Parky at the Pictures (In Cinemas 25/12/2014)

Before any accusations of snobbery are hurled, a couple of arthouse items make the list. But, unfortunately, the British film industry contributes half the entries, including the runaway winner, which is one of the worst films this critic has seen in the three decades since he started writing for Oxford readers with an Oxford Star review of Clint Eastwood's Pale Rider in October 1985.

JANUARY - EXPOSED: BEYOND BURLESQUE (Beth B.).

A distinctive kind of body politics is examined by Beth B in Exposed: Beyond Burlesque. The latest in a string of films centring on the burlesque revival, this actuality shares a couple of performers with Mathieu Amalric's roving drama On Tour (2010) and presents an edgier insight into a world whose camper side was revealed in Immodesty Blaize's documentary Burlesque Undressed (2009). Given that its director was a leading figure in the No Wave movement that equates to cinema's punk phase, it's hardly surprising that the emphasis here is as more on the political than the glamorous aspects of a form that is variously viewed as empowering and exploitative by its adherents and detractors. But, by plunging straight in to the intimate profiles of the featured talents, Beth B fails to provide a cultural context to help orientate newcomers, while the decision to eschew input from critics or audiences leaves the picture feeling frustratingly insular and a touch self-satisfied.

The intention here is to show how conventional notions of gender and body type can be challenged by artists celebrating their own identity differences and reassuring audiences about their own insecurities. Bunny Love calls it `freedom in vulgarity' and there is much here to shock the prudish and the complacent. But such is the cogency and articulacy of the performers both on stage and in interview that only the most mulish will fail to recognise the power and the potency of the statements they make in routines that are witty and outlandish in equal measure. .

Raised in New Orleans, Bunny Love studies dance and drama in New York before realising that her métier lay in alternative burlesque. An acclaimed film-maker in her own right, she presents herself here as a stripping Southern Belle in `Crazy Bitch', as a smeared consumer in `Love and Chocolate' and both sides of the gender coin in `Half and Half'. Every bit as provocative is Dirty Martini, who is one of the leading lights of the revival and whose bold striptease in `Mafioso' seems positively tame beside the way in which she eats and excretes money in the savage denunciation of American capitalism, `The Patriot Act'.

The Stars and Stripes also feature in the work of The World Famous *Bob*, who spent much of her teens in the company of drag queens and spent several years presenting herself as a gay man. Yet, while she now embraces her female form, she insists that gender is a choice rather than a permanent determination and her assertion that the best way to cope with cellulite is to cover it in glitter and shine a spotlight on it sums up her attitude to the way the fashion and cosmetics industries conspire with the media to reinforce impossible ideals of womanhood. In this regard, she has much in common with Bambi the Mermaid, who questions conceptions of beauty in dynamic routines as `All of Me', `Lilith' (which seeks to reclaim an innocence and acceptance that predates the Fall in the Garden of Eden) and `Cornstar', which culminates in her laying a boiled egg, which she proceeds to eat on stage.

Although he has been banned in Italy, Tigger! is less outrageous than others here. The `Original King of Boylesque' discusses the pleasure of not having to conform to preconceptions of masculinity in skits like `En-GULF-ed' and `Lily La Tigresse', but his wicked wit is somewhat upstaged by the audacious antics of Rose Wood, a transgender performance artist who underwent breast enhancement surgery during the six years Beth B was filming. Adopting a `trans-aggressive', Rose (who wanted to be a rabbi as a boy) slips between such slick showstoppers as `Fan Dance' and `I'm A Man' and more extreme pieces like `Rabbi Rosenwood' and `Serial Killer', which are easily the angriest and most outré items on the bill.

By contrast, British performer Mat Fraser (who has malformed arms because his mother took thalidomide during her pregnancy) opts to become more normal by highlighting his differences. Harking back to the carnival days of the freak show, he delights in the fact that he is now his own PT Barnum and his on- and off-stage partnership with wife Julie Atlas Muz enables him to expose his true physical, psychological and political self with compelling confidence. In addition to being the most articulate performer, Fraser is also among the most prolific, as he is shown doing the solo bits `The Arms' and `Criptease', as well as `Tribute to Dutch Culture', `Santa Sangre' and `American Trilogy' with Muz, who also performs `I Am the Moon and You Are the Man on Me', `Breaking the Law', `The Hand' and `Tribute to Pina Bausch'.

Restlessly flitting between rehearsals, talking-head segments and gigs at such venues as The Box, Coney Island Sideshow, Casa Mezcal and The Slipper Room, Beth B capably captures the personalities and personas of her chosen octet. But she singularly fails to convey the connection across the footlights and often baffles by refusing to show the painstakingly prepared and impeccably executed routines in full (as was the case in Burlesque Undressed). Moreover, by concentrating so rigorously on the positivity of the performers, she also misses the taboo aspect of their work, as there are no dissenting voices to kick against. Thus, while this is smartly assembled and demonstrates the director's affinity with the artists and their milieu, it makes too few demands on the viewer to address their own ideas and inhibitions.

FEBRUARY - LOVE IS IN THE AIR (Alexandre Castagnetti).

This is the kind that rarely makes it across the Channel, even though dozens of them are churned out for domestic consumption each year. Rooted firmly in the tradition of the Hollywood romantic comedy, Alexandre Castagnetti's Love Is in the Air differs from other rom-copycats in so far as it reworks an original screenplay by American actor Vincent Angell. In all other regards, however, it sticks as slavishly to convention and caricature as such recent romps as Frédéric Beigbeder's Love Lasts Three Years (2011), David Moreau's It Boy and Danièle Thompson's It Happened in St Tropez (both 2013), which it resembles in the fact that the lovers first meet in transit, with a transatlantic jet replacing the EuroStar express on which Lou de Laâge first encounters Max Boublil.

Trendy sculptress Ludivine Sagnier is on her way from New York to Paris to marry her lawywer fiancé, Arnaud Ducret. As the plane is full, however, she is upgraded and finds herself sitting next to ex-boyfriend Nicolas Bedos, another lawyer whom Sagnier has not seen since they split up acrimoniously three years earlier. He is heading home for a job interview and seems pleased to see his old flame. But any hopes he might have had of flirting with her as they reminnisce about old times are soon doused when Sagnier reminds him of the reasons for their parting and the first of many flashbacks takes us back to the night on which Bedos and Sagnier first met, somwhat improbably, in a gentlemen's lavatory.

Seemingly already aware of Bedos's reputation as a womaniser (he nickname is `Mr Two Weeks'), Sagnier refuses to succumb to his advances. However, perhaps because she fancies taking him down a peg or two, she agrees to give him an hour to impress her and, lo and behold, her reluctance melts away with an alacrity that ruthlessly exploits the truism that even the nicest girl is unable to resist a rogue. Mother Clémentine Célarié is dismayed that Sagnier is consorting with such an unregenerate chauvinist, but she refuses to take any advice and even astonishes Bedos's best mate Jonathan Cohen when she agrees to move in with him.

Sagnier still wishes Bedos drank less and kept his eyes to himself a bit more, while he resents the fact that she cramps his style. But they seem to be making a go of things until she is awarded a bursary to study in Japan and not only does Bedos sabotage her plans (because he is too insecure to accept that she might have talent and could drift away from him), but he also gets caught with a naked woman in their bathroom. The fact that there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for the latter doesn't concern Sagnier, as she is so furious that Bedos would seek to ruin her career that she walks out on him without a backward glance.

Naturally, by the time the plane lands, Bedos has managed to breach Sagnier's defences once again. Thus, when she bumps into him at the offices of Ducret's firm (which is, of course, where Bedos is being interviewed), she cancels the wedding plans and heads off into the sunset with a man she knows is going to be trouble, but whom she is convinced she cannot live without.

The recent revelations about President François Hollande's liaison with actress Julie Gayet seem to suggest that the French are willing to forgive a charmer any peccadillo and this self-satisfied battle of the sexes relies heavily on that trait. British audiences may not know that Bedos (who is the son of comedian Guy Bedos and co-scripted along with five others) has something of a bad boy reputation, thanks to his acerbic writing for the stage, television and the popular press, and he clearly tailored his first starring role to suit his public image. However, he merely comes across as boorish, sexist and utterly irresponsible and it is difficult to accept that he would be in such demand as a lawyer, let alone that Sagnier would give him a second chance. However, she only fares marginally better, as she clearly has little talent as an artist, while her ditzy jealousy quickly becomes as resistible as his caddish swagger. Moreover, her rant at Célarié, in which she declares that she would rather be mistreated than alone, is unforgivable.

In fact, Célarié has some of the best lines, along with Michel Vuillermoz, as a waspish flight attendant who might have enlivened Pedro Almodóvar's in-flight-farrago, I'm So Excited! (2013). Arnaud Ducret also shows well in the other man role that was perfected by Ralph Bellamy in a number of classic 1930s screwballs. Moreover, Yannick Ressigeac's widescreen imagery is pleasingly glossy and some of editor Scott Stevenson's montages and scene transitions are amusingly innovative (although most viewers would be willing to forego the kitschily explicit illustrations from the Kama Sutra). But the Gallic laddishness of the humour doesn't travel well, especially when it jars so frequently with the classily relaxed tone for which Castagnetti is evidently striving in including so many jazz and Motown standards on the soundtrack.

The only upshot, to paraphrase Samuel Butler, is that only two people will be made miserable by Bedos and Sagnier's rapprochement instead of the four who would have suffered if they had remained apart. But, while Castagnetti demonstrates a certain acuity in lifting moves from the Hollywood romcom playbook, he has not been alone in a year in which film-makers seem to have forgotten how to make love stories with wit and charm.

MARCH - ALMOST MARRIED (Ben Cookson).

It's almost impossible to like the characters in Ben Cookson's Almost Married. This British comedy seems to have been made from the best intentions, as it clearly encourages viewers to reassess their attitudes towards casual sex and to get themselves tested whenever there's even the slightest possibility of having contracted an STD or the HIV virus. But such is the cheap vulgarity and sitcomedic contrivance of this sordid story that it comes pretty close to unwatchable long before its smug twist ending.

While on his stag weekend in Newcastle, mechanic Philip McGinley is treated to sex in a brothel by his best mate, Mark Stobbart. A few days later, he notices a burning sensation when he urinates and he has to go to the clinic to be tested for a sexually transmitted infection. Doctor Val McLane informs him that he has chlamydia. But, in expressing his relief, McGinley lets slip that his unprotected intercourse was with a prostitute and McLane informs him that he will have to wait 90 days before he can be tested effectively for hepatitis and HIV.

As his wedding to fiancée Emily Atack falls within this period, McGinley is facing a major dilemma. But he also has to avoid having intimate contact before then and consults the Internet in the hope of finding inspiration. When Atack catches him acting furtively, he claims to have been watching dwarf porn and she accuses him of being a pervert. He manages to avoid subsequent liaisons by getting so drunk he is incapable of performing and taking a weekend job away to buy himself some thinking time. On another occasion, the curry sauce on Atack's fingers comes to his rescue. But he is soon running out of excuses and the unsympathetic Stobbart finds the situation highly amusing.

Atack gets it into her head to become pregnant before the ceremony, so they can start a family right away. So, McGinley starts going on all-night fishing trips with Stobbart to avoid her and she is deeply wounded, as fishing is their way of being together away from the madding crowd. On one expedition, Stobbart gives him some tips on what to say if Atack asks if he has been unfaithful. But he is so chastened by her tears at a wedding rehearsal that when she does challenge him, he tries to be honest without revealing the whole truth and finds himself being nettled when she admits to having doubts about their future.

Things scarcely improve when McGinley and parents Smug Roberts and Janine Birkett have a barbecue and word games evening with Atack and her folks, Bill Fellows and Allison Dean, which culminates in Atack deciding to leave him. When McGinley calls Stobbart the next day, he becomes convinced his pal is about to commit suicide and, when he is pulled over by the police for doing an illegal U-turn, he gets McGinley into trouble by using his despair as an excuse.

McGinley exacts revenge by having Stobbart think he has hanged himself in the garage, but such larking hardly solves the pressing problem. They discuss frenulum injuries over absinthe and contemplate drastic measures like inducing a coma and scalding McGinley with a panful of boiling water. But, then, Stobbart has the brainwave that they simply need to go back to Tyneside, find the hooker and get her to take the test so that McGinley will know whether or not he is likely to have become infected. They look up brothels in an Internet café and Stobbart offers to take one for the team when McGinley wants to leave after realising the first place they visit is not the stag venue.

They have more luck second time around, however, and McGinley is mightily relieved to learn from Laura Norton (who has stripped him to his shorts and pinned him down on the bed for a massage) that he was too sloshed to perform when they first met. Besides, she insists that she is regularly checked because of her amateur porn commitments. But McGinley is no longer listening, as he has suddenly realised that he must have caught chlamydia from Atack and that she, therefore, must have been the one to have cheated. As Stobbart sits with McGinley and Norton in the lounge, the brothel madam lectures him on women having urges and needs as well as men. But he is in no mood to listen and speeds back to Atack's family home.

He arrives at the same time as Roberts and Birkett, whom he has summoned while on the road. Fellows and Dean are taken aback by the unexpected visitors, but they invite them to share their supper. Stobbart waits in the car, as McGinley stalks inside and causes a scene at the table when he asks Atack where she might have picked up a venereal disease. Possibly because of their own guilty consciences, Roberts and Fellows try to prevent their wives from hearing such indelicacies. But everyone hangs on McGinley's reply when Atack demands to know why he waited two months before confronting her.

As their parents make their excuses (and Dean states baldly that paying for sex is tantamount to rape), McGinley admits that he nearly strayed on his stag do, but was saved by his inebriation. Atack also has a reason, as a sex toy was passed around at a lingerie party and she must have been tainted by that. McGinley is about to accept her explanation when she utters words he has heard somewhere else before - `I swear on the health and happiness of everyone I hold dear' - and he knows in an instant who has been responsible for cuckolding him.

Never has a plot synopsis damned a picture so thoroughly. However, the excruciating unfunniness of the missing word game has to be seen to be disbelieved, while the repeated references to `banjo strings' will have those not already cringing with embarrassment squirming with discomfort. To their credit, the cast plays this grotesque farrago rather well and, once again, it is worth stating that the cause is noble. But, surely, there were better ways to promote it.

APRIL - WE ARE THE FREAKS (Justin Edgar).

Released the same week as Joanna Hogg's Exhibition (which came within a whisker of getting the nod), Justin Edgar's We Are the Freaks is a rite of passage set in Birmingham in the immediate aftermath of the Conservative coup against Margaret Thatcher in November 1990. Closer in tone to Edgar's gross-out debut, Large (2002), than the well-meaning disability comedy Special People (2007), this owes most to TV series like The Inbetweeners and Skins. Indeed, two alumni from the latter feature prominently. But while Edgar gets the look and feel of the period right (thanks, in no small measure, to a spot-on songtrack), he elects to ditch the first person larkiness of the opening sequences to cleave more closely to any number of American slacker movies..

Hurtling through the fourth wall, Jamie Blackley speaks directly to camera about the things he hates most - including movies in which characters address the audience. Although he is working at a bank, Blackley is an avid reader of Charles Bukowski and hopes to get a local authority grant so he can accept a place on a creative writing course at the University of Bolton. But he doesn't want to open the envelope that arrives at the house he shares with his disabled mother and sister, as he knows money is tight and wants to live the dream that little bit longer.

Best friend Sean Teale is already enjoying the high life, as he has discovered how to play his rich, divorced parents off against each other and now revs around town in a Porsche. But, the third member of this hapless triumvirate, Mike Bailey is also caught in the starting gate, as he desperately wants to move away from his Maggie-worshipping father (Dominic Coleman) and prove he can stand on his own two feet, when, in fact, he is still frighteningly immature and boasts about being well in with local drug dealer Michael Smiley and having a girlfriend.

The socially ambitious Rosamund Hanson orders Bailey to attend a Young Conservative meeting. But Blackley and Teale insist on gatecrashing it and the former catches the eye of Amber Anderson, a talented cellist who is about to go to Cambridge. The soirée descends into chaos when Bailey damages his penis while having vigorous sex with Hanson in a garden shed and he has to be rushed to hospital. But Teale almost causes another medical emergency when he takes Adam Gillen for a ride in his car (in the hope of impressing his sister, Danielle Lineker) and nearly gives him a heart attack while executing a series of handbrake spins.

Slipping away from the others, Blackley and Anderson go to a rave. But he soon realises that they are not a match made in heaven, as she not only hoovers up the drugs she is offered, but also gyrates wildly on the dance floor and Blackley decides to cut his losses. The evening is going no better for Bailey, however, as he has been cornered by some thugs in the chip shop. But, much to his astonishment, he is rescued by Smiley, who beats the living daylights of the tearaways (in a curious homage to Park Chan-wook's Oldboy, 2003) and persuades Coleman that the time has come to let Bailey make his own decisions. Sadly, Blackley gets home to find that his options have narrowed ruinously, as he opens the letter to discover he has not qualified for his grant.

Ending on a credible downswing, this may well appeal more to those who lived through the era than modern teens. Yet, while much may have changed in the worlds of technology and communication, the basic instincts of those trying to find their niche are much the same and Edgar is probably wise to link Bailey and Teale to their small-screen incarnations, Sid Jenkins and Nick Levan. However, he might have devoted a bit more time to the storyline and connecting the characters to the prevailing socio-political attitudes at the end of the Thatcher decade. There are plenty of decent gags and the performances are solid. But this always feels like something that might have been written by an aspirant who had seen John Hughes's Ferris Bueller's Day Off (1986) and Danny Boyle's Trainspotting (1996) rather than a third-timer who had done it all before and a lot less self-consciously, too.

MAY - A THOUSAND TIMES GOOD NIGHT (Erik Poppe).

It always hurts to see a much-admired actor toiling in a picture beneath their talents. But not even Juliette Binoche could save Erik Poppe's investigation into the methods and motives of combat zone photojournalists, A Thousand Times Good Night. Poppe draws on his own experiences and even utilises some of his own images to give this well-meaning drama a ring of authenticity. But it has the misfortune to be released so soon after two documentaries - Jacqui and David Morris's McCullin and Sebastian Junger's Which Way Is the Front Line From Here? - that managed to convey without sensationalism the grim realities involved in capturing history as it happens. Thus, even with Juliette Binoche giving a typically committed performance, this pales beside the profiles of Don McCullin and Tim Hetherington and shows that, sometimes, art doesn't quite imitate life.

Freelance photojournalist Juliette Binoche has been given unprecedented access to a female suicide bombing unit in Afghanistan. Dressed in a hijab, she is taken by minivan to an expanse of wilderness, where the martyr-to-be lies in a grave before being taken to a Kabul backstreet for prayers and purification. Binoche snaps away, as the explosive belts are put in place and two men enter the room to activate the mechanism. The bomber bids farewell to her kinfolk and sits in the backseat of a car, with an apprehensive Binoche turning round to take the occasional picture of her subject in quiet contemplation.

As they near the target area, Binoche becomes twitchy and asks to be let out. However, there is a hold-up in the road and a couple of policemen approach the vehicle. Relieved to be on the pavement, Binoche cannot resist taking one last picture and this catches the attention of one of the cops, who comes to investigate. Hurrying away in panic, Binoche realises that innocent people will be caught in the carnage and tries to call out to the bystanders. But the bomber panics and triggers the device and Binoche is thrown backwards by the ferocity of the blast. Nevertheless, as she regains consciousness, she scrambles to her feet to take a couple of shots of the hideous aftermath before collapsing once more.

She wakes in a hospital in Dubai, where marine biologist husband Nikolaj Coster-Waldau is waiting at her bedside. He gives Binoche a reassuring smile, but it's clear he has been dreading this moment for years and there is unspoken tension in the car, as they drive through the Irish countryside to be welcomed home by daughters Lauryn Canny and Adrianna Cramer Curtis, and their close friends and neighbours Maria Doyle Kennedy and Larry Mullen, Jr. Curtis is primarily interested in her presents (which Coster-Waldau had remembered to buy at the airport), but Canny is clearly resentful of the fact that her mother appears to have put her career before her children.

Consigned to sleeping on the sofa, Coster-Waldau is keen to have a similar conversation, but allows Binoche to convalesce. She jogs along the beach and tries to get into the routine of packing lunchboxes and doing the school run. But she is soon Skyping with New York editor Chloë Annett and ranting about the timidity of the managers who refuse to publish her images because they supposedly glamorise terrorism. She wanders into Canny's bedroom and finds a scrapbook of press cuttings that also contains birthday cards from the times that Binoche had been away on assignment and she chokes back the tears. Yet, she continues to struggle to readjust to ordinary life, especially as she feels enormous guilt for causing the bomb to go off before its intended time. Coster-Waldau urges her not to blame herself for those particular casualties and reminds her of his own anguish in forever waiting for The Call.

Determined to be a better wife and mother, Binoche announces she is quitting. She also allows Cramer Curtis to get a kitten and goes to the school to watch Canny rehearsing a dance routine that forms part of a project on Africa. She dines out with Coster-Waldau and their friends and sees him give some local kids a talk on monitoring plutonium levels from Sellafield. She smiles indulgently, as he lets them play with some crabs. But is unable to resist complaining about the decline in educational standards, as they walk home, and she explains to Canny that she has always been angry with the world since she was a girl. She shows her some photographs taken in the Congo and laments that they were kept off the front page by an upskirt incident involving Paris Hilton.

Canny is taken by her mother's courage and her vocation to force the public to see what they would rather ignore. Therefore, she encourages her to accept when old friend Mads Ousdal offers Binoche an assignment in a refugee camp on the Kenyan-Sudanese border. He suggests she would be doing a great humanitarian service by publicising the plight of the innocent residents and assures her that the area is completely safe. Seduced by the idea, Canny begs Binoche to take her along and convinces her that she could use what she sees in her project. Faced with the prospect of worrying about two people instead of one, Coster-Waldau refuses to sanction the trip. But a playful moment on the beach rekindles the marital flame and he gives his permission.

Binoche sees something of herself in Canny, as she watches her expressions as they fly out to Africa and drive through the spectacular savannah. She gives her daughter a camera capable of taking stills and video and Canny joins her mother in getting up close and personal with suffering victims of a conflict whose causes and consequences are never once mentioned, let alone explained. The feeling that this entire trip is simply a dramatic device to kickstart the action after it has stalled so resoundingly during the dullish domestic interlude is confirmed when motorbike-riding guerillas launch an attack on the camp and Binoche risks her life to get some pictures after packing Canny off to the compound with Ousdal.

He is angry with Binoche for defying his orders to evacuate. But she has got her scoop and cannot wait to get to a computer and send it to Annett. Canny is in bed when she returns to their room and Binoche tries to explain that she had to do her job. Canny shruggingly accepts her word, even though she has been badly shaken by the incident and the realisation of just how much danger her mother puts herself into in order to fulfil her remit. As she turns to sleep beneath the mosquito net, Binoche makes Canny promise not to say a word to Coster-Waldau, as she knows he will never forgive her for taking a 15 year-old into a war zone.

Glad to have her mother back, Cramer Curtis enlists her help in finding her missing kitten. But Canny is noticeably distant and Coster-Waldau walks in on them as Binoche discovers that Canny had recorded the moment the rebels stormed the camp and she put the story before her child. Incensed that she could not prioritise Canny's safety, Coster-Waldau throws Binoche out of the house and she has to spend the night with Doyle and Mullen.

The next day, Binoche wanders along the sands and tries to order her thoughts. She parks outside the house to greet the girls after school and rescues the kitten from a tree. But Coster-Waldau tells her to stay away. Binoche waits for Canny outside school and tries to justify her actions. The girl accepts that the helpless need someone in their corner, but she upsets Binoche by picking up the camera lying on the front seat of the car and starting to click it repeatedly in her face.

In the midst of this domestic crisis, Annett calls to say that there has been a change of personnel and heart at the newspaper and that the editor wants Binoche to return to Kabul because the suicide cadre is about to break up and they want images of the final mission. Rushing back from the airport check-in desk, Binoche arrives at the school in time to see Canny make a hesitant speech about forgotten wars in Africa and how their victims need her mother more than she does. Coster-Waldau allows his wife to kiss the girls goodnight before she leaves, with Canny seemingly more accepting than her father that photojournalism is a noble and necessary art.

Touching down in Afghanistan, Binoche is taken to the same address and prepares to record the chilling ritual for a second time. She is appalled, however, to see that the bomber is no older than Canny and she is so distraught that she is unable to point the camera. Suddenly, she feels like an intruder and becomes a mother rather than a hardened professional. As a result, she opts not to capture the last embrace between mother and daughter and decides against accompanying the girl to her fate. Instead, she falls to her knees in the dust and the scene fades to black.

The calculated melodramatics of the last two-thirds of this earnest, but curiously pallid film gravely undermine its claims to be a serious study of the validity of photojournalism and the vital role of female reporters in conflict situations. Poppe is desperate to say something significant about the impact that imagery can have on public opinion, while also ruminating on the ethics of the calling and the sacrifices and risks that have to be taken to capture those iconic images that can, occasionally, make a difference. But he and co-scenarist Harald Rosenløw-Eeg consistently fail to persuade us of Binoche's need to take pictures or that there is any compassion behind her supposed passion.

Well supported by Canny and Cramer Curtis (but less so by Coster-Waldau in a thankless role as a charmless and seemingly emasculated eco warrior), Binoche tries hard to atone for such lapses. But she too often strikes well-observed poses for John Christian Rosenlund's camera rather than convincing us that it is second nature for her to pry into personal misery in order to make a wider socio-political point. Similarly, she sheds a lot of crocodile tears back in Ireland, as Poppe exploits class projects and cute kittens to show Binoche what she is missing as a mother while she is away pricking the world's conscience.

Yet, the fury that drives her is never properly established and Poppe shies away from considering the extent to which Binoche's exploits are fuelled by her need for adrenaline highs. He also engages in some decidedly dubious politicking, as he takes easy shots at nuclear fuel and the multinationals that bankroll insurrections across Africa in order to acquire cheap resource, while saying nothing about the ideology inspiring Afghan women to maim and slaughter in the name of jihad.

Such bleeding-heart liberalism is all too common in achingly sincere pictures about things that matter. Consequently, there is no wonder that audiences are put off by such scolding preachiness, especially when it is so manipulatively scored (as it is here by Armand Amar). Poppe knows this milieu better than most film-makers and this should have been infinitely superior to Steven Silver's The Bang-Bang Club (2010), a fact-based drama about a quartet of daredevil shutterbugs in apartheid South Africa in the 1990s, and Jane Weinstock's The Moment, in which Jennifer Jason Leigh plays a photojournalist who winds up in a mental institution after her lover and colleague goes missing in action. But, rather than delivering his insights with uncompromising trenchancy, Poppe has sugar-coated them and, in the process, he has made them much more difficult to swallow.

JUNE - KNOCKED FOR SIX (Boyd Hicklin).

This has been an awful year for Australian cricket, with the death of Philip Hughes being a genuine tragedy. But this dire comedy did little for game Down Under, either. In 2001, Boyd Hicklin followed a Melbourne league cricket team called the Abbotsford Anglers on a tour of the subcontinent. The resulting documentary, Save Your Legs (2005), has now been fictionalised by Brendan Cowell and it is safe to say that Knocked for Six comes closer in tone to Richard Harris's Outside Edge (1979) than Ashutosh Gowariker's Lagaan (2001). Indeed, in following a group of middle-aged men who aren't yet ready to admit they are no longer full of youthful vim and vinegar, this has a lot in common with Downhill, which went on general release a couple of weeks ago. By comparison, James Rouse's debut is a considered work of insightful genius and it seems baffling that this plodding 2012 mediocrity wasn't either released during last year's Ashes series or was at least timed to coincide with this summer's visit of India.

Having finished 9th in a D-grade season that saw them lose eight, forfeit three and win four games, the Abbotsford Anglers seem pretty pleased to put their bats and pads away for another winter. However, club president Stephen Curry has been obsessed with cricket ever since he first saw Sachin Tendulkar play at the Melbourne Cricket Ground at the age of 14. Indeed, his proudest possession remains the Little Master's abdominal protector. So, when he learns from Darshan Jariwala that a team due to represent Australia in a three-match tournament in India has withdrawn at the eleventh hour, the thirtysomething Curry is keen to coerce his fellow Anglers into stepping into the breach so they can have something to remember when they finally hang up their boots.

Opening batsman Brendan Cowell (who lets Curry live in his garage) has his doubts, as his wife is expecting a baby. But statistician Darren Gilshenan is very keen and helps Curry persuade the egotistical Damon Gameau, the tubby Eddie Baroo and the enigmatic David Lyons into making the trip. They also uncover a handy ringer in callow Brenton Thwaites during an indoor net session and jet off wearing blue-and-yellow blazers and straw boaters to make a good impression on landing in Kolkata. However, despite his efforts to sample local market life and be a good ambassador, Curry spills a glass of water over himself at the press conference and tournament organiser Prithvi Zutshi wonders what to expect next when Cowell gets drunk at a reception and falls off a table.

Curry does make the acquaintance of Jariwala's daughter, Pallavi Sharda, and is more than a little miffed when the dashing Gameau sweeps her away. But he has more to worry about when the Anglers are thrashed in their opening game against Kolkata Tramways, which is played on a dustbowl of a pitch that also happens to be a thoroughfare for goats. He also makes the fatal mistake of sampling the local cuisine during a firework reception and spends much of the train journey to Varanasi locked in the lavatory. Still feeling queasy after hallucinating in his room, he manages to sit on the banks of the Ganges and watch kids flying kites while chatting to Sharda. But, that night, Curry reels into the backstreets after Cowell informs him that he is moving away and quitting the team and he finds himself caught up in a raucous Durga Puja festival.

Returning to the hotel covering in pink powder, Curry picks a fight with cocky Bollywood actor Sid Makkar before embarrassing Sarda in front of her father. The following morning, he argues with Cowell, who breaks the plinth on which Curry keeps Tendulkar's box and the team arrive for the match against the Varanasi Toymakers in low spirits and without their skipper. However, they stand a chance of winning after limiting the home side to 163. But a furious argument between Gameau and Thwaites prompts the latter to throw away his wicket in protest and Curry is forced to plead with Jariwala to bat at No11 so that he can knock off the runs needed at the other end. However, some confused calling results in Curry being run out and Jariwala being rushed to hospital after a heart attack.

Sarda tells Curry to grow up and he is so disappointed by the lack of support he has received from Cowell and Gameau that he decides to go home. While waiting at Mumbai airport, however, he sees news of Tendulkar's retirement on the television and rushes back to the team hotel to see the tour out with his mates. As they party, Makkar challenges them to a game against his team and they trot out in new multi-coloured togs to play Bollywood Magic in front of a packed house and star commentator Shibani Dandekar.

As Thwaites is still sulking, Sarda takes his place and fields well as Makkar goes on a hitting spree before he is teased out by one of Lyons's fiendish spinners. Set 187 for victory, the Anglers start well. But they lose wickets steadily after Cowell is out and falls to the famously cautious Curry to hit the last ball for six in partnership with Gameau. The result, however, is never in doubt as Makkar charges in to bowl in his golden kit and the post-match huddle segues into a masala rendition of the 10cc hit, `Dreadlock Holiday' that culminates in a most unBollywood-like kiss between Curry and Sarda

Devoid of laughs and stuffed with cricketing, ocker and subcontinental clichés and caricatures, this is a feeble effort that wastes a willing cast and some spectacular locations. Stephen Curry tries particularly hard, but he is constantly confounded by Cowell's crass script and Hicklin's heavy handed direction. The feuds between the players lack any kind of conviction and occur simply to allow the scenario to lurch from one lame incident to the next, while the sporting sequences are clumsily staged. Even half-decent gags like the Indian band playing the Channel 9 highlights theme are frittered away, as Hicklin loses sight of the actuality that inspired the story and allows himself to be dazzled by the bright lights of Bollywood. In his defence, worthwhile films about cricket are scarce, with India contributing more than its share of flops. But the discerning viewer should give this a miss and rent Anthony Asquith's The Final Test (1953) on DVD instead.

JULY - HERE AND NOW (Lisle Turner).

A garrulous East London girl and a taciturn teen from the Wye Valley forge an unlikely bond in Here and Now, which marks the feature bow of Lisle Turner, who made his name with such shorts as You Can Go Now (2006), Oxygen (2008) and Canvas (2010). When Turner's father died, a friend suggested meditation as a means of finding solace. As a consequence, Turner became a student of Buddhism and this saga set against the changing seasons reflects upon the impermanence that is a fundamental tenet of the faith. Moreover, the male lead is named Sidney Arthur Young in honour of the young Siddartha, although he is also supposed to resemble Devadatta, while his new friend Grace is purportedly a variation on his sister, Yasodhara.

Further reinforcing the spiritual connection is the fact that the principles come to discover themselves at eight key locations that mirror the eightfold noble path of the Buddha's discourses. However, little of this will be readily apparent to the casual viewer and one suspects more will be struck by the hollow ring of the dialogue, the awkwardness of the performances and the corny narrative contrivances than the picture's achingly sincere subtext. Yet, this remains a visually arresting debut that attempts to say something different about the state of the nation and the potential for sensitivity and understanding of Britain's much-maligned youth.

Having lingered over a snog with boyfriend Dharmesh Patel, teenager Lauren Johns slides into the backseat of a waiting car and sulks all the way from the capital to Herefordshire. A thudding tune about living in a nightmare plays on the soundtrack, as the camera focuses on Johns's bleached tresses, tarty make-up and trendy clothes. She doesn't say a word to African father William Nadylam or Irish mother Susan Lynch, but complains bitterly the moment they arrive about being dragged to a backwater that doesn't have a decent phone signal.

Hoping that some time away together will help the family reconnect, Nadylam has borrowed a borderlands house from a friend and is dismayed when Lynch announces that she has work to do, as someone has to pay the bills. He sidles out to chat to Johns, as she sits on a stone wall and they meet the strapping Andy Rush and his mother, Claire Coache, as they make their way home from the shops. Nadylam hints that Rush might like to show Johns around and she tuts in frustration at being forced into spending time with such an obvious geek.

Deciding to make the best of things, Johns dolls herself to the nines and is mortified when Nadylam produces a bike so she can go cycling with Rush through the Black Mountain countryside. Pedalling furiously to keep up with him, Johns calls Rush `freak boy' and becomes irritated when he keeps slowing down to let her to catch up, only to speed away again. Subjecting him to an incessant barrage of banal questions, Johns trudges behind him as they walk through the woods. She asks about his favourite music and TV shows, but Rush remains silent until she inquires whether there are any bad lads around like her boyfriend and whether his girl gave him the scarab he wears around his neck.

As their daughter strives to break all-known talking records, Nadylam and Lynch argue over his struggle to make it as a musician and her frustration at having to be both the breadwinner and the disciplinarian. But the focus quickly returns to Rush and Johns, as they explore some ruins and she complains that `history is like, dead'. She concedes that the castle might have looked nice when it was new and jokes that she would jump off the ramparts if she had to live in such a boring place. However, she gets nervous when Rush climbs a crumbling wall and is framed from below against the sun behind a cloud.

Blurry impressionist close-ups of wild flowers give way to a shot of milk splashing on to muesli, as Coache teases Rush about making a new friend before he cycles off to collect Johns, who is reading a magazine as she lounges in the garden in her shades. She tells Rush that she knew he wouldn't be able to stay away from her and comes to his defence when he is taunted by bully Jack Spreckley and his mates Alex Evans and Anthony Murphy. Spitting bile as she stands toe to toe, Johns smirks as Spreckley is ordered to wash the car by his loutish father, Steve Carpenter. But she ticks Rush off for allowing them to intimidate him.

After cycling for a while, they reach a cornfield and Rush guides Johns to a rowing skiff that was deposited by flood waters. She makes a lame joke about all being in the same boat and wishes her parents would sort themselves out. He smiles as she asks if this passes for a wild time around here and then rescues her when she gets lost while trying to find a phone signal. As he leads her back to the road, they see a fox hanging from a gate and he tells her it is a reminder (but doesn't elucidate).

As Johns arrives home, she overhears Lynch berating Nadylam for being detached from reality and informs him that she doesn't want another child as she is struggling to cope with the troublesome one she already has. Hurt that Patel hasn't called, Johns ignores her father when he comes to check she is okay and lies on her bed watching phonecam footage of herself trying to goad her boyfriend into saying that he loves her.

The following morning, Nadylam goes for a walk on his own. As he sits in a graveyard overlooking the Wye, Coache invites him to a party on Saturday night. Meanwhile, Johns and Rush have ventured into the depths of the woods to explore underground. Tossing Johns a torch, Rush leads her through a narrow network of passages into a large cavern and she jokes that her parents would think they were up to all sorts in such a secluded hideaway. He plays `Amazing Grace' on the harmonica and she compliments him by saying his gesture wasn't as `greasy' as it should have been. She teases him about still being a virgin and is put out when he backs away from a clumsily attempted kiss.

As they emerge into the daylight, Johns warns Rush that he has blown his chances and that she will be sticking to normal people from now on. Back home, Lynch bursts into tears after hearing that everyone at the office is managing without her and she feels under-appreciated in two places at once. Rush also returns to find his mother in tears and she explains that she still feels the pain of losing his father. Clearly bothered by the circumstances of his demise, Rush exercises vigorously as night falls. But he has no intention of sleeping for long, as he wakes Johns by tossing some pebbles against her window and coaxes her to come down, even though it's still dark.

He takes her apple picking and laughs when she rustles a branch with a forked stick and some fruit falls on her head. They lean against a tree together during their lunch break and listen soulfully to the violin music being played by a farmer. Johns sticks a pip on Rush's cheek and declares it looks like a tear. As they work into the afternoon, the camera picks out fields full of hay bales to signify the end of summer. But things are only just starting for Rush and Johns, who is allowed to go to the pictures that night after Lynch and Nadylam are impressed with her for earning the price of her ticket.

Money issues blight the following day's excursion, however, as Lynch refuses to pay the admission price to a stately home and Nadylam is in such a foul mood when they return to the cottage that he nearly crashes into the cycling Rush. Unperturbed, he takes Johns to the river and strips off to his underwear to dive into the muddy water. She follows suit and watches him float on his back as she sits on the bank in a towel he has thoughtfully brought. Johns clams he is like a boy scout because he is always prepared and, as they throw bread to some swans, she recalls the happy times she used to have when her parents took her swimming.

Arriving home, Johns finds Lynch cooking because Nadylam is brooding. Strumming his guitar, he refuses to come to the table and Johns wonders why they keep bickering. Never one to back away from a confrontation, she pours water on Spreckley and his mates next morning, as they take cover on a rusting bridge across the river. Rush points out the remains of a nearby aqueduct and jokes that it must have looked good when it was new. However, Johns isn't listening, as she is checking her phone for messages. It slips from her grasp and falls into the river and only Rush's quick intervention prevents her from similarly plunging down.

Rush arrives home to find Coache sorting through the last of her husband's clothes. She asks about Johns and tells him to make the most of her while she is here. By contrast, Nadylam takes his daughter's muddy knees to mean she has been up to no good and both Johns and Lynch lie alone that night wishing they could get things back the way they were. In a last bid to ensure they do something as a family, therefore, Johns begs her parents to come to the party and they wander in to find the courtyard of Coache's converted barn heaving with locals and their offspring. They are taken with the easy sense of community and Lynch looks on fondly as Nadylam and Johns mingle with confidence. Coache tells Lynch she is lucky to have such a fine man and breaks down as she reveals that hers died three years ago to the day.

As dusk falls, everyone gathers around a roaring fire and Nadylam is encouraged to follow Jay Nicholson in singing a song. Lynch smiles reassuringly, as his lyrics reflect upon the state of their marriage and they canoodle in the background as Johns and Coache exchange compliments by firelight. Rush takes Johns to see a tree decorated with lanterns and they climb into its branches to cuddle under a blanket. She puts her head on his shoulder and tells him that she likes the fact he only speaks when he has something to say. However, their moment is shattered when her parents call her home.

Lynch and Nadylam are playfully chirpy at breakfast the following morning and Johns leaves them to it, as Rush has promised to take her somewhere special on their last day together. As she waits, however, he is ambushed by Spreckley and his pals, who steal his bag and subject him to a kicking when he tries to retrieve it. Rush struggles to his feet and roars in Spreckley's face when he brands him `Killer' and taunts him for not having a father to defend him. But Rush needs to be alone and cycles into the Black Mountains without collecting Johns.

She seems to know where he has gone, however, and finds his bike at the side of the road. As the weather closes in and the music on the soundtrack becomes more drivingly dramatic, Rush makes his way to a high ledge and gazes out across the landscape. But Johns comes up behind him and calmly touches his arm. They sit down and he explains how his father fell to his death from this precise spot and how he had waited with his body for several hours before they were found. It had been a terrible accident, but rumours started at school that Rush had killed his dad. He confides that he could stand the accusations, but has never quite come to terms with how little was left after his father was cremated and his ashes were scattered on the wind. Johns looks into his eyes and they kiss, as the sun comes out and they can see clearly again.

The magic hour light gives way to shots of browning leaves, as Johns and Rush embrace for the last time. He tells her to be happy and she looks back through the rear window as they drive away. As a song of mournful optimism plays in the background, she inspects the scarab now around her neck and the viewer is left to wonder whether this is goodbye or merely farewell.

Despite numbering Andrew Eaton among its producers, this has clearly been produced on a smallish budget and Turner isn't always able to paper over the cracks. Will Humphris's photography and Neil Hillman's sound design are clear plus points, as is the glorious setting. But Jonny Pilcher's electronica score is irksomely intrusive and some of the support playing from the grown-ups errs on the stiff side. Johns also struggles with some tin-eared slang in the early stages, but she settles into the role and sparks pleasingly, if not always persuasively with the strapping Rush, who always looks much more imposing than his persecutors.

The major problems, however, are the formulaic nature of the storyline and the slenderness of the characterisation. Turner also fails to give the audience a proper sense of the environment, as the tough estate where Spreckley lives seems detached from the homely community that rallies round Coache in her hour of need. Similarly, there is no sense of how far apart the ruins, woods, caves, bridges, mansions, picturehouses and hills actually are. Moreover, the relationship between Coache and Rush is very thinly sketched and it is never made clear just how old he and Johns are supposed to be. Yet, for all its shortcomings, this lulls viewers into rooting for the young lovers and may even prompt a few to read up on Devadatta and Yasodhara.

AUGUST - ART PARTY (Tim Newton and Bob and Roberta Smith).

Stuart Murdoch's God Help the Girl can thank its lucky stars it was released in the same week as this well-meaning shambles. At one point in Art Party, Pavel Büchler, a professor at Manchester School of Art, declares: `art is a serious business; let's be serious about it.' If only co-directors Tim Newton and Bob and Roberta Smith had heeded his wise words before embarking on their satirical documentary, as their freewheeling, scattershot approach does a noble cause such a grave disservice that it is difficult to conceive of it winning any converts. Indeed, it is more likely to reinforce both prejudices against the teaching of art in schools and preconceptions that art is a luxury that society can do without in times of extremis.

Bob and Roberta Smith is the artistic name of Patrick Brill, a member of the Royal Academy of Arts, who achieved a degree of notoriety in 2011 with `Letter to Michael Gove', an open missive to the then Secretary of State for Education that accused him of stifling creativity by the imposition of conformity and stunting the personal growth of children by depriving them of the chance to `draw, design and sing'. The text contained a cheap gag about Gove's sartorial insipidity betraying the fact that he was not a visual person. But, otherwise, there was much to admire about the cogency and passion of Smith's arguments.

In order to further publicise his entirely laudable campaign to retain existing levels of art education in schools, Smith hosted an alternative party conference in Scarborough in November 2013. As much an immersive installation as a political protest, the event combined speeches, seminars, lectures and fringe meetings with workshops, live music, performance art and stand-up comedy. Reports at the time commended the intention while questioning the quality of some of the art on display. But most commentators were prepared to offset the knowing amateurism of the stunt against its undoubted passion and commitment.

A straight factual record of the occasion could easily have conveyed the seriousness of the enterprise and the potency of its message. But Smith and Newton decided to burlesque the masquerade by inter-cutting it with the Damascene conversion of a caricatured secretary of state named Michael Grove, whose high-handed pronouncements about art and education expose his ignorance and philistinism and make him a suitable target for ridicule. However, if this gambit was to work, the standard of humour had to be more sophisticated than that of a sixth-form revue taking pot-shots at a detested member of staff.

As artists from across the country make their way to Yorkshire (some of them consuming edible Michael Gove kits prepared by Bobby Baker), Michael Grove MP (John Voce) summons parliamentary aid Hetty (Julia Rayner) to his home so he can dictate his plans for a new art curriculum while he soaks in the bath. He announces that children from primary schools upwards will be taught to appreciate art by being exposed to aesthetically pleasing objects, getting a sense of perspective and learning the names of the 10 best artists (one of whom has to be a woman for PC reasons). As Hetty tries to express her reservations, the camera drifts towards the toilet where busker Flame Proof Moth (Tim Siddall) sings about how better the world would be if it was run by women. However, he conveniently seems to forget that Grove is pursuing a largely Thatcherite agenda.

Up in Scarborough (which was chosen because it was the place the art foundation course was launched), artists, educators and concerned supporters break off from protesting and performing to speak to the camera. Most repeat the contention that youthful imaginations will be impoverished by being denied the opportunity to express themselves through the various forms of art and, while the levels of eloquence vary, the enthusiasm for the cause is indisputable.

Hetty thinks that Grove should put in an appearance at the Art Party and he reluctantly agrees after an interview with Joana Borja on the student television station The Gas goes badly wrong. He explains that art is an expensive subject to teach and that the money would be better spent on core subjects that would prepare pupils to become productive members of society. But, when Borja tries to argue that creativity is as important as literacy, Grove loses his temper and storms off the set and ushers Hetty towards his ministerial car so he can tell those assembled at Scarborough that he is taking a holistic approach to education and is performing delicate, life-saving surgery rather than doing any butchering.

Following a humdrum indie number by The Fucks, Oriana Fox welcomes viewers to The O Show in time to see Bob and Roberta Smith ascend the podium to deliver his celebrated open letter to gales of laughter and rapturous applause. Lesley Butterworth from the National Society for Education in Art and Design follows by warning of an imminent cultural desert, while Shelly Asquith of the University of the Arts London Student Union calls on Govebusters everywhere to rise up and defeat him. Standing by the side of the road, Flame Proof Moth name-checks Esther McVeigh in a song about having the freedom to do whatever one wants to do, while Fox learns from plate-smashing performance artist Silvia Ziraneck that she is a feminist whose personality is inseparable from her art.

A montage shows events taking place across Scarborough, as Julia Farrington from Index on Censorship pledges her support for courageous artists everywhere. Roger Clarke supervises a performance involving record players, while Jeremy Deller opines that art makes life worthwhile, even if it isn't always well taught. An unnamed woman in wellington boots gushes that art is brilliant as she stomps paint on to a large sheet of paper. Elsewhere, Art Fund director Stephen Deuchar relates an anecdote about discovering art's potential for subversion in a school woodwork lesson, while an inexpert violinist performs a number about the fun involved in learning an instrument and someone in what appears to be a cow mask tears up pieces of paper bearing a range of slogans.

Grove arrives at this point and sniffs that Scarborough is `Blackpool without the charisma'. He is appalled by the enjoyment being derived from a coconut shy whose targets are plaster busts of himself and misses Cornelia Parker waxing lyrical about the debt she owes to art and how it is a privilege to be able to create. She also warns that it would be a false economy to undermine Britain's lucrative creative industries. Clearly, Hetty agrees and she urges the protesters to keep up the good work when Grove is out of earshot.

Refusing to go into the hall because everyone is so hostile to him, Grove mooches around the foyer, where Richard Wentworth is busy telling Fox that the world will forget how to hold hands and love if art is banished. Maureen Duffy reads a poem railing against the cuts and hoping the Art Party will make a difference. Mark Hudson avers that a Picasso or a Pollock make it impossible to see the world through the same eyes again, while Jessica Voorsanger dresses as Salvador Dalí to urge art teachers everywhere to think outside the box. DJ Haroon Mirza proclaims art to be freedom, as he explains how science and technology are crucial to his mode of expression, but Ian Bourn laments the passing of the revolutionary spirit of the 1960s.

Unable to watch The Fucks playing another tune, Grove seeks sanctuary in the kitchen, where he bumps into Bob and Roberta Smith. They eat silently from the buffet, as singer Jemma Freeman states that art helps us reflect upon and understand life, while actor Samuel West demands to know how kids can possibly benefit from dumbed-down literature courses. As Smith declares Gove to be a dictator bent on silencing freedom of expression, Voorsanger leads Grove to the stage, where he is met with a chorus of boos.

Waiting for the heckling to die down, Grove seizes his opportunity and denounces artists for getting fat by making empty gestures for patrons with more money than taste or sense. He blames Labour for letting the art horse get lazy and boasts that he intends leading it to water and making it learn some home truths, as the only valuable painting jobs are undertaken by decorators. Bizarrely, he proceeds to claim that Churchill was a better artist than Hitler and this provokes Hetty into demanding to know why he is persecuting children. Loud cheers greet her assertion that Grove is a journalist playing at politics and he follows her in shocked dismay as she rushes out of the room.

As Hetty gazes as the nocturnal North Sea, Flame Proof Moth serenades her with a song about jokes whose punchlines can only be understood after death. Inside the venue, Grove shies away from placards proclaiming him to be a vicious monster and he flees when the DJ unleashes some booming beats. Panicking, Grove removes his jacket and tie and suddenly breaks into a smile as he surveys the shattered busts at the shy. He is embraced by an Italian artist (Norman Mine) zipping across the floor on a wheeled chair and allows his torso to be painted before he dashes on to the stage and starts pogoing to The Ken Ardley Playboys. Overcome with delirious zeal, Grove bellows that `art makes children powerful' and stands among the dancing delegates as Freeman's band plays another ditty with impenetrable lyrics. Sinking to his knees, Grove jumps up to bop with Hetty, as the camera circles the room before an Andy Warhol lookalike asks the crowd if they want some more and the sequence ends with a blurred crash zoom.

Grove wakes on the promenade the next morning covered in detritus from the Party. His face is still smeared with paint and he walks to the beach in a pair of flip-flops. Holding a poster as a cape, he strips to his underpants and strides out into the sea. When Hetty comes looking for him, all she can find is his copy of Churchill's Painting As a Pastime. Flame Proof Moth comes to meet her singing about reaching for the best available thought and they wander off together arm in arm. As the scene fades, a caption reveals that 14% fewer children chose art at GCSE in 2013 than they had done in 2010. It urges viewers to join the Art Party and help kids become the best they can be, while another Freeman title drones on the soundtrack as Michael Gove's name appears in the list of apologies included in the closing crawl.

Given the thanklessness of his task, John Voce deserves considerable credit for throwing himself into the role of pantomime villain with such relish. Julia Rayner also tries hard, as the mother more concerned for her child's future than her own career. But it's difficult to find anything else to be positive about in this woefully misguided farrago. Age may perhaps explain the aversion to the racket generated by Jemma Freeman and George Lionel Barker, but it's harder to find excuses for the vast majority of the other artistic contributions, which do much to confirm the (erroneous) impression that modern British artists are smug, self-indulgent and largely dependent upon subsidies from institutions they profess to despise.

Tim Newton and Bob and Roberta Smith do little to bolster their cause by having Grove deliver preposterous pronouncements that say more about the juvenility of their own sense of humour than the political creed of Michael Gove. It's one thing to mock an opponent by turning his own words against him, but making them up to have him seem ridiculous is reductive and counter-productive. The jibes at Gove's square appearance further enervate the satire. But too many of the statements by the corralled acolytes contradict each other, particularly in regard to the relationship between art and commerce. Some of the personal interjections are sweetly poignant, but too many more are platitudinous and others plain daft.

It could be argued that Art Party was never intended to be a forum for cogent debate, as the emphasis was always more on fun and freedom. Yet there is something sadistic about Grove's debasement, which seems at odds with the positivity of the contributors. Moreover, Newton and Smith struggle to get across the cathartic sense of release that the participants clearly experienced as they staged their act of defiance. The co-directors also allow valid arguments to get lost in the distracting mediocrity of the sideshows. Consequently, this fails resoundingly in both its political and artistic purpose and seriously risks harming a worthwhile cause in the process.

SEPTEMBER - RELATIONSHIP STATUS: IT'S COMPLICATED (Manu Payet and Rodolphe Lauga).

As with Juliette Binoche above, so with her Elles co-star Anaïs Demoustier in Manu Payet's first feature, Relationship Status: It's Complicated, which he co-directed with Rodolphe Lauga. This hasn't been a good year for French comedy, but this formulaic nonsense makes Alexandre Castagnetti's Love Is in the Air and Pascal Chaumeil's A Perfect Plan look like Agnès Jaoui's The Taste of Others (2000) or, er, Pascal Chaumeil's Heartbreaker (2010). A noted stand-up who found wider fame on the sketch show Kaamelott, Payet made an impression in Romain Lévy's Radiostars (2012). But, in teaming with Lévy and Nicolas Peufaillit on this screenplay, he has created for himself a smug chauvinist whose dalliances are more resistible than the schtick in a Paul Rudd or Seth Rogan movie.

The great shame, however, lies in the fact that two fine actresses have wasted their talent on such an unworthy vehicle. Former Canadian child star Emmanuelle Chriqui has made a fair few moderate choices since she graduated to grown-up roles in Chris Koch's Snow Day and Michael Davis's 100 Girls (both 2000), while Anaïs Demoustier has kept threatening to become a major star since earning César nominations for Best Newcomer in Anna Novion's Les Grandes personnes (2008) and Isabelle Czajka's Living on Love Alone (2010), in which she respectively forged a charming father-daughter partnership with Jean-Pierre Darrousin and a dangerous liaison with Pio Marmaï. Each works hard here to make the most of insultingly stereotypical roles. But the few who do make the pilgrimage to the Ciné Lumière in London to check out this lacklustre romcom will almost certainly see Chriqui and Demoustier's faces in future projects and hold this gross miscalculation against them.

Thirty year-old Parisian wedding videographer Manu Payet is struggling to cope with the pressure of his forthcoming wedding in Biarritz. Fiancée Anaïs Demoustier is obsessed with every minor detail of her big day, while future father-in-law Philippe Duquesne is driving him mad by showing him highly inappropriate paintings and complaining about his temperamental new lover (who remains a hovering presence, despite never being seen). Best man Jean-Charles Clichet tries to lend some support, but Payet seems set to sleepwalk up the aisle like a man condemned.

Then, he bumps into Jean François Cayrey in a bar, who remembers an old school promise to hook Payet up with the girl of his dreams. The following day, Payet gets a call to meet Cayrey at his swimming club, where he is reunited with Emmanuelle Chriqui, who is back in France after a lengthy spell in the United States. She doesn't remember him in the slightest, but needs help opening her new restaurant and asks Payet to make a promotional video to attract customers.

Deciding not to mention Demoustier, Payet starts seeing Chriqui on the quiet and has to keep handy alibis ready in case either woman discovers the deceit. Eager to enjoy herself rather than organise every minute of his day, Chriqui seems too good to be true, as one moment she is sweeping him across the city to goof around in front of the paintings at the Petit Palais and the next she is suggesting that they watch online porn together when he forgets his keys and has to sleep over.

The best that Demoustier can manage in mitigation is endless nagging about to do lists and catering arrangements. But even those with the most basic knowledge of modern romantic comedy will know from the outset how this tiresomely trite and flatly photographed farrago will turn out. Naturally, Payet gets caught in flagrante on Chriqui's opening night (when Demoustier is supposed to be on a hen weekend with man-eating pal Manon Kneusé in Croatia) and has to worm his way back into Demoustier's affections. But the fact that he succeeds in doing so on his own terms, with a browbeating speech in Demoustier's place of work, and without demonstrating the slightest wit, charisma or sincerity makes this laddish romp all the more resistible.

A couple of the supporting characters might have been further developed, particularly the good-natured, if hopeless Cayrey. But Duquesne is employed solely as an irritation who keeps popping up whenever Payet wants to be alone with Chriqui, while Alexandre Steiger is utterly superfluous as Demoustier's louche boss,, who keeps reading saucy passages from Henry Miller on her Facebook page. As for objects of Payet's egotistical affectionns, Chriqui rarely gets to strut her sassy Entourage stuff, while poor old Demoustier struggles with a role that is every bit as thankless as the student prostitute she played in Malgorzata Szumowska's Elles (2011).

Payet clearly fancies himself as the next Romain Duris. But, while he displays a certain savoir faire in juggling his trysts, he lacks the je ne sais quoi to convince the audience he's the kind of loveable rogue who would find himself breaking into an impromptu dance in a busy Parisian street to Harry Belafonte's `Jump in the Line'. There are a couple of neat directorial flourishes, most notably when Payet and Chriqui turn into their teenage selves (Johan Seknadje and Ilona Hattab) when they kiss for the first time. But the closing sequence, in which Payet urges a nervous kid to ask a pretty girl to dance at Cayrey and Kneusé's wedding, sums up the sham romanticism of a resistibly simplistic exercise in boorish wish-fulfilment.

OCTOBER - UNITED WE FALL (Gary Sinyor).

Gary Sinyor provides an object lesson in how not to make a mockumentary in United We Fall, a lazy, lame and unabashedly politically incorrect farrago that is even less subtle than Sinyor's 1998 parody of heritage pictures, Stiff Upper Lips. Indeed, it's difficult to recognise here the executive producer of the splendid 2007 documentary, In the Hands of the Gods, which followed five British freestyle footballers across Latin America in a bid to meet Diego Maradona. But there is no coincidence in the fact that that film was directed by Benjamin and Gabe Turner, as The Class of `92, their profile of the Fledglings who kept Alex Ferguson in a job at Manchester United in the early 1990s, is the obvious inspiration for this risible time-waster, which might be renamed The Crass of `14.

Four years after Manchester United lost three trophies in a matter of days at the back end of the 2010 season, an unnamed director decides to interview five key members of the team and get their side of a story that presumably had the rest of the ABU footballing world howling with mirth. The since-departed stars are local skipper Danny Keegan (Ryan Pope), German goalkeeper Kurt `Kurtzie' Kurtz (Jonathan Broke), Mackem winger Stevo Fallis (James Rastall), Ghanaian striker Kwasi `Modo' Amoako (Matthew Avery) and narcissitic midfield golden boy Olly Hunter (Jack Donnelly). They are shown running around with a conspicuous lack of athleticism in a kit that bears merely a vague resemblance to United's on a ground that would seem shabby in the lower reaches of the Vanarama Conference North. But this, presumably, is all part of the joke. Ha ha.

Each player gets to introduce himself, with Kurtz recalling how he was buried alive as part of a hazing stunt, Fallis admitting that he had never realised his surname had a homophonic double meaning and Amoako revealing how he learned his skills kicking around a zebra head. However, the rap-loving African only came into the side in January 2010 after Fallis had injured Hunter with a reckless tackle in training and he had been forced to make a movie, buy a yacht and launch a range of underpants to occupy his time. In his absence, however, his teammates had kept winning and both Prime Minister David Anthony (Robert Portal) and Arab FIFA ambassador Farhad 'Frank' Farougi (Dana Haqjoo) explain how they had kept tabs on United's rivalry with Manchester City, as the last day of the league season approached.

With Hunter back in the ranks, United were away at Burnley, while City were on Teesside for the deciding fixtures. Fallis had done his bit by bunging each Sunderland player £10,000 to try hard, but Keegan had jeopardise their chances by giving away a penalty for assaulting an Italian player wearing gloves in May. Fortunately, Kurtz had saved the spot kick (as he has a special system) and United had reached half-time 3-0 up, thanks to two free-kicks by Hunter and an accidental header by Amoako, who is renowned for never scoring with his feet.

The players had swigged champagne in the changing-room before the unnamed manager had given them the hair-straightener treatment and they ran out 3-1 winners, even though Fallis had tied Amoako's bootlaces together while he was defending a corner. At the final whistle, however, they had heard the taunts of the Turf Moor faithful and learned that City had won 5-0 and pipped them to the Premiership on goal difference. Farougi was delighted with this turn of events, as he had placed a large bet on United's failure. But, even though they had devoted some thought to getting their own back on Fallis for messing up, the players insist they had remains indifferent, as they had the FA Cup Final against Cardiff City to look forward to.

In the week leading up to the game, however, Amoako had converted to Islam and changed his name to Abdullah. The press had also dug up a scandal involving Keegan's affairs with the wife and in-laws of his brother (who just happened to play for Cardiff), while Hunter had endured a painful bedroom encounter with an aspiring actress after he had slipped away to the Cannes Film Festival. Things scarcely improved on the day of the game itself, Amoako had travelled to Cardiff instead of Wembley and Kurtz made a howler to allow Keegan's brother to score with a speculator. Amoako eventually arrived in time to equalise, but Kurtz's wife (who is the team masseuse) had informed Keegan's brother about her husband's penalty system and Cardiff had ended up winning the cup on penalties.

While Hunter had taken the team to an illegal gambling joint, Kurtz had decided to swim the Thames against the current and had been fished ouot of the water somewhere near Henley. But, putting disappointment aside, the team focus had soon shifted on to othe Champions League final against Bayern Munich at the Bernabéu. Before flying out, they had attended a reception at Downing Street and had passed the hat round for Anthony on discovering that he doesn't earn in a year what they make in a week. However, they had also asked him for some idiotic favours in return and he concedes to camera that he had been glad to see the back of them after Kurtz had caused a scene.

Naturally, Farougi had had money ridng on the final. But not even he could have anticipated Hunter being sent off for urinating on an opponent and Kurtz scoring from a corner in the 47th minute. However, the tide had started to turn when Keegan decided to out himself after scoring United's second goal and wound up being sent off because Fallis had scrawled Swastikas on the vest message under his shirt. Kurtz had seen red shortly afterwards for a foul in the box and United had been 5-2 down by the time they hatched the plan to force an abandonment by having five players dismissed

Nevertheless, UEFA had decided to award the game to Bayern and United had become the laughing stock of Europe. Not that anyone in the audience will be chuckling, however, despite the hilarious gags about the Munich Air Disaster, suicide bombers, Sharia stonings and small breasts. But more hilarity ensues when Hunter stages a reunion dinner at his luxury mansion and Keegan shows up with his boyfriend Niki (Sushil Chudasama), while WAGs Arina Hunter (Arina Ii) and Shiv Fallis (Freya Parker) turn out to be trophy wives, Gertie Kurtz (Grace Bishop) is revealed to be an obese hausfrau and the Welsh Beth Amoako (Amy Beth Hayes) arrives wearing a burqa (which she eventually ditches to have a deep in the heated pool).

How everyone must have chortled as they filmed the party getting out of hand after each player reveals what he has been up to since leaving the club and the home truths start tumbling out. But, of course, they also oremember why they once loved each other and the actuality ends with Keegan discussing his charity work, Fallis confessing to collecting cushions, Hunter boasting that his face adorns his own brand condoms and nappies, Kurtz revealing that he has bought an airline and Amoako reprising the rap he has recorded back in Ghana.

Forced to rely on radio commentary of the big match moments because he clearly didn't have the budget to stage any pitch action, Sinyor constructs much of the picture from talking-head sound bites that quickly become tiresome, as not only are they woefully unfunny, but the principals also olack the charisma to make the audience give a fig for such highly resistible caricatures. In their defence, the leads do their best to capture the conceited flim-flammery of the modern footballer. But the script conspires against them at every turn and it is baffling why anyone felt this smug, satirically moribund and endlessly dubious nonsense (which is a strong contender for the worst of the year) was worthy of a theatrical release.

NOVEMBER - A PROMISE (Patrice Leconte)

Okay, we're cheating a bit here, as this was released in August. But we have moved it into the month of Remembrance Sunday, as this year marked the centenary of the outbreak of the Great War and this film proved such a hollow memorial. Adapted from Stefan Zweig's posthumously published novella, A Journey into the Past, A Promise marks the English-language debut of the admired French director Patrice Leconte. Although he made his name with comedies like Les Bronzés (1978) and The Hairdresser's Husband (1990), Leconte has also produced such notable period pieces as Ridicule (1996) and The Widow of Saint-Pierre (2000). But the combination of the stilted dialogue composed with Jérôme Tonnerre and some anachronistic acting undermines the credibility of a melodrama that is further enervated by a complete lack of chemistry between the young leads.

Having been raised as a ward of state, Richard Madden graduates from university in 1912 and is hired as an engineer by Frankfurt steel tycoon Alan Rickman. Impressed by his willingness to work late, Rickman moves Madden into an adjoining office with secretary Maggie Steed and further promotes him after he attends to him during an after hours seizure. Swearing Madden to secrecy about his illness, Rickman uses him as a go-between while he recuperates and introduces him to his wife, Rebecca Hall, and their young son, Toby Murray.

Despite sleeping with laundress Shannon Tarbet at his tenement digs, Madden is instantly smitten with Hall and volunteers to tutor Murray in order to spend more time with her and listen to her divine piano playing. Hall is delighted with Murray's progress and buys him a train set as a reward. But Madden is insulted when she tries to give him a bonus and Rickman notices their exchange from an upper-storey window. However, he is aware of Madden's value to the company and is intrigued when he explains how they could turn a greater profit if they started importing manganese from Mexico. The pair discuss the prospective deal at an open door as they marvel at Hall's interpretation of Beethoven's Sonata Pathétique and Madden later sneaks into the drawing-room to sniff the piano keys, oblivious to the fact he is being watched by housemaid, Sarah Messens.

He is also unaware that Hall has paid a visit to his lodgings and is taken aback when Rickman offers him the post of private secretary and suggests that he moves into his home, so that he can always be on hand if required. Tarbet is appalled by Madden's social-climbing treachery and watches him depart in a chauffeur-driven car after a last night of passion. Despite claiming to value his independence, Madden follows meekly up the stairs as Hall shows him to his room and notes that she has placed her favourite painting on the wall.

Madden listens raptly as she chats happily during supper and is surprised to be left alone with her when Rickman retires early. Hall explains that her husband never eats dessert and reveals that she married him when her fiancé died in a climbing accident. She has never found the age gap a problem, but is glad to have a new companion to help her finish a jigsaw. Their hands touch as they examine the pieces and Madden boldly informs her that the portrait Rickman had commissioned does her an injustice, as is conveys so little of her beauty and spirit. Despite thrilling to the compliment, Hall remains outwardly calm as she bids Madden goodnight and he watches her silhouette through the drawn curtains as she gets ready for bed.

The following morning, he takes a reckless chance by sneaking into her bedroom to listen to her humming in her bath. But he tries to keep his mind on his duties at the steelworks and his tutorials with Murray. However, they are interrupted one afternoon by a scream and Hall is grateful when Madden disposes of a rat that has come in from the garden. Rickman notices the relationship developing between the pair, but contents himself with sardonically ambiguous remarks and stern glances from windows, as Hall and Madden play a game in the garden with Murray and she assures her guest that she would never cheat in order to win. Yet her heart skips a beat one rainy evening when Madden stops the car to offer Hall a lift and he blows on her cold hands as he rubs them for warmth. On their return, Rickman scolds them for making too much noise in the nursery and Hall complains that she hates being cooped up in a monastery.

Madden offers to escort her to a village fete and is pleased to be mistaken for Murray's father. They flirt while posing for a photograph and stroll in the park after momentarily panicking that the boy had got lost. He dances with his mother in a lakeside pavilion and Madden looks on indulgently, while imagining holding Hall in his own arms. But Tarbet is less than impressed with his fixation and passes a crude comment about the boss's missus when she returns the few belongings that Madden had left at his old address.

Yet Rickman lends Madden a tuxedo so that he can accompany Hall to the theatre, where he gazes on her neck through his opera glasses and feels suitably emboldened to ask why they keep denying the obvious love between them. Hall is dismayed by his lack of tact and they drive home in silence. But Hall summons Madden when Rickman has an attack in the night and thanks him the following morning for the prompt action that saved her husband's life and delivered her from a fate worse than death.

While Rickman is confined to bed, he breaks the news to Madden that the bank has agreed to finance their Mexican venture. But he wishes him to manage the mine and Madden is left with little alternative but to accept the posting when Rickman asks if there are any personal reasons to prevent him from spending two years in Vera Cruz. Hall has to choke back the tears when Madden tells her he is leaving and he is distraught when she confesses that she will struggle to live without him. He tries to kiss her cheek, but Hall rushes away and resists a further attempt to embrace her while she is arranging some flowers. She suggests that they should take a vow to remain faithful to one another during his sojourn and wait to see if their feelings are still the same when he returns. Madden reluctantly agrees before the sound of a smashing vase brings Rickman running and Hall has to reassure him that Madden had been helping her capture a rodent

Murray is excited that Madden is going on an adventure and has him point out Mexico on his globe. But Hall can barely listen and, after supper, she breaks up her completed jigsaw in frustration. Madden drops to his knees to pick up the pieces from the floor and Hall gasps when he touches her ankle. However, she stops him from going any higher and flees to her room, where Madden watches her letting her hair down in silhouette while cherishing the face piece he has purloined from her puzzle.

On their last night together, Madden surprises butler Jean-Louis Sbille by moving his place setting closer to Hall. But they are interrupted by Rickman coming to wish his protégé bon voyage and he taunts them both by lighting a cigar and declaring that he has decided to indulge his pleasures while he still has the chance. Hall watches Madden's train depart the following morning and immediately begins a secret correspondence that requires her to open a post office box under an assumed name. She finally admits to her feelings, while Madden insists that he envies the paper on which he writes, as it will soon be held in her hands. But she lives in constant fear of Rickman discovering the box of letters on the top of her wardrobe and is crushed when he reveals that he has had a letter from Madden revealing that he almost died from a bout of fever.

But Hall retains her dignity when war breaks out and the missives stop coming after a Christmas postcard to the entire family announces that a naval blockade will delay Madden's return by six months. She continues to write even though her letters are returned unopened and Rickman has to console her when she wakes in the night in a cold sweat of fear. As the years pass, Hall tells her lover how Rickman fell ill after the steelworks were requisitioned and how she decided to send Murray to boarding school after his father's funeral. But she struggles to endure the pain of Rickman telling her on his deathbed that he had initially hoped to bring her and Madden together, but had sent him away because he could not bear the fact that he had so completely replaced him in her affections.

Indeed, so great is Hall's anguish that she scarcely seems to care when Germany loses the war and the Weimar Republic is proclaimed. Yet, six years after Madden's departure, she receives a phone call asking if he can visit. Hall throws open the curtains and abandons the mourning clothes she had been wearing for her lost love rather than her husband. She even has Sbille cut her hair in the latest style and can barely contain herself when Madden approaches through the mist the next day.

He explains that he has returned on business, as he now owns a chemical fertiliser plant and needs some contracts signing. Hall tries to make polite conversation, but flinches when he states that his greatest regret was being abroad while his compatriots were being slaughtered. He apologies for the prolonged silence and promises that he did send a letter after the Armistice. But Hall is simply glad that he is alive and that he world is now at peace. She tells him that Murray is studying geography at university and wishes to be an explorer. However, they finally get round to addressing the subject of their promise.

Madden slots the missing face piece into Hall's jigsaw and admits that he has slept with several women since they last met. But Hall concedes that men have needs and assures him that she does not hold his infidelities against him. They take a train and concur that it has taken a good deal of time for them to reach their destination. Yet all the hotels are booked because of a veterans' parade and Madden allows the desk clerk to think that a scar on his hand was incurred at the front. As the room is being cleaned, however, they go for a walk to the pavilion where Hall had danced with Murray on the day of their idyllic outing. As she gazes out across the lake, Madden touches her neck and places an arm around her shoulder. He nuzzles her and she makes him vow never to leave her again, as they turn to kiss.

Stefan Zweig started writing Journey into the Past in the 1920s and returned periodically to polish the prose before his death in 1942. The story remained unpublished until it appeared in a German collected works in 1976 and it has since divided critics between those who consider it a fine example of the Austrian's refined intensity and those who believe it to be a little stale. However, one suspects that Leconte and Tonnerre have done little to persuade many to seek out the original, as this is an airless interpretation whose flaws extend well beyond any latitude that one might grant a script being written in a second language.

The dialogue frequently rings hollow, but it hardly helps that Hall and Madden deliver it in a modern manner that exposes its gaucheness. Hall has several costume roles to her credit and it is surprising that she misses the fin de siècle feel by such a margin. Yet the usually reliable Rickman also seems a little wayward and their combined imprecision and lack of passion leaves the miscast Madden floundering, as he tries to keep up. The scene in which he and Rickman eavesdrop on Hall playing Beethoven is particularly excruciating, but Madden is no more convincing when arguing with Tarbet or giving orders to foremen and chauffeurs. However, it is the absence of a spark between the lovers that proves most ruinous, although Leconte must share the blame here, as he fails to convey any interiority as the characters declaim and shuffle around Ivan Maussion sets whose effectiveness (like that of Pascaline Chavanne's costumes) is seriously undermined by the usually impeccable Eduardo Serra's flatly lit digital imagery. Even Gabriel Yared's score seems to prolong the agony of a picture that owes nothing to life and does a severe disservice to its source.

DECEMBER - HELLO CARTER (Anthony Wilcox).

A recurring figure in 2014 has been the first-timer hinting at promise while singularly failing to deliver. Among their number is Anthony Wilcox, who makes the step up from assistant to director with Hello Carter, a loose spin-off from his 2011 short of the same name, starring Dominic Cooper, Jodie Whittaker, Ruth Negga and Antonia Campbell-Hughes. A longtime associate of Michael Winterbottom (who exec produces alongside Michael Eaton), Wilcox has racked up 45 credits as a first or second AD. But, while he can claim to have learnt from the likes of Neil Jordan (The End of the Affair, 1999), Jane Campion (Bright Star, 2009) and Terence Davies (The Deep Blue Sea, 2011), he also did time on Michael Bay's Pearl Harbor (2001), Andy Humphries's Sex Lives of the Potato Men (2004) and Madonna's W.E. (2011). Thus, while this comes closer in quality to Edgar Wright's Hot Fuzz (2007) than Mort Nathan's Van Wilder 2: The Rise of Taj (2006), there is still plenty of room for improvement.

Flashing back from the sight of thirtysomething milquetoast Charlie Cox presenting a picture of dejected misery as he lies in a ball on a London street, the action opens with Cox vowing to turn his life around, as their air slowly seeps out of the inflatable mattress on which he is crashing in brother Christian Cookes flat. Cox has never recovered from being dumped by American girlfriend Annabelle Wallis eleven months earlier and Cooke is beginning to tire of the same old sob story. Aunt Judy Parfitt also has little patience with her hapless nephew, but she needs him to cat sit while she is away and Cox accepts in gratitude to have a roof over his head.

He confides to the highly strung Alfred that he despairs of ever turning a corner. But Cox an unexpected vote of sympathy from bored office drone Jodie Whittaker feels like positive affirmation after a disastrous interview with distracted recruitment specialist Henry Lloyd-Hughes. Moreover, as luck would have it, Cox bumps into his Wallis's short-fused actor brother, Paul Schneider, on the Tube and he promises to give Cox his sister's new phone number (which she changed when she closed down her Facebook account and vanished to prevent Cox from tracking her down) if he hand delivers a note to Kerry Shale, who lives on the other side of the capital.

Buoyed by the thought of making up with Wallis, Cox accepts the commission. However, Shale mistakes him for the babysitter and leaves him holding the baby while she disappears in a taxi. On locking himself out of her building, Cox gives a neighbour the impression that he has kidnapped the infant and he has to make a fast getaway in a cab. He goes to the bar where he hopes to find Schneider and bumps into Whittaker, who is enduring an appalling works do at the same venue. She recognises Schneider from his last hit film, Velocity Control, and runs a scene with him as he drives through the darkened streets. He reveals that he is the father of the bundle Cox is clutching and was hoping that the letter would convince Shale to let him see his son for the first time. But now he has the cops on his trail and fears he will be deported, as he has broken the terms of his bail for a firearms offence.

Cox and Whittaker agree to allow Schneider some private time and have to sneak through an exclusive hotel after they get locked in the basement. The reunite with Schneider in the underground car park and decide to lay low at Parfitt's place after only just managing to give a pursuing police vehicle the slip. Cox agrees to take a photograph of Schneider and his boy. But they are interrupted by sounds coming from downstairs. Cox is relieved to discover that the intruder is Cooke, who has brought new girlfriend Antonia Thomas to the well-appointed house in the hope of impressing her. They convince Schneider and Cox to call Shale and she comes to collect her baby after promising to call off the cops. Whittaker leaves with her and struggles to hide her disappointment when she learns that Cox still holds a candle for Willis.

The following day, however, Cox decides not to call Willis after all and is looking for a suitable gift for Whittaker when he runs into his old flame. After an awkward conversation, they part on good terms and Cox marches into Whittaker's office brandishing a bunch of flowers. Much to his consternation, he learns that she has resigned. But he gets her number and seems to be chatting happily to her from a phone box as the picture ends.

Stuffed with ciphers, contrivances and coincidences, Wilcox's screenplay leaves a lot to be desired. But a willing cast does what it can with the limp dialogue, even though Schneider has to gnaw on the scenery on occasion and Whittaker sometimes struggles to summon up much enthusiasm for the vapid Cox. Moreover, cinematographer Andrew Dunn captures the cold impersonality of nocturnal London. Yet, this never comes close to living up to its supposed inspirations - Martin Scorsese's After Hours (1985) and Michael Winterbottom's Wonderland (1999) - as Cox is too passive to merit much empathy and Wilcox relies far too heavily on incredible twists to sustain the frankly unlikely plot.

So, that completes our rundown of the worst films of 2014. Having decked the halls of shame with boughs of raspberries, it only remains to reveal the identity of the ultimate turkey. In any other year, the decision would be much more difficult. But one film plumbed such depths this year that the award can only go to Art Party. Merry Christmas.