Theatre Footle: Pygmalion by George Bernard Shaw @ The Old Vic

Peter Hall's production of Pygmalion transferred to The Old Vic this summer after a successful run in Bath. And while it's watchable enough to explain this staying power, it's also an uneven and slightly disappointing production.

The sharply observed comedy of manners and morality sees Henry Higgins - portrayed in a more sprightly and capering fashion than usual by an excellent Tim Pigott-Smith - make a bet with his friend, Captain Pickering, that he can pass a flower girl off as a duchess within six months.

Michelle Dockery takes centre stage as Eliza Doolittle. At first she is something of a feeble caricature of the Cockney flower girl, but she really comes into her own during Eliza's transformation. It's no surprise that, particularly to a female audience, Eliza becomes more likable as she begins to assert her independence and right to be acknowledged, but Dockery also displays a knack for comic timing that brings the longer, more inert scenes to life.

Being a play which rather depends on people sitting around drawing rooms, Hall's decision to inject a little lively movement and physical comedy into proceedings is a wise one. Unfortunately, it's taken to a rather irksome degree by some of the cast. This is particularly true of Una Stubbs's Mrs. Pearce, who takes the slyly observant, principled housekeeper and turns her into Barbara Windsor. Her oddly hypnotic skirt-swishing makes her look like she needs a hip replacement and the emphases in her speech seem unnatural.

Bernard Shaw slides sharp barbs into most of his characters - particularly the female ones - so making the most of one with a strong personality is vital. Higgins' mother (surely the inspiration for the mother-son relationship in North By Northwest?) displays most of the wisdom and foresight in the play. Barbara Jefford is never quite convincing, however, and hardly seems to own the stage even when front and centre.

Tony Haygarth's Alfred Doolittle is, on the other hand, surprisingly funny and effective. In theory his characterisation method, which involves speakingthewordsasfastaspossibleone- aftertheotherandoccasionallymumbling, ought to be alienating and irritating. In fact, it moves the pace along, delivers the one liners sharply and doesn't leave too much room for navel gazing. In a play with a two and a half hour runtime, that can only be a blessing.

I did laugh, I did feel at least faintly involved and I did like Tim Pigott-Smith's performance. He struck a very good balance between capering japery and depth of character. However, I still felt short-changed by the production as a whole. The fact that the set changes were lumbering and slow (although it was a stunning and well-observed set design) only served to reinforce this.

Not one to spend full price on. It's running until 9th August.

Film Footle: WALL-E

Pixar is, very likely, my favourite company in the whole world. From the heights of Toy Story to the not-quite brilliant but still exceedingly watchable Ratatouille, they have never produced a dud. Some have been three star wonders, others have zoomed straight to five. WALL-E is one of the latter.

I'm going to hold back from saying that it's as good as Toy Story because I do think WALL-E slightly suffers from a lack of truly coherent storyline. But in terms of characterisation, watchability, animation and heart without sentiment, it's up there with the very best.

At some point in our future, the Earth has become so clogged with pollution that people have taken to five-year cruises aboard luxury spaceships where their every whim is catered for. WALL-E clean up bots are deployed to clean up the mess in the meantime. Some 700 years later, Earth is still uninhabitable, and a single bot remains, accompanied by a near-indestructible cockroach and blithely going about his duty whilst constructing a personal archive of any interesting bits and bobs (lighters, Rubik's Cubes and old VCRs of Hello Dolly, for example) that he comes across.

WALL-E's world is shaken by the arrival of a probe bot named Eve, whose job it is to find evidence of continued life on Earth. A slightly daft but likeable storyline about rogue computers and spaceship captains ensues but at this point any plot could take over and you'd still enjoy the spectacle.

What really marks WALL-E out from other animated films of a similar type is the lack of dialogue. Between them, the two main characters are capable of voicing only five words, and with these, and gesture, they conduct their love story. Eve's expressions are limited to what her blue-lit eyes can show. WALL-E has a whole battery of screws and joints to employ, and the Pixar animators make the most of each and every one to show him in love, trembling in fear, questioning, being determined and going about his daily business. The range of movement given to this unquestionably adorable machine is really impressive given that he has none of the usual cute characteristics animators can exploit, such as Sulley's fluffy blue coat in Monsters, Inc.

For the first fifteen minutes or so of WALL-E, there is no dialogue at all. That sets the tone for a Chaplin-esque physical comedy, accompanied by some of the most deft and impressive animation of its kind (i.e. not hand drawn). Some in-jokes are dropped in for the wry laughs; for example, when WALL-E fully recharges the noise is that of an Apple computer waking up, and he watches films through an iPod. Personally, even though I have a Mac I love, I am more impressed with Steve Jobs for his founding of Pixar than any of his Apple legacy, and it provoked a wry snicker from me and a few other geeks in the audience. Much of the humour is soundly slapstick, of a very enjoyable type. The love story and the moral are both played out in a heartwarming way, lacking in cloying sentiment, which was thoroughly relieving.

Cute, funny, classily rendered and clever. You can't really ask for more than that, can you?

Comedy Footle: Scallywagga

To a certain extent, I know it's my own fault for watching BBC Three. But in my defence,I thought Being Human was quite good. Nothing, however, could have prepared me for the trite, unoriginal and above all offensive car crash that was Scallywagga.

Maybe I'm saying this with a haze of nostalgia, but the sketch shows of my youth seem to have been quite imaginative. The Mary Whitehouse Experience is forever in my heart for the spectacularly childish History Today; even Absolutely's Gwyneth and Denzil raised a chuckle. But the "kidult comedy" (ugh) had no such inventiveness. A series of totally predictable, badly acted and amusement-free vignettes culminated in a scene so poorly written as to be offensive to women and men.

The scene is that of a young man and woman having a snog and getting down to things. She gets cold feet - she's not ready. Can you have a guess at what he does?

Full marks! Nags her because, of course, all men are so shallow and simple that all they can think about is when their girlfriend is going to give it up. Obviously.

Finally, he gives up and turns to the TV. Top Gear is on (because that's all men watch, and no woman anywhere is interested in it, even though a woman was at the top of the celebrity leader board for ages). Cue the girlfriend leaning forward and suggesting she's ready now, only to be rebuffed because Jez Clarkson is opining on some four-wheeled object of desire.

What have we learned boys and girls? Well, girls are teases, who only want attention when it's denied to them, but they deserve to be ignored if they're going to behave like that. And all men are only interested in sex, cars and television.

Never mind the fact that the channel is pitched to young male and female viewers. The cast is young, too. Is this what they're being brought up to think? If I saw it in the context of an actually funny programme, I'd assume it was lampooning these dated, dull stereotypes, but in the midst of the unmemorable pap it was surrounded by, this scene only stood out because it was offensively stupid as opposed to merely tired.

As if aware of what a substandard offering it was making, BBC Three served up back to back episodes of the buttock-clenchingly hilarious Family Guy right afterwards. Like making the move from Purgatory to Heaven.

Film Footle: Jumper

"It's astonishing. Frankly astonishing. The man actually has charisn'tma."

"Your meaning?"

"I mean he's so dreadful he fascinates people."

Terry Pratchett - Feet of Clay


Can there by a young "actor" around at the moment who has less talent and charisma than Hayden Christensen? Granted, he's extremely pretty, but so is a tree, and that has more personality. Star Wars Episode 2: Attack of the Clones was a pretty poor showing from Christensen, but that could have been put down to George Lucas and his increasingly deteriorating script quality. Jumper's script displays no genius either, but next to Jamie Bell's polished performance there's nothing for Christensen to hide behind here.

Jumper is a tale of teleporting. Unlike most people who discover that they've got a superhero power, David Rice doesn't bother saving people from disaster but instead robs a bank and hops around the world living the high life. An encounter with a "Palladin", one of an unexplained group of Jumper-killing warriors, leads him home to his childhood sweetheart Millie and into a mystery involving his long-gone mother, Palladin-killing Jumper Griffin and a whole host of international locations.

First, the good - after all, that shouldn't take too long. Doug Liman, the director behind The Bourne Identity (brilliant) and Mr. & Mrs. Smith (stylishly indifferent) is an absolute master of car chases, and I wonder if he deliberately added Jamie Bell's character Griffin's talent for Jumping with moving vehicles in order to demonstrate that. If so, good for him, because it was one of the few strong points of the movie. Liman also chose, again wisely, to film on location wherever possible, so the impact of the Sphynx, the Colosseum and other classic sites was not diminished. The direction is generally a damn sight more lively and stylish than the action, anyway.

Jamie Bell was also very good. Full of surprisingly visceral power, too; I never thought of grown-up Billy Elliot as an action star before and I was really pleasantly surprised. Rachel Bilson tries terribly hard and were she placed opposite a lead male who had more personality than a 2 x 4, she'd probably do very well. Diane Lane, though wasted in an infinitesimally tiny role that is presumably designed to be evolved in the inevitable sequel, was typically polished. Samuel L. Jackson produced no surprises as Palladin Roland, but didn't disappoint.

Now the bad. Are you sitting comfortably?

I can only assume that Stephen Gould's novel was severely gutted to produce the convoluted script hacked together by David S. Goyer, Jim Uhls, Simon Kinberg. Oh, for a WGA strike when this was written! There's something to be said for minimising exposition, but leaving it all for a flashy sequel is lazy and tears the dramatic tension out of the belly of a film, something that is only too necessary when the lead actor could be out-manouevred by a canny boiled egg.

Because of Christensen's awful, awful acting - I know they say all acting is reacting, but surely not several seconds late in the manner of a Restoration comedy performed at a particularly talent-free school - there is, anyway, no heart here. His sudden relationship with Bilson, where she takes his reappearance with almost disinterested calm, suddenly becoming shrill and questioning only after flying half-way across the world with him, is more unrealistic than the teleporting.

It was a particularly bad move to cast Max Therriot and AnnaSophie Robb as the young David and Millie. Not only do they look nothing like the older versions of themselves, they are considerably more talented. Therriot in particular is someone to watch, with emotional range as well as indie-kid good looks - the perfect modern film star combination.

So far we have convoluted, meaningless plot, lack of emotional punch or cohesion and a really terrible central performance. You want more? Well, I don't have the heart to rip into this one-star offering any longer; nitpicking about the small details just takes away from the disastrously appalling whole. At least four people wandered into the wrong cinema before realising Cloverfield was on next door. They were the lucky ones.

Theatre Footle: Absurd: Princess Ivona at the Workhouse Theatre, London

Sturdy Beggars Theatre Company is a non-profit group that produces seasons of plays grouped around a theme, in this case a study of the outsider in society.

Princess Ivona, an Absurdist play, is the story of a bored prince who chooses to spice up his languid existence by proposing marriage to the ugliest, most uncommunicative girl in the kingdom.

The overwhelming impression I was left with after this production was that one of its greatest strengths eventually became its greatest weakness. Packed into a tiny hall with minimalist set design and a simple, powerful lighting scheme, the intimate setting meant a first act that slowly reeled in and fascinated the audience. The school play costumes and simple make up conceit - everyone in cadaverous white and grey except Prince Philip who has some ability to see through the surface, albeit cruelly - worked well at first. However, in the second act it became clear that they would have been better off standing there in nothing but black; the hokey costume cupboard appearance became distracting when heightened by the quite deliberate daftness of the plot and a few ill-conceived musical cues.

It's a shame that an initially promising production dwindles into feeling so amateurish towards the end. It is particularly irritating because there is a wealth of real talent among the company. Standouts were Toby Spearpoint as the prince, Coren Fitzgerald as a consistently moving, weird and wonderful Ivona, and, at moments, Victoria Strachan as Queen Margaret. Although Strachan let a touch of Patricia Routledge creep into her performance, she was also channelling more than a touch of Fiona Shaw, and that was welcome and impressive. Alexander Andreou was, to my mind, miscast as the bluff King Ignatius, much better at the aggressive rants than the sly interchanges with Benjamin Reeves's excellent Lord Chamberlain, but still watchable. Only some very minor parts were weak, with Ivona's maiden aunts appearing far too young and vibrant to be in any way convincing, and her erstwhile lover a tad clunky, although in fairness it is extremely hard to breathe life into a part that exists just to deliver a monologue lampooning modern society.

Such semi-didactic plays can be hard to warm to generally, but there were clever moments and a few that sparked genuine, honest laughter from the audience.

An earth-shattering evening of modern theatre? No. But I would encourage anyone in the area to go along and support the company through donations in spite of that, because some of the talent in this company really deserves a wider audience. With a little funding, there's a lot of potential to be mined here.


This review first appeared on Remote Goat. Absurd: Princess Ivona is running from 19th-22nd December 2007.

Film Footle: The Golden Compass

There was always going to be some pressure for Chris Weitz to deliver a film that did justice to Northern Lights / The Golden Compass. As first in a fantasy trilogy, His Dark Materials, which falls into the category nauseatingly labelled "kidult", there are several areas to be mindful of: strong, beloved characters, complex interweaving plotlines and spectacularly imaginative settings. Two of these went well for Weitz; sadly it was the dilution of the convoluted plotlines that failed to work, with watery, soft-boiled results.

The story is that of Lyra Belacqua, orphan niece to powerful Lord Asriel, who enjoys a semi-feral existence in the esteemed Jordan College, Oxford. This Oxford is one parallel and close to, but not the same as, ours, and the action in the coming films will tell of movement between the worlds. In this world people's souls are on the outside of their bodies, in an animal form, and together with her precious daemon Pan, Lyra is catapulted into a complex adventure involving Dust, the authoritative Magisterium and the strange, horrifying goings on of the Gobblers, who steal children that are never seen again...

As a complex trilogy, it's important to look at the story with a judicial editorial eye and excise quite a hefty lump of unnecessary meandering. The Amber Spyglass in particular is a bloated piece compared to the other two so it was as well to start as they meant to go on. And indeed some characters were amalgamated, some plotlines trimmed and some of Philip Pullman's already wobbly theology simplified even further. Having seen the National Theatre expertly reduce the books to an excellent, moving retelling, I had high expectations. This version, sadly, fell short.

There have been complaints that the Magisterium is reduced to a shadowy, non-religious organisation. To that I say nonsense, as even The Fall of Adam and Eve was described clearly and words such as "blasphemy" really only apply to religious organisations. The only problem is that by turning the priests into token baddies Weitz runs the risk of having panto villains, which only serves to highlight Pullman's convoluted muddling of the Church and the people within it even further. I've always loved His Dark Materials for its imaginative storytelling, irritated only by some of the more nonsensical explanations for an abandonment of faith (*cough* Mary Malone *cough*). By reducing Pullman's very real struggle with the corruption that has undoubtedly existed in organised religion down to "we tell you what to do" versus "doing whatever you like" (as if that were possible!), much of what is bewitching and beguiling about life in Lyra's world is lost. Only the presence of wonderful actors such as Simon McBurney (Fra Pavel), Derek Jacobi and Christopher Lee saves the battle from complete irrelevance.

And speaking of actors, Dakota Blue Richards is excellent. She invests Lyra with a great deal of the inquisitive, angry, emotional charm that makes her both irritating and wonderful. Nicole Kidman is a wonderful Mrs. Coulter, full of icy, hypnotising style and intelligence and Daniel Craig's brief appearances as Lord Asriel were simply great. The supporting cast includes some excellent child talent - Freddie Highmore as the voice of Pantalaimon - and a hidden superstar or two amongst the adults' daemons; Kathy Bates as Hester was particularly brilliant, and Kristin Scott Thomas presumably has a lot further to go with Stelmaria. Ian McKellen rounds off the who's who with a typical gravitas as he takes on the voice of armoured bear Iorek Byrnison. And despite - or perhaps because of - a peculiar, unplaceable accent, Eva Green's Serafina Pekkala shows promise.

Visually the film is also stunning. The bears are wonderful, the sets beguiling, the daemons gorgeous, the CGI melded beautifully with the live action sequences.

But what holds the captivating visuals and good performances together?

Not much, unfortunately. As well as the so-so villains, there's also a distinct lack of heart. One scene in particular should have been frightening and moving; when Lyra finds the result of the curious Bolvangar experiments it should be made even more intense by the fact that the character involved has been altered to be one we know and love better. But by then it felt so much like a series of set pieces stitched inexpertly together that it left me cold and dispassionate. The pace is rollicking - I can't complain of it dragging - but there is virtually no connection with the audience.

The action chooses to end at a point short of the end of the book, interestingly, perhaps so as to allow for a lower certificate and a happy ending for a children's Christmas film. But it seems to me much more time was spent creating a happy spectacle which would charm families at Christmas time than telling the story. Somewhat unforgiveable for a film with a guaranteed audience of fans of the book, most of whom are adults anyway.

As a brief, visually impressive summary of the set pieces of the books, it's fine. As an emotional and gripping story in its own right, separate from the text and uniquely enjoyable, it fails on almost every front. It's a disappointing halfway-house, and I can only hope that with the introduction of my favourite character, Will, in The Subtle Knife, things will improve.

Food Footle: Asia de Cuba, St. Martin's Lane Hotel

I'm far from being a food critic, so it's unusual that I would want to review a restaurant. But this was such an amazingly good evening that I feel duty bound to do so!

For Weasel Day celebrations (our first anniversary), my boyfriend decided to surprise me with the dinner venue, and in fact I'd never really noticed Asia de Cuba despite attending press events in the weirdly wonderful hotel before.

It sounds worrying at first - a mixture of Cuban and Asian cooking techniques is instinctively worrying to anyone even slightly conventional about their food. Asian, by the way, is the US definition; the restaurant gathers its influences mainly from China and especially Japan.

The menu is designed to be shared. We were seated in seconds and our friendly, well-informed waitress explained that it was best to get two starters, one main course and one dessert for two. This was exactly the right amount to be stuffed to the gills but pleasantly so.

We opted for seared scallops and two types of beef dumpling to begin with. A wonderful choice. Four fat, savoury-sweet scallops were elegantly arranged on a creamy but not overly rich sauce dotted with fruit. Mouthwateringly gorgeous. The six plump dumplings - three steamed in a bowl of sauce and three fried on a skewer - were rich, chewy mouthfuls of beautifully cooked soft beef and not a hint of oiliness or watery filling.

Our main course was an old favourite of mine: Miso cod. It was served on a pebbled bed of black bean and edamame salad and we ordered coconut rice to go with. This was served in generous blocks, perfectly balanced with the coconut, wrapped tightly in banana leaves. The cod was amazing, and a generous portion of three chunks, not burned round the edges as some places I've tried it have managed. The only possible criticism I could levy is that something a bit more exciting could be done with the black beans which are a bit bland and chalky, but it's a small point indeed.

Dessert was a vast basket of sugared doughnuts, dusted with cinnamon and with a small squirt of creamy butterscotch sauce in the centre. Further sauce is provided for dipping.

The setting was also rather nice. A weird but wonderful mix of modern design and bookshelves packed with old books (each of which is re-purposed to bring you your bill at the end of the meal), each table is dimly but romantically lit by a hanging bulb for a little oasis of calm in the bustle and noise, of which there's plenty.

Now, this is not a cheap restaurant. Already soused from pre-dinner drinks, we just went for a couple of bottles of still water and no after-dinner coffees, and the total, including their usual 15% service charge, was around £125. But here's how it earns this.

The service is amazing. We had at least four, if not five, waiting staff coming to the table. Not one made a single error, all were friendly, warm and well-informed and the speed of service was amazing. We had barely ordered and we received hot, perfectly cooked food. And yet at the end we were not even slightly hassled to pay up and get out, despite the fact that it was a busy night. You're served promptly and unobtrusively; how long you linger over your meal is up to you.

I can't praise this restaurant enough for the wonderful, memorable anniversary meal it provided. My other half emailed them the next morning to pass on his compliments and got not one, but two, replies thanking him profusely. We're so used to indifferent service now that we've forgotten what really excellent attention to detail is like.

Now, if only I could afford to go more often...

Art Footle: Seduced: Sex from Antiquity to Now at The Barbican

This large and broad collection of art sexual, seductive and provocative in nature has attracted a lot of attention, mainly because we are, as a society and species, completely fascinated by the S-word, but also because of it's rare over-18s certification.

This was justified by some of the more explicit entries, but the barring of a woman toting her oblivious 10 month old child was definitely over the top. The lower floor in particular, being focussed on art from ancient Greece and Rome up to the earlier years of the 20th Century is no place for a child old enough to ask embarrassing questions because they'll have little context in which to understand the answers, but an infant-in-arms is unlikely to be disturbed by it.

The introduction to the exhibition offers a short argument for why the exhibition is not just sensationalist pornography. Porn is intended to titilate, the curators explain, and this collection is about an exploration of sexual attitudes, fascination and seduction. Seduced by its nature is not enforced, so degrading or violent images were left out - apart from Robert Mapplethorpe's famous collection of sadomasochistic photographs which were probably the only point at which my legs crossed involuntarily.

The introduction isn't one hundred percent true. The statues and prints from the earliest historical times are mostly from brothels; the Japanese collection is mainly from books designed to incite erotic pleasures at home. So while this is seduction, it's still pornography according to the curators' own definition. The difference between the finely detailed, extraordinarily precise and contorted Kama Sutra panels from India and the oddly blank expressions on the Japanese plates, complete with elegantly illustrated pubic hair and gaping vaginas, is marked. From the Japanese room it seems a natural progression to Aubrey Beardsley's well known pen and ink creations and indeed the entire layout of the exhibition takes full advantage of the mezzanine floor to tease from above about the 20th and 21st century films and images to follow while leading you logically through a further-removed historical maze below.

Some images are suggestive, some brutally graphic; others are just plain bizarre. An 18th century sketch of a voluptuous Venus reclining on a cart drawn by two enormous phalluses and bedecked by flying, ejaculating penises with wings can't help but elicit a smirk. And then you look around guiltily at the others with their Very Serious Expressions and feel guilty for not taking the Seduced exhibition seriously enough and allowing puerile humour to intrude. But, like the sketcher, we know that sex is funny and inelegant and bizarre at times, and would do well to remember that as we walk around.

As usual, the most graphic images are the most striking. The Kinsey collection of photographs is staggering, especially placed in the context of the controversial research that accompanied it. Jeff Koons' work with a porn star, while almost too brittle and flashy to be real pornography, is the closest thing to it; it would take some serious work with semantics to establish the difference. These are not, however, usually the most provocative images, or the ones that induce the most thought or engagement with the subject.

Among the latter are Richard Hamilton's collaboration with Marcel Duchamp, the subtle The Bride Stripped Bare by her Bachelors, Even (The Large Glass), two technical diagrams that take a great deal of study before the sexual connection is truly evident and Nan Goldin's intimate slideshow of a couple's family dynamic.

As a whole, the coherence of Seduced is derived from the shared subject matter rather than a specific direction. This is something evident from the evasiveness of the introduction onwards but along with the natural historical path there are parts of the exhibition where you ebb and flow into darkened and lighter rooms or sit to just listen to the sounds of erotic literature being read in a quiet corner through cleverly positioned speakers. As such it does succeed in being an insistent yet subtle assault on the senses which are so inextricably linked with seduction.

The exhibition continues into January.

Film Footle: Death Sentence

We wanted to see Atonement, but we got the times wrong, and this was on instead. Oy.

I think what makes Death Sentence so utterly annoying is the fact that a potentially powerful and moving storyline is reduced into an unfocussed tale that can't even be labelled a morality tale due to its lack of cohesion.

The story of a quiet, mild-mannered underwriter who sees his favourite son brutally murdered and goes on a vengeful rampage, this is to some extent an update of Charles Bronson's Death Wish series. One might hope that in chosing to update this there is a point, a focus, a message that the director wanted to deliver. I've yet to work out what that was.

Kevin Bacon is the damaged anti-hero, Nick Hume, but although he does a wonderful line in blank looks, tears, fear and confusion, his acute change of personality is barely explained. A reference to his son's killer being an "animal" who will cut some sort of legal deal for a short sentence goes some way to explain why he is able to kill, but not entirely. To go from loving family man to shaven-headed gangster takes some doing, and this is not explored. Equally, the film contradicts itself, showing young Brendon's killer as a worried youth being pushed into a "initiation killing", but then explaining that he's a 23-year-old "animal". Well, which is it? If he's both, then we need to spend more time with him, exploring his twisted family dynamic as a counterpart to Bacon's perfect picket-fence life. But instead the film resorts to clunky or inexplicable twists and graphic violence to cover its vague, meandering tracks.

After his first revenge killing, the gang inevitably turn on Bacon and some of the set pieces here are good if only because they have a vein of realism; people are genuinely hurt, run out of breath, and show fear, confusion and hatred. But then this all boils itself down into a ridiculous finale, where Bacon is transformed into merely another counterpart to the gang, laden with guns which we've criticised in the hands of the gangs but are now clearly supposed to find cool in the hands of the anti-hero as the long, indulgent scene of his head-shaving, bullet loading preparations shows us. And now that he has become the ultimate vengeance machine, he suddenly switches into superhero mode, rising to walk again from shots more deadly than those that floored him in the past.

There is no explanation or investigation of gang culture, of vengeance, of loss or of family. All this is is unflinching brutality with all the depth of oft-criticised video game Manhunt. Jordan Garrett's performance as Bacon's sidelined second son is excellent and deserves more time on screen, as does the exploration of how perfection is not always as it seems below the surface. There's nothing wrong with revisiting themes like that if you do it well; to be too lazy or scared to even bother is far more disappointing than a bit of hamfisted cod psychology.

Really, I wouldn't bother.

Film Footle: The Bourne Ultimatum

As intelligent action films go there are fewer than you might think. To my way of thinking "intelligent" applied to action films doesn't necessarily mean the loss of rather tawdry product placement or even the ruthless excising of action stereotypes, but a solid plot, a bit of character ambiguity and some well-choreographed set pieces. The first two films in the Bourne trilogy more than met this ideal, and with Paul Greengrass back at the helm for a third installment, it was more of the same and good.

The Bourne Identity was a cracker, and the change of director for The Bourne Supremacy marked it out as a different and excellent sequel. The Bourne Ultimatum has less to go on than the previous two and therefore resorts to an inexplicably unpleasant deputy CIA Director to drum up the tension. Thankfully a clever casting move sat David Strathairn in the role and all was well. Unexpected deaths, very little dialogue from the main man, a cameo from Goodbye Lenin's Daniel Bruhl followed and all in all I was highly entertained.

I was familiar with Greengrass's hand-held directorial style, and his propensity to use close ups so that every thudding punch is heard - almost felt - and the obligatory car chase was as visceral as those that came before. Because this film required Jason to take some responsibility for who he was and who he has become there wasn't much time to establish any sort of connection with other people much less a new love interest. The return of Julia Stiles's Nicky Parsons and Joan Allen's self-righteous Bourne sympathiser Pamela Landy gave some support to the excellent Matt Damon as he mined the film's scant emotional core.

This being the end of the story that began with The Bourne Identity there's no need for masses of exposition or a brand new plotline, and the ending... well, while it's not the most unpredictable of endings I'll leave it for you to see.