It has been a major criticism of The Wolf of Wall Street that its main protagonist, the anti-hero, Jordan Belfort (Leonardo Dicaprio) is not seen to truly get his come-uppance. There has been a suggestion that the film is a glorification of his lifestyle and practices, that it, through not outwardly condemning them, tacitly supports them.

Such moral condemnation of literature and film is hardly new. The now largely forgotten Somerset Maugham – the most popular writer in the English language for much of the first half of the Twentieth Century – often faced similar criticism. Maugham’s response never wavered. It was not his job as an author, he would state, to set the world to rights. He based his characters on people that he knew. He wrote of, and embellished, their faults and shortcomings. It was for his readers to make their own judgements and determine what was right, and what was wrong.

Director Martin Scorsese and scriptwriter Terence Winter seem to have adopted a similar line. They have simply told their version as they saw it: the story of a man corrupted by greed whose habit was fed by those who were only too keen to invest greedily in schemes where they thought they could make a quick, easy buck. It is ironic that many of those who now complain Belfort is portrayed too sympathetically were those investors prepared to do anything to get money apart from work for it. If Scorsese’s film has a moral lesson, it is that people should not be seduced by the thought of soft profit. I suspect also, that Scorsese is of the opinion that nothing much has changed since the balloon went up with the GFC, that the fault lines remain in place for history to repeat itself. Wasn’t it Sir Winston Churchill who stated that the only thing history ever teaches us, is that nobody ever learns from it.  

So I would recommend you go and see The Wolf of Wall Street and make your own judgement as to its morality – don’t rely on others to make that judgement call for you. It is a great piece of film-making which runs solidly for three hours during which the pace never slackens or dulls. It fascinates for its whole duration. Direction, script and cinematography are all spot on and the acting complements it well.

Leonardo Dicaprio is always at his best when playing larger than life characters and here is no exception. His charisma oozes from every pore and is essential to his characterisation – what conman was ever successful by being dour and self-deprecating? His skilful piece of acrobatic acting as he opened his car door with his foot when out of his mind on Quaaludes was laugh out loud funny.

The rest of the cast also rise to the occasion and there is a wonderful comic cameo from Joanna Lumley, as Belfont’s aunt by marriage, whose major scene with Dicaprio is great fun, very much a highlight. Special mention also to Australian actor Margot Robbie as Belfont’s second wife who holds her own opposite Dicaprio and never lets her accent slip.

Two criticisms – one more serious than the other.

The debauchery and female nudity were overdone. The solitary scene of a musical band of bare torsoed men seemed to be a contrivance and inserted simply to deflect such criticism. Much of the female nudity seemed only there for male titillation.

And a minor criticism of the otherwise excellent Jonah Hill, as Belfont’s sidekick Donnie Azoff. Azoff was clearly a near chainsmoker. Yet Jonah Hill never looked comfortable holding a cigarette and was obviously faking the inhalation. Smokers (and ex-smokers) easily pick up on this and it’s a distraction. Odd that the many, many scenes of coke snorting looked wholly realistic.

I have my doubts as to whether The Wolf of Wall Street has the gravitas to become a classic, but it is a highly enjoyable romp giving a good snapshot of the ‘greed is good’ culture which remains with us and is surely lurking, ready to bite with even greater effect next time round.

****

Tim Meade

The ‘based on a true story’ we so often see at the beginning of a film has been a recurring Bête Noire of mine for some considerable time. I have argued before that the licence it gives to film-makers is open to the widest interpretation. It is a specious use of language. It allows writer and director to re-frame events, dissemble, misrepresent people, and, if challenged on points of veracity, hide behind the fact that it was never claimed to be a truthful recall.

The Butler was one of the biggest culprits in 2013. This film was based on THE true story rather than A true story – whatever the difference of the definite article might imply. The only problem was that most of the major events portrayed in the life of Cecil Gaines never happened – his mother’s rape; his father’s murder; his son in the Black Panthers; his son killed on active service in Vietnam. All poppycock.

So David O. Russell’s wonderful American Hustle had me on-side from the outset with its tongue in cheek advice at the film’s beginning that ‘Some of this actually happened’.

Set in the 1970s, Irving Rosenfeld (Christian Bale) is a con man skilled at depriving the needy from cash they can ill afford to lose. Not wishing to restrict his activities to the lower socio-economic demograph, he sells forged art works to the well-heeled as a lucrative sideline. Joining him in these activities is the seductive erstwhile stripper, Sydney Prosser (Amy Adams), who poses as a royalty-connected member of the British aristocracy to give the operation some class. Their ill-gotten trade is broken by federal agent Richie DiMaso (Bradley Cooper) who then turns the couple in order to ensnare corrupt politicians on the take whom he wishes to expose and incarcerate in furtherance of his career. DiMaso’s inordinate ambition is hampered only by his lack of tactical nous as he has to rely ever more on the wily Rosenfeld.

 American Hustle is a grand success at nearly every level.

The ensemble cast appears to be without a weakness: Christian Bale, with a heavy paunch and comical comb-over, always suggests that he is far more in control then he is letting on; Amy Adams, about whom I was scathing  as the demure Lois Lane in Man of Steel, is pitch perfect as the cleavage-showing Siren oozing sex appeal – her ability to separate salivating men from their dollars was all too believable; Bradley Cooper with another comical hairstyle, this time a tight-knit perm, clearly enjoyed his role as the obsessive and flawed FBI man; Jeremy Renner as the well-meaning Mayor, Carmine Polito, (collateral damage in Cooper’s crusade) came across as an oily  and cheesy lounge singer as a reminder of an era before professional spin doctors homogenised the political class; Jennifer Lawrence as Bale’s trailer trash and manipulative wife, aware of the lien she holds over her estranged husband, gave a fantastic performance of tragic comedy. An uncredited cameo from Robert De Niro exuding septuagenarian menace was the cake icing.

Direction from David O. Russell was consistently fast-paced with no lulls in its 138 minutes and without ever being confusing. The cinematography and editing were first rate.

It would be nit-picking to mention that the excellent 70s soundtrack was occasionally just a little overblown.

But what raises American Hustle well over the bar is its screenplay from David O. Russell and Eric Warren Singer. Humorous throughout, the film has several laugh out loud moments while also delivering both dramatic impact and thought provoking concepts. As Christian Bale becomes ever more ambivalent about what he is being forced to do, he very deftly leads the audience to share his growing but tacit realisation that sometimes an end can very much justify the means. That the film is bound to have a final twist is never in doubt. If, when it comes, it is not totally innovative or surprising, quite frankly – who cares?

The producers of American Hustle can start hiring the limos for Oscar night.

4.5 stars

Tim Meade

This film was originally titled Two Mothers. This was changed to Perfect Mothers. This was changed to Adore. This was changed to Adoration  for its Australian Release. It is based on a novella by Doris Lessing titled The Grandmothers.

Should this frenetic name changing lead you to the conclusion the producers weren’t sure about this film or how to market it, I imagine you’d be pretty close to the mark.

Set in a very small coastal town some hours north of Sydney, Adoration tells of the intertwining lives of two life-long friends, Lil (Naomi Watts) and Roz (Robin Wright). After a couple of brief scenes showing the friends in their younger years, the film picks up their story as the women enter middle age.

Lil is widowed; Roz married to her long time husband Harold (Ben Mendelsohn). Tom (James Frecheville) is the strapping son of Roz, Ian (Xavier Samuel) is the strapping son of Lil. Tom and Ian are best friends, surfers and spend most of their lives with their shirts off. Tom and Ian start having affairs with each other’s mother.

The first of many problems with this film is that the story never rang true. We are expected to believe that after being married for presumably 20 odd years and enjoying a warm rapport with his wife, ‘New Age’ Harold would apply for a job in Sydney without telling his family. Having been offered the job but finding Roz rejects the opportunity to move, he then upsticks and decamps to the big city leaving his wife, son and apparently idyllic lifestyle behind – this at a time when most men would probably be looking for a seachange and moving the other way.

Roz then begins a relationship with Ian, instigated by him. In an act of aggrieved retaliation, Tom initiates an affair with Lil. Love blossoms. The film fasts forward two years. The lovebirds continue. Tom heads for Sydney.

These people seem to live in a cocoon. Despite living in a small community, we are led to believe there is no gossip, no knowledge in the outside world of their liaisons. The only outsider allowed to intrude into this ménage à quatre is Lil’s spurned suitor Saul (Gary Sweet) who assumes the two women are having a lesbian affair and disappears in a humiliated huff.

The characters were all so thinly drawn and interchangeable, it was sometimes difficult to remember who was having sex with whom: was Ian Lil’s son or Roz’s? Fortunately, Roz’s accent slipping into unexplained Texas drawl helped differentiate her from her friend. Xavier Samuel, now fast approaching 30, will surely be wishing to move away from teenage beach bum roles – he played similar in his last film, Drift; James Frecheville, so good in Animal Kingdom, never looked entirely comfortable.

The script from Christopher Hampton failed on more than one level – this from the man who penned both Dangerous Liaisons and Atonement. It was full of cheesy ‘God! You’re beautiful’ type lines and much of the dialogue between the characters was to explain facets about themselves which they would have imparted at the start of a relationship, not twenty or forty years after its formation.

Direction from Anne Fontaine was competent and cinematography was generally well done – perhaps the panning shot showing the beach emerging from the bush was overused a couple of times.  The film’s locations were always easy on the eye.

The film was released in Australia the same week that the Nobel Prize for Literature winner Doris Lessing died. It is difficult to believe that the story she wrote bears any resemblance to the filmed version. But if I’m wrong, then the scriptwriters to Home and Away should book their flights to Stockholm, because this film is pure, unadulterated, sub-standard soap opera.

2.5 stars

Tim Meade

This film was originally titled Two Mothers. This was changed to Perfect Mothers. This was changed to Adore. This was changed to Adoration  for its Australian Release. It is based on a novella by Doris Lessing titled The Grandmothers.

Should this frenetic name changing lead you to the conclusion the producers weren’t sure about this film or how to market it, I imagine you’d be pretty close to the mark.

Set in a very small coastal town some hours north of Sydney, Adoration tells of the intertwining lives of two life-long friends, Lil (Naomi Watts) and Roz (Robin Wright). After a couple of brief scenes showing the friends in their younger years, the film picks up their story as the women enter middle age.

Lil is widowed; Roz married to her long time husband Harold (Ben Mendelsohn). Tom (James Frecheville) is the strapping son of Roz, Ian (Xavier Samuel) is the strapping son of Lil. Tom and Ian are best friends. Tom and Ian start having affairs with each other’s mother.

The first of many problems with this film is that the story never rang true. We are expected to believe that after being married for presumably 20 odd years and enjoying a warm rapport with his wife, ‘New Age’ Harold would apply for a job in Sydney without telling his family. Having got the job he then upsticks and decamps to the big city leaving his wife, son and apparently idyllic lifestyle behind – this at a time when most men would probably be looking for a seachange and moving the other way.

Roz then begins a relationship with Ian, instigated by him. In an act of aggrieved retaliation, Tom initiates an affair with Lil. Love blossoms. The film fasts forward two years. The lovebirds continue. Tom heads for Sydney.

These people seem to live in a cocoon. Despite living in a small community, we are led to believe there is no gossip, no knowledge in the outside world of their liaisons. The only outsider allowed to intrude into this ménage à quatre is Lil’s spurned suitor Saul (Gary Sweet) who assumes the two women are having a lesbian affair and disappears in a humiliated huff.

The characters were all so thinly drawn and interchangeable, it was sometimes difficult to remember who was having sex with whom: was Ian Lil’s son or Roz’s? Fortunately, Roz’s accent slipping into unexplained Texas drawl helped differentiate her from her friend. Xavier Samuel, now fast approaching 30, will surely be wishing to move away from teenage beach bum roles – he played similar in his last film, Drift; James Frecheville, so good in Animal Kingdom, never looked entirely comfortable.

The script from Christopher Hampton failed on more than one level – this from the man who penned both Dangerous Liaisons and Atonement. It was full of cheesy ‘God! You’re beautiful’ type lines and much of the dialogue between the characters was to explain facets about themselves which they would have imparted at the start of a relationship, not twenty or forty years after its formation.

Direction from Anne Fontaine was competent and cinematography was generally well done – perhaps the panning shot showing the beach emerging from the bush was overused a couple of times.  The film’s locations were always easy on the eye.

The film was released in Australia the same week that the Nobel Prize for Literature winner Doris Lessing died. It is difficult to believe that the story she wrote bears any resemblance to the filmed version. But if I’m wrong, then the scriptwriters to Home and Away should book their flights to Stockholm, because this film is pure, unadulterated, sub-standard soap opera.

2.5 stars

Tim Meade

Any film adaptation of an Irvine Welsh book will always fall under the shadow of Trainspotting – the seminal and masterly interpretation of his 1993 novel. Trainspotting is a rare peak in the history of British cinema and it’s inevitable that similarly themed films will invite comparison.

Filth is the latest Welsh book to receive a screen outing.

The story centres on police sergeant, Bruce Robertson (James McAvoy), whose sexually depraved and drug and alcohol-fuelled lifestyle is twinned with a Machiavellian desire to secure promotion over his colleagues.  For Robertson, Gore Vidal’s maxim that ‘It is not enough to succeed – others must fail’ seems to be his life philosophy. He plots and connives the downfall of those around him whilst ingratiating himself with seniors and those who can help his cause. He is a wonderful, nasty piece of work who will use any avenue – Freemasonry, sex, blackmail, perjury – to advance his cause – he makes Gene Hunt from Life on Mars look like Shirley Temple.

The film is at its strongest in the first half of its 97 minutes. It charts, with graphic detail, Roberts’ destruction of his rivals. The comedy is frequent and of the blackest shade – the cost of a laugh is a pained grimace.

The humour fades away in the second half of the film as we follow Robertson’s myriad demons spiral out of control.

James McAvoy as the deeply damaged Robertson is quite simply outstanding at the heart of the film; giving one of his strongest performances, he will surely receive BAFTA if not Oscar recognition. The support acting is also of the highest order though McAvoy always dominates without ever being overbearing. Perhaps, and surprisingly, only Jim Broadbent fails to convince as the psychiatrist in the surreal,  dream-like sequences which are a little over the top and break the film’s flow.

Occasional director Jon S. Baird pitches the pace of the film very well – fast without ever being confusing. Steady handed cinematography from Martin Jensen is also a plus with a fresh and sharp contemporary feel, which never tries to be too flash. It contrasts deftly Edinburgh’s regal architecture with its seedy underbelly.

An eclectic soundtrack adds to the ambience: Shakin’ Stevens Merry Christmas Everyone and David  Soul, appearing in cameo, with Silver Lady were distinct highlights.

Filth will never be considered a classic and it never quite rises to the heights of its illustrious predecessor, Trainspotting, which on its release, seemed to capture a raw slice of British/Scottish life previously under-represented on celluloid. But it has enough virtue to stand on its own merit and will be enjoyed by those who consider themselves outside the ‘Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells’ demographic.

****

Tim Meade

At his televised 80^th birthday celebrations, the esteemed British director Sir David Lean had a message to young, budding film-makers: Listen to us; learn from us. Then do your own thing.

Debutant writer-director David Lowery has clearly been influenced by the American New Wave directors of the 1970s. And then done his own thing.

Ain’t Them Bodies Saints follows the relationship of Bob Muldoon (Casey Affleck) and his partner Ruth Guthrie (Rooney Mara). Besieged by local Police at an isolated farmhouse, the pregnant Ruth injures an officer in the shoot out. Bob Muldoon takes the rap for this crime and is incarcerated for a long stretch. Several years later, he affects an escape from the prison in which he is held and makes his way back to his home town in rural Texas.

There is very little back-story or explanation of events in this atmospheric film. This appeared to be a deliberate ploy by Lowery. Like the Curate’s egg, it was good in parts . But ultimately it left too much of the plot inchoate: who were the three men hunting down Muldoon? Bounty hunters? Erstwhile partners in crime? We weren’t privy to their motives and this detracted from the narrative. This was but one example. The very title of the film is also rather enigmatic and might lead some to believe the film is more bloodthirsty than it actually is.

Casey Affleck, who has enjoyed something of a patchy and sporadic acting career to date, is perfectly cast as Muldoon. As he showed in his Oscar-nominated performance in The Assassination of the Outlaw Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford, Affleck has a great ability to convey a threat of violence without displaying any physical intimidation. He does so again in this film exuding a latent and uneasy menace. Hopefully this role will prove a springboard for Affleck and give him some  momentum – he has good screen presence.

There was also a strong performance from Rooney Mara and support from Ben Foster and Keith Carradine.

The cinematography was, on the whole, superb. Long linking shots in subdued colour gave a great feel for the small town Texan setting amidst arable farmland. The wonky camera shots for the close ups we can put down to current, hopefully soon obsolete, fashion.

And if the pacing was a little on the slow side at times, well David Lowery is still learning his craft.

This is a very promising debut from a rookie director. He is one to watch.

3.5 stars

Tim Meade

Enough Said is the latest occasional cinema offering from writer and director Nicole Holofcener whose mainly television credits include Six Feet Under and the witty Parks and Recreation.

It is a middle-aged rom-com centring on a budding relationship between two fifty-something divorcees Eva (Julia Louis-Dreyfus) and Albert (James Gandolfini). Eva, an unfulfilled masseuse finds a common bond with the overweight and slightly slob-prone Albert, a television librarian. Both are struggling with the realisation that their respective daughters are soon to leave home and State as they go off to further education. Eva shares her experiences and details of her incipient romance with a coterie of friends, the therapist Sarah (Toni Collette) and successful poet Marianne (Catherine Keeler).

The film’s comedy, though pretty firmly rooted in safe, white bread territory is nonetheless both funny and nicely played. There are some very enjoyable set pieces and the dialogue between all the protagonists flows nicely – the characters are well drawn. There is distinct chemistry between Julia Louis-Dreyfus and James Gandolfini, in his penultimate screen performance. Eva’s slightly down-trodden persona matches nicely with Albert whose perceptive nous is perhaps under-rated by those who judge him on his physical appearance.

The twist, when it comes, relies on a previously latent and unknown familial relationship – a fairly common device for a rom-com. But, unlike the similar twist in Crazy, Stupid Love this one is both believable and within the flow of the film’s story.

The film’s main strength lies in the high quality of acting from the two romantic leads who are ably and well supported by Catherine Keeler and particularly Toni Collette. Gandolfini is given the strongest role by Holofcener – a wise decision, giving the film better balance with he being the only non-peripheral man in the piece.

The main criticism to be made is of the sub-standard editing which jars several times and is distinctly off-putting. The musical score is nothing to write home about either. But both these minuses need to be put into the context of an amiable and pleasant film which, whilst not delivering anything new, is well paced and engaging – it has no pretensions to be avant garde. It knows its niche and sticks to it.

Last year, The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel defied the mainstream critics and became a success  as it found an audience who enjoyed the sight of people far from the first flush of youth who had not given up on love or the idea of sex. I believe Enough Said might enjoy support from a similar audience. It deserves it.

****

Tim Meade

Fruitvale Station is the debut feature-length film from 27 year old Ryan Coogler.

In the early hours of New Year’s Day 2009 a young black man, Oscar Grant III, was shot in the back by a white police officer,  Johannes Mehserle , when allegedly resisting  arrest; this followed an altercation on a train which was then at Fruitvale Station in Oakland California. Johannes Mehserle was consequently sentenced for involuntary manslaughter serving 11 months in prison. (Mehserle’s name was changed for the film.)

Fruitvale Station starts with grainy images of Grant being shot and tells the back story leading up to events solely from Grant’s perspective.

The film is not a hagiography, it depicts Oscar Grant III as deeply flawed. Grant had a criminal record; had served prison time for drug dealing; had a quick and fierce temper; had lost his job for repeated poor attendance and had strayed from his long-term girlfriend, the mother of his young daughter. Even so, it was difficult not to be drawn to the conclusion that Coogler was trying to gloss over these traits by showing Grant had just started trying to turn his life around. The film showed his tender side – his love of dogs, his overall respect for women. It seemed just a touch contrived and was clearly inserted to ensure the audience was sympathetic to the victim. It was unnecessary – Grant’s death was tragic, and deemed unlawful, whatever his background.

What was far more convincing, due to its understatement, was its showing of the near inevitably of violence due to over-testosteroned macho posturing. This contrasted with the strong women in the film – his long-suffering girlfriend and his mother whose love of her son was not blind to his faults and his failings which impacted cruelly upon others.

Ryan Coogler, under the tutelage of Forest Whitaker, has made a promising start with this feature, even though he has been infected with wobbly camera syndrome – something I hope he’ll soon jettison. But he has created interesting characters with street dialogue that flowed naturally. Under his direction, both Michael B. Jordan as the doomed Grant and Octavia Spencer as his mother gave nuanced and stand out performances in a cast without any apparent weakness.

But ultimately, there was simply not enough story to maintain the 85 minutes of this film – Grant’s life was not interesting or controversial enough to fill the space. How much better the film could have been had Coogler given us Johannes Mehserle’s story as well. All we saw of Mehserle and his colleagues was their uniformed aggression in the few minutes leading up to the shooting – there was no attempt to humanise them. I understand Mehserle’s girlfriend gave birth the day after the shooting. Showing how events blighted other lives too would have given Fruitvale Station greater depth without in anyway diminishing its clear objective to highlight the on-going social problem of young negroes getting a raw and prejudicial deal from the law.

But Ryan Coogler has shown enough in this film to demonstrate that he has the ability to become an accomplished film-maker. Let’s hope he takes the opportunity.

***

Tim Meade

Any fears that Lawrence Johnston’s documentary on the making of Stanley Kramer’s 1959 film On the Beach would be something of a parochial, introspective effort were instantly dis-spelled with footage of President John F. Kennedy giving a speech likening the threat of nuclear annihilation as being a Sword of Damocles hanging over the whole world’s population.

On the Beach, the apocalyptic story of the world coming to an end following a northern hemisphere war in which the use of cobalt bombs brought about inevitable mutual self-destruction was penned by Nevil Shute in 1957. As the radioactive fallout heads south on the Trade Winds killing all life in its path, the Australian city of Melbourne is the last major centre on earth to be left standing, its population going about its daily business with stoic phlegm, law and order prevailing. The documentary explained that Shute based this on the reaction he witnessed of Londoners during the blitz of 1940.

Shute sold the film rights to Hollywood for 80,000 pounds and the then very dull and isolated Anglo-Celtic enclave of Melbourne went agog with excitement as screen royalty – Gregory Peck, Ava Gardner, Fred Astaire and the up and coming Anthony Perkins – arrived to shoot the adaptation of the international best-seller.

This meticulously researched, superbly produced and always fascinating documentary swept along with seamless segues as it detailed Nevil Shute’s life and career, his fractious relationship with Stanley Kramer and the politics behind the film – both internal and external. All this was set in the context of the time when people the world over were coming to terms with the realisation that Man had invented a weapon that could see everyone wiped out at a near instant.

Nevil Shute was extremely wealthy through his ‘hobby’ writing. However, he considered himself first and foremost an aeronautical engineer and, as his daughter advised in the film, considered writing a ‘nancy’ occupation. The documentary also detailed how Shute left Britain for Australia soon after the Second World War due to punitive taxation from the Labour Government. But this I think only told half the story. Shute was an extremely conservative man – both with a big and small C – something which so often comes through in his work. He only left Britain in 1950 after Attlee’s Socialist administration had been re-elected and despondently he believed that the country was now well and truly finished. In his 1953 novel, In the Wet, Shute gives a prophetic vision of 30 years hence. Britain is governed by ill-educated Welsh miners and in terminal decline. Australia and Canada are paragons of private enterprise, prosperous and free of state regulation. HM The Queen decamps for Canberra leaving the United Kingdom under the control of a Governor-General.

But when it came to the threat of nuclear war, Shute identified strongly with those, mainly on the left, who thought the whole concept total madness. As Fallout clearly detailed, it was Conservative forces which were uncomfortable with the film’s premise and put barriers up to frustrate its production.  

Fallout is choc a bloc with interesting facts and vignettes. There are interviews with Donna Anderson, the only star from the film still alive; Shute’s daughter; Kramer’s widow Karen together with contributions from historians, journalists and an incredibly lucid photographer who was at Hiroshima immediately after its bombing and who was subsequently chosen to produce the stills for On the Beach.

All this was interspersed with clips from the film, a fleeting history of the development of nuclear bombs and a social history of Melbourne with relevant archive footage to accompany. It should be of interest to anyone who wants to get a feel of what the world was like in the Cold War days of the 1950s.

One of the last words went to author and journalist Gideon Haigh who wondered why the threat of nuclear destruction is no longer the social issue it once was when it is probably more likely now then ever before. He suggested the world was now an ammunition dump which one stray spark could set off. With nuclear proliferation now so prevalent and suicide bombers seemingly happy to achieve immortality, he opined that it was highly feasible two volatile states could go to war , or some fanatic detonate a nuclear device in a major world city.

This was thought provoking. Why so many are expending energy on the rather abstract idea of climate change that may cause major problems in 50, or 100, years time when a far more devastating event  could happen at any time is strange indeed.

4.5 stars.

Tim Meade

There is a long and far from noble history of British television comedy shows ‘spinning-off’ into cinema release feature films.

It was an extremely popular exercise in the early to mid 1970s when On the Buses, Till Death Us Do Part, Are You Being Served?, Bless This House and a host of other popular television shows were given the big screen treatment.

Invariably, the transitions were pretty cringe worthy. Most of the films were mediocre at best and, in the main, absolutely woeful.

Notwithstanding, some of them were commercial hits. In 1971, On the Buses was the top earner at the British box office proving more popular than such classic films as The French Connection and Diamonds Are Forever. Perhaps it was no coincidence that the next film in the Bond Series featured a London Routemaster bus getting well and truly smashed up.

But then, like lava lamps and flared trousers, these low-budget, low-brow films fell from fashion. Seemingly embarrassed by such hoi-polloi crowd pleasers, British film-makers entered a prolonged phase of making movies that everybody liked except the public. Hands up anyone who ever paid money to see a Peter Greenaway film?

And then it started again. The Inbetweeners was first off the block. Following the tradition of its 1970s forebears, it took its characters from their normal domesticity and sent them off on holiday (Holiday On the Buses, 1973, Are You Being Served?, 1977). The result was an over-extended but far from execrable film which proved commercially successful and paved the way for more to follow.

It is on this background that Steve Coogan has resurrected his egregious creation, the broadcaster Alan Partridge.

Originally a character created on BBC radio, Alan Partridge came to greater public attention in the ground-breaking 1994 television comedy series, The Day Today. His insufferable persona proved popular and enduring with the public and his own television series followed.

Alan Partridge was in many ways a precursor to Ricky Gervais’s David Brent in The Office – superficial and narcissistic with an elevated opinion of his own worth; the humour of both characters stemmed from mundane social embarrassment where they were totally oblivious to their own failings and inadequacies. When Steve Coogan took an unnecessary swipe at the David Brent character in the media, it was difficult not to be drawn to the conclusion that there was professional jealousy at its root.

Twenty years on, Alan Partridge: Alpha Papa, finds him working for North Norfolk Digital Radio. He has clearly been unable to re-invent himself for the modern era. His always dated style of broadcasting is now even more toe-curlingly appalling. Had the film simply developed this thread of humour – a fish out of water, old fashioned, tie and blazer badge Tory totally unaware that the world had moved even further on, they may have mined some good comedic ideas. Unfortunately, this concept went begging.

Faced with possible redundancy, Partridge shafts his friend and colleague Pat Farrell (Colm Meaney) to ensure that it is the Irishman that gets the sack. Unhinged by his retrenchment, Farrell returns to the radio station during a party armed with a shotgun and holds the staff hostage. Partridge is drafted in by the Police as a negotiator.

There were some early laughs as the film unfolded but these became fewer and more isolated as the film progressed and the storyline became more preposterous and farcical. There were some odd flashes of Partridge magic. The scene where he can’t help but play to the small crowd of fans who had gathered outside the station to watch events was laugh out loud funny. But the plot was too thin, the jokes too tired, the direction too pedestrian and the whole premise just too lame.

Alan Partridge is a great comic creation. But if you want to see him at his best, I suggest you get the box sets of The Day Today and Knowing Me, Knowing You. Alpha Papa is a pale shadow of these classic comedies.

2.5 stars