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USA/UK: Tony Scott, 2009

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USA: Karyn Kusama, 2009

I wasn't going to bother with Jennifer's Body. I liked Diablo Cody's first produced script, Juno, but the buzz about this second offering wasn't good, and let's face it, Megan Fox isn't much of an actor. (At least going by her "performance" in Transformers, which if we're being generous is probably not the sort of movie that would best show off the talents of even the world's finest performer.) Then, Mark Kermode gave it a tentatively positive appraisal, in which he drew parallels between it and the excellent Canadian horror movie Ginger Snaps. So yeah, I decided to give it a shot.

It's not bad, but it's no masterpiece either. It's not funny enough to genuinely work as a comedy, nor is it gruesome/unsettling/scary (delete as appropriate) to be an effective horror movie. Its heart is certainly in the right place, though, and it's entertaining in a light, unchallenging way. Surprise surprise, Megan Fox is rubbish in it, but that's almost beside the point as the character she's playing is a complete plastic anyway, so fake and insincere that her non-performance almost seems appropriate. Amanda Seyfried (of Mean Girls and Mamma Mia!), who is actually the true star of the movie, is much better (even if, as Kermode rightly points out, it's a little hard to accept her as the dowdy one). The script is certainly genre-literate, and Karyn Kusama directs with enough style for me to forgive her for the atrocity that was Aeon Flux. I'm not trying to suggest that this is some sort of misunderstood masterpiece, but I can't help thinking that it was an unfortunate casualty of the Diablo Cody/Megan Fox backlash that erupted this year in the wake of Cody's Oscar win for Juno and Fox's... well, I'm not entirely sure what she's supposed to have done, but I guess, in a way, that sums her up perfectly.

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UK: John Harrison, 2008

Combining two Clive Barker short stories, The Book of Blood and On Jerusalem Street, this low budget horror offering is actually a better film than the critics would have you believe, albeit one that is hampered by some major leaps in logic, some iffy visual effects and post production choices, and a lead actress attempting an accept she clearly isn't comfortable with. Shot in Edinburgh (a brief scene clearly filmed at Glasgow University notwithstanding), director John Harrison makes impressive use of the locale to create an eerie atmosphere, while eliciting decent performances out of a cast that is essentially limited to three players for the bulk of the film's duration. There's also a nicely ominous score by Guy Farley and some genuinely unsettling moments, most involving apparitions of children playing in the garden outside the house in which the bulk of the film is set. Unfortunately, Harrison and his co-writer Darin Silverman can't quite make certain late plot developments ring true. In particular, a character who was previously convinced of supernatural goings-on suddenly becomes all too willing to dismiss another character's claims of paranormal activity as a scam, despite it being clear to all and sundry that this is the real deal (she was even herself involved in occurrences that can't logically be explained, and yet seems to conveniently forget about them because the plot dictates it). It's far from groundbreaking, but on the whole I found it rather enjoyable.

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UK: Terence Young, 1965

Generally speaking, my experience with films is that I tend to start out engaged, but then find myself flagging a little towards the end of the second act, only for me to reconnect with it during the final act as the big climax unfolds. Thunderball is notable for me in that I had the complete opposite reaction to it. I felt that the film's strongest point was the middle stretch, with the first and third acts failing to do much for me at all. This is comfortably my least favourite of the Connery Bonds so far (bearing in mind that I've not seen You Only Live Twice and Diamonds are Forever yet and am unlikely to do so until they're released on BD), which is curious as it has virtually all of the same ingredients as Goldfinger, which I liked very much indeed.

Its two greatest pitfalls, in my opinion, are the director's over-indulgence in underwater photography and a propensity to rely on over-the-top, silly action. The former is admittedly highly impressive on a technical level, and initially at first the nautical antics get by on the "wow" factor alone, but this quickly gives way to tedium, particularly during the climax, in which an overly protracted and virtually incomprehensible underwater battle plays out. The problem with these scenes is that they are, by their very nature, slowly paced, and as a result the film begins to drag whenever it spends too much time below the surface. Conversely, the chase that occurs above the surface towards the very end, which features sped up footage in what I can only assume was a misguided attempt to ramp up the tension, looks patently absurd and turns what should have been an exciting final confrontation between Bond and his nemesis into something that veers towards unintentional comedy. At least, however, it's still less risible than the intentional comedy: Bond's pre-credits escape by jet pack had me covering my eyes out of embarrassment (and reminded me rather too much of Mary Poppins, for some reason), and an unfortunate run-in with an out of control spinal traction machine is little better.

I didn't dislike Thunderball by any stretch of the imagination. It still has Connery, audacious stunts, and a terrific score by John Barry, not to mention the exotic locations and exotic ladies. In particular, Luciana Paluzzi's character is great fun and shows that the filmmakers had a sense of self-awareness that I previously hadn't credited them with. ("But of course, I forgot your ego, Mr. Bond. James Bond, the one where he has to make love to a woman, and she starts to hear heavenly choirs singing. She repents, and turns to the side of right and virtue...") However, put it next to From Russia with Love or even Goldfinger and it quickly begins to look bloated, ill-disciplined and rather too silly for its own good. Still, I can't help suspecting that I'll soon find myself yearning for Thunderball. Next, I'll be skipping ahead to Live and Let Die, thus beginning the Roger Moore era.

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UK: Guy Hamilton, 1964

I suspect I have a slight preference for From Russia with Love, but it's easy to see why Goldfinger is so popular and considered, by some, to be the quintessential Bond. It has it all: witty one-liners, absurd gadgets, intricate stunts, cool villains, a sassy Bond girl, and of course Bond at his most chauvinistic ("Run along - man talk"). The series is definitely finding its niche at this stage, and what it lacks in terms of From Russia with Love's brooding menace, it certainly makes up for in terms of its audaciousness.

Watching this one, I rather get the impression it was written in a deliberate attempt to appeal specifically to a US audience, given that, early sequences in England and Switzerland aside, much of the action takes place there (contrasting with the more unusual and exotic locales in the first two films), not to mention the prominent roles played by Felix Leiter and the US military. Not a criticism, just an observation.

At this stage, making my way through the Bond canon, I rate From Russia with Love highest and Dr. No lowest (bearing in mind that I'm currently excluding the likes of Licence to Kill, Goldeneye and so on, which I haven't seen in quite some time). It's hard to say where I would put the two Daniel Craig movies in relation to these vintage Bonds, as they seem to belong to a completely different world in terms of tone and aesthetics. Certainly I like all three of them better than Quantum of Solace, but Casino Royale is an incredibly tough act to measure up to, and for better or for worse I suspect it will remain the defining Bond for me, since it's the one that really got me into the series.

Up next: Thunderball!

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USA: John Musker, Ron Clements, 2009

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USA: Marc Webb, 2009

The voice-over at the start of (500) Days of Summer assures us that "this is not a love story", but on reflection, I can't quite work out what it else was meant to be. Essentially a tale about a romantic falling head over heels for a cynic, their relationship and eventual break-up, I'm not convinced it breaks as much new ground as its makers believed. Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Zooey Deschanel give fine performances as the romantic and the cynic respectively, and I'll admit that there does seem to be something of a gender reversal going on (I've tended to find that, in romantic comedies, the cynic is usually the male lead while his female counterpart is the starry-eyed idealist). It's also rather funny, albeit in the "quiet titter" sort of way rather than being laugh-out-loud hysterical. Jean-Pierre Jeunet's superior Amelie is a clear point of reference with its daydreams, cutaways and observations about seemingly trivial little details that help make the characters complete, but whereas Amelie actually seemed to tell a complete and satisfying story, there's something frustratingly disjointed about (500) Days of Summer. The film is told out of sequence, jumping back and forth throughout the five hundred days in which Deschanel's character, Summer, is in the life of Gordon-Levitt's Tom, sometimes for dramatic effect (there's a brilliant moment where we cut from Tom heading to work, early in the relationship and on top of the world, to him arriving depressed and dishevelled later on after things have gone south), but more often than not the result is that the film feels fragmented and episodic.

The filmmakers don't even seem to be able to commit to the refreshingly cynical outlook that they initially convey through Summer, disavowing such nonsense concepts as fate, destiny and soul-mates, only to embrace them completely in a tacked-on coda that half-heartedly tries to tell us that these things do exist, just not in the places we're looking for them. Had they actually followed through on the initial premise, I suspect I'd hold the film in higher regard. As it stands, though, it's ultimately little more than a slightly offbeat romcom about a man who dresses like a douche (seriously, who goes to the cinema wearing a tie and a cardigan?) and the charmingly quirky object of his affections.

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USA: Michael Bay, 2009

I'm not sure what else I expected, really.

I won't be so presumptuous as to claim that Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen is the worst film of the decade. What I do feel fairly confident in stating is that, with less than two weeks to go before we hit 2010, I am unlikely to see a worse film than it before the decade ends. The first Transformers was a heap of shit, but it was a semi-entertaining heap of shit, albeit in the sort of "so bad it's good" way that leaves you feeling somewhat guilty for getting any pleasure out of it. The sequel amplifies everything that was wrong with the first outing tenfold. Puerile humour that would embarrass a thirteen-year-old boy? Check. (Our reintroduction to the Witwicky family begins with a shot of the family dogs humping. Later in the movie, Bay one-ups himself by having a robot hump Megan Fox's leg.) Comedy ethnic stereotypes that would make Bernard Manning blush? Check. Bimbo women whose sole purpose in the film is so the audience can watch their tits jiggle in slow motion as they run away from explosions? Check. Robots that are so over-designed they don't even read on the screen? Check. Case in point: this is actually meant to be a face. (Actually, even the bloody logo is an over-designed piece of incomprehensible guff.) Grossly overinflated running time with a first hour that consists of nothing but padding? Check. Shameless and prolonged masturbation to military technology? You bet your ass that's a check. To quote a film critic whose name I've long since forgotten, "There is simply too much of everything."

I don't even feel I should be blaming the writers. I'm sure they just delivered what Bay asked them to - a couple of hundred pages of drivel aimed at the lowest common denominator with a story that serves no purpose other than to provide Industrial Light & Magic with ample opportunities to pad out their CGI effects demo reel. Even if you're a Transformers fan (I'm not), I can't imagine there'll be much to engage you here, as the robots themselves are effectively relegated to supporting roles in what it supposedly their own movie.

At this moment in time, I plan never to watch a Michael Bay film again. He seems to have only had one good movie in him - The Rock - and if rumours are to be believed the only reason it turned out any good was because Sean Connery decided the script was shit and insisted on it being rewritten by Dick Clement and Ian La Frenais. As it stands, I'd rather have a root canal than entrust this sorry excuse for a filmmaker with another two and a half hours of my life.

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UK: Terence Young, 1963

Yes, it's a better film than Dr. No. It's actually an improvement in just about every conceivable way: it's grander in terms of both scale and ambition, the narrative is consistently engaging, and despite the continued presence of SPECTRE (a carry-over from the first movie and a recurring element throughout the series) and their ridiculously over the top training camp ("Sometimes we use live targets too") the film has a more down to earth quality. Honestly, I worry about moving on to the Roger Moore films once I've exhausted the Connerys, since from what little I remember of them, I never much liked Moore's portrayal of the character, and Connery has well and truly won me over after only two films with his perfect blend of suavity and amused disdain.

The highlight of this one (apart from Bond telling Daniela Bianchi her mouth is just the right size - a blowjob reference if ever I heard once) is the extended sequence that takes place aboard a train, and here it's easy to see where the Hitchcock comparisons come from. While the pacing and camerawork clearly owe something of a debt to the Master of Suspense, the train sequence is pure North by Northwest, with Connery standing in for Cary Grant and Bianchi putting a rather different (albeit considerably more insipid) spin on Eva Marie Saint's femme fatale. On the whole, this is definitely my favourite so far of the pre-Casino Royale entries, edging out my previous choice, Licence to Kill.

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USA/Germany: Quentin Tarantino, 2009

In his review of Inglourious Basterds, Mark Kermode said that the film had some good ideas in it but didn't really work as a whole, or words to that effect. While I like Quentin Tarantino's latest opus a lot more than the esteemed Dr. K. did, I think there's some level of truth in what he said about it. I've been growing more and more convinced that Tarantino just doesn't make great movies. What he does make are movies with great moments in them, and these moments tend to be memorable enough that they overshadow the lesser elements in the long run.

Inglourious Basterds has a lot of these great moments in it. Unfortunately, like the previous Death Proof, it also has a lot of overly long, rambling and frankly tedious dialogue scenes in which characters sit and talk to each other about subjects that are only tangentially (if at all) related to the plot. This is most pronounced in the extended sequence in which the eponymous Basterds meet German double agent Bridget von Hammersmark (Diane Kruger) in a tavern outside Paris. This is meant to be a straightforward rendezvous, but it turns sour when they find themselves in the company of a band of rowdy German soldiers and a Gestapo officer. The outcome of the scene is terrific and has lasting consequences that alter the manner in which the film's climax plays out, but rather than getting down to business, Tarantino leaves the audience dangling for what seems like ages, eking out an ultimately irrelevant game of "Guess Who?" that seems to exist for no other reason than to allow him to indulge in movie trivia via the on-screen characters.

Death Proof's entire raison d'être, the thing that made all the waffle worthwhile in the long run, was the spectacular car chase that comprised the film's climax. Likewise, the memory of Inglourious Basterds' less engaging scenes (and believe me, there are a lot of them) fades away when all the principle players descend on the Le Gamaar cinema for a movie premiere that literally sets the audience on fire. Taken as a whole, the film seems ill-disciplined and in need of some judicious editing but, watching as the face of Jewish orphan Shosanna Dreyfus (Mélanie Laurent) fills the cinema screen and informs a packed audience of Nazi bigwigs that every one of them is about to die, it's hard not to think - if only for a few moments - "Fuck it, this is a great movie." I don't know how he does it, but Tarantino repeatedly puts out films that, by rights, shouldn't work and a lot of the time don't work. When they cook, though, they really cook.

By the way, despite the film's title, this is Shosanna's story. I was surprised by just how peripheral the Basterds actually were in the outcome. When all said and done, they might as well not have bothered showing up. In fact, you could argue that things would have gone a lot more smoothly if they hadn't. As far as the acting is concerned, the honours definitely go to Mélanie Laurent and Christoph Waltz, the latter playing the deceptively polite but utterly deadly "Jew hunter" Hans Landa. The Basterds themselves are basically caricatures, and not particularly interesting caricatures at that, but Laurent and Waltz are blessed with the two most interesting parts in the script, and they utterly nail their respective roles.

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