Film Reviews by PD

This piece stars Glenda Jackson who gives a strong performance in depicting the inner life of the protagonist Maud, whose mind is being slowly devastated by dementia.

Adapted from the novel by Emma Healey in which Maud is the unreliable narrator, the heart of the plot is Maud's concern about her elderly friend, Elizabeth, who has failed to turn up at their regular meeting place, and worries she might have come to harm. But no one else seems bothered, least of all Maud’s daughter, Helen, who has enough on her plate just keeping tabs on her mother, and Elizabeth’s son, who unsurprisingly doesn’t welcome being harangued on the phone at three in the morning. In a bid to organise the chaos of her mind, Maud is forever writing messages to herself. Thus, post-it notes line her walls and pockets, through which she can make sense of the world and, it is hoped, unravel the mystery of her missing friend. “I haven’t lost my marbles though everybody seems to think I have. Nobody listens to me,” Maud grumbles to her granddaughter. Rarely off the screen, Jackson is remarkable, playing Maud not as a benign and crinkly grandma but a proud woman unmoored and rendered increasingly impatient and volatile. Sitting in a restaurant with her family, she smashes a plate and emits a silent scream, her face and body contorting with frustration, whilst later, we watch her claw at the front door, as Helen, fearing she might go wandering, locks her in her house overnight - the film is good at showing us how dementia eats away not just at memory but identity and empathy. The pain of these losses are sharply drawn here, both in Maud and her family who mourn the mother and grandmother they once knew, and the film is all the better for being totally unsentimental and (generally) free of melodrama.

Unfortunately, all this is rather undermined by a much weaker parallel narrative set in the late 1940s, in which we meet young Maud along with her glamorous older sister, Sukey. I realise the background story is there so we can build and feel a connection with Maud as a real person and that Maud's sisters disappearance played a part in Maud's later life, but for me there's way too much about Sukey, who I couldn't care less about, and the tv soap-style suburban murder mystery element (which includes a truly ridiculous 'big reveal' near the end) for me is a big, and unnecessary, distraction from the generally powerful central theme. This got me thinking why the author/director felt it necessary to include such a 'heavy' sub-plot - is the present-day material not 'entertaining' enough? Or is it that they think the audience can't bear to watch it for a sustained period? Either way, it rather defeats what I presume the main the object is - namely, to show the variety of sorrows dementia causes, and to empathise with someone suffering from it.

This first feature from director Claire Oakley is a highly watchable, original piece, being a tense, psychological drama with coming-of-age elements and a sprinkling of sinister surrealism. It's very successful in creating a tangible sense of atmosphere and discomfort through clever filmmaking and a subtle but highly absorbing lead performance by Molly Windsor as 18-year-old Ruth. The off-season Cornish caravan site setting is truly inspired, with Oakley, along with cinematographer Nick Cooke, turning a campsite into a nightmare (fumigated caravans covered in polythene feel like crime scenes) as Ruth tries to come to terms with new desires and who she really is. Though the film is quite short you don't get the feeling of anything particularly rushed or contrived for effect, the director taking her time to explore Ruth's repressions and desires via her relationships with boyfriend Tom and, especially, her new friend, the vivacious Jade, who, on the surface, is everything that Ruth isn’t, i.e. confident and liberated. By turns, Jade brings out something of herself in Ruth, much the chagrin of Tom and his gross workmate, Kai.

Fantasy and reality become increasingly indistinguishable as Ruth’s friendship with Jade develops, the film becoming increasingly impressionistic, and whilst the ending may well be a tad cliched, the build up to it is beautifully done. Impressive stuff.

This very subtle but extremely powerful film shows us a day in the life of Jane, a young graduate who has started working at a film production company with the goal of ultimately becoming a producer. The film starts as it means to go on, with Jane walking into the office first thing in the morning, director Kitty Green spending the first 20 minutes showing Jane's many mundane duties (taking calls, booking cars, cleaning floors, stacking bottles, washing dishes etc) in real time. But for whom is she doing all this? All we get is an important “he” who everyone knows, everyone wants to impress and everyone talks about - the fact that we don’t get his name or his face is a clever touch.

There's not much in the way of 'plot' which might frustrate many (and clearly has some press reviewers!), but the film is strongest in its silences, entirely in control of a subtext that screams without making a sound; it's clearly inspired by stories of Harvey Weinstein’s years of criminal behaviour with women in the film industry, but there's little direct reference to this, or in fact to any names that might seem too familiar other than a film festival (Cannes) or a crime scene (Beverly Hills’ Peninsula hotel). This approach works brilliantly, as it treats the viewer as intelligent enough to read between the lines and shout back at the screen with every micro-aggression thrown at Julia, even when she won’t let herself say anything. The most compelling scene sees her come close to breaking, as she sits across the desk of HR manager Wilcock, whose low-key but terrifying dismissal of Jane's complaints are compounded by his attempt to turn the tables on her and make her seem like the one in the wrong. Back in the office, meanwhile, her co-workers treat it all as a joke - the complicity of everyone in the company being obviously one of the main issues the film explicitly criticises.

Julia Garner is wonderful in the role, her facial expressions always speak volumes; her eyes seeming to remain dry through arduous effort. She makes it easy for us to draw parallels with so many real-life stories of distrusted women staying silent in unfair situations for too long. Without cliche, without melodrama, the film portrays an ongoing cultural evil with intelligence and some sophistication.

Leigh Whannell’s new, loose adaptation of H. G. Wells’s 1897 novel begins with a backstory of abuse. Elisabeth Moss plays Cecilia Kass, an architect who, in the first scene, stealthily and fearfully escapes from a gated and electronically guarded oceanfront compound, in Northern California, where she lives with her boyfriend, Adrian, a fabulously wealthy inventor who specialises in optics. Adrian’s abusive violence is quickly in evidence when he punches his fist through the window of the escape vehicle—driven by Cecilia’s sister Emily. Cecilia takes refuge in the home of her friend James, a police officer, and his teenage daughter, and stays there in a state of panic, unwilling even to set foot outside for fear that Adrian is spying on her and planning to harm her. Adrian’s house is decked out with a panoply of security cameras and other devices, and she left him because of the devastating methods of surveillance and control—of psychological manipulation—to which he subjected her. Adrian “controlled how I looked,” she tells James and Emily, and also what she wore and ate, and when she went out; then, she adds, he controlled what she said and was trying to control what she thought. What’s more, she says that he wanted her to have his child—and, knowing that, with a child, she’d be essentially tied to him for life, she secretly took birth-control pills.

Cecilia’s fears are, she thinks, finally put to rest, soon thereafter, when Adrian turns up dead at his home; but of course things get progressively creepy from this point, with the effect that makes Cecilia begin to doubt her sanity (and making those around her doubt it, too). Whannell concocts these schemes with clever attentiveness to the role of current technology; mobile phones, laptops, passwords, and various security devices all play crucial and natural roles in the action. At the same time, there are other tricks that are powerfully imaginative if yet left undeveloped visually and thematically.

The plot-centred nature of the film is undoubtedly its strength but also its basic trouble. Whannall comes up with some neat, clever twists that give rise to both great suspense and some keenly defined moral themes, notably when Cecilia plans to turn the tables and exact revenge, whilst several sequences make clever use of the edges of the frame in relation to surveillance devices. For all this, however, the characters are given little identity, little personality. Though the film rests heavily on its backstory, its protagonist has virtually no substance: though it almost entirely takes Cecilia’s point of view, what she knows, remembers, what her insights are, are unknown to us. So all in all, watchable enough with many good moments (although a big suspension of disbelief is often required!), but for me an intriguing idea that hasn't been fully realised.

This film tells the little-known but important tale of Norwegian-born Sonja Wigert. She established herself as one of Scandinavia’s most famous actresses, but her visible success during the Nazi occupation of her home country blighted the rest of her career, and it was only 25 years after her death in 1980 that the other side of her wartime life, working as an 'agent' for the Swedish intelligence service, was revealed. Much of the narrative revolves around her relationship with Terboven (Alexander Scheer), the most senior Nazi in occupied Norway, who she's been recruited to spy on and discover the true identity of Germany’s most important secret agent in Oslo. After starting an affair with the officer, she’s recruited by the Germans as well, agreeing to spy on their behalf so that they will release her elderly father from prison. What they don’t realise, of course, is that she’s a double agent.

Although the context of her story is unfamiliar, the actual narrative bears all the hallmarks of a conventional spy yarn, even if it is based on a true story. Jonsson adopts a suitably respectful tone but, ultimately, this doesn’t save the film from the feeling that we’ve been here before and the overall effect is of something rather conventional. All the elements are there for suspense, tension and heroism, but none of them are sufficiently developed, with a romantic sub-plot that feels like it’s been bolted on to pad things out. Jonsson tries to mix things up with the narrative, opening the film at what is essentially the mid-point, then filling in the back story and moving it forward to its conclusion, and this works up to a point, but you get the feeling that the director hasn't been nearly daring enough here, opting instead for a rather safe, tv-style which doesn't do the intriguing subject matter nearly enough justice.

Bolso Berdal makes a brave attempt to make her character one of flesh and blood, but she’s hampered by a rather weak script, plus the fact that Wigert was an actress makes us continually question the sincerity of the emotions on display. So what was clearly intended as a tribute to an unsung – and misjudged – war hero ends up being watchable enough but something of a missed opportunity, sadly.

This highly original, clever piece by writer-director Safy Nebbou is a highly watchable film, with Binoche, as ever, quite superb as divorced academic Claire. At times there is a touch of Woody Allen comedy of manners, at other times more than a touch of Michael Haneke creepiness: the script frank and perceptive about the cloak of invisibility that, past a certain age, even the most charismatic women take on in the eyes of many men. Already insecure about ageing, Claire remains principally attracted to younger guys; after all, if her ex-husband could leave her for a woman young enough to be her daughter, why can’t she play the same field? Claire confesses this and more to her quietly quizzical psychoanalyst Dr. Bormans (Nicole Garcia) in what turns out to be a crucial framing device, dipping the story into shifty realms of potentially unreliable narration and outright fantasy.

After a dalliance with 'Ludo' fades into unanswered phone calls, Claire nurses her wounded confidence by turning to social media — inventing a fake profile for imaginary 25-year-old fashion intern “Clara” in order to cyber-stalk Ludo and his attractive bro circle. What starts as a mildly vengeful mind game gets progressively more sinister, whilst Claire’s repeated therapy sessions with Dr. Bormans, meanwhile, are more than a mere device enabling a secret-bearing protagonist to speak her mind: the two women’s long verbal volleys are laced with perceptive, lightly caustic commentary about the disproportionate degree to which women’s social and sexual behaviour is scrutinised and judged by society, themselves included.

The central construct takes a huge suspension of disbelief (the impossibly gorgeous Binoche seems to me far more beautiful and interesting than her adopted younger self), and the last half hour is a bit silly (the 'plot twist' you can see coming a mile off), but Binoche somehow makes it all credible, and for anyone who’s ever been ghosted on the dating trail — or been an offender themselves — her evocation of the desire for human connection and terrified self-sabotage is uncomfortably easy to empathise with.

I was really looking forward to this one - having liked director Justin Kurzel’s take on MacBeth, I was anticipating a unique take with a fresh delivery. The first section (Kelly as boy, played brilliantly by Orlando Schwerdt, with a nice turn from Russell Crowe) certainly delivers; it's thoroughly gripping and convincing, with some great camerawork and lighting, top notch acting and a great buildup, but all is undone by a terribly disappointing second part (Kelly as man played by George Mackay). It's like someone trying too hard to be edgy/quirky/unique, and not coming close to any of them, and it’s so cliche-ridden that's it's difficult to suspend disbelief and take seriously at times. And it's never a good sign when both myself and my sister (a self-confessed Ned Kelly geek from Melbourne) start double screening during the final shootout. Peter Carey's novel deserves better treatment than this, I'm afraid.

Rather disappointing viewing in the end. The premise is an intriguing one, with young couple Tom and Gemma (Jesse Eisenberg and Imogen Poots) being imprisoned in suburban hellhole 'Yonder' with its identical Monopoly-houses and superficial perfection, and forced to raise a child (the admirably creepy Senan Jennings). Unfortunately however, the film's script simply isn't strong enough to sustain it, and the film, as with the couple, quickly ends up going nowhere, whilst most scenes are too brisk and un-nuanced to flesh out Yonder’s ostensibly forbidding world of plastic, consumer-friendly domesticity. Occasionally the one-dimensional nature of the characters is challenged, as with a suggestion of Gemma's maternal instinct counteracting Tom's ever more menacing frustration, but the film shies away from any depth or difficulty, with the result that the presumed intention of giving us a Kafka-style nightmare falls rather flat, sadly.

This one probably isn’t for you if you’re after a ‘conventional’ drama / horror / gothic (insert genre of choice) film, but I found it totally gripping, largely due to Willem Dafoe and Robert Pattinson’s mesmerising and deliberately unnerving performances. Director Robert Eggers’ stark black-and-white cinematography emphasises every bony plane, every facial crease, hollow and pinprick of stubble to great effect.

At its heart is a psychological study of two lighthouse workers, Wake (Dafoe) and Winslow (Pattinson), who, over many solitary days and nights, work, eat, drink and dig at each other, establishing a bristling antagonism. In time, their minds and tongues are loosened by alcohol and, perhaps, a simple human need for companionship. The wind howls, the camera prowls, the sea roars and Eggers flexes his estimable filmmaking technique as an air of mystery rapidly thickens. Much as he did in the distinctly creepy ‘The Witch’ with its isolated family of fundamentalists coming unglued in early 17th-century America, Eggers makes the secluded world in “The Lighthouse” at once recognisable and eerily surreal. Wake is the veteran keeper of the lighthouse flame, the guardian of its traditions, language and superstitions (‘never, ever, kill a seagull’, he instructs). He barks orders, sings a shanty, indulges in sentimentality, and is, depending on the mood / time of day, either (seemingly) friendly or (more usually) distinctly threatening. To Winslow’s mounting irritation, Wake also guards the key to the lantern room, and it’s this obsession (Moby Dick style), driven by the demon drink (and eventually kerosene), that becomes what gradually poisons Winslow’s mind, although what ultimately is the source of the madness is deliberately ambiguous. Getting stuck in this place with the company is enough in itself to drive anyone to distraction of course, but the film also hints that our unreliable narrator was never of sound mind even before arriving on the island. The past clearly weighs on Ephraim from the start, with his dreams about drowning under logs at the beginning of the film, whilst later, during his most unhinged moments, he sees flashes of a man killed; as Wake guesses, Ephraim definitely took this awful and secluded job because he's on the run, but as he soon discovers, he can't outrun the prison of his own guilty conscience.

It's also possible of course that both Thomas and Ephraim are having a shared delusion, or we can see Thomas and Ephraim as representing two parts of the same person. There are also subtle and not-so-subtle hints that Wake is deliberately pushing Ephraim into insanity after hearing of how his last wickie died - Thomas could've murdered him or driven him to take his own life. All readings (and more) are possible.

There’s some weaknesses – the Freudian/Jungian symbolism is laid on with a trowel, with endless vaginal keyholes and phallic tools and logs and whatnot, whilst I found the ending, with its blindingly obvious (no pun intended) allusions to the Proteus/Prometheus myth all a bit heavy-handed (I’d got that already; surely it didn’t need to be hammered home in this way?), and for me rather detracted from what had gone before. Nevertheless, taken as a whole, an engaging and original piece.

Oh dear. It's difficult to put into words how bad this one is. The premise is certainly intriguing - Hitler as imaginary friend to little Hitler Youth member Jojo, but unfortunately Roman Griffin Davis as Jojo is rather one-dimensional throughout, and Waititi’s badly misjudged performance as Hitler underlines the fact that the film is (and I'm assuming it's trying to be both) neither a hard-hitting satire nor a heartwarming 'love conquers all' piece, but ultimately a bland work from which I was glad to be released.

I like the idea of ironic anti-Semitism, like the idea of treating horror with ridicule, like the idea of a film which wants to rub our faces in the horrible thing and making us confront it with an amusing tonic that helps the medicine go down, but this definitely ain't it, and after a few potential threads, Waititi ultimately just opts for the path of least resistance and you're left wondering what the point of it all was, frankly. For the film fails to attack, or even really notice, the evil before us, and the moments when people are shown hanged in the streets serve only to point up the sanitised, a-historical silliness of everything we're shown on-screen which means we are given precious little to think about en route. Awful.

One of those rather superficial BBC things which rapidly runs through the life and works of Wilde before his downfall without much in the way of depth. The format is quite a promising one, combining as it does acted scenes from some of the works with various bods commenting and making connections, but there's nothing new here, and some of the comments border on the trite. Nevertheless, it's watchable enough, and from time to time there's something to dwell on, notably the sections concerning the belief that Art doesn’t imitate life, but the other way round, as we learn from Wilde's lovely, lesser-known essay, 'The Decay of Lying', dramatised well here. “Where, if not from the impressionists, do we get those wonderful brown fogs that come creeping down our streets, blurring the gas lamps and changing the houses into monstrous shadows?” said one croquet-playing fop to another. “At present, people see fogs, not because they are fogs, but because poets and painters have taught them the mysterious loveliness of such effects.” Wilde’s grandson Merlin Holland sensibly tells us that, bewitched by his plays and stories, we have neglected Wilde’s essays. In 'The Critic as Artist', Wilde wrote: “Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.”

However, most of the commentary is pretty juvenile, telling us how great Wilde was (no, never!?) and how perfect the 'Importance of Being Earnest' is (yawn), and only occasionally do we get something meaty to chew over, notably Gyles Brandreth reminding us that several of Wilde's rent-boys were 16 when they gave testimony (and so younger when Wilde had sex with them), but yet there’s no sign Wilde had any regrets - there's a telling quote from 'De Profundis' in which Wilde declared: 'People thought it dreadful of me to have entertained at dinner the evil things of life, and to have found pleasure in their company. But they … were delightful and stimulating. It was like feasting with panthers. The danger was half the excitement.' There's no comment on that, but for me that 'feasting with panthers' bit makes it sound as though Wilde considered himself willing prey when, arguably, he was the predator. All in all therefore, vaguely entertaining for an hour or so but all a bit fluffy.

Not the sort of thing I'd normally, watch tbh, but during the 'lockdown' etc ... and so pleased I took a punt on this. The strength is mainly Lisa Cholodenko’s script, which totally avoids the usual cliches with considerable sensitivity.

The film revolves around two women whose lives change as a result of a chance meeting in the building where both reside. Protagonist is Syd (superbly played by Rahda Mitchell), a young, idealistic and ambitious editor-in-training at 'Frame', an art photography magazine. Syd enters the flat of her neighbour, Lucy Berliner (Sheedy), as an outsider, suspiciously observing the latter’s friends as they go about their party routines with booze and drugs: (there's an an awful of lot of this - and perhaps the contrast between Syd’s clean and naive world and Lucy’s sophisticated, and, 'decadent' one is perhaps a tad overcooked). But the film's strength is the depiction of how the tentative friendship between Syd and Lucy evolves, and this is totally convincing, the younger Syd striving to achieve professional recognition in an industry driven by fashion and hype, battling with Lucy, the disaffected photographer prodigy who’s seen and done it all. The beauty of Cholodenko’s writing is that she etches the evolving friendship, and the transformation of the two women. I normally just fast forward through any 'sex scenes' on the screen, but here, with the heat and the awkward physicality, it's beautifully portrayed in such a way that we feel less like an awkward, intrusive 'voyeur' and more like a confidante. Similarly, the film also painstakingly dissects the culture of 'heroin chic' and its implications - one scene perfectly captures the ambivalence we feel when torn between self-interest and self-sacrifice, between protecting ourselves from trouble and throwing ourselves into dangerous situations to prove commitment to our longtime companions. Impressive stuff.

This piece, the first film by Hirokazu Kore-eda outside his native Japan, is a beautifully written drama in which a larger-than-life film-star diva — in this case, Catherine Deneuve — portrays a larger-than-life film-star diva. And Deneuve is utterly splendid as Fabienne Dangeville, a legendary French actress, now in her 70s, who approaches every moment with an 'I’m-still-here' tenacity which is at once steely and borderline tyrannical. Deneuve makes Fabienne a proudly narcissistic and theatrical glamour puss who has no patience for the idea that she should pretend to be anything other than the devious, self-adoring prima donna she is, although Fabienne is such a sly manipulator, so droll about her own royal ego, that we can’t help but feel drawn to her in a funny way. Kore-eda’s seamless dialogue is pitch-perfect throughout, suffused with the comedy of experience, and totally congruent with the cosmopolitan air of its French movie-world setting,

At the heart of the film is the relationship between Fabienne and her daughter Lumir, superbly played by Juliette Binoche, whose low-key but flawless performance is a perfect match for Kore-eda's sophisticated, subtle script. The heart of the film unfolds in Fabienne’s rustic suburban country home, where Lumir grew up, but as seemingly idyllic as the setting is, the memories are distinctly uncomfortable. Yet when confronted with the lies contained in her memoir, Fabienne offers no apology. It’s not in her nature to admit flaws; she maintains a tone of self-justifying blitheness. Fabienne speaks her mind to a fault, but after a while we realise that she’s never not acting. As the tensions mount, most films of this ilk would end build up towards an eruption of pain and confrontation, or (worse) to a soul-wrenching resolution involving copious tears and hugs. And many might feel the film that the film is weaker for not having these, but for the film is all the better for it - more believable, and ultimately more truthful.

There's some really effective touches, motifs and sub-plots, effortlessly woven into the action, notably the periodic detours to the set of the film Fabienne is shooting - inevitably, a mother-daughter drama, which offers a running commentary on the story we’re watching. Fabienne is actually cast as the daughter; that’s because the film’s sci-fi premise is that her sick mother went off into space (where you don’t age). So in many scenes, Fabienne plays a spiritual version of her own daughter: desperate, abandoned, reaching out to the mother she loves. It’s through this subplot that Kore-eda exhumes one of his oldest preoccupations: the permanence of film versus the impermanence of memory. Everything that happens between mother and daughter in the present is filtered through that past, and nothing in “The Truth” is more uncomfortably honest than the notion that families are cast much like films are cast; once people settle into their roles, it can become impossible to imagine them being played differently, or by anyone else. The beauty of Kore-eda’s film, despite its apparently light touch, is in the rhetorical way it wonders if it’s possible for people to separate themselves from those performances. A subtle masterpiece from a great director.

So, if you need anything like a 'plot' to keep you amused for two hours, you need to leave this one well alone, but if you're prepared to simply immerse yourself in artistic beauty, this one from Bi Gan has much to offer. It's one of those that's deliberately bewildering, plunging viewers into an extended dream - meets - subconscious - meets - unreliable memory world in the name of abstract motifs such as memory, time, and space, swimming in artsy references and ostentatious technical exercises.

The first half is very challenging indeed, and I suspect that many will fall by the wayside as a result, but everything (literally and metaphorically) takes off in the second half, with a hugely impressive hour-long continuous take in 3d. There's a voiceover reciting the director’s own poetry, hints of a criminal past and some regret over an old love; the film deliberately, if perhaps rather too self-consciously, evoking film noir by weaving in some fragmented backstory about someone who was murdered, and a mystery related to a gun, but given the wilfully obscure timelines and elliptical dialogue, nothing clear emerges; instead, you just have to surrender to the film’s aesthetics - and some of the cinematography by “Mustang” DP David Chizallet is truly inspired. The sheer range and weirdness of activity, including a surreal ping-pong match and a long, slow plunge down a cliff via a cable-car foreground the difficult and elaborate camera setups.

Bi cites a truckload of artistic references and inspiration, from Chagall to Dante, from Billy Wilder to Modiano (whose short story “Last Evenings on Earth” is chosen as the Chinese title - don't expect anything to do with Eugene O'Neil), although the connections are a tad tenuous, whilst, by contrast, the influence of Wong Kar-wai on the visual style, nostalgic songs, femmes fatales with retro haircuts, the theme of transience invoked by broken-clock motifs, and the staged poses of lovers in a permanent state of aroused but unrequited desire, is clear if perhaps a little too obvious in places; meanwhile, the largely unprofessional cast largely gives us range of standalone emotive facial expressions rather than anything resembling 'character'. Liu Qiang’s production design evokes the recesses of the mind through dark, underground sets like a coalmine shaft, a basement pool hall, and flooded chambers with leaking roofs and dripping walls reminiscent of Tsai Ming-liang locales, whilst, with its ethereal electronic touches, the wonderful score by Lim Giong and Point Hsu contributes most of the dreamlike tone intended. Much to admire here, but definitely hard work at times!

This highly original, deliberately disturbing, piece is a tale of domestic-violence revenge with a fairy-tale like quality. The plot's rather basic and the feminist message isn't very subtle, whilst some of the comedic touches are a tad clumsy, but Mirrah Foulkes' script and direction are largely excellent, and there's so many wonderful, ingenious touches that overall it's a highly enjoyable watch (if not for the squeamish or easily offended). The whole cast play their respective parts with great gusto (I suspect they really enjoyed themselves), but Mia Wasikowska is particularly good as Judy, who perfectly combines her vulnerability and inner strength, and Damon Herriman's Punch neatly displays the toxic combination of the demon drink and the need for applause. The design is simply spellbinding, whilst Francois Tetaz's wacky, sinister score which includes pretty much everything from light orchestra to retro prog-rock, is a perfect accompaniment to the incongruous matching of the brutality and absurdity being played out on screen. Terrific stuff.