In 1927 silent film star George Valentin (Jean Dujardin) is at the top of his game. People can't seem to get enough of him and his sidekick, a Jack Russell named Uggie. After a screening of his latest film he literally bumps into a young woman named Peppy Miller (Berenice Bejo), who briefly steals his limelight because everyone is wondering who she is. Valentin's boss Al (John Goodman) is unhappy when she draws attention away from the film's opening. Peppy is aspiring to be an actress herself and ends up on the same studio lot as Valentin, auditioning for a part in his movie. A more drastic encounter arises for Valentin when Al shows him a glimpse of the future of cinema: the arrival of sound in movies. Valentin's refusal and inability to adapt leads to the decline of his career and marriage, his friendship with his driver Clifton (James Cromwell), along with his mental wellbeing too.

Our value of cinema lives inside the phrase 'seeing is believing'. Film is a visual medium and we regularly find that movies dazzle us through the uniqueness of their stylistic form, rather than the distinctiveness of their thematic concerns. James Cameron's Avatar (2009) for example, is the instigator of the 3D rebirth, the highest grossing film of all time, but also a B-grade action film dressed in sheep's clothing. The Artist is at the other end of the spectrum. On a budget of just fifteen million dollars, French director Michel Hazanavicius has the impossible task of making the silent film era attractive for audiences again. Just like Avatar, it is the visual form and styIe of this film, rather than distinct themes, that are its defining qualities. This is not to say that the film is lacking in depth. A small minority have criticised the film for being 'styIe over substance'. Since when is image, if it is used to create meaning, not be regarded as deep or substantial? As a silent film today, The Artist is an affectionate tribute and homage to a period where films told stories and developed themes almost entirely through images. The only dialogue here is selectively provided through onscreen title cards. Due to the expressiveness of the actors and the film's outstanding formal composition though, these are rarely needed. Hazanavicius is said to have studied the techniques of the silent era extensively and it shows in the quality of the impeccable filmmaking. With its precise, direct camerawork, shooting in the traditional silent era ratio of 1.33:1, The Artist could make a seamless transition back into the very era it is recreating. Great efforts have placed into heightening the mood of the piece, through dim lighting and shadows that detail an era of economic uncertainty. The film was first converted to black and white but Hazanavicius also employs what is called sepia toning, essentially a brown filter, to reflect the changing quality of the film stock over the years.

Although the film is silent for much of its length, there are select moments where sound is cleverly employed for dramatic impact. Deep into the film, Valentin has a dream where the sound of every person and object in his world is amplified. Raising the diegetic sound to these booming levels reminds us of its shattering power and intrusiveness over silence, while also enhancing the psychology of Valentin, who fears that this is the future of his entire life. While in isolation these techniques could be cynically viewed as gimmicks, along with the visuals they are employed to tell a story about the attractiveness of fame and in equal measure, its fleetingness too. Consider the subtly and the economics of storytelling in the following images: when we first see Valentin's home it is handsomely decorated with ornaments and artworks, including paintings of himself. Yet during his downfall even the essential furnishings of his house are barely visible. Entering Peppy's accommodation during her own and its eerily similar to Valentin's, reflecting the reversal of their fortunes. Two of the more distinctive or flashier shots in the film speak volumes about Hollywood. The first is a long shot, held for what seems an age, on a staircase in the film studio. The framing of both the rising and falling stairs shows that regardless of the state of your own career, show business rolls on without you. This is also reflected in a low angle shot of Peppy's billboard, towering over Valentin, alone in the street, realising that a new generation of younger and more adaptive performers have arrived. Further contributing to the story are the performances of Dujardin and Bejo, both of which are faultless in their expression of two people at different stages in their careers. The subtly and the selection of their body language tells us so much about their characters. Two really entertaining performances, three if you include the funny little dog Uggie, are on display here.

Despite the formal strengths and the quality of the performances, I wondered how well a story with more complex or distinct themes, rather than large, broader ones that bode well visually, would have fared under the restrictive conditions of silent cinema. They wouldn't have. Great dialogue is not a gimmick as people once thought. It is a powerful tool, used to strengthen more challenging themes and characters. There are certainly some sharp title cards here but I love films of constant wit and detail, where the most intricate or humorous line of dialogue is spoken in such a way that it adds layers to a character's complexion, history and desires. The Artist finds clever ways of visualising grand but very familiar themes, like fame, technology and generational change to tell a likeable and accessible story. Amidst the boring CGI avalanche, where both theme and storytelling are disregarded, we hail a film like The Artist as fresh because of its unique formal styIe and identity. Save for one very tense moment towards the end of the film though, the story is funny and charming but entirely predictable. The direction of the narrative rarely surprises or moves us, mostly because it owes much to the superior Singin' in the Rain (1952), which covered the transition into the talkies with greater specificity towards the filmmaking process. It is also a serious disadvantage to have seen The Artist's overly revealing trailer beforehand too. With help from one of the most powerful producers in Hollywood, Harvey Weinstein, whose company distributed the film, The Artist may very well win the Best Picture Oscar. For me, Hugo (2011) will always be the superior film. It intertwines a clever mystery surrounding silent cinema, with 3D technology, to develop interesting, unique themes about the mechanical nature of humanity. It is a great film that satisfies our cinematic desires for the old and the new. While I appreciate The Artist's bravery and craftsmanship, I am not ready to call it a masterpiece.

After a hard night of drinking, a ghostwriter named Mavis (Charlize Theron) wakes up alone in the mess of her Minneapolis apartment. While working on her fading young adult book series, she opens an email and finds that a picture of a baby has been forwarded from a friend. The baby belongs to her old flame Buddy (Patrick Wilson), who is now happily married to Beth (Elizabeth Reaser) but still living in their old suburban hometown of Mercury. Mavis decides that since her marriage was such a failure, she is going to return to Mercury to try and win Buddy back, regardless of his own commitments and relationships. When Mavis arrives she finds that the town and people's attitudes have changed. At a local bar Mavis meets Matt (Patton Oswalt), who used to go to high school with her. He walks with a cane since he was mistakenly the target of a gay bashing when they were young. Matt tries to talk some sense into Mavis but nothing will deter her from her plan to win Buddy's heart again.

Young Adult is a 'bad girl' movie done right. There has been a steady increase in the number of films featuring women behaving badly. It is now considered politically correct and bankable for women to be as gross and as puerile as men in movies. Some achievement. Yet in the hands of Jason Reitman, an effortlessly talented director, and his screenwriter Diablo Cody, Young Adult is far more sophisticated and entertaining. Reitman and Cody, having worked together on Juno, are an exciting partnership. They have great minds for suburban details and a concern for stasis as a central theme. At the core of this film is an impeccably detailed screenplay and one that is comprehensively photographed by Reitman. In the opening scenes he shoots from a wide angle in the apartment room. He has acute vision for everyday life, making sure that we see the unmade bed, the mess on the floor and the empty bottles of wine by the bedside. The mise-en-scene all attributes to building this self-destructing character. Look at how drab and grey the colours in the room are. It makes us share Mavis' sense of disconnection from the world. Similarly, over the course of the film she moves from one enclosed space to another, including her apartment, her hotel room and her little mini cooper. The specificity of these insulated spaces means that she is cut off from any true emotional contact from other people and why she is so heartless. Also consider the relevance of the runny picture of the baby she prints off. Its distorted, which is reflective of her view of other people's happiness. Stasis is further represented through some clever sound and vision as Mavis continually plays the song she shared with Buddy over and over again. Reitman cuts to the inside of the rotating track to show his protagonists circular lifestyIe

Although there is a nasty protagonist at the centre of this story, the film itself cannot be judged accordingly. The tone here is perfect because despite dealing with physical and mental pain, the film is balanced with its humour and its reasoning. Much of this is supplied by Patton Oswalt, who makes Matt sensible but also funny and gently self-pitying. He's a great counter to Mavis' madness and yet just like her he is hung up on the past, albeit with more understandable pain. I love the attention given to his inner life, like how he lives with his sister, brewing alcohol in his garage but also building and painting action figurines. It is a clever reminder of his own desire to put his own aching body back together again. Both he and Theron are served by some outstanding, colourful dialogue, courtesy of Cody, who has relaxed a lot of her flashier jargon from Juno. Matt has an absolute gem when Mavis poses who is going to make the first move between herself and Buddy. He says: "I think that's going to be...you". The way he holds that line up is perfect comic timing. But the film really belongs to Theron who has so much fun defining this character with her slumped shoulders, eye rolling and baggy tracksuits. She ensures that every line of dialogue is loaded with feeling and disillusionment, whether it's her teenage-like sarcasm, her rehearsed lines that she overhears from kids talking, or simple disdain for the people in the town. There's a lot of anger in this performance too though. One close up shot of her face in a bar is so venomous that its focus becomes haunting. This is true to the film's lack of sentimentality because there is no predictable transformation. At most, we linger over a touching moment of two characters mutually understanding each other's grief in the most subtle and human way. By contrast, the ending that follows is problematic because although there are changes, we're still not sure what, if anything, has been learnt. I told you she was a bad girl.

A girl named Martha (Elizabeth Olsen) is seen leaving a country property. She takes to escaping through the woods, reaching a gas station where she makes a desperate call to her sister Lucy (Sarah Paulson). Waiting for a ride, she is intimated by a bloke who saw her leave the property. When she is taken in by her sister and her partner, Martha's behaviour is abnormal and she becomes increasingly paranoid that whoever she escaped from is still after her. In flashbacks, Martha is shown entering a cult community, led by the persuasive Patrick (John Hawkes). He encourages her to be a part of their society and she submits herself and others to the group's perverse sexual rituals. Yet the eventual irrationality of the group sends Martha on a downward spiral. Her paranoia in the present day though begs whether anything she recalls was real or just an imagining.

I've worked out what Martha Marcy May Marlene is about. But what about that scene that might have been just a dream or the film's abrupt ending? While you may think you are on safe ground, this is a film that leaves an itch in the back of your mind, asking what scene A means to scene D. Take note of some early vision in the film, which I think, is the key to Martha's highly fragmented narrative. A long shot frames Martha leaving the property and into the woods, reflecting her isolation and disconnection to the world. Remember who follows her out of the house, or more importantly, who doesn't. This is a cleverly constructed thriller by writer/director Sean Durkin because it baits you with these kinds of clues, which are satisfying to decrypt when the film refuses to give any solid answers. The film has its share of stumbles early on though because a crisis of some kind has already occurred off-screen, meaning that a lot of the tension in Martha's story has already been spent. Nonetheless, the film grasps our interest when Martha asks her sister if she has ever had a moment where she can't tell if she is recalling a memory or if she is dreaming. Suddenly, the scenes in the past, juxtaposed against images of Martha sleeping or waking up in the present, hold new meaning. Not only do we question if the flashbacks are real but also if they are representative of a different personal conflict, given that Martha keeps telling her sister she had an argument with a boyfriend. Therefore, the non-linear story is not a gimmick but an intelligent method of integrating character and structure together. It characterises the dislocation faced by an individual, caught between an uncertain past and the inadaptable nature of the present world.

After a slow start, the narrative continues to grow, reaching tension levels of almost unbearable peaks. This on the back of a well cast Olsen (the younger sister of Mary-Kate and Ashley), whose subtle, naturalistic performance makes Martha a deeply remote and alienated figure. Watch her eyes carefully in a late party scene and you'll realise the quality of the relationship here between an actress and a director. Moments like this, along with her breakdown scene, and her shifts between her optimism for the society and her strange behaviour, make this one of the major breakout performances this year. With an obtuse role, John Hawkes does remarkably well to find something unique in his character. He allows Patrick to be incredibly persuasive and someone who knows how to tap into people's pain and emotions. He is a very careful manipulator, as shown in the way he talks to his group during a target practice session, calling Martha a leader and a teacher. Presumably, the lack of a specific ideological basis for his community is to strengthen the possibility that it is a dream. Most bizarre is his use of sexual submission on the girls of the cult. One of the girls describes it as a state of cleansing so we assume that it evokes emotions of sexual belonging. You still have to wonder how people could reach such a mental state of acceptance, which further suggests that this is a dream world. Along with the two lead performances that give the film pivotal conflict, there's a very chilling scene involving a break-in that doesn't end the way you think it will. It's a very rattling and upsetting moment, directed with maximum impact. It must also be noted that the film ends suddenly, which is at first frustrating, but also true to its dependency on ambiguity and paranoia. The most interesting films in 2011 allowed audiences to delve into uncertainty, drawing meaning from sophisticated formal qualities. This is one of them because you will be thinking about it for days afterwards, asking how A connects to D. Or was it B?

On a tropical holiday David (Xavier Samuel) meets an Australian girl named Mia (Laura Brent) and they quickly fall in love. At a surprise party back home in the UK, David tells his three mates that he and Mia are getting married in Australia. The lads are unhappy about this because they don't want to lose him and also because they'll have to fly over there. They're an odd bunch. Tom (Kris Marshall) doesn't want to grow up. Graham (Kevin Bishop) is always pushed around by the other lads and Luke (Tim Draxl) is miserable, trying to win his ex-girlfriend back. The men arrive in Australia and are at the mercy of Mia's strict father Jim (Jonathan Biggins) and his wife Barbara (Olivia Newtown-John). Jim is a wealthy senator, looking to impress his contacts with the lavish wedding but is frequently at odds with his other daughter Daphne (Rebel Wilson), who may or may not be a lesbian. The lads find themselves in trouble when they try purchasing some marijuana from a drug dealer with emotional problems and also when they have a crazy night together, the day before the wedding. They wake up to find they've been tormenting Jim's prized campaign sheep.

Colourful British wit makes light of black Aussie humour, burying memories of awful local comedies from the early millennium. The film is an Australian-UK coproduction. It was directed by an Australian, Stephan Elliott, but written by Dean Craig, the same Brit who penned Death at a Funeral (2007). That was another film I greatly enjoyed and this is a similar mixture of genres. It combines fish out of water with comedic farce, along with setups from countless other films. It is impossible not to recall the likes of Death at a Funeral and even The Hangover (2009). Yet the essential ingredients for a great movie on its own rights have not been forgotten. This is the funniest Australian film I have seen in years. What's important here is how the comedy is played out. The lads here are fools and regularly make a meal out of everything they touch. Yet you can't bring yourself to hate them because we understand they're out of their depth in a foreign environment, both geographically and cIass-wise too. And this might just be my own jet-black sense of humour talking but there is something immensely appealing to watch and listen to with self-depreciative humour. The lads in this movie are gifted comedians. They know how to keep a straight face as they poke fun of themselves, their social problems and eccentricities. I enjoyed the film enormously for this reason, the lack of winking, but also the variety of comedy too. On top of the rapid quips between the men and their jabs at each other, there are some delicious sight gags too. The film never makes a huge point of them, so look sharply for a picture of the Queen wearing Joker makeup, or the face of an airline passenger after Graham tries to defend his Hitler moustache. I enjoy comedy when it speaks for itself and lets us read the jokes without any help. By far my favourite scene is, I think, when Graham has to give an unprepared best man speech and is so high that he spends the whole time talking about something indescribable.

The silences of the guests and the way the camera scans the reaction of their faces is just hysterical. Screenwriter Dean Craig employs a lot of the same farce-like comedy from Death at a Funeral, with people behind doors, o r moving in and out of rooms secretively. The material is reused cleverly because director Elliott gives us a complete overview of the impending chaos. Take the scene where the boys are trying to attend to the sheep they've tormented. The camera cuts to the corridor outside the room, providing vision of who is about to walk in on them. Just like the wedding speech scene, they know how to really build the tension and extend the jokes. The comedy works because there's a lot at stake. Just when you think a giant ball crushing the wedding is the craziest the film can become, you're wrong: it continues to reach new levels of insanity. For as well constructed as a lot of the film is, some of the editing is noticeably choppy. Snippets of scenes sometimes feel out of place, or interrupt confrontations and could have been removed altogether. This is a small complaint that most people won't notice and its mostly in the first half too. For all of this film's lunacy, and there's a lot, the tension comes from characters that have resemblance of actual feelings. David is a sympathetic lead because he's torn between his mates, his only real family we learn, and a far more prestige life that he is trying to adapt to. I particularly liked it when he and Mia started questioning how little they know about each other. It's a sensible turning point. The lovable lads are very distinctive and funny with their sets of problems but they share some of the laughs with the women too. I particularly liked Olivia Newton-John as the mother with a wild side. This gem of a film was absolutely delightful and I sincerely hope its quality is indicative of all Australian films this year.

In the 1930s, a young boy named Hugo (Asa Butterfield) lives in the tunnels of a Paris train station. He comes from a family of clockmakers, including his father (Jude Law), who died in an accident. Hugo spends much of his time stealing from people in the station and avoiding the crippled inspector (Sacha Baron Cohen) and his dog. One day Hugo is caught by the crusty old toyshop owner Georges Méliès (Ben Kingsley), who was once a silent filmmaker. He takes Hugo's notebook, which has cryptic drawings in it and refuses to give it back unless he works for him in the store. Hugo needs the notebook to unravel the secrets of the automaton that his father left him. Aiding him in his quest to discover the purpose of the machine is Georges' goddaughter Isabelle (Chloë Grace Moretz). They have many adventures, including sneaking into a cinema to watch silent films together.

There is no such thing as a kids film anymore. More accurately, as the quality of animation has steadily risen, major studios like Pixar have matched their technical achievements with narratives that are emotionally and humanly complex. Pixar has openly stated that they don't make films for children, they make films for everyone. Although Hugo is not an animated film, it reminded me pleasantly of this rather old fashioned attitude to cinema. This is a return to traditional family entertainment at its most charming, intelligent and beautiful. It is also one of Martin Scorsese's most unique and personal films, one that speaks to multiple generations and reminds us that he is still a master craftsman. It is important to consider some of the autobiographical details that attracted Scorsese to the film. As a child in the early 1940s, Scorsese was often kept in isolation because he suffered from terrible asthma. The only accessible activity for him was to be taken to the cinema to watch movies. These are important staples in Hugo's narrative and its formal composition.

The opening establishment shots of the film are sumptuous, overlooking the Parisian rooftops littered with snowflakes. The ice is symbolic because in conjunction with Scorsese's subtle blue colour filters and dark shadows, he constructs a lonely vision of an isolated childhood, one that is spent in dark, steamy tunnels. By contrast, the station is filmed with brighter tones and is more spacious to accommodate the mass number of bodies pouring through. Many of these characters are dressed with muted, grey and brown costumes to reflect the sombre tone of the period. Scorsese is a director of great experience and one who continually associates stylisation with purpose and effect. This extends from his fine attention to detail for the period and into the third dimension. The 3D technology is not an afterthought but employed to accentuate the height and the depth of rooms. It enhances not only the shape and the character of the architecture but it also increases our involvement with these spaces too.

With a screenplay by John Logan, adapted from Brian Selznick's novel, the narrative strikes a perfect balance for both adults and children, further blurring the lines between what is a kids film and pure family entertainment. The film is cIassically told, meaning that it unfolds at a very leisurely pace. This will be a testing element for small children (and some adults) but it is also highlights one of the most satisfying elements of the narrative: its patience. Scorsese takes such care with what is essentially a mystery but an extremely comprehensible one. We are hooked by who these fascinating characters are and then with each act their stories and motives unfold with utter clarity. It really makes each piece of the puzzle more rewarding and it is further aided by strong levels of continuity between each thread. Although the film is pegged as a family film, it is one concerned by loss, failure and repressed memories. Yet it is also a celebration of our artistic sensibilities that make us human. The film argues, quite rightly, that humans are systematic and mechanical in their habits and flaws. Yet unlike machines, humans have personal thoughts and there is often a desire to not only change our lives but to celebrate and share our experiences through modern inventions, like cinema. Is there a more beautiful, life-affirming message than that? Scorsese's love for cinema and the way that it unites people is to me a deeply moving quality, one that comes out most poignantly through his seamless mixture of silent films and 3D technology. The combination of the two is further evidence of cinema's irrefutable sustainability.

The humanity, crucial to the film's messages, is provided by a cast of distinct, colourful characters and faultless performances. Butterfield is a revelation as Hugo, a completely natural little boy, with such fierce determination and backbone. Yet it is the sense of vulnerability, loss and emotion that makes him a sympathetic and compelling lead of great conviction. His partner in crime Chloë Grace Moretz is entirely different but no less appealing. Her warmth and her enthusiasm for adventure, courtesy of her expressive face, are infectious and irresistible qualities. She's a wonderful pintsized sidekick. Kingsley is once again all cIass. The strength of his performance is that he is so cold early on and yet by the end of the film, as we come to understand his existence, he moves us more than we could ever expect through his heartfelt transformation. Sasha Baron Cohen and the delightful Emily Mortimer, playing a florist, share a sweet subplot together and he's surprisingly restrained for once. Although I could have done with perhaps one less chase scene and a few more moments with her character as she has the most endearing presence with almost any film she is in. These performances are collectively linked together by loss, meaning that Hugo is dark, sometimes sad but eventually uplifting; a family film built on the oldest and newest techniques of storytelling. It is in every sense a film for everyone.

Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy is set in 1973, during the Cold War era in Britain. Two elderly men are being sacked from the head of MI6. They are George Smiley (Garry Oldman) and Control (John Hurt). Their dismissal comes from the bungle of a meeting a year earlier where Jim (Mark Strong) was meant to meet a General who would tell him the name of a Russian mole who has infiltrated British intelligence. In flashback we discover that Jim was shot and left for dead. In the present day he has resumed his life, living in a caravan and working as a school teacher. When Control passes away, Smiley is asked to return to the 'Circus' to help track down the mole. Amidst some of the suspects are Ricki (Tom Hardy), Bill (Colin Firth), Peter (Benedict Cumberbatch), Roy (Ciaran Hinds) and Percy (Toby Jones), some of whom have been likened to the pieces on a chessboard by Control.

You will have to see Tinker, Tailor, Soldier Spy twice. There are several reasons for this. Foremost, it is an impeccably made thriller from Tomas Alfredson, the Swedish director who gave us Let the Right One In (2008). This is a director who knows how to tell a story in what is sadly regarded as old fashioned terms. He is not interested in elaborate chase scenes or action sequences, but rather in building tension through selective pacing and a dense, compelling atmosphere. He was an inspired choice for this project because as he showed with his vampire epic, he understands that less is more. He has focused a significant amount of attention on the film's set design. Many scenes are photographed from a wide angle, realising the high levels of detail in the film's mise-en-scène. This enhances the film's realism and authenticity because each room feels tangible and involving, with a distinct amount of weight and gravitas. This is coupled with Alfredson's specificity of images, like the sweat on the waiter's brow dripping onto the table, to build an unbearable level of still, burning tension. The period looks and feels right too because the film doesn't make a point of it. It's shot in grainy, muted shades of brown and grey, reminding us that this is a period of control. The interior rooms are often lit with deep shadows over the faces of the actors, further contributing to overall sense of paranoia. Many of these aesthetic devices make the film as chilling and mesmerising as Let the Right One In. As a reward for this authenticity, moments of violence are more impacting and emotionally involving. There's some upsetting vision of a mutilated corpse and a brief assassination but Alfredson refuses to linger over these moments. In terms of direction and aesthetic control, the film is faultless.

Thematically, this is a thriller of such breadth and endless complexity that you may not initially grasp how all of its intricate stands come together. This is assuming that, like myself, you have not read the novel or seen the BBC series. It is a challenge on an initial viewing but what can be drawn from the crux of the narrative is a series of anecdotes, concerned with the dissatisfaction of the British Empire. Smiley visits a woman he used to work with and she describes how the Second World War was the last honourable moment for British intelligence. There is also a riveting story of how Smiley tried to convince a man to return to their side but he was more content with returning to Russia to die. Equally fascinating is to consider the film in regards to generational change. Throughout the film Smiley is photographed swimming with old men and Control's sudden death is an ominous reminder that he is at the end of his run, forced out by much younger men too. We learn that his wife Anne left him because she was having an affair with someone younger, which also raises questions of loyalty, addressed in the film's plausible revelation. On loyalty, one of the best scenes in the film sees Peter returning to the circus to steal a file for Smiley. It has one of the most unforgettable long shots in cinema: the glass windows of an entire office, along with each floor, placed into the one frame. True to a lot of the film, it's a gripping scene for what it implies, rather than what eventuates through action. It almost breaks Peter, having to spy on his own people. For as many of those who are displeased with the Empire, there are still those who want to believe in it. The entire cast is well chosen, charismatic and sometimes funny too. They give us reasons to feel for these men. I like that they chose distinct British actors who are easy to recognise too. Oldman, even with minimal dialogue, strikes a visible level of intensity in his quiet work. Through the most ordinary lines like, 'Then what happened?', he has an affirming grip on his character. Firth is another standout, this time playing against type and he's terrific. Although I am still not confident in how many of the storylines come together it is a testament to the filmmaking and the performance that I'd like to see the film again to find out.

The Descendants opens in Hawaii with a woman named Elizabeth (Patricia Hastie) cruising in a speed boat and then the screen fades to black. We discover that she is the wife of Matt King (George Clooney) and that during her boating race she suffered an injury that has left her in a coma. Matt is a lawyer looking to sell off the land he inherited from his ancestors because the trust is set to expire in a few years. As a father he is a failure. He doesn't know how to look after his youngest daughter Scottie (Amara Miller), whose behaviour has deteriorated in the wake of her mother's accident. Matt's other daughter is Alexandra (Shailene Woodley). She's seventeen and lives away in a boarding school. She's reckless and aggressive but Matt needs her help in looking after Scottie. When Alexandra reveals a secret of her mother's, Matt is sent into a blind rage and looks to track down a man named Brian Speer (Matthew Lillard). Compounding this is that he needs to tell his other relatives about the true fate of his wife.

The imminence of death creates such a spiral in our minds that we lose sight of all that is beautiful in the world. This is theme of Alexander Payne's adaptation of Kaui Hart Hemming's novel. Payne is a writer/director who, with films such as Election, About Schmidt (2002) and Sideways (2004), has mastered the art of small humanistic comedy-dramas. He is fascinated by how the ordinary and the banal are often the most chaotic and life changing adventures. It is easy to see why Payne was attracted to the source material. There are strong resemblances to About Schmidt, which was also about a man concerned with death and isolated from his child. Knowing the initial premise, I was concerned that the films might be too similar to each other. Payne is a gifted filmmaker but it remains perplexing that this is just the first film he has made in six or seven years. There was always the thought that he might be inclined to repeat himself. What impresses here though is the way that he has refined his craft. Hawaii is a unique, beautiful setting, sumptuously photographed by cinematographer Phedon Papmichael. Payne opts to use this aesthetic beauty to enhance the thematic concerns of his narrative. The beautiful opening shots of the green landscapes and beaches are juxtaposed with intercuts of the cityscapes, traffic jams, the sick and the homeless. We're told that this is no paradise and Matt adopts this mindset by spending much of the film tracking down his nemesis Brian. He carries a photo of him on the beach, forgetting all of the positive things around him.

In the course of his absence, Payne seems to have lost a lot of his cynicism regarding character development. Growth stems from seeing a deeply troubled and angry man develop into someone who appreciate life's pleasures. Yet most impressive is that every character in this film, large or small, has a degree of real humanity. Many characters surprise us because they don't act the way we think they will or have come to expect from similar movies. When Matt finally tracks down Brian he is not the jerk that we assume he will be. He's an ordinary man on holidays with his wife (Judy Greer) and their two small children. She is a lovely addition to the film: extremely pleasant and welcoming but painfully unaware. Brian explains his mistake to Matt and reveals his commitment to his own wife. He is a weak man but we believe him anyway. Similarly, through many of these adventures Alexandra drags along her dopey surfy friend Sid (Nick Krause). He's an oaf but a mostly harmless one and he moves us unexpectedly when he reveals his own personal traumatic experience and how he deals with his problems. Payne's control over these scenes is deft and unintrusive. He has confidence in both the actors and audience, refusing to linger over the most poignant moments. His restraint builds a quiet realism and in turn we're met by a film that is regularly very moving. This sounds daunting but the film is also hysterically funny too. The humour is never cheap or obvious. The dialogue, often with a self-depreciative tone, is employed to reveal character and enrich the comedy and drama. A lot of the comments from the side characters are deliberately inappropriate, showing their lack of empathy or understanding of a situation.

The effect is twofold: some scenes are very funny but others are built with powerful dramatic irony. There's a gutting moment when Elizabeth's father is telling everyone how good he thinks his daughter has been and how she deserved better, when we already know her secret. I can think of very few other films this year that have used dialogue as intelligently. Well-cast actors give the dialogue humour and feeling. Clooney's performance can be summarised as entirely glossless. It's a great part for him because he's given a range of emotions to work through, rather than a corridor of self-parody and smugness. He reveals a character who is helpless and yet desperate to control his children. He tries to be self-assuring too, telling us that his wife is going to be okay. Payne contrasts this with a high-angle shot of a spiralling staircase, foreshadowing devastating scenes of Matt's torment and verbal rage. A more controlled and empowered individual, who learns to make his own decisions, emerges convincingly. Clooney's fine work is also rounded by his impeccable and always reliable comic timing. This is a very impressive performance and one that could potentially earn him a Best Actor Oscar. Shailene is a standout as an impulsive, angst ridden teen, equally enraged and frustrated by the same woman as her father. There were few films in 2011 that moved me as much as this one. It's one of the year's best.

Prior to the start of the First World War, a boy named Albert (Jeremy Irvine) is playing with his horse Joey on an open field, until it is taken away to be sold on the markets. Albert's father Ted (Peter Mullan) bids on the horse at an auction and buys it back, even though he can't afford it. This is to the distress of his wife Rose (Emily Watson), who is worried they won't be able to keep their land. They can keep their property only if Albert can train Joey to till the soil for them. When the First World War outbreaks, the horse is sold to the military and travels across the battlefields. It also manages to find its way onto the property of a Frenchman (Niels Arestrup) and his granddaughter Emilie (Celine Buckens). As he initially too young to enlist, Albert must wait a few years to try to recapture his horse.

There are some scenes in War Horse that I will never forget and a few I'd like to. In two hours and twenty minutes, it summaries everything we've come to know about Spielberg's career: it's beautiful, moving and intense but also embarrassingly corny and sentimental. He's adapted the story from a play, which itself was based on a children's novel by Michael Morpurgo. Yet too often here does Spielberg compromise his own cinematic vision of hell. Spielberg is forever fixated on the idea of 'the lost child'. Children in danger, separated from their families, have formed the staples of each of his narratives. It regularly leads him into narcissistic traps of cheap sentiment and emotion. Why is one of the most distinguishable filmmakers in history incapable of taking a risk? It is a frustrating question because there are few directors who are as knowledgeable about cinematic formalism as Spielberg. Watching this film on the silver screen for the scale alone is a pleasure. Spielberg reuses a lot of the same aesthetic techniques from Saving Private Ryan (1998) to stunning effect. The early scenes are widely shot on open green hills and reflect the freedom of childhood and stability. Yet the interior of Albert's house, where his parents have discussions about their future, are dark and moody, with faint light pouring in through the windows. There is a separation between the adult and child life. These two worlds collide when Spielberg contrasts the high saturation of the early scenes with the thick, heavy mud of the battlefield, showing that is no safe ground here for man or child.

Spielberg is also fascinated by modernity and invention as an extension of the unknown and its crippling effect on the natural world. These are interesting themes and the film soars when it finds clear, interesting visual ways of addressing them. This includes one of the most extraordinary battle scenes I can remember since Saving Private Ryan. Soldiers rise up from their trenches, attempting to cross into 'No Man's Land', as they are rapidly cut down by machine gun fire. It is a familiar scenario but rarely has it been captured with this much realism or authenticity. Also distinctive is that we have never seen machine gun batteries, soldiers and tanks, photographed like they are here. It is an alienating experience because these instruments of war are framed with such tight close-ups that they seem foreign to us. There is a shot after Albert crosses the lines that has haunted me. He sees a soldier lying dead on the ground and his face is covered by a heavy gas mask that makes him appear alien-like. Equally moving is when we see the British cavalry charging towards enemy lines and the horses pulling huge artillery cannons up the hills. These scenes are reflective of the stranglehold modern inventions have over all that is natural in contemporary warfare.

For many of these touching qualities Spielberg's narrative is surprisingly undisciplined. Characters disappear for long stretches, or in the case of two brothers, they never return at all. I was pleased that Spielberg touched on a German perspective but there's a lack of balance in how much time some characters have and an impatience to draw the threads together through a contrived deus ex machina. For every soul crushing scene there is one that is overly sentimental. Spielberg's technique is to play with tone so he can make us smile at one moment and then maximise our wincing. There are 'nice', 'pleasant' scenes here of geese chasing men by the ankles and the little French girl Emilie trying to train Joey. These are harmless alone and sometimes funny but it spoils the opportunity for something darker, more cautionary and truthful. The film is often flat-out cringing when it focuses on Albert because he doesn't seem like a real boy, with real problems but more of an avenue for Spielberg to channel forced emotions. He runs along hills, whispering to his horse that they'll be together. His whole performance is artificial, existing more on a cue with John Williams rising score, than a natural embodiment. Watson is far more believable, terrific as the hard, longsuffering mother. After seeing War Horse, I thought back to Peter Weir's WWI film Gallipoli (1981) and its troubling mid-frame conclusion. Comparing the two films, one is restrained, moderate and in touch with the reality of war. The other is, at its end, another Hollywood fantasy.

A woman named Vera (Elena Anaya) is being held prisoner in a beautiful manor home. She doesn't struggle and is offered proper food and materials through a slot in the wall. Holding her there is a scientist, Robert Ledgard (Antonio Banderas), and his servant Marilia (Marisa Paredes). Robert is experimenting on skin grafting because he failed to save his wife after a car accident. He is not meant to be experimenting on people and is warned that he will be reported to a scientific board if continues his unorthodox approach. Trouble arises when Robert's brother Zeca (Roberto Alamo) arrives at the house, dressed for Carnaval, and tries to free the woman, thinking she is someone else. This leads to a flashback where we learn the rather tragic story of Robert's wife, his daughter and what led him to imprison the girl locked in the room.

Think twice about The Skin I Live In (La Piel Que Habito). That's not a question of whether Pedro Almodóvar's film is amiss or not. It is a masterfully told thriller but one that must considered strictly in terms of doubleness. This is a film concerned by doppelgangers, doubleness and repetition. In one of the opening scenes at a conference, Robert tells us that a face is part of the human identity. This is the basis for many of the film's cIassical philosophical questions, primarily how one can be in love with an illusion. It is Robert's intention to duplicate his wife through his experiments and research, negating genuine feeling and emotion. It most chilling conveyed through a voyeuristic framing device. Inside Robert's house is a large screen where he can watch the holding cell of Vera. He watches her on the screen, lying naked on her side, yet when he enters the room himself he sees that she has tried to kill herself. In this one sequence, we realise the power of human perception and by contrast, personal desire.

I'm also convinced that the film is also embedded in Platonic philosophy, specifically Book VII of The Republic: The Allegory of the Cave, where prisoners are chained up in a cave and can only view the shadows of objects. Plato associates real tangible form with knowledge. Consider that the characters in the film are like prisoners and that the bodies they've lived in are the shadows, what they believe are real forms in the world. Yet outside triggers, like in the case of one sad character a mirror, reveal the truth and the reality about their transformation and a new perspective on tangible form. Cinematically, Almodóvar has always been fascinated by Hitchcock-like dramas, involving murder, scandal and secrets. This film is, I think, his tribute to Vertigo (1958), which was also about a man fascinated by the duplication, perception and illusion of his wife, through an artificial embodiment. At its most personal though, the film is about Almodóvar himself, an openly gay man, acknowledging his own femineity. No matter what our identity is, what face or body shape is, or how people perceive us, there is nothing more unconquerable than the human mind and its ability to think and feel for itself. Real desire cannot be changed, invented or duplicated. Hence, why particular actions are repeated by different characters in the film.

Philosophy and intertextuality aside, this is a tremendously efficient thriller, with only a few bumps along the way. There are two scenes in this film involving sexual violence that I found challenging to watch. They're harsh and unflinchingly staged. However, they are not just for cheap shock or sensationalism but eventually revealed as integral points to the narrative. Almodóvar takes his time to tell this story and tests our patience with some of these difficult scenes. Our reward is that we are provided with clarity towards both the plotting and the characters motivations. In terms of design, I liked the realism applied to the scientific elements as well. Most Hollywood thrillers throw a white coat over their scientists and they're ready to cure malaria. The scientific equipment here looks and feels tangible, which brings some credibility to the insane narrative. Meanwhile, Banderas is fairly one-note here but he remains in tune with the film's cold tone. It is refreshing to see him in something that isn't self-parodying and in his narrow corridor of brooding, he is strong enough. Although a tribute to Hitchcock this is as far from a Hollywood thriller as a film can get. It is risky, original and profound, recommended for the patient viewer.

Benjamin (Matt Damon) is a single parent and a writer, looking after his teenage son Dylan (Colin Ford) and his small daughter Rosie (Maggie Elizabeth Jones). Following the death of their mother the kids have not been coping particularly well. Dylan is regularly distracted by his angry drawings and is expelled from school for stealing. Benjamin is urged by his older brother Duncan (Thomas Haden Church), an accountant, to start living his life again. In his desperation to turn the lives of his kids and himself around, Benjamin begins house hunting. He visits a property and immediately holds an attachment to it. What he discovers is that the property is actually a struggling zone. Seeing how attracted Rosie is to the land herself, Benjamin becomes the new owner. With the help of a number of workers, including Kelly (Scarlett Johansson) and her niece Lily (Elle Fanning), Benjamin looks to use his own finances to reopen the zoo. Yet the tension with his son, who has been extremely reluctant about moving, still remains.

You would have to be some kind of scrooge to dislike this movie. It is safe, entirely predictable and sugary but then again it's not really for you. It is for the families on Boxing Day too smart to involve themselves with the horses of war. Colour me surprised, and this is really the film's only surprise, but here is a family movie that doesn't rely on obvious humour and idiotic slapstick comedy. It's a true story, transported from the South West of England in real life to America for the film, and anyone who isn't a cynic is welcome to this. For the adults it is more complex than a lot of light family entertainment and I think that's why I enjoyed it so much. This apparent complexity stems from Matt Damon's amusing and soulful performance. This guy has matured so much in the last few years, separating himself from a still-Bourne action star, into an extremely versatile actor. He's playing a genuinely nice character here, who is in equal measure, frustrated and desperate to help his family. This comes through a lot of the humour and gentle-nudging in the film, as he tries and generally fails to blend in, embarrassing himself because he is out of comfort zone. He's genuine funny and brings so much feeling to this character that he somehow makes you understand why he was so impulsive in the first place. Although many of the film's conflicts are resolved too easily, Benjamin's isolation from his wife and his search for renewal is, for the most part, sympathetic and touching.

I thought his chemistry with Elizabeth Jones was just about perfect too. Some of the best scenes in the film are with them alone because they have such a warm, inseparable relationship. She's just an adorable little actresses, with just the right amount of input. Some child stars overplay their hand. You notice this kid for the right reasons. I particularly enjoyed the inclusion of Duncan too, someone who has been adventurous himself but was left unsatisfied and doesn't want his brother to fall into the same trap. His relationship with Benjamin, which has its share of funny moments too, makes sense. For small children this is a visually warm film, with so many different animals that you can forgive the omission of a petting zone. I think the message of this film is also refreshing. Some of the dialogue is sugar-coated too thickly with lines like, 'The secret to talking is to listen'. Yet the idea of taking a risk, or as the film puts it, 'Twenty-seconds of courage', instead of the usual balderdash about being yourself, feels refreshing and anew. If you're choosing between this and the Chipmunks these holidays just remember which film has a chimp in a zookeeper uniform.