It’s pretty much a no brainer that any film script strong enough to ensnare Kate Winslet, Kevin Spacey and Laura Linney will turn out to be good (and, for the record, if you loved Spacey before, you’ll be floored by this performance). But it’s not just the performances which are strong in Parker’s fast-paced thriller which explores the controversial issue of Texas’s Death Row.

When spunkily-named journalist Bitzy Bloom (Winslet) is chosen by convicted rapist and murderer David Gale (Spacey) to record his story in the three days leading up to his execution, the question on everyone’s lips is “why her”? It soon becomes clear that she’s just the girl for the job that needs doing: with her endearingly enthusiastic intern in tow, Bloom finds herself conducting far more than an interview, and her detective mission becomes an emotionally-fuelled race against time as she jostles with the evidence for Gale’s conviction. An unusually melodramatic performance from Winslet is a bit of a shame, but she’s nevertheless engaging.

If the film fails to evoke the fear of, say, the comparable The Silence of the Lambs, the reasons become clear by the end. Clichéd production choices, such as flashes of words such as ‘destruction’ and ‘brutality’ from written reports, are forgivable as this is one of those rare thrillers that has the right amount of suspense, wit, and heart to be simultaneously gripping and easy to watch. It’s a sort-of commercial gem, which successfully keeps you guessing about Gale, and fundamentally asks: if evidence is so precarious and the law is subject to such inequality, how can the old ‘an eye for an eye’ theory still be justifiable?

Rumour has it that there are stirs from Martin Scorsese’s office. It’s got me thinking. Since Scarface (1932), the gangster has been a staple of the film industry, emerging, controversially, as the most pervasive symbol of Italian-American masculinity. Over the last decade, though, genre giants such as Coppola and Scorsese have moved on, and genre successes, such as American Gangster, have had little concern with the Italian-American Mafia. Perhaps no-one dares compete with David Chase’s The Sopranos. Who’d blame them? Surely even Scorsese couldn’t pull off a challenge? Or, perhaps The Sopranos has been the final chapter in a genre that’s simply run its course.

The term “Mafia genre” is innacurate: the genre has constantly evolved and was essentially redefined by The Godfather (1972). Where the gangster films of the second and third quarters of the century had largely had objective, moral frameworks, The Godfather marked the beginning of a contemporary cultural phenomenon: the film depicting the Mafioso in crisis. Tony Soprano’s psychological struggles can be seen as the pinnacle of modernism’s emphasis on intense psychological portraits, underpinned by a specifically American identity crisis: the Mafioso’s inability to separate Italianness from “business”.

In the 70s, Italian-American directors, influenced by Italian neo-realism, began documenting the Mafia’s American struggle for survival in psychological terms. In a society where cultural history had become fundamental to identity, this was a complex negotiation. As John Highams explains, “at the onset of mass immigration to America, Americans were engaged in a self-conscious project of inventing the category of ethnicity”. With no centralized state to unite against, autonomous communities were common, and as America’s peoplehood was still under construction, definitions of cultural and ethnic differences began to form the fabric of society: each group could contribute to the peoplehood. Defining oneself by culture, therefore, became important, and since the men in these films are unable to separate Italianness and ‘business’, the legal crack-down of the 60s and 70s is perceived as a direct attack on Italian tradition.

Since Michael Corleone’s fateful inheritance of his family ‘business’, attempts by on-screen Mafiosos to reconcile familial loyalty and American life has been the cause of the kind of psychological torment conducive to great films. The relevance of the dilemma, though, has faded rapidly – and so has the filmic preoccupation. The moral, ideological clashes between the Sopranos and their children exemplify why the genre has been so short-lived: not only will the FBI close in, but Tony, like Michael Corleone before him, finds no ally in his American children. They simply don’t share his loyalty dilemma. In turn, the film industry has moved on to other relevant concerns – look at the boom in films exploring the clash between Western and Muslim values, for example, and it seems ever more likely that the Mafioso in crisis movement has had its day.

Never has a film been more aptly named. From the opening of Pour Elle (Anything for Her), Julien’s every action is governed by his increasing determination to help his wrongly accused wife escape from the justice system which has so dramatically failed them. Such drive makes his increasingly erratic behaviour plausible and understandable as his desperation drags him into a criminal underworld which he’s fully unprepared for. Whilst the film’s engaging, if you’re hoping for France’s latest top-notch ‘haunted-couple’ thriller from the same stable as Caché and Ne le dis á Personne, you’ll be disappointed.

As everything collapses around him, Julien’s anger and grief compel him to turn away from the law and enlist the help of an unlikely prison-escapee-turned-trashy-crime-novelist and a gang of overtly suspicious-looking criminals. Pour Elle is really a one-man show, however, and Lindon successfully captures the frantic loneliness of his character. Kruger is similarly strong, and scenes between them have a gut-wrenchingly dismal edge – their chemistry becomes the highlight of the film. Other characters are similarly grounded in the film’s tragic premise, and Julien and his father have that delightfully understated communication that can only be celebrated on film.

Soon deviating from its gritty, Scorsese-esque opening, Pour Elle becomes a sentimental exploration of the destruction of this family’s life which, though a little over-egged, seems fully authentic. The film is sufficiently moody, but production quality takes a back-seat: it’s a conscious decision to present the film in grim greys, but the film still lacks artistic flair. Instead, Cavayé relies on the plot to do the work, and this is the film’s downfall: the story simply isn’t robust enough to cope. The plot isn’t adequately fleshed-out or intricate enough to provide any brain-tease, and it undertakes a hard slog to what is ultimately an anticlimactic finish line.

If Cavayé’s intention is to turn away from ‘intelligent thriller’ and move towards a strategic, suspenseful and moving drama which explores the catastrophic individual consequences of a series of fateful occurrences – á la Crash and Babel – then it fails: the film isn’t particularly atmospheric, nor is it well-timed enough to emotively pinpoint critical moments in the story: coverage of the way in which Lisa is framed for murder is so brief and unexplored that it undermines the event’s significance. Such bizarre timing becomes a tool to gloss over weak patches in the plot, and, not sure where to go, the film fails to be the sophisticated, intelligent thriller it’s billed as.

To top it off, Pour Elle’s clichéd, cop-out ending leaves no ends tied up (which in a ‘thriller’ suh slow-burning should be a crime), but is no contemplative, open-ended triumph either, and comes close to undermining all the film’s positives. In truth, though, the film’s more mediocre than terrible. It’s graced with a strong cast and a plausible yet tragically coincidental premise, and Cavayé’s direction is watchable – just don’t expect it to live up to its predecessors.

Inhospitable for over half the year, the Ladakh region sits in the north-eastern corner of the country’s most northerly state Jammu and Kashmir, which borders China and Tibet to the north-east and Pakistan to the north-west. No surprise then that the region’s borders are heavily guarded, and though Ladakh is relatively safe, the area of Kashmir further north has a history marred with frequent military clashes, and remains volatile, whilst the Siachen glacier region is an active military zone. With less than 300,000 people spread over 33,554 square miles, the area is India’s most sparsely populated region, and is characterised by a distinctly laid-back, Buddhist culture, markedly different from the rest of India. With a rugged landscape and mild summer climate, Ladakh is both a fantastic getaway when the rest of India gets too much, and a unique and interesting destination in its own right.

Getting there

There are frequent flights to Leh from several major Indian cities. By far the most exhilarating way to reach the region, however, is along the Manali-Leh highway, the world’s second highest road. But, be warned: it ain’t for the faint-hearted. From Delhi, we took a 6-hour train to Kalka and then another 6-hour train which winds up through the mountains to Shimla. Another overnight bus-ride takes you to Manali where it’s easy to find a jeep to do the journey to Leh. You can take the bus but, frankly, I wouldn’t recommend it.

From Manali, a pretty village in the green foothills of the Himalayas, the journey takes two days and ends up 500kms north in Leh, Ladakh’s capital – a staggering 3505m above sea level. It’s certainly an experience worth having, but the combination of Indian driving and a disconcerting lack of barriers on the windy mountain roads makes for a nail-biting trip. Rather alarmingly, our driver was suffering with altitude sickness and kept momentarily blacking out, reminding me to ‘grab the wheel’ if he fainted. On the plus side, he did own the full Bob Marley collection which blared most of the way, so, you know, swings and roundabouts.

The scenery is breathtakingly beautiful. The road is only open between June and October, and by this time the landscape is a vast expanse of barren, snow-capped mountainous and deep canyons with rivers running through it. There’s the odd house or tiny settlement along the way, but the most people you’ll see are at the numerous rest-stops where drinks and snacks are sold. There are no toilets though – you’ll have to bare your bum at the side of the road – not so bad higher up where you can hide behind a mound of snow, but pretty embarrassing in the open, barren expanses lower down. Further up, the journey becomes treacherous in a different way as you hit the snow. We got stuck for several hours at one point behind a bus that was stuck in a deep puddle, and as we wrapped ourselves up and braced ourselves for a gruelling 12-mile, uphill hike across the snowy landscape (just as the sun was going down), a stroke of luck meant the bus was free and we were on our way again. If you can put your nerves on hold and be intrepid for a couple of days I reckon the highway’s an experience not to miss. I flew back down, though.

What to do

Leh is a laid-back, homely town which serves as a chilled-out haven for travellers and tourists. By the time I arrived I’d spent several months in India and my senses were in serious need of some respite – which Leh provides in spades. The streets are quiet and regularly empty, and don’t be surprised if it takes you several days to get onto the internet or get a phone connection. The pace of life is slow, and lazy days are inevitable. You can spend lazy days in Tibetan cafés aplenty – they serve mouth-watering food (try the mutton momos) and the staff will be happy for you to stay as long as you like.

Alternatively, wander around the market, or simply head out of town for a few minutes to come across breathtaking scenery. For many, though, Leh serves as a practical base for a range of outdoor activities such as trekking, cycling, mountain climbing, mountaineering and canoeing, and since tourism is a vital source of income for Ladakh’s inhabitants, there are numerous companies offering guided tours and treks (make sure you pick a reputable one). One of our highlights was a trip to Pengong Lake, which lies 30% in India and 70% in China. Tso Moriri Lake (pictured above) is stunningly beautiful – with snow-fringed desert mountains to die for, it is still inhabited by nomadic herders. If the outdoors isn’t really your thing or you want to stay closer to Leh, there are several things to see close by: namely the numerous Buddhist monasteries or gompas – several of which (including Tikse, pictured above) are still in use today.

We arrived at Tikse at lunch time when the monastery was closed, but a kind monk gave us some saffron tea until they re-opened again. Tourism has brought the monks mixed blessings: in peak season tourists disturb the peace necessary for meditation, but tourism also provides the cash-flow necessary to refurbish the site, originally built in the fifteenth century. The new Maitreya Temple, which displays impressive murals and a fourteen-metre gold-faced Buddha-to-come, is the latest example. If you’re lucky you’ll find Tikse quiet and relaxing, and the steep walk up to the prayer flags is worth it for the stunning panoramic views of the mountains at the top. If you’re here in mid-July, I would highly recommend the Hemis festival – one of the few which takes place in summer, where tourists and locals come together in huge crowds for the two-day celebrations.

If you’re lucky you can indulge in some delicious local specialities which the town’s people knock up especially to share around. Keen to avoid the traveller cliché, I turned my nose up at first when my friend suggested a yoga course – but if you’re going to do it anywhere you should do it here: with its fresh mountain air, abundance of hippies and (so I’m told) some of the best schools in India, Leh is the perfect place for some relaxation and rejuvenation. And if that doesn’t tempt you, our flexi teacher had us in hysterics all week.

This year, us Brits have lots to be excited about at the 62nd Cannes Film Festival: not only is there a killer international line-up, but we’re well and truly on the radar. This Saturday, the twenty one films which are “in competition”, meaning they’ll compete for a variety of awards – including the coveted P’alme d’Or for Best Picture, go under the spotlight, and three are British.

The last British nominations were in 2006, when Andrea Arnold’s first feature film Red Road won the Prix du Jury, and Ken Loach’s The Wind That Shakes the Barley received the Palme d’Or. Both directors are nominated again this year. Arnold’s second nomination for Fish Tank is praise indeed for the Scottish director – undoubtedly one of our best. Reminiscent of her Oscar-winning short Wasp, Fish Tank tells the story of troubled fifteen-year-old Mia, whose life takes a turn for the better when her mother brings home a new boyfriend. UK Film Council Lottery funding and the BBC have been crucial sponsors for Arnold, and it’s great to see such a worthy outcome from the combined effort.

It’s also great, given the recent official statistic that only 6% of film-makers worldwide are women, to see Jane Campion’s English-made film Bright Star in the running. New Zealand-born Campion, who is best known for The Piano and who already has two Palme d’Ors under her belt, directs an intense love-story in Bright Star: the film charts the tragic romance between English poet John Keats and his girl-next-door Fanny Brawne, who were brutally separated when Keats travelled to Rome suffering from tuberculosis, never to return. Given Keats’ poetry and Campion’s elegant touch, the film promises to be every bit as moody, sensual and moving as award-magnet The Piano.

Whatever you think of his techniques, there’s no denying that Loach is one of our most celebrated political film-makers. He’s received four awards from Cannes to date, and this year he receives yet another nomination for Looking for Eric – a film based on Eric Cantona’s career in British football which has a typically Loachian preoccupation with matehood harking back to My Name is Joe. This time, Loach has left politics behind in favour of an affectionate film about a football fanatic postman which critics are calling his funniest to date.

So, can we win? There’s some seriously hot competition: Pixar’s new offering Up opens Cannes and is the first animated 3D film to be nominated; Marco Bellocchio’s Vincere tracks the horrific treatment of Mussolini’s wife and son as Fascist agents tried to remove all trace of their existence; Lars von Trier’s creepy indie thriller Antichrist brings the psychological torture of a couple mourning their son’s death disturbingly to life, and it’s the Battle of the Titans as Ang Lee and Quentin Tarrantino square up in an unusual big-name clash. Gaspar Noé’s Enter the Void has to be a dark horse, but given the jury’s habit of picking surprise winners, it’s anyone’s guess who’ll emerge victorious.

“What do you do when you’re not sure?” Father Flynn (Philip Seymour Hoffman) opens his sermon, and we are thrust into the insular world of St. Nicholas Catholic School in the Bronx, 1964. It’s an interesting question, and when young Sister James (Amy Adams) approaches Sister Aloysius (Meryl Streep) suspecting that Flynn has an inappropriate relationship with troubled student Donald Miller, the stage is set for a suitably complex exploration of the power of accusation and the importance of moral conviction and material proof. Aloysius attempts to bring down Flynn, with nothing but her ‘certainty’ as evidence. Considering its important chief concerns, Doubt should warrant the presence of Streep and Hoffman. What unfolds, however, is Writer/Director John Patrick Shanley’s clumsy, failed attempt to bring his prize-winning play successfully to the screen.

The central performances are the crowning glory of a film otherwise lacking in the subtlety and emotional engagement necessary to explore its serious subject matter. Yet, even the skill of these actors can’t atone for the fact that their characters are so essentially type-based that they become caricatures. Less so with Flynn – Hoffman does a great job of keeping us on the fence about whether he’s guilty. Streep’s bespectacled character, however, is every inch the caricature – so completely the fear-evoking, old-school disciplinarian that she alienates the audience – not a shred of understanding is encouraged. Amy Adams’ celebrated Sister James is similarly two-dimensional: at all times she looks like she’ll burst into tears, and her innocent character would seem more at home on a prairie in the 1800s, or as one of the timid and perpetually frightened girls in The Crucible.

To say that the movement from stage to screen hasn’t been smooth would be an understatement – one can’t help but feel it’s a travesty that Shanley didn’t hand over to another film director. The inherited theatrical touches are too much for any film which wishes to be taken seriously, and at times the film ends up looking like a Hocus Pocus-esque horror film, swinging cloaks and symbolic crows to boot. In fact, the frequency of symbolic coincidences and overt metaphors becomes ridiculous: when Aloysius first gets a whiff of Flynn’s improper conduct, the cat-and-mouse metaphor is driven home so hard it induces eye-rolling, and it seems that every time someone argues or the tension is raised a light bulb blows or a storm is brewing.

No real use is made of the camera – the film severely lacks style and feels still, flat and slow. There’s the occasional use of shots which disorientate us, compounding a sense of uncertainty, but they are few and far between, and for the most part the film is shot in a monotonously similar fashion, with no stamp of originality. It feels like Doubt should have remained as a stage play. There is one major draw however: it’s worth seeing just to witness the ferocious verbal sparring and mounting tension between Streep and Hoffman, two of Hollywood’s most admirable actors.

Three years after witnessing the assassination of the US president, upstart journalist Joe Frady (Warren Beatty) is approached by his fellow witness (Lee Carter), who claims that the other witnesses are being systematically killed off. When she dies mysteriously herself, Frady is compelled to investigate. What he discovers is a sinister institution operating on a grand scale: the Parallax Corporation, which seeks out and trains sociopaths as political assassins. Frady rigs an application and is snapped up.

The Parallax View is the second in Pakula’s ‘paranoia trilogy’ of political thrillers. Released in 1974, a year of revelations of political corruption in America (the Watergate scandal), the film struck a chord, and haunting, stylised images of the ‘official’ assassination investigation committee reflect a pervasive sense of distrust in authority.

The film must be noted for its influential status: recruitment of protagonist by uncouth organisation with questionable motives is now well-trodden film ground. The problem is precisely this: this thriller has been done, bigger and better, numerous times since. The film now feels lacking in suspense, and the scratchy ‘70s score is more amusing than disconcerting. This is all a great shame, as it’s a landmark thriller, and has striking and original symbolic cinematography for its day: low camera placement emphasises the seemingly infinite power of the corporation, and the film questions unwavering belief in a cause, not least in the now famous montage sequence, shown by Parallax, which cleverly suggests links between patriotism, emotion and destructive action.

Very, very occasionally, a few times in a lifetime perhaps, we might come across a story of such magical conception that it leaves us brimming with envy that we hadn’t thought of it ourselves. From the wonderfully imaginative writer of The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button is one such story. Or, I should say, premise. No doubt loosely based on T.H White’s character Merlin, Fitzgerald’s short story tells the tale of a boy who is ‘born old’, and ages backwards. Short stories often make great films, but credit here must go to Eric Roth and Robin Swicord, as this two-and-three-quarter-hour film’s plot is virtually unrecognisable from Fitzgerald’s story, and is, in essence, an original creation. Theirs is a remoulded and more nuanced tale of Benjamin’s struggle to forge a life for himself, and the humour, emotional turmoil and tragedy that result from his bizarre situation are handled with affection, but no gratuitous emotion.

The manhandling of this innovation by those involved in bringing the story to the screen would have been a tragedy. Instead, these visionaries have created a film of such technical greatness that it not only out-classes its contemporaries, but can easily be considered one of the finest ever artistic Hollywood achievements. It’s no surprise that the film was pipped to the Best Picture post at both The Oscars and the BAFTAs: this is an art film through and through, and it doesn’t tick any political boxes. In terms of artistic creation at least, however, this film is utterly sublime. And it was no mean feat: Benjamin’s is an epic life-story. The settings are as varied as 1918 New Orleans, wartime Russia and 1940s Paris, yet the film feels thoroughly grounded in its rapidly varying settings, authentic down to the smallest detail. There was really no competition for the award for Art Direction. The make-up and special effects are similarly revolutionary, taking Cate Blanchett from her 20s to her 70s and Brad Pitt from his 80s back to his glorious, gorgeous 20s.

The performances are good, but no match for the technical brilliance. Brad Pitt is solid, doing what he can with the role of a fairly passive and placid protagonist. He’s supported by a wealth of strong character portrayals – Taraji P. Henson, thoroughly deserving of her Oscar nomination, is notably strong. It’s baffling that Cate Blanchett hasn’t been nominated – perhaps the academy are desensitised to her consistently stellar performances? She is, however, engaging and emotive as Benjamin’s long-term love interest, Daisy – a role that requires far more emotional complexity and depth than Pitt’s as she tries to come to terms with loosing the love of her life to childhood.

David Fincher’s direction and Claudio Miranda’s cinematography must also be commended. The film is often breathtakingly beautiful. It showcases innumerable poised, soon-to-be iconic images, predominantly during the peak of Benjamin and Daisy’s romance and physical beauty – as if to compound the tragedy that ‘nothing lasts’: the youthful Benjamin rides a motorbike and sails through 1960s Louisiana, his bronzed skin glowing in the honey-coloured Southern light, and the temporarily same-aged couple are shot at their inseparable and vibrant best as they sail around the Florida Keys. Miranda’s cinematography is as varied as the settings, and he captures the mellow homeliness of the Louisiana sunset, the harsh realities of war, and the different atmospheres of Paris and Russia with equal aplomb. No short-cuts are taken in terms of quality, and the fantastical imagination of Fitzgerald’s creation is given a modern-day helping of authenticity, poignancy, humanity and warmth and delivered with masterful skill.

Potentially, India means megabucks when it comes to film. With around 1,000 films released every year and an annual box-office turnover of £1.5bn, it’s already the world’s largest film industry. Despite the industry’s potential to be a huge money spinner, however, Indian films make up a small fraction of the world’s film spending and return meagre profits. It’s the promise of things to come that’s drawing western investment at a rapid rate: with a booming middle-class, increasingly interested in spending their disposable income on film-going, cinemas are popping up all over the place – 500 are predicted for the next few years alone. Kishore Lulla, chairman of Bollywood giant Eros, claims that Bollywood will be a £10bn industry within a decade – an increase which is unthinkable anywhere else in the world. Consequently, in 2006 Eros made history as it went for a listing on the LSE, and in 2007 several Indian film production companies listed on London’s alternative investment market.

Though Slumdog Millionaire is the first high-profile collaboration of recent years, there is in fact a fairly long tradition of collaboration between Britain and India – a tradition epitomised by Gandhi (1982) and which both sides are keen to continue. There is a large audience for Indian films in Britain: Hindi films comprised 16% of releases in 2005, and both the UK and the US are sizeable markets for Indian films. On October 22nd 2008, after only several weeks as Minister for Culture, Barbara Follett finalised a treaty – the main body of which was signed by Tessa Jowell in 2005, which aims to encourage co-production. The scheme provides benefits such as tax breaks (which in Britain are amongst the most generous in the world), funding and practical support for Indian film-makers wishing to collaborate with UK professionals. India, too, encourages the union – western investment provides much-needed revenue for film-makers in India, where film costs have doubled in three years, and recently the Indian government has made it easier for overseas corporations and banks to fund films.

In turn, the relatively-slow-on-the-uptake US is jumping on the bandwagon. The US has tried to break the Indian market several times in recent years, most notably with the release of Warner Brothers’ Chandi Chowk to China. Now though, with the surprise success of Slumdog Millionaire, the Hollywood big guns are finally seeing the possibility of making successful cross-over films – a feat previously considered impossible. In this month’s Sight and Sound magazine, Danny Boyle reveals that whilst filming Slumdog Millionaire, Will Smith (owner of lucrative production company Overbrook Entertainment) flew to India twice for “business meetings”. Indeed, Bollywood and Hollywood have a lot in common: the rags to riches fairytales and hair-brained money-making schemes seen in Bollywood films sit comfortably with the ‘American dream’, and both cultures are preoccupied with money and status – the star-system being a bi-product in both cases.

So what can we expect from future collaboration? The glamour, cheese and predictability typically associated with Bollywood is only one facet of Indian film-making. India has always had an art-house counterculture, but public pressure to produce films which offer respite from social hardship has resulted in Bollywood escapism becoming the formula of choice. More realistic and confrontational films have faced the problem of distribution. As expert Lalit Mohan Joshi observes: “art house cinema in the western world had the support of a distribution system as well as a regular circle of viewers no matter how small. Indian new wave cinema did not enjoy any such base”. He goes on: “today ‘New Wave’ or ‘Art’ cinema can be best described as being in the margins. Whether it will revive and co-exist alongside popular Indian cinema the way it did in the 1970s remains to be seen. Meanwhile, a discerning audience stands and waits”. If the west can provide support for such films we will undoubtedly see an increase in artistic and politically important films, such as the critically acclaimed collaboration Monsoon Wedding. Such films will be brought to mass audiences world-wide and may initiate social change. In return, India’s breathtaking aesthetics, bright colours and huge crowds provide a setting which can fulfill the western audience’s appetite for large-scale, technicolour projects. Additionally, a little escapism will surely be embraced as the west faces difficult times.

Though collaboration is mutually beneficial, it would seem that India is calling the shots. In her speech regarding the aforementioned treaty, Follett said: “any Indian filmmaker who wants to collaborate with a British producer will find it more financially worthwhile. We can also offer a mature production infrastructure and share expertise between the two countries’ film industries”. Make no mistake: Indian film is hot property, and the scheme aims to attract Indian film-makers to Britain because ultimately the future could mean money, money, money. While money-hungry western investors are, for the time being at least, important for generating revenue, the west can’t offer the same prospects to India. As Lulla nonchalantly explains: “London is just a small market for us”.

Director: Darren Aronofsky

Starring: Mickey Rourke, Marisa Tome

Rating: ****

Bold claims that Mickey Rourke has produced ‘the greatest cinematic comeback ever’ have undoubtedly been shrugged off by some with amused scepticism. Yet if at first the decision to cast Rourke, fallen heart-throb and puffy-faced has-been, seems bizarre, it ultimately proves to be a catalyst for the film’s brilliance. Whether accidental or not, the coming together of Rourke, director Darren Aronofsky (Requiem for a Dream), and screenwriter Robert Siegel has produced something uniquely brilliant. From the moment we meet fading WWE wrestling champion Randy ‘The Ram’ Robinson, a tired shadow of his former self, the parallels between Rourke’s life and that of his character are blindingly clear. Body of actor and character successfully and meaningfully collide in an exploration of the destructive possibilities of entertainment.

Twenty years on from the celebratory commentary and posters that open the film, we meet Randy from behind, his aging body slumped on a chair and his limp, bleach blonde hair draped down his back. A former champion, Randy is now professionally reliant on drugs and heavy strapping and reduced to sleeping in the back of his clapped-out car when he can’t pay his rent. His personal relationships are equally tragic: his daughter hates him, and he is in love with a stripper whom he must pay to spend time with. As his health fades, he is faced with giving up his identity as WWE champion and acknowledging the hopeless realities of his existence, a process which is symbolically represented throughout the film – perhaps most explicitly when he gives away the ‘Randy the Ram’ action figure which sits on the dashboard of his car, or when he is forced to accept a nametag at the supermarket where he works which says ‘Robin’ and not ‘Randy’.

Maryse Alberti’s cinematography compliments both script and plot. He shoots relentlessly in dull greys and stark, cold light, lending a bleak and hopeless quality to Randy’s derelict surroundings. Image quality is often grainy, permitting us a depressing intimacy with Randy’s lonely life. There are some stunning shots, too: glaring spotlights frequently catch Randy’s blood-stained silhouette, torn apart by barbed wire and staple guns and glistening with sweat as he stands in the ring; Randy is persistently shot from behind so that the audience unwittingly becomes the weight on his shoulders and we are able to see, quite literally, what he is facing; and we are regularly given shaky close-ups of Randy’s weathered, tired body – a technique which wonderfully highlights the impenetrable private truth of physical exhaustion and emotional turmoil behind Randy’s invincible bleach-blonde, deep-tanned public persona.

The American flag is everywhere and the film takes a cynical stance when it comes to American values. The flip-side of America’s performance culture comes gruesomely and brutally to life, and the value of life is questioned – true to form, Aronofsky explores the problems that occur when your body is your fortune. That Randy is a wrestler and Cassidy is a stripper is no coincidence: these professions explore both the respective societal pressures facing men and women and the exploitation and destruction that can result from a life of performance. As the camera pans a room of ex-wrestlers, their physical scars from a lifetime in the ring show the price paid for what America calls entertainment: one man is in a wheelchair, another has a colostomy bag pathetically hanging from his trouser leg. Yet, despite its destructive tendency, performance is addictive for these characters – if they can’t perform they are nothing. Randy’s vehement insistence that he continue to be called ‘Randy’ in his everyday life, even by his doctor, is testament to the painful sense of worthlessness he feels without his WWE persona. The ring is where he feels safe, it’s where he belongs. As he states before his final fight: ‘the only place I get hurt is out there. The (real) world don’t give a shit about me’.

Politically, too, the film packs a punch. The symbolism of Randy’s final fight with ‘The Ayatollah’ (a religious title in Iran and reminiscent of American hate-figure Ayatollah Khomeini) cannot be ignored. As he stands, victorious, almost frozen as he prepares to crush ‘The Ayatollah’, ideas of American superiority are forcefully questioned. Randy, who enters the stage to ‘Sweet Child of Mine’, is the all-American hero and ‘The Ayatollah’ becomes the focus of his and the audience’s ferocious hatred – he must be defeated. Yet in reality, Randy’s heroism is fake: he is a sorry specimen of Americanism and, given his health, his fight against ‘The Ayatollah’ seems suicidal – it will ultimately be fatal.

Claims that The Wrestler is ‘the film of the year’ have, unfortunately, left it with a tough job to do. This is not a Hollywood film of polish. It is, however, subtly marvellous – a unique and original creation that can be forgiven its flaws. Siegel’s script, though occasionally clunky, is also natural and moving. Wooden performances (Evan Rachel Wood for example) are overshadowed as Rourke and Tomei produce compelling performances of such intense rawness and poignancy. A slightly tired narrative of the fading star is given an interesting twist and is elegantly and sensitively delivered. What results is a gloriously understated depiction of capitalism, exploitation, desperation and loneliness – issues which, quite rightly, continue to be explored.

The British film industry is stagnating. I realise that the obligatory response to the box-office success of The Duchess and This is England is one of pride. My initial pride, however, is stultified by a niggling feeling deep inside that we have exposed the world to yet another one of those films. The problem is that, in Britain, we have developed an artistic tendency to caricature our society. It seems that there is an unwritten rule that a British film must be about being British in some way, and this strange idea manifests itself in expositional and caricatured presentations of social extremes.

To observe our filmic output, one would be forgiven for thinking that British society is divided into two distinct social categories: the dysfunctional stiff-upper-lip aristocracy, and the ‘gritty’, urban supposed reality portrayed in the films of Shane Meadows. This notion of Britishness has resulted in a film culture which is constrained by ideas of class and nationality in a way that other national cinemas are not. In contrast, the vast majority of Britons inhabit a middle-ground that is rarely acknowledged by our films. Portrayals of ‘normal’ British life are invariably undermined by clichéd, Hugh Grant-esque British buffoonery.

I do not, of course, suggest that British films should avoid social context. Nor do I dismiss the social importance of Shane Meadow’s films, which explore resilient social problems (though perhaps his recent venture could have been more aptly named ‘This Was England’ or ‘This-is-England-for-a-small-minority-of-people’ – if, indeed, the crass and didactic title was intentional). When films are so glaringly class-conscious, however, they become fuelled by a political agenda which negates the possibility of originality and creativity of concept that is seen in other national cinemas. Take, for example, the European tradition of pleasantly introverted, contemplative and experimental films such as Caro Diario (Moretti) and Amélie (Jeunet). Aside from notable exceptions such as the wonderfully voyeuristic Red Road (Arnold), one is generally hard pushed to find a British film which remains firmly grounded in a modern social context, without overtly exploring it. I simply call for more variation.

The excuse for such formulaic film-making is often the ‘American audience’. Yet, whilst the American fascination with the British ruling class is undeniable, British obsession with social extremes is a deep-embedded problem. Disinterest in normality and hunger for sensationalism is evident not only in film, it pervades everyday life – from trashy magazines to ‘kitchen-sink’ theatre. Notes on a Scandal (Marber) exemplifies the exception. It avoided social comment and received mass audiences ($17.5m) and critical acclaim in the US. If this genial response can be explained solely by Judi Dench’s popularity, then she represents a case in point: Dench rebuffs class clichés, and has instead found an individual middle-ground which has ensured her popularity and respect across the pond.

This American Indie is refreshingly different: this is modern Gothic Horror at its finest and most subtle. Gael Garcia Bernal produces a fine performance as Elvis Valderez, recently discharged from the Navy and in search of the father he has never known; Baptist preacher David Sandow (William Hurt).
Elvis immerses himself into the small Texan community of his reluctant father’s new family and embarks on a mission of destruction: the heartbreaking seduction of his young half-sister Melorie (Pell James). If James’ understated performance is the result of a minimalist script which neglects its female characters, it nonetheless works. compunding a sense of horror as Elvis penetrates her simple and vulnerable world.

Set against the garish backdrop of Glad Tidings Ministry (complete with neon sign), religious notions of righteousness, worship and control are forcefully confronted. Though a little satirical, the presentation of religion has some elegant touches. Hypocrisy is explored in the form of animal cruelty and human exploitation. Most memorably, when Melorie pins a crucifix to Elvis’ collar after he has brutally murdered her brother, her ironic gesture challenges ideas of morality and judgement.
The striking artistic detail makes it stand out. The Cinematography is stylish. ranging from atmospheric shots of rural Texas to stylised shots of the Sandown’s manicured garden that give a surreal twist to their American-dream home. Lichtenstein’s score, too, is quirky and disorientating, building as Elvis descends into cruelty and destruction.