A former film critic has chucked it in and now reviews movies before either of you have seen them.

IN THE BLEAK MIDWINTER

Ken. Love. Sweetie. NO! How my stony heart becomes heavy with deep existential dread when I see the poster for this film. Branagh is an affable chap I feel and one must certainly applaud the man with the sheer balls and barefaced cheek to put Robert de Niro in a film alongside Richard Briers (Frankenstein), but all good faith evaporates when one remembers that Branagh's oeuvre contains the two worst films ever made in the entire history of the world: the godawful Dead Again and the execrable Peter's Friends. In the former, he plays both a mittel European crackpot shrink and the most unconvincing LA private dick ever committed to celluloid, thus managing to mangle not one but two accents in the process. In the latter, he surrounds himself with a selection of vomitously irritating and/or twee British luvvies in an unbelievably rotten and angst-ridden rip-off of a slightly less rotten but equally ngst-ridden film, The Big Chill.

On the upside, In The Bleak Midwinter does not feature Branagh stalwart, Brian Blessed, the obese shouting fool, or Branagh himself. His on-screen alter-ego in this instance is played by the fine Brit thespian Michael Maloney, star of the preposterous 1990 blub-a-thon Truly, Madly, Dairy Lea. On the downside...well, there are just too many downsides to mention. Suffice it to say, I can see smarmy clever-dick John Sessions and Julia Sawalha (that low-rent Helena Bonham-Carter) mugging furiously on the poster, which has the words "Kenneth Branagh's new comedy" inscribed in bold type. This of course should read "Kenneth Branagh's latest comedy". As the Bard would have said, "nay, nay and thrice NAY!". 9 out of 10

GOLDENEYE

Golden Syrup. Golden Showers. Golden Shred. Jilly Goolden. I suppose the producers of GoldenEye hoped for the Midas touch when naming this rubbishy film, retaining a reference to Ian Fleming (i.e. the name of his house in Jamaica) while avoiding any obligation to remain faithful to an original text. Not that this was ever a problem with any other Bond film since the only thing that ever changed from film to film was the title. Invariably, plot comprised the usual completely implausible world domination scenario, replete with papier mache volcano/submarine/space station, private armies in orange jump suits, big explosions, feeble jokes, dumb gadgets and a bevy of busty / dusky Bond dolly birds with names like Pussy Galore, Holly Goodhead and Plenty O'Toole (whatever next, Fancy O'Shag?).

The thing is, after James Cameron's True Lies which was to all intents and purposes a Bond film - except that everything was pumped up, including its plywood protagonist, Arnold Schwarzenegger (German for "Black'n'Decker") - the new Bond Film with its new Bond has a lot to prove. Timothy Dalton, the previous incumbent, was utterly hopeless - though nowhere near as bad as charmless lump George Lazenby who was sacked after On Her Majesty's Secret Service. Which goes to show that you only live twice - unless you are a crappy Australian has-been. Au contraire, Pierce Brosnan, who bears a striking resemblance to The Milk Tray Man, would seem to be the ideal choice. Wait a minute! Bond is English and Brosnan is...Irish. Nevermind, Sean Connery is a Scot and he was the ultimate James Bond, in Brosnan's favourite Bond movie, Goldfinger. If you recall, Connery went on to win an Oscar for his performance in The Untouchables, playing a hard-boiled Irish cop. Er...with a Rab C. Nesbitt accent.

(Incidentally, film bores, Fleming liked Connery so much he created a Scottish ancestry for his fictional fornicator. So there.)
Verdict: Golden balls. 23 carat.

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