To enthral a generation, you normally need to be a fascist dictator or Pikachu. But J K Rowling achieved it without Ash or swastikas. Her books are the reason you’re reading this, unless you haven’t read them, in which case I’m going to do as the movie does, and not tell you what’s going on. So tough. Go and read the book first.

So far, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (or HP6) has easily been the best, adult and intriguing – though neither as adult nor intriguing as Emma Watson’s eyebrows. In fact, Watson might be the best of the three main actors, although admittedly her only competition is a weedy Daniel Radcliffe and Rupert Grint, who plays Ron like a hedgehog facing an oncoming lorry. Heading up the opposing side is Ralph Fiennes, lending some class to proceedings as a re-embodied Voldemort in HP7a, the not-quite-final-showdown.
As I settled into my seat I looked about me. Some people were wearing hats, robes and scars on their foreheads. I shrank back, fearing the worst. Things aren’t helped by the opening, with an obligatory intro of dark scary nights and a big scary castle that cost a septillion pounds of British tax-breaks to construct, painfully, from wood and fibreglass.

As you’re no doubt aware, the film is split in two, so there is nothing resembling an ending. Nor indeed a beginning or a middle. Most disappointingly, Voldemort doesn’t fight Harry except through the medium of burning his scar and, thus, making Radcliffe screw up his face and go, ‘Ah! Ah!’ like he’s having a Candiru fish burrow up his urethra.

In fact, this is about as close as the film gets to sexual tension. Every scene that tries to bring Granger and Weasley closer together fails utterly, as a prevailing idiotic awkwardness kills all chemistry. It’s telling that the sexiest line is Ron’s boast to Harry, ‘Here’s my wand. It’s ten inches, so pretty normal’.

In all honesty, the films have only one thing that’s actually appealing: the design. The props, sets and SFX are really, truly brilliant (though occasionally a little over the top), and the immaculate realism of Hogwarts, Xenophilius Lovegood’s cottage, or Voldemort’s castle really is a sight for bored eyes. That’s ignoring the tent shared by Harry and Hermione which resembles the set of The Greatest Porno Never Made. We live very much in hope.

Without the visuals there’s little reason to recommend this film – it’s no different to the others – yet I’d strongly advocate seeing it all the same. It’ll colour in the recesses of memory and shed light on the dark receding clouds of childhood thought. This is the best book of the series and while we should let our personal imagination flood the magic world, it’s intriguing to see someone else’s stylish conception of Rowling’s work.

George Clooney is one of the most recognisable faces in American cinema, and with very good reason. He’s an infuriatingly handsome man, and his enormous, chiselled face dominates the screen throughout The American. When I sit down to chat with director Anton Corbijn, I put this to him, and he agrees. ‘He can say a lot with very little script. Not many people can carry that off and keep you interested.’ It is a shame, then, that Clooney’s magic touch cannot lend more depth to this beautiful yet empty film.

The story is fairly minimal, with Clooney playing an unnamed gun mechanic, customising weapons for assassins until he is forced to hide after he becomes a target. He stays in Castel De Monte, working away on another assignment whilst avoiding the locals – all except the prostitute Clara (Violante Placido), first visiting her out of loneliness, before gradually falling in love. Sadly, little else happens, and all of the above is dragged out over 103 long minutes.

However, when something unexpected does happen, Corbijin handles it with quick, precise expertise, yet such moments are all too rare. Still, they are certainly visually efficient, and it is in this efficiency that his origins as a photographer become clear, with the film conveying his distinct vision. He shrugs at this, admitting, ‘As a photographer it is a single vision, just you and your camera, which is much easier to stay in control of. With anything that involves other people it is much harder not to lose your direction, and the more people that get involved, the harder it is.’

There is plenty of time for detailed characterisation, but Corbijn neglects this, choosing instead to keep Clooney’s character a mystery. We are not told anything about his past, yet instead of intriguing its audience, this narrative silence merely reduces our sympathy for him, and by the end, one inevitably loses interest in him and the film.

Nonetheless, The American is not wholly without merit. Corbijn uses his photographic eye to create some stunning shots – the Italian countryside has rarely looked this idyllic. It should also be said that both Clooney and his co-star Placido have real, tangible chemistry; the sex scene is especially intense, with Clooney revealing rather more than usual. I ask Corbijn about his approach to this, and he reveals, ‘I filmed it in a way that you feel sexuality rather than seeing it, which I thought was important because I know a lot of sex scenes usually don’t feel sexual… I don’t think it was easy for George, though, because he never does that in films; you don’t see many love scenes of George Clooney and definitely not a scene like this.’
Yet despite Corbijn’s clear enthusiasm for the film and the effectiveness of his visual style, these are not enough to hold one’s interest throughout. He hasn’t created something to stand up to his last film, Control, something even he admits: ‘I know that I can’t top Control in the critical sense – the recognition was so immense it is just something you can’t aim for.’ It is a shame that his expert balancing of both aesthetics and story has here been lost. This time around, Corbijn only seems to have concentrated on the former, and the result is a beautiful yet oddly cold experience.

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Saturday – Don’t go down to Cowley – Christian Jack

Friday – Rugby training – Shaun Thein

Thursday – Banbury tree – Lauri Saksa

Wednesday – South London – Alexander Coup�

Tuesday – Cloudy Oxford – Eleanor Gear

Monday – Merton Street – Lauri Saksa

Sunday – Pink umbrella – William Granger

It’s very strange meeting an actor so soon after having watched them on screen. Having seen Another Year the day before, I had Lesley Manville’s character, Mary, fresh in my mind. Mary is lonely and lost. Lesley Manville is assured and graceful.

What’s striking isn’t that they are so different, but that they both seem equally real – such full characters. Maybe it is because I’ve spent more time with her in character than in person, but having chatted to Manville for half an hour in central London, I’m left feeling like I’ve met two real people with the same face in the space of twenty-four hours.
It’s testimony to her accessibility – as actress and interviewee – that she can so swiftly draw you in and communicate with such transparency. It is also a product of some very hard work. Mary appears fully fleshed-out to me because, for Manville, she has been. Having started with no script, no basis, “Nothing”, Mary has been built from scratch by Manville and director Mike Leigh. “We just talk and discuss, and I might talk about some people in my life and a character starts to emerge. And then we fill in their life, from when they were born and their family.”

Having worked on multiple films with the iconic director, including Secrets and Lies, Topsy Turvy, All or Nothing and Vera Drake, Lesley Manville is Mike Leigh’s longest-standing collaborator. I say collaborator rather than actor, because of the hand that she (like all cast members) has had in the authorship of her character. She appears regularly at the National Theatre and recently starred at the Old Vic Theatre in an adaptation of Pedro Almodovar’s All About My Mother. She clearly loves the work and talking about it, and perhaps now more than ever before, her contribution to a Mike Leigh film is attracting a publicity all of its own. Nominations – possibly more – await, and about time too.

She tells me about the work that goes into the creation of Mary, not just in terms of technique, but also in terms of time. “It can be exhausting. When we’re filming, we’re constructing the dialogue and the scenes as we go along, so we might shoot all day and then the crew will go home and we’ll stay there and absolutely pin down the dialogue for the next day. So it can be very long days, and we’re sometimes also doing that at the weekends. So there have been times I’ve been on a Mike Leigh film and I’ve worked something like twenty-two, twenty-three consecutive days – no breaks at all. And they’re long days – you’re up at 4.30-5.00 to get to the location for 6.00, to be in the make-up chair at 6.00, to be on set at 7.30, and then you shoot for twelve hours and then you maybe stay till 9.00 or 10.00 at night and construct stuff for the next day.”

The old adage about perspiration being the stock of genius is evident here. My sense of the fullness of Mary isn’t merely the product of a few moments of performative inspiration. Her building has been systematic, thorough and not to mention, brave. “In the beginning, you start and you think, ‘Christ, how is this ever going to become a film?'” she admits, “but it does after a very long time – eighteen weeks is a very long time.”

No “Making-Of” documentary or DVD extra can sufficiently encapsulate the sheer time and deliberation that goes into these films. And whilst many regard film acting as an exercise in glamour, the Mike Leigh process is closer to the rigours of the Brechtian stage. It requires great discipline, and as his stalwart performer, Manville exudes this professionalism alongside an earthy appreciation of the job. “Very, very long days”, she concludes, “but its above average exciting work. It’s unusual and certainly for an actor its very creative, because a lot is being asked of you, you really have to get your creative juices flowing. So in that way it’s very exciting.”

But does the responsibility of creating a character – and in Another Year Manville should be credited with having created a beautifully human one in Mary – add a daunting element? No she says. Instead it gives you job security – “You know that if you do the work and if you put in the time and you create the character and go from A to Z, then you’ll end up with a character and you do. Then you can put that character in any situation and you know how they’re going to behave. I know it sounds a bit precious, but I was just being Mary. Because you’ve created this character so fully, when you are in character, you kind of trust that what you do is organic and trustworthy.”
Her tea now arrives and as she pauses to pour it, I think about her fear that she might sound “a bit precious”. It’s a self-conscious defence of her art and if one chooses to take the view that all this improv stuff is a bit arty-farty, then I suppose it would sound precious. But she isn’t.

If people reveal things about themselves through their conjuntive idioms (i.e. how the young say ‘like’ a lot, or the Aussies say ‘look’) as I think they can, then Manville’s conjunctions speak to her accessibility. “You know” and “really” are the most common polyfillers in her speech, and actually it’s because I do know what she means, such is her sensible, calm, down to earth demeanor; and what she talks about is real, really.

It’s much the same with the film itself. For all its sophistication and artistic merit, it surest recommendation is its universality, as Manville points out. “My son [in his early-twenties] saw it for the second time last night and he absolutely loves it, and he probably wouldn’t be a natural candidate for it, I was really surprised by how much he liked it. Because its not just dealing with getting older, its dealing with universal stuff that’s across the age range: love; loneliness and lack of love is across the board isn’t it?”

“I think it’s quite bold to make a film that almost doesn’t really have a beginning, a middle, and an end. Because life is never tied up neatly and sorted out, and I like the way the film drifts away at the end. You’re left thinking what’s going to happen to these people? Of course, that is what happens, because that’s life. Nobody says, ‘Right, that’s where my story stops now’. It doesn’t, it just goes on. Its bold because it doesn’t have a great narrative and I think that that takes a lot to say ‘Right I’m going to make a film about the human condition and about the struggle in this time that we’re all living in, to find something to get us through it: a soul mate, love, passion, friendship – all of that.'”

“And [Mike] puts a happy couple at the centre of it – and of course happy couples don’t make good drama – but then he puts the drama in the less happy people that are coming in and out of their lives. Its good filmmaking because its not divisive, its just ‘Here it is, here’s these people’s lives’.”

The passage of these lives and the onset of age is probably Another Year’s most prominent universal preoccupation. “The film is so delicate, nuanced and insightful to people who are, not old, but looking at the rest of their lives and wondering where its going to take them and is it going to be like how her past has been.”

But isn’t there is also evidence to suggest that some things get better with age? Like Mike Leigh, for example. “The pair of us have been working together for 30 years or so, but I think he’s absolutely at the peak of his creativity at the moment Mike’s got better as he’s got older, and maturity like that can be celebrated”.

And Lesley Manville herself would seem to provide good evidence in the case of the defence of age. “I certainly feel that”, she agrees, “I feel utterly fantastic, I feel better know than I did, probably thirty years ago, I feel very at home with myself. I couldn’t have played this part five or ten years ago – you just get better in ways that you cant always define, because its about just having absorbed more of life and the world around you and having experienced more yourself, and it makes you able to tap into it.”

In which case we can only encourage time’s winged chariot to get a move on, as Leigh and Manville’s work shows no sign of abating, and every sign of approaching greatness. Bring on another year.

I went to watch The Last Days of Judas Iscariot purely because of the poster. If you haven’t seen it, no prose is going to convey its brilliance. The cast, in various suits, are gathered around a table in an otherwise empty McDonalds. In the middle of the table sits the Jesus from Leonardo’s The Last Supper, his right hand buried in the remains of a reconstituted chicken burger meal.

The blurb to this play promises a ‘gripping yet hilarious drama.’ Yeah, right, an entertaining disquisition on a religious subject with a serious point. The last time I came across an idea like that was in the publicity for Dogma, a film so bad that it actually drags down Adam Sandler’s average. But – amazingly – The Last Days of Judas Iscariot has it both ways. It’s funny. And it’s (fairly) dramatically effective. That it manages to be both is a tribute to a cast full of energy and imagination.

Let’s start with the humour. The script is not promising. For an actor, it takes a great deal of skill to deliver lines like ‘when I come into court dressed as Liza Minelli in a one-piece bathing suit, that’s the day I want your opinion’ and get a laugh out of an adult audience. For a director, it takes even more elan to sculpt Santa Monica as a hoop-earringed Irish harridan in a white-and-gold Adidas tracksuit glowing with Daz whiteness without watching your production crash and burn around you.

But it works. The characters are mostly well thought-out and slickly executed caricatures – the blustery judge, the birdlike Sigmund Freud, and Rachel Dedman’s magnificent power-dressing Satan in four-inch heels – and, most importantly, they are not trying to be heroic comedians. The humour comes from the whole cast. Of course, there are some moments that induce eyebrow-crunching winces. Simon the Zealot swaggers into the court to the thunderous bathos of Gangsta’s Paradise played on the chapel organ. One of the lawyers asks Caiaphas the Elder if there is a Caiaphas the Younger. On the whole, however, the deadpan delivery and relentless pace get belly laughs.

And now for the seriousness. The play opens with real gravity: a single candle flickers, and Iscariot’s mother enters with bruised eyes in a vision of pure torment. ‘I placed my son in a hole,’ she says, ‘and covered him with dirty and rock alone…I grudge God none of this’ – her left hand fumbles with the hem of her top – ‘and though my heart keeps beating only to keep breaking, I do not question why.’

It closes, too, with the pearly-eyed stare of Adam Trepczynski’s Judas, comatose with suffering. In between, the plot is straightforward: Judas Iscariot is on trial. The counsel for the prosecution, Max Gill’s Perrigrew, is a gloriously camp sycophant in a mauve shirt and a loud red tie. On the other side of the courtroom, Evie Jackson is a little mawkish and hesitant as Iscariot’s defence lawyer. But in spite of the mild monotony of the staging and delivery, the play’s serious points come across clearly, and the debate has real moral substance beneath the comedy.

You find yourself drawn from side to side of the argument like a slightly carsick six-year-old in the back seat. Every character presents a compelling ethical defence of his own actions, from Caiaphas’ superb dignity to the brisk pragmatism of the Jock Stirrup-like Pontius Pilate. The play’s ultimate judgement is not an easy one; and at the end you realise that this is because when we judge Judas we judge ourselves. The last, lingering image of Judas’ remorse – ‘take all the sorries in the world and pile them all up on top of one another, and what’ve you got? Nothing, that’s what you’ve got’ – is you, you facing up to your own failures.

In the last speech of the play, the head of the jury describes the happiest moment of his life as ‘peaches and dynamite’ – and peaches and dynamite sums up this production nicely. The Last Days of Judas Iscariot is not prize-winning drama, but it is sweet and sour and powerful by turns, and for a play in a college chapel it is really very good indeed.