The latest film from director Terry Gilliam and sadly the last starring Heath Ledger, The Imaginarium of Dr Parnassus concerns the adventures of a travelling theatre group which offers more than the average show.  Customers stepping into the ramshackle caravan and through a mirror are transported to a realm of imagination, where they experience what their mind projects, aided by a self-hypnotised Dr Parnassus (Christopher Plummer).  Set in present day London the troupe are finding business slow, with a public less and less interested in their side-show. Can the spivish Tony (Heath Ledger and playing aspects of his character Johnny Depp, Jude Law and Colin Farrell) be the answer and bring a much needed upturn in fortune?  Muddying the waters are the series of wagers struck between Parnassus and the Devil (Tom Waits), and the ensuing consequences for his teenage daughter.

Vivid, colourful and with wonderful costume design, Gilliam certainly knows how to use the big screen to its full effect.  Travelling through the mirror is to be transported into a kaleidoscopic world of CGI and contrasts sharply to the grim depiction of modern London.  This is trademark Gilliam, bold and adventurous, playful, but with sinister undertones, surreal and dream-like, teeming with vibrancy and verve.

The use of Messers Depp, Law and Farrell to replace Heath Ledger is effective, typically imaginative and brings a large dollop of star power to proceedings. None, however, can match Ledger’s performance when introducing the new revamped Imaginarium.  This is highly nuanced stuff, bristling with confidence; he’s at the top of his game.

Disappointingly, the rest of the picture leaves much to be desired.  Confused, and often confusing, it is strangely flat, never scaling the heights it initially promises.  The narrative doesn’t match the visual flair, the plot feels underdeveloped and at times a little explanation would have been handy.

While never dull, The Imaginarium of Dr Parnassus never takes off.  Clearly, Gilliam had to make the best of the most unfortunate situation and completing the picture ranks as an achievement by itself.  As it is, it maintains interest, but never transcends to being more than average.

Willem Defoe and Charlotte Gainsbourg are a couple beset with grief after the death of their son.  Collapsing at the funeral, she is admitted to a psychiatric hospital and he, a therapist, takes over her care.  Retreating to the not so tranquil confines of their log cabin Eden, here things take a turn for the worse, with nature wrecking havoc on the senses, sensibilities and mental capacities of the couple.

Boasting breathtaking cinematography, a gorgeous score, endless psychobabble posing as dialogue, graphic sex, a talking fox and some hokey torture, Lars Von Trier’s Antichrist certainly is something.  Quite what is another matter.  Taken at face value it’s a disaster; a pointless, plot free exercise in self-indulgence which fails to deliver either as a horror or a psychological drama.  The characters are ciphers, their plight unconvincing and their descent has no emotional impact whatsoever.  The spread on stopping caring must lie at about 10 – 15 minutes.  Perhaps this is the point though – is this an elaborate joke by a master self-publicist?  A parody of psychological melodrama, masquerading as horror?  This is closer to cognitive behavioural therapy gone wrong than entertainment, a mental detox in public and about as much fun as that sounds.

Antichrist is not without merit.  It looks and sounds terrific with individual shots which betray a beautiful gothic power.  Particularly effective is an outdoor sex scene framed by the backdrop of a sea of arms locking round the roots of an ancient tree.  Falling acorns drumming on the roof of the cabin at Eden is nicely disconcerting and the opening sequence has a true voyeuristic quality, despite signalling its manipulative intention with the subtlety of a foghorn.

Antichrist doesn’t work as a feature film.  Given the images, sounds and themes which Von Trier has collected, an art installation or photography exhibition would be a far better means of presentation.  A short in the manner of Chris Marker’s wonderful La Jetee might have been more successful than aiming for Bergman.  However, for all its flaws this is a unique experience.   Worth seeing, perhaps not to be enjoyed.

A delicious slice of revisionist history, Quentin Tarantino’s Inglorious Basterds is a blood-splattered breath of fresh air.  Indebted to the 50s and 60s tradition of star vehicles as all round entertainment, Brad Pitt as Lt Aldo Raine leads his rabble of Nazi hunters through occupied France, killing, maiming and torturing any uniformed German unlucky enough to cross their path.  With the emphasis firmly on revenge for crimes against the Jews, the Basterds engage in scalping, cold-blooded shooting, bludgeoning by baseball bat and, their coup de grace, the scoring of a swastika on the forehead of those allowed to live to tell the tale and spread the myth.

Lt Raine has a worthy adversary in the shape of Col Hans Landa, the chief Jew hunter played with majestic aplomb by Christoph Waltz.  Landa charms, plots, smirks and terrorises his way through France, with intelligence,guile, confidence and sincerity.  He is no pantomime villain, more a beautifully calculating heel, an accomplished linguist and a force to be reckoned with.  The usual caricature is avoided here, no ‘Schnells’ or ‘Jah volls’, and provides an excellent counter-balance to Pitt’s knowing, over-the-top, although highly enjoyable, delivery.

The picture progresses through titled chapters, a device Tarantino used with the Kill Bill films, but which works better here.  The best is the first, ‘Once Upon A Time…..In Nazi Occupied France’, and is possibly the best 25 minutes of cinema this year.  Artfully constructed, written and directed, keeping its cards close to its chest and creating a tremendous sense of foreboding, fear and intrigue.  Tarantino here displays uncharacteristic restraint, building towards a climax that is both logical and savagely dramatic.  He has never been so good.

Inglorious Basterds is far from perfect; a little editing goes a long way and certain chapters work better than others.  Occasionally the use of stereotypes slightly oversteps the mark and the film does meander into pastiche territory, but, as is often the case with Tarantino, just as patience is being tested, faith is restored with a bang.  His best picture in quite some time and one of the best this year.

Our society is being changed and our freedoms are presently being eroded, both by stealth, and mainly under the guise of the prevention of terrorism.  You know that threat which didn’t exist until recently and which is the singular most dangerous challenge that our civilisation has ever faced.  I can only imagine the mind-set of the genius who came up with the idea that photographing a bus station was so subversive; what did they think a potential terrorist could do, make a model of it for exploitation in a particularly effective voodoo ceremony?  High-jack the No. 47 to High Wycombe and demand to be taken to a local halal meat store?  The mind, indeed, boggles.

We are not in an era of terrorism, we are not faced with a new threat which requires special attention.  The Islamists are not coming to get us, there is no boogieman, the IRA are finished, and the French are ruled by a Hungarian.  We have created our own wars by proxy through our elected officials, and we are prepared to be scared.  Collective compulsory viewing of The Exorcist might be in order.

It would, however, have been nice to have been informed that we now live in Saudi Arabia, wouldn’t it?

Professional wrestling is a work.  Much of real life is a work, particularly in our commercially driven society which places so much value on appearance.  Not just physical appearance, but creating an impression, a feeling, giving off the correct signals for the occasion.  In the world of wrestling this means looking convincing within your character, acting as your adopted persona would, thinking as your alter-ego would, moving as he would.  Creating a mood where the suspension of disbelief isn’t a conscious decision, actually becoming the character.  Connecting with the audience, making them believe, working them.  There is no inherent dishonesty in this, in fact professional wrestling is perhaps one of the most honest forms of entertainment; it does what it says on the tin and transports the viewer into an alternate universe where good battles evil.  It is pantomime, drama, comedy and the illusion of sport all in one package.  And it chews up and spits out its performers.

The Wrestler is the tale of Randy ‘The Ram’ Robinson, an aging professional wrestler who at his peak 20 years ago was competing on the big shows, and who we now find attempting to eek out a living on the small time high school gym independent circuit.  Life is a struggle for Robinson, he lives for the cheers of the crowd, for performing and working.  The Wrestler is a film all about performance,  about the nuances of life and how difficult a struggle real life is for those who perform for a living.  Randy The Ram lives to perform and despite badly failing physical health he is determined to make one last big show.  This is all he lives for, and is all he knows how to do.  In this regard he is like all of us.  We know roughly where we want to go, but often we have no real idea of how to get there.  He has a tangible goal and despite the distraction of his health and his loneliness, he knows exactly how to get there for a last hurrah.  Randy is never lonely in front of an audience, as he says the only place he hurts is in the real world.  He escapes, as so many of us would like to escape from the daily grind.  But his fantasy is as real as it gets, even in the worked, faked world of pro wrestling.  His goals are real.

Central to the manner in which The Wrestler works is the character of Cassidy, Robinson’s stripper friend.  She, much like a wrestler, uses her body to perform and creates a mood with her performance, albeit coming from a slightly different angle.  But crucially she can compartmentalise her life far better.  She understands where working ends and living begins, what is real and what is illusion and what is needed to survive.  She can make decisions about her life, a skill which Robinson has never fully got a handle on.  But in some ways this shows her to be more dishonest than our hero.  His entire life is wrestling, it is all he can do and he devotes his life to this pursuit.   When he wrestles he gives the audience everything to the full extent of his ability.  He is selling an illusion, a fantasy, but with complete immersion and faith; he completely believes in the character and the beauty of what he does.  Cassidy does not.  She is a split persona – the performer and the woman who has a son and a real life.  She dons the hat of a sex performer, but never fully encapsulates the persona.  It is a job to her, but by no means an addiction or a calling.  It is a means to an end, not the end itself.  And thus her life is more coherent, but less pure, less devoted to the art of performance.  No better or worse than that of Randy The Ram, but a different side to the coin.  And The Wrestler is all about performance and the trials of such.  About the highs and the lows, the dualism of those who perform and what this both gives them and ultimately takes away.  It is a completely human work, it captures perfectly the uneven balance between the real and the unreal, the projection and the minutae.  And then we have Mickey Rourke.

Rourke IS Randy The Ram.  A former feted star of Hollywood with all before him, who has struggled manfully against all that real life can throw at one person.  This is not his redemption, but his vindication.  He can still do it.  His portrayal of The Ram is so close to the bone, so steeped in verisimilitude that within the first 5 minutes of his being on screen you are no longer watching a performance .  The suspension of disbelief is gone instantly.  Major credit also must be given to Aronofski for this.  The film looks more like a documentary than a feature film and has a terrific grainy, grimy Werner Herzog quality to it.  This is the film that Harmony Korine longs to make, but probably never will.  The Wrestler is a perfect freak-show, pro wrestling is the perfect freak-show.  And The Ram is very much a freak, an obscurity, a curiosity.  He is bigger, stronger and more charismatic than you or I and the world is a far better place for that.  Today’s society lampoons the freak, places demands to be ordinary on all of us, and the pressure to conform is prevailant.  Randy will never conform, but not because of  conscious decision. He is a wrestler, he practices in a field which will never be mainstream, but which often has more resonance to its fans than the mundane real world.  It is a complete relationship built on trust and giving the people what they want to see, giving them the bang for their buck.  Taking them up and bringing them down, working them, manipulating the collective emotion .   But don’t get me started on the promoters.

‘Whatever could have went wrong, went wrong,’ was the sound-bite from Burley after the game. ‘The sending off was very harsh,’ complete balderdash, the sound of a manager desperately trying to hold onto his job. I for one hope that the SFA see sense and cut their losses as soon as possible, but I won’t be holding my breath.

Under Burley, Scotland have gone backwards. They are in as easy a qualification group as they have been for a number of years, and they are currently on course to blow it. If they cannot qualify from this group it has to be seen as a total disaster, totally unacceptable. The opposition are a poor Iceland team, very average Norway and Macedonia sides, and the rampant group winners Holland. Scotland, in terms of playing personnel, are clearly the second best team in this group, but results are not backing this up. This is a direct reflection on the manager and it has to be his neck on the line. The chop awaits.

Scotland must now win their remaining two games, both at home. First come Macedonia, who should pose no real problems at Hampden Park, but on current form Scotland must be ripe for the taking by any competent side. Then Holland, who have already won the group and might play an experimental team. This should make life easier for the Scots, but at present who can have any confidence in the national team. Even with the full 6 points from these games, Scotland may still struggle to reach the play-offs. The second placed team with the poorest record will miss out and there is a real possibility that the unfortunate team will come from Scotland’s group, given the records of the current second placed teams in each group. This will of course become clearer in the remaining rounds of games.

Scotland have failed to reach a major international tournament since the 1998 World Cup. This is unacceptable. George Burley was hired in order to get the national team to South Africa 2010, and this now seems a long way away. It can still be done, but I would back against it and bring in a new manager to oversee the remaining games of the campaign. Graeme Souness may not exactly be Fabio Capello, but he can’t do any worse than Burley, and would at least add a bit of fire to proceedings. Qualification may now be a pipe-dream, but at the least that can happen is that a dose of respectability is regained.

Moon is very aware of its sources, but it draws upon the best of the genre: 2001, Silent Running and Solaris. The plot is not original, but moves in an altogether unexpected direction, while continuing to explore similar themes to its influences. The nature of existence, identity, lonliness and the manifestation and corruptability of memory are all tackled here, with the deciding vote being left at the discretion of us all. Jones does not patronise us with coherent answers or polemics, he provides the vehicle for the discussion and keeps us engrossed in the trials of the central character. Moon is a very humanistic film, quite unlike 2001 in terms of the behaviour of the characters. We have no men developing machine traits, and no machines becoming more human. The humanity of the piece is best encapsulated by Sam’s single urge – to return home to Earth. He is no happy spaceman, he has lost all pioneer spirit by the time we are invited into his story. His exploration is limited to minor forays out onto the surface of the Moon in armoured vehicles, and he does not identify himself as anything out of the ordinary, despite his location. He displays little ambition, other than to return home at the end of his contract with his sanity intact, but this allows us to have a clear mind concerning his travails, without the usual distractions and smoke and mirrors. Every emotion which is betrayed has a thematic purpose, and this is of great credit to the director and writer.

I feel that Moon will reward repeat viewings. This is an intricate work and one with depth, a picture which is unafraid to trade in philosophy and ethics, a picture which eschews broad strokes for delicate handling. This is not Star Wars and all the better for it.

By his refusal to play the game Brock Lesnar plays the game better than anyone else in MMA. He does his own thing, trades on his natural personality and there are no post-fight bullshit platitudes towards his opponent. He is clearly a unique specimen physically, but the mental side of his game is both unsurpassed and refreshing, a true iconoclast. That he learned his trade in the world of professional wrestling perhaps helps to explain his expertise in getting people to hate him, as he knows exactly what he is doing when bating the crowd, sponsors and his vanquished opponents. He is a businessman and his business is himself. Like a larger, whiter, more rugged Mohammed Ali for the current generation, Lesnar is not so much floating like a butterfly as rampaging like a rhinoceros through his competition.

At UFC 100 in Las Vegas, Lesnar destroyed Frank Mir, avenging his only MMA loss. 18 months ago, in their first fight and his UFC maiden voyage, Lesnar succumbed to a knee-bar submission after making a novice mistake in a match he was dominating. This time there were no such errors and Lesnar manhandled Mir for the entirety of the 6 minutes 48 seconds that he survived. It was a performance which marked him as the clear top dog of the UFC Heavy-weight division, having previously defeated UFC legend Randy Couture, arguably the greatest heavy-weight in the short history of MMA. This was remarkably only Lesnar’s fifth fight, and his rise has undeniably been owing both to his infamy and his talent. This in itself serves to irk a large element of the MMA fanbase, but in the best possible way; the way that draws money. The hardcore fans pay to see Brock lose. They pay in the hope that he will lose and be shut up. They pay to be vindicated that he is a fake wrestler, an uninvited guest at the top table of real sporting competition. They pay to revisit his debut in the UFC. But at UFC 100 we saw the realisation of an athlete. The potential is now actual, the power visceral, the atmosphere electric. He is a one-man battering ram, battering the senses of the audience as much as the brains of his quarry. And then we have the post-fight.

‘Who is the fucking man?’ he ferociously and rhetorically asks the crowd after stopping Frank Mir with a barrage of punches. ‘Talk all the shit you want now,’ he implores Mir before flipping off the audience. The rage is tangible and real. It is impossible to ignore, impossible to take less than seriously, impossible to deny. Then we have the interview like no other. He taunts the booing masses with ‘Keep going, I love it,’ when asked about the fight. ‘Frank Mir had a horse-shoe up his ass,’ was his response when asked about his avenging the previous loss. ‘I told him that and beat him over the head with it,’ classic pro-wrestling heel interview tactics; make the people hate you by being both obnoxious and right. Don’t just talk trash, tell the truth but in a manner that is inherently unlikeable and you will draw heat like oxygen draws flames and the money will follow. Lesnar followed up by managing to brass off a major UFC sponsor and by telling us that he was going to make love to his trophy wife, a tactic genetically programmed to rile the masses who can only dream of being with a woman such as former WWE star Rena Mero. Brock you are indeed the man.