It’s that time of the week once more where you get texts from distant relatives and Facebook friends you decided it was acceptable to dole out your mobile number to.

They are texting you because they know that you will be slinking back to a cold flat alone after work and they want your Orange Wednesday so they can go to the cinema with their real friends. You might not be invited, but you’re also not using it are you?

We know that you don’t want to cry all night so we’re going to let you watch some of the trailers for the films they might be watching this week then you can be part of the team (which you’re not because as we all know there’s no ‘I’ in team.)

You don’t know anyone in real life that would go and watch George Lucas make a mockery of his already fairly ridiculous franchise.

However, you do know lots of people on the internet that are outraged by this 3D travesty.

Jar Jar Binks in 3D, just think!

We all noticed Ewan McGregor has a rat tail and we’ve all seen The Matrix here right? Good, moving on.

Remember Ronseal? Well it told you exactly what it did on the tin. Man On A Ledge is the Ronseal of the film industry and that’s the only plot synopsis you’re getting.

As far as everyone involved here is concerned you’re five quid up because you just realised that you’ve now seen a slightly less attractive than usual Sam Worthington stood on a ledge while the rest of New York and Ed Harris’s horrible eyes throw a parade. They just love a parade in that city.

You thought you locked the doors and you thought you were safe, but then we brought this horrifying spectacle, peck dance included and streamed it live in your living room, the worst bit is that you clicked that link all by yourself.

Christ did you all see Michael Caine or did we just hallucinate that bit?  The logistics of Michael Caine and The Rock being in a film together are the reason the phrase ‘logistical nightmare’ exists. It’s fun to watch The Rock pretend he knows what ‘emasculating’ means and then that he is capable of that emotion.

All the moralistic and cultured members of the general public will probably be wanting to go and watch a film called Carnage by a man who can’t go to America because he’s wanted for almost definitely raping a 13-year-old girl many, many years ago; isn’t voyeurism fantastic?

It’s based on a play and is set entirely in one room where four ‘adults’ will deduce who is the best at throwing a hissy-fit. They’re obviously all obnoxiously good actors and they’ll be acting the pants off of this.

If you still feel like you’re missing out then we do apologise, but we can only go so far to make your lonely existence fulfilling and entertaining. Have you tried ringing Samaritans?

One of the big talking points from the Super Bowl commercial break was… well… Clint Eastwood. Away from that though, there’s a little excitement surrounding the trailer for Marvel’s The Avengers movie.

While most superhero flicks are brooding like Batman at the moment, it appears that The Avengers film is going to be pleasingly dumb, if the trailer is anything to go by.

So if you want to see it, strap in and watch things explode with Captain America (Chris Evans), Thor (Chris Hemsworth), Iron Man (Robert Downey Jr), Scarlett Johansson (Black Widow) and Hulk get into a giant scrap with a fella with long, greasy hair.

The baddie in the piece is called Loki and he’s all cocking his head with an evil eyebrow nonsense while Rob Downey Jr is, well, playing himself.

Elsewhere, Captain America’s shield will get nerds wet, while everyone else with be getting aroused over Scarlett Johansson in a catsuit.

Oh, and there’s aliens and laser beams and all that good stuff.

One thing that people may raise a vague titter at is the exchange between Loki and Iron Man. ”I have an army,” says Tom Hiddleston’s Loki. “We have a Hulk!” Stark replies.

Those superheroes and villains! Do they rehearse this stuff?

Yes they do. Now watch the trailer.

Films. Movies. Whatever you call them, they are still being released. They’re always being released. They’ll never stop being released. Surely, at some point, we’ll reach a time when we’ve got enough films. We only need so many, right?

Anyway, until then, we’ve got to look at the newest flicks that are coming out. You can almost smell the stale popcorn.

So, here’s what the week in film trailers looks like for those of you who are hearing and/or visually impaired we’re doing the dirty work so you don’t have to.

Now if you’re still one of the poor serfs who has Spotify or television adverts in your life then you will have been numbed by the incessant marketing of a film called Chronicle.

You’ll all be delighted to know this is coming to an end as the film is out tomorrow, but here it is one more time just to make sure you never go and watch it.

What’s that? Douche-bag school kids who probably say things like douche-bag all the time and a ‘found’ film? Either way, these bozos have super powers and one of them goes a little bit psycho. They listen to, sing, and enjoy Jessie J and then they have the nerve to ask us what we’re capable of. Well we’re capable of not watching this movie that’s for sure.

This on the other hand we don’t even really want to discuss, but before you watch it we want to devastate you with the news that you will soon be witnessing Al Pacino starring as himself in Adam Sandler’s ‘The Death of Comedy’ where he plays his own twin sister. Eddie Murphy must be furious.

Eurgh.

More odd is that here’s a trailer for a good film for you! Well, it looks good at any rate. See? We’re not wholly negative goons.

HA! We made you watch one of the Olsen sisters act. She’s not on crack though and she doesn’t have an eating disorder so it’s all looking up for Martha Marcy May Marlene. Plus it has John Hawkes, who is the most underrated actor of a generation and Brady Corbet who is hot stuff for you members of the population who can’t watch a film unless it has good abs and hair being flaunted for at least 45 minutes.

Okay, you’re going to want to ready yourselves for the next one, it’s by Jason Reitman and Diablo ‘used to be a whore in practice now just in your thoughts’ Cody.

On a level of your new favourite movie to totally crapping twee how good/awful does that look?

Charlize Theron was good as an ugly serial killer in that film that was about the ugly serial killer, but she’s much better as a smoking hot grade a bitch.

Now go to the cinema and stop bothering us.

Plot holes! Popcorn! If you hadn’t guessed, hecklerspray is venturing into the world of film criticism and, as awards season rolls around again with all the depressing monotony of Madonna trying her best to make a movie, we couldn’t have picked a better time to start.

We’ve already seen The Golden Globes pass by like a bus that couldn’t be bothered to hit anyone and The London Critics Circle had an altogether more serious affair for the ‘proper’ films; they’ll be the ones you never saw while you were queuing for tickets to The Inbetweeners Movie.

Now though it’s time for that decrepit golden man to bestow some acclaim on some people who really don’t need anymore; enter Oscar. In other words – let us look at new trailers for new films.

The nominations have been announced to massive sighs from just about everyone other than Michael Hazantthisfilmbeentalkedaboutenoughalreadyvicius who’s silent film The Artist is quickly rising from ‘underdog’ to “Oh my god this is, like, totally amazing and deserving of everything thrown its way,” favourite.

The uncouth Frenchman couldn’t even be bothered to write dialogue and still has a chance of winning best screenplay; will someone alert the academy? They’re probably all so old they didn’t even notice.

If you’re one of those run of the mill: “This Orange Wednesday thing is pretty ground breaking,” type people then you will never have heard of Albert Nobbs which is perfectly fine because it’s not going to win either of the three awards it’s nominated for and it can disappear blissfully back into obscurity. While we’re here though may as well watch the trailer, eh?

As far as we can tell it’s about a gender politics in a bygone era where everybody didn’t really get ’round to shouting HAVE YOU SEEN GLENN CLOSE’S FACE?

Elsewhere, one of the most bizarre decisions was to nominate Extremely Loud And Incredibly Close for best picture, being that nobody really knows or cares anything about it; especially in this country where the marketing campaign is only just getting going.

It has a young wide-eyed boy, Tom Hanks laughing, Sandra Bullock doing ‘the look’, and Max Von Sydow giving Christopher Plummer a run for his money in the old stakes. It’s about 9/11 and pretty much says “This is going to be more epic than Epic Movie”. It also has this:

And now, over to The Help which has a butt-load of nominations.

Hark! A film that tackles racism by succumbing to every lousy racial stereotype there is!

Obviously many other films were nominated for something or other this year and Michael Fassbender’s penis was Shame(fully) ignored. We think Chris Nolan is going to surprise win all the categories despite the scandalous underrepresentation of all the films he didn’t make this year.

It’s disheartening how much that woman isn’t Michelle Rodriguez.

The days when ‘big films’ on Christmas telly were circled in red pen by enthusiastic Radio/TV Times readers have long since passed. Cheap DVDs and 950-odd movie channels have made the ‘terrestrial premiere’ have all the impact of the phrase ‘starring Jim Cavaziel’.

There’s always the big screen of course, with the festive flicks offering a welcome escape from hateful relatives or having to grind through the likes of The Krankies’ ‘It’s Behind You’ Panto Special on Channel Five (at least we don’t have the horrors of Disney Time and Holiday on Ice to glaze our brains over any more).

So join us at the movies and let’s see what’s on.

Sherlock Homes: A Game of Shadows

Not the one where the world’s greatest detective and his faithful sidekick pretend to be Hank Marvin and Bruce Welch. No, its arch-mumbler Robert Downey Jr and wet fish Jude Law as Holmes and Watson in Guy Ritchie’s sequel to the quite-likeable-actually 2009 adventure. This one has our sexually ambiguous investigators taking on the dastardly Professor Moriarty (Richard Harris’s lad, Jared, in comedy beard and hat combo).

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

Americans, as we know, cannot read. Which is why they make perfectly decent foreign-language subtitle films all over again, just after they’ve been perfectly decent successes, with big stars who speak proper languages like English. So here comes the second adaptation in two years of Stieg Larsson’s gloomy Nordic crime thriller, beloved of public transport users everywhere. Perpetually furrowed Daniel Craig leads with sort-of newcomer Rooney Mara as the titular Girl, looking like the offspring of Noel Fielding and a newly discovered tropical plant. David Fincher is directing, so let’s hope it’ll be more like Fight Club than Panic Room.

Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol

If you groan at the very sight of Tom Cruise then you’ll want to dodge this. That the Mission Impossible films are usually crushing disappointments doesn’t help. The point of Mission Impossible is that it’s about a team, but once you’ve had to accommodate Tommo and his ego no-one else really has room to look in. Simon Pegg’s there for his chums at Empire magazine to fawn over, whilst Alan Tichmarsh lookalike Jeremy Renner competes with Cruise in doing action stuff. Pixar veteran Brad Bird directs. Insert your own Tom Cruise/cartoon character joke here.

Alvin and the Chipmunks 3: Chipwrecked

Speaking of cartoons, the young ‘uns get yet another dose of computer/live action shenanigans from the USA’s answer to Pinky and Perky. Where we trotted the singing puppet pigs off to TV hell decades ago, the Yanks still peddle the squeaky critters to easily bored kiddies. As you can guess, they get dumped on a desert island this time round, with Jason Lee the human mug acting opposite thin air. If that’s no good, there’s Antonio Banderas and Salma Hayek smouldering their voices into feline avatars in Shrek prequel Puss in Boots.

Hugo

The best until last with 3D that works, a charming story, great design and characters (including an appearance by Christopher Lee, the world’s coolest nonagenarian), and a love of cinema shining throughout. However if you want something more horrific and stomach churning, there’s a film out in January that makes Human Centipede 2 look like Bambi: Meryl Streep as Margaret Thatcher in The Iron Lady. If the thought of those bus posters doesn’t make you vomit up your figgy pudding, nothing will.

Happy Christmas!

This was a guest post by Peter Sharples who has, to date, offered absolutely nothing of value to anything ever which is precisely why we like him.

Dark Knight Rises or Batman 3. What are you calling it? Well, judging by the newly released trailer, you could justifiably call it Occupy Gotham. It is fair to say that Bruce Wayne is part of the 1%.

Wisely, Christopher Nolan & Co have decided to tap into the most polite civil unrest yet and, mercifully, thrown some supervillains at it because we demand explosions and people getting punched in the throat.

And, regrettably for us snarks, the film looks like it might be really great. There’s a chance we’ll still give it a bad review though, just to be contrarians.

As you know, joining the action this time round is Anne Hathaway as the becatsuited Selina Kyle (or Catwoman if you can’t work out an insultingly obvious clue). She purrs into Batman’s ear:

“You think this is going to last. There’s a storm coming, Mr. Wayne. You and your friends better batten down the hatches, because when it hits, you’re all going to wonder how you ever thought how you could live so large and leave so little for the rest of us.”

If only the 99% were more prone to being leggy and attractive in skin-tight outfits. Practical, no… glamorous, yes.

Of course, Heath Ledger’s Joker will take some beating, so Thomas Hardy will be gruffing it up as Bane. And as big gestures go, Bane’s looks-awfully-like-a-terrorist-attack during a football game should sicken a few American stomachs. Oh, and you’ll be supporting the Gotham Rogues, just in case you didn’t know.

For hipsters, the trailer also show a little Joseph Gordon-Levitt, which is nice.

And so, we’ve all got to wait ’til July to see if it’s going to be any good. Until then, we’ll speculate how Bale’s Batman is written out of this particular franchise and foist stupid Who Can Replace Christian Bale As Batman? lists upon you ’til we find something worthy to write.

Here’s the trailer, poo-breath.

Well, it’s almost that time of year. You remember, right? The time of year when the two Snow White films come out at exactly the same time, injecting new, vampiric life into the classic tale of Snow White. No seven dwarves here- just TEENAGE ANGST.

Although, if we’re being fair (which we rarely are) the film deserves some credit for taking on a darker note than we had expected while the idea of watching Kristen Stewart engaged in a “who’s hotter” contest to the end of the earth and back with Charlize Theron fills us with the same sense of dread that one gets when you’ve just contracted gastroenteritis.

While you’ve got that image in your head, why not have a look at the trailer and see what you think?

Not much, we’d wager.

Snow White & The Huntsman is releas- oh, who cares?

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We Need To Talk About Kevin is one of those films where everybody says they loved it for its gritty portrayal of a mother coming to terms with the fact her misunderstood son killed a load of people at school for no apparent reason, making everyone throw their hands in the air and scream ‘WHY GOD??’, even those who haven’t seen the bloody film.

The truth is that it’s as tedious as a GCSE drama piece about growing up in North Wales.

The translucent skinned, Tilda Swinton, was the only woman that could have played the part of Eva, Kevin’s mother, as she plodded about town looking like somebody with Dutch Elm disease.

It’s a film filled with terrible and obviously dumbed down metaphors. The trailer, of course, gives none of this away. It portrays it as a tense thriller, nay horror, which goes something like this:

There’s a boy. He looks a bit shifty. His hair is so emo it probably cuts itself. He doesn’t do what his mum tells him. He kills his schoolmates. HORROR ENSUES!!!!

And, no, it doesn’t. The only part where the audience actually gasped at such horror was the scene where Tilda Swinton was seen wearing make-up, and even then, you still wouldn’t.

There are three Kevin’s in this film. Toddler Kevin, played by Rock Duer, a kid with the most evil stare in history (we’ll probably end up seeing him on the news having strangled his entire family with a pair of Huggies pull-ups soon); Jasper Newell, the child Kevin (if only they’d have called in Super Nanny, all this death would have been avoided); and Ezra Miller, who plays the teenage Kevin (Twilight written all over his pale, stupid face).

The film trudges through on apparent shock scenes where a toddler won’t do what he’s told, a small boy refuses to eat his greens, and teenage onanism. All of which can be seen in the hecklerspray flea-pit on a day-to-day basis… and you don’t see us massacring everybody.

If you’ve read the book, then you will know that it’s supposed to all be written as letters to the estranged father, played by John C. Reilly. A man who does not appear to be in any way estranged throughout the entire film. Unless ‘estranged’ actually means ‘there throughout the entire film’.

The tedium is the theme. In one, long scene involving red paint removal, the audience is left wondering why Mum didn’t just use Dulux One Coat and have done with it… but of course it’s all about the bloody metaphor isn’t it? She struggles. WE GET IT! STRUGGLES WITH DECORATING!

This film is, however, beautifully shot. It’s like director, Lynne Ramsay, has seen every episode of Grand Designs and molded it into a nearly two hour-long jerkathon for anybody that likes-that-sort-of-thing. Like Kevin McCloud, everything about this film feels incredibly forced. Like a bad Crimewatch reconstruction. Only sponsored by Barker and Stonehouse.

Tilda Swinton will probably get an Oscar for her performance. But nobody will know why.

This was a guest article by Jamie Rothwell who looks like crap warmed up

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At the 2011 Cannes Film Festival, Drive was loved so much that, when the movie finally finished, everyone leapt to their feet to give it a standing ovation. A film. A standing ovation.

One can only assume that this ovation must have been like the tears cried by a hostage when they receive a rare moment of kindness. That’s because Drive is one of the most overrated films on Earth right now.

Only a complete, dithering simpleton would dare disagree.

If you haven’t seen Drive, what’s it about? Well, the short answer is ‘nothing‘. The long answer is ‘absolutely nothing. For ages.‘

The film is so insultingly pedestrian that it makes the woeful Eyes Wide Shut look like a high-octane caper.

Remember that Athena poster which showed a shirtless muscle man holding a baby? Imagine staring at that for nine hours while someone projects a particularly nice screensaver of night-time Los Angeles over the top of it while playing nauseating cod-80s music at you.

Imagine that, and just that. Long, sighing metres of film, containing the same shots… over… and over… and over… and over…

THEN SOME ULTRA-VIOLENCE.

Then nothing. Nothing at all. Coupled with a script that must’ve been two sides of A4, delivered by Ryan Gosling, a man who looks like Guy Smiley from Sesame Street. Only less alive.

It’s as if someone sat down and watched Vanishing Point and Bullit and thought “I know! I’m going to merge those films with the quiet, lingering boredom you get when you’re stood in an Apple Genius Bar while Air’s ‘Moon Safari’ is playing… quietly!” Throw in a whole load of Grand Theft Auto: Vice City (played by someone who doesn’t want to do any of the challenges, rather, simply drive around for hours toggling the camera angles) and you’re there.

THEN SOME ULTRA-VIOLENCE.

And nothing, nothing, nothing. So much nothing that, frequently, it feels like you’re watching the rushes of something that, with a huge amount of editing, could be an excellent 20 minute film.

It’s a real case of style-over-substance which will thrill the kind of people who say they really ‘get’ films, when really, they just enjoy hollow releases that think that substituting emotion for some vaguely nice cinematography is a good thing. Why bother with a story when you can sit there being preened at by a handsome object of vacancy?

It’s just one big polished Zen turd.

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When E4 had eventually grown tired of showing endless repeats of Friends and Scrubs, the channel eventually spat out its own unique programming, aimed at the sort of person that hecklerspray writers aren’t; the young, the cool, the hip and the trendy. Arseholes, basically.

On one end of the spectrum, there was Skins, a programme which captured everyone’s dream college lifestyle, in a show which frequently used drugs, booze and sex, but portrayed them in the most extreme way to great effect.

Skins was escapism for most whilst The Inbetweeners offered a firmer dose of reality, especially for hormonal teenage boys. These are the sort of people who couldn’t quite make that move from fingering a girl to using an empty packet of Space Raiders as a makeshift condom when that first awkward sexual experience arrived.

The show has, like many of its Channel 4 predecessors, made the leap from small screen to the cinema, or a dodgy DVD off someone in the pub. The Inbetweeners Movie has broken UK box office records, even though it feels like a watered down version of the TV series.

We don’t have a total feeling of hate towards The Inbetweeners. If anything we truly admire something that was able to last an impressive three series, despite having the same jokes more or less each week. Whether they’d be about Will’s mum, mocking Jay’s supposed conquests, alternative words for the female lady garden or generally being rejected by women when a vague opportunity arose.

After series three finished, it almost seemed like the natural place to finish. For once, a TV show wasn’t going to finish with flashbacks, somebody waking up in the shower or a gathering of ninjas bursting into kill everyone. Instead, the main characters went on a camping trip following on from taking their A-Levels. As per real life, this is the time that most people take their first independent holiday abroad and this is where The Inbetweeners film takes us.

In a nutshell, the film goes along these lines of all four characters going to Magaluf one of them keeps on seeing an old flame, four new women enter the scene, they all fall in love and make a mess of it, all before patching things up at the end. Suffice to say, it’s a run of the mill plot which could be applied to any situation in life, such as moving to a new city or starting a job, all be it with minor script changes.

Sitcoms like The Inbetweeners always do well as people incessantly latch onto and copy the catchphrases. These are the same people who delight in posting the term “lol” on your Facebook status. Choice highlights from the TV show include “bus wanker”, “clunge” and mocking anyone who says the word “friend” in a tone similar to someone who’s just experienced a stroke.

In this movie however, there doesn’t seem to be any memorable moments that stick in the memory once you’ve left the cinema. Of course there are moments of humour but based around a lad’s holiday abroad, most people have been there and done it, making the viewing experience nothing out of the ordinary. Erratic drunken behaviour and unexpected surprises? Not particularly groundbreaking or imaginative.

But the people of Britain have flocked to the flicks, catapulting it in to the record books for a UK comedy. Whilst the movie industry will be celebrating high visitor numbers, we’re sure that pissed off cinema staff won’t be happy when they have to clean up spilt drinks and thrown snacks after pack screenings finish. Unless you’re a cinema buff, you probably won’t know this little snippet:

“Between Wednesday and Sunday The Inbetweeners Movie took £13.2m, putting it comfortably on top of the UK and Ireland box office chart. Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason held the previous record for highest opening by a UK comedy. According to the producers of The Inbetweeners Movie, that film took £10.4m in its first weekend in 2004.”

If movies based on real life experiences are going down a treat at the box office, then we’ll be working on a script over the next few months in which three people have an awkward conversation in a launderette. Eventually, one of them will realise that they’ve mixed their colours with their whites… with hilarious consequences.

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Ah, festivals. Possibly the best thing about living in Britain is that because the weather is so dreary most of the year we party like idiots as soon as the sun comes out.

We used to have to either choose between about four festivals or go to Ibiza to combine hedonism and music. Now we are as spoilt for choice as a footballer in a lapdancing club.

So where are you going? There are small ones, big ones, dance ones, rock ones, ones for has-beens, ones for soon-to-bes. There are stupid amounts to choose from, but here are the ones that we would suggest…

The Big Chill, 5^th-7^th August, Herfordshire

This is strange, we remember Big Chill being an incredibly atmospheric weekend but with a line-up designed to make muso types stroke their goatees and congratulate each other on their impeccable taste, but damn it when did it get THIS good? Kanye West? Chemical Brothers? Metronomy? Wild Beasts? Kanye West? Have they found a suitcase of money in the woods or something? Hopefully we’ll be there. If the bastards approve our press pass request. Are you listening, guys?

Y-Not, 5^th- 7^th August, Derbyshire

A nice little one that we confess, we’ve not been to before. 5000 capacity so as ever with the smaller ones, the line-up is everything. Bands that we-like at y-not include Art Brut, the always entertaining Beardyman, The Duke Spirit, Dinosaur Pile-Up, Dananananakyroyd, Go!Team, and Maximo Park.

Standon Calling, 12-14^th, Hertfordshire

Okay, we’d never heard of this one but here’s a bunch of reasons why it’s worth your time. Headliners are Spiritualized, Lamb and Battles (all of whom are ace in different ways). They have a swimming pool! The bars are open all night. It clearly has that winning formula of people that are experts in how to create an atmosphere combined with an instinct for upcoming bands.  We’ve got a good feeling about this one.

Beautiful Days, 19-21^st, Devon

Regardless of how you feel about the Levellers, it stands to reason that they would know how to put on a festival, does it not? The headliners are normally aimed at your festival veteran crowd (this year sees Carter USM, Big Audio Dynamite and Gogol Bordello) while there’s plenty of variety further down the bill. Every non-corporate festival in the country owes something to Beautiful Days.

Green Man,  19-21^st, Brecon Beacons

Traditionally the strongest indie-folk line-up, this year’s acts include Iron & Wine, Fleet Foxes, The Low Anthem, Holy Fuck, Josh T Pearson, Explosions in the Sky and The Antlers. There’s also plenty of other genres spread around, but it remains a folk festival at heart.

Reading/Leeds 26-28^th

One of the original rock festivals and its identical Northern twin still pull in one of the best line-ups and a massive crowd. Where once it was peerless it terms of line-up, these days there’s a lot more competition. The headliners this year are My Chemical Romance, Muse and The Strokes which, with the possible exception of MCR is a pretty poor show for Reading. That said if you like left-of-centre rock music you will find enough bands here to justify the ticket price. Worth going  for The Joy Formidable, Pulled Apart by Horses, Jane’s Addiction, Interpol, Odd Future and Deftones. And at least they’ve stopped calling it the Carling Weekend.

Oh, and one more thing. Enough with the festival chic bollocks. If it’s not muddy, don’t wear wellies.

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Following on from the cultural apocalypse of The Manchester International Festival comes Batman Live; another intellectual tour-de-force which sees everyone’s favourite schizophrenic do battle with a bunch of villains for two-and-a-bit hours at the glamorously named Manchester Evening News Arena.

It’s worth noting, straight-out-the-gate, that this isn’t really a story about The Dark Knight (old Bruce gets all of three words in during the first half) and, if we were being pedantic, Batman Live really should be called Robin & A Bit Of Batman Thrown In To Sell Some T-Shirts.

Really, Batman Live is a story about Robin (arguably the most soporific character since Dr. Snoozy Time – a fictional character created for the sake of this article) and for the majority of the show, we’re treated to the world according to the Boy Wonder; his likes, dislikes, favourite colour and preferential pizza topping. Straight away, It’s frustrating to watch as, mainly, we just want to hang out with Batman, watch him punch people in the jaw and then drive off in the Batmobile to pick up women. Instead, we get Dick Grayson rolling about the stage making enthusiastic ‘gee-whizz’ noises.

Even then, what we do see of The Dark Knight is rather tame. This isn’t the snarling creation of Christoper Nolan and no-one in Batman Live gets dropped from a tall building or bashed in the skull with a Bat Bat. In Batman Live, Bruce Wayne is a bit of a wet fish.

Imagine Michael Keaton as the warm-up act to a promenade Punch and Judy show and you’re halfway there; the first proper fight scene, reminiscent of the scraps in Team America, sees the caped crusader and Catwoman swing around in the air stroking each other’s faces.

It’s frustrating because Batman is such an interesting character and it seems a waste to limit the stage-time of one of the most iconic superheroes in favour of the irritating sidekick.

Despite the most devious roster of antagonists since a Commons Select Committee hearing, our time with The Riddler, Penguin, Two-Face, Poison Ivy and The Scarecrow is limited to three minutes a pop. And it’s a shame, because what we do get is quality meat. There’s a great scene in Arkharm Asylum which sees a 12-foot Scarecrow freak the crap out of Batman, while the chap who plays Penguin has sinister dripping from his oily pores. This isn’t to say that the show’s primary villain, The Joker, isn’t good (in fact, he’s rather decent), but it rather seems a waste to shoehorn these iconic villains into the show for a mere two-minute cameo.

But Batman Live does have its moments. Spectacular moments. Scene changes take place via a comic-book animation on the giant screen behind the stage (basically, it’s geek catnip to those who religiously follow the series) and there are some very nifty special effects; a bazooka blows a hole into a giant balloon shaped like The Joker, while the demise of The Graysons (and their acrobatic antics beforehand) is heart-in-mouth stuff. The appearance of the Batmobile is also a nice moment and watching it drive around stage is always going to be special stuff.

Batman Live is an excellent show, it really is. The stages are great, the fight scenes are choreographed to the second and you can tell a lot of money has been thrown behind the whole thing (it’s touring across the globe over the next five years). It is a solid two-and-a-half hours of silly entertainment and you should all go.

But, it’s not really Batman. Not our Batman, anyway.

As an audience, we’ve grown familiar with tortured, sucks-to-be-me Batman. We expect him to growl, swear and kick people in the face; the re-boot of the film franchise has convinced us that this type of behaviour is how Batman acts. Batman Live has having none of that – it’s an homage to the days of Adam West and George Clooney; where the joker bursts out of a jack-in-the-box and Catwoman uses purring as a type of foreplay. Kerpow! and all that jazz.

And there’s nothing particularly wrong with this sort of Batman (and for a kid’s show it probably couldn’t work any other way). Although, if you’re looking for a good time down the gritty streets of Gotham, you’re likely to be disappointed.

This was a guest review from the formidable Tom Mason who has calves to die for and a face that could arouse Chief Commissioner Gordon.

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Right lets cut to the chase, Transformers: Dark of the Moon has a crap script and the acting is, for lack of a better word, shit. Sorry Michael, but bear with us because you come off good in the end…

It’s still got those bloody parents in it, it’s rife with dodgy racial stereotyping, the irritating shitty robots who do nothing but make lame jokes, penis references and Patrick Dempsey. Trust us – the list goes on!

Frankly it’s difficult to understand why scriptwriter Ehren Kruger is even working on Transformers still, having failed so miserably with the last film. Worst still, despite getting rid of Megan Fox, director Michael Bay has seemingly opted for yet another hottie with zero acting skills in the form of Rosie Huntington-Whitley who seems to spend more time pouting and looking dead to the world than actually contributing to the bloody film. For a director with such a skill at creating visual feasts for the eyes, he sure is ignorant when it comes to the storytelling behind a film… but this is an brilliant film, right?

See, this is Michael Bay. By his very definition he’s inherently dumb-downed, misogynistic and crass. He’s been doing it for years and we’ve been lapping it up from the very moment Bad Boys came out. Honestly, after all the hype, photos, trailers and feature articles before Transformers release you’d think that just one person might have cottoned onto the fact he was going to do the same god damn thing he always does.

Yet even now critics are already lining up to lament Transformers for not delivering something we should all know full well by now that Bay can’t deliver, let alone when the main characters are robots with laser cannons for arms.

So just this once, let us say bollocks to scripts, acting and the character development, because if that’s your thing then bugger off and go rent a James MacAvoy film.

Transformers: Dark of the Moon is spectacle cinema at its very finest. You’re not meant to sit up and pay attention, you’re meant to put banality aside and let the sheer ridiculousness of the mayhem and carnage wash over you.

Sure, as we’ve mentioned the script is crap, but admittedly it has its plus points too, with far more audience laughs than personal groans.

Equally the film manages to bring on board more Transformer characters than ever before and give a good account of them, where other blockbusters have failed seemingly failed (See Spiderman 3, Iron Man 2, et al.). If, as many would have you believe, this is to be the final film in the series, it sure is a hell of a way to round off the trilogy and, as always, with some breathtaking action set pieces.

Those wondering whether or not to opt in for the 3D experience definitely should. Unlike the sad gimmicky trash demonstrated in Pirates of the Caribbean or Alice in Wonderland, Transformers instead goes for more of an Avatar based use of 3D technology, providing more of an immersive layered effect (no goofy swords or pikes sticking out the screen here).

Additionally, if none of that made sense, then just stop being cheapskate and pay the extra few quid and you’ll thank us later because it’s one of the few times we’re going to endorse the cash cow that is 3D cinema.

The film isn’t perfect and anyone expecting it to be might as well sling their hook now. Transformers aimed to be bigger, bolder and more explosive than it’s predecessors and it accomplished it in spades… but if you can’t get past the fact Michael Bay is a crap storyteller, then you might as well not buy a ticket in the first place.

Dumb. Furious. Things go bang. Ace.

This review was a guest post by James Wright who, after watching Transformers 3, decided to graft metal appendages about his person in an attempt to look like Rodimus Prime. He’s now considered ‘stable’ in the toxic poisoning ward and accepting grapes and bongo mags.

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Let’s get one thing straight. No-one, but no-one, likes a worthy teacher film. Nothing brings up the traditional blogger’s lunch of White Lightning and pocket fluff into a hecklersprayer’s gullet quicker than watching some earnest nonsense where some skinny blonde chick like Mickey Piffler changes the lives of a gang of murderous children simply through wearing jeans and riddling Shakespearean sonnets with F-bombs.

Oh Captain, My Captain? Oh Come on, My Chuffin’ arse, more like.

So you’d think a film like Bad Teacher – a film that takes that concept and shoves a Molotov cocktail up its fundament – would be something appraoching perfection. But unfortunately, the filmmakers have not entertainingly flipped their Dangerous Minds. Instead, they’ve got the DVDs of charming Jack Black softy-comedy School Of Rock and not-so-charming little-person-abuse-comedy Bad Santa, ground them together into carcinogenic dust, and sprinkled it all over Cameron Diaz’s cougar mum.

Oh, hang on! That’s actually Cameron Diaz! The years can be cruel.

Cammy plays Elizabeth Halsey, the money-grabbing, conniving, lazy, pot-smoking, hard-drinking and inexplicably employed titular Bad Teacher, who is dumped by her filthy rich fiancé for her money-grabbing, conniving, etc etc ways, and left penniless. But goodness me, what luck! Who should turn up as a new colleague but filthy rich and dorkilicious Scott (Justin Timberlake)?

No luck there, though, because despite Liz’s sinewy charms, the Trousersnake seems to prefer the tender embrace of her irritatingly perfect rival, Amy Squirrel (Lucy Punch). Nothing left for Liz to do but raise 10 grand for a brand-new pair of luscious Scott-baiting boobies…

And so the paltry few laughs trickle forth. It’s not a terrible film. It’s a film that begs a lot of questions. For example: how are you meant to sympathise with a character that’s such an utter bitch to everyone under the sun and has no redeeming qualities, and whose redemptive moment involves accusing an 11-year-old of statutory rape?

What’s more disturbing, the bit where Cameron rubs up against a car in Daisy Duke shorts like an aging lizard, or the bit where she and Timbers re-enact their bizarrely fully-clothed sex life for our meagre enjoyment? Can we really celebrate a film where Jason Segel turning up every half-an-hour to be a bit sarcastic is a revelatory highlight equal to Jenny Agutter in the shower in American Werewolf In London?

And why does Justin Timberlake recite every line like he’s reading it off a Post-it note stuck on his co-star’s forehead?

All in all, it’s a bit of a misfire. Not funny enough, not sexy enough, not as caustic as Bad Santa, not as heart-warming as School Of Rock, cliché-ridden, stuffed to the brim with annoying archetypes. And while Diaz may give a decent funny turn in parts, you still end up wanting to fill her impressive collection of ankle boots with some kind of poisonous insect swarm. But hell, at least there was one positive: the kids suffered throughout. And that’s the kind of message hecklerspray can get behind.

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Britain’s had a rum old time when it comes to fictional alien invasions. They started early, with steampunk martians getting all up in our Victorian grills before idiotically sneezing themselves to their constituent pieces in War Of The Worlds.

We had a bit of respite in the ’50s as the fashion in the alien travel supplements was to take in the fabulous corn-filled vistas of mid-west America, do some light abducting, maybe probe a farmhand anus or two.

But then that Doctor fellow with the ever-changing, always-irritating face and voice and body and talking popped onto Saturday teatimes and suddenly Britain can’t move for psychopathic pepper grinders and shaggable supermodel siren doctorbots.

But what if the space-nasties happened upon the gritty urban underbelly of South London? When the monsters attack, who would you really want on humanity’s side; a clay-faced bowtied fop, stuffing 100 words into the time taken by 10, flailing his arms and legs around like a Thom Yorke marionette, or a gang of estate yoofs patrolling their block, never further than a text away from being seriously tooled up?

The answer, as explored in “Adam and” Joe Cornish’s enjoyable debut film Attack The Block, is most definitely and utterly the second one. Even if, in the case of nurse Sam, played with admirable swearing bile by Jodie Whittaker, the alien invasion interrupted them giving you a good solid urban mugging.

The potential saviours of the block are a gang of masked reprobates, led by blank-faced anti-hero Moses (John Boyega). It was a risky move by Cornish to introduce his main characters by having them robbing a lone woman, five against one, then spend the rest of the film expressing scant remorse, stealing police vans and pounding every alien intruder in sight. But then Attack The Block isn’t a gritty social commentary; in fact, the attempts to engineer empathy with the gang give the film its few bum notes. They’re little shits you’d tremble to be stuck on a night bus with, but in the end, if it’s them or the loping mess of hairy limbs and florescent teeth falling out of the sky and ripping people’s throats out, you’re going to side with the awful youth.

Where the film really excels is as a satisfying slice of horror adventure. The aliens themselves are subtly realised, menacing without being CGIsores, and Cornish proves his directing chops with some really suspenseful moments – ever thought about using smoke-creating fireworks as a weapon in a gloomy tower block corridor? After watching this, you’ll think twice now, you lunatic.

And there are a couple of laughs as well; the kids, all fantastically portrayed by unknowns, raise a few smiles with their mocking of each other’s gangster stylings and their processing of the alien threat through popular culture (“They’re like Gangs Of War shit!” “It’s raining Gollums!”) Luke Treadaway’s deck-shoed posh-boy stoner gets caught up in the block’s defence, and his attempts to get down with the kids will bring a familiar shameful shudder to anyone who’s ever tried to casually drop an “innit” in a conversation with incredulous 16-year-old.

And Nick Frost turns up briefly and does his amiable Nick Frost schtick as the block’s resident weed supplier. But despite his presence, and Edgar Wright being an executive producer, those expecting the next Shaun Of The Dead will be disappointed – this is not a chock full of belly-laughs film, it’s a running around with a baseball bat being chased by a load of screaming “bear wolf motherfuckers” film. And that’s no bad thing.

So a solidly entertaining first effort from Joe Cornish, even if it’s not what the most ardent Adam and Joe nutjobs will be expecting (though let’s face it, they wouldn’t be happy unless it was a full-length shot-for-shot stuffed-toy remake of The Phantom Menace). Maybe with a little less trying to make us cry rivers of tears for the poor deprived kids, and a little more letting them just be gits who saved the world, it could’ve been almost perfect. But still, an alien incursion with not a bastard bowtie or twattish tweed jacket in sight. Let’s just be thankful for that.

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