Our beloved Maurice Moss (from Channel 4’s The IT Crowd) has only gone and made a film. Possibly jealous of Chris O’ Dowd’s (Roy’s) success in Hollywood films, such as Dinner for Schmucks and Katharine Parkinson’s (Jen’s)…um,  Malteasers ads, Richard Ayoade’s directorial debut, the coming-of-age comedy, Submarine, comes out this March. This is Ayoade’s first foray into directing a full-length feature, his previous directing experience seen in television series Garth Marenghi’s Darkplace and in various music videos for the likes of Vampire Weekend (all of which have been rather excellent). The film was recently screened at Toronto International Film Festival as well as the Dublin International Film Festival, with much praise for the first-time film director. So how will Submarine fare? Well, all indications would suggest magnificently.

The film, based on Joe Dunthorne’s novel of the same name (touted as “the greatest coming-of age story since Catcher in the Rye”), deals with the trials and tribulations of misguided, Max Fischer-esque, fifteen year-old Welshman, Oliver Tate. The primary cast is made up of young newcomers: our hero, Oliver Tate is played by Craig Roberts and his first love, Jordana, portrayed by Yasmin Paige. Other more well known faces from the British film scene also star, including Paddy Considine (In America) as a hippy life coach, who tries to seduce our protagonist’s mother (portrayed by An Education’s Sally Hawkins), and Oliver’s dad is played by Noah Taylor, who not-so-long-ago played the father of Charlie Bucket in Tim Burton’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

The most well known faces tied to the film are behind the camera, with Ben Stiller acting as executive producer (apparently he’s a big Garth Marenghi’s Darkplace fan) and Alex Turner of the Arctic Monkeys writing a number of songs for the film. Though Stiller is apparently confused as to how he came to read the script of Submarine or, indeed, how he became involved at all, he is highly complimentary of Ayoade’s film, describing him as “annoyingly talented.” Alex Turner and Richard Ayoade were already an established collaborative duo, with Ayoade directing Arctic Monkey’s recent live DVD. Turner’s tracks, which happen to be his first solo effort proper, are quite lovely and tie with the whole ambience of the film well. Turner wrote five original tracks for the film, among them Hiding Tonight and Stuck on the Puzzle, all of which seem to match the leisurely, gentle pace of the film.

Recently released clips and trailers promise a pretty unique viewing experience. The trailer, back-dropped by some ambient French music, clearly introduces the core components of Oliver Tate’s world (as well as the offbeat comic nature of the film): a pyromaniac girlfriend, the ‘storm and stress’ of adolescence, the breakdown of his parents’ relationship, with a little aside reminding us of the dignity of the film industry (“It’s really rude to leave a film before its finished” “To who?” “The film makers” “How are they going to know?” “They just do…” “How?” “They do!”).

From what I have seen, promotion around the film has been limited, but has been greatly hyped nonetheless. Comparisons have been made between Ayoade and greats such as Wes Anderson and Jean- Luc Godard, because of his pace, style and attention to detail. It would seem that an air of delightful creepiness seems to come across from all of the promotional material for the film. Ayoade seems to have captured the awkward, humorous self-consciousness of the protagonist excellently.

All things considered, Submarine promises to be an extremely original piece of cinema. Ayoade is one of the most talented British comic writers and actors working today, so anyone who is familiar with his work is well aware of his capacity for brilliance. With any film hyped by the critics, as this film has been, there is some degree of caution among audiences, but I cannot help but be enthusiastic about this film. Considering it has not even got as far as cinema release, hopefully I’m not being premature in saying  Ayoade’s endearing new take on the coming-of-age tale is real reason for excitement.

Welcome to the final installment of the Ents section as presented by myself & Mssr. Murph – it’s been pretty awesome to run a full 6 (!) issues this academic year and it’s been especially awesome to write Ents. In honour of the occasion, and because I’m pretty cheesy, I thought it’d be pretty fitting to wrap up Motley’s Ents Section 2010/11 by recounting some of our favourite movie endings. Warning – this may get teary. Oh, and spoilers ahoy!

Amadeus

Milos Forman’s 1984 adaptation of Peter Shaffer’s play is probably one of the more beautiful, entertaining and generally good films of all time: it tells the (mostly fictionalised) story of how Mozart (here portrayed by Tom Hulce as childish, vulgar and incredibly talented – with a very annoying laugh) was (indirectly) murdered by a musical rival at the time, the scheming and insanely jealous Salieri (F. Murray Abraham). The final scene opens with the conclusion of Salieri’s story – he is now infirm and confined to an asylum long after Mozart’s death. The young priest to whom he confessed is visibly shaken, disturbed and clinging to his crucifix – as Salieri is wheeled out of the room, he pauses to speak to the priest. Mozart’s Piano Concerto in D Minor creeps into the background. “I will speak for you, Father,” he says. “I speak for all mediocrities in the world. I am their champion. I am their patron saint.” The final shots are of the ancient Salieri, once a great composer, being wheeled down the corridor of the asylum, crying out to the madmen he’s surrounded with – “Mediocrities of the world – I absolve you!” – before leaning back. He closes his eyes, folds his hand, and opens his mouth. Mozart’s laugh emerges. Fade to black. The scene gave me goosebumps the first time I watched it – a disturbing end to an incredible film.

Midnight Cowboy

Midnight Cowboy is an odd one. It’s the story of Joe (Jon Voight), a young Texan who comes to New York to make it as a male prostitute. He meets Ratso (Dustin Hoffman), who initially scams him out of money before the two make friends in the face of extreme poverty, unemployment and a harsh winter. Ratso, while a shady character, is also sick: he wants to make it out of New York and with worsening health, the two attempt to hire Joe out as a stud. Increasingly desperate and after a string of disturbing sexual encounters, Joe beats and robs a customer, and the two depart for Miami on a bus. However, Ratso is incredibly ill, and just as Joe wonders aloud about their new life in Miami, he realises Ratso has died beside him. Joe alerts the bus driver, who replies there is nothing left to do but continue to Miami, and Joe sits beside his dead friend, watching the landscape change outside. Seriously sombre stuff after an hour and a half of gritty drama, but highly recommended.

Being There

“Life is a state of mind” are the last lines of this brilliant film, starring Peter Sellers as Chance the Gardener, a simple-minded middle-aged man who, after years of peaceful isolation tending the garden of a wealthy townhouse in Washington DC, is turned out on the streets when its owner dies. Chance, dressed well but old-fashioned, wanders aimlessly until he is hit by the car of Ben Rand, a wealthy businessman and close aide to the President. Mistaking Chance the Gardener for “Chauncey Gardiner” (a mispronunciation), Rand and his wife (Shirley Maclaine) also mistake Chance’s simple musings about gardening (“As long as the roots are not severed, all is well. And all will be well in the garden”) for sage comments on the economy. He becomes an advisor to the President, appears on television and is offered book deals – all the while oblivious to what occurs around him. Finally, the terminally ill Rand dies: the final scene is his funeral. Chance wanders away once more, tends to a sapling and continues to stroll across the surface of a small lake. A few strides in, he pauses, pushes his umbrella down through the water as if to test its depth, and continues on his way. Is any interpretation sufficient? Roger Ebert says this of Being There: “The movie presents us with an image, and while you may discuss the meaning of the image, it is not permitted to devise explanations for it. Since Ashby does not show a pier, there is no pier – a movie is exactly what it shows us, and nothing more.”

Kids

I don’t like Kids. I’m pretty hard to shock when it comes to movies, but there’s something really ugly about this one – also, the early 90s clothes and jargon make it a hard one to relate to, whatever your socioeconomic status. That said, however, its ending is really something -  it’s the story of Telly, a 17 year old skater from New York who really likes sex but only deflowers virgins on the premise that this will protect him from STDs. Telly’s friends are cinema’s stereotypical teenaged sex, booze and drug addicts: all except Jenny (Chloe Sevigny), who has only ever had sex with Telly and has just discovered that she has HIV. For the rest of the movie, she attempts to find the also-HIV positive Telly, who has since had sex with many young girls, eventually finding him at a house party, having sex with a 13 year old girl. Exhausted and under the influence of party drugs, she passes out only for Telly’s friend Casper (Justin Pierce) to rape her, thus exposing himself to HIV. The final shot opens on a naked Casper, who wakes up, looks around in disbelief and asks the camera, “Jesus Christ, what happened?” It’s shocking and a little viewer-exploitative, but it works.

Some Like it Hot

It’s hard not to love Some Like it Hot: if you’ve not seen it, get out and get it, now – even if you don’t like older movies, SLiH is a treat. Mostly because it’s aged extremely well – you’ll get every one of the jokes, all the laughs are still intact and man, Marilyn Monroe is very sexy here. It’s the story of two musicians, Jerry (Jack Lemmon) and Joe (Tony Curtis) who witness a gangster shooting and flee the scene, disguising themselves as Josephine (Curtis) and Daphne (Lemmon) and joining a woman’s touring band. There they meet Sugar Kane (Monroe), whom Curtis falls in love with. He proceeds to disguise himself as a millionaire to win her over, while Daphne is unwillingly romanced by Osgood, another millionaire. It’s very zany, very clever, wonderfully witty – and its final scene is its best. Joe reveals himself to Sugar, who loves him anyway, while Osgood and the still-disguised Jerry escape in a boat. Jerry reveals “herself” to Osgood -

Jerry: Osgood, I’m gonna level with you. We can’t get married at all.

Osgood: Why not?

Jerry: Well, in the first place, I’m not a natural blonde.

Osgood: Doesn’t matter.

Jerry: I smoke! I smoke all the time!

Osgood: I don’t care.

Jerry: Well, I have a terrible past. For three years now, I’ve been living with a saxophone player.

Osgood: I forgive you.

Jerry: [Tragically] I can never have children!

Osgood: We can adopt some.

Jerry: But you don’t understand, Osgood!

[Pulls off wig]

Jerry: I’m a man!

Osgood: Well, nobody’s perfect!

And they ride off into the sunset. End scene. What a perfect close.

The best way to describe the reaction to the truly execrable film that is Inception is to compare it to a self fulfilling prophecy. When the Soviet Army crossed the Vistula in 1945, many ethnic Germans living in areas east of Germany desperately fled their homes in hopes of reaching mainland Germany before the Russians. Their desperate scramble was fuelled by their own fear of actual atrocities committed by the advancing Red Army, but also by their own Nazi government’s propaganda which was actually intended to stiffen these Germans’ resolve to resist the invasion. Alas, the horrific nature of these atrocities used as a propaganda tool merely induced panic and many of these retreating ethnic Germans became subject to these atrocities themselves when the fast moving Red Army units caught up with these refugees.

In this case the atrocity is merely a Hollywood film. The groundwork for this self fulfilling prophecy was laid months before the film’s release, with a trailer that genuinely suggested something intelligent and challenging would be forthcoming from the director of Memento and The Prestige. Instead, we got a monumentally simple and dull film which looked as though it had been directed by Michael Bay. The teaser trailer was specifically designed to echo or evoke the complex and labyrinthine structure of both Memento and The Prestige. This theory was re-enforced by a visit to the film’s official website in search of more information which only showed a constantly spinning top. This provocative and mysterious approach could easily be construed as pretentious or hollow unless the film itself delivered on its rather arch notions.

Another trope employed by the director/film executives was to ‘keep the plot secret’ and reveal as little as possible in the trailer. It would seem film goers’ expectations for summer releases has reached an all time low if they are receptive to equating secrecy with brilliant film-making. Proof that substantiates this theory is steeped in the aforementioned marketing tactics of the film, whereby they convinced most people that showing little amounted to a lot even though the actual film turned out to be the trailer itself; it was an inspired if insidious marketing strategy.

By constantly re-enforcing the idea that this film is special and unlike 90% of movies, which are merely their trailers, the audience believed Inception was a great film before entering the cinema. How else could a film get away with a few cheap looking action set pieces glued together with insipid dialogue such as ‘this is my last job’ or ‘we must stop Cillian Murphy before he or his company becomes an energy super-power’ or some other such drivel?

Above all this trash, above the mind numbingly boring and simple storyline, the laughable dialogue, Ellen Page, and prosaic action set pieces, spins that incessant top – like some over-wound toy ballerina tossed atop the flotsam of some wrecked garbage scow with the goddamn seagulls following close behind in the hope of some sardines.

Clint Eastwood’s Hereafter is an understated film about a delicate topic. In fact, it is so understated that it risks misleading much of the audience as to its intentions and implications, and frustrating the rest of us in the process. The central theme, unsurprisingly, is that of the eponymous afterlife. Eastwood threads a set of stories based around the primal desire for the great beyond and the human longing to communicate with those who have passed away. Everything we see is wholly suggestive and ambiguous, never committing to the reality (or lack thereof) of the characters’ observations, instead assuming that it is enough for us not to know or care whether an underlying truth is to be found in the characters’ shared sufferings and experiences.

Following in the vein of multi-stranded movies such as 2004’s Crash, the disparate subplots in Hereafter are brought together by a combination of chance and necessity (read: destiny?). Marie (Cecile de France) is a French television journalist who suffers a near-death experience as she almost drowns during a devastating tsunami, before being resuscitated; George (Matt Damon) is a middle-aged man who, so far as we can tell, genuinely considers himself able to communicate with the dead; and Marcus (Frankie McLaren) loses his twin brother Jason (George McLaren) to a car accident. Despite what we might expect given the overarching theme, there are hardly any remarkable events depicted for which we would have to lose our preconceptions. Near death experiences commonly result in reports of white light and a sense of peacefulness, and presumably there are at least some psychics who sincerely believe in their claims. We don’t have to accept anything out of the ordinary to buy into this story.

Equally, there is no major plot resolution to which we are led; the characters move slowly and inexorably towards one another without any real drama or event beyond the mundane reality of having to deal with the consequences of human mortality. Nothing is forced upon us, it is enough that the characters have genuine motivations and emotions. Peter Morgan, who wrote the screenplay, has stated that he does not believe in life after death. He didn’t need to in order to pen this story, because it’s irrelevant. The film doesn’t purport to demonstrate the otherworldly; instead impressing the view that the here-and-now is remarkable in its own right. In this sense Eastwood has made a subtly intelligent—if deceiving—picture. But in its lack of definite rhyme or reason, it fails to captivate us by committing itself, and it fails to excite us with a narrative that poses few questions and delivers even fewer answers. There is such a thing as too subtle.

Like every kid of the ’90s, my childhood comprised three things: Pokémon, penny sweets and Disney. While the former two are still decidedly awesome, the latter has declined so far into sheer crappiness that I just have to ask: what the hell happened?

The Lion King (1994) was the first film I ever saw in the cinema. I had just turned 5, and, although I was too much of a youngling to understand what was going on, I still recall being mesmerised by the whole thing. Looking back, all I can really remember are the bright colours and the fact that my sister was bawling. But damn, that movie was amazing.

The Lion King was my first foray into the Disney empire and succeeded in cementing my love for the studio forever more. It had everything Disney is famous for: an epic story, fully realised characters, comedy, horror, and sentiment. Not to mention a killer soundtrack, much of which today resides in my iTunes collection.

The aforementioned film is part of what is now termed The Disney Renaissance, a period of time when Disney could do no wrong. Running from the late 1980s to the late 1990s, releases included classics like Beauty and the Beast (1991), Aladdin (1992), and Pocahontas (1995). Every one of these films are widely regarded as Disney’s finest. In particular, Beauty and the Beast, which many believe to be the best thing Disney has ever done, was the first animated film ever to be nominated the Best Picture at the Oscars.

The Disney Renaissance came to an end in 1999 with the release of Tarzan. This was the moment when Disney began its long-lasting decline; when it turned from sacred to shit. Sure, Tarzan was great, but nothing beyond this has really wowed me since. Well, one has, but we’ll get to that later.

The 2000s, as far as I’m concerned, is when Disney lost the respect it took all those years to instil. Atlantis: The Lost Empire? Crap. Treasure Planet? Crap. Home on the Range? Crap! To add insult to injury, the company tried to save its own ass in 2006 by buying the perpetually awesome Pixar. When I learned of the acquisition I was terrified: how could Pixar, a studio with a perfect track record, allow itself to be tainted by Disney, a studio that hadn’t released anything worth watching since ten years before? Alas, it was ok: while Disney would oversee all projects, creative control would remain in the hands of Pixar.

For the last few years I had entirely forgotten about Disney. An endless string of disappointment had left me with little faith in the company, and I moved on to bigger and better things, namely the studio mentioned five or six times in the previous paragraph.

And then 2011 came. And with it, a movie so brilliant it has undone much of the irritation brought on in the noughties: Tangled. Based on Rapunzel, Tangled retells the classic tale in a witty and exciting way. But it’s not just that. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but Tangled has succeeded in recapturing the magic classic Disney features boast. That may be down to the fact that the movie cost a staggering $260 million to make, but perhaps the people at Disney have rediscovered something they had for such a long time lost. Maybe, just maybe, the Disney we all know and once loved is back. Hopefully, the studio’s next release doesn’t prove Tangled to be nothing more than a diamond in the roughest of the rough.

The somewhat abstract subject of “awkward moments” in film could encompass a wide range of examples; from the ‘special’ hair mousse used by Cameron Diaz in ‘There’s Something About Mary’ to Joe Pesci’s excruciating grilling of Ray Liotta concerning the nature of his comedy in ‘Goodfellas’, to the verbal torture of an elderly shop-owner by the psychopath Anton Chigurh in ‘No Country for Old Men’, you have a veritable cavalcade of cringe-worthy moments in recent film history.

However the one “awkward moment” that towers above the rest is not an actual moment. Rather, it is an entire film – and that film is ‘Fight Club’. ‘We’ve all been raised on television to believe that one day we’d all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won’t. And we’re slowly learning that fact. And we’re very, very pissed off’.

‘Fight Club’ was a commercial flop and received mixed reviews from critics upon its release; its popularity was gained retroactively via massive DVD sales and a burgeoning cult following.  The reason behind its financial failure and its dubious critical reception, where some reviewers accused it of being right wing and malicious, is steeped in an awkward yet tacit admission by viewers and critics alike that the film is attacking the convention of cinema going and the nature of celebrity that feeds it.

With the exception of Funny Games, and probably some films I am unaware of, Fight Club was the first film, certainly the first mainstream film, to openly question and attack the fantasy land we all enter when we go to the cinema as a microcosm of problems on a social, political and economic scale that exist in Western society. ‘Why are you watching this?!’ ‘Don’t you have better things to do with your time and energy?!’ can easily be interpreted in Tyler Durden’s insidious introspection: ‘We’re consumers. We are by-products of a lifestyle obsession. Murder, crime, poverty, these things don’t concern me. What concerns me are celebrity magazines, television with 500 channels, some guy’s name on my underwear’.

The etymology of the word economics is the Greek term ‘oikon nomos’ which means household rules and therefore implies a responsibility to be borne by everyone in their own economic home in order that an economy itself can exist and prosper. ‘Fight Club’ attacks this generation’s abdication of this responsibility with zeal and posits the theory that the only way forward is for everything we’ve built to be destroyed: ‘I see all this potential, and I see squandering… an entire generation pumping gas, waiting tables; slaves with white collars. Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hate so we can buy shit we don’t need.’

To say that this philosophical/political outlook was met with awkwardness or unease by the people watching in the cinema would be an understatement; nobody wants to be told that they are not a superstar, let alone will never become one. The fact that in the 10 or so years that have passed since ‘Fight Club’ the likes of Facebook, Youtube and the X Factor have become household names and institutions that more directly feed this slavish need to feel that we are important ‘snowflakes’ and are on the cusp of stardom merely reinforces the aforementioned theory that Fight Club was an uber-awkward moment for cinema goers in Western society; Facebook is no more a communication tool than Fight Club is right wing. The cusp of stardom is merely their precipice of no surprise.

Hip-hop music has long busied itself with glamorising excess: champagne, jewellery and fashion have been some of the most common motifs of the genre, but while Kanye West has always been one of the most ostentatious, on MBDTF he adds depth to these superficial desires by offering a glimpse of the motivations and insecurities that drive him to seek such grandeur.

West has rarely been out of the news in the past year; between the notorious incident with Taylor Swift and his lengthy stream-of-consciousness-style ramblings on Twitter, it’s clear that Kanye has done a lot of soul-searching – and the result is a deeply introverted album. We see him wryly embrace his arrogance on ‘Runaway’ when he sings: “Let’s have a toast for the jerk-offs/ and how they never take work off.” On the opener ‘Dark Fantasy’, he opines that “The plan was to drink until the pain over/ But what’s worse, the pain or the hangover?” On ‘Blame Game’, he ponders his self-destructive inability to stay in a relationship while heavily distorted versions of his own voice argue back and forth.

‘Monster’ is a standout track with a dark, discordant beat that has West acknowledge his negative reputation, accompanied ably by Jay-Z who unleashes an assault on the younger rappers who profit from his name without showing him the respect he demands. However, the real star of this track is newcomer Nicki Minaj who delivers a stunningly bizarre verse in a range of voices and accents that is sure to put her firmly on the map as a force in the industry.

On ‘POWER’, Kanye struggles with the conflict between the childlike innocence that frees his creativity and the responsibility forced upon him by the negative consequences of his recklessness: “My childlike creativity, purity, and honesty is honestly being crowded by these grown thoughts/ Reality is catching up with me, taking my inner child, I’m fighting for custody.”

‘All of the Lights’ is a soaring trumpet-driven climax with a massive line-up of musical talent including Rihanna, Alicia Keys, Elton John, Elly Jackson, and, regrettably, Fergie of the Black Eyed Peas.

‘Lost in the World’ sees Bon Iver’s Justin Vernon join Kanye to reprise his haunting vocal from ‘Blood Bank’ before it exits to a lengthy sample of Gil Scott-Heron’s spoken word piece “Comment #1”, which poses the question, “Who will survive in America?” The America conjured up by Kanye is one of wild limitless hedonism, yet one senses his dissatisfaction, both with the state of society and his own personal life.

Kanye’s production shines throughout, and comparing the final version of the album’s tracks to early leaks or versions put out as part of Kanye’s G.O.O.D. Friday series shows how much subtle tweaking has gone into every beat.  His efforts were not in vain. In MBTDF Kanye has crafted a record that is sure to be considered a modern classic. Like the artist himself, “My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy” is complex, daring, over-ambitious, arrogant, yet insecure, but always completely fascinating.

You’ve gained half a stone in chocolate/turkey weight, the novelty has worn off that new gadget which was crammed into your stocking, and you’ve suddenly realised that your timetable now includes three 9a.m. starts and your day off on Friday is no more… That’s right: it’s January.

On the brighter side of things, the new releases in the music world will slowly start to creep out of the woodwork in the next few weeks (between now and March look out for REM and PJ Harvey, if nothing else!) and new bands will start to grace the music magazines, blogs and radio waves.

The BBC’s traditional curtain raiser to the year is their noted “Sound of…” poll, in which a group of “in the know” journalists put together a list of acts set to break in the next year. Sometimes they get it very right (50 Cent, Franz Ferdinand and Mika have all won) and sometimes they get it very wrong (the Datsuns, the Dead 60s, the Twang…)

Oddly enough, the Beeb are usually capable of comprising the list, but their winners are usually questionable. The Bravery fought off Bloc Party and the Kaiser Chiefs in 2005, only to enjoy a fraction of the sales of either. More recently, Little Boots topped the poll in 2009. Notable losers include Florence & the Machine and one Ms. Lady Gaga…

So, as is clear, winning is the not the ‘be all and end all’ of the “Sound of…” poll. This year’s list includes a handful of acts certain to break: The Vaccines (the rapturous energy and style of the Strokes and the Ramones reincarnate… again.), Warpaint (who have already enjoyed sizeable success with their debut release) and Anna Calvi (PJ Harvey, Nick Cave and Imelda May all rolled into one package).

They have hit the nail on the head with Clare Maguire, an act noted for intriguing covers that swamped YouTube last year and has already developed a huge following, while Mr. James Blake is a name that is familiar to some.

To those unfortunate to have missed out, he is a man who counts R. Kelly and the xx as influences in equal measure and has put together of the most subtle, sultry and soulful debut albums in years. It touches on the aforementioned xx, Volcano Choir and, in parts, Kanye’s more tender moments and is not to be missed. An early contender for “Best of 2011…”

On the pop side of things, the BBC has tipped Jessie J and the Princes of Leon (sorry, that should read: Mona. Nashville born, preacher father and stadium filling southern sounds…. Hmm…) to strut their stuff on the radio too.

Perhaps more interesting, however, is the acts who didn’t quite make the cut in the BBC’s eyes. Florrie is a drummer and singer-songwriter who has performed with Girls Aloud, the Pet Shop Boys, and many more in her short career to date. With a dedicated following already, she can be expected to make waves too. Tennis, Lia Ices, Cloud Nothings and Smith Westerns too have done the groundwork and should be set to make some noise this year.

Quite staggering is the omission of J. Cole, a German born, North Carolina raised hip-hop artist, notable for being Jay-Z’s first signing to Roc Nation. Jay-Z himself has tipped Cole to step up to the plate this year, largely due to his refreshing attitude for rapping about “real things”, rather than “worrying about “keepin’ it real” (Cole’s own words). His debut album is set for release in 2011 and should include the likes of ‘Simba’ and ‘Who Dat’. The most exciting new face in hip-hop since Kanye West? Maybe even since Jay-Z himself.

Closer to home, Ireland’s current boom is set to continue (musically, of course. Not financially. Sigh.) with the likes of Sean Kangataran, We Cut Corners and Deaf Joe all readying and releasing work, while we can keep our fingers crossed for Cork’s Toby Kaar and Ladydoll.

If nothing else, if you check out the list, at least you’ll have the satisfaction of saying “Who? Oh yeah, I heard them aaaages ago!” when they do hit big.

When Albert (Colin Firth), Duke of York and son of King George V (Michael Gambon), is asked to speak at the British Empire Exhibition held at Wembley Stadium, the crowd of listeners are sympathetic to the speaker and disappointed with his performance – Albert has a stammer which causes him pronounced humiliation (if you’ll pardon the pun). The increased speeches via radio required of monarchs result in his father, the King, pressurising him further to address the problem: as his father explains, monarchs must ingratiate themselves in people’s homes through the “devilish device”. They have been reduced to the “lowest, basest of all creatures” – actors.

Elizabeth (Helena Bonham-Carter) has tried several ‘specialists’ to aid her husband’s stutter, and she eventually finds Lionel Logue (Geoffrey Rush) in the “classifieds – next to ‘French model, Shepherd’s Market’” (go figure). Enlisting his help, she hopes that Albert will overcome his fear-induced stammer and, when required, reach his full potential as the heir of the British throne.

Approaching this film with high hopes, I didn’t want to be disappointed. Was the appraisal from critics just hype? Would Colin Firth deliver a good performance?  Would it be a boring historical film? Could it just be two hours of underwhelming cinema? Not a chance!

So, was the acting up to scratch? Put simply, Firth, Rush, and Bonham-Carter each offer one of their best performances to date. Guy Pearce as the, erm, ‘controversial’ successor to George V’s throne gave the impression of being younger than Albert, which, unfortunately, detracted from his position as an older brother – a fact that becomes prevalent when his father has died, and a later scene when he childishly ridicules Albert’s stammer. Michael Gambon as King George V was, unsurprisingly, the perfect actor for the role, and Timothy Spall’s appearance as Winston Churchill was a strange treat, adapting effortlessly to the role and, oddly enough, reminding me of Alfred Hitchcock…

One scene of the film which deserves a mention is when the full implication of the stammer is revealed – not during a publicspeech, but at his home. He shows great discomfort when asked for a bedtime story by his children, but his wife and children listen patiently until his tale has ended. It is a poignant scene of Albert’s love for his family, and an effective demonstration of his perseverance throughout his life. The title itself is another point of interest in that it is ambiguous: the King’s Speech relates to both Albert’s speech impediment and the ultimate speech he is to address to the British people at the end of the film.

There are many ways in which this could have gone wrong, but an incredible cast and an engaging script, combined with a harmonious soundtrack, proved this film to be a deserver of high praise (and perhaps a ‘hot-tip’ for some Oscar nominations?).

And remember, “I am a thistle-sifter. I have a sieve of sifted thistles and a sieve of unsifted thistles, because I am a thistle sifter”.

Tron: Legacy, the long awaited sequel to the kitschy 80s classic, has been met with some mixed reviews and a negative buzz from people. I suspended my absolute loathing for 3D and donned the plastic specs to go and see if what I’d heard was true. Did I just witness the worst film of the last year?

No. Unequivocally not.  It is by no means a great film but the negative vibe is hard to understand. For the most part Tron: Legacy is fairly mindless, action-filled, theme park ride of a movie. It zips along at a lovely little pace taking us from one neon visual extravaganza to the next, and features (for my money) some of the best 3D effects in any film I’ve seen. Unlike the blurry, snorefest of Avatar or the downright mess of Alice in Wonderland, the 3D in T:L is cleverly used for effect, kicking in only when our hero Sam enters the digitalised world of the Grid. This Wizard of Oz trick genuinely works as it really makes the other word stand out, if you’ll pardon the phrase. Unlike Avatar, T:L has no pretensions about being anything more than a glitzy popcorn flick.

T:L borrows heavily from Chris Nolan’s Batman films, minus the heaviness. The action scenes are a joy: Jeff Bridges is always watchable in his chilled-out, free-thinking, cyber-dude persona, and the music by Daft Punk lends the film an evocative 80s feel, blending their own singular style with Zimmer-like orchestration. The only thing that downright doesn’t work is the creepy de-aged version of Bridges, which never convinces and always unnerves.

The plot is wafer thin, the characters are a bit unmemorable (though the players give it their all), and I was bored by the third act, as there are only so many Lightcycle chases one can stand – but how does this separate T:L from pretty much every other big 3D action film out there? Why does it attract so much ire when it is by no means the worst offender in any of the categories where it falls down?

The main problem is just this; Tron: Legacy is not the long awaited sequel to Tron because, genuinely, it was not long awaited. No one ached to see the story continued. The only people leaving the cinema disappointed will be the people who bought into the cleverly manufactured nostalgia that the film’s promotion managed to create. They whipped up hype by making us nostalgic over a film that the majority of us haven’t seen.

Other than that the film is exactly what I expected, it’s a dazzling, exciting light-show that’s light on plot and heavy on fun. Sure the dialogue clunks along and you never really care for anyone who isn’t Jeff Bridges, but, honestly, what were you expecting? It was never going to reinvent the wheel. It’s a simple, fun, effects-filled piece of fluff that doesn’t really warrant further analysis, exactly like the original.

So lower your expectations grab the popcorn and enjoy. If you’d prefer something more psychologically engaging I hear Black Swan has a Natalie Portman/Mila Kunis sex scene…