Director Rebecca Kinder is keen to assure the reviewers at her press preview that Apples – a play, by John Retallack, about a group of 15 year olds on a Middlesbrough housing estate – is not patronising. Her concerns that it could be seen as such are certainly well-grounded. Within minutes of the preview starting the small group assembled to watch the first few scenes are guffawing, presumably only at hearing a Northern accent. Whether this was the intention or not hardly matters but it is an attitude which will surely have to be combated throughout the play’s run.

The subject matter is typical GCSE drama fodder: underage sex, drug-taking, rape, on-stage masturbation, cancer and teenage pregnancy all within the first three scenes. Yet the pace is snappy, the script can be entertaining and, at times, the actors, setting aside the minor hiccups expected at a preview, sparkle in group scenes. Combined with the multiple music, lighting and costume changes this will be a play that commands audience attention and raises a few laughs in the process.

Joe Bayley, as Adam, a romantically hapless boy suffering from OCD, was particularly impressive in terms of his physicality and mannerisms, immediately creating a connection between his character and the audience. Lucie Cox, as Eve (the object of Adam’s affections), was less assured, but had some really lovely moments – the subtlety of her facial expressions will work well in the smaller Buton Taylor. In later scenes, however, Bayley played up somewhat to audience reactions, really spoiling his character’s believability – he should watch that his vocal performance does not venture into parody.

The play has some more bizarre moments, including moments of intervention from a girl from a porn mag who spontaneously ‘appears’ in Adam’s bedroom (Ellie Gelard, who acts well here and as pregnant rape victim Claire), a foetus (Emily Stewart) and, perhaps least successfully, a butterfly observing the girls as they sunbathe (Howard Coase), but my problem with the play was in its more conventional aspects. The raping bully Gary (Joshua Entecott) appears as undeveloped as a pantomime villain – a fault certainly in the direction, as Entecott’s execution was strong. The message seemed to be that, just as the girls needed to be drunk or drugged to have sex, boys were either weak (and therefore partnerless) or violent alpha males – the more sympathetic treatment which had clearly been applied to thinking through the girls’ dilemmas could have been put to good use here.

Apples, despite its moments of darkness, will be a fun production, injecting some life into a drama scene often lacking in comedy. However, there are aspects of the play itself, and its treatment here, which remain slightly dubious, and potentially uncomfortable. 

3 STARS

Like other adaptations of Emily Brontë’s classic, Andrea Arnold’s interpretation of Wuthering Heights focuses entirely on the first half of the novel, sweeping intricate layers of narration and the reconciliatory plot of the second generation aside to focus entirely on the doomed love of Heathcliff and Cathy. Yet the result is not a sensationalist flurry of “dark romance” to feed the appetites of Twilight and Vampire Diaries fans, hungry for their latest Brooding Hunk. Nor is it a comfortable Sunday night period drama; it hardly feels like a period drama at all.

Arnold’s reimagining is stripped down to its bare bones: the majority of the film is spent with the younger couple from Heathcliff’s point of view, whose scrambling excursions across Yorkshire moors see them teetering on the edge of innocent, playful curiosity, threatening at any moment to tumble into wicked sexuality or spitting brutality. The film’s only soundtrack is provided by elemental, natural noises: rushing winds, spattering raindrops, slapping mud – a blunt but welcome opposition to the predictably haunting score underlying most costume dramas. The 4:3 aspect and shaky, handheld camerawork pushes us further into the sensuality of the landscape, completely entrenched one moment in dewy grass, the next lost amongst Cathy’s tangled hair. This simultaneously lends an air of gritty, contemporary documentary to scenes of extreme violence, and there is little concrete sense of setting. The austere dialogue, too, is a radical departure from the eloquence of the novel. Arnold cuts Brontë’s most recognisable lines and inserts some thoroughly modern swearing, while Heathcliff is barely able to speak at all. But it is in these moments of obvious departure that Arnold most captures the spirit of the original work, its stark beauty and brutal savagery translated into something fresh and daring.

After the triumphant performances of Solomon Glave and Shannon Beer, the turn of Kaya Scodelario as Catherine Linton and James Howson as Heathcliff the gentleman, fall flat. The scene of their reunion is bafflingly incongruous with the film’s earlier tone, as the reality of Yorkshire weather is replaced with a hazy summer afternoon, where the now elegant Catherine blandly acknowledges Heathcliff’s return. We are rarely offered glimpses of their earlier primeval behaviour, and in these late stages the lack of dialogue gives way to a inexplicable lack of passion. The film’s final moments thankfully return to the younger Heathcliff roughly pinning down a laughing Cathy, rubbing mud in her face. It is in these instances of fierce affection and blossoming sexuality that Arnold triumphs, arguably creating something more human and genuine than the often melodramatic novel.

4 STARS

On paper it seems like a winning combination; two of the greatest directors working together to bring to life a franchise that has sold over 350 million books worldwide and been translated into 80 languages. With Peter Jackson’s eye for detail and Steven Spielberg’s heart the film should have been an instant classic. However, there is something about the film that lacks the necessary sparkle. Like this season’s X Factor,  David Cameron or a night in Park End, the film promises much, but delivers so little.

The story of The Adventures of Tintin combines three of the original comics together: The Crab With The Golden Claw (1941), The Secret of the Unicorn (1943) and Red Racham’s Treasure (1944). Doing this meant that there was a lot of material to work with, and although the stories seem to merge together almost seamlessly, the sheer volume of original source material has a negative effect. In trying to fit as much as they can into the 107 minutes the writers have included a few too many chase scenes at the expense of really exploring the motives or drive of Tintin. The only explanation given for why he goes on this adventure is that he is a reporter, which is a bit of a lazy excuse. I don’t imagine Jan Moir will go on any adventures just because she is a reporter. The story also ends up becoming predictable, so much so that the girl sat behind me guessed each twist before it happened.

Although the story might have faults, the visuals are stunning. Each frame looks as if it could have come straight out of the comics themselves. The decision to make Tintin an animated film was the right one as it has allowed the film to be full of the fantastic colour palette that was seen in the comics. What allowed the film to pull off this great animation is the use of the same performance capture technology that was used in Avatar. Because of this technology the film has a stronger sense of realism than it would have using more conventional animation methods. The voice acting behind the characters was excellent, with Andy Serkis demonstrating why he is still the number one actor for animated films. The rest of the cast, which include names such as Jamie Bell, Daniel Craig, Simon Pegg and Nick Frost, also bring their characters to life. However the cast member that stole the show was, of course, Snowy. Like every other animated film, the cute animal always wins (just look at Shrek).

Although the film may look stunning to movie-goers it unfortunately lacks the sparkle that is often found in a Spielberg film. Like its CGI star the film looks beautiful, but is dead behind the eyes.

2 1/2 stars

There should be a warning on this film’s tin: if you’re on antidepressants, of a sensitive disposition, considering suicide, or just having a bad day, STEER WELL CLEAR. The plot centres on an alcoholic war veteran Frank (Eddie Marsan), who meets Lynette (Candese Reid), a homeless teen with a feisty attitude, but (surprise, surprise) hidden depths and a sensitive soul. Before you can put the ‘kitsch’ in ‘kitchen sink realism’, Frank’s already begun his fatherly caring for Lynette whilst her violent boyfriend takes advantage of him and turns his house into a crack den of extremely seedy proportions. All fun and games so far!

Junkhearts is like if Mike Leigh had riotous, relentless meth-fuelled sex with one of his film-studies undergrads. To say I found the whole ninety minutes uncomfortable is a wild underestimation. The movie is littered with shock-tactic imagery, descending into all kinds of unpleasantness which every resident living on a council estate must endure according to the British film industry. There’s also an awkward subplot that never really justifies its own existence; again, it’s a succession of adultery, inept motherhood and drug abuse. By the time the two narratives converge, you’ve either guessed how they connect, lost all interest, or have left the cinema to throw yourself under a train. Even the presence of indie film darling Eddie Marsan cannot lift this glumfest above a half-star rating.

If there was something good about Junkhearts, trying to remember it is like trying to remember the eye colour of someone who killed your entire family. Consider your mental well-being warned.

1/2 a star.

First screened in the ‘golden age’ of BBC drama and eagerly followed by a whole generation, for many critics the original Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy was a perfect espionage thriller in which Alec Guinness could do no wrong. The old guard will claim that Gary Oldman’s George Smiley is that much more ponderous, always with a strained down-turn of the mouth, compared to the naturalness of Guinness’ ease, the zen-like chilly calm with which he polishes his glasses. This is half fair. Oldman does remind me somewhat of Kenneth Branagh’s slightly campy perpetual grump in the BBC re-imagining of Wallander, which Krister Henriksson handles with undeniably greater subtlety. In the original, Alec Guinness can smile, he is funnier, he can fantasise about retiring to a small house in the Cotswolds without us ever doubting that he is inescapably tied to ‘The Circus’. For Oldman, there is little joy, except for the occasional, bracing, ice-cold swim in Hampstead Ponds. We almost trust Oldman too much; Guinness looks like a sweet old man, but he’ll slip out of a second hand bookshop by the backdoor, checking his back when unbolting his door like a geriatric Jason Bourne.

The new Tinker, Tailor film is slow-paced; it is no use to criticise it for not being quite as slow as a 1970s, seven-part TV series (which, incidentally, does not always sustain the tension it pitches for; the sequel Smiley’s People, also starring Guinness, is deadeningly dull). It isn’t that the new film makes the original more exciting; Mark Strong’s character, in the opening minutes of the new film, is shot and seized neatly with only two shots being fired. The opening of the BBC series feels like the opening of a series of 24, with a small army of communist machine gunners chasing Jim Prideaux through a forrest, after blowing up his car and eliminating his driver.
To some extent, the film has to try a lot harder to be slow and thoughtful but it is in a climate in which this is a more of a treat; it’s hard to blame Alfredson for relishing it.

The film cannot help being a reinvention, it is part of its strength. The character of Smiley is a result of constant reinterpretation, having appeared in Le Carré’s early thrillers only as a peripheral character, later fleshed out for Tinker, Tailor. His cult now transcends both the book and the original TV series.

The film is about the old guard, the pre-war generation (the hats are a give-away); its about patriarchy, old school tie, friends and debts. All dues are paid to Guinness, his signature black gloves and glasses are passed on to Oldman. But we can’t just keep on watching re-runs of the TV series. The new film places the action firmly in the past, but just as firmly in the ‘now’ with Oldman, Firth and Cumberbatch now running the show; we are reminded that espionage, corruption, distrust and austerity were not just a 70s thing.