Parky at the Pictures (DVD 15/12/2011)

Unfortunately, however, in using the profits held by Suba Films from the animated feature Yellow Submarine (1968), Harrison inadvertently embroiled Cooper's picture in the legal battles that followed the break-up of The Beatles. Consequently, a satire as subversive as Lindsay Anderson's If... (1968) and Stanley Kubrick's A Clockwork Orange (1971) was shelved for several years, despite having won the Silver Bear at the Berlin Film Festival. Now, however, it has been dusted off and represented as part of the British Film Institute's excellent Flipside series.

Harking back mockingly to the `angry young men' sagas that had launched the social realist revolution at the end of the 1950s, the action is set in a grimly wintry Oldham and focuses on art student Malcolm Scrawdyke (John Hurt) and his furious vendetta against an unseen, but apparently conspiratorial art school lecturer named Allard. Such is his determination to counter his threat that Malcolm forms the Party of Dynamic Erection and forces friends Nipple (David Warner), Wick (John McEnery) and Irwin (Raymond Platt) in a crusade against the advocates of social orthodoxy, whom he brands Eunuchs.

Despite this sudden burst of zealous activity, Malcolm and his cabal are immediately paralysed by indecision, with discussions about kidnapping Allard being deflected by diatribes about getting up and arguments about the colour of a jacket. However, this impotence is mirrored by Malcolm's failure to perform in bed with girlfriend Rosalind Ayres and yet her acceptance of his inadequacies results in a beating administered with the aid of Irwin and Wick that is shocking less for its severity than its duration.

Indeed, the tone of the entire picture changes around this point, as the banter is replaced by increasingly hysterical and specious rhetoric that results in Nipple charged with treachery to the Party and asked if he pleads `guilty or very guilty' in a grotesque parody of a Stalinist show trial. Many of Malcolm's mannerisms, however, seem to owe more to Hitler and there is a temptation to see the entire scenario as a revision of Bertolt Brecht's 1941 play, The Resistible Rise of Arturo Ui, written by Samuel Beckett, Spike Milligan and Joe Orton.

Comparisons to Mike Leigh's Naked (1993) and Chris Morris's Four Lions (2010) also seem valid, especially as Leigh directed the original five-hour version of Halliwell's text in 1965. But how tempting it is to speculate about why George Harrison was so keen to bring what was essentially a cult production to the screen. He rarely went to the theatre, but this play caught his imagination and one wonders whether he saw something in the Party of Dynamic Erection that reflected his experiences within The Beatles. After all, the band's founder, John Lennon, was himself an art school dropout whose methods of disseminating his political opinions became increasingly eccentric after he joined forces with Yoko Ono in the late 1960s.

Whatever Harrison's motives for producing the picture, it remains an arresting piece of work. The totalitarian references are a touch laboured in places, especially the riffing on New York Times correspondent Walter Duranty's verdict on Stalin's tyranny: `you quote can't make an omelette without breaking eggs'. But Hurt excels as the splenetic, megalomaniac anti-hero, while Warner provides typically assured support as the bemused and increasingly isolated sidekick. Moreover, John Alcott's restless cinematography enhances the mood of unease that is slyly built up by RADA graduate Cooper as he exposes the hideous ease with which the charismatic can gull the susceptible into doing their bidding before unleashing the shocking savagery of the closing scenes.

Considering it recreates moments from the climactic Falklands War battle for Mount Tumbledown, the violence in Paul Greengrass's Resurrected (1989) is almost an irrelevance. Instead, this is a searing study of the psychological scars left by combat, as it focuses on a soldier who was presumed killed in action and whose reputation as a returning hero is quickly besmirched by embittered comrades and the scurrilous media. Owing much to the Ken Loach and Paul Laverty school of uncompromising social realism, this represents a notable debut by a director who would become better known for the fast-cut freneticism of the wildly stylised Bourne movies.

Unable to remember a thing about his conduct during the operation or where he has been in the seven weeks since peace was declared, David Thewlis is grilled by the brass hats before being sent home to parents Rita Tushingham and Tom Bell, who had organised a funeral service and spoken to his spirit through a medium since news came of his disappearance. Unsurprisingly, they are sympathetic to his confusion and desire to be left alone to get on with his life. But military-minded Michael Pollitt is disproportionately proud of his big brother, while girlfriend Rudi Davies notices a distinct change in his attitude towards both her and life in general.

The biggest test comes, however, when Thewlis returns to barracks and he is victimised by Christopher Fulford, who jumps onto the press bandwagon to accuse Thewlis of cowardice and desertion. But his aggression is simply a mask for the struggle to deal with his own failures at the front and the terrifying flashbacks experienced by several of those caught in the heaviest fighting.

The Falklands campaign will be in the news again next April when veterans mark the 30th anniversary of their sacrifice. However, the ongoing mission in Afghanistan means that this troubling film has a powerful contemporary relevance, as returning troops continue to face up to the horrors they have witnessed and recover from physical and mental wounds that often change lives completely. Drawing on the case of Guardsman Philip Williams, Greengrass and screenwriter Martin Allen deftly examine the isolation and frustration Thewlis feels as he strives to remember and forget at the same time. Moreover, they expose the institutionalised bullying that existed in the armed forces at the time (and would lead to some high-profile suicides in the ensuing decade) and castigate the fickleness of the press and public, who are quick to express ill-informed opinions and even quicker to forget once a story is out of the headlines.

The world of the early 80s doesn't seem that different to the present day, especially when one considers the similar socio-economic situations. But the Britain that existed three decades before Simon Moore made Under Suspicion (1991) was unrecognisable, as not only was divorce difficult to obtain except on grounds of adultery, but the death penalty was also still the punishment for wilful murder. Yet, despite the admirable efforts of production designer Tim Hutchinson and costumier Penny Rose, Moore merely settles for exploiting the period details for plot purposes and, thus, conveys too little of the atmosphere of Brighton in 1959 to make condemned dupe Liam Neeson's plight seem sufficiently desperate.

Having been drummed out of the police force for a misdemeanour, Neeson makes a living helping clients seeking a divorce secure the necessary evidence. He is assisted in his shady dealings by prostitute wife Maggie O'Neill. But, while former colleague Kenneth Cranham is prepared to turn a blind eye to his activities, his new partner, Malcolm Storry, would like nothing more than to see Neeson behind bars. Thus, when an Italian artist has his thumb amputated after being murdered in bed in a cheap hotel with O'Neill, the finger of suspicion points at Neeson, who has become much too close to the deceased's mistress, Laura San Giacomo, who is feuding openly with widow Alphonsia Emmanuel over the last-minute change in her husband's will that has left her destitute.

Back in the 1950s, British film-makers used to churn out hackneyed whodunits like this. They were shot in monochrome and rarely ran for longer than an hour, so they could be shown on a double bill or sold to television. They were enacted with the same earnestness as the infinitely better paid stars display here, but they were similarly hamstrung by deficiencies in the storyline that made the identity of the real culprit thuddingly obvious from the outset. Neeson and San Giacomo work hard here, as the archetypal noir palooka and the femme fatale, but they are hampered by some risible dialogue and a softcore candlelit sex sequence that is hilariously clichéd.

The courtroom scenes are also heavily hoary and it's hard to recognise here the hand of the scenarist responsible for the excellent Channel Four series Traffik (1989) and Sam Raimi's amusing revisionist Western, The Quick and the Dead (1995). Moore hasn't directed since the misfiring 1997 musical, Up on the Roof, and, with so many worthy films crying out for release on DVD, it's slightly difficult to fathom why this one has been revived when it is perhaps better suited to a late-night slot on television. The justification for putting Peter Schwabach's The Secret Laughter of Women (1998) out on disc is much more obvious, as there is money to be made from cashing in on Colin Firth's Oscar success in The King's Speech. Few other members of the cast have prospered, however, and it seems perplexing that this mediocre melodrama has been selected for reissue ahead of much more deserving Firth outings like Pat O'Connor's outstanding adaptation of J.L. Carr's post-Great War novel, A Month in the Country (1987).

Nia Long is a single mother living in a close-knit Nigerian community in a coastal town in south of France. Mother Bella Enahoro wants her to marry the handsome new preacher, Ariyon Bakare, but her eight year-old son has befriended English writer Colin Firth, who is responsible for the comic-book with which Fissy Roberts is obsessed. Naturally, Firth and Long become smitten and she is hopeful that she has finally found a father for her boy.

But, when Firth's wife, Caroline Goodall, comes for a visit, she explains that they have an open marriage and that Firth has been known to stray before. Stung by naïveté, Long breaks off with Firth and agrees to become Bakare's bride. But Roberts has made up his mind and he starts scheming to make sure that the wedding never takes place.

It's impossible to believe anybody could fail to guess how this tepid and rather patronising romance will turn out. Of course Long will be attracted to the urbane, liberal white man rather than the conservative black reverend, with his fixed views on faith, family and female subservience. Even the name of the comic that Firth pens - Saracen - smacks of post-colonialist smugness and it will surprise few to learn that co-scenarists O.O. and Misan Sagay have not managed to get another script filmed. The debuting Schwabach's career also ground to a halt here, which is a shame for those interested in Oxford movie connections, as he was a co-founder with fellow American and Oriel graduate Michael Hoffman of the Oxford University Film Foundation that was responsible for giving Hugh Grant his start in movies 30 years ago next summer in Privileged.

Switching to documentary, the sixth volume of the COI Collection, Worth the Risk?, gathers some of the most iconic public safety films made between the late 1940s and the early 80s. There have been several similar anthologies in recent times, including Public Information Films Of The British Home Front 1939- 1945 and Charley Says, which amassed a mammoth 157 titles produced between 1959 and 1983. But, taken in conjunction with Police and Thieves, Design for Today, They Stand Ready, Stop! Look! Listen!, and Portrait of a People, the latest entry in the BFI compendium provides the most wide-ranging selection imaginable from the archives of the Central Office of Information.

What comes across most clearly from this selection is that the concept of the `nanny state' is not a new one. Indeed, current concerns with health and safety seem almost neglectful compared to the admonitions and encouragements offered here. But there is always a subtlety about the manner in which the message is conveyed and it's fascinating to note how humour and menace are used to emphasise key points. Anyone who has attended a safety at work course will recognise some of the collisions and near-misses cautioned against by bodies like The Royal Society for the Prevention of Accidents. Such sessions are often characterised by giggling at the contrived scenarios staged for the camera and there is much unintentional comedy in some of the trips, traps and bumps. But each film serves a serious purpose, whether its an explanation of how taxes were being spent during the period of post-war austerity (Pop Goes the Weasel, 1948)) or Doris Hare (then a familiar face from the sitcom On the Buses) coming to terms with decimalisation in Granny Gets the Point (1971). Morever, several were produced by notable film-makers like John Krish (Peach and Hammer - Carol Hill, 1973).

The majority of the items are live action, but animation was often used to create a benevolent tone, as in Charley's March of Time (1948), which uses cartoon characters to explain the workings of the new Welfare State, and The Furry Folk on Holiday (1967), in which PC Badger helps Tufty and his pals get out of a seaside scrape. There was also a comic-book feel about the Green Cross Code shorts (1973), which starred David Prowse (who would soon become the physical embodiment of Darth Vader) as the Green Cross Man giving advice to youngsters on the best way to cross the road. But the mood is much darker in Worth the Risk? (1948), in which a pair of strangers are tracked in the lead up to an accident; The Hole in the Ground (1962), which reveals the work done by the UK Warning and Monitoring Association in preparing for nuclear attack. Grain Drain (1975), which sees a doll being sucked into a silo mechanism; Don't Be a Clunker (mid-1970s), which shows a man without a seatbelt being thrown through a car windscreen; Laughing Matter (late 1970s), in which Robbie Coltrane plays a comedian whose routine is deadly serious; Play Safe (1978), which exploits the vocal talents of Bernard Cribbins and Brian Wilde to warn about the perils of playing with electricity; and Say No to Strangers (1981), which features Bernard Hill, Timothy Spall and Brenda Blethyn in a warning to children against trusting the wrong people.

Molly Dineen never worked for the Central Office of Information, although she does have experience of producing persuasive shorts, as she shot one of Tony Blair's 1997 party election broadcasts and it is included in the third and final volume of the BFI's survey of her career, The Lie of the Land. Also among the extras is unseen footage of the Labour leader on and off the hustings on what would prove to be a landmark campaign, which would have constitutional, as well as social and economic ramifications that would change forever the way in which the United Kingdom was governed.

Dineen examined these reforms and how they impacted upon individuals and institutions alike in The Lords's Tale (2002). The removal of all but 92 of the 750 hereditary peers from the House of Lords ended 800 years of aristocratic influence over the conduct of British governance and Dineen shot some 90 hours of footage over three years to record the last days of baronial power. She was hardly given unlimited access, as an all-male steering committee refused her permission to shoot in any of the bars and restaurants dotted around the Houses of Parliament. Moreover, Baroness Jay, the Leader of the House, discouraged Labour peers from speaking to her, while their Conservative counterparts were dissuaded by her association with the Prime Minister.

Yet, Dineen (who had two children during the making of the documentary) managed to win the confidence of several non-Labour members, as they realised she was not seeking to reinforce caricatures about out-of-touch toffs, but show what a valuable job the more active and opinionated peers did in reining in governmental excess and refining bills so they would be more effective when enshrined in law. Indeed, she raises provocative questions about why elected or appointed peers would be any more dedicated or productive than those who owed their seats to an accident of birth.

Despite being largely confined to corridors and often forced to film the carpet to comply with promises not to photograph unwilling subjects or intrude upon crucial proceedings, Dineen manages to capture the sense of frustration and anger felt by many of the lords facing exclusion. She also conveys the tension of the ballots to see who would be returning and records a couple of poignant farewells. But, even though she was accused in some quarters of exhibiting a pro-Tory bias, she also succeeds in presenting a balanced account of the working methods and prevailing attitudes with Their Lordships' House and showing how risky it is to allow class alone to dictate policy.

Completed two years earlier, Geri is also about the end of an era, as it was made around the time that Geri Halliwell exited The Spice Girls. Having already started her own video diary, the singer clearly hoped Dineen would dance to her tune and produce a flattering profile that would prove there was more to her than red hair, short skirts and girl power attitude. In fact, Dineen struggles to find much more than self-obsession and vulnerability and it is rather sad to watch Halliwell striving so hard to retain control over a project that did as much to damage her reputation as the famous Face to Face television interview did to Tony Hancock.

This remains compelling viewing, however, if only to spot how many of its techniques have been appropriated by reality shows centred on celebrities who talk a lot, but actually say very little. From the moment Halliwell argues with Dineen on the Eurostar back from Paris about the direction the documentary is taking, it's clear that the Watford-born chanteuse has failed to find the new best friend devoted to making her look good. Indeed, Dineen refuses to help her compose a letter to Prince Charles so that she sounds more erudite and educated than she really is. Similarly, she refuses to pander to Halliwell's ego when it is bruised by callous remarks by Mel B and Johnny Vaughan. Then again, she resists the temptation to mock, as Halliwell draws up an hilariously me-centric cosmic healing wishlist and goes shopping for a pet with George Michael at the Battersea Dogs Home. She even allows a little pity to creep into the New York sequences showing Halliwell rehearsing answers for a press conference at the United Nations after she is refused sufficient time to prepare for her new role as a spokesperson on population issues.

In fact, Dineen is neither critical nor affectionate and, as a consequence, this feels very much like a piece of disposable reportage rather than a work of valuable record. It hints at the flaws that would eventually prompt Halliwell's seemingly inevitable drift out of the limelight, while also suggesting that she had much to offer if her fame persisted. But Dineen can't avoid drawing the conclusion that Halliwell was more driven to retain her celebrity than find entirely philanthropic means of exploiting it.

Completing the triptych is The Lie of the Land (2007), which remains her most recent work and focuses on the effect that New Labour and European Union legislation is having on Britain's rural regions. During her stay in Westminster, Dineen had enountered many masters of the hunt, although she decided not to identify any of them in case it prejudiced viewers against them. Here, however, she is more willing to discuss the contentious topic of fox hunting with dogs and the impact that its banning in 2005 has had on communities in Cornwall and the Cotswolds already reeling from the effects of the BSE and Foot and Mouth crises, the endless initiatives emanating from DEFRA and the Common Agricultural Policy and monopoly over the food industry being incrementally increased by the country's leading supermarkets.

Dineen won a BAFTA and the Grierson Award for this film and it epitomises her growing willingness to become an on-screen participant in her pictures. She asks questions incessantly from behind the camera and refuses to shy away from the harsher realities of farm life. In particular, she notes the number of animals that are slaughtered simply because their lack of breeding or butchery potential means they are a drain on stretched resources. Paul and Ian, two of the chaps charged with killing the creatures and disposing of their carcasses make meagre livings - at one point, Ian's account is settled by two pound coins and a packet of fudge - and, thus, Dineen sees them and those who hire them as victims of a system that puts profit and politcal correctness before people and animal rights. How, the film argues, can a government place so much emphasis on a fox hunting ban when it allows brutal carnage on a much larger scale to go unchecked?

While this may not be as potent as Victor Schonfeld and Myriam Alaux's The Animals Film (1981), the graphic depiction of so much senseless death is difficult to watch. But is is also dispiriting to see men like Tony, who inherited a dairy farm that had been in his family for generations, growing daffodils and letting out rooms to get by. Exposing hypocrisy, contradiction and incompetence at every turn with customary inciciveness and equanimity, Dineen places the blame as much on the consumer as the farmer, the politician and the bureaucrat and few will enjoy a guilt-free supper after viewing this uncompromising and important exposé of a centuries old lifestyle in what may prove to be a terminal crisis.