Our latest movie reviews

Cheesier than a wheel of Stilton and about as edgy, Downton Abbey bows out with a cosy but loveable final instalment that will leave few dry eyes among long-time fans of Julian Fellowes’ British TV thoroughbred.  It’s a third big-screen instalment that’s one long ending: to the characters, to the house, to the certainties of Edwardian England. No movie has had this many goodbyes since The Return of the King.  It’s mostly soirées and teas and trips to the theatre, though there is a vague gesture at a plot. A handsome American (Alessandro Nivola) with Wall Street airs arrives in Blighty to stir things up; a prospective visit from Noël Coward gets everyone in a flap; and a prize or two needs giving out at the county fair – a task newcomer Simon Russell Beale’s harrumphing country type isn’t making any easier. The headline news is that Lady Mary (Michelle Dockery) is now divorced from her feckless husband, which gets her rudely booted out of polite society. Things have changed in 1930s England, but they’re still basically nightmarish if you don’t have a moustache.  Money is in short supply at the grand old pile, too, thanks to dopey Uncle Harold’s (Paul Giamatti) bad investments and the post-Depression squeeze, and there’s no Violet Crawley to provide snarky reassurances (the formidable old dame gazes down from a portrait, like Vigo the Carpathian). Maggie Smith’s presence always brought a sharp note to Fellowes’ melodious rhythms and it’s missing here. No movie has had this...

Spare a thought for whoever has to give this wildly obscenity-strewn biopic a rating. Not since Ken Loach’s cheery whisky heist caper The Angel’s Share got hit with a 15 certificate for dropping one too many ‘aggressive “c*nts”’ has there been such a disparity between intent and delivery in a screenplay. Here, writer-director Kirk Jones presides over a Tourette’s Syndrome (TS) story with a potty mouth but not a mean-spirited bone in its body. It’s a ‘PG’ yarn with an ‘18’ gob.Unlike, say, Rain Man, which sidelined and misrepresented the neurodiversity at its centre, the ’90s-set I Swear ushers you right into the tormented headspace of young Scotsman John Davidson as he copes with a neurological condition that leaves him with uncontrollable tics and sees him ostracised from an uncomprehending society, and even his own family. Played as a bubbly 13-year-old in ’90s Galashiels by newcomer Scott Ellis Watson and a more circumspect twentysomething by The Rings of Power’s Robert Aramayo – both delivering terrific, likeable performances – I Swear charts the onset of Davidson’s condition to an adulthood in a kind of self-imposed isolation. But it opens with him collecting an MBE from the Queen for his pioneering educational work on TS, an upbeat framing device to hold onto as the story flashes back to a life with some heartbreaking lows. It’s a ‘PG’ yarn with an ‘18’ gob Whether getting expelled from school for dropping a c-bomb on his headmaster, being shunned by his family,...

In his genius 1985 documentary Sherman’s March, director Ross McElwee follows in the footsteps of a Civil War general’s infamous advance through the Confederacy. Haunted by a recent break-up, the doleful young filmmaker ends up far more preoccupied with finding a girlfriend. The film’s Ken Burns-meets-The Inbetweeners awkwardness and charm gave him a Sundance hit and made it a cult classic (if not especially helpful in understanding the Civil War). Forty years on, the stunning Remake lays bare McElwee’s own battles, the least of which is a mooted Hollywood remake of his breakthrough doc. A tear-stained, deeply personal and utterly singular documentary, it tells the story of the young son he lost to a Fentanyl overdose, captured via home video footage taken across three decades. ‘It’s been seven years since you died,’ he says in the voiceover, ‘and I still miss you every day’. Throat meet lump.  After Sherman’s March McElwee did find his person – wife Marilyn. They have two kids: bubbly, bright-witted son Adrian and a sunbeam of a daughter in Mariah, who the couple adopts in Paraguay. Those experiences become McElwee’s 2008 documentary In Paraguay. But every experience they share gets captured. He rarely stops filming.  Inevitably, this becomes grating for Marilyn and Mariah, who start to feel like characters in a movie he never calls ‘cut’ on. There’s divorce and then a lonely relocation. Adrian, though, has caught the bug. He grows up wanting to follow in his dad’s...

In February 1977, a disgruntled Indianapolis man walked into a city centre tower for a meeting with a mysterious box under his arm. He then took a mortgage company executive who he felt had cheated him out of a real estate investment hostage, jerryrigging a shotgun to his head with wire and demanding an apology and millions of dollars in compensation. One false move from the cops and the man was toast.   This absolutely terrible plan and all the absurdities that ensued over 63 hours and under the full flare of first local, then national news coverage, are captured with terrific gusto in Gus Van Sant’s tragicomic thriller. It’s another perceptive state-of-the-nation movie from the veteran indie auteur to add to To Die For (1995), Elephant (2003) and Milk (2008), sharing their preoccupation with guns as a manifestation of American ambition and dysfunction. Beyond the guilty laughs, authentically beige ’70s period detail and news reportage aesthetic, there’s an offbeat anti-capitalist folk tale here that will strike a chord in the current moment.   It’s scary clown Bill Skarsgård doesn’t leave all the clownishness behind as the jittery, volatile Tony Kiritsis. He’s an aspiring entrepreneur whose efforts to develop a shopping mall were left in ruins when loans company boss ML Hall (Al Pacino) called in his investment. But the plan almost falls at the first hurdle because Hall, he learns, is in Florida. Without missing a beat, he takes his son Richard (Dacre Montgomery) hostage...

The 1960s had Dr Strangelove and Fail Safe, the ’70s had Twilight’s Last Gleaming, the ’80s had WarGames, and the ’90s had Crimson Tide. If you’ve recovered from those Cold War classics, Kathryn Bigelow’s unbelievably stressful nuclear disaster movie is sending you straight back to the basement.  The screenplay by TV news veteran Noah Oppenheim, who also co-wrote Netflix’s White House cyberattack thriller Zero Day and must surely have a bunker in his garden by this point, gives three overlapping perspectives on an unfolding nightmare. Each start at the exact same point: a regular morning in the White House Situation Room and US Strategic Command is disrupted by a spec on the radar. A single nuke has been launched over the Pacific. Is it another North Korean test? A rogue submarine commander? Nothing to worry about or the first shot of armageddon? A faint worry becomes palpable fear for Admiral Mark Miller (Jason Clarke), Captain Olivia Walker (Rebecca Ferguson) and the team in the Situation Room when the nuke goes ‘suborbital’, its trajectory putting it on course to hit the Midwest in 17 minutes time. At Alaska’s missile defence base, Major Daniel Gonzalez (Anthony Ramos) goes from wrestling with homesickness to trying to prevent ten million fatalities in a trice. But, as someone points out, America’s $60 billion defence missiles are like trying to ‘hit a bullet with a bullet’.  Over the world’s most high-powered Zoom call, the President (Idris Elba) and his advisors...

One of Hollywood’s biggest stars in a true-life sports movie with big-time awards hopes. It’s going to be a Rocky-like story of comeback glory wrenched from the jaws of defeat, right? Except that’s not at all what Dwayne Johnson and director Benny Safdie have got cooking with this tender but tumultuous addiction and relationship drama set in the gladiatorial world of mixed martial arts (MMA). Because beyond the regular crunch of fist on bone, The Smashing Machine is an unexpectedly gentle, soulful character study that has Johnson undercutting his crowd-pleasing ‘The Rock’ persona with vulnerability and boyish uncertainty. The early Oscar buzz is certainly warranted: opposite an equally affecting, glammed-up Emily Blunt, it’s far more than just a popcorn-guy-goes-prestige novelty turn. This is his The Wrestler moment. Covering his shaved dome with a crop of black hair and with subtle facial prosthetics lending him an off-kilter look, an extra beefed-up Johnson plays real-life fighter Mark Kerr over three physically and emotionally bruising years in the late ’90s. We meet striding into the ring, basically a wardrobe on legs, and crushing opponents in short order. A journalist asks him what it would feel like to lose and he’s genuinely stumped. He can’t conceive of defeat partly because he doesn’t want to, a bubble of control he expects girlfriend Dawn Staples (Blunt) to help him maintain.   Except that the world of MMA is evolving at speed, with new rules that limit Kerr’s...

There’s surely a more incisive, enlightening version of Olivier Assayas’ (Personal Shopper) enjoyable but strictly meat-and-two-veg recap of modern Russian political history waiting to be made. The performances are solid, with an excellent Jude Law all inscrutable psychopathy as a younger Vladimir Putin and Alicia Vikander the perfect embodiment of an amoral post-Soviet arrivista, and the chilly world-building works well enough, but there’s a missing ingredient – actual Russians.   It’s unsurprising that a French director and screenwriter adapting a book by a Swiss-Italian author with a cast of Americans, Brits and Swedes, filming in Latvia, struggles to burrow deep into the psyche of one of the world’s most secretive political cultures. The Wizard of the Kremlin never shakes the sense of being a best-guess at the cold realities of modern Russia. And there’s an ersatz quality to Assayas’s drama that’s not aided by a hackneyed framing device that has Jeffrey Wright’s US journalist summoned to a snowy dacha for a history lesson from mystery ex-Kremlin fixer Vadim Baranov (Paul Dano). He’s based on Vladislav Surkov, the so-called ‘new Rasputin’ who ruthlessly expedited the dictator’s rise to power during the helter-skelter, oligarchic post-Yeltsin days of the 1990s. You’ll feel for the American Fiction star as he’s left nodding solemnly while Dano blasts through reams of exposition. Baranov tees up flashbacks to rowdy student parties, his early career in Moscow’s avant-garde...

Jim Jarmusch, that beat poet of mellow angst, is back on familiar turf with this triptych of stories about grown-up children and the parents they don’t really want to visit. After 2019’s limp zombie comedy The Dead Don’t Die, devotees will be happy to hear that the Ohioan’s stocks-in-trade – wry insights into the human condition, laconic vibes, a growly Tom Waits – come augmented with deeper heart here. It’s divided into three roughly equal length chapters: ‘Father’, ‘Mother’, ‘Sister Brother’. In the first, Adam Driver’s divorcee Jeff and his equally buttoned-up sister Emily (Mayim Bialik) take his Range Rover in the New Jersey sticks for a long-overdue visit to see their dad (Waits). Amusingly, their stiff in-car conversation is crosscut with the old man not tidying his lakeside home in anticipation of their visit, but messing it up. He ramps up the dodderiness when the pair arrive, a sly manipulation, it turns out, designed to keep his fretful son’s cash handouts coming.  The theme of gentle deception also informs a second chapter with a faint Mike Leigh quality in which two wildly contrasting sisters, Cate Blanchett’s nervy Timothea and Vicky Krieps’s half-tamed wildchild Lilith, head to their mother’s (Charlotte Rampling) immaculate Dublin home for tea. A lot of effort has been made, cakes bought and flowers arranged, but there’s something stopping any of them enjoying the get-together. The distance between the trio is the width of a tablecloth, and an ocean. Lilith...

A shot of Earth from space seems an unexpected opening perspective for a film that zeroes in on a few square miles of the scrubby, starkly beautiful Tucumán Province in northern Argentina to tell a story of murder and courtroom drama. But Argentinian auteur Lucrecia Martel’s (Zama) finds striking universality in her first documentary, a compelling true-crime tale of indigenous dispossession and cultural erasure that could be set in a hundred different countries. Multiples more gripping than its bland English title might suggest, Landmarks is a story 15 or so years in the telling. The case at its heart (summarised in this 2009 Amnesty report) involves the alleged murder of indigenous leader Javier Chocobar by three men, two of whom were armed ex-police officers. The trio, we learn in lively court proceedings to which Martel’s cameras have total access, were trying to finagle a mining concern on ancestral land that belonged to the Chuschagasta people. When Chocobar and 20 or so others confront them on a recce, there’s a bad-tempered exchange, a scuffle and finally gunshots. At the end of it Chocobar lies dying, shot in the stomach.  It’s not Rashomon. Despite the confident testimony of the ex-cops, and even their walk-through recreation of the events in the valley that day, it’s pretty clear that Chocobar didn’t shoot himself. There’s even dramatic home video footage that culminates in the camera rolling down a hillside when shots ring out. But the question of whether...

The king of creature features, Guillermo del Toro resurrects Mary Shelley’s literary creation in all its full-on gaudy gothic glory. Oscar Isaac is Baron Victor Frankenstein, who is rescued from a monster on the ice by the crew of a ship of polar explorers. He is a man with a tale to tell of how he got there: but, like Dewey Cox in Walk Hard, he has to start at the very beginning: with a childhood of a bad daddy (Charles Dance) and grief that drives an ambition to conquer death itself.  From anatomy theatres to graveyards, Victor proceeds, a floppy-haired Byronic hero aided not by Igor but Christoph Waltz’s Herr Harlander, an arms dealer who is willing to fund Victor’s scientific research for his own ends.  Isaac is superb as Victor, as much an artist as a scientist; his gruesome work accompanied by Alexander Desplat's joyful waltz as he peels skin and gets elbow deep in viscera. A pile of body parts supplied by the butchery of the Napoleonic wars and some large jars of coloured fluid combine with the blasts of a passing lightning storm to create Jacob Elordi’s monster.  Meanwhile, his younger brother William (Felix Kammerer) is about to marry Elizabeth (the nominatively determined Mia Goth), Harlander’s niece, who Victor soon has feelings for. It is, as they say, complicated.  It’s as much Mills & Boon as Mary Shelley For years, del Toro has built his myths in films like Pan’s Labyrinth and Crimson Peak with the dusty and elaborate furniture of the gothic. His baroque...