BROOKLYN (112 minutes, 12A) Directed by John Crowley. Starring Saoirse Ronan, Domhnall Gleeson, Emory Cohen.

The take-home message from this adaption of Colm Tobin’s emigration narrative is that opportunities for Ireland’s young have not improved in 60 odd years. Beginning in 1951, Ellis Lacey (Saoirse Ronan) leaves her family and friends behind in no-hope rural Ireland in pursuit of the American dream. She spends the first few weeks weeping into her bacon and cabbage; homesick, desperately lonely. But when Ellis falls for twinkly-eyed Italian plumber Antonio (Emory Cohen), life in America doesn’t seem quite so bad after all. A sudden tragedy sends Ellis back to Ireland and into the arms of wealthy, charming Jim Farrell (Domhnall Gleeson). With two lovers in two countries, Ellis is faced with the choice of staying at home or returning to her new life.
Heavily indebted to the work of Douglas Sirk, Brooklyn is a charming homage to a simpler age of filmmaking. John Crowley’s hands-off directional style allows source material to speak for itself. Ronan and Gleeson are two of our finest young actors, and each delivers a performance of understated, subtle dexterity. But the true standout of Brooklyn is Cohen. It’s occasionally prone to cliché (with emerald green coat and red hair, Ellis is the epitome of the stereotypical cailín). The DVD will fly off the shelves at Bunratty Castle gift shop.

 

HE NAMED ME MALALA (88 minutes, PG) Directed by Davis Guggenheim. With Malala Yousafzai, Zaiuddin Yousafzai

A bullet in the head could never be described as a gift. Yet when the Taliban shot 15 year old Malala Yousafzai for having the temerity of wanting an education, she was given an opportunity. Just as she herself chooses not to dwell on this act, Davis Guggenheim’s documentary focusses instead on what Malala has managed to achieve with the global spotlight. Since 2012 she has addressed the UN as an advocate for the 60 million children without access to education and is the youngest recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize. The documentary also reveals the private aspects of Malala’s personality. Courageous, modest and witty, it is easy to forget that this influential world figure is still a teenager crushing on Brad Pitt. Education is the best defence against ideological fanaticism, and He Named Me Malala is an inspirational lesson in the value of constantly kicking against the pricks.

 

KILL YOUR FRIENDS (103 minutes, 18) Directed by Owen Harris. Starring Nicholas Hoult, Craig Roberts, James Corden.

The makers of this turgid Britflick were probably hoping to ride the current wave of 90s nostalgia, but the novelty wears off quickly. Adapted by John Niven from his own novel, Kill Your Friends is set during the Britpop years when a pre-Napster record industry was hoovering up money and Colombian marching powder in equal measure. Nicholas Hoult plays the preposterously named Steven Stelfox, a talentless A&R man whose only qualification is a prodigious capacity for cocaine and owning his own copy of “The Art of War.” But what he lacks in talent, he makes up for with blind ambition. Stelfox is the type who thinks nothing of (literally) urinating on his colleagues to get ahead. It’s like a “how-to” guide for sociopaths, or an episode of The Apprentice (same thing, I suppose). For all its edgy credentials and satirical aspirations, Kill Your Friends is ultimately quite boring. It has more in common with How to Lose Friends and Alienate People (2008) than with American Psycho (2000). At this stage, to-camera monologues indicate the inability to tell a story, and should be consigned to the past along with Menswear’s second album. Drug-taking isn’t a spectator sport, and the endless scenes of debauchery become wearing. Kill Your Friends feels like being trapped at a stockbrokers Christmas party. Unpleasant.

SCOUTS GUIDE TO THE ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE (93 minutes, 15A) Directed by Christopher Landon. Starring Tye Sheridan, Logan Miller, Joey Morgan.

If Shaun of the Dead (2004) is the high water mark of zom-rom-coms, then Scouts Guide to the Zombie Apocalypse is the sludge at the bottom. Any and all creative development for this project was wrapped up when someone came up with the elevator pitch of “Scouts fighting Zombies.” Because this has nothing else to offer. Scouts Guide to the Zombie Apocalypse is like an AC/DC-themed episode of Scooby Doo. With boobs. The three short-pants-and-woggle-wearing leads are far too old for this nonsense, as they point, squeal and bump their way to the 90-minute mark. Director and co-writer Christopher Landon lifts segments from Edgar Wright’s film wholesale, strips them of all wit, and replaces actual set-ups and pay-offs with genital references. This isn’t Scary Movie (2000) bad; it’s Meet the Spartans (2008) bad.

Also on release from Friday 6th November: BURNT.

(Mark blogs about film, TV and other stuff at WhyBother.ie)

SPECTRE (148 minutes, 12A) Directed by Sam Mendes. Starring Daniel Craig, Christophe Waltz, Léa Seydoux.

Ever since Casino Royale (2006) achieved the impossible feat of making James Bond relevant again, the franchise has never been in ruder health. This eagerly awaited follow-up to the monumentally successful Skyfall (2012) is going to make more money than Microsoft, but it’s a case of two steps forward, one step back.

Picking up immediately after the events of the last film, Spectre sees Bond (Daniel Craig) fighting a war on multiple fronts. First up is the task of hunting the shadowy Franz Oberhauser (Christophe Waltz), head of a multinational criminal organisation with links to the baddies from the previous three chapters. There’s also trouble at home, with oily new MI6 boss Max Denbigh (Andrew Scott) threatening to mothball the Double O program. Business as usual then.

Let’s start with the positives. Four movies in and Craig’s rough diamond has grown into the quintessential Bond. If this is the actor’s last hurrah (and it’s probably not), then Spectre provides a satisfying resolution to his story arc. Returning director Sam Mendes hits all the necessary beats, from kinetic action sequences in exotic locations to a spectacular set-piece every 30 minutes or so. But the realism of the previous movies has been lost in the quest to make the spectacle bigger, and Spectre starts ticking boxes best left as “optional”.

The action is far too slick, and any sense of genuine peril has all but disappeared. Signs of Brosnan-period cheesy humour are beginning to creep back in, along with the clichéd gimmickry of exploding watches and pimped-out supercars with ejector seats and machine guns. Spectre is still a decent popcorn flick that will please fans of “old” Bond, but those of us who have become accustomed to the new, gritty era will come away disappointed.

(Mark blogs about film, TV and other stuff at WhyBother.ie)