Saturday, 28 March 2026

For what it's worth...




UK box office Top Ten (for the weekend of March 20-22, 2026):

1 (new) Project Hail Mary (12A) ***
2 (new) Dhurandhar: The Revenge (18)
3 (1) Hoppers (U) ****
4 (2) Reminders of Him (PG)
5 (new) Ready or Not 2: Here I Come (15)
6 (new) Aadu 3 (12A)
7 (3) How to Make a Killing (12A)
8 (4) Mother's Pride (12A) **
9 (6) Scream 7 (18)
10 (new) The Good Boy (15) ***

(source: BFI)

My top five:
1. The Killer
3. Romeo + Juliet [above]
4. Moulin Rouge!


DVD/Blu-Ray/Download top ten: 

1 (5) Sinners (15) ****
2 (2) Wicked: For Good (PG)
3 (17) One Battle After Another (15) ****
4 (14) Dune: Part One (12) **
5 (3) Shelter (15)
6 (29) Spider-Man: No Way Home (12) ***
7 (2) Zootropolis 2 (PG) ***
8 (20) Weapons (15) ***
9 (26) Hamnet (12) **
10 (18) The Super Mario Bros Movie (PG)


My top five: 
1. Saipan


Top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. Toy Story 2 (Sunday, Channel 4, 5.50pm)
2. The Sound of Music (Good Friday, BBC One, 2.30pm)
3. The Ten Commandments (Sunday, five, 11.40am)
4. The Prestige (Monday, BBC Two, 11pm)
5. Good Vibrations (Sunday, BBC Two, 12.05am)

Friday, 27 March 2026

Curious George: "Orwell: 2+2=5"


In an era of blandly streaming hagiography, the veteran Haitian filmmaker Raoul Peck has developed the distinguishing skill of using noted lives and known properties as a platform for addressing bigger, more pressing issues. 2017's I Am Not Your Negro stitched James Baldwin's words and public appearances into an engrossing, provocative disquisition on race in America; his brilliant 2021 series for HBO, Exterminate All the Brutes, reordered the history books and emerged with a jolting exposé of the colonialist mindset. On one level, Peck's new project Orwell: 2+2=5 is telling a very specific story: that of George Orwell, heading to the Scottish island of Jura in 1948, after the death of his wife, to recover from a recent brush with tuberculosis and begin work on the novel that was to become Nineteen Eighty-Four. Yet Peck - restless, curious, adventurous, mischievous - isn't content to leave it at that. You get the feeling this is something different - something radical, indeed - from this patchwork film's first ten minutes. We get clips of TV movie retellings of Orwell's life (expected) and film adaptations of his work (very expected), but also from Lean's Oliver Twist (less so); while newsreel footage of the bombing of Berlin in 1945 (expected) is juxtaposed with the siege of Mariupol, police raids in Burma, the hangings undertaken by the Nazis in Sergei Loznitza's 2021 doc Babi Yar. Context, and the noose some doofus wielded amid the January 6 riots. It's headscrambling at first, but a unifying idea soon becomes apparent: 1948 equals 1984 equals 2026. To that old canard it couldn't happen here, Peck - via Orwell - retorts it already has, and likely will again, if we're not careful. This is not, as it turns out, solely a film about Orwell, but a film on the themes (or a film extending the themes) Orwell was putting into play.

Biographically, Peck frames his subject as an inside man, a well-bred whistleblower. Born into what the writer specified as the "lower-upper middle class", Orwell was shuttled off to Eton in his youth before joining the police force in colonial Burma. As Peck sees it - and Orwell, in his personal notes, recognised - this background left him uniquely positioned to expose the mechanisms of power whereby lies become truth, war peace, ignorance strength, slavery freedom. Peck has possibly been encouraged by producer Alex Gibney to cover this ground from multiple angles, clutching (and combining) disparate sources. In a sequence on bookburning, Peck crosscuts footage from Nazi Germany, recent US book bans, the Ramin Bahrani-directed remake of Fahrenheit 451 and some extraordinary footage of an IDF soldier torching a library in Gaza. One thing you probably weren't expecting to see in a documentary about George Orwell: a clip from 2023's M3GAN, used to illustrate both the threat posed by AI and the writer's dire warnings about mass surveillance. Big Brother continues to watch us all, even if his aim is to convert our words and likeness into deindividualised, saleable slop. I sensed Peck was really onto something when he cut in a lengthy extract from the still-contentious collectivism debate at the centre of Ken Loach's Land and Freedom - but then, this is a film of ideas rather than mere textbook or shrine: Peck clearly regards Nineteen Eighty-Four as a springboard or open-ended text, an ongoing warning from history. The ideas thrown loose by all this montage are chewy, jolting, provocative, as they were when Orwell first set them on the page; in Peck's hands, they also become an argument for reading and viewing widely and critically. (Not least because they propose a corrective to the narrow-minded monocultures that nurture and prop up fascism.) I understand where those who've found the film scattershot are coming from: Orwell himself gets a little lost in the mix, though in Damian Lewis's reading, he presents as far funnier than expected. (On Sartre: "He is a bag of wind.") Orwell: 2+2=5 is what happens when an estate affords a filmmaker free hand to run with an author's ideas; rather than a supplicant creative paying mealymouthed tribute to a great, active mind, it finds a great, active mind meeting a great, active mind head on so as to thrash something out and create a multiplication of meanings. The result, well worth grappling with, is at once a superlative feat of editing, the film equivalent of Orwell's goal "to write in plain, vigorous language", and a weapon to be wielded against the worst aspects of the modern world. Arm yourself.

Orwell: 2+2=5 opens today in selected cinemas.

Wednesday, 25 March 2026

On demand: "Saipan"


The directorial pairing of Lisa Barros D'Sa and Glenn Leyburn continue their useful project of revisiting leftfield but revealing moments in recent Irish history. After breaking through with 2012's
Good Vibrations, their film on Terri Hooley and the Troubles, the pair's latest heads south of the border to dramatise a very different shade of Celtic strife. Saipan concerns the conflict that gripped the nation - and, indeed, no small part of the wider footballing world - in the run-up to the 2002 World Cup: the increasingly noisy discord that broke out between then Republic of Ireland boss Mick McCarthy and the team's captain and star player Roy Keane. A prologue sets the scene - covering the Republic's scrappy progress to the finals via a play-off against Iran, with an agonised Keane watching on from home, injured - before it's seconds out for a surprisingly heavyhitting clash of personalities and leadership styles. This McCarthy (Steve Coogan) is a clubbably bluff relic of the old up-and-under, run-it-off, kick-it-into-Row-Z 20th century game, worshipping at the altar of his erstwhile Republic manager "Big" Jack Charlton. (Like McCarthy, Charlton was himself an Englishman, and the film invites us to wonder whether or not that very Englishness is at least partially responsible for getting Keane's goat so.) Keane (Éanna Hardwicke) is the hotheaded visionary of the game to come (a vision he may have first witnessed on the mainland in his time at the all-conquering Manchester United): professional, driven, determined to seize this moment to win, not just to enjoy a kickaround and a few weeks off. Their rumbles and grumbles come to a head at a pre-tournament training camp on the titular Pacific isle - a key WW2 location - which proves a notable shambles. No footballs were available to train with for the first few days, while the local goats had colonised a pitch that was more rocks than grass, leading FAI officials to distract the players with offers of beer and banana boats. What washes up on these shores is, in short, a perfect storm: while the backdrop inevitably recalls the moneyed farawaylands of TV's The White Lotus, this Keane and this McCarthy begin to eye one another up like Lee Marvin and Toshiro Mifune in Hell in the Pacific.

The script is by Paul Fraser, who wrote several of Shane Meadows' early features (TwentyFourSeven, A Room for Romeo Brass, Dead Man's Shoes). Fraser's trick here is to feint as if he's merely writing up footballing gossip, but then go another way and write - as he did in those first, breakthrough scripts - about men, and a certain type of man in particular. The movie's Keane and McCarthy aren't toxic in the 21st century sense of the word, but they are tough and tricky nevertheless: hung up on an idea of strength, hotwired to butt heads, pick sides, hold grudges, they're actually fairly similar in some respects, not least in their altogether aggravating refusal to back down and concede a point. (As McCarthy observes of Keane: "What makes him a great player on the pitch makes him a pain in the arse off it.") Early scenes featuring the men's wives (Alice Lowe and Harriet Cains) serve to flag how difficult championship-winning egos like these must be to have to live with - but also the advantages of having the husband-and-wife team who previously made 2019's very touching Ordinary Love behind the camera. Throughout this roiling back-and-forth, Barros D'Sa and Leyburn demonstrate a sharp shared eye for what might be missing and what might better balance this picture out; around Keane and McCarthy's more intense interactions, they wisely pull back a little, allowing us the distance and perspective their petty squabbler antagonists - locked up together in a hotel that may as well be a prison camp - rarely allow themselves. Just on the fringes of Saipan, in the judicious use of archive news clips and vox pops, we also begin to see a film about Ireland itself, found here with one foot in the past and one foot in the here-and-now, with money in its pockets - a result of the fabled Tiger economy - but differing ideas on how best to spend it. Piss it away overnight on leisure and chasing the craic, as World Cups permit, or play the far smarter game and invest in longer-term advancement?

The abstemious Keane, the moderniser in the camp, represents self-determination: weigh his subsequent, stellar career as a TV analyst against the diminishing returns of the McCarthy managerial career, and damn it if he wasn't right nine times out of ten, but - fuck me - is he abrasive about it, flying into even minor misunderstandings with the verbal equivalent of a two-footed challenge. And yet impatience is the moderniser's curse: Fraser gives him a very modern, very relatable anger at the institution (the Irish FA, in this case), and the failure of his appointed caregivers to provide the appropriate level of care. (Cruelly so, during the perceived slight Keane unearths from wounded memory late on.) Here, then, are a pair who might equally have sustained a compelling stage two-hander: the Republic's own Marat and Sade or Danton and Robespierre or Clough and Revie. Coogan obviously has form when it comes to throwback roles: he makes his McCarthy identifiably a "gaffer" rather than one of these newfangled, designer-clad head coaches or directors of football, a weary old duffer whose primary concern in Saipan is what colour to paint his fenceposts back home. And though Hardwicke doesn't look much like Keane, he absolutely nails that electric combination of attitude, drive and prickliness one saw in the player's MOTD era. (Oddly, it's he who lands the film's most Partridgean moment: stomping away from one training session in his stockinged feet, clutching a lonely kitbag.) But Saipan is well cast all round, its supporting players pinning down the personalities of everyone from a pacifist Niall Quinn (Jack Hickey) to a young FAI lackey, visibly elated to be called upon by Keano. In its closing movement, Saipan assumes an unusual shape: the inevitable confrontation is followed by archival fallout that reveals the divisions within the Ireland of 2002 (were you Team Roy or Team Mick?), then a genuinely meaningful ending as both men rue what they've lost to the strains of the Walker Brothers' "No Regrets". (It won't just be Irish viewers who will want to bash their heads together, or at least give them a wobble.) I'm not Irish, but if I were, I think I'd be delighted that these two filmmakers were turning such a thoughtful and imaginative eye to our collective history - and in the modern game, Jeff, it takes real skill to get all of the above into a film that runs to exactly ninety minutes, plus stoppage time.

Saipan is now available to rent via Prime Video and YouTube, and on DVD and Blu-ray through Vertigo Releasing.

Tuesday, 24 March 2026

In memoriam: Valerie Perrine (Telegraph 23/03/26)


Valerie Perrine
, who has died aged 82, was a game, sparky performer who started her career as a Las Vegas showgirl, emerged into the Hollywood of the early 1970s, and thereafter ran the gamut, winning a BAFTA and a Cannes Best Actress prize for playing Lenny Bruce’s stripper girlfriend in Lenny (1974), enjoying blockbuster success with Superman (1978) and gyrating alongside the Village People in the cult musical Can’t Stop the Music (1980).

Her transition from stage to screen was, as Perrine herself admitted, a matter of being in the right place with the right look at the right time: “I didn’t come to Hollywood to be a movie star. I was literally discovered at a small dinner party at a friend’s house. I never had an acting class. I was offered a seven-year contract with Universal after a couple of days shooting. Universal forbid me from going to acting classes. They didn’t want my natural talent to be corrupted.”

She made a high-profile screen debut as the pornstar Montana Wildhack in George Roy Hill’s adaptation of Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five (1972), where her inexperience worked in her favour. Upon arriving for her screen test, Perrine realised she didn’t have the required headshots to hand over; when the producers learned she’d been working as a showgirl, they asked her to pose in her skimpy costume – which she did have – and subsequently landed the role.

For some while, Perrine was cast more for her voluptuous figure than her mind or talent, a situation she leant into by posing for Playboy in 1972; she earned a further measure of notoriety upon becoming the first woman to appear topless on US network television, the result of her shower scene in the PBS drama Steambath (1973).

It was Bob Fosse who saw hidden depths in Perrine, casting the actress as Honey Harlow, the showgirl who caught the eye of troubled stand-up Lenny Bruce (played by Dustin Hoffman), in his black-and-white biopic Lenny. The role entailed unlearning everything she’d picked up in Vegas: “[Fosse] choreographed the dance scenes. But I was supposed to dance badly… Here I was working with the greatest directors and choreographers in the business and I had to dance badly! The irony!”

Yet she held her own against the fractious Hoffman in the film’s dramatic scenes and found herself in demand on the awards circuit, earning an Oscar nomination, the Cannes Best Actress prize and two BAFTA nods: as at the Oscars, she lost Best Actress to Ellen Burstyn, star of Martin Scorsese’s Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore (1974), but picked up a consolation gong in the Most Promising Newcomer category, beating out no less a figure than Robert De Niro in The Godfather Part II (1974).

At that point, it appeared as if things were beginning to turn in Perrine’s favour. She had a narrow escape when the flight carrying her to the San Sebastián festival to promote Lenny crashed shortly after take-off from a small airport in the Pyrenees; not only did the actress walk away unharmed, but she was later observed returning to the wreck to retrieve her make-up kit. Yet her subsequent career only sporadically achieved cruising altitude, a result of iffy script choices and life intervening.

She landed her most prominent role as Eve Teschmacher, PA and girlfriend to Gene Hackman’s Lex Luthor in Superman (1978) and Superman II (1980), shot back-to-back. Yet she never quite capitalised on this newfound visibility: she picked up a slightly thankless role as Robert Redford’s ex-wife, discarded in favour of Jane Fonda, in Sydney Pollack’s rodeo romance The Electric Horseman (1979), before signing up for Can’t Stop the Music, a notorious turn-of-the-Eighties flop.

The latter, a showcase for the novelty disco outfit Village People, again drew on Perrine’s showgirl training: she splashed around topless in a tub to the strains of “YMCA”. Yet a fallout between the star and director Nancy Walker complicated the shoot; the reviews were dire; and the box-office was all but disastrous, the film taking $2m against a $20m budget. (Its campier aspects have since been embraced: the Australian network Channel 9 screens the film every New Year’s Eve.)

Compounding this setback, Perrine turned down Kathleen Turner’s career-making role in Body Heat (1981) but she found more substantial employment in Tony Richardson’s The Border (1982) as the social-climber wife spurring Jack Nicholson’s corrupt border guard on to greater misdeeds. Even critic Pauline Kael, never a fan, offered praise, albeit in a backhanded way: “Perrine, who has been giving disgraceful performances for several years, plays the dumb-tart wife to whiny perfection.”

Of the actors’ guru Stanislavsky, Perrine once said “I don’t know anything about Chavanasky [sic] or whatever you call him. I really don’t think about anything until I get on the set.” For her, acting was an enjoyable social activity: she claimed to have dropped LSD 400 times and was renowned for the wild parties she threw at her house in Sherman Oaks. Asked in a 2023 interview with The Hollywood Reporter what made her shindigs so special, Perrine had a one-word response: “Cocaine.”

Valerie Ritchie Perrine was born in Galveston, Texas on September 3, 1943 to Kenneth Perrine, a lieutenant colonel in the US Army and his wife Winifred (née McGinley), a former dancer in the provocative Broadway troupe The Earl Carroll Vanities. She spent most of her childhood in Japan, where her father was stationed at the end of World War II; aged four, she began performing ceremonial dances to friends of the family (“I wanted to show off”).

In her teens, the family relocated to a ranch in Scottsdale, Arizona. Her father, who had adapted poorly to civilian life, began drinking, prompting Perrine to run off to Vegas in the hope of becoming a showgirl: “I was almost nineteen when I got there. I had to lie about my age to work… We had fun. But you have to remember being a showgirl is very time consuming. All you do is work and sleep.”

She eventually worked her way up to appearing in the spectacular Lido de Paris revue, falling in with the showbiz crowd who commuted between the Vegas Strip and Sunset Boulevard. On the night of August 9, 1969, she was due to attend a party in the Hollywood Hills with her then-boyfriend, the celebrity hairstylist Jay Sebring, but after one of her fellow dancers fell ill, she was called upon to work instead. It was another narrow escape: the party was that crashed by the so-called Manson Family, and Sebring numbered among their victims.

Perrine worked more sparingly as the new millennium approached. She appeared alongside Billy Crystal and Jeff Goldblum in the Three Little Pigs episode of Faerie Tale Theatre (1982-87), had fun making the St. Lucia-shot La Frenais/Clement comedy Water (1985) with Michael Caine (“the nicest human being I’ve ever worked with”), and popped up in the Ally Sheedy teen comedy Maid to Order (1987) and the Wesley Snipes thriller Boiling Point (1993).

TV became a regular source of income, offering guest roles in Homicide: Life on the Street (1993-99), medical hit e.r. (1994-2009) and Nash Bridges (1996-2001), where she played a gangster’s moll. Her last major movie was the Mel Gibson comedy What Women Want (2000); thereafter, she returned to TV, appearing on David Spade’s Just Shoot Me (1997-2003) and sitcom Grounded for Life (2001-05), and became a favourite on the convention circuit. Her final screen credit came with the retirement home comedy Silver Skies (2016), opposite George Hamilton.

Though she enjoyed relationships with the likes of Jeff Bridges (her co-star in 1972’s The Last American Hero), Mick Jagger and Dodi Fayed, she never married; she was engaged during her showgirl years to the businessman and gun collector Bill Haarman, who died when the pistol he habitually carried fell from his waistband and discharged in a freak accident one month before the couple’s planned wedding.

In her final years, Perrine battled severe health issues: she underwent spinal surgery to correct wear-and-tear incurred during her dancing days and was diagnosed with Parkinson’s after a sound engineer spotted her dialogue was being obscured by the rattle of a saucer she was holding with tremulous hands. In the crowdfunded documentary Valerie (2019), she bemoaned her condition: “I can’t walk. I can’t write. I can’t talk right… I can’t act. I didn’t want the world to think I’d faded away.”

By the time of a 2022 interview for the Parkinson’s Europe website, however, she seemed to have come to terms with her situation: “I’ve always lived in the moment. I don’t dwell on the past or worry about the future. I try to live for today, and Parkinson’s hasn’t changed that.”

Valerie Perrine, born September 3, 1943, died March 23, 2026.

Monday, 23 March 2026

Coarse corrections: "The Good Boy/Heel"


The latest filmmaker to migrate from the arthouse fringes to the English-language commercial cinema is the Pole Jan Komasa, whose impressive
Corpus Christi was Oscar-nominated back in 2020. That film was a clerical drama with a slowburning thriller element (would our fake priest hero be defrocked before completing his good works?). The new film - marketed here in the UK as The Good Boy, but credited as Good Boy on screen and being released in the US as Heel, for extra confusion - is genre up until the point it isn't. In some way, it presents as a companion piece (or corrective) to its leading man's recent TV success Adolescence: what Komasa's film wonders is what would happen if a character played by Stephen Graham took extreme measures to prevent a kid from going murderously off the rails. The kid is Tommy (Anson Boon, from streaming telly's Mobland), a swaggering young alpha - chains round his neck, wrap of blow in his Chinos - who's introduced mid-Saturday night tear-up (scrapping, shagging, pissing up the bus shelter) before being snatched off the street by persons unknown. Cut to: Chris and Kathryn (Graham and Andrea Riseborough), a pair of neatfreaks bringing up a ten-year-old (Kit Rakusen) in a remote country house. Chris is first seen interviewing a Macedonian cleaner (Monica Frajczyk), 2026's first Character Who Doesn't Know What She's Getting Into (And Who Should, Really, Be Running Off In The Exact Opposite Direction). Doubly so after Chris, giving his new employee the grand tour, reveals Tommy chained up in the basement, the couple having taken him in and on as a perverse pet project. Weird as it may sound, we're not so far removed from Corpus Christi. The central clash is again that between orthodoxy and restless youth; for a symbolic dog collar, Komasa now swaps in an actual dog collar, slipped around Tommy's neck on a chain bolted to the cellar wall.

The Good Boy is a smaller and dingier endeavour, though - it's not going to be nominated for awards - and there are things Komasa misses that a local director would surely have spotted and fixed. British viewers are likely to spend the film's opening reels marvelling (and maybe chuckling) at how much effort has been expended to remove Stephen Graham of his essential Stephen Grahamness. With his suburban accent, Dennis Nilsen specs, limp hairpiece and persistent air of prissiness, Chris is a role crying out for Reece Shearsmith, albeit in a world where Reece Shearsmith's name secured international distribution deals and sold cinema tickets. The Good Boy could easily be mistaken for a feature-length episode of Psychoville or Inside No. 9: its early exchanges (one location, low-lit sets, small knot of players) suggest a self-contained sitcom that has started to break bad. Patches of darkly funny writing follow, as when Tommy is allowed upstairs to watch Kes ("as if I weren't depressed enough, living in a basement"). Yet much as Chris and Kathryn gradually afford their captive greater roaming range, so too these characters offer the actors more wiggle room than first thought. A sly midsection, benefitting from a day or so's shooting on the Yorkshire Moors, expands the film's scope while also suggesting just how quickly Fritzl-like behaviour can become normalised. I'm less sure about the film's closing movement, which struck me as an obvious misstep: setting the thriller aspects to one side for an extended coda, Komasa finally appears to side with the conservatism Chris and Kathryn represent. Maybe the idea was to reflect the general direction of travel in a Britain busy limiting access to porn and social media (or, indeed, in a Poland that has of late taken a similar lurch rightwards), but it feels instinctively wrong for this story: I wondered whether the two separately credited writers disagreed at some stage about where exactly these characters should land. Still, overseas directors have made far less auspicious debuts on British soil, and The Good Boy might well serve as a teachable example of what a film gains from having good actors commit to silly, vaguely disreputable material: Riseborough, in particular, works spooky wonders with a depressed-ghoul character who can't have registered as all that much on the page.

The Good Boy is now playing in selected cinemas.

Sunday, 22 March 2026

Muppet Armageddon: "Project Hail Mary"


The premise of
Project Hail Mary is pure horror. Ryan Gosling awakes from a medically induced coma to find himself aboard a spaceship with severe memory loss and his fellow travellers dead in their cots. Matters get no less traumatic once his recall kicks in. The movie's opening flashback reveals Gosling's Dr. Ryland Grace to have been pressganged into serving on this mission with an eye to stopping so-called "space dots" (alien microbes of some description) from eating the sun and thus freezing the Earth. The project has stalled by the time we rejoin him, and not just because of the sudden shortfall of available hands: Grace, a high school teacher by trade, quickly calculates it would take fully a hundred years to turn the craft around and return to Earth, so he'd likely return as a corpse - if, indeed, there was any Earth left to which a corpse might return. (I guess they could put him on ice.) The source material is a 2021 novel by Andy Weir, also the inspiration for 2015's The Martian, and evidently a specialist in tales of intergalactic sacrifice and endurance. Hand this story to eight out of ten directors (including The Martian's Ridley Scott), and they'd likely show up on the red carpet clutching something stark and doomy, heavy on the existential dread. Yet Sony's chosen two are Phil Lord and Christopher Miller, the poptimists behind Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs, The Lego Movie and the 21 Jump Street reboots, who view this predicament as frankly a lark and a gas, if not always a hoot; the end of the world is here reframed as an opportunity to try new things and make friends, as a problem for which there will be a fix even if there isn't one already. Should Project Hail Mary prove as big a hit as I suspect it might be, it will be primarily for one reason: here's a Hollywood movie that devotes vast resources and ventures deep into the heart of the cosmos on a mission to turn our collective frown upside down.

The approach demands a new set of rhythms, lightyears away from those of a Christopher Nolan or Denis Villeneuve: playful, unpredictable, reliant more on montages than crashing setpieces, these are deployed here with the aim of keeping the audience on their toes and rescuing us from this narrative's deadly black holes. It also requires a top-to-bottom rethink of sci-fi iconography. Lord and Miller offer us spaceship as revolving funhouse; when Grace snaps on an umbilical cord so as to perform an exploratory space walk, it's as springy as a bungee rope. The scuttling creepy-crawly that breaches the ship's defences is an alien but crucially not a monster; it's a puppet of sorts (operated very expressively from within by James Ortiz) who becomes an unlikely pal. (First contact here involves mirrored bodypopping and a remix of the Close Encounters five-note salute.) For props, Lord and Miller swap in toys. The spinning UFO our hero retrieves on that space walk is a pop-up 3D puzzle; the globe that mission controller Sandra Hüller tosses to Grace - literally and metaphorically putting the whole world in his hands - is a hackysack. This may be the cinema's first space vessel to both feature an IMAX screen and carry novelty party hats. All of which is to say you wouldn't have to stretch too far if you wanted to point to the 12A-rated Project Hail Mary as the latest frontier in the ongoing juvenilisation of the American cinema. If the movie's Amazon-bought infrastructure - all $248m of it, reportedly - aspires to the grandiose and Kubrickian, its mushy emoji heart is pure Disney: I felt I was being primed not for some mindblowing evolutionary leap, but for that new Star Wars movie with Baby Yoda in it. Gosling, bless him, gives another moviestar performance: holding all this cutesy bricolage together, he gets substantial mileage from the oldtimer's trick of peering over the top of those specs the movies stick on a hunk so as to pass him off as a nerd. Yet there's also a lot of what I feel obliged to call Sesame Street acting involved: for much of Project Hail Mary, we're watching a grown man swapping expositionary dialogue with a creature on a stick.

Obviously, much of this is 2026 (and, indeed, post-2024) pertinent. Underpinning the film's out-of-this-world bromance is a vision of different species overcoming their initial fear and distrust to work together and ensure one another's survival. (Some context: Hail Mary's biggest box-office rival this weekend is liable to be the Dhurandhar sequel. Its biggest real-world rival is whatever the hell is currently going on in the Middle East.) Such childlike simplicity has its virtues and appeal in a modern blockbuster context. Early on, we see Dr. Ryland gazing at a pictogram of the Seven Ages of Man, a progression Drew Goddard's script allows Gosling to enact: first seen crawling out of cryogenic deep freeze like a worm, the good doctor will soon come to stand for solitude, self-interest and self-pity, then curiosity, companionship, compassion and courage, and finally the selflessness required to avert disaster and propagate a species. It's rare to see a modern American studio movie - particularly one as expensive as this - which comes at us from a place of innocence rather than cynicism. And yet Project Hail Mary never quite evolves as its protagonist does: it starts as a goofy Eighties throwback, and it ends there, too. Along the way, it succeeds in being very genial, sometimes funny, occasionally charming, yet it most often feels dramatically underdeveloped: there was a greater sense of catastrophic, world-ending stakes in these filmmakers' U and PG-rated animations, Lord and Miller now appearing much more invested in their man-and-puppet business than they are in the looming prospect of Armageddon. Their project here looks to have been to take a big paycheque and have fun with it, and while there are worse ways to occasion and launch a putative blockbuster - like, say, taking a big paycheque and having no fun with it - that also runs the risk of indulgence. At some point amid the film's 157 minutes, I found my sympathies aligning decisively with Hüller, the one grown-up in the vicinity of this project, swaddled in mourning clothes on an increasingly lightless and heatless Earth. Indirectly, she gives Project Hail Mary - and all its childish things - the one piece of direction it needed, cutting short her stab at morale-boosting karaoke with four thin-lipped, no-nonsense, frostily Teutonic words: "And that is enough."

Project Hail Mary is now showing in cinemas nationwide.

The kid who fell to Earth: "Arco"


The last of this year's Oscar-nominated animated shorts to reach these shorts may be the most classically animated of the lot:
Arco sees French artisans doing a hand-drawn approximation of the Japanese comic-book style, with a dash of Seventies album cover Roger Dean visible in their futuristic cityscapes. The storytelling, meanwhile, is taking a note or two from a hall-of-fame family film in Spielberg's E.T. - not a bad template for co-writer/director Ugo Bienvenu to start from, but also a perilously high bar for a creative team to be setting themselves. At the film's centre is the formative - timeline-shifting, indeed - friendship between Iris (voiced in the original subtitled version by Margot Ringard Oldra, and by Romy Fay in the dub), a young inhabitant of a near-future Earth beset by the consequences of climate change, and the titular Arco (Oscar Tresanini in French, Juliano Krue Valdun in English), an accidental time traveller in a rainbow-hued cape who falls to Earth one day, oblivious to our destructive ways. Iris's task, in between looking after a younger sibling, is to figure out how to return this warning from the future to sender, ideally before the end of the world as we know it. One possible reason for the film's late arrival in UK cinemas: it's quite a tough sell once you know where it's heading, and one suspects no-one really knew what to do with it. (The illustrious redub is an optimistic shot in the dark, and that might be the only truly optimistic thing about Arco.)

For one thing, Bienvenu's film proceeds in a mishmash of styles and tones that recalls Japanese animation's more confounding extremes: Iris and Arco's heartfelt connection gets intercut, more than a little clumsily, with the blundering misadventures of three supremely annoying stooges sent out in pursuit of our hero. (In the English dub, the trio have been revoiced by Will Ferrell, Andy Samberg and Flea off of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and not even these three can do much between them to stave off an air of the more forgettable Saturday morning cartoons.) Gradually, this story reveals itself to be simultaneously a) for kids, primarily and b) too despairing for most kids to bear: what's being refracted to create Arco's lovely multicoloured vapour trail is, to all intents and purposes, the last light in the universe. It feels an especially morose plot point that Iris and her siblings have been left to fend for themselves: with their parents away (on business?), regulation childcare has been farmed out to faintly creepy-seeming robots, and the insinuation is that these kids won't be getting any more help from their elders when it comes to apocalypse avoidance. We're headed to a broadly punitive finale, as visitors from the future show up to save their kid while leaving Earth to burn (thanks a bunch, Mr. and Mrs. Arco), a major bummer over which Bienvenu decides to layer an appallingly drippy sadcore ballad. If you are taking your own children, it might be an idea to remove them of their belts and shoelaces beforehand.

Arco is now playing, in both subtitled and dubbed versions, in selected cinemas.