Parky at the Pictures (In Cinemas 3/11/2011)

Waking up in the bed of Swedish pick-up Malin Crepin, thirtysomething Anders Danielsen Lie dresses calmly and walks to a nearby lake and tries to drown himself clutching a giant rock. He fails and returns to the clinic where he is two weeks away from completing a drug rehabilitation programme and, having attended a group session with therapist Aksel Thanke, dresses for a job interview in the city. As he has a couple of hours on his hands, Lie calls in on old party-going pal Hans Olav Brenner, who is now married with two children to Ingrid Olava and is anything but the hellraiser who used to consider excess a reasonable starting point for a night out.

The pair chat over lunch and Lie tells him about the interview with Folio magazine that might relaunch his stalled writing career. Brenner encourages him as they walk in a local park and reminisce about old times. Ignoring Lie's contention that he is nothing more than a spoilt brat who messed up, he even suggests they hook up later in the day at a mutual friend's birthday party and Lie appears to be in good spirits as he sets off for his appointment. Editor Øystein Røger also seems enthusiastic about hiring Lie. But he loses his nerve when asked about the gap in his CV and the admission of being a long-term addict seems to tip him from reluctant acceptance of the need to reintegrate into society into a suicidal despondency from which he will need considerable proof of the validity of existence to extract himself.

Unable to make phone contact with ex-girlfriend Iselin Steiro in New York, Lie sits alone in a café and listens to the conversations at the other tables in a brilliantly constructed sequence reliant on shifts in angle and focus and the amiable banality of the various references to tentative crushes, unfaithful lovers, school waiting lists and dead pop stars. Nothing he hears, however, rouses Lie from his torpor and he traipses the streets with unseeing eyes before arriving at the restaurant where he had arranged to meet his lesbian sister. She fails to show, however, and sends girlfriend Tone Beate Mostraum in her place to explain that she has yet to forgive him for the pain he caused during his wilderness years and refuses to accompany him to the house their parents have been forced to sell to pay off his debts.

As much disgusted with himself as angry with his sibling for failing to give him another chance, Lie storms off and feels sufficiently crushed to visit former dealer Johanne Kjellevik Ledang and purchase a wrap of heroin. He isn't quite ready to give up on himself or his friends, however, and crosses the capital to the party that Brenner had mentioned. Hostess Kjærsti Odden Skjeldal is surprised to see Lie, as he has been out of circulation for so long, but she welcomes him warmly and he breaks a 10-month dry spell by having a glass of champagne. More drinks follow, as he realises Brenner has stood him up and he has to endure the smug teasing about his erstwhile bad behaviour by Skjeldal's boorish husband, Emil Lund.

He bumps into old buddy Petter Width Kristiansen, however, who invites him to go clubbing with a couple of female students. But Lie decides to linger and sits with old flame Skjeldal on the balcony and listens as she bemoans the fact she is bored with Lund and is struggling to conceive a child. Impulsively he kisses her and she scurries off in embarrassment, leaving Lie to seek sanctuary in a bedroom. He calls New York again and leaves a long message imploring Steiro to take him back and build a life together. But the line goes dead and he succumbs to the temptation to steal cash from the coats and bags lying on the bed and hurriedly leaves.

Lie takes a cab to the bar where Kristiansen is carousing and he hits it off with medical student Renate Reinsve. She clearly likes him and persuades him to come clubbing after he has a half-hearted confrontation with Anders Borchgrevink, who had slept with the distraught Steiro after she could no longer cope with Lie's callous antics. Reinsve comes on stronger at the club and Lie not only responds, but also rides on the back of her bicycle to go swimming in a park pool at the last day of August dawns. However, as he watches her skinny dipping with Kristiansen and his girlfriend, Lie suddenly realises what he must do and he walks through the deserted streets to the family home, where he inexpertly plays the piano before fulfilling his destiny.

The picture closes with a poignant sequence of still lifes showing the deserted locations that Lie had visited in the course of his odyssey. But this is surpassed by a brilliant late afternoon montage that showcases the exemplary contributions of co-scenarist Eskil Vogt, cinematographer Jakob Ihre, editor Olivier Bugge Coutte and composers Torgny Amdam and Ola Flottum, as Lie wanders aimlessly through the city centre while ruminating in voice-over about the way he was reared by parents who adopted a curious mix of liberalism and severity that clearly helped shape his psyche, even if it can't necessarily be blamed for his self-destructive tendencies.

Recalling New Wave gems like Jean-Luc Godard's A Bout de Souffle (1959) and Agnès Varda's Cléo de 5 à 7 (1962), this compelling combination of character study and city snapshot captures the spirit of Oslo and its people in spite of Lie's suffusing melancholy. Indeed, rarely has the ordinariness of daily life seemed to reassuring and the film's tragedy is not that Lie wants to top himself, but that his Lie's addiction has made him so preoccupied with his own physical and emotional needs that he can no longer find comfort or joy in the contentment of others.

As in Reprise, Lie delivers a quietly devastating performance and he is superbly supported by a solid ensemble, whose failure to recognise the warning signs owes as much to years of Lie abusing their friendship as to their own self-immersion or indifference to his fate. But it's Trier and Ihre's masterly use of location and light that most tellingly conveys the contrast between Lie's existential angst and the unthinking tenacity of those able to find enough in the smallest moments to consider even the most unremarkable life worthwhile.

Coping with emotional strain is also the theme of Junkhearts, the debut feature of BAFTA-winning shorts director Tinge Krishnan, who draws on her own experience of dealing with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder following a stint as a doctor during the 2004 tsunami to deliver a hard-hitting treatise on isolation and dependence that might have been more effective had Simon Frank's screenplay been as innovative and controlled as Catherine Derry's cinematography and Adrian Rhodes and Christopher Wilson's sound design.

Ex-soldier Eddie Marsan relies on cigarettes and whisky miniatures to help him cope with the haunting memories of his time in Northern Ireland. Estranged from his wife and daughter, he keeps to himself in an East End council estate when not shuffling along Brick Lane to his favourite grocer's shop. During one sortie, however, Marsan bumps into 19 year-old Nottingham runaway Candese Reid and feels suitably drawn to her to offer her a place to sleep and a few pounds of spending money. Indeed, he becomes so protective of her that he even begins buying food instead of his usual provisions and the initially suspicious Reid seems to respond to his kindness.

Meanwhile, across London, well-heeled businesswoman Romola Garai resorts to nocturnal drug binges to alleviate the pressures of business, motherhood and marital infidelity. However, her sub-plot is clumsily connected to the central narrative and its purpose only becomes clear after the dermatologically afflicted Marsan kicks out against Tom Sturridge, Reid's manipulative and opportunistic dealer boyfriend, whose Belfast accent brings back all the nightmares that Marsan has striven so hard to overcome.

The weakness in Frank's script isn't simply limited to structure, as the dialogue too often sounds crafted rather than overheard. But Krishnan just about compensates with visuals that make evocative use of shallow focus to cocoon Marsan in a claustrophobic world to which he is unable to return after Reid and Sturridge's intrusion. Indeed, Marsan turns in another notable performance and Reid more than merits her Best Newcomer award from the London Film Festival for a feisty display that also allows glints of vulnerability to seep through. However, the miscast Sturridge struggles with an unsympathetic role and Garai is wasted in a caricature that seems to exist solely as the chief component of a cumbersome deus ex machina.

The presence of Bhasker Patel's monocular Basra bomb victim, who spends his days fishing in the nearby canal, seems equally arch. By contrast, Andrew Haigh largely dispenses with such peripheral characters as he descends on Nottingham for Weekend, a follow-up to the well-received Greek Pete (2009) that confirms the onetime assistant editor as a major new British film-maker.

Ensconced on the 14th floor of a suburban towerblock, introverted lifeguard Tom Cullen learnt to keep to himself during a childhood in foster care. His only close friend is Jonathan Race, who shared many of his temporary homes and has since incorporated him into the small social circle that formed around his new wife. However, Cullen remains something of a loner and he leaves a Friday curry night at Race's well-appointed house for a downtown club, where he quickly makes eye contact with the gregarious gallery assistant Chris New.

Waking up next morning, Cullen sheepishly makes two cups on instant coffee and climbs back into bed for what he expects to be another awkward bout of morning after conversation. However, New is anything but the average pick-up and coaxes Cullen into recording his impressions of their night together on a tape New insists is for an art project. Much to his surprise, Cullen finds it easy chatting to New and they make love again before Cullen cycles off for his shift at the local swimming pool.

He is similarly pleased to be met from work and gives New a ride on the back of his bike after they had walked along a busy road nattering about nothing of any great consequence, but growing more comfortable in each other's company. Cullen is reticent about his sexuality and New claims to be a commitment-phobe. But, as they share a simple meal and smoke a joint, each opens up to the other with a readiness that leads both to suspect that this may be something more than a one-night stand.

However, just as New leaves to meet up with roommate Laura Freeman and her friends, he announces that he is about to jet off to Portland, Oregon to start a two-year art course. Cullen puts on a brave face and wishes him well, but confides to Race that he felt a special connection and will be disappointed if nothing more comes of it. Thus, when New texts and invites Cullen to join him, he agrees with alacrity and is even more willing to slip away early and wander round the Goose Fair and have a ride on the dodgems.

These head-on collisions are the only clumsy symbols in this discreetly directed picture, which reaches its teasing climax after Race urges Cullen leaves his goddaughter's Sunday birthday party to see New onto his train. Holding back the tears, the pair kiss on the platform with a sweetness that contrasts with the lustful urgency of what they thought would be their farewell sex session, as Haigh wisely leaves the ending open in the year's second variation on the Brief Encounter station finale after Stéphane Brizé's Mademoiselle Chambon.

Full of quick-witted quips and hesitant disclosures, this is a charming love story that puts a new spin on the old adage about opposites attracting. The reliance on drugs and alcohol to loosen tongues during the Saturday night exchange of secrets and feelings seems a touch unnecessary. But the views on past relationships, gay marriage and the homoerotic merits of the skinny-dipping Rupert Graves in Merchant-Ivory's A Room With a View (1985) are as insightful (and amusing) as the extracts from Cullen's laptop dating journal and his pillow talking enactment of coming out to the father he never knew are intimately staged and deeply poignant.

Rooted in the casual, semi-improvised realism that has become the leitmotif of British social cinema, this sincerely played and thoughtfully directed picture has more in common with the works of Shane Meadows than Karel Reisz's Alan Sillitoe adaptation Saturday Night and Sunday Morning (1960), but it reflects the same compassion for ordinary people and a commitment to putting the country as it exists for the majority of its population on the big screen.

The same sense of capturing life as it's lived informs Jeanie Finlay's fine documentary Sound It Out and anyone who spent their teenage years hanging round an independent vinyl shop will undoubtedly be moved by this doting profile of Tom Butchart and his eponymous emporium in the recession decimated North East town of Stockton-on-Tees. Funded by arts grants and 257 local donations, this is a moving snapshot of a once-thriving port and railway hub, whose descent into tough times is reflected in the hard-luck stories and down-but-not-out demeanour of the store's predominantly male clientele.

Offering unassuming expertise and a human touch that's missing from internet transactions, Butchart and sibling assistants David and Holly Laybourne do much more than sell discs to ardent collectors and passers-by with a tune in the heads. They help keep the community together and it's noticeable that the regulars who wander in to while away the odd hour amidst the records, tapes, CDs, DVDs, posters and memorabilia also attend the live gigs showcasing such neighbourhood talents as singer-guitarist Butterfield, the markedly more manic Cramps-influenced Russell and the Wolves and returning prodigal, Becky Jones, who now performs under the moniker Saint Saviour.

Despite asking the odd off-camera question, Finlay largely keeps a low profile as she skulks behind the chancer trying to sell stolen goods and the freeloader looking for giveaways to decorate his bedsit walls But her main focus falls on the genial Butchart, the Laybournes and the select few who have become friends as well as customers over the past 20 years.

Bullied as a kid and sent to a special school because he suffered from cerebral palsy and epilepsy, Shane Healey found his niche on the shelf-stacking night shift at B&Q. However, he lives for Status Quo and follows them around the country when not listening to his prized collection of albums and singles. Indeed, so key is his vinyl to his personality that he has looked into having it melted down to make his coffin.

Metal is equally central to Gareth Williams's existence. Indeed, as he sits in a bedroom with best mate Sam Howard, he confides that his periodic suicide bids might have been more awfully successful without bands like Pisschrist persuading him that life may be worthwhile after all. Making rather than listening to music sustains DJ Aaron Frankey McGlade and his emcee buddy John-Boy Taylor and siblings Big Dave `DJ Weedy D' and Richard `DJ Dick' Weedall, whose garden shed broadcasts on NYZ Radio have made their mam proud (and slightly relieved they're not up to mischief elsewhere).

The camaraderie between the brothers is nice to see, as is the banter between a middle-aged bearded man and his Meatloaf-loving partner Janet. Although not identified on screen (he could well, however, be Malcolm Bowen), he pops in frequently after hearing songs on the jukebox in the nearby Garrick pub and flirts amiably with Finlay at every opportunity. His gregariousness contrasts sharply with the reticence of insurance auditor Chris Smith, who always has £100 credit behind the counter in case something irresistible comes into stock (unlike the 17 who have `save it for me' carrier bags on a shelf in the back room). He shows Finlay his meticulously filed collection with a quiet satisfaction that intensifies when he shows how he can find any mid-period Bowie LP in a trice.

Such obsession is a very male trait and Finlay may have delved more into the sociology of her subject and why so few females follow suit. But, while this is more an observational than an analytical exercise, it still fascinates as a day in the life of a passing parade and evokes nostalgic pangs that will prompt many to dust off a deliciously crackly platter and stick it on the turntable.

The slight strain of eccentricity in Finlay's film is more pronounced in The Future, Miranda July's anticipated sophomore feature after her impressively offbeat debut, Me and You and Everyone We Know (2005). Perhaps a little too outré for most tastes, this is almost certainly the first movie to be narrated from beyond the grave by a cat named Paw-Paw and probably also the first to pause the action so that the male lead can have a conversation with the Moon. But you never know...

Children's dance teacher Miranda July lives with computer helpline technician Hamish Linklater in a cluttered Los Angeles apartment. They have been together around five years, but are still uncertain whether the other is a permanent fixture or merely a fling with sticking power. They decide, therefore, to test the strength of their relationship by adopting a cat from the local animal shelter. However, they opt to take one with a short life expectancy in case they aren't suited to pet ownership and decide to live life to the full in the 30 days before they can take delivery of the fast-fading Paw-Paw.

In short cutaways depicting a bandaged paw inside a cage, the chosen feline rejoices in the prospect of finally being owned by someone who cares. But he clearly doesn't know July and Linklater, who seem to be made for each other simply because no one else would have them. Or, at least, that was the case before July caught the eye of sign painter David Warshofsky, whose number she found on the back of a drawing of his daughter (Isabella Acres) that was posted on the wall at the shelter. Initially, they content themselves with quirky phone calls, but July pays him an unexpected call and they quickly become lovers.

Like July, Linklater has quit his job and has decided to devote his month to saving the planet by going door to door asking people to plant a tree. Only widower Joe Putterlik invites him in, however, although he is more intent on showing off the broken gadgets he has repaired and sharing the saucy poems that he wrote to his late wife. Linklater flees at the first opportunity, but he gradually becomes a regular caller, even though he is freaked out by the fact that he owns so many of the nic-nacks dotted around the living room that he is convinced Putterlik is a harbinger of things to come.

Indeed, Linklater becomes so disorientated that he surreally puts July on pause one night and asks the Moon for advice that it feels singularly ill-equipped to give, as it is merely a rock floating in space. But July is having some odd reveries of her own, most notably when she sees her favourite t-shirt floating along Warshofsky's street as though in search of her and when she finds herself on the reception desk at the dance centre and dealing in rapid succession with her best friends Erinn K. Williams and Oona Mekas and their son and daughter at various ages until they are a couple with kids of their own.

Throughout this increasingly discombobulating period, Paw-Paw keeps hoping for the best. But fate intervenes and Linklater and July have to find a way of rubbing along after he discovers her infidelity and she struggles to decide which man she really loves.

This overview makes it sound as though July has concocted a more or less coherent narrative. But this is much more an aggregation of idiosyncratic moments that gives the film the feel of a screwball comedy on Prozac. Neither Linklater nor July essay particularly empathetic characters and, while most viewers will raise a smile at her inelegant attempts to film dance routines for a YouTube project and her absurd exchanges with testy studio receptionist Angela Trimbur, few will warm to the sulky Linklater as he argues with tree canvasser Mark Atteberry and shudders at the gratuitously intimate revelations in Putterlik's doggerel. However, those on July's off-kilter wavelength will respond to her refusal to contemplate the expected and delight in the deadpan drollery at the melancholic futility of it all.

Ultimately, The Future lacks the freshness of July's first film and Philip Seymour Hoffman will be similarly pressed to top his directorial debut. Opening up the Bob Glaudini play in which he had starred off Broadway, Hoffman gives Jack Goes Boating the kind of low-key authenticity that made such early television transfers as Marty (1955) so engaging. He never quite disguises the stage origins, with the scene transitions being particularly stubborn and the dialogue sometimes seeming a touch declamatory. But the performances are impeccable and it's a relief to know that someone in America is prepared to make a movie about middle-aged people going about their daily lives.

Hoffman and best buddy John Ortiz are limousine drivers in New York. They don't say much and when they do speak it's in staccato bursts and usually concerns Hoffman's love of reggae and his ambition to work for the city's MTA transit authority. Ortiz is married to Daphne Rubin-Vega, who works in a Brooklyn funeral parlour with Amy Ryan, whom she thinks could be Hoffman's soulmate.

There's certainly a vague interest on both sides after the first meeting, but neither wants to rush into things. Ryan is a serial loser, whose propensity for misfortune recently caused her to be assaulted on the subway, while Hoffman is so unused to talking to strangers that he succumbs to coughing fits whenever he gets nervous. Besides, no one falls in love in the depth of an East Coast winter and Hoffman takes advantage of the hiatus to take a cookery class, so he can make Ryan a romantic dinner, and some swimming lessons with Ortiz, in case the worst happens during the boat trip he has promised they will take in Central Park.

Unfortunately, as Ryan and Hoffman grow closer, Ortiz and Rubin-Vega begin to drift apart, especially when an adulterous interlude they both hoped they had survived comes back to haunt them. Consequently, the long-awaited dinner party descends into a slanging match that ensures the evening will be remembered for all the wrong reasons.

Considering he must know the play inside out, Hoffman rather surprisingly allows the final act to overheat. Moreover, he lets the leads lapse into the kind of actorly attitudes that spellbind theatre audiences but are always magnified into grandiloquence by the camera. Nevertheless, this is consistently entertaining and touching, with Hoffman matching Ernest Borgnine's bluff geniality in Delbert Mann's adaptation of Paddy Chayefsky's teleplay and Ryan capturing Betsy Blair's sense of spinsterly modesty and fragility.

The fireworks come from Ortiz and Rubin-Vega, however, who were also part of the LAByrinth troupe that mounted the original production. Whereas Hoffman and Ryan accept the cards dealt to them, this bickering couple can't resist wondering what might have happened had they not patched up their differences and gone their separate ways, with Ortiz especially resenting the emasculation that his surface swagger doesn't always succeed in hiding.

As for Hoffman's direction, he achieves a nice blend of reflection and anticipation in the slow-motion montages that have been evocatively photographed by W. Mott Hupfel III and illuminated by the mournful jazz passages in Evan Lurie's instrumental score. Moreover, he keeps the camerawork simple. But it would be nice to see him tackle something that challenges him to be more overtly cinematic.