Sunday, 13 August 2023

For what it's worth...




UK box office Top Ten (for the weekend of August 4-6, 2023):

1 (1) Barbie (12A) ***
2 (2) Oppenheimer (15) ****
3 (new) The Meg 2: The Trench (12A)
6 (4) Elemental (PG)
7 (new) Joy Ride (15)
9 (5) Talk to Me (15) ****

(source: BFI)

My top five:


DVD/Blu-Ray/Download top ten: 

1 (1) The Little Mermaid (PG)
3 (2) The Super Mario Bros. Movie (PG)
5 (25) The Meg (12) ***
6 (new) Ruby Gillman: Teenage Kraken (PG)
7 (4) The Flash (12) **
8 (5) John Wick: Chapter 4 (15)
9 (7) Top Gun: Maverick (12) ****
10 (19) A Man Called Otto (15)


My top five: 
1. Godland


Top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. Heat [above] (Friday, BBC1, 10.40pm)
2. The Piano (Monday, BBC2, 11.15pm)
3. Cape Fear (Sunday, BBC1, 11.30pm)
4. Bridesmaids (Friday, ITV1, 10.45pm)
5. Big (Saturday, ITV1, 3.05pm)

Battle cry of the city: "Gangs of New York"


When I saw Gangs of New York u
pon its first run two decades ago, I remember being dazzled by its scale and dizzied by its momentum, while also remaining aware that it was, in certain respects, a folly. A long-time Martin Scorsese passion project, thrashed into some kind of shape by three top-end screenwriters (Jay Cocks, Steven Zaillian and Kenneth Lonergan), it finally emerged - some while delayed, after an extended shoot and the traumas of 9/11 - in a version Harvey Weinstein had extensively tampered with. (Even Scorsese wasn't immune from the producer's interventions: he offers a retort of sorts by bestowing the producer's first name on the gambler Bill the Butcher accuses of not putting up enough money.) As it celebrates its twentieth anniversary, a distribution rights change (from the guarded Entertainment to the more laissez-faire Lionsgate) and a reclassification from a UK 18 to a 15, it merits another look, not least to allow us to reassess its myriad pros and cons. 

The opening march to battle, where Liam Neeson's priest meets his match at the hands of Daniel Day-Lewis's Bill, suggests an influence I hadn't spotted in 2003: that this was, among other things, Scorsese's response to the success of 2000's Gladiator, reimagining New York as a colosseum that requires the raising of vast sets (by Dante Ferretti) on which fists and other weapons can be swung and the future of an empire will be determined. After a run of spiritual-personal endeavours (1997's Kundun, 1999's Bringing Out the Dead), this was Scorsese beginning an outwardly commercial phase that would return him to the Academy's radar, and eventually land him his first Best Director Oscar for 2006's The Departed. Had he initiated this project now - with assistance from Netflix or Apple, as has become the Scorsese norm - he would surely have enjoyed a freer hand and final cut, an extra hour to play with, time to smooth out the Henry Thomas-shaped bumps in this narrative and build to an emotional crescendo. The film Scorsese turned out in 2003 remains a jostling hotchpotch, a mixed bag with flashes of excellence and brilliance. In a sign of 21st century things to come, its vision of America violently yanking itself out of the mud would be improved upon on cable TV, over the course of David Milch's extraordinary Deadwood; and in fact that new certificate serves as its own, not inaccurate review. The forging of any turbulent city in blood and thunder really demands an 18 rating, as Milch's backers at HBO understood. Gangs of New York now presents as half the picture it really needed to be - while also serving twice as much picture as anybody else was then giving.

As foundational myths go, this is neither as detailed nor as profoundly felt as that Milch bestowed upon us, but then Scorsese's film proves so much more thrilling for wearing its many years of scholarship so lightly; at its strongest, we get caught up in events, as we do any other ripping yarn or heaving metropolitan crowd. The script's vengeance arc - with Neeson's son Leonardo DiCaprio playing a long game of payback - is really an excuse to film a series of chaotic dust-ups, from the political manoeuvring to hang a bunch of patsies to a backstreet boxing match that descends into an all-out brawl. Part of the film's project is a rambunctious expansion of Raging Bull: a film in which just about everybody's ready to rumble. (The sharp angles of Ferretti's set-building are central to this: every street corner strikes the eye as contestable territory, visibly up for grabs.) What was lost in post-production was crucial connective tissue. In between the setpieces, we become aware of the film's myriad short cuts, the trade-offs required in 2003 to turn a then-expensive $100m production into a book-balancing blockbuster. Rather than actors, we get stars - and suddenly the film seems wobblier: a rare Scorsese movie without a truly outstanding or anchoring performance, either because Weinstein cut the heart and soul out of the picture, or because nearly everyone on set was overwhelmed by the scale of the production.

DiCaprio gets the cockiness right, and you buy him as a child torn between father figures (Neeson, Day-Lewis, Brendan Gleeson as a reminder of the character's Irish roots). What he can't sell you on - what this actor has always struggled to sell us on - is toughness: asked to project anything like that, he reverts to screwing up his face, in the hope we'll forget about his perilously scrawny body. Given her near-retirement, it's pleasing to see Cameron Diaz again as the city's resident colleen/hellcat Jenny, though this cut is far less interested in her than it is in, say, Jim Broadbent's divide-and-rule Tammany; she floats the prospect of a Titanic-like romance, a measure of tenderness to offset the copious butchery, and yet Jenny still looks like a character constructed entirely from producer's notes. As for Day-Lewis: this is as close as we've ever come to watching the great screen actor of our time do pantomime, though I don't mean that entirely as a negative, not least because Day-Lewis was smart enough to realise there were benefits to going so big. The accent is as chewy as it ever sounded (first among equals in a film with some very chewy accent work), but Bill is nothing if not a memorable character, only agreeing to enter into battle with Neeson's priest after first ascertaining the latter has numbers enough to make battle worthwhile. (Here is someone who relishes and savours the fight - the bigger and bloodier the better.) With his top hat and patter and his extravagantly curlicued moustache, he's a dubious ringmaster - comprehensively overshadowing the PG-rated P.T. Barnum, reduced here to the status of bitplayer. With its panoply of character actors (count 'em: Gleeson, Gary Lewis, Stephen Graham, Eddie Marsan) and its cameo from John Sessions, not as Lincoln but as a ham actor playing Lincoln, this is more than anything a vision of America as an especially vicious circus - a big show, complete with thousands of extras duking it out for supremacy and spectacle just about everywhere else you look. In that uncertain moment after 9/11 - when the characteristically sunny Spielberg took a turn for the pessimistic (Minority Report, War of the Worlds) - Gangs of New York was Scorsese's affirmation that the show must go on. For better and worse, it did.

Gangs of New York played in selected cinemas last week; it is currently available to stream on Prime Video, and on DVD through Entertainment in Video.

Thursday, 10 August 2023

Lars and the real girl: "Breaking the Waves"


Distributor Curzon's late summer Lars von Trier retrospective opens with what was at the time a transitional film, and one that now invites reading as two films in one. von Trier's breakthrough films - the so-called "E-Trilogy" of 1984's The Element of Crime, 1987's Epidemic and 1991's Europa - displayed the attitudes and assimilated aesthetic of a smart-arsed film school graduate, flaunting everything he'd studied to that point. 1996's Breaking the Waves, by contrast, was von Trier's first mature work, in as much as any self-identifying enfant terrible can ever be said to have signed off on a mature work: it had a chaptered story, and characters who seemed fleshed out, more than mere gestures or pawns in a plot. Though the film's portrait-like chapter headings prefigure imagery to come, scene by scene von Trier and cinematographer Anthony Dod Mantle tone down the rampant stylisation of the E-Trilogy, instead cultivating a beigey 1970s look; in so doing, they refocus our attention on the performances, and what would become recurring Trierian themes: the clash between generations, and within individuals and society, the potential and frailty of human bodies. (They are the themes you'd expect from someone who came of age during the counterculture in an especially liberal state.) The question with BTW has always been how seriously we're meant to take the mock-Biblical parable at its centre. As has generally been his wont, von Trier has framed the film publicly as a stunt or prank intended to sucker us. Yet even a joke has a way of revealing a worldview, and this retrospective seems likely to expose how rapidly this director's gurgling media-kid cynicism gave way to pessimism, and how deeply that pessimism became ingrained. Breaking the Waves opens with a wedding party and ends with a miracle, however insincere; by the time of 2011's Melancholia (returning to cinemas August 26) a wedding party was a prelude to the end of the world. One von Trier found himself feted to the rooftops at Cannes; the other was sent packing, having been declared persona non grata.


Fortunately, this is as much an Emily Watson film as it is a Lars von Trier film. The latter's work has long been complicated - and made fascinatingly complicated - by his dealings with actresses. Broadly, he has two types. There are the masochists (Charlotte Gainsbourg, Kirsten Dunst), ready to lie down and take what's coming to them, confident their suffering will be weaponised dramatically; and there are the warriors (Björk, Nicole Kidman) willing to put up more of a fight - to assert that what goes on within a story and on a set isn't just (that loathsomely masculine word) banter, that there should be limits to what a writer-director can get away with. Watson is somehow both: she makes a heartfelt effort to understand Bess's life and thinking, the better to sell the character's dealmaking with her God. For her - and this has become clearer with a quarter-century of distance - this is a story about a young woman's discovery of sex. Bess starts the film not just naive but actively virginal; she gains experience beneath the heaving buttocks of Stellan Skarsgård's lusty oil worker Jan; begins to make choices pertaining to her own sexuality; and finds out - the von Trier way, which is to say the hard way - how cruel this world can be when faced with the sexual woman. Doomy though it is, this unsentimental education counts among the most complete character arcs in any von Trier project - and the basis of a story that, on some level, has been properly engineered and told. Much of it plays out on Watson's features, variously observed as searching, dreamy, enraptured, unravelled and agonised; it now looks like a tentative (thus touching) rehearsal for the blunt-force treatment von Trier visited upon Gainsbourg during Nymphomaniac (back in cinemas next week). That these two-and-a-half hours still compel as they do is down to the fight going on within this material, between a man overseeing a sniggering wind-up and a woman who believes in this script, this role, and the transcendent possibilities they might contain. The von Trier stance has been to take everything with a smirk and a wink and a sizeable pinch of salt; Watson simply invites us to take Bess's plight at face value. In this heavily ironised context, that might just strike you as a miracle in itself.

Breaking the Waves is now showing in selected cinemas, and available to rent via Curzon Home Cinema. 

In memoriam: Bo Goldman (Telegraph 09/08/23)


Bo Goldman
, who has died aged 90, was an American screenwriter who twice won Academy Awards for unconventional stories driven by indelible characters – defined by Goldman as “people who have a kind of courage and [an] aristocracy of the heart”.

He initially struck gold aged 43 with One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1975), his first produced feature-length script. From Ken Kesey’s novel, Goldman unfurled a multifaceted drama, stocking each rec room and therapy session with wildly disparate personalities while punching up the barbed back-and-forths between Randle P. McMurphy (Jack Nicholson) and Nurse Ratched (Louise Fletcher).

Even by the New Hollywood’s standards, the film was a curveball, but its gimlet eye for human behaviour and anti-authoritarian edge made it a critical and popular smash. As 1975 closed out, it was the seventh biggest earner in history; the following March, it became the first film since It Happened One Night (1934) to sweep Oscars’ so-called “Big Five”: Best Picture, Director, Actor and Actress – and Best Screenplay for Goldman and Lawrence Hauben.

Goldman even (briefly) won over a vocal critic: Kesey, who’d successfully sued for damages over claims the filmmakers were “butchering” his book and vowed to boycott the finished feature. Years later, Kesey confessed to stumbling across a film on TV one evening and being drawn in by the characters; upon realising it was Cuckoo’s Nest, he switched channels.

A second Oscar followed for Melvin and Howard (1980), a funny, generously expanded anecdote about the encounter between mechanic Melvin Dummar and an ageing Howard Hughes. The script had bounced around Hollywood – at one point drawing Mike Nichols’ interest – before being embraced by the relatively untried Jonathan Demme, who leant into Goldman’s offbeat rhythms and richly drawn supporting parts. Pauline Kael, in a rave review, called it “an almost flawless act of sympathetic imagination”.

Shoot the Moon (1982) saw Goldman’s long-nurtured screenplay about separating spouses brought to the screen by Alan Parker. For years, producers had passed on the material, often admitting its description of marital disquiet fell too close to home; yet its honesty proved a core strength, enabling exceptional work from leads Albert Finney and Diane Keaton. After declaring it “perhaps the most revealing American movie of its era”, Kael paid Goldman the ultimate compliment, signing off by quoting his dialogue verbatim: “You’re kind to strangers.” “Strangers are easy.”

Here, though, Hollywood royalty conspired to scupper the film’s box-office prospects: Warren Beatty insisted no other Keaton film should be released against Reds (1981), dooming Parker’s film to a February graveyard slot. Thereafter, Goldman mostly consoled himself with well-paid, lower-stakes work-for-hire.

A ready picketer during the three-month writers’ strike of 1981, he entertained few illusions as to the scribe’s place in the commercial movie ecosystem: “If you’re lucky enough to get recognition and be good at it, then this tension gets tighter and tighter between you and the studio and the director. You’re fighting for your work all the time… They hold all the cards. And to them it’s shoes. They’re selling shoes.”

He was born Robert Spencer Goldman on September 10, 1932 to Julian Goldman, a department store magnate who retained Franklyn Roosevelt as legal counsel, and his wife Lillian (née Levy), a millinery model. They shared a 12-room Park Avenue apartment, but after the Depression wiped out the family fortune, an uncle with property interests was tapped to put the young Robert through Dalton, Exeter and Princeton, what he later dubbed “all my fancy schools”.

At Princeton, he showed promise as a songwriter and gained an enduring pen name after The Daily Princetonian misspelt “Bob”. Upon completing three years as a personnel sergeant on the Pacific atoll of Enewetak, he headed to Broadway as the lyricist of First Impressions, a musical adaptation of Pride & Prejudice starring Hermione Gingold and Farley Granger.

He sidestepped into TV towards the end of the Golden Age, adapting Days of Wine and Roses and Heart of Darkness for CBS’s Playhouse 90 (1956-60). A conversation with Burt Lancaster redirected his attentions towards feature writing – beginning with Shoot the Moon, the script that caught Forman’s eye and landed Goldman the Cuckoo’s Nest gig.

Various unrealised projects – a Wild Strawberries remake starring Gregory Peck, an Elvis movie with Nicholson as Colonel Parker – now seem more interesting than Goldman’s subsequent screenplays. Scent of a Woman (1992) at least showcased much-laurelled scenery-chewing from Al Pacino as a blind charmer, but the exasperating Meet Joe Black (1998) had only Brad Pitt’s vapid Grim Reaper to offer for three hours. 

Script doctoring provided a steady income. Goldman tinkered with Forman’s Ragtime (1981) and Goya’s Ghosts (2006), and old foe Beatty’s Dick Tracy (1990), where an attribution dispute further soured creative relations. After shunning Beatty’s pleas to sharpen Bugsy (1991), he received belated “story by” credit on the actor-director’s Rules Don’t Apply (2016), another, altogether baggier Howard Hughes tale.

In later life, he lived in Maine with his costumier daughter Serena Rathbun and filmmaker son-in-law Todd Field. He remained much admired by his peers, receiving the Writers Guild lifetime achievement award in 1998. Eric Roth, Oscar winner for Forrest Gump (1994), called Goldman “the pre-eminent screenwriter”. But Goldman reserved the last word for himself. Director Martin Brest informed the New York Times upon Goldman’s death that his friend held to a characteristically thoughtful mantra: “Your life is what’s not in the obituary”.

He is survived by five of his six children with Mabel Rathbun Ashforth, his spouse of 63 years, who died in 2017; his son Jesse died in 1981.

Bo Goldman, born September 10, 1932, died July 25, 2023.

Friday, 4 August 2023

For what it's worth...




UK box office Top Ten (for the weekend of July 28-30, 2023):

1 (1) Barbie (12A) ***
2 (2) Oppenheimer (15)
4 (4) Elemental (PG)
5 (new) Talk to Me (15) ****
7 (new) Rocky Aur Rani Kii Prem Kahaani (12A)
8 (6) Insidious: The Red Door (15)
10 (new) Bro (12A)

(source: BFI)

My top five:


DVD/Blu-Ray/Download top ten: 

1 (new) The Little Mermaid (PG)
2 (3) The Super Mario Bros. Movie (PG)
4 (2) The Flash (12) **
5 (7) John Wick: Chapter 4 (15)
6 (12) Interstellar (12) **
7 (10) Top Gun: Maverick (12) ****
8 (8) Avatar: The Way of Water (12) ***
10 (4) Evil Dead Rise (18) **


My top five: 
1. Godland


Top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. The Worst Person in the World [above] (Sunday, Channel 4, 12.45am)
2. Clemency (Tuesday, BBC2, 11.15pm)
3. Eighth Grade (Saturday, BBC1, 11.50pm)
4. Ghostbusters (Sunday, BBC1, 4.55pm)
5. The King's Speech (Sunday, BBC1, 10.30pm)

From the archive: "Interstellar"


Tonight, Matthew, Christopher Nolan is going to be Steven Spielberg. If
Interstellar proves anything definitively – and its early reviews have been mixed – it’s how the London-born Nolan, after a decade working within the studio system, has now been fully absorbed into the American mainstream, and schooled in its dominant imagery.

The film’s prologue abounds with baseball, foursquare family values, and corn both literal and figurative. Before heading out to a parent-teacher night, single-parent farmer Coop (Matthew McConaughey) is alerted by his father to the cute blonde overseeing his daughter’s history classes, the better to perpetuate earthly life. Sporting that manliest of monikers, Coop will eventually succeed in this mission, although it will be through means somewhat more elaborate than a mere roll in the hay.

Getting from A to B proves a complex business here. Every scene forms its own reveal; Nolan increasingly trades not in story so much as chicanery. I can probably get away with saying the action unfolds in some near-future, one in which violent dust storms and the attendant crop blight have dwindled food supplies; and that Coop isn’t quite the hayseed he appears, rather a grounded astronaut to whom NASA’s big brains turn when they need someone to pop through a wormhole and see whether life can’t be sustained elsewhere.

When Interstellar finally gets off the launchpad – fair warning: it takes an hour – it becomes apparent that Nolan, like Spielberg with Close Encounters and E.T., wants to reroute our gaze to the stars. Armed with a budget that might once have initiated its own lunar mission, he and cinematographer Hoyte van Hoytema have come back with a dazzling slideshow of galactic vistas, crying out to be exhibited in IMAX.

Yet if the design of Nolan’s films is getting grander and grander – in Interstellar, it’s by definition out of this world – I can’t help but feel he’s losing his grip on the small stuff: reality, for one. Consider this, for starters: Coop is alerted to NASA’s top-secret enclave not by a phone call or email, but only after following coordinates apparently encoded in the dust on his daughter’s bedroom floor. Yes, you read that right.

Something has changed here, and not necessarily for the better. Back when Richard Dreyfuss was mashing up potato in Close Encounters, there was an element of mocking, childish fun about it: Spielberg knew that anyone taking such signs seriously was liable to find themselves scooped up in a butterfly net soon enough.

Interstellar, by contrast, gambles its all on an audience being credulous enough to take this lunatic connection as seriously as Nolan himself appears to. (You could say he’s spent $165m giving fanboys another reason not to hoover their own rooms.) We’re meant to go with it, and applaud the director’s audacity, but it sounds uncannily like the kind of flimsy gibberish that shouldn’t get out of a pitch meeting, let alone carry a completed movie up into space.

As it is, the dust forms part of a thick top layer of mysticism – other components: a sombre organ score that suggests we’re taking High Mass; not one, but four citations of Dylan Thomas (we’re not going gently, or indeed subtly, into that great night); a tendency towards macho self-sacrifice that gets stupidly inconsistent towards the end – intended to make the film’s sci-fi components appear less ordinary than they actually are.

Inevitably, some of Interstellar was going to look secondhand in the wake of Gravity. Even so, we end up with a walking Kit-Kat who makes Robby the Robot seem a sophisticated piece of kit (much of the physical design is stuck at a B-movie level), a crew of minor faces waiting to be picked off, and – when it comes down to it – McConaughey and Anne Hathaway sitting down and talking us, at length, through the cosmic niceties of love. We often seem but a countdown away from McConaughey getting his bongos out again.

If you didn’t find it condescending, you could, of course, cheer Nolan’s determination to elevate an audience with his learning. Yet what’s the point if all such book-smarts do is trap filmmaker and audience alike in the realms of catastrophic over-complication? Interstellar turns out to be Armageddon with simultaneous equations where the movement and fun used to be, a film hellbent on taking the longest-winded, most illogical route across the universe. After nigh-on three hours of this airless brow-furrowing, you might wish Coop had just schtupped the history teacher, and seen how that had worked out for everybody.

(MovieMail, November 2014)

Interstellar is available on DVD through Warner Home Video, and to rent via Prime Video and YouTube.

Partners in grime: "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Mutant Mayhem"


Here they are again: the cockroaches of popular culture. In my lifetime, the punchy reptiles created by comic-book artists Kevin Eastman and Peter Laird in 1984 have spawned a cheap-and-cheerful Saturday morning kids' animation, a trilogy of live-action features that briefly got the British censor's sausages in a knot, a would-be edgy digimation (2007's TMNT) that proved roughly as perfunctory as its title, and a mid-2010s reboot that cast Megan Fox as April O'Neil. Having somehow survived collaborations with both Michael Bay and 
Vanilla Ice, it may well be the case that these characters are indestructible, and that every generation from here on out will eventually get the Ninja Turtle movie they deserve. The prime movers behind the new animation Mutant Mayhem are the Superbad pairing of Seth Rogen and Evan Goldberg, who've put down the bong long enough to sniff out a potential franchise of their own, and hit upon the reasonably inspired idea of reassessing Raphael et al. in much the same way the recent Spider-Verse movies redrew Peter Parker. Director Jeff Rowe (who oversaw Netflix's fab The Mitchells vs. the Machines) has assembled a giddy patchwork of styles - part hand-drawn scratchiness, part digitised wizardry - which, under Rogen and Goldberg's frankly incorrigible influence, leans heavily into the fact its bright green subjects are in many ways verminous. Wobbly-voiced adolescents who still live in the sewers with a tatty rat for an adoptive dad, they now swipe their Doritos from human bins, retain a kidult comic's fondness for butt jokes, and use their ninja skills principally to make Jackass-style YouTube clips. Unlike the steroidal jock turtles Bay centred in his 2014 and 2016 aggressions, these are the Turtles as redirected towards teenage dirtbags - kids in sore need of acceptance, a hug and a wash, and not necessarily in that order. Its April O'Neil (voiced by The Bear's Ayo Edebiri) isn't some FHM-ready pin-up, but a fellow outcast: Black, bespectacled and nicknamed Puke Girl after an unfortunate incident at her school's TV station.

As a post-credits sequence indicates, Mutant Mayhem means to be the first in a planned series, which means we have to revisit a familiar origin story - the one with the rogue scientist, glowing ooze and alternative family unit 'neath the New York City streets. It's largely fun, though, buoyed by Rowe's partytime soundtrack selections (De La Soul, A Tribe Called Quest), and it may be the first retelling of this legend where rat dad Splinter (very charmingly voiced by Jackie Chan) has a friend who actually is a cockroach - albeit one who gets accidentally stomped on, and whom Splinter then hungrily gobbles up. (Rogen and Goldberg know that an "eww" from pre-teen viewers still qualifies as a response.) As the Turtles emerge from the underworld to confront the threat posed by Superfly (Ice Cube) - a fellow mutant with a markedly different attitude to humanity, and plans for world domination - the plotting gets superhero-movie conventional; yet again, we're headed towards a crashing standoff in a pulsingly busy cityscape. Yet the determined grossness of Rowe's animation, each grubby frame rubbing against the blandly pretty grain of most animated summer-holiday fare, can't help but strike the eye as distinctive. With their irregular teeth and dorky patter, these Turtles are neither as cute nor as sleek as those of previous adaptations; the humans, given puggish or otherwise lopsided faces, are absolute howlers. (Michael Badalucco's Bad Bernie looks like a figure out of Bill Plympton: his features are literally shifty.) Like the Spider-Verse films, Mutant Mayhem does feel like an authentic comic-book movie, hand-turned by creatives who've recognised the graphic novel as a forum for sustained formal experimentation. Rowe uses the framework of another TMNT movie to push the limits of an aesthetic boring movie common sense would insist on tidying up. (Most animations employ a so-called clean-up department to take the rough edges off early drafts; Rose appears to have had an entire army of scuzzifiers at his disposal, doing the exact opposite.) The approach yields cherishably grimy flourishes: the world reflected in a bowling ball, a Big Bad mutating only further (eww) amid a Broadway-set finale with a little of that old Roland Emmerich dynamism. Yes, it's still kids' stuff, and the relentless celebrity namedropping - a recognisably Rogenish trait - threatens to get tiresome. But that one child of yours, the one who spends the bulk of their days with a finger lodged firmly up a nostril? Yeah - they're gonna love it.

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Mutant Mayhem is now playing in cinemas nationwide.