Coming Attractions (1998)

I've been reluctant to list ratings for unreviewed movies, since it often seems to be a prelude for letting things slide ; then again, I've let things slide this far, so what the hell ...

"Coming Attractions" means I'll eventually get round to reviewing all these films - that's the plan, anyway. On the other hand, if things get any busier than they are already, don't be surprised if I end up writing just a line or two (or more, as it turns out) next to each title without further comment (maybe even ignoring films altogether). I'll probably be updating this page, and the appropriate year's master lists, every time I see a new movie ; then again, maybe I won't. Wish I could be more specific, but I can't. Just pretend it's all a big adventure.

Films are listed in reverse order seen.

• A VENDRE / FOR SALE (64)
• ON CONNAIT LA CHANSON (V) (74)
• TWILIGHT (V) (71)
• 54 (44)
• VAMPIRES (V) (63)
• LIVING OUT LOUD (V) (62)

• TWO GIRLS AND A GUY (V) (37) [Isn't the point of stripping down to bare essentials - just three actors talking in a minimally-furnished, workshop-style space - that you somehow reach the "truth" about the characters? Not according to this charmless, criminally self-indulgent (if occasionally amusing) celebration of inflated egos. "I'm an actor. Actors lie," says Robert Downey Jr., in between singing, dancing, making faces in the mirror, murdering Shakespeare and, ahem, carpet-munching. Well, that's all right then...]

• THE HI-LO COUNTRY (V) (63) [Must look tremendous on the big screen this, with its big Texas skies and interiors bathed in dusky, beige-olive light, set off by a seriously heroic-elegaic Carter Burwell score ; it's lovingly crafted - and that's partly the problem, along with the script's all-too-evident nostalgia for the days of the Old West before the big outfits took over, when a man could be "a fucker and a fighter and a wild-horse rider". The result is over-burnished and a little dead, though admittedly I've never cared much for this kind of superannuated-cowboy pathos, even in undisputed classics like RIDE THE HIGH COUNTRY ; the ladies get little to do, Patricia Arquette especially stuck in a nothing role - she's a bored wife, so everything she says or does is an extension of her bored wife-ness (apropos of a motel sign : "I hope that thing don't blink all night : I hate things that repeat on and on without changing"). Atmosphere better than the plot, which leads only to a desultory non-resolution anyway ; still, there's no doubting writer Walon WILD BUNCH Green's feel for the milieu. Even the poker taunts sound just right.]

• APT PUPIL (V) (45) [There's a great idea somewhere in this mess - a clean-cut teen's everyday Fascism considerably scarier than the real thing - but the film loses it in elaborate montages and flurries of over-excited editing (that whole heel-clicking crescendo), making the mistake of demonising the ex-Nazi instead of playing him as an impotent old man : the cat-in- the-oven sequence is so grossly miscalculated it'd sink the film all by itself. Horror-comic stylings provide some diverting moments, though they don't help with plausibility in the later stages ; stuff like visions of Auschwitz in the locker-room showers are either the hero's immature take on WW2 or the film's (probably the latter). Mostly flash and bombast - though accomplished enough to suggest Singer might actually make a decent Sam Raimi substitute, if he can lay off the belligerence and get a sense of humour.]

• RETURN TO PARADISE (V) (56) [Talk about total collapse ... "Screenplay by Wesley Strick and Bruce Robinson", say the credits - and presumably the writer of THE KILLING FIELDS was responsible for the tough questions and moral rigour of the excellent first half, before letting the CAPE FEAR scribe take over for the sub-RED CORNER histrionics of the second. Vince Vaughn is superb here, playing a limited man painfully in touch with his own limitations ("It isn't in me") - he's so real he makes finer feeling, as represented by compassionate Anne Heche, seem a little shrill and self-righteous (when he says he's "searched his soul" and found himself unable to do the decent thing, and she sneers at him for it, she's the one who comes off looking harsh and unfeeling). Not particularly well-made - New York and Penang given little to distinguish them in terms of lighting, pace of scenes, shot compositions - but still worthwhile : glass half full or half empty, according to taste.]

• WAKING NED DEVINE (V) (24) [Just a quaint little Oirish village, in thrall to God and Guinness, where baby seals frolic in the surf and everyone spends half their time pleasantly sozzled. Easy to concentrate on the cosiness, thereby overlooking how incredibly awful it all is - catatonically paced, despite a bizarre editing quirk that abruptly cuts away from scenes for about ten seconds then back again without any rhyme or reason (it feels like Jones wrote it all in a few long, talky sequences then decided to jazz it up a bit), and remarkably thin on wit, invention or ... anything, really. How such a stupefying film was ever designated a 'crowd-pleaser' is among the year's less intriguing mysteries.]

• SIMON BIRCH (V) (13) [Thank heaven for Joseph Mazzello (the Roddy McDowall de nos jours) ; but the rest of it! ... A stunted, dwarfish boy who thinks he's "God's instrument" - and is! Constant leering emphasis on his emerging libido, as if that should allay our pity at his deformity (he may be little but he's "all boy"). The whole idealised small-town-America thing - falling leaves, picket fences, boys on bikes ambling in the background - to the strains of Marc Shaiman's sickly score. Oliver Platt (Oliver Platt?!) dispensing fatherly advice. Ashley Judd as a Mom so nice, squirrels scamper ahead of her as she walks. All done po-faced, without a trace, without a smidgen of irony. Less said the better, really...]

• LITTLE VOICE (46) [Cinderella story done in bold strokes, set in a bizarrely time-warped world where having a telephone in the house is a rare and wonderful thing. Everyone's a production number, not to say a freakshow - from Jane Horrocks as the little girl with the big voice to Brenda Blethyn as her blowsy mother with the sprawling backside and dialogue made up entirely of zingers. Amusing for a while - up to and including LV's big show - till it goes OTT and never comes back ; but the milking of old songs for nostalgia value (a cheap emotional high) is even more annoying than the birds-as-freedom motif or the easy laughs at the expense of fat people. Ewan McGregor steals it - incidentally proving he can play absolutely anything.]

• ONE TRUE THING (V) (37) [Ambitious career-girl Renee Zellweger loves cold, brilliant-academic Dad (William Hurt) more than goofy, good-hearted hausfrau Mom (Meryl Streep). Silly girl : Mom's the salt of the earth, we could've told her that inside the first 10 minutes (but it takes her two hours, plus a terminal illness). The anti-intellectual bent of this dreary movie is a little offensive - the suggestion that our heroine should be scrubbing toilets and cooking meals instead of worrying about her career isn't too impressive either - but the real problem is one of casting : Hurt's a fine actor but too obviously a cold fish - he gives the game away. Might've played better with a more charismatic, but basically heartless, actor like Robert de Niro (Ed Harris? Alan Alda? Jack Nicholson?) as the father. Oh, and can anyone explain why it's set in 1988?]

• YOUR FRIENDS AND NEIGHBOURS (66) [LaBute sinks to the level of his protagonists, getting into a macho yes-you-will-be-shocked pissing contest with the audience's sensibilities. The correct response is to ignore his excesses, and ignore Jason Patric altogether (who either has a very subtle sense of humour or no sense of humour at all), just enjoy the brio in his writing and the performances of Ben Stiller (horn-rimmed spectacles, wheedling air), Catherine Keener ("Love's a disease") and Aaron Eckhart ("We need to see each other as ... meat. You need to see me as a big penis"). The suggestion, as per the title, that these one-dimensional priapists are Just Plain Folks is clearly silly, and the film as a whole done for effect rather than conviction ; but it's one of the (very) few this year that made me laugh out loud, and that's gotta count for something in this cock-eyed world...]

• CENTRAL STATION (60) [One of the better entries in a generally resistible genre (little boy melts the heart of curmudgeonly elder) : the kid's bratty and demanding, the old woman's greedy, dishonest and generally a bad influence - and, above all, their bonding takes place amid the harsh, haunting vastness of Brazil (the first thing we hear is a litany of place-names, each corresponding to one in a pointedly diverse group of people), from the human maelstrom of Rio to the small towns of the hinterland, goats grazing placidly beneath gaudy icons. The story proceeds smoothly enough, rambling a little in its later stages ; it's a film made with limited imagination, but evident sincerity and a measure of psychological sophistication (the old woman spitefully playing judge and jury over the poor unfortunates she refuses to belong to). Decent.]

• ZERO EFFECT (V) (46) [Sloppy variation on THE PRIVATE LIFE OF SHERLOCK HOLMES - great detective's frigid rationalism derailed by a woman - starting out Conan Doyleish ("the case of the man with the mismatched shoelaces" and so on) then turning into a poor man's Raymond Chandler, reducing its super-sleuth to ordinary P.I. work like following people and waiting for cash to be picked up : it's too square, not eccentric enough (PRIVATE LIFE embroiled Holmes in a plot involving dead midgets and the Loch Ness Monster). Kasdan doesn't seem to know what he's doing, changing angles pointlessly and moving the camera for no reason (maybe to distract from how verbose his scipt is) ; yet it remains, somehow, rather a pleasant little film. Sometimes attempted intelligence can fill in for the real thing.]

• BLADE (V) (48) [Handsome, well-designed, blues and neons predominant, hi-tech weaponry a-go-go, Stephen Dorff doing the vampire-chief-as-wasted-clubber, a touch of 90s paranoia ("They're everywhere!") cannily added to the old horrors ; but it degenerates into basic action, Wesley Snipes - "There's worse things out tonight than vampires." "Like what?" "Like me!" - putting on his shades for the big climax and punching out a line of thugs, Batman-style. Apocalyptic promises (Dorff invokes the dreaded Blood God, who's going to destroy the world) made and broken (nothing happens) ; lazy writing lets it down. Which reminds me, does Blade actually turn into a vampire at the end? Why, in that case, does he still hate vampires? Answers on a wooden stake, to arrive before the inevitable sequel.]

• WHAT DREAMS MAY COME (32) [No point wasting too much space on this terminally icky movie (yes, the visuals are impressive), burdened with Robin Williams in mopey mode - wobbling his jaw to indicate Emotion - and dwelling morbidly (and manipulatively) on bereavement to create a mood of generalised sorrow, obviating the need for narrative invention or even to explain how its vision of the afterlife is supposed to work. Why is reincarnation an optional choice (and what happens if nobody chooses it)? Why do Williams' kids appear in disguises which he has to decipher? Why should suicides be put in a special place for souls who haven't "accepted" Death (surely they're the only ones who would have accepted it)? Lots of self-importance - note the "Hamlet"-quoting title - and "When Bad Things Happen To Good People"-type psychobabble ; as our hero puts it, "Christ, when will it end?".]

• SUICIDE KINGS (V) (34) [Half farce, half crime movie, papered over with a flashy, tricksy style, all flash-forwards and needless cross-cutting. It's a mess - kidnappers are as likely to squabble over the remote-control as pull a gun on each other, a hitman as likely to fuss over his new stingray boots as beat a man unconscious : headache-inducing stuff, frittering away an intriguing premise. Glorious scratched-film opening titles though (which oneayou mugs swiped my copy of IRMA VEP?) ; and a special commemorative gallon-jar of slime to Johnny Galecki, for his strangle-worthy turn as the most spineless, brown-nosing, loathsome little worm on God's green earth.]

• THE WATERBOY (V) (38) [Harmless slapstick for those whom "the Good Lord chose not to bless with charm, athletic ability or a fully-functioning brain" ; Sandler works at turning himself into a patron saint of the terminally uncool with the fervour of a politician in the inner cities, and the result is at least pleasantly self-deprecating (if uninspired). The Gumpish title character - meek and elaborately courteous, but liable to "open a can of whup-ass" when provoked - is a promising creation, but any potential for a satire on footballing machismo (e.g. if opposing teams had reciprocated his dorky ultra-niceness to avoid his wrath) is a non-starter ; instead it's a film where "satire" means Kathy Bates as a Cajun momma, rustling up alligator barbecues on the back porch. Shame, really.]

• DARK CITY (V) (56) [Looking back, an absurdly over-generous rating, but it seemed to work reasonably well at the time : borrowings from SCANNERS, METROPOLIS and 12 MONKEYS, plus Proyas' moody way with an image, give it a certain (mostly visual) élan, but the premise is faintly absurd and its explanation both feeble and literal-minded (better to have made the whole thing a city of the mind, even at the risk of an it-was-all-a-dream final twist ). Epileptic editing takes a dozen cuts just to show a guy walking down a corridor - and finds a (possibly deliberate) thespian equivalent in Kiefer Sutherland's thoroughly bizarre performance, throwing in a pause every couple of words : "John. Has suffered. A psychotic break". He's not the only one.]

• LAWN DOGS (41) [People are profoundly affected by this tale of suburban nonconformity : a respondent in Mike D'Angelo's end-of-year survey gave it four-out-of-four stars ; a Greek magazine recently named it among the Top 100 films of the Nineties ; all very curious - though I'd definitely give it the edge over THE LAWNMOWER MAN in the Films With The Word 'Lawn' In Their Titles stakes. Sam Rockwell's flower-child kookiness somehow seemed fresher in BOX OF MOONLIGHT, possibly because John Turturro was a more convincing antagonist than the Enemy in this case - a planned community where little kids play Desert Storm and teens walk Dobermans, presided over by venal, narrow-minded adults. Director Duigan understates, avoiding sentimentality but not archness or contrivance ; lines sound flat, inorganic, over-manufactured. "I don't like kids," says our young heroine. "They smell like TV". How, um, quirky. ]

• BASEketball (V) (43) [ZAZ connection or not, this goes way beyond the pratfalls and goofy movie spoofs of HOT SHOTS or THE NAKED GUN : frat-boy humour to the max, from the digs at politically-correct New Men to the ritual humiliation (and infantilisation) of Dian Bachar, and snarky to the point of unpleasantness - it's a relief to find a good old-fashioned bodily-fluids gag, like the man in a beer-keg costume turning on his faucet at a urinal. Yet its nastiness is also its trump-card : if (and when) it works it's because it goes all the way, not just spoofing the clichés of sports movies but denying their satisfactions too, gobbing on the whole set-up. The game our heroes invent isn't remotely exciting, doesn't even make sense - it's impossible to laugh at it and enjoy it, SOMETHING ABOUT MARY-style. Either a brave film or an incompetent one, it's hard to tell - but there's definitely something going on here, an alienated, couldn't-care-less kind of vibe. The final image - an American flag, which may or may not be a dig at PRIVATE RYAN - drips with a poisonous sarcasm.]

• RUSH HOUR (51) [Tedious Tucker and jolly Jackie (Chris and Chan, respectively) in a likeable, undistinguished flick that wears its generic structure and bare-bones plot with an air of endearing nonchalance. Tucker's motormouth persona gets old fast, and there's something distasteful about the way he's allowed to rag Orientals - "I been lookin' for your sweet-and- sour-chicken ass" - in a way that might've been deemed racist applied to himself (is it because he's thought of as a child, immature and cutely irrepressible - a reminder of black people's role as 'court jesters' in American comedy?). Fortunately there's also Chan's goofball persona and Keaton-like physical grace : watching him beat up a roomful of thugs while plaintively insisiting "I don't want no trouble!", or scale a wall in a couple of deft, fluid moves - seeming to jackknife his body in mid-air - is among the year's cinematic high-points.]

• THE GINGERBREAD MAN (63) [Cross-cutting links the title fairly explicitly with Robert Duvall's half-crazed old reprobate - which makes sense, for he's at the centre of its most interesting strand, making nonsense of the (anti-)hero's claim that "the rules are the same for everybody" and digging into Altman's favourite theme of Outcast vs. Establishment. Otherwise it's a bit of a mixed bag, the action climax and arrogance-punished moralism (last lines : "You haven't lost in eight years!" "Well ... maybe it's time I did") faithful to its source, Robert Downey Jr.'s jazzy rhythms a long way from Grisham. Worth seeing for the caffeinated performances and sweltering Southern look, milky daylight followed by a night of neon-bright colours separated by dark smudges of shadow ; and capped - just in case you thought Altman was this laid-back, laissez-faire old dude - by the mother of all cinematic hurricane storms.]

• UN AIR DE FAMILLE (V) (71) [Witty, satisfying, perfectly-proportioned ; not especially exciting, but you can't have everything. A filmed play, smoothly staged and impeccably performed, giving everyone their moment in the sun even if the deck is stacked a little against corporate big-shot Philippe - we're very much on the side of his more awkward, less successful siblings. Above all it's about the way families work (you have to wonder how much it'll mean to only-child viewers) - childhood nicknames surviving into middle-age, the ghosts of parents always present, governing behaviour whether by example or opposition. Wonderfully full and human - and an eye-opener for anyone still clinging to the notion of subtitled fare as pretentious and "intellectual".]

• SENSELESS (V) (33) [Nothing like poring over irredeemably dumb comedies for hidden meanings. Are our hero's (Marlon Wayans') yuppie ambitions - he longs to be a corporate big-shot on Wall Street - an 80s holdover or a statement against black separatism? Are the incessant, totally unnecessary references to said hero's butt (including a couple of gratuitous cameos) puerile toilet humour or a gay subtext? Actually I'm kidding - but there is always David Spade as a college snob, whose rich-kid frat Wayans tries to join. "By the way," sniffs Spade, "it's 'fraternity', not 'frat'. I mean, you wouldn't call your 'country' a -?" ; "Not since the Bush years," replies our man. Well, it seemed funny at the time.]

• LITTLE BOY BLUE (V) (36) [Meanwhile, out in the boondocks ... "My brothers are my sons!" wails Ryan Phillippe, looking the poster-child for Victimised Youth in the title role ; "The other woman is Kate!". "But she's your mother," someone points out ; "I know!" he replies. Incest is merely the beginning (or is it?) in an intermittently eerie white-trash tale, livened by John Savage's rattlesnake-mean villain and a bleached-blonde Nastassia Kinski - a long long way (artistically, albeit not geographically) from PARIS TEXAS. Tries for American Gothic, but it's really just unpleasant - and rather silly, even before Shirley Knight turns up as a gun-totin' matron in a Garth Brooks outfit. Crazy rednecks...]

• SPHERE (V) (54) [Clever people slumming in sci-fi - which is good, because they bring peripheral pleasures (a sense of humour, allusions to Giotto and Jules Verne, psychology over action) but also bad, because they think they can get away with unconscionable stupidity just because (some of) the audience are less demanding. It's a nifty story, paranoia thriller on the SOLARIS-EVENT HORIZON axis - our heroes' thoughts and desires used against them - with a childlike-villain twist that's like a variation on Jerome Bixby's "It's A Good Life" (otherwise known as the Joe Dante segment in the TWILIGHT ZONE movie) ; but everyone onscreen behaves so absurdly it's hard to take it seriously - even novices should be able to guess the twists, and wonder why the characters don't (dumbest part : the Samuel L. Jackson character's bizarre behaviour - seemingly unnoticed by his colleagues - after contact with the Sphere), and some of the detail is just risible. I mean seriously, if an alien life-form took over your ship's computer and told you to "call me Jerry", would you really bother asking "Jerry what?"?]

• INSOMNIA (V) (45) [Would-be hypnotic, actually negligible : great final shot and opening credits, lots of muddling and meandering in between. Atmosphere begins promisingly - mist and mountains, constant white light, Stellan Skarsgard's imperturbable mug hiding dark secrets - then doesn't develop : you can only read menacing undertones into drab, grey-and- brown surfaces for so long. Have to say, what with this and JUNK MAIL, the Norwegian New Wave's turning out (for this viewer) to be a very small splash indeed.]

• THE NEGOTIATOR (47) [Decent, well-acted movie burdened with a rather tired police-corruption plot and chronic plausibility issues ; not too bad, but you keep thinking it could've been sharper. Basically not as clever as it thinks it is, even in terms of mind-games and manipulation - though it does explain, HOUSE OF GAMES-style, how to tell if someone's lying just by looking at their eyeballs. Who says movies can't be educational?]

• THE LEADING MAN (V) (47) [Pleasant, forgettable trifle, benefitting (surprisingly) from the unctuous charm of Jon Bon Jovi, especially since the plot has him seducing a woman for a lark, in the manner of GRANDES MANOEUVRES and IN THE COMPANY OF MEN ; but it's not sharp enough, either on the central scheme or the theatrical setting (no real detail, beyond breathing exercises and a cricket-loving old ham). The slide from "Burning Down the House" (over the opening credits) to Gary Barlow singing "Forever Love" (over the closing ones) says it all.]

• ORGAZMO (V) (49) [Martial-arts, porn movies, comic-book superheroes - what's not to like? Director-star Trey Parker's Jesus-jokes fixation gets a thorough airing ("Jesus!" "Where?"), ably supported by the alarming Dian Bachar (think deranged Martin Short) and Matt Stone as Dave the Lighting Guy, prefacing ever more suggestive comments with "I don't want to sound like a queer or nothing, but...". Hopelessly dumb and shamefully funny - even if it does steal a gag wholesale from THE MAN WITH TWO BRAINS.]

• THE WEDDING SINGER (28) [80s nostalgia? Sez who? Those who find 80s pop as alive and meaningful as most of today's hits - and it's only been a decade, for cryin' out loud - are unlikely to enjoy seeing it embalmed and used as period furniture, especially when the period isn't really captured beyond name-dropping and coy references ; those too young (or, I guess, too old) to appreciate it may wonder why a film this sluggish had to weigh itself down further with bits like our heroine singing an entire verse of "China Girl". Lots of flat, laboured dialogue scenes plus those odd, creepy lapses into weirdness that seem a staple of Adam Sandler movies - the grotesque-looking "losers' table" here roughly on a par with the Mommy-worship in BILLY MADISON, or Sandler volunteering to be "the salami" in a sex-sandwich in BULLETPROOF - hinting at dark undercurrents to his nice-Jewish-boy persona. Not a pretty sight, either way.]

• KRIPPENDORF'S TRIBE (V) (31) [Patently absurd premise (anthropologist films his kids fooling around in loincloths and war-paint, passes it off as footage of a lost Indian tribe). Chirpy brass score with bits of xylophone, plus montages set to the Mighty Mighty Bosstones. Tiresome tribe = family message, bringing kids'n parent Closer Together through the farcical proceedings. Occasional penis jokes for post-pubescent chaperones. Weird, schizophrenic character played by Jenna Elfman, veering suddenly from charming love-interest to obnoxious self-promoter. Lily Tomlin with a rhesus monkey on her shoulder. Richard Dreyfuss as the inevitable Useless Dad : "Excuse me, who is the adult in this room? Don't answer that!". Has its moments, without quite being worth even the trouble of switching on a VCR.]

• KURT AND COURTNEY (V) (55) [The year's saddest movie, full of wasted lives and wasted people : you can see why Courtney Love would've done anything to escape this sleazy milieu, even if you don't wholly buy director Nick Broomfield's account of her ruthlessness. Broomfield's mid-scene dissolves and mid-interview edits don't inspire confidence, and his assertion that "I didn't have an angle" going into the material (plus the way he opens the film with ultra-basic, Kurt-Cobain-for-beginners information) seems ingenuous ; nonetheless, just the sight of Kurt's skeletal self-portrait next to a Bjorn Again poster on his ex-girlfriend's wall (a plump, happy girl who opines that "He always felt he was too skinny") is a heartbreaker.]

• MULAN (71) [Guess I should bump the rating down a notch (sharp-eyed readers may note that I already have) - I don't remember much of this ersatz-feminist cartoon ; at the time, though, it struck me as the most satisfying Disney animation since ALADDIN, taking in comedy, romance, action and spectacle with admirable dexterity. Certainly it's true that the songs are, for once, witty rather than soggy (playing with the theme of gender confusion), that the animation is both expert and eclectic (Mulan herself all calligraphic lines, her pooch more like something out of "Two Stupid Dogs"), that Eddie Murphy's fast-talking dragon is hilarious ; also of course that the whole Chinese thing is an offering on the altar of global commerce, paving the way for an imminent Sino-Disneyland just as French fairytale BEAUTY AND THE BEAST tied in smartly with Euro-Disney back in '91. Nice corporate move there, Mr. Eisner, sir.]

• FOUR DAYS IN SEPTEMBER (V) (74) [STATE OF SIEGE revisited, but the intent is apolitical - or, more accurately, anti-political. Kicks off with the moon landings, offering contrasting opinions from different characters - "a political act" (i.e. a smokescreen for Vietnam) or "a victory for the entire world" ; you might say the film revolves round the point that most people today would go for the latter view, whereas most in Brazil circa 1969 would've gone for the former. Its own view is decidedly 90s - everyone has their reasons, but the most sympathetic character is the least politicised - yet, crucially, it also works as a straight thriller, pulling off the UNFORGIVEN trick of making us bay for blood then feel vaguely ashamed of ourselves. Tense and sinewy, with strong characterisations ; the final shot, a group photo, carries a powerfully ambiguous charge - lives wrecked but defined by politics, crippled yet given meaning (who are we to judge?). Liberal humanism at its most generous - plus, of course, a terrific nail-biter.]

• ANTZ (63) [Someone must have been telling lies about Z., for, despite being the protagonist of a funny satire about a crushing and irrational System, he found himself somehow set up as a kiddie-cartoon hero. Or perhaps vice versa, for this smart, snappy film never quite gets its priorities straight (and occasionally turns into another genre altogether, the neurotic Woody Allen comedy) ; references to downsizing and Eurotrash - not to mention a spot of fiery syndicalism - guaranteed to sail over juvenile heads, but the rather trite climax should put grown-ups in their place. STARSHIP TROOPERS-ish battle scenes a bonus, and it looks good (if a bit monotonous) in brown and ochre ; gotta love that just-want-to-be-me message too, coming from a bunch of Disney defectors.]

• BAD MANNERS (V)(62) [Highly controlled comedy set, unusually, in academia, where everyone despises each other without ever raising their voice ("That's ... an extraordinary choice of words," they sputter when truly furious). Not all the dialogue is choice (He: "Fuck you" ; She: "You might do that once in a while"), and the device of the young 'outsider' exposing the hypocrisy in everyone's lives is pretty tired ; still amusing (especially, perhaps, on the small screen) - moral contortions in a milieu not much seen since VIRGINIA WOOLF 30 years ago. Tori Amos sings over the final credits, which is as it should be.]

• THE AVENGERS (36) [Unfamiliarity with the eponymous TV show doubtless a factor here - if only because most of the bits I enjoyed (like the labyrinthine house where every corridor leads you back to the same place) turn out to be cribbed (and debased) from the original. Visually memorable in dribs and drabs - the helicopter-like mechanical wasps, Steed and Emma walking inside a pair of transparent plastic globes, villains conferencing in teddy-bear suits - with an impressive climax in a kind of blue-lit silo ; but it's closer to ersatz Bond (circa GOLDENEYE, not GOLDFINGER) than the knowing kitschiness being aimed for. Tone uncertain, plotting even more so, and both stars look hilariously uncomfortable : it's worth seeing just for the pained, can't-believe-I'm-saying-this expression on Fiennes' classically-trained face as he wrestles with the line, "Prospero, Prospero ... ah yes, Shakespeare's magician, wasn't he?"]