The Fifth Estate (15)

Truth is a funny thing - it's all a matter of perspective. Ask anyone of my ex-girlfriends why we broke up, and they'll tell you a very different story to the one I'll tell.

But we'd each insist ours is the real version of events.

So who is telling the truth in The Fifth Estate, a "dramatic thriller" about the birth of Wikileaks - the game-changing website that published all the things we were never meant to know?

Based, in part, on the book written by co-founder (or employee No1, depending on who you ask) Daniel Domscheit-Berg, The Fifth Estate attempts to show the birth of an idealistic dream.

What it also attempts to show is the flawed character of Julian Assange, the man who definitely started Wikileaks and is now Ecuador's most celebrated resident.

Directed by Bill Condon (a man with an eclectic CV, going from Gods And Monsters to Twilight via Dreamgirls), The Fifth Estate is trying to adhere to a simple journalistic principle of laying out the story and leaving the audience to draw conclusions.

Sadly, it struggles to do it in any cohesive manner. And it's certainly not a thriller.

This is not a terrible film. It just lacks a clear focus. Watching it, you are left with no real sense of who the story is about. Or what.

It could be about Daniel (played brilliantly by Daniel Bruhl, seen recently as Niki Lauda in Rush), it could be about Assange (another faultless performance by Benedict Cumberbatch), it could be about the battle to have the truth heard, it could be about how dangerous the truth is, it could be about the people harmed by the truth, it could be about how governments were slow to appreciate the strength of Wikileaks. It could even be about Bradley Manning, the soldier who leaked a tonne of stuff and is now doing time in an American prison.

But The Fifth Estate is actually about all those things, which is where the film hits a problem.

There's no clear focus. No central theme. And there are certainly no thrills (with the exception of the moment the US decide to get their man out of Tripoli).

In a way, the film falls down by clinging to the Wikileaks ideal of putting all the information out there at the same time - leaving us to pick through the start of the site, the involvement of journalists, the fall out in The White House and the cat.

Such an approach works fine on Wikileaks, because people have the time to plough through all the information - but in a film, we're just left with an overview, there's no real depth.

It's well acted, well shot and makes some good use of imagery of the imagined Wikileaks world inside the Assange bonce.

But it could have been so much more.

By narrowing the parameters we could have been given either more sense of what the founders went through, or the panic that flowed through the corridors of power (apparently only America was really bothered, the Russians a tad, but no other government is mentioned), or the damage caused by the Manning leaks.

Instead, we get a bit of all that. And a lot of Julian Assange. Which is another problem.

Because Assange has seemingly had no involvement in the project, we are left with the word of a man who fell out with him. Unsurprisingly, this doesn't paint him in a good light.

Similarly, my friends will say nice things about me. My ex-girlfriends not so much.

As I said earlier, truth relies on perspective - and the perspective of The Fifth Estate is skewed. It doesn't make it a bad story, you understand, but it forces you to ask how much you can really believe.

That Assange was a tad delusional is clearly a central theme here, a liar who wanted other people's truths revealed. But we can only know if that is true by hearing from him. We need another source.

Of course, we have another source here - Wikileaks: Inside Julian Assange's War On Secrecy, written by David Leigh and Luke Harding and published by Guardian books (and serialised by The Guardian).

Incidentally, The Guardian comes out of this film looking like a reputable, respectable newspaper that acted responsibly. Just saying.

Sadly, this is a film that raises more questions than answers (not least how one man with no apparent income could afford to be jaunting all round the world). Maybe that was the point (Assange himself says you have to search for the truth), but it just leaves a big gap in the story.

Ultimately, The Fifth Estate should have been a really important film. In the same way All The President's Men catalogued the Watergate affair, so this movie should have told the story of the new game-changer in world affairs.

Sadly, something gets lost in the mix, leaving you to ponder on what could have been - and what really happened.

Machete Kills (15)

Here's a puzzle - how do you manage to make a film that's meant to be bad, really, really bad? Is it a case of doing your job too well?

Because somehow, despite the dumb fun and blood that was Machete, the sequel is dull. How this has happened is a mystery, although I think I know the answer...

For those of you who have missed the history of this Mexican masterpiece, some history - director Robert Rodriguez and his mate Quentin Tarantino had a fun idea a few years ago, deciding to pay homage to the grindhouse genre with the double bill of Death Proof and Planet Terror.

Amidst all the fun and guns, there were some trailers for fake films. These turned out to be rather popular, and before you can say 'in-joke', Machete went from being a pretend trailer to a real film.

And it was good. Guns were fired, heads were cut off, limbs flew like leaves in the breeze and Lyndsay Lohan was a nun. It was bonkers brilliant.

Inevitably, there had to be a sequel - so here we are.

The wonderful Danny Trejo is back as the titular blade-wielding hero, Michelle Rodriguez (no relation) is back as the leader of the underground movement, Jessica Alba reprises her role as Sartana Rivera - it should all work.

And for about twenty minutes, it does.

Having been recruited by the President Of The United States (Charlie Sheen, performing under his birth name of Carlos Estevez to add to the Latino flavour), Machete must go into Mexico and come back with the man who is pointing a missile at Washington.

And again, limbs are hacked off with gay abandon, heads roll, things go boom and bang - it's a rollicking laugh.

Then it stops being fun.

Part of the problem is a switch in humour. Rather than sticking to the tried-and-tested approach of just killing people in entertaining ways, Rodriguez decides to try and be actually funny.

The writing's on the wall when we see 'The South West Wing' on the President's office door, and it's down hill from there.

Later we get to meet Mel Gibson's Luther Voz, the man with the plan and a love of Star Wars, and it's at this point you realise Rodriquez has been watching too many Naked Gun movies. Only no one laughs.

In fact it almost descends into a bad Bond film by the end, which is a horrible place for anyone to end up - especially when you probably think you're being funny while you do it.

Because, for the fans of the first film (and I count myself as one) the joy was in the brutal simplicity. It was an 18-certificate film (Kills is a mere 15 you'll notice) with lots of blood, guts, gore and violence. Which is what I wanted.

Now I'm being force-fed unfunny, sanitised pish - without Lohan in a habit, but with Mel Gibson. This is not good.

You see, what a lot of people don't realise is there is actually a knack to acting badly. You have to be able to act well to pull it off - because the people in the original films thought they were actually acting well.

And that's something Trejo gets, Rodriguez (the Michelle one) gets it too. Gibson not so much.

Then there's Amber Heard. Sure she looks good, and she showed in The Rum Diary that she can actually perform in front of the camera, but here she's terrible. She's trying to do the 'bad acting' thing, but just ends up acting very badly.

The poor performances are highlighted further when Antonio Banderas rocks up (and, to a lesser degree Cuba Gooding Jnr). Suddenly the screen returns to life and the joy and abandon of those almost forgotten opening 20 minutes are back with us. He gets it. And we get it.

No one gets Gibson though.

Even Sheen is in on the idea, although in his case it's how he's been acting ever since he decided he was "winning", but hey - if it works, it works. It's just a pity that Gibson's own meltdown hasn't had as good an outcome...

You may have heard that Lady Gaga also appears. But if she didn't, you'd have missed nothing.

Basically this is just a long list of 'could have beens'. This could have been more violent, this could have been funnier, this could have been good.

Instead you get a great opening, a few bright spots towards the end, and a long dull wait for a reprieve in the middle. Even gun-toting hookers with machine gun bras and strap-on pistols can't save this.

Can't remember the last time I watched a film thinking it could have been improved by Lohan.

Oh, and there's also a trailer at the start about Machete being in space. It's funny until you get to the end of the film, when you realise you've basically watched 100 minutes of set-up for the next movie.

Which, if we're really lucky, they won't get to make.

Filth (18)

You've got to hand it to James McAvoy this year - hitting the mark in Welcome To The Punch, entrancing in Trance and now up to his piggy little ears in Filth.

He's having quite the year.

And it's a measure of just how good he is performing at the moment that, unlike the Ryan Goslings of this world, each performance stands on its own merits - no repeating a formula here, no siree Bob.

There has been quite a buzz about Filth, and we've been giddy here at Popcorn Towers since seeing the full, filthy trailer recently (family-friendly version here, obviously, but the one you really want is on YouTube).

And the film does not disappoint.

Based on the Irvine Welsh novel of the same name (and, not having read it, I can't comment on the accuracy of the adaptation - but I'm guessing the phrase "based on" is key), Filth tells the story of bloated, bigoted, corrupt cop Bruce Robertson.

Bruce, played wonderfully by McAvoy, is not having a good time. It's Christmas, his wife seems to have left him (he's not sure if, or why, she has) and he's chasing a promotion at his Edinburgh cop shop.

Then there's a murder to solve. And an obscene caller to track down. A copper's work is never done.

And it's not easy work, especially when there's so much coke to snort, colleagues to discredit, booze to drink, women to shag, parties to organise and Masonic meetings to attend.

Bruce is a busy boy and no mistake.

He's also having a total meltdown as past events, current events and all that coke (not to mention the proper drugs he's prescribed) combine to bring his various mental walls crashing down.

This is, I think it's fair to say, not an easy film to watch.

It's gritty, dirty, visceral, surreal, nasty, violent, sexual, foul-mouthed and coked off its knockers.

Put more simply, it's great.

Part of me thinks it shouldn't be. The lead character is loathsome - and it's a mark of just how good McAvoy is that you find yourself liking him. Even when he's spiking his only friend's beer in a gay club in Germany.

Because, underneath it all, he has moments of genuine warmth and empathy. He's become this monster, but buried way underneath nice old Bruce is still lurking - even if it takes a total stranger (the delicately fragile Joanna Froggatt of Downton Abbey fame) to make him actually feel something.

Although how she manages to get through all that coke is a mystery. I've never touched the stuff and even my nose was tingling from about halfway through.

But for all the grit and filth and nastiness, there are some lighter moments and fun to be had. You will laugh. You will also squirm and feel sick - particularly when humble accountant Bladesey (Eddie Marsan in another great performance) is honking up in his hand after popping to see Bruce and having 'just the one'.

McAvoy's ability to switch from fear to anger to, well, any one of the myriad of emotions Bruce's crazy cranium throws up, is just wonderful to behold - he literally IS Filth - but he somehow manages to not steal any of the spotlight from the supporting cast.

Jim Broadbent as a mad Aussie doctor, John Sessions as his superior officer, Imogen Poots, Jamie Bell and Emun Elliott (yup, him from Threesome) as his colleagues, all put in stellar performances, balancing out the madness McAvoy's Bruce is immersed in.

And also, look out for David Soul, in one of the weirdest yet perfect cameo roles you'll see this year. Or any year.

As I've said, Filth is not a relaxing film to watch. It's enthralling, though, and you find yourself being dragged (and drugged) along for a smidge over 90 minutes without noticing.

It's as much a look at police corruption and abuse of power as it is a look at one man battling his many, many demons. It's a rollercoaster, a rude, sweary, sex-fuelled, coke-riddled, whiskey and beer-soaked rollercoaster, which takes no prisoners but does beat up and threaten a few.

You can't relax, and by the end you feel drained, but you'll have had fun. Sort of.

There will, of course, be some who will make obvious comparisons with Trainspotting (it's Scottish, written by Welsh and full of drugs), but that's unfair.

Filth deserves to stand (slumped against a wall looking as rough as a badger's bottom, granted) on its own.

Now, if you'll excuse me, having seen both Blue Jasmine AND Filth this week, I feel the need to check myself into a rehab clinic...

Blue Jasmine (12A)

As we discussed on the podcast recently, the rule with Woody Allen is simple - every new film is back to his best.

Until it isn't.

Granted, he's had a couple of good ones recently - Vicky Christina Barcelona and Midnight In Paris were both good, but second-tier when placed up against the classics.

So imagine my surprise when, as Blue Jasmine unfolded, I suddenly realised that he'd actually done it.

Because, what makes a great Woody Allen film is, well, everything. There's not a spare piece of meat on these bones, no flab, nothing.

It's got laughs, it's got heartbreaking beauty, it's even got a wonderful twist which makes you doubt how you've been feeling. It's nothing short of beautiful.

Because what Allen does best - and few people can match him when he's on his game - is tell a story, with well-rounded characters you can relate to. A story that makes you think while you enjoy and engage with it.

He has a way of writing that allows the characters to breathe and develop and explain themselves without having to add unnecessary dialogue to drive the plot or character development, which has the benefit of never slowing things down.

The story centres around Cate Blanchett's stunning portrayal of Jasmine, a woman whose mental state has come crashing down around her along with her life.

Once rich and the centre of the New York social scene, she's now without a husband, a house or her step-son. Instead, she's been forced to shack up with her adopted sister Ginger (played exquisitely by the wonderful Sally Hawkins) in San Francisco.

And worse, she has to get a job.

By flicking between the past and the present, we are shown how events unfolded, how Jasmine has fallen on such hard times and is now having to answer a dentist's phone while also picking Ginger's life to pieces.

Blanchett captures the mental fragility and selfish beauty perfectly. You ought to despise her, but you can't. Through her portrayal you sympathise and care about what has happened to Jasmine, and when she meets her next Mr Right, you are genuinely pleased for her.

Even if she is a pill-popping alcoholic who is falling apart at the seams, you still care what happens to her. To the extent you actually find yourself siding with her when she's being a snobbish cow to Ginger's boyfriend.

But this isn't simply a two-woman show (although, if it were, what a show that would be), oh no. The rest of the cast put in stellar performances too.

Alex Baldwin is at his best as Jasmine's husband Hal, Peter Sarsgaard (who was brilliant in Lovelace, jeez can this man act) is great again as Jasmine's new beau Dwight, Louis C. K. takes a break from being an ace stand-up to be great as Al and even Andrew Dice Clay (not a man I'd ever choose to spend time with) is great as Ginger's ex-husband Augie.

There's basically not a bad performance here.

I think one of the reasons Blue Jasmine is so good is because half of it is set in New York. Allen has stopped making the setting of his films the centrepiece (Paris and London being the recent excursions), and returned to what he knows - using his home town as the backdrop to great story telling.

Yes, there's a bit of a return to the lingering scenic shots around San Francisco, but by then you're so wrapped up in these people's lives that you don't care. And such shots don't overstay their welcome.

Perhaps the most amazing thing about Blue Jasmine is how little of 'Woody' there is. Since having decided to stay behind the camera, he's still needed people to play 'him', the nervy, neurotic chatty character. In recent times it's been Owen Wilson's gig, but he's nowhere to be seen here.

As a result, a certain weight is lifted, and each character is allowed to shine on their own.

Yes, OK, there's still some of the old Woody kicking about - mainly shown through Jasmine here - but that was always going to be the case. The difference this time is it doesn't overshadow the whole film.

It's also fascinating to hear a woman's take on her husband's infidelity with a teenage girl. You can only take so much Woody Allen out of a Woody Allen film...

There's already Oscar mutterings around Blue Jasmine, and if Blanchett isn't nominated it'll be shocking - but Hawkins deserves a nod too, as does Allen himself.

He's created a real world again, with real people who have real lives and real problems. And he's back to making you laugh and wince and cry in equal measure.

This could easily have been called Woman On The Edge Of A Nervous Breakdown. Or Woody Comes Home(ish). This could even be the Woody Allen film that non-fans actually like.

Runner Runner (15)

Ahh, sweet September - the sun is shining, the birds could well be singing (stereo's up a bit loud) and I'm off to shelter from the sun in a darkened room watching the sun.

Because, if you can say nothing else about Runner Runner (and there really isn't a lot to say), it's sunny. Well it would be, it's set in Costa Rica.

Which is good, because it gives us something to talk about. Otherwise, this would be a short review.

If you haven't yet seen the trailer for Runner Runner, here's the deal - Ben Affleck runs an online gambling website safely away from the jurisdiction of the US Government, Justin Timberlake is a broke Princeton graduate who can't afford to pay for his Masters, and Gemma Arterton sounds classy and looks good in a dress.

That's pretty much it. There are other people, but they're not really crucial and vital. Think of them as palm trees, you're aware they're there but they don't affect your overall view.

The plot is simple, crime caper by numbers stuff that you can plot happily without engaging your brain - giving you more time to enjoy the scenery.

People cross and double-cross people, the Feds (despite having NO jurisdiction) wield an amazing amount of control and influence, and one small chap discovers what the whole scam really is (don't worry if you miss it, it's spelt out twice).

That's it.

Really.

But it looks nice.

In fairness, director Brad Furman has done a decent job. Affleck and Timberlake put in perfectly good performances, Arterton does what she's asked to do (not her fault she wasn't asked to do much), crocodiles are fed chickens and women in bikinis saunter about at parties and on boats.

What else do you want? Plot?

Oh, you wanted plot.

Wrong film, sorry.

That's not to say this is a bad movie - it's not. It won't change your life, but just like a fast-food burger it passes the time and fills a gap without really satisfying.

That's not to say Runner Runner isn't trying - it is. It has high aspirations. It wants to be a classy, sassy, intelligent thriller with something to say (judgements are passed on 'real criminals', parallels drawn with the crooks of Wall Street), but it really isn't that film.

It's a looks pretty, looks shiny, bright and colourful, people are on boats film. In Costa Rica. Which looks nice, if you've got money.

If you haven't, it's a steaming cesspit of cock fights and dirty bars apparently, but hey - these people have money, so it's all champagne and corruption. Job's a good 'un.

Don't think about this film, and you'll find it passes the time without much bother.

Instead, amuse yourself by picking holes in the plot while wondering how shutting a blind stops a man on a plane from knowing where he's going when there are no signposts at 20,000ft...

Prisoners (15)

Normally, as I watch a film, the intro to the review will just sneak into my head. Could be something that happens on the way to the film, could be directly relevant to the plot...

Either way, something will suggest itself by the time I get home.

Not with Prisoners. Oh no.

Now, it could have been the stupidly-long running time, it could have been the amount of exasperated head shaking that was going on, it could even have been bumping into one of my oldest friends as I came out of the cinema - but whatever it was, nothing was coming.

And I'm still stumped now.

I had been looking forward to Prisoners - I mean really excited. It looked dark and gritty, it looked tense and exciting, but then that's the joy of a three-minute trailer.

Sadly, stretched out to nigh on three hours what you get is a turgid examination of grief and faith, dressed up as a thriller about two little girls who get kidnapped.

And it should be thrilling. It's two children taken from outside their house. It should be a tense thrill ride, keeping you guessing at every twist and turn.

And it is tense. In the same way watching an iceberg approach is tense. You know it's going to hit you at some point, the question is when. Yes, you're going to get bored waiting, but still - it's got to hit you at some point, right?

Or not.

Essentially, the problem with Prisoners is the pacing. It never breaks out of a casual saunter. Even the one brief speeding car chase fails to thrill, largely because by then you've lost the will to live. And this is nothing short of criminal.

Because, if an editor who knew what he/she was doing had got hold of this, then the strong central performances of Jake Gyllenhaal (as the cop) and Hugh Jackman (as the bereft father) would have shone.

Instead, they are given so much room to breathe they actually get lost. Stifled. To the point you actually stop caring what happens.

The problem is two-fold. The direction (care of Denis Villeneuve) is hugely self-indulgent. Denis has clearly decided from the off how the film should look, and while the bleak, stark visual tone is consistent throughout, he's forgotten about how to actually make a film work.

The other guilty party is writer Aaron Guzikowski (whose only other credit is Contraband). In order to engage with our central characters, we need to know something about them. But there is so little meat on those particular bones that the audience is left to starve.

Fair play to Jackman and Gyllenhaal for putting in such good performances given how little they had to work with - but imagine what they could have done with a proper, well-rounded character.

And it's the same for the supporting cast. The other grief-stricken parents (played by Viola Davis, Terence Howard and Maria Bello) are so paper-thin as to make you wonder why they're there. Apart from plot devices, they seem to serve no purpose other than added dressing to a scene.

And, given the calibre of these stars, that's a huge waste.

Then we have the actual, well, let's be kind and call it plot.

To say it's laboured would be kind. To say it's misguided would be an understatement.

The time it takes to develop a lead, highlight the suspect and then deal with him makes you think this may have been shot in real-time. Never before has so much time been dedicated to potential red herrings. It's painful.

Then there's the twist. And it's a doozy. If you're still interested, you may possibly guess, but I wouldn't bet on it. My guess is it'll be met, as it was in the screening I was in, with an overwhelming feeling of indifference.

But, amazingly, that isn't the worst of it.

Somehow this film manages to have more to say about the use of torture as an interrogation tool than Zero Dark Thirty (turns out, it's not a good thing). It's trying to show how far one man will go to get to the truth, but that point is lost in all the blood, pummelling and hot water.

And just when you think you couldn't get any more annoyed, religion, faith and their use as an excuse (thinks carefully before giving too much away) for deeds being done are introduced.

And that's when I wanted to punch the screen.

To be honest, if I wasn't there to review the damn thing, I'd have given up after half an hour and walked out. If I was watching on TV I doubt I'd have lasted that long.

With some editing of both the script and the film footage, Prisoners could have been the taught thriller we all expected.

Instead we get a tedious look at events which, against all logic, are made tedious. The leads do their best, and they are in no way to blame for the mess they've ended up in, but when the final scene is greeted with voluble derision you know this is a film that has missed its mark by a country mile.

R.I.P.D (12A)

As regular readers will know, given the choice here at Popcorn Towers we opt for films in 2D - as nature intended - rather than sitting in a darkened room wearing sunglasses.

While this allows us to watch a film without getting eye strain, it also makes it interesting spotting where the added dimension is being thrown in. A flying car here, burning embers there... you know the drill.

Sadly, this is one of the highlights of watching R.I.P.D. In fact it would make a good drinking game - every time you spot a bit that you think was only put in for the 3D effect, you get to take a swig. Should liven the film up no end.

Although, to be fair, you don't need alcohol to enjoy R.I.P.D. It'll help, sure, but there is enough fun knocking about to keep you entertained. As long as you don't think about it too much.

Based on the Dark Horse comic Rest In Peace Department, R.I.P.D is about dead people hunting down deader people in order for alive people to go about being alive without stuff happening to them. Should be a hoot.

And in some ways it is. Jeff Bridges, as Roy, is clearly having fun. Hamming it up in full True Grit western mode, he's chewing up the scenery like the seasoned pro he is. No depth here, no subtle nuances, just a cowboy who likes talking about how he died and shooting things. Has a few good gags too.

Kevin Bacon (once you get over the feeling he could try and sell you a phone at any moment) is equally fine as Hayes, the corrupt cop who sends Ryan Reynolds to the R.I.P.D.  Sure, he's not exactly stretching himself, but he doesn't need to. He's not playing Hamlet here.

Unfortunately, that leaves Reynolds as Nick. Never a hugely charismatic screen presence, playing a cop who got shot by his partner and ended up on the other side, as it were, shouldn't really need that much 'oomph'. Which is handy, as he doesn't have any.

Sadly, he's up against two actors who - even when they're not trying - leave him trailing in the dust. Even the ever lovely Mary-Louise Parker, who is pretty much over-doing it for giggles - outshines him.

Poor old Ryan. At some point he might take the hint and leave the comic book movie world alone (for the love of all that's good, don't let him near Deadpool).

The story here deviates from the source material. Where, on the page, Nick is searching for whoever killed him, here on screen he knows from the off. I can understand why, from a dramatic point of view, they've made the change - but I can also understand why the die-hard fans could be miffed.

But none of these - the changed story, the performances - are what's wrong with this film.

It's not that it's terrible - it is kinda fun, ish - but it feels like while they were busy adding the extra dimension, they forgot to pay attention to a key detail.

As an audience, we understand how this works - it's a comic book world. This is not in any way real. It can't be replicated on a set. So you turn to your CGI wizzos. And you need them to be good.

What you don't need is to be sitting in the cinema, watching what should be large amounts of metallic machinery moving about, thinking it looks like it was drawn by a toddler using Paint.

Equally, when the actors are walking through a world that is being painted in later (and to be fair, they all manage to make it look like they believe they're where they're going to be when it's all finished) - paint it in well. Reynolds is supposed to walking on nothing. NOT a coloured-in floor.

Then there's the use of the avatars.

It's a quirk of the story that, once dead, you can't appear as yourself to the real world. So, when you're on earth, you look like someone else. In this case, a small Chinese guy in a hat (Nick, played well by James Hong) and one of the most desirable women alive (Roy, played by Victoria's Secret model Marissa Miller).

There are jokes to be had with this - and some are done well. But it needs to be used consistently. It really doesn't help the audience when Nick is trying to talk to his widow at his own funeral, and she's reacting like a stranger is harassing her, if all we see is Reynold's pretty fizzog. For the gag to work, we need to see Man In Hat.

And it's these little things that let the film down.

Sure the story's a bit hokey, but it's about dead people policing stuff. It needs to make sense, sure (and it struggles with that at times) but reality going out of the window is a given.

What you do need, though, is clear, consistent story-telling.

Suddenly dropping a mystical artifact into the mix after an hour smacks of desperation. It screams that no one had an ending for this film and got desperate. Even Ms Parker looks like she can't believe what' she's saying at that point.

But, despite all that is wrong with this film, I didn't hate it.

I know it's been kicked all over town - particularly over at comicbookmovie.com - and it has bombed massively Stateside, but if you go in expecting nothing you won't be disappointed. And you might even enjoy it.

There are some laughs (not as many as there should be, sure), there's a good car chase, Bridges is just wonderful, Parker is great... There ARE things to be enjoyed here. You've just got to disengage brain to see them.

My suspicion is that R.I.P.D - along with The Lone Ranger - will, in time find its audience. And they will love it and defend it to the hilt. They'll get upset when you point out it tries to invoke Ghostbusters and Ghost, sure, but that's because they know you're right.

But leave them alone. Be kind. They're not hurting anyone. Loving movies is all about having that one guilty pleasure no one else understands. R.I.P.D is set to be one of them.