DVD Review: Julie & Julia

Julie & Julia. 123 minutes. Rated PG. Written and directed by Nora Ephron. Based on the books by Julie Powell, Julia Child and Alex Prud'homme

Before Nigella Lawson and Gordon Ramsay, there was Julia Child: an American chef, author and television personality who not only pioneered the concept of 'the celebrity chef', but who, with her seminal culinary work Mastering the Art of French Cooking, introduced the wonders of French cuisine and cooking techniques to the English-speaking world.

It is 1948, and diplomat Paul Child (The Lovely Bones' Stanley Tucci), is assigned to Paris by the US Foreign Service. His wife, Julia Child (a formidable Meryl Streep), finds herself in Paris with nothing to occupy either her time or her marvellously adventurous curiosity. Finding herself constantly frustrated by the lack of English language recipe translations of her beloved French cuisine, Julia sets out to study and explore the culinary landscape.

It is also 2002, and Julie Powell (Amy Adams) is a young writer, trapped in a clinically bland call centre answering telephone calls from victims of the September 11 attacks on the World Trade Center. To provide some respite from her harrowing day job, Powell decides to set herself a monumental challenge: to cook every one of the 524 recipes in Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking in 365 days.

Ms Ephron's (When Harry Met Sally, Sleepless in Seattle) long and reverential split-narrative script makes for really hard going – especially in the faintly-drawn contemporary sequences where Ms Adams (and Chris Messina as her husband 'Eric') really have their work cut out for them eliciting any continuing genuine interest in their comparatively boring relationship and Ms Powell's, essentially, entirely pointless undertaking.

Fortunately, courtesy of Ben Barraud's gorgeous art direction, Mark Ricker's flawless production design and Stephen Goldblatt's (Percy Jackson and The Lightning Thief) outstanding cinematography, the film looks absolutely beautiful. While, in real life, Julia Child summarily dismissed Ms Powell's endeavour, it would have been fascinating to hear what she had to say about this imagining of her life. I imagine she would have 'loved Meryl and Stanley' but wished for 'a lot less of young Miss Powell'. Touché … and bon appetit!

Film review: Nanny McPhee and The Big Bang

Nanny McPhee and The Big Bang. 109 minutes. Rated G. Directed by Susanna White. Written by Emma Thompson. Based on the Nurse Matilda books by Christianna Brand

With Nanny McPhee (2005), Emma Thompson (pictured above) captivated audiences with her delightful script and performance as the "hideously ugly" title character who restored love and meaning to the empty and dysfunctional lives of widower 'Mr Brown' (Colin Firth) and his unruly bunch of undisciplined children. And in spite of its obvious debt to the magic of Mary Poppins, Nanny McPhee went on to become a world-wide smash-hit – and we longed to have Ms Thompson come to our house and read us bed-time stories in that luxuriously silky voice.

Now, with Ms Thompson again writing and starring (and, this time, producing), we have the 'sequel'. While it can only ever have failed to recapture the bewitching qualities of its predecessor, it also suffers from trying a little too hard to offer something new and different. With the exception of Thompson's wonderful recreation of the enchanting title role and a fantastic (but all to brief) synchronised swimming piglet ballet, Nanny McPhee and The Big Bang ends up being something of a disappointingly lukewarm clone.

While her husband is away fighting in World War 2, Mrs Green (Maggie Gyllenhaal) is left alone to tend to the family farm and care for their three children. With the arrival of the spoilt cousins (the two excellent youngsters Eros Vlahos and Rosie Taylor-Ritson) from a besieged London, and with Uncle Phil (the brilliant Rhys Ifans) trying everything he can to convince the harassed young mother to sell the farm so that he can pay off his gambling debts, it soon becomes obvious that 'the person they need is Nanny McPhee'.

Oddly, none of the collaborators from the original film were onboard for this incarnation, and the outcome is all the poorer for it. Thompson's script, even with fabulous support from James Newton Howard's dynamic score, is nowhere near as secure as the gilt-edged fairytale that made the original so enthralling. The heavily World War 2 influenced storyline lends the film an incredibly dated and contrived narrative convenience, while Production Designer Simon Elliott's lack of feature film experience lets the film's long and weary sortie into a supposedly war-torn London collapse into low-budget pastiche. Cinematographer Mike Eley struggles, and ultimately fails, to find a unique look and feel, while editor Sim Evan-Jones can't quite pull Ms White's studious account of the patchy and disjointed narrative together into a cohesive whole.

While there is no doubt that the intended audience will find much to enjoy, it's a shame that, as the film progressed, the little ones gave up on their battle with restlessness and even at only 109 minutes, it all began to seem too much like hard work.

This review was commissioned by the Geraldton Newspapers Group and an edited version of it was published in the print edition of the Midwest Times.

Film review: Green Zone

Green Zone. 114 minutes. Rated M. Directed by Paul Greengrass. Written by Brian Helgeland. Inspired by the novel by Rajiv Chandrasekaran.

The stakes (and expectations) surrounding Paul Greengrass's (The Bourne Supremacy, The Bourne Ultimatum) 'Iraq War film' were always going to be high. Given that he wrote and directed United 93 – the only film to bring additional perspective to the otherwise cinema-defying aircraft high-jackings that defined the September 11, 2001 attacks on New York and Washington – it was always going to be fascinating to see what he (and those who collaborated with him on that astonishing piece of cinema) would make of the resulting conflict. The short answer is, strangely, 'not much'.

It is 2003, and the US-led allied forces' invasion of Iraq has created nothing but pandemonium. As fighter bombers rage through the sky and the civilian population react angrily to the American presence in (and destruction of) their city, Chief Warrant Officer Roy Miller (a constantly frowning Matt Damon) leads his team of soldiers in the hunt for Saddam Hussein's stockpiled weapons of mass destruction (WMDs). As the dangerous search for each likely stash proves fruitless, Miller begins to doubt the integrity of the intelligence reports he is being specifically instructed to follow. And before you can say "… but we already know there were no WMDs", he stumbles across a US Government plan to use the WMD issue to influence the redistribution of power in the fragile (and increasingly hostile) country.

From start to finish, Green Zone pelts along with Greengrass's and cinematographer Barry Ackroyd's (United 93, The Hurt Locker) trademark hand-held camera racing around in, out, over, under, around and through every nook and cranny of the extraordinarily rendered Baghdad (the film was actually shot in Morocco and Spain). Helgeland's (Mystic River, LA Confidential) stereotypical 'good cop, bad cop, even worse cop' script is well-served by the fast and furious pace (edited to within an inch of its life by United 93's Christopher Rouse), even if it does all end up looking and feeling like something that might have been called The Bourne Baghdad Conspiracy.

The essential problem is the film's political opportunism; not only of the motivations behind the invasion of Iraq but also the resulting theories that have given rise to a considerable amount of passionate debate and conjecture. Unlike the cruel and punishing conflict at the hearts of the superior United 93 and The Hurt Locker, Green Zone fatally mistakes floating a raft of opinions about the Iraq war for storytelling. The only time the film draws breath, for example, is towards the end when two great big pieces of anti-war propaganda crash to the ground like ten-ton slabs of cement. Ultimately, however you feel about the circumstances of the Iraq war will define how much you appreciate Green Zone. If cinema masquerading as political grandstanding of the highest order (the last shot's a clunker) is your thing, there's a great deal to enjoy. As a companion piece to United 93, it is truly regrettable … and instantly forgettable.

This review was commissioned by the Geraldton Newspapers Group and an edited version of it was published in the print edition of the Midwest Times.

DVD Review: This Is It

This Is It. 111 minutes. Rated G. Directed by Kenny Ortega.

In March 2009, Michael Jackson announced his "final curtain call" – a series of 10 concerts at London's O2 arena. Titled This Is It, and billed as one of the year's most important musical events, the initial 10 date schedule was increased to 50 – all of which sold out within hours of the tickets going on sale. The concerts were to commence on July 13, 2009 and conclude on March 6, 2010 – but less than three weeks before the first show, Michael Jackson was dead. He was 50 years old.

While much of his adult life has been defined by a maelstrom of personal, professional, legal and financial controversies, it is impossible to deny that Michael Jackson was not only one of the most influential entertainers of our age, but also one of the most successful. Throughout his career, Jackson released 13 No.1 singles, won 13 Grammy Awards and is recognised in the Guinness Book of Records as the Most Successful Entertainer of All Time. His 1982 album Thriller remains the best-selling album of all time, having sold more than 110 million (of the estimated career total of 750 million) copies.

In the weeks leading up to the epic This Is It concerts, Jackson rehearsed at the Staples Centre in Los Angeles (where his memorial service would later be held) under the direction of director/choreographer Kenny Ortega (the three High School Musical movies). Edited from more than 100 hours of footage, the result is a mesmerising, behind-the-scenes documentary that succeeds – spectacularly – on every level. From the introspective moments to the dazzling technological sequences where digital environments created for certain songs (Earth Song and Smooth Criminal in particular) break free from their sumptuous screen-bound representations and literally burst onto the stage, This Is It is an engrossing experience.

The painstaking preparation, the gruelling dance routines and the exchanges between Jackson and his collaborators (particularly the dancers and musicians whose flair, precision and talent is exemplary) combine to create a rarified atmosphere of candour and intimacy – even as the massive concert's technical infrastructure takes shape around them. Given the fact that the concerts were never performed, Jackson's "it's your turn to shine" moment with South Australian-born guitarist Orianthi Panagaris is an especially poignant example of the many potentially life-changing experiences that were never to eventuate. And while this tragedy pervades every moment of our viewing experience, it goes nowhere towards reducing the creative power and supreme artistry that Jackson and his team were preparing to unfurl before the adoring concert ticket-holders.

For anyone interested in the creative process and all that goes into the preparation of a major international concert, this is an absorbing, luxury of riches we may otherwise never have witnessed. For Michael Jackson fans, it's compulsory viewing.

This review was commissioned by the Geraldton Newspapers Group and was published in the print edition of the Geraldton Guardian.

Film review: The Hurt Locker

The Hurt Locker. 131 minutes. Rated MA15+. Directed by Kathryn Bigelow; Written by Mark Boal.

When Kathryn Bigelow (K-19: The Widowmaker, Point Break) became the first woman in the 82 year history of the Academy Awards to win Best Director, film-goers the world over began to turn their attention to her little-known 'Iraq war' film The Hurt Locker. When the film then snatched the coveted Best Picture prize from the James Cameron behemoth Avatar, its fate as the film to see was secure. That Bigelow triumphed with this incredibly male-dominated film about, it would appear, exclusively male pursuits is a delicious irony. That The Hurt Locker is an incredible cinematic journey is undeniable.

Staff Sergeant Willam James (Jeremy Renner, pictured), Sergeant J T Sanborn (Anthony Mackie) and Specialist Owen Eldridge (Brian Geraghty) are American soldiers on a tour of duty in Iraq. Their responsibility is to disarm improvised explosive devices (IEDs) planted randomly by insurgents with one intention; to kill – with brutal force – as many members of the allied forces as possible.

From it's nerve-shattering, almost unwatchable opening sequence to its profound and considered conclusion, The Hurt Locker plugs itself into every one of our senses and, with little respite, plays mercilessly with our ability to comprehend risk. Ms Bigelow is magnificently supported by every member of the creative team – particularly cinematographer Barry Ackroyd's (United 93, The Green Zone) perfect rendering of the harsh (Jordan doubles for Iraq) and unforgiving locations. Chris Innis and Bob Murawski's (the Spiderman trilogy) editing brings a critical synergy to the shaky, hand-held camera techniques that ensure this impatient film never settles in one place for too long, while Buck Sanders and Marco Beltrami's (I, Robot)impressive original score contributes enormously to the immersive and inescapable tension.

But at the centre of this film is Mark Boal's rock-solid Oscar-winning screenplay and the brilliant performances Bigelow extracts from her trio of relatively unknown stars. As a journalist in 2004, Boal was embedded with troops and bomb squads serving in Iraq, and without this first-hand experience, a script such as this would not have been possible. It is infused with a unquestionable authenticity and it is obviously this wealth of immediate and truthful contact with the soldiers whose story this really is, that fuels the actors' fearlessly imposing performances.

While The Hurt Locker is certainly not the greatest war movie ever made, it's many strengths combine to become a painfully intimate experience of the war that, right up there with the Vietnam conflict, defines the perilous misadventures of our time.

This review was commissioned by the Geraldton Newspapers Group and was published in the print edition of the Geraldton Guardian.

Film review: The Blind Side

The Blind Side. 128 minutes. Rated PG. Written and directed by John Lee Hancock; Based on the biography of Michael Oher by Michael Lewis.

In our increasingly computer-defined and self-serving world, it's refreshing to see a good, old-fashioned, feel-good movie about people helping others make the most of their lives. As a potent reminder of how great an influence random acts of kindness and charity can have on the lives of the less fortunate, The Blind Side is an undemanding telling of a heart-warming, too-good-to-be-true (but true all the same) rags to riches story of an American National Football League champion and the woman who risked her reputation to help him become all he could be.

'Leigh Anne Tuohy' (Best Actress Oscar-winner Sandra Bullock) has the perfect life: a gorgeous house, a prosperous interior design business, two marvellously well-adjusted children and a doting, successful husband. As the family are driving home one wintery night, they discover 'Big Mike' (a beautifully introspective Quinton Aaron) walking beside the road dressed only in t-shirt, shorts and runners. When Leigh Anne invites him to spend the night in their home, little does she know that this simple, uncomplicated gesture will change everybody's lives, forever.

As the driving force, Ms Bullock sparkles – at every opportunity – as the heroically determined Leigh Anne who unwaveringly follows her instincts to do what she believes is right. Not only does she wear Daniel Orlandi's (The Da Vinci Code) fantastic outfits with absolute panache, the scenes where Ms Bullock rises to the occasion to protect and defend her charge are certainly the film's (and her career's) best. While there are also some all-too-briefly entertaining, waspish exchanges about the influence of American politics on the lives of affluent white Americans, the dramatic highpoint is undoubtedly a scene between Leigh Anne and Michael's drug-addicted mother 'Denise' (a brilliant cameo from Adriane Lenox). The clash of two equally formidable female energies (reminiscent of a similarly memorable scene between Meryl Streep's 'Sister Beauvier' and Viola Davis's 'Mrs Miller' in Doubt) from opposite ends of the All-American Dream is an emotionally complex and challenging one. Unfortunately, the script quickly dissolves back into predictability – leaving us with barely a whisper of how much more compelling it all might have been.

The Blind Side is not helped, either, by Hancock's pedestrian direction of his correspondingly unambitious screenplay that fails (among other things) to realise that in order to appreciate the attendant dynamics of sporting conquests, we don't need interminable, expositional scenes about the rules and circumstances of the game. Contact team sports are, fundamentally, about offensive and defensive strategies – it's that simple. The saturation-level detail about American football (including a boredom-inducing number of sequences featuring a cavalcade of 'real-life' NFL coaches playing themselves) will leave most Australians staring blankly at the screen.

And just when it might have been powering to a profoundly moving and life-enhancing conclusion, The Blind Side ends up drowning in its own particular brand of self-reverential 'Team America' awe. This remains the film's greatest failing, because the message that is struggling to shake itself loose from the star spangled banner is a hugely significant, and universal, one. It's a real shame the filmmakers didn't realise it.

This review was commissioned by the Geraldton Newspapers Group and an edited version of it was published in the print edition of the Midwest Times.

Film review: Precious

Precious. 110 minutes. Rated MA15+. Directed by Lee Daniels; Written by Geoffrey Fletcher; Based on a novel by Sapphire.

In recent years, filmmakers have been making a name for themselves by exploring subjects that our politically correct age had deemed taboo; chiefly because they were likely to cause 'offense' or be seen as prejudicial or discriminatory. Most notably, here at home, was Warwick Thornton's Samson and Delilah – a film which unsentimentally crash-tackled the issues that have been devastating indigenous communities all over the country.

Now, in a far less romantically-inclined, but equally aspirational style, comes Lee Daniel's gruelling drama of incest, welfare-dependency, teenage pregnancy and every possible form of previously unimaginable abuse. That something 'precious' actually manages to rise to the surface from this horrific scenario is a result not only of the unflinching honesty of Sapphire's original novel, but also Fletcher's honouring of it (for which he won the Best Adapted Screenplay Academy Award) and the excruciatingly raw proximity of cinematographer Andrew Dunn's (Gosford Park) camera to the whole unrelenting saga. But it is Daniel's flawlessly imaginative and assured direction of an ensemble of astonishingly real performances that manages to isolate the essence of the human spirit – the truth of what it takes to break the cycles of a violent and destructive existence, and the hope for a brighter future.

Teenager 'Precious Jones' (the deeply effecting first timer Gabourey Sidibe) lives with her mother 'Mary' (a devastating, Best Supporting Actress Academy Award-winning Mo'Nique) in a dreary tenement in New York's Harlem district. When a well-meaning teacher recognises that Precious has a talent for mathematics, she recommends a local alternative, free-thinking school where, it is hoped, Precious may discover a way of harnessing her potential to improve her agonising life.

Precious is a determinedly unsympathetic film that, with immense power, rewards our engagement with the potently confronting issues it explores. Popstar Mariah Carey (who replaced Helen Mirren) turns in a brilliant performance as Social Worker 'Mrs Weiss', and Paula Patton brings resolve of steel to 'Ms Rain', the teacher and mentor who introduces Precious to the possibilities of an independent life.

The immense emotional clout this film ultimately wields, though, is in the gradual realisation that the essence of improving the circumstances of our lives is not necessarily about winning the fights we have with each other, but winning the battles we wage, unerringly, against ourselves. I cannot recommend this extraordinary film more highly.

This review was commissioned by the Geraldton Newspapers Group and was published in the print edition of the Geraldton Guardian.

Film review: Alice in Wonderland

Alice in Wonderland. 108 minutes. Rated PG. Directed by Tim Burton; Written by Linda Woolverton; Based on the books by Lewis Carroll.

If there is a more vibrantly impulsive and startlingly creative director than Tim Burton (Corpse Bride, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Edward Scissorhands) working in films today, then I'd like to know who it is. With supreme confidence and his delightful trademark flamboyance, Burton brings the adventures of young Alice Kingsley to the screen in a dazzling frenzy of computer-generated colour and constant motion. But strangely – and most unusually for Burton – little else.

19-year-old Alice (an enigmatic Mia Wasikowska, pictured above) needs a moment. She has just been proposed to (in front of an overwhelming number of friends and family members) by a young man for whom she only feels a mannered contempt. Fleeing from the pressure of being expected to accept his proposal, Alice stumbles upon a large rabbit hole at the base of a tree. Leaning slightly further into the hole than she should in the hope that she might find the mysterious waistcoat-wearing white rabbit she has seen scampering around in the shrubs, she falls in, and spirals down into the fantastic and hazardous world of "Underland" where she must fulfill her promise to become the champion who will restore power to the White Queen (Anne Hathaway, who underplays the role almost out of existence).

Linda Woolverton's (one of the three script writers of Disney's The Lion King) script is a marvellously efficient re-telling of the evergreen and much-loved story, and most of the performances (particularly from Helena Bonham Carter as the hilarious, game-obsessed 'Red Queen') are delightfully quirky and larger than life. Colleen Atwood's (Chicago, Memoirs of a Geisha, Nine) costumes are magnificent, while Pirates of the Caribbean cinematographer Dariusz Wolski joins the dots with a few too many travelling shots. Production Designer Robert Stromberg (who graduated from Visual Effects to Production Designer for James Cameron's Avatar) has woven a special, but increasingly familiar, magic with the gorgeous environments – particularly the ruined castle in which Alice's battle with a fearsome Jabberwocky (a technological tour de force) for rule of the dominion takes place.

The lasting impression, however, is that something is missing – and it's not difficult to appreciate what that might be. Yes, it all moves along at a furious pace and the many and various interactions between the computer-generated and human characters is technically flawless. But somewhere along the line, with all the technical possibilities at his disposal, Burton appears to have misplaced the story's heart. He's not helped, either, by a surprisingly unengaging performance from his regular 'star' Johnny Depp who, while he wears Paul Gooch's arresting 'Mad Hatter' make-up with typical aplomb, turns in a disappointingly grim, almost perfunctory performance.

And for a film that makes continual claims as to how the most interesting people are "mad" (which in the era of Carroll's novels meant 'special'), it all lacks the requisite uniqueness and individuality – yes, joyfully unrestrained madness – that, not only might we have expected from a director with Burton's pedigree, but that would have ensured the film was a far more engrossing and memorable experience than it ends up being.

This review was commissioned by the Geraldton Newspapers Group and an edited version of it was published in the print edition of the Midwest Times.

Theatre review: Mortal Engine

Mortal Engine. Chunky Move. Director and Choreographer Gideon Obarzanek; Interactive System Designer Frieder Weiss; Laser and Sound Artist Robin Fox; Composer Ben Frost; Costume Designer Paula Lewis; Lighting Designer Damien Cooper; With Kristy Ayre, Sara Black, Marnie Palomares, Lee Serle, James Shannon, Adam Synott, Jorijn Vriesendorp. The Merlyn Theatre at the Malthouse, Melbourne until 13 March, then Sydney Theatre, 5–15 May, 2010.

The wildly contrasting, and often conflicting, creative disciplines of dance, theatre, cinema, multimedia and visual art are almost impossible to wrangle into one cohesive whole; and if Chunky Move's ambitious Mortal Engine doesn't quite manage to triumph over the fourth wall, it's certainly not through want of trying. When it does work, it is truly something to behold: a spectacular fusion of forms to which we find ourselves connected – almost transcendentally – like our pulse. When it doesn't, it's never less than a fantastic experiment in dire need of a purpose; other than being one hell of a multimedia show loosely constructed from all sorts of technical wizardry, powered by Ben Frost's magnificently formidable soundscape and interrupted by occasional choreographic flourishes.

A large white screen lies at an almost impossible (to dance on, anyway) angle on the stage … as though a cinema screen has been tilted to a thirty-something degree angle from the floor. It's an intoxicating prospect; and the first thought is something along the lines of "how are the dancers going to dance on that thing?" But with striking power, strength, precision and startling elasticity, they do. The extremes that these faultless bodies cannot reach are flawlessly assumed by the stunning projected multimedia elements on, and practically through the screen, that create a trance-inducing, kaleidoscopic surface that explores the world of shadows, shapes, metaphysical extensions of touch and, at times, quite miraculously, the dancers' very souls. It is finger-tip exactedness; and only the very few moments when the dancers are lit by traditional spotlights from above, are the tender, uncomplicated gestures of rare, poignant intimacy.

Mortal Engine, however, also continues the increasingly exhaustible trend of contemporary dance projects relying on the visual dynamics and vocabulary of multimedia. Meryl Tankard's The Oracle (recently also in the Merlyn Theatre) began with a very long multimedia presentation that had me looking sideways at my companion and wondering whether we'd actually come to a dance performance or a video installation. When one is in the honourable position of having the opportunity to see as many shows as reviewers are, it all starts to resemble an extreme kind of over-reaction to the limitless possibilities that multimedia offers. At worst, it's a dangerous statement about the limits of purely choreographic adventure. At best, it's an exciting exploration of form. The awkward questions, however, remain: is contemporary dance experiencing some kind of identity crisis? Or are multimedia and contemporary dance inexorably linked in what is, increasingly, a marriage of pure convenience?

I know reviewers are not meant to speculate on what 'might have been', but the nagging doubt about how much more involving the experience of Mortal Engine might have been in a found space, as opposed to a theatre, continue. The chief doubt (among the many) I have about this work, is that it steadfastly defies (and denies) both genre and theatrical (as in four-walled) conventions; including its dispensing with everything but the fundamentals of a narrative. Creative artists dispense with story at their peril; risking, instead, the reduction of, and requisite alienation from, the extent to which we engage with, and share in, the rewards of the performance. While there are certainly some memorable highpoints in Mortal Engine, including some sensational elevations (from not only the dancers, but also the set), and a furiously breath-taking male solo across the screen's entire surface, it ends up being a purely, if hypnotic, observational experience.

We spend a great deal of time, too, wondering and marvelling at how on earth it's all happening. But at some point, however, the dominant curiosity becomes – and remains – "Why?", not "How?". Or maybe it's as simple as "Why not?" You decide … because perhaps to Mortal Engine's unending credit, I can't. And that has been its greatest gift.

This review was commissioned and published by Stage Whispers @
www.stagewhispers.com.au

DVD Review: Tinker Bell and the Lost Treasure

Tinker Bell and the Lost Treasure. 77 minutes. Rated G. Directed by Klay Hall; Written by Evan Spiliotopoulos from a story by Klay Hall.

Tinker Bell has come a long way since her inception in J M Barrie's play (1904) and novel (1911) Peter and Wendy, which would eventually morph into the classic Disney animation Peter Pan (1953). Introduced by Barrie as "a common fairy", Tinker Bell was famous for her moody and occasionally obstreperous behaviour, and at the end of the novel, she was dead.

Tinker Bell has also long been the unofficial mascot of Walt Disney Pictures. It is her that, for decades, tapped her magic wand over the company's logo and it is her, still, that creates a beautiful arc of fairy dust over the stunning new animated logo sequence that announces the studio's films today. Given her iconic status in the Disney oeuvre, it's peculiar that they have taken as long as they have to elevate her from 'logo duty' into a leading role; but if this glorious film is any indication (and there are two more in pre-production), the situation has finally been remedied. And what an absolute delight it is!

Tinker Bell (perfectly voiced by Mae Whitman) is chosen to create a ceremonial sceptre that, by incorporating the rare and precious blue moonstone, will provide the fairies of Pixie Hollow with enough blue fairy dust to replenish the Pixie Dust Tree. When her well-meaning best friend Terrence (an endearing Jesse McCartney) inadvertently wreaks havoc in her workshop, our adorable Tinker Bell must travel 'north of Neverland' in search of a magic mirror that will enable her to repair the damage and complete her important task.

Lovingly crafted and visually magnificent, Disney have lavished a dazzling array of talent on this little masterpiece. The lavish colour palette, environments and lighting are reminiscent of the magic of James Cameron's Avatar, and while the script labours early on with the odd long and literal sequence which may begin to bore the really little ones, the majestic artistry of the animation and the perils of the Tinker Bell's engrossing adventure, will keep the majority of the audience wide-eyed, stunned and amazed.

Most fantastically, Tinker Bell has rightfully assumed her long-overdue leading-lady status. She is one smart, feisty, inventive and clever little fairy and, with a gloriously imagined supporting cast of fairies and creatures (including a scene-stealing firefly called 'Blaze'), this is destined to become a much-loved addition to the collection that may well inspire a whole new generation of young girls to treasure their friendships (even with all their flaws), and believe not only in themselves, but in all that it is possible to achieve. And in the current environment of boys-own adventures where the girls are relegated to second-tier supporting players, that is really something to celebrate!

This review was commissioned by the Geraldton Newspapers Group and was published in the print edition of the Midwest Times.

Film review: Percy Jackson & The Lightning Thief

Percy Jackson and The Lightning Thief. 119 minutes. Rated M. Directed by Chris Columbus; Written by Craig Titley; Based on a novel by Rick Riordan.

Furious flights of fantasy, fuelled by grand, inspirational storytelling have become absolute necessities when filmmakers want to be embraced by the connected generation of young adults around the world. There are millions of hearts to be won and millions of imaginations to be stimulated. There are also, make no mistake, millions of dollars to be made.

In this shameless play for a bigger piece of the pie than it deserves, Percy Jackson (a bland Logan Lerman) discovers that he has Olympian pedigree, and when he is accused of stealing Zeus's (The King of the Gods) lightning rod, he departs on a mission to prove his innocence.

With this first (of what will no doubt be many) Percy Jackson … saga, Chris Columbus (Home Alone, the first two Harry Potter movies), has somewhat embarrassingly, completely missed the point. He is certainly not helped by Titley's leaden, humourless script from Riordan's novel, that struggles with the basics of coherent storytelling and a serious case of Harry Potter envy. My companion's increasingly restless boredom finally got the better of him, and he opted, instead, for all the colour and movement of the cinema foyer – leaving me, and the three others in the audience, to suffer in silence.

Percy Jackson … also entirely underestimates its audience's intelligence and hunger for the truly fantastic – choosing, instead, to dazzle them with some occasionally eye-popping special effects and a peculiar visit to a Las Vegas casino, from which our young hero flees in a Maserati – blissfully choosing to ignore the need for responsibility behind the wheel. Only Uma Thurman's turn as the snake-haired 'Medusa' and Rosario Dawson's spicy cameo as the hell-dwelling 'Persephone' generate any real interest, while the computer-generated environments of Mount Olympus and Hades provide lush, if long overdue, visual support.

The M rating (courtesy of some mean decapitations and various other gratuitous acts of random violence and irresponsibility) will potentially rob the film of its target demographic: children who want to do whatever they can to avoid cleaning their room. But rest assured, they'll be begging to know where the vacuum and the Spray 'n' Wipe are by the time they get home.

This review was commissioned by the Geraldton Newspapers Group and was published in the print edition of the Geraldton Guardian.