'A Royal Affair' Berlinale (Competition) review:

An epic tale of romance, ambition and the tragic fallibility of idealism, 'A Royal Affair' (or 'En Kongelig Affære') is a historical drama recounting the story of how provincial German physician and amateur philosopher Johan Struensee (Mads Mikkelsen) became the power behind the Kingdom of Denmark - for a brief time transforming one of Europe's most backwards feudal powers into a progressive model of the enlightenment that pre-dated the French Revolution by several decades.

After being appointed the personal physician to Christian VII (a frequently hilarious, scene-stealing performance from Mikkel Boe Følsgaard) in 1768, Struensee used his close friendship with the mentally unwell monarch to banish the country's conservative ruling council and institute a bold raft of social changes which included ending censorship, vaccinating common people against smallpox and abolishing torture. Pretty soon he was actually signing new laws himself, without need of the king's signature. However the old ruling elites, stripped of much of their power, used the newly free press to make Struensee deeply unpopular with the people - enabling his overthrow and eventual beheading.

The key to undermining his popularity - at least according to director Nikolaj Arcel's splendid film - lay in publicising details of his passionate, doomed affair with Christian's estranged wife, the English-born Queen Caroline Mathilde (rising Swedish actress Alicia Vikander). Though they begin this romance very quietly, the two are soon madly in love and even have a daughter (officially Christian's), with their passion an open secret at the palace. A few lurid details later, and with fabricated talk of Struensee poisoning the king to steal power, the people are baying for blood and aching to restore the old order - founded on religion over reason.

The power of the yellow press to turn a mob against its own interests is just one of many potent themes, as is the battle between progress and traditionalism - and that between the wealthy and the poor. But also visible here is something of how power corrupts, for instance as Stuensee brings back censorship when he is the target of criticism. There is also some truth to the idea that he is taking advantage of this mentally ill king, with his use of the ruler as a puppet in no way dissimilar from that of the previous council. Do his good intentions excuse his behaviour in this regard? I'm not sure.

As he faces the block, the doctor - who has already signed a letter condemning enlightenment ideals in the hope of a pardon - looks out onto the crowd in their thousands who have come to cheer his death, and is stunned about where his determination to improve their lot has landed him. Perhaps he moved too fast or gave "the people" too much credit. In any case even if his optimism about the human condition seems to be placed in doubt, the film is not itself given to pessimism: merely the cruel irony of fate.

Everything about 'A Royal Affair' is stunning. Its ambitious scope in terms of subject matter, its intelligence, its brilliant cast of actors (I'll now happily watch anything with Alicia Vikander in it), and its lavish production values. I cried at the end, with the once vital Caroline separated from her children and living in exile, and I laughed far more and far harder than I have at the last dozen or so comedies. The story of a doctor who gives a king new confidence and inspires him to greater things, it could easily be billed as Denmark's answer to 'The King's Speech'. It's far better than that.

'Mercy' Berlinale (Competition) review:

Set in, Hammerfest, one of the world's northern most towns, 'Gnade' (or 'Mercy') sees a German family move to this remote part of Norway characterised by long cycles of unbroken darkness and unbroken sunshine. Matthias Glasner directs this compelling morality play in which a married couple struggle to come to terms with the fact that they are responsible for the death of a 16 year-old girl. Almost as bad as having caused her death is the fact that they look set to get away with it, a detail which weighs heavily on their shoulders - especially as they know her distraught parents.

The event itself is an accident as Maria (Birgit Minichmayr) hits the girl in her car whilst driving home during the ever-sunless Polarnacht. At first she isn't sure what she's hit and it takes a short while for her to stop the car. Then she can't bear to get out and look, beyond quickly scanning her rear view mirror. After getting home, alarmed at the prospect of having killed a dog, her husband Niels (Jurgen Vogel) ventures back out to the spot looking for evidence of the accident and - after a very short, slightly half-hearted search - finds nothing. The next day news reports confirm their worst fears, but they decide to remain silent.

At school their son Markus (Henry Stange) is also having to ask moral questions of himself - should he bully the unpopular kid to fit in or accept his offer of friendship and be picked on? Niels, for his part, is having an affair with a lady from work. So there's a lot to weigh up all round, though understandably the vehicular manslaughter plot takes centre stage. These problems are explored in interesting ways with defenciveness, self-justification and denial being among the early reactions from characters who say they "aren't that kind of person" even after repeat immoralities. Beautiful night-time helicopter shots of the Arctic town only enhance this rare drama that is actually every bit as profound as it aspires to be.

'Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close' Berlinale (Out of Competition) review:

Who knew 9/11 could throw up so much potential for whimsy? Adapted from Jonathan Safran Foer's best-selling novel, 'Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close' is the story of how the tragic events of that day cure a boy's autism. That's really pretty much what happens, as nine year-old protagonist Oskar Schell (Thomas Horn) goes on a life-affirming quest to find out why terrorists blew up his super-swell father (Tom Hanks).

Of course this being an Eric Roth ('Forest Gump', 'Benjamin Button') screenplay, Oskar's disarming sincerity and can-do attitude ensure that he heals the gaping emotional wounds in everyone he meets - and he meets everyone with the surname "Black" in the New York City phone book, incidentally fixing marriages and mending souls as he goes. Black is the only word on an envelope in which Oskar finds a mysterious key belonging to his late father - a key he hopes will unlock some powerful nuggets of truth, but which'll most likely be for a back door or bleeding a radiator, or something.

He is buoyed in his quest early on by a friendly old man at a key cutting shop who - in a line recalling Gump's famed box o' chocolates - says that he likes keys because they all unlock something. Yes, I'm afraid that is the acidic taste of sick in your mouth. He is also helped by his walkie talkie wielding Germanic grandmother (Zoe Caldwell) and her mute house guest, with "yes" and "no" tattoos on the palms of his hands - I told you this was whimsical. He's also apparently aided in a clandestine fashion by his mostly absent mother (Sandra Bullock), the reveal for which is so far-fetched it makes the rest of the film seem grounded. Bear in mind that "the rest of the film" in this case includes the making of a 9/11 pop-up book.

I haven't even mentioned Tom Hanks' wacky antics in the frequent backflash scenes, because I don't want to relive them. As "the renter", Max von Sydow (who has received an Oscar nomination) is the film's clear (for "clear" read "only") highlight. It's not without emotionally distressing moments, but those stem more from being reminded of the horror of 9/11 than anything the movie is doing. In fact it's own attempts to wring tears from the tragedy feel crass and exploitative. The only noteworthy thing about 'Extremely Loud' is that Stephen Daldry has made perhaps the worst film in recent memory to be nominated for Best Picture at the Academy Awards.

'Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close' is released in the UK tomorrow, rated '12A' by the BBFC.

'Just the Wind' Berlinale (Competition) review:

Reminiscent of last year's equally bleak and gritty Albania-set 'The Forgiveness of Blood', Hungarian film 'Just the Wind' - or 'Csak a Szél' - is similarly about a rural family living under the threat of violence. But whereas that other film was focussed on the entirely regionally specific problem of inter-familial blood feuds, Bence Fliegauf's film concerns the murder of Romani families - with gypsies being massacred in the night by shotgun wielding thugs out of centuries old prejudice. An opening paragraph tells us that the events of this film, though fictionalised, are based on actual recent anti-gypsy attacks in Hungary. Again like 'Forgiveness' this is a very carefully researched and authentic feeling piece.

It's set over a single day in which we follow a middle-aged mother Mari (Katalin Toldi) and her two children - teenage Anna (Gyongyi Lendvai) and younger brother Rio (Lajos Sarkany) - as they go about their regular business under the shadow of recent violence and suspicion within their own community. Rio seems lazy as he sleeps in to avoid school, but he's really just too worried to be on the streets - spending his day hiding in the nearby trees and stealing supplies for an emergency hideout. Anna sees school as an escape and a means to learn English, the dream being to join her father in Canada. Mari, the breadwinner, is far too busy to worry about anything in between working two cleaning jobs and tending to her ailing father.

All three encounter prejudice and kindness from outsiders. Anna is neglected by her teacher, who encourages other students to pay attention but seems oblivious to her lying face-down on the desk. Yet she also knows people who admire her drawings, trading make-up for her tattoo designs. Mari is given a bag of new clothes for her children by one sympathetic boss, though another disrespects her and implies that she smells. Rio, whilst in hiding, bears witness to the most astounding prejudice of all as he hears one police officer tell another that recent gypsy attacks have been - to some extent - justified.

This rural cop startles his colleague from the city, bemoaning the fact that gypsy children grow up and he doesn't come far short of endorsing future killings of families, suggesting he could show gangs where the worst families live. As with the other examples, this scene is balanced by the other cop who is horrified to encounter such a mentality within the police. It's these moments that prevent the film from suggesting Hungarian society is completely prejudiced. The thugs clearly represent a vocal minority and are acting on many of the lazy stereotypes we hear cited throughout the movie. Ironically, these murderers want to kill gypsies whose dream is to leave the country anyway.

In terms of examining the Romani people's status in this community, the richest scene involves Anna being present in a school locker room as another girl - a pale-skinned western European - is sexually assaulted (possibly raped). The victim of the attack never calls to her, the attackers clearly don't see her as a witness to their crime or as another potential victim, and Anna does nothing - this is not a society in which she feels like, or is treated as, an equal participant. A nuanced and well-paced film that leads to an incredibly tense finale, 'Just the Wind' is one of the best of this year's Berlinale.

'Postcards From the Zoo' Berlinale (Competition) review:

The quirky Indonesian feature 'Kebun Binatang' - or 'Postcards From the Zoo' - is a disarming and beautifully shot competition oddity from a mono-monikered director known as Edwin. In it a young girl named Lana, played with great charm by Ladya Cheryl, spends her formative years living alongside the animals in the confines of Jakarta zoo, where she obsesses over the solitary giraffe. She doesn't work there but lives with a band of misfits on the premises until one day she is asked to leave by the zoo authorities.

She then joins up with a magical (possibly imaginary) cowboy (Nicholas Saputra) who teaches this naïve and entirely passive spirit about magic. She becomes her assistant until, one day, he disappears from her life just as suddenly as he entered it and Lana (nonplussed as ever) embarks on a new phase of her life as a prostitute in a gentleman's sauna. Wearing the number "33" and viewed from behind one-way glass by the establishment's clientele, Lana is evidently now living out her life in much the same way as the giraffe she recites facts about endlessly.

Though there are undoubtedly many ways to interpret this elliptical, metaphorical journey - on a personal and societal level - for me the most compelling reading (at least that I've thought of) frames it as a tale about the nature of viewer complicity. The magician ceases to exist after she first enters the seedy world of the sauna-brothel: has the innocence (and audience engagement) that requires magic to work left her at this point? Likewise aren't we all complicit in the morally questionable practise of keeping of exotic animals in captivity, subsidising this industry whenever we visit a zoo? I know I'm guilty of this.

But most profoundly I felt this theme resonate strongly through a scene in which a customer asks Lana to change clothes (into a skin-tight leopard suit, no less). Here she tells the man not to look at her, but he does anyway as soon as her back is turned. But as we judge him for his voyeurism it dawns on us that we are also watching her undress, perpetuating this violent cycle of endless leering.

'Tabu' Berlinale (Competition) review:

After a week of films that have only occasionally dipped their toes in the shallow end of decent, Portuguese colonial love story 'Tabu' is the first in this year's competition that I would describe as unequivocally brilliant. Director Miguel Gomes divides his highly stylised tale into two parts presented in reverse chronological order, with the first ("a paradise lost") showing the lonely, paranoid final years of a bitter old woman living in Lisbon, frittering away her savings through compulsive gambling.

Aurora (Laura Soveral) is losing her marbles, convinced that her African maid, Santa (Isabel Cardoso), is out to get her and trusting only her nurturing, perennially concerned Polish neighbour Pilar (Teresa Madruga). This chapter of the movie is told from the introverted Pilar's perspective, with Aurora a sad and desperate figure, separated from a distant daughter who seems to pay her no attention. It ends with the old lady dying and Pilar coming into contact with her former lover, Ventura (Henrique Espirito Santo) who, over coffee, narrates the second chapter ("paradise"), shedding light on their doomed love affair as care-free youngsters living a decadent existence in a then-thriving African colony.

It's here that the film really springs into life as we begin to understand more about the sad story behind the difficult and slightly unlikable lady of the earlier scenes. In this sunnier part of the film Aurora - heiress to a colonial fortune and world famous big game hunter - is played by the dazzlingly pretty Ana Moreira and Ventura - a well travelled lothario and successful rock and roll drummer - is portrayed by the charismatic Carloto Cotta. The whole thing is narrated, without any dialogue between characters, as old Ventura recounts how he fell in love with Aurora even as she was pregnant by her husband. They try to do the "decent" thing and go their separate ways, yet it's far too painful and they come back together with disastrous results.

Despite the fact the entire film is black and white, framed in a 4:3 aspect ratio, a lot of it reminded me of the hyper-colourful films of Wes Anderson: with Portuguese language cover versions of 60s popular songs, childlike romanticism of the colonial spirit of adventure, characters with obscure quasi-celebrity status, and a highly precise sense of composition. Funny, bizarre, imaginative, unique, and emotional in that way that hits the hairs on the back of your neck - I'll be surprised if this festival goes on to present a better film than 'Tabu'.

'Home for the Weekend' Berlinale (Competition) review:

Another warmly received German competition entrant, 'Was Bleibt' - which translates literally as "what remains", but given the far sappier English title 'Home for the Weekend' - is a quietly effective examination of how one family falls apart during a routine get together. However much they lie to one another and retreat behind false jollity, each person has significant problems - be they financial, medical or of the heart.

Berlin-based writer Marko (Lars Eidinger) is struggling to spend time with his son Zowie (Egon Merten) after separating from his wife - though he makes excuses for her absence, keeping his family in the dark. Jakob (Sebastian Zimmler) puts on a superior attitude, as the responsible, attentive son, yet his dental practice - paid for by his father Gunter (Ernst Stotzner) - is on the verge of bankruptcy. A fact he doesn't even tell his wife Ella (Picco von Groote), who in turn feels disrespected and kept at a distance.

Over the weekend all of these traumas come to the fore after Marko and Jakob's manic depressive mother
Gitte (Corinna Harfouch) discloses that she has not been taking her medication for some time and has no plans to do so. The family is divided over how to proceed, fearing violent mood swings if they talk openly in front of Gitte. This exacerbates her own feelings of isolation and threatens her will to live. When she goes for an early morning drive alone and does not return the family begin to fear the worst, intensifying their internal feud and hastening the airing of grievances.

Director Hans-Christian Schmid handles this potentially sombre story a deceptive lightness of touch, the film being peppered with smile-raising moments which enliven the kitchen sink drama. As it stands it's one of the most purely watchable films of the competition here.