First off, what happened to Billy Crudup? Where is the hot, long-locked rocker from Almost Famous? Where?

Anyway. Unlike the 2 hour and 20 minute collection of travel cliches and too-convenient plot devices that is Eat Pray Love, this review is going to be short.

Julia Roberts plays Liz Gilbert, a New York writer unhappy in her marriage for reasons we have no grasp on until she and her husband (Billy Crudup) are arguing in the divorce lawyer's office. Consequently Liz's abrupt exit just leaves you feeling sorry for the guy.

On the rebound, and after the obligatory rebound relationship with a hot younger man (James Franco), she decides she needs to travel for a year in order to find herself. Embrace carbs. Embrace the moment, embrace life, etc.

Her quest leads her to foodies' paradise Italy, then a soul-searching stint in India and finally Bali. Along the way she muses, feeds, dwells on her problems and attracts lifelong friends with no apparent effort.

This is based on a book and it feels like it. It doesn’t play like a cohesive story made for the screen. Things move too quickly in the beginning, when Liz leaps from one relationship to the next. It all feels too easy and shallow, meaning you don't get a handle on why the main character is so dissatisfied with her outwardly successful life. And then, on Liz's plodding and indulgent journey of self-discovery and forgiveness, things move far, far too slowly.

There are some nice moments. The glorious scenery is lovely to see, the food porn is enjoyable and Javier Bardem is sweet and watchable as a love interest, if again, the whole thing is too convenient. But it's hard to work out just what Liz's problem is and she has no discernible personality to make her journey interesting. She's just... a woman. Eating, praying and loving the benefits the universe seems all too happy to heap on her.

If you feel like a dose of something uplifting for the beginning of the cinematic year, Aboriginal musical Bran Nue Dae could be just the thing. Best of all, it's an Australian production featuring a stellar cast of home-grown talent, both veterans and newcomers.

The cheerful comedy with a historical slant, adapted from the stage musical of the same name, introduces us to Willie (Rocky McKenzie), a diligent schoolkid with a desperate crush on gal pal Rosie (Jessica Mauboy, in her acting debut). Willie and Rosie live in 1970s Broome. When he's not mucking about with Rosie and fishing with friends, Willie attends a religious school in Perth under Father Benedictus (a hyper Geoffrey Rush, sporting an abomination of a German accent) and intends to become a priest, like his devoutly Christian mother believes he should.
But an incident at school prompts Willie to question the bigoted attitude of Father Benedictus and the suitability of Willie's chosen career.

In the film's best and catchiest musical number, Willie declares, with his schoolmates in tow, that: "There's nothing I would rather be, than to be an Aborigine!" Thus, he sticks it to the man and legs it home, meeting a raft of quirky characters on the road.

Rocky McKenzie makes his acting debut here and he does a good job of carrying the film. Though his delivery is stilted at times, his innocent but determined Willie is entirely believable. Mauboy, opposite him, is sweetly girlish but ultimately a little bland. Much-loved Aussie singer-songwriter Missy Higgins is miscast as a ditzy hippy who, with her boyfriend, befriends Willie on the way to Broome. She is really interesting to watch but she's just too smart to convince as a free-loving airhead. The real show-stopper comes in the form of Ernie Dingo as Uncle Tadpole, a hard-living vagabond who becomes close friend and father figure to Willie.

The crux of the film is Willie's transformation from naive boy to man and it is compelling to watch him decide where he belongs, straddling the line between white world and black home. It gives an interesting insight into the period and an indigenous perspective on the prevailing attitudes of the time. Plenty of laughs, several courtesy of Deborah Mailman as a tough and cheeky Kimberley, woman with a voracious sexual appetite, keep things fun and upbeat.

A major sticking point is the awful dubbing of the musical numbers. It is so clumsy and fake-looking that it steals focus during heartfelt songs. And, despite the fact that everyone appreciates a twist in the tail, things here get a bit silly and threaten to descend into farce. All the time though, the film is a feast for the eyes. The chalky turquoise of the sea against the brilliant orange earth is a sight that will make you want to visit Western Australia if you haven't already.

To borrow from the poster shamelessly, in a world where everyone can only tell the truth and fiction does not exist, a man has somehow forged a revolutionary neural pathway in his brain and worked out how to lie. He uses this to his advantage. The man is played by Ricky Gervais. A recipe for hilarity, yes?

Not so much. The Invention of Lying is less comic romp and more an occasionally funny, methodical exploration of Gervais’ perception of religion and how he believes it is a massive crock.

In Gervais’ first outing as film writer and director, he plays scriptwriter Mark Bellison, the guy who everyone in the office loves to hate. Mark is average-looking and not great at his job. And in this tactless world, people will tell him so – often apropos of nothing. This makes for some funny moments in the beginning and allows Gervais to wallow like a happy pig in his trademark self-deprecation. Alas it doesn’t really work here because exactly why Mark is so contemptible never becomes clear – he’s a decent guy. He is thrown a bone when he discovers how to fabricate, because everyone still assumes everything he says is the truth.

When Mark spins a line about the fabulous afterlife to his ailing mum, though, the can opens and worms go everywhere. The populace is up in arms. Following is the best and funniest sequence in the film, which sees Gervais play a reluctant prophet to an enthralled global audience.

Meanwhile, steadily plodding along is a contrived love plot between Gervais and Jennifer Garner. I say "love" plot although there is a total lack of chemistry between the two because of Garner’s guileless and oddly robotic character, Anna, and the way Garner plays her. Anna is a sweet, beautiful and shallow woman who is interested only in snaring a good-looking partner to ensure equally genetically blessed offspring. Mark is, of course, short and chubby, so sparks were never going to fly. But there isn’t even a believable slow burn. Fortunately both Garner and Gervais are both extremely likeable, so the faux-mance isn’t painful. Gervais himself is always fun to watch and he proves his acting chops here, though the character doesn’t seem to be much of a departure from reality.

What saves the movie is the fact that it gives an insight into how Gervais’ brain works. He is an incredibly talented, interesting person and incisive social commentator. And a massive cynic. The movie is watchable because we want to see where he takes it. Which ends up being to the conclusion that organised religion is ludicrous and it’s best to seek solace in your fellow humans.

But the laughs are too few for this to be real comedy. Monty Python did religious satire first, and they did it much, much better. Truthfully, Ricky, you have enormous potential but you must try harder.

Not knowing much about The Young Victoria before I saw it, and being less than perfectly versed in British history, I was prepared to pay close attention to a tale heavy with politics and the weight of the crown jewels. As it turns out I was able to switch the brain off and instead enjoy a love story with an excellent cast that looked absolutely sublime.



Victoria, niece of the King of England, lived a sheltered life as a young girl growing up the restrictive palace environment. Her destiny is sealed when her other uncles are unable to produce an heir, making her next in line to the thone. Her mother, the Duchess of Kent (Miranda Richardson), is so overbearing and determined to secure her own future that she wraps Victoria up in virtual cotton wool, even going so far as to disallow her from descending the stairs without someone to hold her hand, well into adulthood.

The film chronicles the lead-up to her coronation and the way she handles an overbearing mother with a power-hungry advisor, Lord Conroy. Meanwhile her maternal uncle, the King of Belgium, wants to influence her and goes about doing so in that grand royal tradition, by attempting to organise a marriage. The prospective husband is Albert, played by Rupert Friend who, happily, is a bit of a spunk.

Also seeking the favour of the queen is a young Minister (expertly played by Paul Bettany). The inexperienced Victoria finds out how easy it is to make mistakes as the ruler of an empire when many around you have an agenda. Blunt handles the role with aplomb. She manages to be believably 18 - at turns imperious, coquettish and naïve but always determined.

The second half of the film focuses on her romance with Albert as she learns to share with him the burden of her position, and this is where the film blossoms. The relationship feels believable and Friend is excellent as the hopeful paramour and eventual husband.

Unfortunately, the plot lacks weight and it is a shame that the writers bypassed historical accuracy for dramatic effect. There’s not much meat here, but it is a fascinating glimpse into the privileged life of the royals behind gilded doors. The love theme is endearing but the film skims over too much of the day-to-day business of ruling. We see none of Victoria interacting with her populace and little evidence of why she became such a legendary monarch. The film feels a bit like the first part of a miniseries and left me wanting a sequel.

What is very well done is the characterisation. No character is one-dimensional - Lord Conroy does not come off as a crazy power-hungry villain, nor does Miranda Richardson come off as a purely 'wicked stepmother' type. The casting was perfect, the sets and soundtrack gorgeous and I don’t remember the last film that made me smile so much.

A few days ago on the radio I heard Jeff Lindsay, author and creator of Dexter, say that with the series he had never intended to write the Great American Novel; rather he had intended to write books that were popular. I’m keeping this idea in mind while reviewing Charlie and Boots. The film is what it is. It’s not a moving, realistic and heartfelt exploration of a father-son relationship. It is a clichéd and not very clever Aussie road movie comedy-drama but it has a gentle humour that will probably appeal to your mother.

Faded movie hunk Paul Hogan plays Charlie, a dinkum dairy farmer with two grown sons who shuts himself off from the world following the sudden death of his vivacious wife.
Shane Jacobson is his concerned son Boots, who’s had a few tragedies of his own. Boots corrals Charlie against his will to go on a spur-of-the-moment father-son fishing trip. Charlie had promised him as a child that they would one day cast a line from the northern tip of Australia and Boots is determined to finally make it happen.

The two men have a fragmented relationship and the trip is an effort from Boots to mend the fences. The grumpy Charlie isn’t receptive and responds by being as prickly and difficult as possible. But along the long road from Warrnambool to Cape York, he thaws out and the duo has such adventures as a run-in with a randy female truckie, a runaway ute and a riled-up bunch of female lawn bowlers.

On the way they give a lift to Jess, a guitar-toting teen with big dreams hitchhiking her way to Tamworth.

Hogan is capable as Charlie and brings believability to the gruff, grieving widower. His rugged, deeply lined face conveys emotion well and his competence as a dramatic actor makes the part look as if it was written for him. Conversely, Jacobson may have won Australia’s heart in Kenny but here he is merely mediocre and tries too hard.

The clunky script tends doesn’t help him. In the initial stages Boots refers to Charlie as Dad far too often: think, “Dad, come on Dad. What’s up, Dad? Dad Dad blah Dad.” They’re father and son - we get it.

Jess is also a useless addition. The character, while sweet, is unbelievable, pointless and distracting from the main story arc. It feels like she was chucked in because the writers didn’t know what else to do with the leads.

The film is also very predictable - you can see the resolution a mile off. It also resorts to silly situations to extract the laughs rather than being genuinely clever or original.

But overall there are a few chuckles to be had and the bonding of the two men is kind of nice. And it's an Aussie film so that's always worth supporting. Just don’t expect The Castle’s standard.

A house model stands in a studio in Rome. Around her are several seamstresses and a designer holding a length of red fabric. The designer arranges it around the model’s bust, explaining to his attentive audience precisely how he wants it to fall.

He is Valentino Garavani, founder of his eponymous fashion house, and such elegant evening gowns are his trademark.

Vanity Fair writer and filmmaker Matt Tyrnauer trailed the legendary perma-tanned designer for two years to create this documentary and permeate the beautiful crystal bubble in which Valentino lives.
 
Tyrnauer filmed his subject as Valentino prepared for a gala event to celebrate 45 years in fashion. It was to be his last hurrah before he stepped down from a company now controlled by outsiders. Over 90 minutes, we witness fabulous soirees, the flurry and urgency of putting together a show, pampered pugs, a couple of tantrums and, at the heart of the film, Valentino’s relationship with Giancarlo Giametti -- his business partner, former lover and constant companion.
 
Most of us will never know the kind of glamour and luxury that Valentino enjoys, and that is part of what makes this film so absorbing.

It is also poignant and at times very funny, punctuated with one-liners from the designer himself and such industry icons as Karl Lagerfeld. The central relationship between Valentino and Giancarlo lends weight to a narrative that is otherwise a bit flimsy, and which serves mostly as a chronological record. In being a faithful record, though, it succeeds in paying tribute to Valentino's genius.  
 
For me, the lasting impression of the film was one of awe for a rare and amazing creative talent. Valentino is resilient, hardworking and dedicated but in some ways he is like a fragile butterfly; a delicate relic of a more gentle age who almost doesn’t belong in a world where the suits in charge demand more, more, more. 

There is magic in the way he can envision such breathtaking garments and oversee their formation. The film captures this perfectly.

Some things are important simply because they are beautiful and our world is richer for them. Valentino understood this. He may no longer be designing but his creations, and his vision, were timeless.

In reviewing Dance Flick I risk coming off as a humourless shrew. But I can’t lie. This is a terrible movie.
It is exactly what you would expect from the Wayans brothers, who have built a dubious comedic empire on films that chase the cheapest of cheap laughs. White Chicks, I'm looking at you.
Following the standard spoof format, Dance Flick sends up dance movies, a genre close to my heart. It touches on everything from Dirty Dancing to Flashdance, Fame, Save the Last Dance, Centre Stage, Step Up 2: The Streets and High School Musical. I guess at least here you know exactly what you’re getting. These guys don’t claim to be highbrow.

We begin with a dance-off between rival crews/gangs/whatever, Step Up 2-style. Our guys are high school student Thomas (Damon Wayans Jr) and his posse. The script jumps the shark nice and early, when a b-boy busts a move and gets his head literally stuck up his arse. We then learn our guys are $5000 in debt to some morbidly obese gangsta baron who likes cake and pie. Enter main obstacle.

Just for fun, the next scene at the high school involves a new student, the young Ray Charles, saying goodbye to his mother and falling down a manhole on the way to class. Another new student is Megan (Shoshana Bush), a white ballet diva who has lost the will to dance after a tragic family accident. Sparks fly between her and Thomas. (This is believable enough. He is hot.) Megan makes friends with Thomas’ sister Charity, a sassy but none-too-bright girl who brings her baby boy to school with her and, while in class, keeps him safe by hanging him up in her locker.

Forced jokes ensue. Will the power of love inspire Megan to try out for Juilliard? Will Thomas and co beat their rivals and appease the fat man? Will gay jokes, fart jokes, vagina jokes and fat men dancing ever cease to be amusing? Along the way we are treated to such golden dialogue as: “So, you think you can dance? Well bring it on. Step up.” Stuff like this could be really funny if it was pushed further. Dance Flick pushes pretty far but always in the wrong direction. The direction that leads to such characters as a ballet teacher named Ms Cameltoe. I’ll let you envision her tights-clad crotch yourself.

Discussing the merits of a plot for a movie like this is, of course, ludicrous. The point here is to poke fun, not create a cohesive narrative. Even so, the mind boggles. How do movies this lame get made? I don’t even know who the audience for these films would be. My brother is too mature for them, and he is 11.

Performance-wise, Bush is pretty forgettable but Wayans Jr has good comedic timing. He would be great with some decent material. Also did I mention he was hot? The 1 star is purely because he looks good in a leotard.