Refn's masterpiece! After the post-Tarantino shenanigans of Part One and the 'Loachian' character study of Part Two, it almost makes sense that the final instalment should descend into a full-on horror movie. The themes carried right the way through the trilogy are perfectly brought together in the closing scene, with Milo staring at the empty swimming pool, encapsulating the respective journeys of these three very different characters as something futile and entirely destructive. The tension throughout is incredible.

Like The Girlfriend Experience, it's a film preoccupied with surfaces, locations and connections, where any sense of human drama is observed, almost by accident, simply by virtue of having taken place in front of whichever dense urban setting, sterile medical facility or overcrowded office space Soderbergh happened to be filming. As such, it's less a conventional thriller than a mesmeric "ambient" mood-piece that moves and pulsates to the dull undulating rhythms of its Cliff Martinez score.

Jordan's picaresque fable - full of the usual contrasts between the poetic and the real - is in many ways a 21st century answer to O Lucky Man! Although not a musical in the same sense, Jordan uses period pop songs to create a commentary, not just on the story as it unfolds (like a classical Greek chorus), but as an external expression of the thoughts and feelings of its enigmatic central figure. Through the character, Jordan explores many of his key themes; divides (political, geographical, sexual), the Ireland of his youth, and the power of fiction to transcend the greatest of everyday tragedies.

I suppose, as with Neil Jordan's In Dreams, I'm more critical of it because the final act denied me the interpretation that I'd been working towards. Still, there's no denying the power of Roeg's filmmaking, his ellipses, his cross-cutting, his accumulation of moments, past and present - which turn the entire film into an old man's hysterical gold rush premonition at the moment of expiration... or so I thought! - and the absolute frenzied intensity of the first two acts. For me, it's not the long lost masterpiece that I'd always hoped for, but it is, in places, totally unforgettable.

I'd call this a transitional work, between the more accessible Bruce Willis movies, and the more hermetic, controversial stuff that he's directed since. Already we've got the move to the countryside, the isolated family marked by grief, the post-9/11 anxiety and the loss of faith; all themes that are further developed in The Village, Lady in the Water and The Happening. Unlike those films, there's nothing to transcend the elements here, no social commentary, no self-awareness, no experimentation with the form, but it works on an immediate level as a fairly modest homage to early Spielberg, if nothing else.

"What's with the 'photo guy'? - Photo guy? - Yes, is he drunk? Get the tripod!" - Okay, from the plot synopsis and the trailer, is the Nikolaj Lie Kaas character an affectionate lampoon of von Trier? [A tyrannical art-house auteur who drives around in a golf cart, gets huge critical acclaim, but no one actually sees the films.] I don't know, but it looks funny! Thomsen can make any film worth seeing.

Quietly audacious; set almost entirely in broad daylight, and managing to make the idyllic French countryside, with its wide-open spaces and rustic locales, as menacing as the hostile backwoods of Deliverance or the outback planes of Wolf Creek. While it stalls in the third act, the film is still notable for its attempts to go against the usual conventions of the genre, creating tension from everyday interactions and misunderstandings, and managing to sustain an extraordinary feeling of unease and uncertainty through Fuest's languid, observational approach.

Romero, like his zombies, shuffles ever onwards, not quite sure where he's going, still full of rage but with nothing left to kick out at. The feuding farmers - stuck in the same place, no interest in leaving; they loathe one another, but don't remember why! - are part of Romero's on-going commentary on civilisation; how the species attempts to cling to the old ways of profiteering, control, greed and manipulation, while the zombies, with their simple needs and necessities, are ultimately the more progressive, and the most likely to adapt and survive.

Everything following Todd's initial desertion, right up until the soldiers arrive, is middling at best. Everything else, before and after, is excellent! Free of the trashy soundtrack selections and forced comic-relief (usually built around annoying afro-American stereotypes) that spoil his better known work, Anderson shows himself to be a surprisingly talented "visual" filmmaker. His command of the 2.35:1 frame - combined with his bold, comic-strip colours - is extraordinary, leading to some powerful and unforgettable images.

Imitating the early style of Nicolas Roeg, Collinson hints at the psychological rifts in both characters through aggressive cross-cutting (creating juxtapositions and associations between scenes) and a jarring, disruptive soundtrack. These techniques all build to that bravura finale, in which a taped confession (presented as a disturbing aural collage) suggests the idea of the film itself as a twisted concoction of its own protagonist's Repulsion-like descent into madness.

If I left the film with anything at all, it's the impression of the thing, the experience of a film reduced to an endless blur of images, colours, shapes and movements. The noisy, bombastic chaos and disorganisation that Bay is continually chided for - but which, at its best, is pure, abstract spectacle - works perfectly in the context of this story, placing the audience in the shared, subjective mindset of characters overwhelmed, mentally and physically, by the sensory overload of a world (our world) beyond their control.

Marker (in collaboration), ever the explorer! An observer, looking at the world with the curious eye of an alien anthropologist, finding vast systems of information, histories, connections, emotions and worlds within worlds, all resting on the surface of the mundane. Junkopia offers a travelogue of an imaginary kingdom, full of drama and mystery; a miniature landscape of curious relics transformed into something greater, more substantial, by the perception of the filmmaker(s) and the reflections of a viewing audience.

Not as well-known, internationally at least, as his younger brother Mads, but still a great actor in his own right. He's the best thing about the first series of The Killing; playing the tragic political candidate Troels Hartmann with the kind of captivating ferocity usually found in the greatest Shakespearean players. As Hartmann, he has that perfect balance between misguided arrogance and total vulnerability, creating a character that is, at its core, completely detestable, but always fascinating and ultimately doomed in a way that can only elicit sympathy.

I liken the construction of it to the song Let it Be. Sure, it's simple; anyone with a basic knowledge of music can play along; the words are direct and easy to comprehend. But isn't that the point, really? The message, front and centre, there to be appreciated as something profound by a younger audience unfamiliar with the age-old tale and its obvious allusions to everything from the persecution of Native Americans to the current situation regarding U.S. involvement in the Middle East. For me, it was just a beautiful film: beautiful in its themes and in its execution. I didn't need it to be anything else.

Along with Kiss Me Deadly, one of the strangest of all detective movies. A film full of bizarre interactions, stilted dialogues, hallucinations, punning one-liners and some of the most abstract and theatrical compositions ever featured in a 'classical' Hollywood noir. I couldn't take my eyes off it! The detective film as subjective nightmare; more a precursor to Blue Velvet than a descendant of The Maltese Falcon.

When I saw the film at the cinema it seemed more profound. There was a sensory aspect to the play of light, the closeness of it, the emotional impact. I felt as if I was seeing images on screen that I'd never seen before. When I watched the film again a few weeks ago the experience was less intense and for the first time I understood why most people despise it so. That said, I still think it works, up to a certain point. Taken metaphorically I mean, the film pulsates with the sadness and the fury of a dying sun, venting its rage against the species that brought about its end.

The first of the great 'post 9/11' genre films? Possibly! Though it went into production prior to the attack, it nonetheless captures the mood and the feeling of a decade marred by acts of terrorism, rioting, apathy and global economic breakdown, while also succeeding, on a more obvious level, as a fine horror film. Anthony Dod Mantle's primitive, consumer-quality DV images are often beautiful in a way that I've yet to see replicated by more advanced digital recording equipment, finding an odd, almost abstract poetry in its world of emptiness, violence and urban decay.

My original filmography entry for this title was roughly 800 characters in length. It's literally like a full block paragraph! So although I found the film to be mostly without merit, I suppose it did at least inspire me to contemplate some ideas of my own. For me, if a film can provide you with something to think about, even if it's inventing your own film as a remedy to the one you're supposed to be viewing, then the experience is entirely worth it.

I'm probably alone on this, but I think he's steadily improving with each film, very slowly becoming one of the more interesting genre directors currently working. From the retrograde Death Line knock-off of Creep, to the playful satire of Severance, the Shyamalan/Nolan-lite twists of Triangle, right-up to the "Grindhouse Bergman" of Black Death [possibly his first truly 'great' film], he's overcome the more irritating shortcomings of other contemporary horror filmmakers, such as Roth, West, Marshall, Mclean, etc, and produced that rare thing: contemporary horror movies that are about more than just homage and appropriation, but actually approach serious ideas from a semi-serious perspective.

When I was younger I loved it for its post-Tarantino affectations, casual violence, sharp script and unconventional (to me) directorial choices. Today, I'm more impressed by its subtle characterisations, its themes of disappointment, spent-time and last chances, and the melancholic romanticism of the central relationship.

Nice little homage to Carpenter's Christine, and a great interpretation of the song's creeping paranoia. The second-hand Orwellian sense of despotic suppression as something almost inevitable (to the point of invoking apathy) is perfectly suggested, not so much by the plight of the escapee (?), but by Yorke's look of resigned despair.

Little grey riding hood travels to grandma's house and is swallowed by the jaws of the big bad wolf. [It's] Laika / fairy tale [get it] - the Brothers Grimm are explicitly referenced, while the dog sent into space - purpose-bred for the mission and ultimately expendable - becomes a beautifully rendered metaphor for the character's journey into being. Though it falls just short of perfection, it's still worth it for those extraordinary moments where Wright, via cinematographer Alwin H. Kuchler, channels the poetic ambience of early Lynne Ramsay, and for Saoirse Ronan's remarkable performance.

I was trying to make the experience more interesting, so I started thinking: what if I watch the film as a response to the recent banking crisis? After all it's set in the 1980s; not just the decade of the straight-to-video slasher, but of Wall Street (and its maxim "greed is good!") and conservative moral panic - preludes to the current financial situation of today! Here (and elsewhere) it's all about the money. If the character is motivated by anything, it's financial gain. Thirty years ago, the fact that she was young and alone would have been enough to make her the target, but these days everyone has a price, even when playing the victim.

Along with The Spirit of the Beehive; one the great films about childhood loneliness and the power of imagination to transcend the mundane. Unlike Tourneur's dark, suspenseful psychodrama, this pseudo-sequel is an expressionist melodrama with shades of poetic realism, where the suggestion of a ghostly encounter between little Amy and the first film's disturbed protagonist Irena becomes an attempt to forge a connection with an emotionally distant parent and an escape from the loveless pragmatism of the home.

Beneath the lurid surface of its Pinewood sets, 'day-for-night' exteriors and shots of blood-soaked bosoms heaving in anticipation of sexual ecstasy, there's some pertinent commentary on the persecution of the innocent, religious hysteria and the general hypocrisy of those who commit unspeakable crimes for the benefit of some theoretical 'greater good.' Though not as rich in its observations as films like The Devils and The Village - which also deal with hysteria, fear-mongering and human exploitation - it's full-colour gothic melodrama and spirited performance from Peter Cushing create some lasting appeal.

The usual characteristics of early 70s' exploitation cinema abound; porno-level performances, trite dialogue, shaky camera-work, day-for-night shots and brazenly gratuitous nudity. However, while most of these films attempted to justify their transgressive provocations with social commentary (Last House..., I Spit..., Cannibal Holocaust, etc), Walker's film goes for a less characteristic meta-commentary. The violence becomes a performance enacted by the cast, to be viewed by a general audience. It's an interesting idea for a film of this nature, though not as successful in total as the much more intelligent and satirical Theatre of Blood.

Reaches for something profound and occasionally pulls it off. Unfortunately the end result is sabotaged at every turn by Danny Boyle, who clearly had no faith in this story, or in the exceptional performance of his lead actor, throwing CSI style gimmicks at every scene in an attempt to hold the attention of the audience (did we really need a POV shot from inside the arm, or a montage of beer commercials to get the point that he was thirsty?) These cheap tricks make the situation seem trivial.

Already mentioned is the pure spectacle of the wedding across the river, which suggests the absurdity of national borders as an affront to the natural human instinct to create links between people, so I'll suggest another scene instead. A ramshackle performance of Let it Be - where the lyrics, in English, express unconscious yearning for unification - placed against the naked testimony of a young man, whose disfigured arm is a reminded of who he is and where he came from. A subtle but emotionally complex moment that stands in quiet contrast to some of the film's more towering observations.

After a rolling montage of war and devastation, and with the burnt ruins of Sarajevo still standing as a solitary witness to the last great horror of the 20th century, Godard asks the question: "how can we live?" The audience responds: "with our fingers in our ears and our eyes tightly closed." Heaven really is a place where nothing ever happens.

Time waits for no man, but Tom Waits for everyone! The greatest songwriter of his generation and one of the greatest of all storytellers, endlessly evoking desolate landscapes, dustbowl desperation and carnivalesque caricatures that speak to the complexities of the human condition through the combination of words and music. His work is intensely 'cinematic' even without the necessary image track. He can conjure an image more vivid - more real - than any major filmmaker with just the sound of an old harmonium, a piano, an electric guitar or the carefully arranged horns of a Salvation Army band.