Last year we declared the found footage to be well and truly over, with the release of André Øvredal’s The Troll Hunter. Between The Troll Hunter and Apollo 18 the gimmick had been run in to the ground, with the heady heights of “genre”-classics such as Cloverfield and The Blair-Witch Project but distant memories. But, and bearing that in mind, Chronicle actually appealed upon promotion. The combination of found footage with the superhero genre is one that has surprisingly gone untapped before now, and the potential offered from the amalgamation appetising to say the least. 

Chronicle revolves around three teenagers that stumble across a mysterious occurrence that leaves them with powerful superhuman abilities, with the film charting their introductory adventures with said superpowers. As they come to terms with their abilities the three teens take very different paths, ultimately leading up to a scenario in which the three are at odds with each other, emotionally and morally. Andrew, a typical angst-ridden teenager, whose mother is ill and father abusive finds that the powers liberate him completely, giving the once aimless and unpopular student the sort of freedom that he’s never been afforded. Yet he is the one that is also the most vulnerable of the group, with the age old declaration that “With great power comes great responsibility” the ideal punchline to the premise laid down by the character.

As with any film in the found footage tradition, the crux of the plausibility of the project rests on how convincing the set-up is. Why is Character X carrying a camera all of the time? How is all of this material being captured? These are the two fundamental questions that require a straight answer for any found footage flick to succeed. Unfortunately Chronicle stretches the realms of plausibility to their very limits, and ultimately fails in this basic area, leaving an awkward shadow hanging over the rest of the movie. While it ultimately does pull itself back from the brink before the end credits roll, it’s hard to treat something that the filmmakers themselves don’t treat seriously with anything other than contempt (we lost count of the amount of jokes made about how convenient the whole thing was;  just because the filmmakers question the plot holes it doesn’t give them a license to use them). It’s all far too convenient, with the Camera Convenience Factor (CCF) pushed to its very limits. That said, a third act, city-wide battle captured on everything from cell-phones to security cameras is extremely impressively constructed.

As an entry in to the superhero cinema pantheon Chronicle provides an interesting take on the origin story in spite of ticking pretty much every box in the great list of superhero cliches. Angsty homelife – Check. Bit of an outsider – Check. Superpowers lead to popularity – Check. Struggle to control power – Check.  Experimenting with powers montage – Check. That being said, the new perspective offered by the found film footage when it comes to portraying some of these scenarios gives an air of freshness not often afforded this most cliché strewn of genres, with such rights of passages as learning to fly given especial precedence thanks to the unique viewpoint afforded by the first person-esque camerawork. It’s a similar summation with regards to the aforementioned final act climactic scenario, which sees the two surviving teens, one that has predictably enough strayed to the dark side, and the other who remains the perennial Superman, fight it out on the streets of Seattle. Any distractions (crumby effects, terrible performances) are lost in the spectacle, and it is genuinely engaging.

Chronicle, following in the tradition of such other subversive Superhero movies such as Matthew Vaughn’s Kick-Ass, and M. Night Shyamalan’s Unbreakable manipulates some of the genre’s greatest conventions nicely. Basic costume politics lead the way, with the standard blue signifying the good guys, and shades of grey marking out those who might not be so good. A post-modern spin on the Lois Lane type also pops up, only now she’s a video-blogger, conveniently enough capturing all of the action that our protagonist isn’t savvy to. The passing off of superpowers as magic is a nice touch too, not to mention genuinely plausible, and while ultimately the positives do outweigh the negatives, it’s difficult to muster a recommendation for Josh Trank’s movie. 

What follows is a reprint of our review of Bombay Beach from last years DocFest. The film is on theatrical release in the UK from today.  

An inverted look at the “American Dream”, Alma Har’el’s Bombay Beach is a beautifully constructed work, ground in emotionally resonating touches that cannot fail to effect and inspire. From the films opening sequence, which incorporates old promotion videos of the vacation resort that the man-made Bombay Beach once was, to the numerous music promo video-esque vignettes that punctuate the picture, Har’el’s film is an eclectic work of genuinely profound beauty. A feeling of eerie beauty bounces around the picture, with the landscape, littered by dead animals and lit by fireworks, quite literally the centre of the universe for the denizens of the area (its notable that every locale outside of Bombay Beach is measured in terms of the vicinity/ distance from the titular site).

Slab City, a location previously brought to life on-screen in Sean Penn’s Into The Wild, is home to a number of interesting characters. To say the least. Focussing on Red, an old man and life long drifter, we see the world through his eyes, with a surprising poetic streak running throughout his observations. The people surrounding Red are nothing short of misfits, but a god-damn joyful bunch of misfits. Every single person in the film visibly looks as if they have a story to tell, their rugged appearance bearing as many a tease in to a life lived as any of the monologues shared. How do these people end up out there? Why would anyone want to be out there? Some are bound by hereditary situation, while others are brought to the dunes by misfortune, or because they are running away from something. CeeJay falls in to the latter camp. A black teenager attempting to avoid the fate that befell his gangbanger cousin, with aspirations of one day playing football for the NFL, CeeJay is somewhat indicative of a great deal of the people who have taken up residency by the Salton Sea, in that he displays a great determination and hope in the face of the situation they’ve found themselves in.

Benny Parrish is perhaps the ultimate icon of this candid, spontaneous attitude to life. A bi-polar young boy being brought up in the most dysfunctional of scenarios, Benny is something of a beacon of naïve optimism in the face of the adversities enforced. By the time the credits roll Benny has become an hyper-medicated zombie, a shadow of his former self, failed not only by his parents (although they themselves are arguably trying their best to raise their kids responsibly, in as much as they are barely capable of doing so), but also by the government systems put in place to supposedly help such people. Doctors mis-diagnose the boy to the point of seizure, and are unwilling to reappraise his wellbeing for whatever reason. At times the sight of Benny wandering around the salt desert, clambering around the corpses of dead animals and abandoned trash reminds of Harmony Korine’s Gummo, yet while one could at least take respite safe in the knowledge that Korine’s work was fictional the same can obviously not be said of the situations faced here in Bombay Beach.

Alas, the genuinely unbelievable story of the Parrish family extends far beyond Benny. As the story of Benny’s parents unravels via old home videos, we are given an insight into a story that is difficult to believe is borne out of reality. In the earlier years of the 21^st Century Benny’s parents were arrested and imprisoned on laws brought in to effect following the events of 9/11. Having built their own makeshift army, apparently in response to the lack of government support in the area, the pair’s makeshift bombs saw them branded terrorists by the establishment, and sentenced to several years in jail.

As mentioned afore, the film is punctuated by a couple of designed vignettes, each one scored to a specific music track. Bob Dylan and Zachary “Beirut” Condon provide the audio, with Condon’s appearance reminding of Har’el’s beginnings as a director of music videos (most notably perhaps for Beirut’s Elephant Gun). While the constructed nature of the vignettes goes against the general rules of the documentary, they manage to feel legitimate enough, and downright poetic in parts, for one not to be drawn in wholly. The final vignette is especially moving.

Ultimately though, Bombay Beach reminds the viewer of the vastness of America, and the manner in which, even in the country that is the poster boy for Western society, some people still manage to slip through the cracks. Masterpiece doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Jason Reitman reteams with Diablo Cody, the screenwriter behind his biggest hit to date, the pop culture reference point Juno for this, his fourth film behind the camera.

Young Adult revolves around Mavis Gary, a writer of fiction in the young adult tradition. Upon hearing the news that an ex-boyfriend has had a child with his wife Mavis decides to head back home to woo the old flame, convinced that he still feels the same as her.

The story of a person of age revisiting their past via a trip home is an often worn one, with the likes of Garden State and sub-genre classic The Graduate immediately springing to mind, yet Reitman’s film adds an interesting spin to the well-told tale. The film’s USP is in the manner in which the central protagonist is portrayed. Equal parts cringeworthy and sad, Reitman places the viewer in the position of seeing the whole scenario roll out solely from her perspective of his protagonist. As such the entire running time is spent in the company of a thoroughly unlikeable, and ultimately unrepentant person, which is something of a rare feat in the modern, mainstream cinema. Thanks to some clever direction and writing, and a career best performance from Charlize Theron, the devestatingly awful Mavis Gary is actually a figure to behold, recalling the likes of Election’s Tracy Flick as unbearable, yet compulsive cinematic figures.

There’s no irony lost in the idea that Mavis is as immature as the young girls she writes books for, and it’s arguably a little too obvious a comparison to draw upon, but that does help to give the film a heightened sense of place. While grounded in a realism for the most part, one can’t help but look to Reitman’s film as a subversive take on the fairytale, albeit with Cinderella switched at birth with one of the ugly sisters. Instances of animal cruelty and drink driving (and alcoholism in general) are slighted over, again lending to this overall atmosphere of surreality.

Theron is surrounded by a solid supporting cast. Patton Oswalt provides a refreshingly authentic portrayal of the geek on screen. His Matt Freehauf feels legitimate, an action-figure customising man-child, with an articulately presented backstory that explains his situation effectively. Patrick Wilson is great as the ex-boyfriend that the delusional Mavis is convinced still loves her. The film has a great score too, with Teenage Fanclub’s ‘The Concept’ being something of a theme for the movie, it’s recurrent use charting the lead character’s path in a manner no different to any orchestral score. Elsewhere Muzak-esque renditions of early-90′s grunge and alternative rock set the tone.

Young Adult suggests that Jason Reitman is developing in a genuinely interesting direction, moving away from the slightly MOR feel of Up In The Air. It’s his boldest work since his debut, and by proxy his most interesting too.

It was some 11 years after the dawn of the talkie before Charles Chaplin made the leap to dialogue-driven sound film. While City Lights and Modern Times were very much “sound” films, they lacked the one key ingredient that most associate with the jump; the spoken word. With The Great Dictator audiences finally heard the “tramp” speak.

It’s actually a little disconcerting hearing Charlie Chaplin speak for the first time. From mute to softly spoken English man in the flash of an eye, it’s actually quite easy to understand why Chaplin was so apprehensive about leaving behind the days of old. Citing communication to the international masses as his reasoning, Chaplin maintained an insistence on dialogue-free cinema for far longer than any of his contemporaries, and was arguably the lone voice (pun intended) to successfully make the leap on an A-list level.

The Great Dictator has the feel of a genuine Epic Hollywood production. Introduced via a grand orchestral driven score, reminiscent of the finest that De Mille ever used, and accompanied via a narration mimicking that of a newsreel announcer, the film takes place over a number of years, from the fields of the first World War through to the eve of what would be the second. That Chaplin chooses to set his film in the fictional land of Tomania was a political necessity, given the controversial standing of Adolf Hitler and Nazi Germany in the US at the time when the film went in to production (America wasn’t involved in the war at this point, and were attempting to remain politically ambiguous).

While Chaplin may have added dialogue to his repertoire of comedy, and while the films crux most certainly rests upon the lengthy speeches that punctuate the film, he most certainly maintained the visual heavy, sight gags that his earlier work relied upon. As the film opens we are introduced to the world of The Great Dictator, it’s heightened sense of self via an exaggerated and over the top manned gun, all cogs and malfunctioning gears, in a sequence that harks back to the “technology-out-of-control” mantra of the opening reel of Modern Times. With a certain irony, this ridiculous weapon of war causes more hassle for those attempting to harm others with it, as opposed to the intended victims. It’s the kind of set piece that one would expect from the little tramp. The visual led comedy is maintained throughout the films opening section; in that act alone we have the famous gag in which a grenade somehow manages to fall down Chaplin’s everyman soldier’s jacket sleeve, and a section revolving around a pair of characters unknowingly flying upside down. It’s fascinatingly purely visual humour, especially when one takes in to account just how much of a statement Chaplin-In-Sound essentially was.

The visually rich comedy scenarios are presented with the kind of immaculate and aesthetic beauty that one would expect from the Chaplin this period. The most remarkable sequence would have to be the one in which Chaplin’s soldier wanders through the “fog of war”, a proverb made actual by his eye for atmosphere. As a constructed work The Great Dictator impresses. Techniques such as the utilization of newsreel conventions to indicate the passing of time, coupled with a successful mastery in the presentation of the horror of the situation work really well; the storming of the ghetto is genuinely frightening, and is a sequence that wouldn’t have felt out of place in Rome, Open City. The Great Dictator was filmed in Hollywood, yet a sparse European feel is present in the topography.

The one area where the film really suffer is in its pacing. This is endemic of the struggles faced by many of the filmmakers who were working at the time of the great transition from shorts to feature length in the late teens had, and bears the hallmarks of a filmmaker trying to adapt to something new. Funnily enough Chaplin made the jump to feature successfully, it was only when dialogue was introduced that it became an issue.

Chaplin as a performer is often accused of being rather one note, and of being one whose repertoire was hardly diverse, yet The Great Dictator shows just what he could be capable of (as did the work that followed). His dual performance here, as the characters of the barber and of Hynkel, the fascist dictator of Tomania, and clear analogue of Hitler, couldn’t be more diverse, with the subtleties of each performance separating the two entirely. The key is ego; both performances take place, in part at least, in front of mirrors. The tyrannical performer directly seeks out narcissism, whereas the barber is placed in front of one by the very nature of his work: a suitable epitaph for a new period in the life of the performer, as Chaplin took one last look at the persona of old before heading out in a different direction.

The BAFTA's, the "jewel" in the crown of the British awards season the BAFTA's are just around the corner. Orange are sponsoring this years event,  and to tie-in the French telecommunications giants have created the Orange Film Pulse, a hub for interactive activity revolving around the big night. Collating reviews of all of the nominated films (alongside everything else being discussed via social media in the UK), as well as tweets and the like, the Film Pulse is a statistics heaven, and ought to give an indication as to where the public opinion is leaning, if not that of the judges themselves.

As it stands Hope Lies at 24 Frames Per Second favourite Michel Hazanavicius' The Artist is leading the way, surprising no one, with the likes of Alexandr Payne's The Descendants and Martin Scorsese's Hugo following close behind. Perhaps a little more surprising is the inclusion of The Lives Of Others on the list, the former Academy Award winner brought back in to the public limelight in part thanks to it featuring as part of Orange's "To Go" promo campaign. As with the ubiquitous Orange Wednesday campaign, Orange To Go brings cinema to a wider audience. 

As we head in to BAFTA night join Hope Lies at 24 Frames Per Second on the evening itself for live reaction. While the nominated films do still leave a lot to be desired (the exclusion of Terrence Malick's The Tree Of Life being a particularly painful omission) it's fantastic to see a film like Drive walk away with so much recognition. 

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This week Jason Julier takes a look at a piece of silent cinema from Japan. 

Japanese films from the silent era are a rare breed thanks to a combination of natural disasters particularly the Kanto Earthquake of 1923, war and the problems associated with old film stock. In the West despite the lists of ‘missing films’ from this era, generally we’re very fortunate to have the body of work left today that still exists for viewing. When you review the locations of newly rediscovered films, these vary across the globe including Australia, Russia, Germany and South America. Japanese films were not exported until the 1950’s and this means film stock was concentrated in a specific geographical location. The end result is that print distribution was very limited and the chances of survival without the backdrop of an export market are extremely slim.

In Japan what remains is merely a fragment of film output, which was estimated to have produced over 7000 films in the 1920’s alone. Estimates are that just 1% has survived with the West also playing its part in the destruction of this heritage. For a quick example consider the work of none other than Yasujiro Ozu, as approximately 19 of his early films are lost or incomplete. This represents a huge chunk of his filmography and is indicative of other directors from this period, most notably Sadao Yamanaka who is reduced to a mere footnote with only 3 films left in existence.

Japanese studios on the whole were careless regarding storage and many silent films were never seen again after their theatrical release. The Allied forces managed to destroy most of what was left not only through ferocious bombing campaigns in 1945, but also via censorship. The Nazi’s may have burned books, but during the American occupation in 1946, it was decided to burn 225 films that were deemed to be dangerous. Yes, some of these films would have indeed reflected the growing sense of nationalism in the 1930’s within Japan, but we can only speculate at what was lost. Particularly as what remains today offers a glimpse of some of the most stunning and memorable examples of the silent film genre, mostly removed from the influence of Europe and America.

That’s enough of the history lesson; instead this week’s film is unique in cinema and even managed to appear in Mark Cousins series A Story of Film recently. Kurutta Ippeiji, is known in the West as A Page of Madness or can also be translated as “A Page Out of Order”, which also works within the context of the film itself. Released in 1926 and financed by director Teinosuke Kinugasa who almost became bankrupt because of it. A Page of Madness clearly influenced by some of the avant-garde expressionist films from Germany and elsewhere which were shown in Japan around this time. Kinugasa may have taken some inspiration from these works and with colleagues created a bold film that is uniquely Japanese and deals with institutional psychiatry and the emotional impact on all involved. This film would never have existed within the Japanese studio system, so we must be thankful for the resourcefulness of everyone involved in raising the funds to complete filming. It was well received but due to its origins outside of the Japanese studio system, Kinugasa struggled to distribute the film. It was only due to the influence of the notable Benshi (more about this later) Musei Tokugawa, that the film received a premier in Tokyo at the Musashinokan cinema, known for showing films outside of Japan.

Why psychiatry? Well, Kinugasa was originally driven by style and the need to pursue this visual approach and the setting that made most sense was one of madness. This in turn opened up the potential for dream sequences, deranged imagery and an assault on the senses as we ventured into the minds of the afflicted. The danger with such a backdrop is that events become incoherent and without substance. The film was based on an initial treatment by author Yasunari Kawabata where we follow a retired sailor who has returned home after initially leaving his family behind to see the world as a young man. He takes a janitor job in a lunatic asylum so that he can spend more time with his wife who is an inpatient. His feelings of regret, guilt and sadness are obvious as he sees the state of his wife who seems oblivious to everything. The remainder of his family are affected by his sudden departure and from what we see, try to continue life as if he never returned. The only one who tries to break this spell is his grandson, who seems delighted that he has returned alive from his epic voyage.

The meanings within the film, its structure, the characters and narrative have been widely debated. This is partially because when it was released in 1926 the tradition was to have a Benshi within the theatre that would provide the narrative for what was unfolding onscreen. A Benshi did not consult a script or studios notes, instead they brought their own opinions to the narrative, often performing the roles of various onscreen characters. They were an extension of the film and a bridge from traditional Japanese theatre and a huge draw for cinema goers in their own right. The Benshi were popular in Japan and from what is known about the release of A Page of Madness, the famous Benshi, Musei Tokugawa met with Kinugasa’s approval during its theatrical run in Tokyo. With the film not having title cards (in this version) or the methods we associate with communicating the storyline in silent film, the role of the Benshi would have been paramount in guiding viewers through this bizarre spectacle.

The film itself was considered lost for many decades until it was discovered apparently in Kinugasa’s garden shed of all places in 1971, where he had stashed it for safekeeping with the threat of World War 2 imminent. The director thankful for his garden retreat set about reissuing the film and oversaw a new musical accompaniment, which is as dazzling and inventive as the onscreen imagery. The discovery of this lost masterpiece meant that we could finally appreciate the uniqueness of A Page of Madness. Putting aside the restoration soundtrack, in a modern context it plays out like an experimental pop video of recent times. Startling black and white imagery, with almost every camera, lighting and editing trick known to a young Japanese director in the 1920’s thrown into this mesmerising melting pot spectacle.

Now I should take a moment to highlight what Kinugasa apparently did when he had discovered the original print of A Page of Madness. By all accounts having the original version of the film in his hands was not enough. Instead the director set about reediting the theatrical cut to create a more avant-garde version, which excised the more mainstream drama segments of the film in an attempt (I presume) to rewrite history. Originally screened at 18fps, this 1970’s re-evaluation runs at 24fps and this accounts for its shorter running time, but there is undoubtedly footage missing. While Kinugasa has every right to create a ‘directors cut’ or should I suggest an ‘avant-garde’ cut, we may never see the film as it was originally presented.

A Page of Madness is an explosion of invention. Strong performances from the main cast members particularly Masao Inoue, hold your onscreen attention. The set designs are indicative of the avant-garde feel of the film; its use of movement and dance becomes hypnotic and provocative. Who is the dancing woman in the neighbouring cell? Why does she dance ferociously until her body collapses from the torment? Kinugasa handles the topic of madness and mental health with care, refusing to fall into the trap of a ‘mad doctor’ or invasive experiments. For the majority of the film, the inpatients and their carers seem happy with the containment. Through the use of dreams and nightmares we can peer into their minds and see their motivations and regrets. For the janitor left to reflect on his actions as a young man he has much to consider, as do we having experienced this wonderful film, even in this reimagined version it retains a unique, haunting and hypnotic quality.

While it might seem like an unusual place to begin a celebration of the work of Charles Chaplin, no film in the directors body of work represents the esoteric and hectic nature of his life than A Countess From Hong Kong. That summation is not necessarily connected to the films content, but more so the conceptual standing of the piece within his oeuvre.

In 1967, at the time of the release of A Countess From Hong Kong Chaplin hadn’t directed for a decade. Channeling an earlier, uncompleted film called Stowaway, a film whose troubled production began when Chaplin was toiling with the onset of sound cinema in 1930, A Countess From Hong Kong sees the director collaborate with Marlon Brando, Sophia Loren as well as his son, a surprisingly likeable Sydney Chaplin. The film tells of Loren’s formerly titular stowaway, an exiled member of a Russian aristocracy living a hellish existence in Hong Kong, and her attempts to flee her situation by sneaking aboard a cruise liner making its way to the USA. Brando is the American Ambassador to Saudi-Arabia, and resident of the cruise ship, who eventually falls for the woman, in spite of his professional leanings, and in spite of his marriage. Should the presence of Loren’s Countess be discovered in his cabin and it would have terrible implications for his professional future, in which there’s talk of him one day occupying the White House. As such, much of A Countess Of Hong Kong revolves around the situation present, the limitations of the films location (much of the film takes place solely on the cruise ship) dictating that the work plays out like the archetypical situation comedy. The sitcom aesthetics obviously have their drawbacks at times, but with Chaplin’s eye for a gag, and his (generally) immaculate sense of pacing (when it comes to a comedy routine, if not plot), the film holds a certain charm.

The Chaplin hallmarks are, by and large, present and correct. Lavish sets are accompanied by a beautiful score (eventually turned in to a hit single by Petula Clark) and a number of sequences, generally revolving around the usual Chaplin-isms of manner and behaviour could have come from any number of the filmmakers earlier films (a situation involving sea-sickness is rendered perfectly via visuals, the spoken word almost irrelevant). When dialogue leads the film is liable to fall in to a slumber at times, but such is the nature of the tramp. The problem lies, and is exemplified best, in the scene in which Loren’s Stowaway is first discovered. The audio track of the film becomes far too concerned with the clumsy dialogue, and the lack of any non-diegetic sound is actually disconcerting. The non-diegetic was Chaplin’s greatest ally in the move to sound. He’d already, like many other headline filmmakers, being providing theatres with score sheets and recordings of soundtracks for his movies some years before the onset of sound, so one really notices a lack of it within his work. The same complaint can be made with The Great Dictator, it’s lengthy dialogue-driven scenes not always hitting the mark. 

While many have levelled criticism’s at the films visual palette over the years, A Countess From Hong Kong is nothing if not a film driven by noteworthy cinematography. While it can be a little one note due to the restricted use of location (a hurdle for any situation comedy) it isn’t fair to say that there isn’t anything of value in there. Visually A Countess From Hong Kong is especially notable for being Chaplin’s only colour film and the only one not shot in the Academy ratio of 1.37:1. As swansongs go, its far from the greatest, but A Countess From Hong Kong remains an interesting final work from one of the true masters of the cinema.

Please feel free to use the comments section below to let us know if we’ve missed anything. Monday Blu(e)s and DVD’s is produced in association with Film@Home, the British Video Association’s digital hub for the promotion of Blu-ray. More information on Film@Home can be found on their Facebook page.

Disc Of The Week

An Affair To Remember – Leo McCarey’s most famous work, if not his finest (click here for that) makes a belated appearance on Blu-ray. The story itself is well worn, combining McCarey’s trademark mixture of heart and cutting, and comes complete with a wealth of extras, thus far unseen in the UK.

Drive – Nicolas Winding Refn’s Drive might just be the most popular film of 2011, if the vocal majority of Twitter are to be believed. We liked it a lot on theatrical release, but found that it didn’t hold up quite as much on subsequent viewings (Don’t get us wrong, it is very, very good). I’m not sure we can recommend this home video release though. Refn has stated before now that a Special Edition in in the pipeline, complete with substantial extras, so it might be worth holding out for. Read our full review here.

Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy – Another of 2011′s real crowd pleasers, Tomas Alfredson’s reinvigorated take on the seminal John le Carré spy novel was a fantastic success, and one whose quality was reflected by a fantastic public reaction here in the UK. Gary Oldman is on fine form, with support turns from Benedict Cumberbatch, Tom Hardy and Colin Firth all noteworthy. Read our full review here.

Win Win – We still haven’t gotten around to Win Win, in spite of the pedigree of the filmmaker behind it. Tom McCarthy’s earlier works, the fantastic The Station Agent and 2008′s The Visitor remain perennial favourites of Hope Lies at 24 Frames Per Second, so it’s a mystery as to why this has eluded us for so long.

A Bigger Splash – Were we come from David Hockney is the archetypical “Big Deal”. Perhaps our hometowns greatest hero, anything with the artist’s fingerprints on will always draw our attention. A Bigger Splash, named for what is perhaps Hockney’s most famous work of the period in which the film was made, is a fantastic docu-drama of sorts, and features appearances from all manner of notable figures from the period. It’s fantastic to see a film like this given such lavish treatment, courtesy of the BFI.

The Tin Drum – The Arrow Academy stumbles on, with this release of Volker Schlöndorff’s seminal New German Cinema classic The Tin Drum. While their output might not be as reliable authoritative as some of their boutique rivals, this remains a welcome package.

Alien – Lord knows why anyone would purchase this latest release of Ridley Scott’s Alien. We’re not disputing the quality of the film, but at a price point that practically matches that of the mammoth, and landmark 6-disc Blu-ray Anthology from last year we can see no reason why anyone would pick this up instead. BUY THE BOX SET! You won’t regret it.

Want to manage your rental list on the go? The LOVEFiLM iPhone app let’s you do just that. So next time you’re waiting for the bus, instead of playing Snake you can now find and queue what you want to watch from over 70,000 titles including films, TV and games

Recognition among like-minded individuals is a key component in development. If we know that which we do is considered not just right and proper, but also exceptional, by those who share most closely that frame of mind, then this will inform how we continue. Awards perform a very real and tangible recognition of skills, so it is always odd that some choose to dismiss awards as “industry back-slapping”. Well, yes, that’s how awards work. The Academy Award Nominations were announced on Tuesday and, as commented upon at the time, witnessing reactions live via social networking sites such as Twitter, there was a real sense of a cycle at play.

Excitement. Anticipation is always the best feeling: the sense of the unknown is palpable and exciting. Waiting to see what films one has seen and loved have been recognised, which actors and actresses, directors, costume designers: whatever our field of interest, we all have ideas of what should or shouldn’t be included. Waiting to see who will be destined to have their names preceded by “Oscar Nominee” on trailers forever more is for film fans, good stuff.

Outrage. This stage of the cycle is inevitable. There will be films missed out for major awards (Drive, Senna to name just two that were largely or entirely overlooked) and films included that defy logic. (Apparently these include Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, which given it stars Tom Hanks and Sandra Bullock, I thought was going to be The Nicest Film Ever Made until someone mentioned it was about 9/11.) Twitter was filled with bile and apoplexy at the films or stars missed or included because, how very dare they, they were not identical choices to that the individual complainant would have chosen.

Indifference. Of course, once the initial reactions die down, there is the distancing mechanism that has people using the complaints mentioned at the start: dismissive comments about awards themselves. How the Oscars are political; they don’t give a true picture of cinema; they always award people for a career not a film, because they missed their chance at the proper time (I’m looking at you, Mr Scorsese).

It’s an amusing cycle to watch in microcosm unfold on Twitter, as happened on Tuesday. Betrayal is a loaded word, but it does seem at least counterintuitive to complain about a process that ultimately celebrates film. The Academy Awards seem to have grown into this persona of the epitome of entertainment; the final word in film. Of course some films will get missed while about other nominations we are incredulous. It is the collective opinion of one group of people largely from Southern California which, by its nature, will be less diverse than the larger world public. The Academy Awards may not give the definitive picture of cinema, but they do cut a slice through film history. Like rings on a tree trunk, the Best Picture winners from the last 84 years give a picture of the world, or at least the USA, at that point. In the bicentennial year, an underdog film about an underdog character broke through to win Best Picture. When America was at war in Korea, a Jingoistic piece of musical fluff starring Gene Kelly as An American In Paris won Best Picture. At the first Academy Awards during the Second World War, a huge sweeping drama depicting a very different war attained that top prize.

It’s a frivolous look through history, but a curious one to make. There is arguably not enough diversity in the awards (whither comedy?) but it remains a living part of Hollywood history. Ignore the naysayers, I intend to be watching the Awards come February 26. I’ll be excited, I’ll possibly be outraged. But I won’t be dismissive.

Tim Popple works as a verger and has been involved in churches and cathedrals his whole life. He is also the editor ofThe 24th Frame, and can also be found on Twitter.

Universal Pictures are 100 years old this year, so to celebrate we’re going to watch 100 films from the legendary studio. Those of thee that follow us on Twitter might have noticed that we live tweeted along to Justin Lin’s Fast Five last night, with the hashtag #HopeLiesUni100, to kick start the whole thing. While it made for an interesting counterpart to the weeks earlier Two-Lane Blacktop, thats about the only thing of any real note that can be said about it (catch up by clicking here).

Aside from last night’s adventure in celluloid, we’ve also taken in screenings of -

Vertigo (Alfred Hitchcock)

Two-Lane Blacktop (Monte Hellman)

The Incredible Hulk (Louis “son of François” Leterrier)

I imagine that quite a significant chunk of the 100 films we see this year will be Hitchcock flicks, thanks to the fact that they either produced or now own many of them. As mentioned before, follow the hashtag #HopeLiesUni100 to keep up with the whole thing.

Oh, and please feel free to suggest Universal films that you’d like to see us cover!