'The Flowers of War' Berlinale (Out of Competition) review:

In 1937 the Imperial Japanese Army took the Chinese city of Nanking, then the capital. In the six-week period after the city's capture numerous atrocities were committed by Japanese soldiers against civilians and Chinese prisoners of war, the most notorious involving the rape and subsequent mutilation of women and children. Known today as "the rape of Nanking", it's a black chapter of human history and just reading historical accounts of the massacre is guaranteed to turn your stomach. It is in this historical setting that 'Hero' director Zhang Yimou's 'The Flowers of War' is set, with Christian Bale starring as an American caught in the middle.

Apparently loosely based on a true story (and I think "loosely" is the key word), 'The Flowers of War' sees Bale play a selfish mortician who is present during the massacre, making his way to a church where he is due to bury a European priest killed by a stray shell. The church is one of the last remaining safe areas in a city plunged into something resembling hell on Earth, so when Bale's John Miller turns up he decides to take refuge there himself, all the while looking for money, liquor and a means of escape. Also taking shelter in the church are a group of convent girls who immediately look to Miller for protection, begging him to help them, as well as a group of high-maintenance prostitutes (whose spirits are apparently untroubled by events in the city), who climb the walls and set up shop in the basement.

The prostitutes and the convent girls don't see eye to eye, whilst Miller is torn between his lust for the beautiful courtesan Yu Mo (Ni Ni) - who consistently rejects his advances - and his sympathy for these poor, frightened young women. The moment of epiphany for Miller comes as Japanese soldiers violate international law by entering the church, subsequently attempting to rape the young girls, whilst the prostitutes lock themselves in the concealed cellar below. Posing as the fallen priest, Miller wards off the attackers in the name of the lord. He is aided by a guerrilla Chinese soldier who launches a solitary attack on dozens of Japanese troops, persuading them to leave the church grounds.

This extreme and breathtakingly stupid action sequence is full of trailer-friendly explosions and gunfire is a rare flash-point, with this less focused on action set-pieces than the director's previous efforts. Most of the film is confined to the church where the girls bicker and an overacting Bale alternates wildly between a drunken Han Solo and the reincarnation of Jesus Christ. The crux of the drama occurs when a Japanese officer invites the convent girls to attend celebration of his army's victory in the city. He says they are to sing for the general, but Miller and Yu Mo know the truth: the girls will be raped and killed. So they come up with a brilliant and not at all stupid plan: the prostitutes will go in place of the girls.

This is the story of how the potential rape and murder of 13 girls is averted by simply providing different girls - one of whom is forced to go, kicking and screaming by Miller. I can't get behind that. And the notion that these are somehow better victims, because they are prostitutes, is unseemly. But accepting the story (perhaps true) on its own terms for a moment, Yimou's film is a mess. Out of place comedy moments abound, as child rape and slapstick hijinks are often a mere moment away from one another. The action, when it happens, is gruesome and absurd. High-octane in the usual style of the director but this time grounded in a mucky episode of history, for some in living memory.

The acting is awful, the musical interludes (two terrible songs) are spectacularly misjudged (though a Japanese officer mistakenly informs us his piano ballad is the best song ever written), and the film's tendency to caricature the Japanese soldiers sells short what is actually profound about these horrid events: that they were perpetuated by human beings. It's not often that the distance between a film's opinion of itself - here as an earnest high-drama - is so far short of the calamitous reality. If it weren't based on such nasty events it would very funny.

'Shadow Dancer' Berlinale (Out of Competition) review:

Andrea Riseborough has long been a star in search of a fitting vehicle. Though she certainly has the screen presence, acting chops and good looks required to be considered a big deal, to date Riseborough has been unlucky in terms of her choices, with her most high-profile lead roles being in 2011's stomach-churningly awful adaptation of 'Brighton Rock' and playing the infamous Wallis Simpson in this year's 'W.E', directed by Madonna (and also shredded by critics). But she needn't live in fear of a fatal third strike, for she has finally snared a starring role in a film of very fine pedigree indeed, as a Northern Irish member of the IRA, forced by MI5 to spy on her staunchly republican family.

Whilst planting a bomb at a London underground station, single mother Colette McVeigh is detained by Mac, a British secret service officer played by Clive Owen. He presents her with an ultimatum she can't easily ignore: she can either spend the next 25 years in prison and lose her young son, or she can return to Belfast and gather intelligence on her brothers Gerry (Aidan Gillen) and Connor (Domhnall Gleeson) - suspected as being responsible for a number of political murders and terrorist attacks. Already conflicted about her brothers' violence (she "forgets" to arm the underground bomb) and unwilling to be separated from her child, Colette reluctantly agrees to help Mac.

Of course, this decision places Colette in fresh danger, with her quick escape from the authorities in London and sudden unexplained visits to the local telephone box attracting attention from within the organisation. Soon a local IRA enforcer is hot on her trail, seemingly convinced that she is a mole and waiting for her to slip up. The result is a straight thriller about an informant caught in the middle between two forces to whom she is equally dispensable: Mac tries his best to reassure her of her safety, but his boss (Gillian Anderson) sees Colette as an expendable asset, whilst her the IRA won't hesitate to put a bullet in her head the minute they learn the truth. Soon it dawns on Mac that Colette is simply being used a bait to detract attention from another mole. Will he manage to pull her out of this situation before she's sold down the river? The final twenty minutes, full of unexpected twists and turns, is incredibly tense.

Directed by James Marsh, better known as the documentary filmmaker behind 'Man on Wire' and 'Project Nim', 'Shadow Dancer' is an extremely taut and gritty piece of work which is less about examining "the troubles" as it is the increasingly paranoid mental state of a character who's powerless escape her situation. Clive Owen is dependable as ever, whilst Gillen is a quietly menacing presence as the more hardline of the two brothers, but it's Riseborough who owns the film. She gives exactly the sort of subtle, layered performance required for this film to work, convincing both as a street-smart, lifelong IRA idealist and a mother scared out of her wits.

'The Girl With a Hat Box'/'Outskirts' Berlinale (Retrospective) review:

Part of the Retrospective strand at this year's Berlinale, "The Red Dream Factory" presented a number of inventive and pioneering Soviet and German films of the 1920s and 30s. Of these I saw two directed by Boris Barnet: enchanting 1927 silent comedy 'Devushka S Korobkoi' ('The Girl With a Hat Box') and early sound film 'Okraina' ('Outskirts'), in which small town life is shattered by the coming of the First World War.

'Hat Box' is fantastic - the film people who sit down to watch 'The Artist' think they're seeing, with buckets of charm and loads of really cleverly devised physical comedy and sight gags. Star Anna Sten - as fiercely independent small town hat maker Natasha - is so beautiful and captivating that she seems the Russian equivalent of Clara Bow: highly expressive, inherently lovable and naturally very funny. It's not that surprising that Samuel Goldwyn brought her to the US in the 30s in order to make her a huge international star. Sadly that never worked out as planned with Sten appearing in several flops, though she did star alongside the likes of Gary Cooper (in King Vidor's 'The Wedding Night') and Frederic March ('We Live Again').

As well as being timelessly funny the film is actually fairly risque, culminating the suggestion that Natasha is settling down with both her admirers: a homeless klutz who she hastily marries in order to give him a place to live, and the train station guard who obsessively follows her. Yet somehow this climax feels sweet and innocent to a fault. 'The Girl With a Hat Box' is breezy and light on its feet - the definition of a good time.

'Outskirts' is a very different proposition, with the harmless escapism of the earlier comedy replaced by a much more socially conscious, actively political anti-war film. 'Hat Box' has a political element to it: Natasha and her male friends are hard working and poor, whilst their enemies (the owner of the store that sells her hats and her greedy lover) are decadent and seek to profit from the work of others. Yet this feels incidental and, arguably, it isn't a million miles away from the populism of a Frank Capra movie. By comparison 'Outskirts' depicts the pre-revolutionary Russia as a place where local authorities put down striking factory workers with a cavalry charge.

It's still funny and endlessly inventive - playing games with early sound to create strange sound effects and to enable an increased sense of spacial continuity (for instance, action from a previous scene might still be heard   if the next takes place in an adjacent room). Best of all it enables Barnet's lyrical sense of visual comedy to expand into a world of new sensory possibilities. One inspired gag assigns the same sound effect used for a cavalry charge to a child's rattle, frightening who is hiding from the mounted police. Perhaps its the more important and experimental film, even if it doesn't ever match 'Hat Box' in terms of fun.

'Everybody in Our Family' Berlinale (Forum) review:

Romanian filmmaker Radu Jude's sardonically titled 'The Happiest Girl in the World' was one of my favourite film's of 2010. A bitter little portrait of inter-generational discord as parents bickered with their wilful and moody daughter about the proper way to deal with a car she'd won in a soda promotion. They, knowing the value of money and the difficult reality of life, want to sell it and invest in property. The girl, understandably enough, wants to drive her mates around in it and have a fun, care-free summer. All of this is in the backdrop as the girl records a TV advert for the soda company in which she is forced to declare, with escalating levels of irony, that she is the "happiest, luckiest girl in the world".

With 'Happiest Girl' I loved not only Jude's patient, documentary like shooting style and the naturalistic performances of his actors, but also the fact that each character could madden or thrill you in equal measure. Each player in his film could be infuriatingly stubborn or entirely justified depending on your own viewpoint, with no sense of good guys or bad guys. Personally, I thought the girl was being selfish, but you could easily say the same of the parents. All of this is equally true of Jude's second feature 'Toata lumea din familia noastra' ('Everybody in Our Family') - which is every bit as brilliant, complex and darkly comic a family drama as his debut - but with added tension.

The film follows Marius (Serban Pavlu), a father who is visiting his ex-wife's house in order to take his daughter Sofia (Sofia Nicolaescu) on a pre-arranged day out to the beach. However when he arrives his ex-wife, Otilia (Mihaela Sirbu), is out and her new partner Aurel (Gabriel Spahiu) stops him from leaving with the child. The two men have a pathetic little fight which leaves Aurel injured and Sofia crying - and then Otilia gets home. She tells Marius his visit is over and threatens to curtail his visiting rights further in court. This sends Marius crazy and what happens next should have you on the edge of your seat, wondering if this well-meaning if idiotic chap is going to seriously hurt somebody.

From the opening shots of 30-something Marius in bed, surrounded by empty beer cans, with film posters on the wall and shelves full of DVDs, it's clear that he's an adult but not necessarily a grown-up. The same could be said for Aurel and Otilia, who never compromise even when it's in everyone's interests to do so. In fact arguably Sofia is better behaved - more moral, empathetic and understanding - than any of the adults in her life. At the beginning we see a short, highly confrontational scene between Marius and his parents which adds an interesting dimension - suggesting that we perhaps never grow up. Here we see the routes of his own temper and confrontational tendencies, but also observe, through their unhappiness at his short, infrequent visits, how a parents desire to be close to their child is a universal constant, even when they (paradoxically) can't stand each other.

'Everybody in Our Family' could obviously be seen as a call for increased father's rights (a hot contemporary issue), with the heartbreaking reality that Otilia could stop Marius from seeing his daughter at the forefront of the drama. Yet it's equally the story about how otherwise quite gentle people might suddenly snap if pushed too far. The fact that Marius' actions, born of increased distress, are only adding to the likelihood that he'll never see his daughter again creates a sense of deep, inevitable tragedy.

'King of Comics' Berlinale (Panorama) review:

The name of documentary 'König des Comics' loses something in translation to the more prosaic English handle 'King of Comics'. The German title is a pun on the name of the film's charismatic subject: comic book artist Ralf König, whose defiantly graphic and frank homosexual comedy books of the 80s and 90s remain a source of reassurance, comfort and great pleasure for many in the gay community throughout Europe.

The film goes through König's life and comics chronologically, providing insight into the gay scene in Germany from the 70s to the present day, as much as giving a "for dummies" course on a (to UK audiences) obscure, but influential, comic book artist and wit. König comes across very well, especially when performing his work to audiences, doing the voices as he goes. He is full of life and his political activism and no-nonsense attitude are infectious.

Ultimately the books themselves aren't my cup of tea, but König and his story are good value regardless even if the doc itself is unpolished and without a clear focus. It lacks any great feeling of narrative climax, meaning that enjoyment of the cartoonist's company, if not the wider world of gay comic books, is paramount to the film's appeal.

'Marina Abramović the Artist is Present' Berlinale (Panorama) review:

It's difficult to review some types of documentary film without tending towards reviewing their subject. This HBO produced look at the life and work of pioneering Yugoslavia-born performance artist Marina Abramović is one such example. The film itself is extremely competent: well paced, with access to interesting people, making compelling use of archive material, and coming across as authoritative in regards to Abramović's experimental, provocative pieces (exploring their context and meaning). Yet enjoyment of it will hinge far more on whether or not you buy into the art and the artist herself than on the documentary's own merits.

For my part I found 'Marina Abramović the Artist is Present' fascinating and strangely moving in some places, though frustrating in others. It certainly raises questions. The film's focus is on the titular MoMA exhibition, "The Artist is Present", which saw Abramović sit still in the middle of a room during the gallery's opening hours for three consecutive months, with members of the public invited to sit opposite and look into her eyes. Around 750,000 visitors took the opportunity over that period, with the film showing how many people were moved to tears by the poignancy of it all. Abramović suggests that in gazing into another's eyes participants are really looking at themselves, laid bear in a mirror.

It's a compelling idea and an interesting exhibition - however much it hinges on a distracting central "stunt" (it's not entirely incongruous for David Blaine to appear as one of the artist's friends). But it's odd that people felt the need to queue for 16 hours (and overnight) in order to experience this mutual stare-fest with the artist. Surely the point that there's inherent power in silently gazing into another person's eyes, as opposed to Abramović's in particular? Indeed the most moving sequences occur when former colleagues and lovers of Abramović take the chair, implying that there is something more profound about the experience of looking deep into the soul of someone you have a connection to. Instead many of the participants here seem like art groupies, engaging with a "must-see" happening or high-brow cultural celebrity. Fodder for dinner party conversation.

The MoMA's director, a former husband of the artist, speaks about how radical the exhibition is because Abramović is treating everybody as though they were the same (though one suspects special guest James Franco didn't have to wait too long). He says some of these members of the public seem to feel "entitled" to that equality, which they of course are. This statement speaks to a thinly-concealed elitism behind this section of the art world. For instance members of the public are hauled away from the viewing area if they (as happens in one case) decide to take their clothes off, even though Abramović's own art has frequently used nudity as a way of exploring vulnerability, sex, gender dynamics and voyeurism.

Why is it alright for an artist to do something that is socially unacceptable for anybody else? Who decides the viewer is not entitled to become part of the art - to dress funny, or pull a face or take their clothes off? What sort of ego does it take to initiate this one-way exchange, inviting hundreds of thousands of people to look at you - and pay for the privilege? The early experimental pieces of Abramović's that we see are so much more daring and conceptually interesting than this. Especially one earlier work (1974's "Rhythm 0") which saw the artist lie naked in a room full of props (guns, knives, a whip, coloured paints etc), with viewers encouraged to use these objects to interact with her creatively.

A study of what people choose to do when given this social permission is very interesting. Who is it that chooses to draw on her breast and what is it they choose to draw? What does that say about the nature of being a spectator? Why might somebody reach for a weapon rather than a hat? And so on. Yet here this interaction is diminished and the artist's place has become rarefied, commodified and controlled. Her former partner in art, Uwe Laysiepen, jokes that the life of a performance artist is poverty, but that Ambramovic has moved profitably into something closer to theatre. Elsewhere her manager talks candidly about the business model that enables her to buy €300,000 designer clothes. The struggling artist indeed.

Yet whether it's down to the inherent power of looking another in the eye, or to a mix of social expectation (or even a natural impulse to justify a day of queueing), it's fascinating to see how "The Artist is Present" really moved people to tears. The film's exploration of Abramović's loveless communist upbringing, body of exceptional 70s work and subsequent growth as an art world business powerhouse is likewise compelling.

'My Way' Berlinale (Panorama) review:

It's bombastic and occasionally very silly - a tonal mess of genres and styles, which switches between slapstick comedy moments and bloody massacres without pause. Yet South Korean WWII movie 'Mai-Wei' (or 'My Way') is not only entirely entertaining but also quite brave and, if you can look beyond the CGI-fuelled excess, even fairly profound. It follows two marathon runners, lifelong rivals and occasional friends - one Japanese and one Korean - as they are enveloped by a war that will take them across the world on an all-star tour of man's darkest hour.

The spoiler-adverse should turn away now, but what's great about Kang Je-kyu's epic is the way it fundamentally rejects the wisdom of nationalism. It begins with our heroes separated by Korea's war against Japanese occupation and then by segregation within the Japanese army, as they fight together against the Soviets. Taken prisoner by the Soviets, the duo are then forced to fight in the Red Army against the Nazis. Then, you guessed it, they are captured and (recognised as Japanese allies) pressed into the German army to fight the Americans on the beaches of Normandy (giving us a rare looking at the D-day landings from the perspective of German soldiers).

That every army we see is forcing their men to fight, shooting those who run away in battle, suggests not only a commonality between those fighting in war, but also that the low-ranking soldier is a pawn in a much bigger game. That it doesn't ultimately matter who they are fighting for and who they are shooting is a challenge to the very idea of nation states. This is a point reinforced by the ending in which the surviving soldier competes in the London Olympics, appearing as the only runner whose shirt does not feature a national flag.

So there's this very important, anti-war, anti-nationalist sentiment which is entirely winning. Then there's also a crack-shot Chinese sniper woman who shoots down fighter planes with a rifle, and a guy who single handedly destroys armies of Russian tanks with nothing more than a sword. There's a romance sub-plot, a survival in the Siberian wilderness bit, an unflinching glimpse at the horrors of a Soviet prisoner of war camp, buckets of gore, and also a game of beach football between loveable Nazi soldiers. It's a pretty sprawling, occasionally mad, film but an honourable and thoroughly enjoyable one.