Parky at the Pictures (In Cinemas 2/8/2012)

Pride of place goes to Hetty Bower, a 106 year-old from Hackney who sets the anti-nostalgic tone by recalling that a day trip to Tower Bridge was a significant childhood treat. She also remembers waving off the troops at Dalston Junction in 1914 and playing her part in the Battle of Cable Street, when East Enders resisted a march by Sir Osward  Mosley's British Union of Fascists. Indeed, conflict plays a crucial part in London's recent past, whether it brought Home Secretary Winston Churchill to Stepney for the 1911 showdown between the police and an anarchist gang in the Siege of Sidney Street or sent him as Prime Minister into the neighbourhoods decimated by the Luftwaffe during the 1940 Blitz.

What is most striking about these early sequences is the squalor endured by the masses in the first third of the last century, with Temple using footage from the films of Harry B. Parkinson and the members of the 1930s British Documentary Movement to show the appalling conditions in the crowded slums and reinforce the insight of Madness singer Suggs that `there were no good old days'. That said, there was certainly a heyday, particularly on the wharves of the docklands that sustained the trading empire. Tony Benn remembers being taught that the world was divided into the British and foreigners and his quip that there always seemed to be a lot of the latter highlights the role that immigrants have always played in the city's prosperity, whether they were Irish, Jewish, West Indian or Asian.

Temple avoids easy clichés about melting pots, however, and the inclusion of an anecdote about a boy of Caribbean extraction having his 11-plus scholarship withdrawn and handed to a white classmate eloquently sums up the injustices and prejudices that have kept racial tensions simmering. Yet, Temple doesn't necessarily see strife as a bad thing and he juxtaposes footage of the 2011 riots with an archive clip of Malcolm McLaren averring that the `London Mob' is a force that the authorities should ignore at its peril.

This thesis seems pertinent in the context of the shifting cultural and fashion trends that prompted the emergence of hippies, punks, New Romantics and rappers. But Temple places too much emphasis on restless youth in the final third of the film and loses sight of the quotidian majority in the inner city and the suburbs who keep the city ticking. Moreover, he seems to set greater store by the opinions of artists like poet Michael Horovitz and The Kinks frontman Ray Davies than representatives of the political, administrative, financial or commercial sectors. Short shrift is also afforded to ordinary Londoners. But these are minor quibbles considering the acuity of Temple's editing and the wit and trenchancy of montages that convey the ever-changing face of London and its remarkable capacity for absorbing disparate peoples and forging them into thriving, pulsating and sometimes fractious communities.

The 2012 Games barely merit a passing mention here, although the reason for the film's release at this time is blindingly obvious. Some, however, might accuse the distributors of Undefeated of more shameless opportunism, as American Football is not an Olympic event. But this Oscar-winning documentary perfectly encapsulates the key legacy message of sport being a builder of character and a provider of life-changing opportunities for those otherwise doomed to struggle on life's lower rungs. Thus, Dan Lindsay and TJ Martin's profile of coach Bill Courtney and his Manassas Tigers team is as likely to motivate younger audiences as any demonstration of going faster, higher and stronger at the XXX Olympiad.

Having made himself a comfortable living in the lumber business in a neighbourhood decimated by the closure of the Firestone tyre factory, Coach Courtney is able to give his services for free to the high-school team from a rundown part of Memphis that was once so far down the rankings that it survived on the appearance fees it earned by playing warm-up games against wealthier institutions from across the state. Yet, despite retaining the whipping boy tag, the Tigers have slowly evolved into a decent side, with seniors like right tackle Montrail `Money' Brown, linebacker Chavis Daniels and left tackle OC Brown attracting attention from universities looking for the next college football star.

However, as Lindsay and Martin reveal, these stars have plenty of problems off the field. Chavis, for example, has just been released from a correctional facility and his short temper constantly threatens to erupt, with Money being a frequent target for his rage after he misconstrues his support for homosexual lust. By contrast, gentle giant OC is struggling with his grades and the grandmother raising him is concerned that his chances of securing a scholarship will be lost unless he devotes more time to his studies.

But OC's preoccupation with sporting matters is entirely understandable, as, since they suffered an opening game thrashing, the Tigers have gone on an unbeaten run that has seen them reach the play-offs for the first time in decades. However, Courtney and assistant Mike Ray are acutely aware that the school has never won a knockout game in its 110-year history and everything depends on whether Money can recover from a cruciate injury that has forced him to miss almost a third of the season.

Much has been made in the United States about the fact that a portly, middle-class white guy is the hero of this story and comparisons have obviously been made with The Blind Side (2009), the melodrama that earned Sandra Bullock her Academy Award for playing a woman who inspires a bunch of African-American youths to expect the best of themselves in order to exceed their expectations. But, while it runs the risk of being patronising, this is clearly intent on showing what can be achieved with a little investment in kids convinced that the odds have been insurmountably stacked against them.

There are uncomfortable moments, such as when OC moves in with the Courtneys and finds himself part of the dinner table banter and the minor tensions that exist between the coach and his wife Lisa, who thinks that six years is long enough to devote to strangers when he has four kids of his own to worry about. But these are easily outweighed by the sight of the team bonding as they surprise themselves with each victory and even Chavis comes to realise the courage Money exhibits in returning from a potentially career-ending injury to make the bench for the play-off game.

As with Steve James in Hoop Dreams (1994), Lindsay and Martin manage a rare level of intimacy and, in editing down their 500 hours of footage, build the suspense of the narrative with considerable skill. But this is never sentimental in its depiction of the underdogs having their day. Indeed, the sequence in which the Tigers have to race for the bus after defeating rivals with a reputation for post-match violence is both darkly comic and highly revealing of the gang mentality that drives so many American males. The fact that Courtney has convinced the group of knowing when to pick their battles suggests the influence he has had upon them. But the fact that he resigns to coach his son's team leaves one to wonder how many of those coming into the squad will get the chance to emulate the achievements of Money, Chavis and OC, who all benefit from their gridiron experience.

Another popular outlet for the disenfranchised, vogueing has already been captured on film in all its gaudy glory in Jennie Livingston's 1990 documentary, Paris Is Burning. But Sheldon Larry presents a new angle on the world of competitive costume balls in Leave It On the Floor, a musical with songs by screenwriter Glenn Gaylord and Kimberly Burse that explore the pain and pleasure of coming out, as well as the mix of hesitancy and exhilaration experienced by a young black introvert as he learns to embrace his exhibitionist alter ego. The pumping hip hop, house and techo may not be for everyone, but Larry ably captures the atmosphere of the scene in El Monte, California and the genuine sense of community offered by the `houses' that are often less mere rival teams than refuges for the outcast, the damaged and the lost.

Living in the back of the car he stole from his mother after she threw him out of the house for being gay, African-American Ephraim Sykes catches the eye of long-haired Andre Myers in a Los Angeles convenience store. As they flirt, each waits for the opportunity to pick each other's pocket and the intrigued Sykes decides to follow Myers to a downtown warehouse to reclaim his property.

Inside, Sykes discovers an unimagined fantasy land where drag queens in sequined frocks and foot-thick make-up parade along runways like models in an ultra-camp fashion show, while their butch counterparts seek to win prizes for the realism of their impersonation of suited and booted executives. The music pounds and so does Sykes's heart, as he realises this is somewhere he could belong. He is warmly welcomed by `face' artist Phillip Evelyn, who persuades den mother Miss Barbie-Q to let Sykes join the House of Eminence and he is soon finding an outlet for his pent-up frustrations. Moreover, he finds himself at the centre of a tug-of-war between Evelyn and Myers, as he prepares to enter the `sexy walk' contest at the upcoming Imperial Mini Ball.

As in most musicals, however, the plot is merely a pretext for the song-and-dance routines and this love triangle saga throws up few surprises. Indeed, a tragic car crash is more significant for the tuneful showdown between the victim's family and his house pals. But, for all its narrative deficiencies, this energetic entertainment more than compensates with ditties like `Ballroom Bliss', `Justin's Gonna Call', `This Is My Lament', `Black Love' and the show-stopping `Knock Them Motherfuckers Down'. The musical styles are admirably varied and Gaylord - aided choreographer Frank Gatson, Jr., who has worked with both Jennifer Lopez and Beyoncé - integrates the numbers into the action rather than confining them to the ballrooms.

Yet, while this is an easy film to like, it frequently betrays the meagreness of its budget and the fact that several crew members were inexperienced USC students. Moreover, Larry and editor Charles Bornstein spoil the first couple of vogueing sequences by opting for a frantic montage approach that prioritises conveying the manic vibrancy of the events over allowing the audience to gain an overview of the milieu and appreciate the effort and inspiration that has gone into the often outrageous costumes. But such rough edges are commensurate with the shamateurism of the scene under scrutiny and many more will remember the feisty quips of the excellent Miss Barbie-Q or the deliciously cornball lyrics than the occasional hesitancy of the leads or the odd moment of visual gaucheness.

Artistry of a very different kind comes under scrutiny in Jason Cohn and Bill Jersey's Eames: The Architect and the Painter, which profiles the husband-and-wife team that brought Modernism into millions of American homes in the immediate postwar period, while also demonstrating that it was possible to accept commercial commissions while retaining creative integrity. Somewhat resembling Murray Grigor's Contemporary Days: Robin and Lucienne Day (2010), this steers clear of delving too deeply into the private lives of a dynamic duo and opts only to eulogise rather than analyse their artistic achievement. But it nevertheless offers a fascinating insight into the relationship between design and industry and the way in which innovation eventually becomes part of the furniture.

The nephew of a St Louis architect, Charles Eames made his reputation in the early 1940s with a plywood moulded chair created with Finn Eero Saarinen for the Museum of Modern Art's Organic Design in Home Furnishings. Divorcing from Catherine Woermann, he married Ray Kaiser, a protégée of Abstract Expressionist Hans Hofmann whom he met at Michigan's Cranbrook Academy of Art and who became his key collaborator, initially in producing revolutionary splints for use by the US military during the Second World War.

Once peace came, Charles and Ray refocused on fashioning a chair that was aesthetically pleasing, functional and economical and the furniture they produced for the Herman Miller. company was marketed under the slogan `the best for the most for the least'. Ray also designed fabrics. But, as critics Donald Albrecht, Pat Kirkham, Jed Perl, Marilyn Neuhart, Joe Giovannini, Ralph Capian and Thomas S. Hines note, she was always happy to let Charles take the credit and their appearance on The Arlene Francis Home Show is notable for her reticence in the spotlight.

Indeed, Eames became such a star that he was the inspiration for the character played by William Holden in Robert Wise's Executive Suite (1954), while their home in the Pacific Palisades became so celebrated for its stylistic ingenuity that it became known as Case Study House #8 among architectural scholars. However, not everyone was so content to let Charles take all the credit, as former Eames Office colleagues Gordon Ashby, Jeannine Oppewall, Bill Tondreau, Tina Beebe, Deborah Sussman and John Neuhart testify. But all agree it was an exciting place to work and that they owe their careers to the Eames, as they started to branch out into film-making in order to promote America and its leading companies.

Starting out with titles like House: After Five Years of Living (1955) and Tops (1957), the Eames helped demystify IBM and the world of computers with the animated short The Information Machine (1957). Two years later, they scored a Cold War propaganda coup with the seven-screen travelogue Glimpses of the USA and utilised 24 screens and a narrator for the installation in the IBM Pavilion at the New York World's Fair in 1964. Yet their most famous (and, as Paul Schrader remarks) and most imitated film was Powers of Ten (1968), which illustrated the relative scale of the Universe in factors of ten that was described by Dutchman Kees Boeke in his 1957 book, Cosmic View.

Listening to daughter Lucia Eames and grandson Eames Demetrios, the partnership was a meeting of hearts as well as minds. However, academic and sometime collaborator Judith Wechsler reveals that she had an affair with Charles, who was keen to leave Ray and start a new family. But they stayed together and shared the rare disappointment of the US response to the 1976 Bicentennial exhibition, The World of Franklin and Jefferson, which was accused of overloading visitors with information (although its mix of artefact and caption has since been cited as an influence on the concept of hypertexting).

Increasingly disillusioned with the business based at 901 Washington Boulevard in Venice, California, Charles considered closing it and devoting himself to photography. But he died of a heart attack on 21 August 1978 and Ray passed away a decade to the day after cataloguing the company archive before bequeathing it to the Library of Congress. Their work continues to command respectable prices at auction and, if the Dwell magazine shoot seen here is anything to go by, their influence on furniture and design remains strong.

Yet, by failing to contextualise their careers, Cohn and Jersey never quite convey the magnitude of the accomplishments of `a painter that didn't paint and an architecture school drop-out who never got his licence'. Moreover, they discuss materials, techniques and styles in superficial terms rather than subjecting them to a deeper examination that might have clarified the uniqueness of their approach and their alchemy. They also skirt the issue of how much credit Charles deserves for many of the items that bear his sole name and how the partnership in both the office and in the home actually functioned (even though he once conceded `anything I can do, she can do better'), especially after he became more interested in scientific than artistic projects. But, as an introduction to a remarkable couple and their vision, this is both accessible and valuable.

In 2008, Zhang Yimou was the most acclaimed film director in the world after his epic staging of the opening ceremony of the Beijing Olympics. Four years later, he has come in for a degree of criticism for The Flowers of War, a $100 million budgeted account of the so-called `rape of Nanjing' that is based on Geling Yan's novel 13 Flowers of Nanjing and yet which pales beside Lu Chuan's City of Life and Death and adds little to our understanding of the nightmare endured by those trapped within the international settlement, which was previously discussed by Florian Gallenberger in John Rabe (both 2009). Yet, for all its melodramatic excesses, this is a laudable attempt to alert audiences intrigued by the presence of Batman star Christian Bale to one of the most heinous atrocities of the Sino-Japanese War.

As the Japanese capture the Chinese capital in December 1937, American mortician Christian Bale arrives at Winchester Cathedral to bury a priest who had recently passed away. However, he discovers that the corpse had been destroyed during the assault on the city and, realising that he will not get paid, he storms around the premises looking for compensation. Having failed to find anything in the collection boxes, Bale chances upon the supply of altar wine in the cellar. But he also encounters the girls studying at the convent school and young guardian Huang Tianyuan, who, as the late priest's adopted son, is determined to do everything he can to protect them.

Tensions rise, however, when a group of 13 prostitutes escape from a nearby brothel and seek sanctuary in the church grounds. The pious Zhang Xinyi disapproves of Ni Ni and her sort and hopes that Cao Kefan, who is openly consorting with the enemy, will force them to leave. But the situation changes dramatically when Japanese colonel Atsuro Watabe and lieutenant Shigeo Kobayashi come to inspect the compound and the students hide their guests in the cellar in order to protect them from the rapacious soldiers. The troops are delighted to find such young and defenceless girls, but their attempt to molest them is halted by the shiftless Bale's sudden appearance in clerical robes.

Reluctant to harm a Westerner, Watabe orders his men to release the schoolgirls and even promises to guarantee their safety if they come to sing at his headquarters. Bale accepts the offer, but Ni realises that the invitation is merely a pretext to lure the innocents out of the cathedral and she persuades her comrades to swap places so that the pupils can escape the city in the truck that Bale has managed to repair. With Huang volunteering to make the number up to 13, the `choir' is escorted to Watabe's quarters, while Bale uses a permit obtained by Cao to pass through the checkpoints on the outskirts of Nanjing and embark upon a hazardous journey with his hidden cargo.

Having contributed such an imposing performance as a child actor to Steven Spielberg's Empire of the Sun (1987), Bale is no stranger to this period. However, he seems intent on essaying this increasingly marginalised role as though he was a contract player in a wartime Hollywood flagwaver. The debuting Ni Ni and Zhang Xinyi are much more impressive, as is Atsuro Watabe as the officer torn between doing the decent thing and courting the popularity of his men. But the shifts between the Chinese, Japanese and English dialogue hinder the drama as much as the formulaic nature of Geling Yan's text, which forces screenwriter Liu Heng (who has been collaborating with Zhang Yimou since Ju Dou in 1990) to become over-reliant on cliché and caricature in his depiction of the heroes, heroines and villains.

Zhang's direction is similarly prone to heavy-handedness, although this is only cumulatively evident, as the majority of the individual scenes are made compelling by the combination of the committed playing, the dynamism of Zhao Xiaoding's mostly handheld camerawork and the gravity of Chan Quigang's score. But the most impressive aspect of this rather self-conscious blockbuster is Yohei Taneda's production design, which not only recreates an authentic setting, but also reinforces the sense of entrapment and peril that gives the lightweight storyline its much-needed gravitas.

Perry Bhandal's Interview With a Hitman was almost entirely ignored by the nation's critics when it was released a fortnight ago. It's easy to see why, as this is one of those insufferably stylised crime movies that have become the poor relation of the British film industry since the vogue for Mockney capers rapidly outstayed its welcome. But, while the failings of this low-budget drama are glaringly obvious, this isn't an unmitigated disaster that appeals solely to undiscriminating fanboys. Indeed, Bhandal occasionally demonstrates a keen eye for a telling image and anyone who can coax a half-decent performance out of Luke Goss deserves a pat on the back.

While Luke Goss flies back into Britain to take care of some business, film-maker Patrick Lyster dopes himself in a car in the middle of nowhere so he can be taken to a safe house where he will conduct the interview that he hopes will revive his flagging career. As he sits calmly before the camera, Goss recalls his childhood in a rundown Romanian tenement (where he is played by Elliot Greene) and how he used to listen to father Dermot Keaney beating mother Joanna Holden until he grew so disgusted by his cruelty that he volunteered to work for local hoods Danny Midwinter and Stephen Marcus after they liquidate Keaney for an unpaid debt.

Midwinter takes a shine to the sullen boy and teaches him every trick in the assassin's book. But any hopes that Goss might have had of enjoying a long career in the shadows are shattered when Marcus's cocky son Ray Panthaki kills kingpin Christopher Sciueref's son James Capel during a drug deal and Marcus orders Midwinter to kill Goss for failing to avert the incident. However, Goss exploits his mentor's affection for him and bumps him off before fleeing to London, where he uses his surveillance expertise to deliver snitch Drew Horsley to grateful gangster Philip Whitchurch.

Despite the suspicions of envious underling Philip Arditti, Goss proves himself by poisoning a troublesome cop with a coffee laced with liquid nicotine. Moreover, he also exposes Arditti's treachery before leaving Whitchurch's employ after sparing a single mother journalist who was about to publish an article outlining his crimes. The reason for Goss's sudden compassion is that he has fallen in love with Caroline Tillette (whom he rescued from some rapists in a London bar) and discovered that she is pregnant with his child. But, before he can settle down, Goss has to return to Romania after he learns that Marcus has discovered his whereabouts and is plotting his demise.

The storyline resolves itself with a flurry of plot twists that are neat, if not exactly unexpected, gven the emphasis that Brandahl places on a shot of the impassive Greene pointing a pistol at the head of a young girl. But he paces the denouement capably and this refusal to be hurried sets the picture apart from so many of its ilk. Its eschewal of rat-a-tat vernacular wisecracks is also laudable, as are the contributions of cinematographer Richard Swingle and production designer Mickaela Trodden (who made such a solid impression in Dan Turner's The Man Inside). Even more noteworthy is the editing of Harry Skipp and Ben King, who even use a dissolve montage in one of the most suspenseful sequences.

However, the performances are wildly inconsistent, with Goss and the majority of his compatriots struggling with their Romanian accents. But the ex-Bros drummer cuts a suitably menacing figure and, if he isn't exactly Alain Delon or Clint Eastwood, he does enough to suggest he understands the value of stillness and silence to conveying toughness. It's just a shame that Bhandal isn't quite as convinced, as his decision to use Dan Teicher's droning synthesised score as backing to virtually every scene is one of his movie's major miscalculations.

Unfortunately, it's much harder to find something positive to say about Neil Jones's The Reverend. Filmed in South Wales, this tale of an avenging vicar is based on a graphic novel that doesn't appear to have an author, let alone a publisher. Sloppily scripted and clumsily directed, it falls way behind such low-budget horrors produced in the same neck of the woods as Marc Price's Colin (2008) and Ryan Andrews's Elfie Hopkins (2011). But it's the woeful acting that so damningly undermines this eager, but inexpert effort.

The action opens with a demonic Rutger Hauer (named as `The Withstander' in the credits) dropping in on the divine Giovanni Lombardo Radice to boast that he can corrupt new reverend Stuart Brennan. The Almighty accepts the challenge prior to the pair promptly disappear from proceedings and evil minion Marcia Do Vales slinking out of the rain to sink her teeth into Brennan's neck in the chapel where he has just conducted his first service.

Waking after several days to wash his encrusted neck and accept a cup of tea from concerned organist Helen Griffin, Brennan strides out to explore his new parish and quickly discovers that it comprises a sleepy village and a housing estate seething with sin. Bigwig Tamer Hassan warns Brennan not to bite off more than he can chew, but he ignores the advice and makes a late-night phone call to ordained mentor David Bradley to confess that he has just chowed down on a rampaging dog.

Struggling to cope with his awful urges, Brennan asks local police inspector Richie Woodhall why he doesn't do more to limit Hassan's malevolent influence and finds himself compelled to take the law into his own hands when he witnesses pimp Shane Richie forcing prostitute Emily Booth into a car with sadistic client Dominic Burns. Offering sanctuary to the brutalised Booth, Brennan sends both Richie and Burns to Hell in blazing fireballs and yet only detective Simon Phillips (a peripheral character whose presence is never properly explained) seems even vaguely perplexed.

Clinging to the Book of Job to justify his misdemeanours, Brennan next leaps into action when he sees Griffin's visiting nephew Billy Rumbol being led astray by thug Edmund Kingsley. He also intervenes at a bare-knuckle boxing bout between Dave Sommers and snarling Dane Mads Koudal before finally despatching Hassan because baddies of his calibre don't deserve to live. However, any hopes that Brennan might have of nurturing his growing flock are dashed by Bradley arriving to dispatch him to the city, where his kind of muscular Christianity is more desperately needed.

It's hard to know where to start here. The sequence between Hauer and Radice sets the tone for confusion that permeates the entire picture. But the fact that nothing makes sense is the least of Jones's problems. As one might expect of the director of the Howard Winstone biopic Risen (2010), he handles the monochrome dream exchanges between Brennan and Do Vales reasonably well. But his resort to a voice-over to convey Brennan's post-gnash anguish betrays the stolidity of the screenplay, while the leaden delivery of much of the execrable dialogue robs the story of any bleak wit, let alone suspense or dread.

However, it's not just inexperienced performers like boxing commentator Richie Woodhall who struggle. Shane Richie delivers a risibly over-the-top Cockney caricature, while Hassan goes through the villainous motions and Brennan (who also produced) singularly fails to suggest a soul in torment as he seeks to reconcile the fact that his evil deeds are having such a positive effect. As a sometime student of theology, Jones is better placed than most to know that God moves in mysterious ways. But even He will be perplexed by this self-assured, but dismayingly sub-par misfire.