Bovie Movie

The transfer of successful video games to the big screen has a less than glorious track record, from Super Mario Bros to Street Fighter. Hopes were high for this Tomb Raider adaptation, however, partly because Lara Croft was a natural action-movie icon and partly because the game was known for decent narrative. What a shame then that it’s such a huge dud. Angelina Jolie makes a credible enough Lara — athletic, somewhat top-heavy and with an English accent borrowed from Liz Hurley (rumoured to be an early contender for the role). But not only is the story unsatisfying — a two-act yarn about finding two halves of an artefact in Cambodia and Siberia — the direction from Simon West (so good at the helm of Con Air) does nothing to whip up any momentum as Lara joins forces with the apparent villains (led by Iain Glen) and jumps about a bit, mostly in the dark. The Indiana Jones series did this tomb-raiding schtick so much better; and a few monkey statues coming to life are short change after the full-on Brendan Fraser Mummy films. In short, it’s boring. A half-baked subplot involving Lara’s dead father (played by Jolie’s dad Jon Voight) does little to involve the viewer and fans of the game will be itching to get back to their consoles. 

Daniel Craig effortlessly makes James Bond his own, and the 21st movie in the series goes back to basics for this resoundingly entertaining spy adventure. GoldenEye director Martin Campbell has obviously been watching the Bourne franchise, and here he gives the superspy a gritty makeover, upping the violence content (the opening sequence, shot in grainy black and white, is particularly brutal). He also strips Bond of much of the slightly camp humour — thus no appearance from gadget-man Q. The plot is essentially an origins story, as a rough-around-the-edges Bond gains his two zeros (the two authorised kills he needs for his infamous licence) before tackling villain Le Chiffre (a splendidly thin-lipped Mads Mikkelsen) in a game of high-stakes poker. Craig’s humanised, more flawed interpretation of the role balances Campbell’s physical direction and co-writer Paul Haggis’s sparing wit, while Eva Green provides an alluring love interest. Apart from a chaotic and overlong last act, this is a triumphant new beginning. 

Marking the directorial debut of Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels producer Matthew Vaughn, this decent enough British crime thriller is done few favours by its nondescript title. Daniel Craig plays a rising young drug dealer whose ambition is to make some quick money and then retire early to enjoy it. His plans — involving a massive shipment of ecstasy — are complicated by drugs lord Kenneth Cranham, who asks him to find the wayward daughter of an associate (dodgy businessman Michael Gambon). The performances are good, and Vaughn directs with assuredness and aplomb, but there’s an over-familiarity about the subject matter that suggests it’s time for Vaughn and his crime-movie contemporaries to seek inspiration elsewhere. 

Violence begets violence in Steven Spielberg’s bold and brooding thriller, beginning with the tragedy of the 1972 Munich Olympics when Israeli athletes were taken hostage by Black September terrorists and, after a botched rescue mission, 11 of them were left dead. Spielberg pulls no punches here, but rather than sensationalise the atrocity, he provides a complex moral framework for the Israeli intelligence mission to assassinate the Palestinian ringleaders. Initially, the action seems predictable as the quietly intense Eric Bana and his four-man hit squad eliminate their targets one-by-one. But when doubts eventually creep in, so does a palpable sense of urgency. It’s a mood heightened by stark visuals, a restless camera and excellent support from Ciaran Hinds and Daniel Craig, who effectively play both sides of Avner’s troubled conscience. After crowd-pleasing fare like War of the Worlds and The Terminal, Spielberg should be applauded for bravely resisting a pat conclusion with a film that keenly resonates with post-9/11 anxieties. 

Who was Sylvia Plath? According to this patchy, dislocated biopic, the American poet was a suicidal, husband-obsessed woman whose creative flame was prematurely extinguished when she took her own life in 1963. Relegating the people and events of the period to the background, the film centres on the love affair between Plath and her husband, future poet laureate Ted Hughes. What draws us in is the central performance of Gwyneth Paltrow — as steely as it is vulnerable — while Daniel Craig’s turn as Hughes is also superbly conveyed. However, John Brownlow’s script tends to sanctify Plath’s work and so the film becomes just another beautiful-person-in-anguish life story, à la Hilary and Jackie and Iris. Despite some atmospheric work from Kiwi director Christine Jeffs, Sylvia baulks from the very aspects of Plath’s semi-autobigraphy, The Bell Jar, that are so revealing.