposure to them.

Soon he discovers the stock market and becomes a financial wunderkind. Of course, it’s not all fun and games – this would be an abysmal thriller if it was – and soon he’s suffering blackouts and fighting off a Russian mobster and a mysterious character known as the Man in Tan Coat, all while wondering if he killed a woman while under a blackout. If that’s not enough, he has to cling on to his job under Carl Van Loon (Robert De Niro) and preserve his dwindling stash. This film certainly likes to pile adversity onto its hero. Will Eddie work his way out of the trouble caused by NZT?

Limitless is a peculiar brand of thriller, brushing the edges of sci-fi in its exploration of the power of pharmaceuticals and becoming psychadelic in its depiction of the effects those pharmaceuticals might have. The inventive visuals and cyclical nature of the narrative brought Fight Club to mind, and while Cooper is no Norton or Pitt, he’s charismatic enough to carry the role. He manages to balance the scattered pre-NZT writer with the confident post-NZT financier, although both versions of himself are incredibly selfish (he’s always doing things to protect himself, never anyone else). We’re often forced into his view of the world through trippy camera tricks akin to a carnival’s house of mirrors, and one sequence where he runs through the streets of New York brought the Seven Nation Army video to mind. This in itself makes us pose the question…would we take the clear pill?

All in all, I really enjoyed the film, and found it both hugely entertaining and surprisingly intelligent. I award it four clear pills out of five!

It’s one of my absolute favourite films, and it was the movie that brought Bale to my attention. True, he may have fallen from grace in my eyes over recent years as he persistently plays the same role while proving what a jackass he is to co-workers, but that doesn’t change my opinion of American Psycho, or his performance in it.

You can read my article here.

Newcomer Hailee Steinfeld is Mattie Ross, a headstrong young teenager who heads into town to settle her father’s affairs. Daddy Ross has been shot by Tom Chaney (Josh Brolin), one of his employees, and when it appears that no one will do anything about it, Mattie decides to take matters into her own hands. She hires a grizzly old US Marshal, Rooster Cogburn (Jeff Bridges) and despite his claims that he works better alone, she buys a pony and they head off into Choctaw territory to track down Chaney. They’re accompanied by Texas Ranger LaBoeuf (Matt Damon), who is also tracking Chaney for another murder in Texas.

Arguments ensue over the fate of Chaney – Mattie wants him to be hanged in Fort Smith in recognition of her father’s murder, while LaBoeuf wants to take him to Texas so he can claim the reward on Chaney’s head. In the end, they all end up working together to bring Chaney down. Barry Pepper also pops up as Ned Pepper, the leader of the outlaw gang now sheltering Chaney. I won’t be spoiling the plot by saying the true grit of the title refers not only to Cogburn, but also to Mattie herself, with her dogged determination to see justice done.

Jeff Bridges is..well..Jeff Bridges, and Matt Damon puts in a solid performance as the hapless ranger. Yet it is Steinfeld who steals the film, carrying the weight of the movie on her young shoulders. She portrays Mattie as spirited, yet possessed by an inherent sense of right and wrong. There are flashes of wit in the film, punctuating the serious tone which often borders on sombre. Mattie’s strong pronouncements could see her come off as self-righteous, but I found myself rooting for her all the same. Pepper tells her that she doesn’t “varnish her opinion”, and he’s not wrong.

It feels like an authentic Western, with special attention lavished on the dialogue. You can tell the Coens have great respect for the genre, with the score being based on 19th century hymns. It’s a beautifully shot film, and therefore no surprise that Roger Deakins should win the Bafta for Best Cinematography. It certainly deserves each of its nominations in this award season.

The Green Hornet originally made his debut to the public on the radio in 1936, with comic books and movie serials following in the 1940s. Various incarnations have appeared over the years, but the “classic” Green Hornet is the masked vigilante alter-ego of newspaper mogul Britt Reid, played here by actor/screenwriter, Seth Rogen.  The Green Hornet is almost the ‘everyman’ version of newspaper reporter Clark Kent and billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne – rich, with access to the media, but not trained in martial arts. Indeed, his martial arts-trained sidekick Kato (who also happens to be a funky version of James Bond’s Q) ends up building him a gun that shoots knock-out gas to make up for his lack of training.

The origin story is dealt with swiftly at the start of the film – after the death of his father, stalwart editor and champion of truth James Reid (Tom Wilkinson), Britt decides he wants to make a difference too. After foiling an attempted mugging, Britt and Kato team up as crimefighters, using the souped-up car built by Kato (known as “the Black Beauty”) as both weapon and transport. Britt has the idea that they’ll be able to better fight crime by posing as criminals themselves, and they start dispatching LA gangs as they clean up the LA underworld. Naturally, this doesn’t sit well with local crime lord, Chudnofsky (Christoph Waltz), who sets about trying to take out the Green Hornet.

It’s a simple plot, with a sub-plot about corruption of the press and the greed of the power-hungry, but to be honest, when your film revolves around some very well-done martial arts scenes, some car chases and various fights, then simple is probably best. Rogen checks the Bruce Wayne-esque navel-gazing at the door, and instead opts for the hyperactive “Oh my God isn’t this stuff AWESOME?” attitude that many of the audience will share when confronted with the most badass car since KITT. It is true that Rogen essentially plays himself, but who cares when so much of the film is carried by Jay Chou (Kato)?

I’ll be honest, it’s not exactly an Oscar contender, and the addition of 3D technology adds nothing to the viewing experience. It doesn’t hold the pretensions to high drama that have hampered other notable comic book movies, and it’s not even particularly witty as a comedy, but the action set pieces are done well, and it’s enjoyable in that “check your brain at the door” kind of way. I’m quite happy to watch films that aren’t “serious drama” or “so clever they need IQ ratings rather than age certifications”, so in my view, there are far worse films you could see.