Parky at the Pictures (In Cinemas 11/7/2013)

When matador Daniel Giménez Cacho is gored by a bull at a corrida, his flamenco dancer wife, Inma Cuesta, goes into premature labour and dies giving birth to their daughter. Confined to a wheelchair, Cacho has nothing to do with the child and becomes ever more dependent upon nurse Maribel Verdú, who quickly worms her way into his affections, even though she is having a kinky affair with chauffeur Pere Ponce. She persuades Cacho to send young Sofia Oria to live with her grandmother, Ángela Molina, and soon becomes his bride. However, Molina is a proud woman who is determined to teach Oria about her culture and her place in the world. But their blissful time together is cut short when Molina dies as they dance a joyous flamenco on the streets of Seville and Oria is returned to her father's house.

Cacho is now so completely under Verdú's spell that he refuses to see his daughter and she is locked away in a remote room. However, as she grows into Macarena García, the girl vows to find a way to be reunited with him and is delighted when he feels such remorse at having neglected her that he not only defies Verdú in order to spend time with her, but he also teaches her some of his bullfighting skills. Fearing that García will talk Cacho into divorcing her, Verdú decides to murder her husband (making it look like an accident, of couse) and orders Ponce to dispose of García in the woods.

Fortunately, he bungles his task and García is discovered by six bullfighting dwarves led by Emilio Gavira and Sergio Dorado. They take pity on the waif, who has lost her memory and has no idea who she is, let alone where she came from. Happy to entrust herself to these genial friends, she goes on the road and soon demonstrates her own flair for fighting heifers in the ring. Indeed, talent agent Josep Maria Pou is so impressed that he arranges for her to perform in Seville and the now socially renowned Verdú is furious that her stepdaughter has survived and supplanted her on the cover of a bestselling magazine.

Determined to remove her rival, Verdú arranges for the tame heifer to be replaced by a vicious bull and takes her seat with a look of sadistic satisfaction, as García steps before the cheering crowd. But she is soon seething with frustration, as García wins the hearts of the spectators with her vulnerability and virtuosity and they cheer to the echo as she spares the creature its life. However, Verdú is not one to take defeat lightly and she asks one of the dwarves to give García an apple as a token of her admiration. But the fruit has been laced with poison and, as García lapses into a coma, the dwarves exact their pitiless revenge on the impenitent Verdú. 

Spotting an opportunity to exploit the situation, Pou turns García into a circus novelty and sells tickets to would-be princes keen to wake her with a kiss. However, it is Dorado (who has been besotted with her from the moment he set eyes on her) whose embrace rouses her from her slumber and a solitary tear trickles down her cheek, as García realises how much she is loved and how much she can enjoy the life that has been restored to her.

Belying a meagre budget, this is not just a compelling narrative. It is also a work of cinematic majesty. The performances of Molina, Verdú and García are exceptional and respectively remain just the right side of fairytale, pantomimic and teen romantic camp. Even more impressive are Kiko de la Rica's lustrous monochrome photography (shot in the classical 1:85 aspect ratio), Alain Bainée's meticulous, but knowing production design, Paco Delgado's satirically chic costumes and Alfonso de Vilallonga's wondrous, flamenco-inflected score. Given that it contains no dialogue, yet relates its tale with clarity, wit and surprising psychological depth, Berger's screenplay is also outstanding, as it errs more towards Maddin's melodramatic mastery than Hazanavicius's impish wit in leaving other recent reworkings of the Snow White fable like Tarsem Singh's Mirror, Mirror and Rupert Sanders's Snow White and the Huntsmen (both 2012) in its wake.

But it's Berger's direction that makes this such a mesmerising film. Taking his cues from the Brothers Grimm, he wisely couches the action in the Expressionist idiom that dominated European cinema in the early 1920s. But rather than duplicating effects from Fritz Lang, FW Murnau and GW Pabst, Berger borrows from such inspired contemporaries as Maurice Tourneur, Erich von Stroheim, Marcel L'Herbier and Soviet montagists like Sergei Eisenstein and Vsevolod Pudovkin, whose use of close-up is a major influence on the framing of the action. However, Berger isn't simply paying homage to the silent titans. He is also deconstructing the image of Spain that was peddled to the world via moving images both in this period and under the Francoist dictatorship following the Civil War. Thus, bullfighting is made to look cruel and rooted in the same chauvinist ignorance that both Church and State harnessed to suppress women and subversive thought between 1939 and 1975. 

Those with a detailed knowledge of Spanish social, political and cultural history will doubtless be able to recognise the subtler references. But screen aficionados should still spot the allusions to indigenous directors like Luis Buñuel and Luis García Berlanga, as well as foreign influences like Tod Browning, Douglas Sirk and even Tim Burton. Yet there is no malice behind the historical critique or smugness about the self-reflexivity. Consequently, this is a study of the past that avoids nostalgia, trivialisation and lazy judgements and, yet, it remains very much a fantasy that can be enjoyed as much as gothic escapism as it can be admired for its technical sureity, thematic trenchancy and creative audacity.

Just as Berger seems unafraid of tilting at Spanish windmills, Ruben Östlund has also raised eyebrows in his native Sweden with The Guitar Mongoloid (2004) and Involuntary (2008), which lampooned everyday attitudes and the way in which people behave differently in groups. He returns to these themes in Play, a scathing exposé of the relationship between the indigenous and immigrant populations that also continues Östlund's experiments with unconventional shooting styles. Criticised in some quarters for its seeming detachment and dogged impartiality, this fact-inspired saga makes for disconcerting viewing despite often feeling contrived and overlong. But by removing any stylistic distractions, Östlund forces the audience to engage with the action and reach its own conclusions about who is the predator and who is the prey.

Kevin Vaz is the leader of a gang of black youths (aged between eight and mid-teens) who have plenty of time on their hands when not playing football. They view most things as a game, as life would be unbearable if they considered the disadvantages stacked up against them. Consequently, they mooch around a shopping mall in downtown Gothenburg and pull scams that require each member to play his part, with the result that the spoils are divvied up at the end of the according to who turned in the best performance. Alongside Vaz and his junior oppo, Anas Abdirahman, Nana Manu, Abdiaziz Hilowle and Yannick Diakité take it in turns to bully and cajole their victims, as they seek to terrorise or dupe them into handing over their belongings without them having to resort to force.

A favoured dodge sees them browbeating a younger, less confident kid into handing over their mobile phone because it has been stolen from the baby brother of one of the gang. Following a roving shot around the various levels of the mall, the focus fixes on the atrium as the cabal decide to pick on the bourgeois trio of Sebastian Blyckert, Sebastian Hegmar and the Asian-looking John Ortiz by asking them the time. Affronted at being pestered and accused, the teens are pretty sure that their parents are above buying stolen goods. But they are too aware that walking away would look bad in front of so many strangers and they allow themselves to be outmanoeuvred and reluctantly agree to see if the mythical brother recognises his phone.

As they navigate the backstreets, Blyckert, Hegmar and Ortiz become increasingly unnerved and have to be coerced into boarding a tram. However, the tables are turned on Vaz and his cohorts, as they are menaced by twentysomething Adam Nygren and his pals, who snatch the disputed phone and threaten all eight kids with a sound beating if they don't back off. None of the other passengers or the staff lift a finger to help the boys. But, emboldened by seeing their foes vanquished, the threesome decide against making a run for it and follow them on to a bus that deposits them in open countryside outside the city. They even agree to a race, with the winner taking all of their pooled possessions. But the black lads cheat and finally show their physical superiority in ushering their victims on to a bus back to the centre, where they are caught travelling without tickets.

Vaz sorts through contraband that includes wallets, a pair of designer jeans and a clarinet. After a brief discussion, they start sharing them out in a bizarre display of egalitarianism. A few days later, however, angry fathers Johan Jonason and Martin McFaul spot a boy of African extraction chatting on a phone and demand that he hands it over, on the assumption that he must be one of the gang. The sight of grown men harassing a child prompts a couple of middle-aged women to intervene. But, as the argument continues in the street, the scene cuts to a school music lesson, where Ortiz is playing a brand new clarinet.

Inspired by several instances of the so-called `little brother number', this is a film whose very even-handedness is guaranteed to provoke and spark debate. As times, Östlund stacks the deck and comes close to producing case studies that could be used in classrooms to warn kids about the dangers of making presumptions based on race, class and material possessions. Vaz and his cohorts know that the majority of white Swedish children have been brought up in a liberal environment and would know that they risk being accused of xenophobia the moment they seek adult assistance in a confrontation with youths of African descent. So, the part-time gangsters never have to use violence. Instead, they can amuse themselves and adopt an air of superiority by taunting their targets with a variation on the good cop/bad cop routine. But the decision to redress the balance by having white grown-ups confront a defenceless black boy feels abrupt and a bit tacked on.

Neverthelress, considering the exchanges between the youngsters were largely improvised, Östlund deserves great credit for trusting his non-professional cast, who respond with performances of such naturalism that this would feel much more like a fly-on-the-wall documentary were it not for the rigidity of the shooting style. Keeping their distance and allowing scenes to play out in their own time before a static Red 4K camera, Östlund and digitographer Marius Dybwad Brandrud capture entrances and exits that blur the viewpoint and disorientate the audience, in much the same way that the gang banter unnerves the hapless trio striving to extricate themselves from their predicament with a modicum of honour.

But, in suggesting that these power games are also a kind of street theatre for cocky rascals entirely aware of the benefit that their disadvantage gives them, Östlund and writing partner Erik Hemmendorff may just succumb to being a bit too morally fiendish for the film's good. Moreover, they fail to integrate eccentric subplots (which feel like out-takes from Involuntary) about a band of South American Indian musicians busking and taking lunch and tram guards Peggy Johansson and Tobias Åkesson fretting about whether they have the right to move a wooden cradle that no one is willing to claim even though it's blocking an exit. Such wisps of bleak comedy tip the action into Roy Andersson territory and this may well have worked better had it been played as dark satire rather than self-satisfied civics lesson.

The quandary about whether to give marginalised youths the benefit of the doubt is further explored by Ciarán Foy in his debut feature, Citadel. The latest in a lengthening line of movies shot across the British Isles depicting unruly kids running riot on derelict estates, this makes the most of locales in Dublin and Glasgow to generate a solid sense of physical and moral decay. However, by diving headlong into the action without establishing any backstory, the audience is denied the opportunity to get to know the protagonist before he is pitched into a battle with the murderous vandals out to kidnap his infant daughter. Thus, for all its technical competence and disconcerting sense of place, this rapidly loses its hard won credibility as it lurches from social realist melodrama to cartoonishly bombastic horror.

Just as Aneurin Barnard and pregnant wife Amy Shiels are leaving their flat in a tower block earmarked for demolition, a trio of hooded thugs attack Shiels while Barnard looks on helplessly through the window of the jammed lift. Managing to free himself, he hurtles up the staircase to find Shiels bleeding profusely from a wound made in her belly by a syringe. Denied access to the operating theatre, he can barely bring himself to hold his prematurely born daughter, as he is informed that his spouse has lapsed into a coma.

Nine months later, Barnard is attending group therapy sessions with psychiatrist Ingrid Craigie in a bid to alleviate his crippling agoraphobia. But he is making little progress and nurse Wunmi Mosaku tries vainly to console him as he faces the grim prospect of switching off Shiels's life-support machine. Against his better judgement, Barnard moves into his new house on the Edenstown estate (which is dwarfed by the three high-rises looming over it) and is spooked on his first night by a shadowy figure at the door. He is also upset to see `unknown infection' given as the cause of Shiels's death and wonders for a moment whether a blind boy he passes in the corridor might have been one of her killers.

But Mosaku reassures him that things are bound to improve with and accompanies him to the funeral, which is conducted by foul-mouthed priest James Cosmo, who warns Barnard to get away before the perpetrators come in search of his child. Mosaku urges him to ignore Cosmo, who is known at the hospice as something of an eccentric. But he is sufficiently terrified to venture out of doors to hand over his key to council clerk Ian Hanmore and catch a bus into town to seek alternative accommodation. However, Barnard misses the bus and is forced to break back into the house as a sanctuary for the night. But he is soon disturbed by someone rattling the front door that is only being kept shut by the latch chain, while the sound of footsteps upstairs convinces him that the attackers are trying to snatch his baby.  

Once more overcoming his agoraphobia, Barnard calls Mosaku from a payphone before breaking up a kitchen cupboard to barricade the front door and lock himself and his daughter in the bathroom. He is eventually found cowering there by Mosaku who invites him to stay at her place while he sorts himself out. She is dubious about his insistence that the estate kids wish to harm the infant and tells him that many of those she deals with have had awful lives and simply need someone to show a bit of faith in them and give them a fair crack of the whip. Moreover, she implores him not to trust Cosmo, but he insists on seeing him and Mosaku agrees to babysit while he's away.

The raging Cosmo is scathing at first, but calms down long enough to explain that the sightless kids have bred like vermin and need to be eradicated. He also reveals that they feed off fear and introduces Barnard to Jake Wilson, a blind tweenager he rescued from Edenstown and who has the power to mask terror and protect those in his care. Cosmo tells Barnard that he needs his help to torch the tower blocks, but he refuses to contemplate mass murder. Mosaku supports his decision and they kiss while dancing to a song in her flat. However, Barnard has a change of heart when a group of ferals slaughter Mosaku in an underpass and he is nearly hit by a bus as he tries to make a desperate getaway. The youths follow him, however, and his bid to hide from them on the top deck fails dismally and his daughter is prised from his grasp during a savage beating.

Barnard wakes in a hospice bed and staggers into the corridor to tell Cosmo that they have to destroy the menace that night. Dismissing Cosmo's assertion that they won't harm the child, as they have another purpose for her, Barnard demands that they swing into action and the priest agrees to fetch his stash of plastic explosive. As they make their preparations, Cosmo confides that the brood began when a junkie named Dolores gave birth to hideously deformed twins in the 1970s and that they been in-breeding ever since and steal innocents to perpetuate the line.

As Cosmo, Barnard and Wilson drive on to the estate, their car is attacked by a mob of ravenous brats, but Wilson hides Barnard's fear and they are able to reach the blocks unmolested. Cosmo explains that the bulk of the colony will be out prowling and won't return until dawn, but they still have to move quickly in breaking the gas pipes and opening the valves so that the central tower will blow up when jump leads connected to the car engine produce the necessary spark. Joking grimly that this isn't the first time he has done this sort of thing, Cosmo goes about his work with relish, while Barnard relies on Wilson to keep him safe. But, when Barnard hears crying, he careers off alone and is nearly caught by a howling banshee chained to the wall in a top-floor flat.

He returns to Cosmo and Wilson just as the priest starts coughing up blood and his fear of death alerts some guardian children to his presence. He tells Barnard that he was the father of Dolores's offspring and deserves to suffer because he abandoned them. Yet, in sacrificing himself, he shatters Wilson's confidence by stating that he doesn't have the power to deflect terror and, thus, it is up to Barnard to man up and do his duty. Leading the tremulous Wilson towards the basement, Barnard has to slash the throat of an attacking thug with a shard of broken glass after he tries to pull the boy out of the lift. He recognises the door of his old flat en route to finding his abducted baby in one of dozens of cages containing kids in various stages of transformation and this gives him the courage to pick his way undetected through the returning ferals milling around an underpass and turn the ignition key that will send the benighted creatures to their doom.

The quandary about whether to give marginalised youths the benefit of the doubt is further explored by Ciarán Foy in his debut feature, Citadel. The latest in a lengthening line of movies shot across the British Isles depicting unruly kids running riot on derelict estates, this makes the most of locales in Dublin and Glasgow to generate a solid sense of physical and moral decay. However, by diving headlong into the action without establishing any backstory, the audience is denied the opportunity to get to know the protagonist before he is pitched into a battle with the murderous vandals out to kidnap his infant daughter. Thus, for all its technical competence and disconcerting sense of place, this rapidly loses its hard won credibility as it lurches from social realist melodrama to cartoonishly bombastic horror.

Just as Aneurin Barnard and pregnant wife Amy Shiels are leaving their flat in a tower block earmarked for demolition, a trio of hooded thugs attack Shiels while Barnard looks on helplessly through the window of the jammed lift. Managing to free himself, he hurtles up the staircase to find Shiels bleeding profusely from a wound made in her belly by a hypodermic needle. Denied access to the operating theatre, he can barely bring himself to hold his prematurely born daughter, as he is informed that his spouse has lapsed into a coma.

Nine months later, with the snow still eerily on the ground. Barnard is attending group therapy sessions with psychiatrist Ingrid Craigie in a bid to alleviate his crippling agoraphobia. But he is making little progress and nurse Wunmi Mosaku tries vainly to console him as he faces the grim prospect of switching off Shiels's life-support machine. Against his better judgement, Barnard moves into his new house on the Edenstown estate (which is dwarfed by the three high-rises looming over it) and is spooked on his first night by a shadowy figure at the door. He is also upset to see `unknown infection' given as the cause of Shiels's death and wonders for a moment whether a blind boy he passes in the corridor might have been one of her killers.

But Mosaku reassures him that things are bound to improve with and accompanies him to the funeral, which is conducted by foul-mouthed priest James Cosmo, who warns Barnard to get away before the perpetrators come in search of his child. Mosaku urges him to ignore Cosmo, who is known at the hospice as something of an eccentric. But he is sufficiently terrified to venture out of doors to hand over his key to council clerk Ian Hanmore and catch a bus into town to seek alternative accommodation. However, Barnard misses the bus and is forced to break back into the house as a sanctuary for the night. But he is soon disturbed by someone rattling the front door that is only being kept shut by the latch chain, while the sound of footsteps upstairs convinces him that the attackers are trying to snatch his baby.  

Once more overcoming his agoraphobia, Barnard calls Mosaku from a payphone before breaking up a kitchen cupboard to barricade the front door and lock himself and his daughter in the bathroom. He is eventually found cowering there by Mosaku who invites him to stay at her place while he sorts himself out. She is dubious about his insistence that the estate kids wish to harm the infant and tells him that many of those she deals with are from broken homes and simply need someone to show a bit of faith in them and give them a fair crack of the whip. Moreover, she implores him not to trust Cosmo, but he insists on seeing him and Mosaku agrees to babysit while he's away.

The raging Cosmo is scathing at first, but calms down long enough to explain that the sightless kids have bred like vermin and need to be eradicated. He also reveals that they feed off fear and introduces Barnard to Jake Wilson, a solemn, blind tweenager he rescued from Edenstown and who has the power to mask terror and protect those in his care. Cosmo tells Barnard that he needs his help to torch the tower blocks, but he refuses to contemplate mass murder. Mosaku supports his decision and they kiss while dancing to a song in her flat. However, Barnard has a change of heart when a group of ferals slaughter Mosaku in an underpass and he is nearly hit by a bus as he tries to make a desperate getaway. The youths follow him, however, and his bid to hide from them on the top deck fails dismally and his daughter is prised from his grasp during a savage beating.

Barnard wakes in a hospice bed and staggers into the corridor to tell Cosmo that they have to destroy the menace that night. Dismissing Cosmo's assertion that they won't harm the child, as they have another purpose for her, Barnard demands that they swing into action and the priest agrees to fetch his stash of plastic explosive. As they make their preparations, Cosmo confides that the brood began when a junkie named Dolores gave birth to hideously deformed twins in the 1970s and that they been in-breeding ever since and steal innocents to perpetuate the line.

As Cosmo, Barnard and Wilson drive on to the estate, their car is attacked by a mob of ravenous brats, but Wilson hides Barnard's fear and they are able to reach the blocks unmolested. Cosmo explains that the bulk of the colony will be out prowling and won't return until dawn, but they still have to move quickly in breaking the gas pipes and opening the valves so that the central tower will blow up when jump leads connected to the car engine produce the necessary spark. Joking grimly that this isn't the first time he has done this sort of thing, Cosmo goes about his work with relish, while Barnard relies on Wilson to keep him safe. But, when Barnard hears crying, he careers off alone and is nearly caught by a howling banshee chained to the wall in a top-floor flat.

He returns to Cosmo and Wilson just as the priest starts coughing up blood and his fear of death alerts some guardian wraiths to his presence. He tells Barnard that he was the father of Dolores's offspring and deserves to suffer because he abandoned them. Yet, in sacrificing himself, he shatters Wilson's confidence by stating that he doesn't have the power to deflect terror and, thus, it is up to Barnard to man up and do his duty. Leading the tremulous Wilson towards the basement, Barnard has to slash the throat of an attacking thug with a shard of broken glass after he tries to pull the boy out of the lift. He recognises the door of his old flat en route to finding his abducted baby in one of dozens of cages containing kids in various stages of transformation and this gives him the courage to pick his way undetected through the returning ferals milling around an underpass and turn the ignition key that will send the benighted creatures to their doom.

If you can get past the cavernous gaps in plot logic, there is a decent study of urban paranoia here. Foy keeps Tim Fleming's digital camera close to Barnard's face during his moments of panic to intensify their effect, while he makes chilling use of artificial lighting in both the streets and the walkways to heighten the notion of hope emerging from the depths. But, while editors Tom Kearns and Jake Roberts slickly construct the action sequences, the performances are less persuasive, with Barnard's sudden transition to fearless hero (after a solid display of hyperventilating timidity) feeling as far fetched as Cosmo's berserk turn as the abusive cleric desperate to avoid the fires of Hell by sending his own creations into the inferno.

Unfortunately, this is where the whole picture falls apart. If the monstrous progeny were conceived in the 1970s and have been breeding and rampaging ever since, why has nobody done something to stop them before now? Weren't the police the tiniest bit suspicious that so many children were disappearing without explanation? Moreover, how did people manage to live normally in housing that was seemingly overrun by scarfaced demons? Most horror films are entitled to a little narrative leeway, but this seems to flagrantly disregard plausibility. Why, for example, did Shiels wait outside the locked flat door while Barnard took luggage down to the taxi? If she had simply got in the lift with him, none of this furore would have happened. And why do Barnard and Cosmo start at the ground floor when busting the gas pipes instead of at the top?

Thus, while Foy is to be lauded for eschewing found footage, torture porn and gory effects in striving to generate unnerving atmosphere rather than cheap shocks, this falls some way behind classic studies in neurosis like Roman Polanski's Repulsion (1965). Rooting his tale in memories of an unprovoked attack by some hammer-wielding delinquents, Foy is clearly a promising talent with a keen eye for location detail and the ability to sustain suspense on a shoestring. But this lacks a palpable sense of primal menace - the hoodies are never particularly alarming even when their disfigured visages are finally revealed - while the dearth of wit and restraint dissipates rather than increases its sense of either socio-economic or supernatural anxiety.

The plotting also proves problematic and even more suspension of disbelief is required in the case of Iain Softley's Trap For Cinderella, an adaptation of a Sébastien Japrisot novel that was previously filmed in 1965 by André Cayatte. An underrated director whose legal thrillers owed more to the classical style than the nouvelle vague from which Softley has clearly taken his stylistic inspiration, Cayatte is barely known in this country and it's a shame that Piège pour Cendrillon is not available on video or DVD to compare with this determinedly trendy updating. Striving to return to British basics after more than a decade producing a string of Hollywood-backed projects that included The Wings of the Dove (1997), K-PAX (2001), The Skeleton Key (2005) and Inkheart (2008), Softley succeeds in capturing the hedonist sense of entitlement that characterises the new generation of bright young things. But, amidst the twists and turns of the fiendish narrative, he struggles to keep his cast from ramping up the melodrama, with the result that while this never ceases to tease or entertain, it rarely comes close to convincing.

In the still of an idyllic night in the south of France, an explosion rips through the heart of a luxurious chateau and a burning female plummets from an upper-storey window. She is taken to Switzerland, where her face requires major reconstructive surgery and a psychiatrist (Emilia Fox) tries to help Michelle (Tuppence Middleton) overcome her amnesia by explaining that she lost her parents at the age of nine and was raised by her Aunt Elinor (Frances De La Tour) and her personal assistant, Julia (Kerry Fox). But Micky remembers nothing and doesn't even recognise Julia when she comes to take her back to London.

Following a nightmare about the blaze, Micky is awoken by the phone ringing and overhears Julia mentioning someone called Jake (Aneurin Barnard). When she asks about her daily life, Julia explains that, while she had lots of boyfriends, her closest companion was Domenica (Alexandra Roach), whom she had known since she was nine years old, as she was the daughter of Aunt Elinor's housekeeper. Julia also reveals that Micky will inherit her aunt's fortune when she turns 21 and she becomes more puzzled than ever by flashes of recollection about the night of the fire that still make no sense.

Giving Julia the slip, Micky takes a taxi to see the family lawyer, Chance (Alex Jennings), and bumps into Jake on the street outside. They go back to his place to catch up and he informs her that they had broken up on her insistence. He asks to see the burns on her hands and kisses her. She inquires whether she had been unfaithful to him and he laughs that he wouldn't be surprised. Jake also gives her the keys to her flat in Hoxton and stuns her by breaking the news that Do had perished in the fire.

Leaving in distress, Micky goes to her flat and stares at the photographs on the walls in the hope of sparking a memory. She finds lots of pictures of Do and a suitcase containing her belongings. Rooting around, she finds some letters from Aunt Elinor and a diary, which opens with a happy entry about Do being reunited with Micky after many years when she came into the bank in which she worked as a clerk. They had agreed to meet up that night and the mousy Do had been starstuck by her chic friend, who regularly featured in the society pages of the glossy magazines. Yet she had also seemed melancholic back at her flat, as she chatted to a man on the phone and gulped down pills. But Micky had been back to her effervescent best in the morning and had made Do promise to come to a party that night as she dashed out with a portfolio of photographs.

Jealous of Jake, Do had tried to leave the event early. But Micky had jumped into her cab and they had gone back to Do's place to see the snapshots she had kept of their childhood. It had emerged that Do's father (Tim Walters) had killed himself in France and that her mother (Elizabeth Healey) had died soon after returning to Britain. But Do had never forgotten that the young Micky (Ciara Southwood) had saved her (Maisie Lloyd) from drowning in the swimming pool at Aunt Elinor's chateau and, therefore, she had readily accepted when Micky had invited her to move into her flat.

One day, while Micky was out, Do had answered the phone to Elinor, who was surprised that the pair had hooked up again, given what had happened in the past. At this point, the diary flashback sequence is interrupted by Julia walking in calmly to inform Micky that she is really Do and has to keep up the pretence or they will both be in serious trouble. Distraught at the revelation, Micky/Do runs away and checks into a seedy hotel in Do's name. She continues to peruse the diary and discovers that she had been besotted with Micky to the point of copying her clothing and wearing identical wigs on nights out. However, she had also deeply resented her casual pick-ups and had detested Jake for trying to come between them.

As she reads on, Micky/Do learns that Do had intercepted a cheque from Elinor and had started sending her affectionately nibling letters, which ceased when Micky and Do had fallen out over Jake and Do had written to Elinor under her own name to lament that Micky was running with the wrong crowd. However, the diary entries cease at this point and Micky/Do is forced to seek out Julia for clarification about what happened next.

Julia explains that Micky had refused to go to France on learning that Elinor was dying and that Julia had taken Do to dinner in a bid to talk her into changing Micky's mind. She had also tried to warn her against getting too close to Micky because she had a self-destructive streak and would be all too willing to take Do down with her. Furthermore, she had revealed that she knew all about Do's letters to Elinor and had confided that she thought it was unfair that someone with such good intentions should not be properly rewarded for her efforts. Consequently, she had encouraged Do to get in touch once they had arrived at the chateau because she had a proposition for her.

Much to her relief, Do had managed to persuade Micky to visit Elinor and, en route, she had admitted to despising her aunt and that Julia had been more responsible for her upbringing. After they had parked for the night in the middle of nowhere, Do had awoken to see Micky standing on the edge of a precipice gazing into space and she had been unnerved by her wistful air. On reaching the hospice, however, Micky had been put out by Elinor confusing her with Do. But she had snapped out of her funk by the time they had cycled down to the beach, where Micky had tried to teach Do to swim. Unaware that she was being watched by a man on a nearby cliff, Do had slipped away to call Julia from a café and had been reeled into her conspiracy by the discovery that her father had committed suicide after Micky had told her mother that he was having an affair with Elinor.

Julia had convinced Do that Micky had ruined her life once and could easily do so again. So, she agrees to follow her instructions and checks out the pilot light in the bathroom that will be central to their plan. Do had lain awake in bed that night thinking about the unhappy time she had endured following the passing of her parents and views Micky with a jaundiced eye as they sunbathe together the next day. But she still craves Micky's approval and it is only when she swans off to a boat in the harbour with some rich boys and leaves her to walk home alone that Do finally makes up her mind to act.

The following morning, Julia had arrived to break the news of Elinor's demise. But Micky had seemed unconcerned and Do had taken Julia aside to ask how they should proceed. Julia had told Do to wait until exactly 1am on Micky's birthday and then light some candles before disconnecting the gas pipe in the bathroom. She should then jump out of the open window at the end of the corridor and Julia would confirm that she is Micky and then whisk her away to the plastic surgeon (Erich Redman), who would make such a good job of her face that not even Elinor's loyal maid Yvette (Nathalie Paris) would be able to notice any discrepancy.

Realising that she could no longer go back, Do had plied Micky with wine and then given her pills to render her unconscious. She had put Micky in Do's bed and dressed herself in Micky's clothes before lining the corridor with lighted candles and unscrewing the bathroom fitting. Covering her face with a wet towel, she had jumped from the window just as the gas ignited and Julia had driven up just in time to convince the dismayed onlookers that Micky had somehow managed to survive the disaster.

Aghast at learning the truth, Micky/Do wants to go to the police. But Julia convinces her to wait until the will has been read, in the hope that her new wealth will buy her silence. They travel to the Riviera, where Yvette gives Micky/Do a cautious welcome. However, when Micky/Do goes for a drive in Micky's car, she is approached by Serge (Stanley Webber), who reveals that he works in the beachside café and had eavesdropped on Do's telephone conversation with Julia. Moreover, he explains how he had contacted Micky and had shown her the imprint of the message that Do had scribbled on a notepad about tampering with the boiler. They had become lovers and had plotted to do away with Do. But, while Do no longer poses a threat, Serge does and Micky offers him €100,000 if he agrees to keep quiet.

In a panic, Micky/Do tells Julia about Serge's attempt to blackmail her and she urges her to stay calm, as they can rectify the situation after the will has been read. Lying on her bed, Micky/Do wrestles with the conflicting information she has received over the past few days and seems uncertain whether to trust Julia or Serge. She also remains unclear whether she is Micky or Do and decides to make a recording and mails it just as Chance and Julia are opening Elinor's documents. As she awaits news, Micky/Do drives to the café and offers Serge the car as his payoff and he accepts. But, on returning to the chateau, Micky/Do finds Julia in low spirits in the garden. She explains that all their scheming has been in vain because Elinor had left everything to Do and they begin to fight when Micky/Do confesses to having sent the incriminating tape to Chance.

The pair fall into the pool and the action suddenly flashes back to Micky catching Do about to cause the explosion. Ashamed of betraying her friend, Do had apologised and Micky had tried to convince her they should escape together. But a burning wooden frame had collapsed into the corridor and blocked Do's way and she had smiled sadly in telling Micky to save herself. As the memories come flooding back, Micky dashes Julia's skull against the side of the pool and she dies. Scrambling out of the water, Micky rushes to the beach, where she strips off and walks into the water. She starts to swim and finally knows her true identity. As dawn breaks, she is awoken by the tide lapping against her and she walks off slowly along the sand.

Given that Japrisot collaborated under his real name (Jean-Baptiste Rossi) with the director and playwright Jean Anouilh on the screenplay, one would like to think that Cayatte's take on this gleefully convoluted saga would have been pitched somewhere between Henri-Georges Clouzot's Les Diaboliques (1955) and Alfred Hitchcock's Vertigo (1958). Iain Softley's impression, however, errs too much towards Barbet Schroeder's Single White Female (1992) or Darren Aronofsky's Black Swan (2010) when it might have been better off heading in the darkly comedic direction of Robert Aldrich's What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? (1962). The plot is so stuffed with overripe clichés and caricatures that it needs a much more playfully self-guying approach than Softley felt able to concede. As a consequence of playing so rigorously straight, however, the picture feels mechanical and overly reliant on dramatic and stylistic contrivance. If vital information is not conveyed through a diary entry or an overheard conversation, it is presented as part of a labyrinthine flashback or in interminable expository speeches that often obfuscate as much as they clarify.

The premise comprises ingenuity and hokum in equal measures and it is difficult from this romp to see why Japrisot was dubbed `the French Graham Greene' - although, admittedly, he also provided the material for such fine films as Costa-Gavras's The Sleeping Car Murders (1965), the Jean Becker trio of One Deadly Summer (1983), The Children of the Marshland (1999) and A Crime in Paradise (2001), and Jean-Pierre Jeunet's A Very Long Engagement (2004), as well as the original scripts for René Clément's Rider on the Rain (1970) and Just Jaeckin's erotic classic, Story of O (1975). Perhaps Cayatte was luckier in having the estimable Madeleine Robinson play his scheming factotum and was wiser in casting Dany Carrel as both Michèle and Dominique, as Softley is certainly disadvantaged by the gauche performance of the usually reliable Kerry Fox and the fact that neither Tuppence Middleton nor Alexandra Roach has the experience or screen presence to carry off such tricky roles.

Thus, while this is always highly enjoyable, its pleasures lie partly in the improbabilities of its scenario and the flaws in its translation to the screen. Christian Henson's score is so insistent and stifling that it feels almost parodic, while the dialogue is often dreadfully clumsy. But cinematographer Alex Barber ably captures the contrasts between London and southern France, while costume designer Verity Hawkes has fun blurring the distinction between Micky and Do. Moreover, Softley directs with admirable conviction and it is often clear that this would have collapsed like a pack of cards in lesser hands. But one cannott help wondering how this might have turned out had it been given the greenlight back in 2010, when Imogen Poots and Felicity Jones were joined in the announced cast by Bill Nighy, Brooke Shields, Ed Westwick, Tamsin Egerton and Bill Bailey.

Since first coming to international attention with 101 Reykjavík (2000) and Jar City (2006), Icelandic director Baltasar Kormákur has also divided his time between stellar Hollywood ventures and more personal projects. Thus, following Inhale (2009) and Contraband (2012), he has returned to home waters for The Deep, a recreation of the incident that made Guðlaugur Friðþórsson a national celebrity in March 1984 and which stands as a metaphor for the mettle and modesty of a country that has slowly clawed its way back to prosperity away from the international gaze after its economic meltdown in 2008.

Ólafur Darri Ólafsson lives on the Westman Islands, an archipelago off the south coast of Iceland with a population of around 5000. As most people are involved in the fishing industry, everyone knows each other and nobody harbours a grudge after another night of hard drinking culminates in a fist fight. Overweight, baby-faced and reluctant to move out of his childhood home, Ólafsson is pals with Björn Thors and Jóhann G. Jóhannsson, who has recently married Þorbjörg Helga Þorgilsdóttir. They have a few drinks as they wait to embark on skipper Þröstur Leó Gunnarsson's rickety tub, The Breki, and there is just an edge to the banter with crewmates Guðjón Pedersen, Walter Grímsson and Stefán Hallur Stefánsson as they sail out into the Atlantic swell.

Not long into the voyage, a storm begins to brew. Suddenly, the bickering stops and the men join forces on deck to try and save the fishing equipment. But the tempest causes the boat to lurch and Gunnarsson is killed. The rest of the crew are also washed overboard and, as Ólafsson tries to help Thors and Jóhannsson as The Breki sinks, it becomes clear that their plan to swim the several miles to the nearest land in freezing waters is untenable. Yet, having looked up and seen a seagull circling overhead, Ólafsson decides he that has no option but to strike out for the shore.

Buffeted by the wind and the waves, Ólafsson manages to get some momentum and he tries to take his mind off the cold and the sheer physical exertion of ploughing through the icy seas by chatting to the seagull about the things he will do if he is given one more day of life. He also thinks back to his youth when the volcano erupted on the island and parents Theodór Júlíusson and María Sigurðardóttir were forced to evacuate their home. He prays that he makes it back and is more surprised than relieved to reach land after six hours of hell. However, he is still many miles from civilisation and has to stride out over solidified lava before he eventually reaches familiar landmarks.

Having heard about the disaster, the community had not unnaturally presumed that all hands must have been lost. There is general amazement, therefore, when Ólafsson reappears and relates his story. He is subjected to a battery of tests to prove that he has endured such physical duress and it is rather cruelly noted that his excess fat probably helped keep him buoyant and warm. When confirmation of his feat comes through, Ólafsson becomes a media sensation, although he is decidedly uncomfortable with the attention and plays down any notions that he is a hero. But, while he becomes something of a curio, Ólafsson is also aware that his survival is resented by the family and friends of some of those who were lost and his sense of guilty gnaws at him as he tries to resume normal life.

Based on a stage monologue scripted by Jón Atli Jónasson, this is a technically striking film that required Kormákur and his crew to shoot for many days in the least hospitable of conditions. They also had to sink a trawler, as no CGI was employed at any time during the  production. Deciding against filming in a tank, Kormákur subjected Ólafsson to hours in the wet and dark in sub-zero temperatures and his performance is all the more astonishing for the sheer risk involved in achieving it. Cinematographer Bergsteinn Björgúlfsson and sound recordist-cum-editor Björn Viktorsson also deserve enormous praise, as do sound designer Ingvar Lundberg and audio effects creator Gunnar Oskarsson, as the noise of the ocean, the cries of the birds and the silences and gales of the overland trek are crucial in the absence of dialogue.

More time might have been spent to fleshing out Ólafsson's character, as the opening shore leave sequence is too short to establish his personality and place within the settlement. The cod 16mm home movies used to suggest his life passing before his eyes also feel a little twee. But, while this may lack the spectacle of blockbusters like Wolfgang Petersen's The Perfect Storm (2000), it surpasses the intensity of Australian Andrew Traucki's aqua-chiller, The Reef (2010), without resorting to its melodramatics and sentimentality, and matches the authenticity of compatriot Árni Ásgeirsson's Undercurrent, in which skipper Ingvar Eggert Sigurðsson's sister,  Nína Dögg Filippusdóttir, comes to suspect that trawlerman Víkingur Kristjánsson's death might have been more suspicious than crew members Björn Hlynur Haraldsson, Gísli Örn Garðarsson, Ólafur Egilsson and Ólafur Darri Ólafsson (yes, him again) are letting on. That said, the inclusion of a brief television interview with the real Guðlaugur Friðþórsson, in which he describes in simple words the experiences we have just witnessed, throws the entire picture into relief, as these few seconds of actuality are much more poignant than anything in the meticulously crafted reconstruction. 

The contrast could not be more marked between this virtually homemade movie and Joseph L. Mankiewicz's Cleopatra (1963), which returns to cinemas to commemorate its 50th anniversary and to try and earn 20th Century-Fox a little extra revenue from the picture that nearly put it out of existence. Entrusted to Rouben Mamoulian, shooting began at Pinewood Studios in 1960, with Peter Finch playing Julius Caesar and Stephen Boyd being cast as Mark Antony. However, a combination of Elizabeth Taylor's ill-health and the inclement British weather led to the production being postponed and relocated to Rome, where Mankiewicz found himself in charge and Taylor (who was lucky to be alive after requiring an emergency tracheotomy) became acquainted with her new co-stars, Rex Harrison and Richard Burton.

Fox had already seen the $2 million exceeded by $5 million by this stage. But the cost was to rise to $44 million - which is around $325 million in today's money - before the epic wrapped and Mankiewicz was finally convinced that a six-hour cut was not going to pack in the punters, whether they saw it in a single sitting or in two parts, entitled `Caesar and Cleopatra' and `Antony and Cleopatra'. Contrary to popular belief, however, the film performed surprisingly well at the box office and won four Academy Awards from its nine nominations. But this had much more to do with the scandalous romance that had developed between Burton and the already much-married Taylor, although it's always tempting to suggest that one or two had been prompted to see it after being impressed by the discarded Pinewood sets that had been recycled for Gerald Thomas's splendid parody, Carry On Cleo (1963).

The story is a bit of a slog and things are not helped by its myriad historical inaccuracies. But, having already negotiated our way through Trap for Cinderella, this should be a doddle for hardier readers.

Shortly after his victory at the Battle of Pharsalus in 48 BC, Julius Caesar (Rex Harrison) arrives in Egypt to vanquish the fugitive Pompey, who has sought sanctuary with the young pharaoh, Ptolemy XIII (Richard O'Sullivan), and his sister Cleopatra (Elizabeth Taylor). Less than impressed when the regent Pothinus (Grégoire Aslan) arranges for him to be presented with his enemy's head as a peace token, Caesar is further taken aback when Apollodorus (Cesare Danova) arrives at his quarters carrying a rug. On unfurling it, Caesar is delighted to find Cleopatra inside. But their friendship is soon tested when Ptolemy surrounds the palace with troops and Caesar retaliates by destroying the fabled Library of Alexandria while immobilising the Egyptian fleet in the neighbouring harbour.

Yet in remonstrating with Caesar, Cleopatra falls into his arms and accepts the title of queen when her brother is sent to confront the invading army of Mithridates (Furio Meniconi). She dreams of uniting their realms to rule the world and is proud to give birth to a son, Caesarion. However, when Caesar returns to Rome to report to the Senate on his mission, there is outrage among the likes of Cassius (John Hoyt) and Brutus (Kenneth Haigh) that he has been appointed dictator for life, as they fear that the republican spirit will be dissipated and that the people will be all-too-ready to accept Caesar as their emperor. The arrival of Cleopatra in Rome only confirms their fears and, while she processes through the streets on a giant sphinx hauled by slaves, the conspirators plan Caesar's murder during a debate to extend his powers on the Ides of March 44 BC.

Ignoring warnings from Cleopatra and his wife, Calpurnia (Gwen Watford), Caesar goes to the Senate and is stabbed to death. His nephew, Octavian (Roddy McDowall), is proclaimed his successor and Cleopatra returns home with her spurned son. Within two years, however, Brutus and Cassius have perished at the Battle of Philippi and a triumvirate has been established comprising Octavian, Lepidus and Mark Antony (Richard Burton), who are respectively made responsible for Spain and Gaul, Africa and the eastern provinces. But tensions quickly mount between Octavian and Antony and the latter finds himself needing to meet with Cleopatra at Tarsus in order to secure treasure and supplies in order to continue his campaign against Parthia.

Despite her initial misgivings, Cleopatra is seduced by Antony's bluff charm and they become lovers, even though Octavian uses the affair to besmirch his rival's reputation back in Rome. Vowing to return as soon as he has dealt with the crisis, Antony finds himself duped into a marriage with Octavian's sister, Octavia (Jean Marsh), and Cleopatra is dismayed by his weakness. Thus, when Antony returns to Alexandria a few years later, he is forced to abase himself in public and Cleopatra demands a third of the Roman empire in return for helping him crush Octavian. Antony agrees to her terms and repudiates Octavia. However, the publication of a clause in his will stating that he wishes to be buried in Egypt alienates his allies in the Senate and Octavian further demonstrates his power by murdering Cleopatra's ambassador, Sosigenes (Hume Cronyn), on the Senate steps.

On 2 September 31 BC, Agrippa (Andrew Keir) commands Octavian's fleet to victory over Antony at the Battle of Actium. Seeing the conflagration from her palace, Cleopatra presumes that her beloved had been killed and withdraws her forces, leaving his army exposed and dispirited. Rufio (Martin Landau) pleads with the troops to remain loyal in the face of Octavian's land offensive. But, when Rufio is assassinated, Antony is forced to retreat after his vainglorious effort to goad Octavian into a duel to the death misfires. Slinking back to the palace, Antony is greeted by the embarrassed Apollodorus, who informs him that Cleopatra is dead. Distraught, he falls on his sword and is carried into the queen's presence by the penitent chancellor, where he expires. Realising that Caesarion is also deceased, Cleopatra allows herself to be bitten by a poisonous asp rather than be taken back to Rome as a trophy by Octavian and her handmaid, Charmian (Meri Welles), reassures an onlooking guard that her parting was befitting of a queen.

With actors of the calibre of Michael Hordern, Robert Stephens, Carroll O'Connor, Finlay Currie, Laurence Naismith, George Cole and Francesca Annis in bit parts that don't even merit a mention in this précis, this more than lives up to its billing as an epic with a cast of thousands. The fact that each one had to be dressed in period attire by Irene Sharoff, Renié and Vittorio Nino Novarese helps explain why the budget spiralled so far out of control. Elizabeth Taylor herself had a record 65 costume changes to go with her take-home pay of $7 million. But, while she often looks ravishing and teaches both Harrison and Burton a thing or two about acting for the camera, the performances of stars and supporting players alike are often as stiff as they invariably were in Hollywood recreations of Antiquity and it hardly helps that the cast was frequently forced to deliver lines that had been typed up on the spot by Mankiewicz in a bid to improve upon the screenplay cobbled together from snippets of Plutarch, Suetonius, Appian and Shakespeare by Ranald MacDougall and Sidney Buchman.

Production designer John de Cuir and his team thoroughly deserved their Oscar, as did the costumiers, cinematographer Leon Shamroy and special effects artist Emil Kosa, Jr. But Alex North's nominated score is as thuddingly grandiloquent as much of the declamatory acting, while the usually deft Mankiewicz - who had won back to back Best Director statuettes for A Letter to Three Wives (1949) and All About Eve (1950) - was left high and dry, as he tried to keep Burton and Taylor's minds on the task in hand (rather than trading insults with the disapproving Vatican) and cling on to his muddled vision in the face of the growing opprobrium of studio chief Darryl F. Zanuck, who was even rumoured to have directed the odd scene himself as the shoot descended into chaos.

That Cleopatra turned out to be so lavish, spectacular and coherent speaks volumes for the professionalism of the much-derided studio system. But, while one is grateful that the full 243 minutes seen by the first theatrical audiences have been fully restored in this new digital version, it is still slightly disappointing that more has not been done to incorporate further footage from Mankiewicz's original cut.

There has been a spate of films recently about the production of food. Some have focused on genetic modification, others on animal rights. But many have concentrated on the eco impact of getting an item from farm to plate and the cynical manner in which the major corporations exploit producer and consumer alike. In the midst of such frustration and resentment, therefore, it's nice to find a documentary that celebrates the bucolic and demonstrates that there is an alternative to Big Agriculture. Co-directed by Andy Heathcote and Heike Bachelier, The Moo Man may be short on the kind of melodrama one gets in Ambridge or Emmerdale. But it presents a dedicated man going about a business he loves with characterful cattle who have become much more than mere commodities.

Stephen Hook took over Longleys Farm on the Pevensey Levels in Sussex from his father Phil, who still helps out around the place with Paul Vidler. Wife Claire also does her bit, along with children William, Giles, Joseph and George. But Stephen is the driving force behind Hook & Son and his passion for every aspect of his long daily routine is evident throughout this affectionate profile.

He is first seen bringing in the cows for milking and taking a calf to its new pen before he spends the rest of the morning hand bottling the raw, unpasteurised milk that he insists at the local farmers' market tastes better than anything available from a commercial outlet. But his pride in his product pales beside his fondness for the 72 mostly black-and-white Holsteins in his herd, the majority of whom live between nine and ten years, compared to the average six in the industrial sector. As dawn breaks and the lowing beasts totter into the holding pen, Stephen consoles a mother missing her offspring before slipping into an adjoining shed to coax the calf into taking milk from a bucket for the first time.

On returning from his round in the village, he introduces 12 year-old Ida, the queen of the herd, who is about to become a poster girl during a photo shoot in Eastbourne. She quite likes the fuss of having her coat clipped, but is less enamoured of the idea of travelling in a trailer and has to be lured in with food. Once she arrives on the esplanade, however, Ida revels in the fresh sea air and the attention of the small crowd gathering to watch the shoot and reminisce about the olden days when milk was delivered in bottles with a thick layer of cream at the top. Consequently, Ida is highly reluctant to return to her box and much pushing and pulling is required (to the ironic strains of `Oh I Do Like to Be Beside the Seaside' on the soundtrack) before she is safely onboard and heading back to a charmingly warm welcome from her sisters.
Stephen affords each creature the same attention and he is deeply concerned by the condition of a heifer who has been paralysed in a rear leg since delivering a still-born calf. He tries to nudge her upright using his vehicle and, as he sits with her as she eats contentedly, he explains that stockmen on bigger concerns are unable to develop such intimate relationships as they are often responsible for 150 head. But it also means that he becomes emotionally attached to each animal and, when he discovers at the end of the week that the injured cow has managed to walk 100 yards up the field, he uses his tractor to steer her back towards the farm and his fear that this may be a fatal condition is palpable.

This humane approach is also extended to bull calves, as, unlike many of his competitors, Stephen refuses to shoot them at birth, but allows them to enjoy 30-odd months of life before selling them for beef. This may seem a harsh topic for discussion as a mother cleans her newborn and it takes its first unsteady steps to nuzzle in search of sustenance, but there is no room for sentiment when feeding costs are so high and margins are so tight. As if to prove the point, Heathcote and Bachelier cut from this adorable sight to a shot of Stephen chopping the carcass of a bull that has just been slaughtered and reminiscing about his grumpiness as he bags cuts for the freezer. Yet, when another bull is born in the field and the mother shoos away a snuffling dog named Tinky, Stephen looks on indulgently, even though he is clearly disappointed not to have another more profitable heifer. 

The cows also relate to Stephen and almost lollop with excitement as they follow him across the pasture. One mother regards him with suspicion, however, as he is forced to carry its calf through some long grass, while another pair stray off the path and disappear through the undergrowth and past some parked caravans in an adjoining field. But the chase merely amuses Stephen, who likes his animals to have spirit. They also show attachment to each other, as when an Australian vet confirms that the distressed cow has dislocated her hip and will have to be put down, another animal comes over to nuzzle her. Stephen is also upset, as he knows he is about to lose eight years of healthy production. But, as he lets the stricken creature lap water from a bucket, it's evident that he feels imminent loss much more personally and admits back in the shed that the pain will be almost unbearable when Ida's time is up, as she has become a pet and will be kept long after she ceases to produce milk.

Ending this sobering sequence with a splendid shot of Ida sticking her nose into the camera, Heathcote and Bachelier cut to a misty morning some months later, as Stephen cajoles his charges into their winter shed. As frost coats the meadows and icicles hang from the water trough, he confides that TB has been found in Oxfordshire and hopes that t doesn't head south while his livestock are so closely confined. He states frankly that cows are more valuable animals than badgers and urges the government to be more proactive in culling them. A tense visit from the vet follows, as the herd is tested in a trap cage. However, it passes with flying colours and there is evident relief as it is led back into the fields to graze.

Ida is expecting for an eighth time and Stephen has to bring her into the shed, as she is having difficulty. The calf is awkwardly positioned and ropes are tied around its hooves so that Stephen can pull it out. After much effort, it turns out to be a bull and he is clearly dismayed at not getting another Ida. But, as he leaves the mother licking her baby, he is slightly cheered by the fact that another newborn is a heifer. This scene emphasises the sheer physical exertion of dairy farming and the effort involved in clearing the slurry from the night shed and wheeling sacks of feed is also readily evident. As he toils, Stephen explains that while he receives 27p for every litre of milk, each one costs him 34p to produce. He is currently claiming family tax credit and wonders why subsidies are paid to help supermarket chains maximise their profits while he struggles to make a living. It distresses him that a family farm closes each day in the UK and that the skills that have been passed down through the generations will soon be lost, as so few kids are keen to succeed their parents, as they would have done without question in the past.

Direct selling alone keeps the Hooks afloat, but it can't be all doom and gloom, as they have just purchased some automated bottling equipment and the entire family take turns at loading the trays with empties that are filled in a fraction of the usual time. Back outside, however, it is very much business as usual, as Stephen assembles the cows in the yard before leading them back into the field for the first time that spring. The anticipation among the animals is a joy to behold and they frolic in the grass, in spite of the rain. But, as balmy summer days approach, the moment Stephen has been dreading finally seems to arrive.

Anxious that Ida has eaten a length of wire, Stephen fits her with a halter to calm her during an examination by a female vet, who is concerned by her irregular heartbeat and prescribes an anti-inflammatory in the hope that it will enable Ida to start eating again. But she is obviously in pain and there is harrowing pathos in the shots of her lying beside a stream at the far end of a beautiful meadow. Stephen tries to feed her, but she moans with distress and he calls a friend with a metal detector to see if they can find any clues. Sadly, they get bleeps around her neck and Stephen calls the vet after deducing that she must have swallowed a long length. Yet, when the vet reaches into her throat, she finds nothing but the mud Ida has been consuming in a bid to dull the pain.

The next day, Stephen gives Ida her jabs and tries to tempt her with a rich yoghurty milk. But she isn't interested and nuzzles his hand and he strokes her nose and ears as she makes pitiful grunting sounds. Leaving her with great reluctance, Stephen knows he is about to lose a close friend and, following a mournful shot of the wind rustling some reeds and storm clouds gathering in the distance, he is seen phoning to have Ida's carcass collected and he just about holds his emotions in check as he describes how she passed away in the marsh with the other cows gathered around her. He wipes away a tear and laments the end of an era, but also vows to keep going, as Ida had been the symbol of everything he is trying to achieve and he has to succeed in order to honour her devoted service. Eventually, he will be able to look back on happy memories and a new character will emerge to lead the herd. But, for now, Stephen is distraught and he wanders out to see his cattle with a heavy heart and an inclination that Ida's sisters will need consoling every bit as much as he does.

As in their previous outing, The Lost World of Mr Hardy (2008), which presented a compelling insight into handcrafted fishing tackle company, Heathcote and Bachelier maintain a discreet distance as their subject goes about his daily chores and engages with both the camera and the audience beyond. While he is keen to make points about the state of British agriculture and the advantages that seem to be stacked in favour of the retail giants, Stephen Hook is more concerned with extolling the virtues of traditional dairy farming and sharing his love of animals like the imperious Ida. But what emerges is the hard work it takes to form such enduring bonds and that there are many moments of heartache to set against the simple pleasures.

Attuning to the rhythms of the daily routines, Heathcote's leisurely views of both grime and the sublime are delightfully counterpointed by Stephen Daltry's jaunty score, which helps set this apart from Raymond Depardon's more sombre studies of French farms facing their own EU-foistered crises. But the film-makers never settle for pastoral prettification and, while they might have made it clearer that they spent four years amassing their footage, they do well by both the Hooks and their cattle and this low-key charmer deserves to find a wide audience.

As anyone familiar with the festival scene can testify, there is no shortage of documentaries about what it has meant to be a gay man or lesbian woman in America before Stonewall. Far fewer accounts of the same period have been produced in Europe, however, and Sébastien Lifshitz attempts to redress the balance with Les Invisibles, a talking-head memoir that also serves as an alternative history of France since the mid-1930s.

Having already based the 2004 drama Wild Side around a transsexual leaving Paris to care for an ailing parent and profiled a 77 year-old trans who switched from being a cabaret singer to a literature professor in Bambi (2013), Lifshitz clearly resents the way that the French media and society in general marginalise LGBTQIA (`Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Questioning, Intersex and Asexual') issues. But, while chastising those obsessed with youth and sculpted beauty for overlooking the `invisibles' he finds so fascinating, this is as much a treatise on the effects of time upon the body and the perception of self than the realities of being aged and homosexual.

Known only by their first names and drawn from all parts of the country, the 11 veterans are more than willing to share their experiences and, while certain incidents and attitudes inevitably recur over the course of almost two hours, it's intriguing to note the variety of ways in which the interviewees came to terms with their sexuality and how differently they have approached casual flings, broken romances, isolation and committed relationships. Their recollections are dispersed throughout the film, which is presented without captions or commentary. But, for the sake of convenience, they are assessed here in paragraphs devoted to each couple or individual in the order in which they first appear.

Now running a parrot-breeding business, Pierre and Yann had met in a dry cleaner's after catching sight of each other in the rear-view mirrors of their cars. Their first date had been a calamity, but they quickly recognised that they had found someone who would allow them to deal with the rejections they had endured in the past. Pierre's mother had tried to abort him and he had been made a ward of the state before finding a berth in the Communist Party. However, he was ejected when his so-called perverse inclinations became known and he still feels hurt that his sexual personality should have been branded a psychological disorder. Raised a Catholic, Yann also revisits his youth with a certain distaste, as, while he was excused national service on account of his homosexuality, he was sent to Adélie Land in Antarctica to sort himself out.

Each man had endured prejudice and disappointment in the ensuing years, with Yann having gone through a promiscuous phase. But they now feel fulfilled, as do Bernard and Jacques, who became an item through a lonelyhearts ad. Bernard was trying to get over the loss of a long-term boyfriend, while Jacques was a married man in his 70s who had to break the news to his wife and five children that he was gay. They bicker a lot, but fuss over each other in equal measure and their diverging attitudes to life are seen during a river cruise past the Vauban forts in Marseilles, as Bernard sings a song about sailing along on love, while Jacques fets about getting a chill.

In stark contrast to these urbane city dwellers, Pierrot has spent his entire life in the countryside as a goatherd. He thinks back fondly to defying his grandmother by cutting down a pair of trousers to make some shorts and remembers wishing after having just had sex with a girl of his own age that he had been rolling in the grass with the sexagenarian shepherd who lived nearby. Content to have casual flings or the odd al fresco encounter with the boys and girls he met down by the river, Pierrot jokes that he envies billy-goats, as they have the ability to self-fellate when he invariably had to rely on Madame Thumb and her four daughters. However, he did settle down for a while, before his eight-year relationship ended when his girlfriend was killed in a car crash. Now 83, he remains something of a rogue, as he opines that women should stop thinking about sex at 50, while men should increasingly devote themselves to pleasure. But, while he has been actively bisexual for most of his life, he knows he prefers men to women just as he would rather have wine than beer and considers that making love is the most worthwhile way of praising God. 

Born in 1927 to parents who had adored each other, Thérèse had married out of duty and had been as taken aback by the act sex as she had by her first period. Yet, even though she had felt shut in by the conformity imposed by her mother, father and husband, she had given birth to four children and they now come to dinner with their partners to discuss her sudden conversion to feminism in the 1970s and how she had realised she was a lesbian while campaigning for equal rights, birth control and free abortion. She confesses that she had used a customised vacuum cleaner to perform illegal terminations and slightly shocks her offspring by recalling her debt to the interior designer who had helped her understand her fiftysomething body. But the eyebrows are raised even higher as she follows a fond remembrance of her time with German lover Gudrun by revealing that she had a fling at the age of 77 with a woman named Emmanuelle, who was 25 years her junior and wonderfully wild in bed, but she was also almost impossible to live with.

Christian also enjoyed an idyllic childhood with conservative parents and it was only when he went to a Jesuit school that he realised the desire he felt for other boys was considered sinful by the priest who took his confession. Consequently, he became terrified of showering after games periods in case he became aroused and he accepted a voluntary post in Africa to hide from what he felt to be a problem rather than embrace his true self. He developed an interest in photography and hoped that his premature ageing would reduce his longings. In 1979, however, he was accidentally outed by a picture of him kissing another man was published in Paris-Match and, as he explains to his friend Jacques during a visit to Marseilles, this proved to be the making of him, even though his family was initially aghast and considered disowning him.

Catherine and Elisabeth have been more fortunate in finding acceptance. They were conducting a discreet relationship in the 1970s when they learned they were about to be fired because of their liaison. So they purchased a goat farm and have spent the last 35 years making cheese and being left to their own devices by neighbours who were not only unconcerned about their sexuality, but who were also happy to help them get established. Consequently, they became key members of the community, with Elisabeth becoming mayor and securing her re-election when she arranged for the Albion Plateau nuclear site to be converted into a useful facility for the district.

Campaigning has also been a large part of Monique's life and she revels in having been a Red Dyke around the May Days of 1968. She delighted in taunting workmates into believing they were the abnormal ones for being turned on by the opposite sex and used to enjoy regaling them with detailed descriptions of her trysts with new lovers. Indeed, her only regret was how accepting her parents were and recalls her mother asking politely if she thought she might be missing out on anything before she made a definitive decision. As a consequence, Monique once rejected a dinner invitation from a girl whose mother had no qualms about her lesbianism. That said, she always found discovering a new body exciting and she gets emotional on returning to the Auxy-Juranville train station in the countryside where she grew up, as inanimate objects can often tug on one's heartstrings as much as people. She reveals that she felt adject on turning 50 because her body no longer enticed lovers and rather than face the uncertainty of wondering whether love might come or the pain of being spurned, she decided to become celibate and she has been quite content ever since, as it gave her more time to devote to her interests and causes.

Highly respectful of its subjects and their views, this almost feels like a reproach to those who have allowed homophobia to drift back on to the agenda as French society goes through one of its periodic conservative phases. Using inflammatory newsreel footage to remind the younger generation of what life was like before gay liberation arrived and how hard won their own freedoms were, Lifshitz seems to be inviting them to take pride in the legacy left by these remarkable people and their peers. Sharing photographs and home movies, as well as their memories, the invisible 11 are eloquent, amusing, trenchant and wise. They are stylishly photographed by Antoine Parouty and the use of Chopin and Vivaldi to complement the original score by Jocelyn Pook is highly effective. But a touch more ruthlessness in the selection of the anecdotes might not have gone amiss, especially as it gradually becomes clear that many of the speakers were reluctant revolutionaries and don't quite share their director's agenda.

One of the strengths of Lifshitz's film is that it's not necessary to have a detailed knowledge of postwar French socio-political history to be moved by its themes. However, Marcelo Machado makes so few concessions in Tropicália that anyone without a firm grounding in Brazilian politics and culture between 1964-74 will be utterly lost. He gives himself something of an excuse in the opening scene, as iconic musicians Gilberto Gil and Caetano Veloso complete a number on a Portuguese TV station in 1969 and confess, when hosts Raul Solnado and Carlos Cruz ask them to explain Tropicalism for new audiences, that they couldn't begin to define it, as it means so many things to different people. Machado and editor Oswald Santana have further covered their backs by insisting that they have utilised the clips from contemporary films and tele-shows, as well as the wealth of photographic material, to capture the chaotic spirit of Tropicalism rather than strive to define or analyse it. But tilting and spinning the odd still that has been overlaid with a far-out colour doesn't do justice to this groundbreaking phenomenon and those seeking to celebrate or gain a greater understanding of a movement (if, indeed, that's what it was) that impacted across the arts will be tantalised and sorely disappointed by this energetic, but elusive documentary.

The survey begins in 1967, with Artur da Costa e Silva being sworn in as president and soldiers continuing to enforce the military rule to which Brazil had been subjected for three years. Cutting abruptly from footage of tanks on the streets to a clip of Sidney Miller and Nara Leão, Machado avoids prefacing either artist or using subtitles to translate the lyrics of their song (a recurring bugbear throughout the film) and instead slips in an audio extract of Leão protesting that she wasn't really part of Tropicalism, but admired the likes of siblings Caetano Veloso and Maria Bethânia who did.

Snippets are shown of the latter performing, but her significance goes unexplained before Machado cuts to shots of demonstrations against the regime that are accompanied by Veloso denying that he was a core Tropicalista, as he was too much into American movies and music to throw in his lot with the movement's more left-wing, anti-imperialist exponents. He concedes that he was seriously influenced by plays like Osvald de Andrade's The Candle King and Glauber Rocha films like Entranced Earth (1967) and felt music needed to break away from its cosy bossa nova cul-de-sac. But, while some took their inspiration from indigenous folk, others looked to Chuck Berry, The Beatles and Jimi Hendrix and, thus, at least where music is concerned, it is nigh-on impossible to find a definitive Tropicalist style.

Even at its height, those linked to Tropicalism were quick to distance themselves. If Veloso wanted to avoid being placed on a political bandwagon, the temperamental Rocha simply wished to be left alone and the peevish way in which he denies that Entranced Earth was Tropicalist is one of the highlights of the entire picture. Theatre director José Celso Martinez Correa is happy to claim De Andrade as a leading light, however, and recalls the central message of The Candle King: `the happiness of men is a warrior happiness' Artist Hélio Oiticica is also keen to take any credit going, as he explains that Veloso took the title for his famous song `Tropicália' from one of  his pieces and was often seen wearing one of his trademark parangolé capes. But, while he featured in Rocha's 1972 film, Cancer, nothing more is heard of Oiticica for the remainder of the film. One of his co-stars, however, proved to be a pivotal player.

Rogério Duarte was a graphic artist who was keen for Tropicália to spread beyond music. But, as a montage of clips from films that are unhelpfully identified only during the closing credits flashes across the screen, Gil is heard opining that Tropicalism was a bit of this and a dash of that and the fact it ended in `ism' suggests it was a thing of the moment to which it is best not attaching too much importance. Gil and Veloso were primarily responsible for the musical revolution, as they sought to blend the bossa nova and jovem guarda styles with the rock and pop that so betwitched Veloso and the Pernambuco folk discovered by Gil on a trip to Recife. Bethânia also encouraged them to borrow from singer Roberto Carlos and the Cacrinha TV show, which was full of references to the exotic Bahian region to the north-east of the country.

But, as we see Elis Regina and Wilson Simonal singing on TV and learn that Solano Ribeiro started making talent, song contest and festival shows that had the entire nation hooked, we remain none the wiser about where this new musical direction came from or why. Thus, the sudden appearance of one of Brazilian music's best-known bands, Os Mutantes, comes like a bolt of the blue. Yet rather than contextualising brothers Arnaldo and Sérgio Dias Baptista and lead singer Rita Lee, Machado explains how Júlio Medaglia introduced Gil to songwriter Rogerio Duprat and they became friends because they shared a love of Os Mutantes. Lee proclaims Duprat a genius, while the siblings agree that it was fun to be famous and admired. But we learn nothing about the combo's origins, the evolution of its musical style or how it fits into the bigger picture.

Instead, we are informed that Veloso had a big hit with `Alegria, Alegria' before Guilherme Araújo is shown averring that it is tough being a star without TV exposure and Gil and Duprat denounce his cynically commercial style to promotion over news clips of Veloso's self-consciously counterculture wedding to Dédé on 21 November. Yet again, none of this is examined in any depth and no effort is made to analyse its significance for non-aficionados and things scarcely improve as the timeline moves into 1968 and the riots that followed the death of 17 year-old student Edson Luís de Lima Souto. We are told that Duarte arranged the music for his funeral and we see images of hysterical crowds around his coffin. But the connection between these scenes and the Passeata dos 100 mil (March of the One Hundred Thousand) in Rio de Janeiro on 26 June is not made, even though we see shots of Veloso and Gil among the demonstrators.

Consequently, Tom Zé's contention that the press and student body were not fans of Tropicalism seems like a fascinating line of inquiry that is not fully followed up. Machado presents photo montages of Veloso speaking to a student meeting and then interrupting a concert to condemn modern youth by saying that they are wasting there time trying to kill tomorrow the thing that had already died yesterday. His fury caused ructions in the audience, but the ramifications are not discussed apart from TV presenter Paulo Gaudêncio agreeing that the kids need to grow up before introducting Os Mutantes singing their most famous song, `Panis et Circensis'.

The album Tropicália: ou Panis et Circencis (1968) stands as the high watermark of the movement, with José Carlos Capinham and Torquato Neto among the lyricists contributing to songs. The same subversive spirit characterised the work of Gal Costa, who is shown belting out a number on a festival show that saw Os Mutantes performing `2001', which was notable for the use of an audio generator by Cláudio César Dias Baptista to produce new sounds to complement the rock/folk fusion. But such developments led to criticism that too much foreign influence was being imported, unlike in the works of musicians like Jorge Benjor. Moreover, after Veloso played at the Sucata Club during disturbances across the country, the message `Be an Outcast, Be a Hero' prompted the dictatorship to clamp down in December 1968.

Shifting to the present day, an older, but still animated Zé uses shadow figures on a projected diagram to claim that the military prevented a Second Industrial Revolution and put Brazil back decades. Quite whether this is the case is left hanging, as Machado reveals that Gil and Veloso were jailed for two months before being held under house arrest for a further four and told that they were being sent into exile. While in Portugal in 1969, they declared that Tropicalism was dead and we see footage of them living and working in London and appearing at the Isle of Wight Festival. Clips follow of Os Mutantes on French television and Jorge Mautner, the creator of Moviment of Kaos, calling for a return to innocence.

Veloso explains how much exile knocked his confidence and prevented him from moving into cinema. Away from home, however, he felt compelled to stick to what he knew and his performance on French TV is lauded for its intensity and sincerity (although, once again, it would have been nice for non-Portuguese speakers to have been given the opportunity to appreciate the lyrics). Consequently, both Veloso and Gil returned to Brazil at the earliest opportunity in 1972 and the film ends with Gil's triumphant anthem, `Back to Bahia', while Veloso's `It's a Long Way' plays over the crawl that finally reveals that Machado had borrowed from the following features for his found footage: Ivan Cardoso's Ho (1979); Walter Lima Jr's O Tempo e o Som (1970); Jorge Mautner's O Demiurgo (1972); Arnaldo Jabor's A Opinião Pública (1967); Carlos Diegues's Os Herdeiros (1970); José Agripino de Paula's Hitler III Mundo (1968); Walter Hugo Khouri's As Amorosas (1968); Paolo Cesar Sarraceni's O Desafio (1965); Eduardo Escorel and Julio Bressan's Bethania Bem de Perto (1966); Rogério Sganzerla's Bandido da Luz Vermelha (1968); Antonio Carlos Fontoura's Ver e Ouvir (1966) and Os Mutantes (1970); André Luiz Oliveira's Meteorango Kid (1969); Ivan Cardoso's Nosferatu do Brasil (1970); Flavio Moreira da Costa's Chico, Retrato em Preto e Branco (1968); and Leon Hirszman's Caetano/Gil/Gal (Interrompido) (1986).

Presumably released (albeit a bit tardily) to coincide with the Confederations Cup, this is the first of many documentaries about Brazil that we can expect before next summer's World Cup and the Rio Olympics in 2016. While it might send a few scurrying away to hear more of the music that had supposedly influenced the likes of David Byrne, Beck, Nelly Furtado and Sonic Youth, Marcelo Machado's exuberant, evocative, but undeniably muddled and unenlightening effort doesn't really represent a great start. The clips he has selected are riveting, as is much of the music. But without a guiding narration or some more detailed captions, they will mean nothing to anyone unfamiliar with Tropicalism or its impact on a troubled nation.

Although it might have been nice to see more of the Cinema Novo side of things, the musical emphasis is fair enough. Yet little attempt it made to explore the reception of this radical new form by the population at large. Nor is it clear how enduring Tropicalism has since been. But so many unanswered questions arise from this tantalising film that it leaves one wondering why producers as experienced as Fernando Meirelles didn't suggest tailoring the exceptional material for a wider audience or, at least, producing an international version that would retain the vibrancy of the original while adding some much-needed context.