Whilst the rest of the country debates the pressing issue of ID cards (which, by the way, I do have strong opinions about - but I'll save that for another occasion), I'm currently debating (with myself) whether to spend my money on going to see Kill Bill vol. 2. My tendency towards cynicism has lead me to become increasingly aggravated with the marketing campaign that has accompanied Harvey Weinstein's slashing of the film into two halves. Let's have double the number of promotional appearances, double the number of excessively gushing reviews, two soundtrack albums, double the box office takings. After all, it makes good commercial sense. More significantly, I have substantial misgivings as to whether Tarantino's undeniable qualities as a director (a kinetic visual style, sharp, brazen dialogue, considerable energy) are really enough to ensure a place in the pantheon of greatness. It's all very well to know and love cinema - and to reference it compulsively, but that only works when the basic idea behind the surface sheen is coherent and compelling.

I went into Kill Bill Volume One expecting to love it. What could be better than Uma Thurman brandishing a samurai sword? Whilst it did offer visceral thrills aplenty, there was something missing, and the end result felt to me slightly hollow and indulgent. It offered a very macho revenge fantasy, but simply with a woman carrying out the vengeance. Much of the thrill came from the rabid, grandiose and highly choreographed violence - in fact, the violence provided so much of the film's entertainment that it almost felt pornographic and degrading. This is not to say that I support film censorship, or even abhor the use of cinematic violence. Violence penetrates our world every day, and film-makers as artists may well have something interesting to say about it. Yet, Kill Bill had precious little substance. It didn't dwell too heavily on why Thurman's Bride wanted revenge - only that her actions perpetuated a grim cycle of impulsive, unpreventable violence. She is so ruthless and single-minded in her desire to confront and kill that she almost seems deluded. Compared with Michael Haneke's 'Funny Games' a horrifyingly nasty, but defiantly intelligent examination of apparently motiveless violence which makes its audience complicit in acts of sadistic torture, Tarantino's film seems to give viewers what they want, without ever stopping to ask why they might want it.

Despite these reservations - a niggling doubt remains. Volume One is only half the picture. What is revealed in volume two that might provide some depth or characterisation to this graphic comic book fantasy? Does it, as rumoured, contain more of Tarantino's trademark dynamic use of modern vernacular language? Does it provide us with more backstory? It's hard to see how Thurman's inevitable confrontations with the remaining members of the Deadly Viper Assasination Squad and, ultimately, Bill himself can be anything other than more of the same. If that is the case, then Kill Bill will be a complacent artistic failure (if a considerable commercial success), with considerable style but very little substance. Still, I must find the time to find out for myself...

Similar accusations of style over substance have been levelled at Gus Van Sant's Palme d'Or winning film 'Elephant'. I saw it for a second time in a tremendously powerful double bill with Nick Broomfield's documentary 'Aileen: Life and Death of A Serial Killer' a couple of weeks ago. I was again struck by its chilling, yet etheral atmosphere, and the considerable originality of Van Sant's approach. It's hard to believe that this subtle, quietly compelling and considerably important film was made by the same person who oozed irksome sentimentality in 'Good Will Hunting' and 'Finding Forrester'. Some people seem to have reacted violently against this film, claiming that it is boring, or has little to say about school massacres in America, or both. This is a valid opinion - and I hence warned my friend that 'nothing happens until its inevitable end, when everyone gets shot.' I was delighted when he agreed that such a summary was somewhat crude.

Actually, lots of things happen in 'Elephant'. It is a vividly realised and highly evocative account of everyday high school life, sometimes banal, sometimes affecting - and how easily tragic violence can break into that world. It uses the resources of the cinema with consummate skill - long tracking shots follow unprofessional high school actors up stairs and along corridors, elegantly and naturally capturing the routine of the high school day and the physical environment. These shots, apparently inspired by elusive Hungarian director Bela Tarr, are so meticulously crafted that they have an entrancing beauty of their own. We know very little about the characters other than what we observe through the course of the terrible day that Van Sant films. We see John's problems with his alcoholic father, girls who eat lunch together, argue and then vomit in unison in the school toilets, Elias spends much of the day working on his photography portfolio. Events that may seem minor, such as the corridor greeting between Eli and John, are repeated from different angles, a technique that allows the film to invest considerable gravitas in ordinary lives. The soundtrack makes highly effective use of amplified ambient sound, and together with image, the film has a devastating cumulative effect. For me, the climax of this tightly controlled cinematic crescendo comes when the killers enter the library and, where others are paralysed in fear, Elias completes the final act of capturing them on camera. It's a fleetingly brief moment, but it emphasises perfectly the film's intention of capturing events on film, in a detached and non-judgmental style.

It offers a number of potential explanations as to why its teenage subjects may have been driven to mass murder - they are shown playing violent computer games, ordering weaponry from the internet and shooting targets, watching Nazi video footage and even showering together to release themselves from sexual repression. Van Sant remains admirably distant from any one explanation and instead leaves it entirely to individual viewers to reach their own moral conclusion. Yet, to argue that means that the film is entirely devoid of purpose or impact is arguably narrow-minded. It is not at all exploitative. At the heart of this film is the simple, stark observation that violence can claw into the most ordinary and calm of environments, and disturb them forever with menacing ease. It's a film of tremendous style - elegantly composed, intelligently structured and performed with naturalistic composure. It is also a chilling, provocative meditation on apparently random, motiveless violence.

As a 'fictionalised' account of a high school massacre, it made for an effective counterpoint to Nick Broomfield's documentary feature 'Aileen'. This was also an extraordinary film, and one that dares to pose important questions about the nature of truth, and the dangers of a complacent criminal justice system. It is difficult to know what to believe and what to regard in serial killer Aileen Wuornos' testimony - she repeatedly alters her story about whether or not she murdered in self defence, possibly in an attempt to bring forward the date of her execution and end it all as swiftly as possible. Broomfield's documentary illuminates both the failings of the American justice system and also the failings of society at large (to which lawyers, judges and governors seem spectacularly blind). As America's first female serial killer, Wuornos had clearly been exploited by so many - movie-makers, police and fraudulent lawyers alike. She emerges from this film as an intense, frightening and deluded figure who has herself suffered greatly.

It's possible to argue that Broomfield presents nothing new here - we already know about the archaic, unflappable attitudes of Jeb Bush and the inherent problems with capital punishment. It's in his probing into Wuornos' life and his direct interviews with her that Broomfield is at his most fascinating. He clearly relishes uncovering terrible, grimly fascinating human stories. In previous films, he has risked trivialising his subjects with his deadpan voiceover, and obtrusive boom-microphone. In always showing himself and his equipment on film, I've occasionally felt that Broomfield has made himself his own subject at the expense of the incisiveness of his commentary. Not so, here. In this film, Broomfield is much less invasive, despite being called to appear at appeal hearings himself, and less prepared to take the testimony of others at face value. He has firm opinions and points to make, but is this time more questioning of his approach. The result is arguably his most effective and powerful documentary.

I've had an adventurous week, finding familiar faces in exciting places, if not entirely unexpected ones. I've also been forging new contacts and making movements of my own. I've still yet to reap any reward - but I can justifiably feel a little better about my situation at the moment.

Anyway, at least I'm a new face, rather than one trying to atone for past sins. Morrissey has had a strange decade since the release of the widely panned 'Southpaw Grammar'. He now seems to be finally emerging from his wilderness years, as defiant and controversial as ever. He has reconciled himself with the NME, granting them a full interview, and the release of his new single 'Irish Blood, English Heart' and new album 'You Are The Quarry' is tantalisingly imminent.

I've never been an obsessive Smiths or Morrissey fan, but have rather quietly admired the stature and influence of this eloquent spokesman with exceptionally dry wit. At his best, he is an original and incisive lyricist, with a distinctive singing voice that eschews technical methods both in terms of pitching and phrasing.

It always struck me as bizarre that he was demonised for racism only after brandishing the union jack whilst supporting Madness at Finsbury Park. Race and race relations have been a consistent theme in his solo work - from 'Bengali in Platforms' on his very first album (central lyric: 'life is hard enough when you belong here'), through to his unapologetic new single. His most contentious song, 'The National Front Disco' featured a repeated chant of 'England for the English!'. The album from which it was taken, 'Your Arsenal', was largely well received on its release. Morrissey justified it by claiming he was speaking in character. Yet even in this week's NME, however, he expresses sympathy with the ill-informed populist view of the immigration issue. It is a question, he says, of how many people you continue to let 'flood' into the country, whilst expressing sympathy for the persecuted. I have a problem with this rhetorical language. By implication, it demonises all economic migrants, and ignores the fact that Britain has depended on immigrants for a number of years. What it does indicate, however, is that Morrissey is probably not a racist. I can't imagine him inciting violence against ethnic minorities or anything like that. What he is is someone with a very romantic idea of England, and someone with a strange interest in the development of racist views. In following this interest, he may have merely perpetuated the ignorance he purports to be writing about.

I find it hard to resolve this problem with my undeniable appreciation for his best music. The new single is punchy and crisp, produced by Jerry Finn, who crafted the crystal clean FM punk sound of Blink 182 and Green Day. Yet whilst those bands, despite their penchant for toilet humour, sound sanitised and unremarkable, 'Irish Blood, English Heart' sounds firm and unrepentant. The strange meeting of cult indie hero and mainstream production values appears to have worked a treat. He is, of course, still barking on about the flag. He dreams of a time when he can stand by it without feeling racist or partial, and then goes on to lambast the monarchy. At least in my mind, the Union Jack and the monarchy are intertwined, so I can't help feeling there are inherent contradictions in his worldview. Nevertheless, it's refreshing to hear an uncompromising record which seems to have helped him to regain his position as critical darling of the British music press. Many are saying the new LP is his best since 'Vauxhall and I'. That album, with its charm and intelligence, was as good as anything The Smiths ever produced. Despite his continued courting of controversy, there is much to look forward to and I'm keenly anticipating his homecoming gig at Manchester's MEN Arena.

When I said there was no new music to buy, clearly I was lying. I've been on a bit of a spending spree this week. First into the bag is a delightful EP from Toronto's Hidden Cameras. I've been ranting on about this band's considerable charms for well over a year now, and I've been lucky enough to interview them and enjoy a drink with them in one of Cambridge's premier gay bars (if that isn't a contradiction in terms). They describe their music as 'gay folk church music'. That may make it sound inaccessible, but in reality, it's joyous and inclusive pop, so long as you're open minded enough not to be offended by upfront lyrics about man-on-man action. They manage to combine lo-fi production values with huge, almost excessive arrangements with consummate success. 'The Hidden Cameras play the CBC Sessions' is really a collector's item - a limited edition vinyl only release of six tracks recorded for the Canadian Broadcasting Company. It includes their signature tune 'Music Is My Boyfriend', not available elsewhere and a marvellous version of B-Side 'Worms Cannot Swim Nor Can They Walk' performed completely solo by songwriter and mastermind Joel Gibb. The remaining four tracks are faithful, if slightly more ragged performances of songs from their debut LP of last year, including the sprightly, delightfully catchy anthem 'Breathe On It' and the melancholic charm of 'Boys of Melody'. Wonderful stuff, but probably best to start off with 'The Smell Of Our Own'. Both are available on Rough Trade and there is a new album proper scheduled for release later in the year.

I may well have fallen in love with 'Our Endless Numbered Days', the new album from Iron and Wine. Its rudimentary cover painting, its smelly cheap card sleeve and its stark, finger-picked acoustics exude a defiantly rustic quality. Its a collection of excellent songs, performed in a hushed and restrained style, and with deceptively simple arrangements. The guitar playing is consistently excellent, and Sam Beam's soft, delicate voice imbues the music with an endearing vulnerability. The songs tread over old ground in American folk music, largely concentrating on death and mortality, but with a poetic muse that is somehow both honest and elusive. Melodically, it's fresh and inspired. Musically, it has both activity and breathing space.

Until now, other members of the post-rock ensemble Fridge have remained in the shadow of Kieren Hebden, who has eclipsed the success of his band with his solo output as Four Tet. Now, Adem Ilhan has stepped out of the shadows with a distinctive and affecting solo projects. 'Homesongs' is a collection of recordings made in Adem's warehouse studio, and mixed in collaboration with Hebden. These are sparce folk-tinged songs underpinned by delicate laptop interventions that never feel excessive or intrusive. The lyrics are sometimes a bit twee, but there is genuine emotion on display. This is an album that occupies its own unique space, far from both the math rock intellectualism of Fridge and the pastoral, jazz inflected electronica of Four Tet.

The Great Easter Film Round-Up Part 2

OK so it's a little bit late in the day, but better late than never I guess.

I've recently become very enthusiastic about the films of Billy Wilder. I've always admired Some Like It Hot and The Seven Year Itch for their combination of arch intellect and playful comedy. Over the Easter break, I finally managed to see one of Wilder's many masterpieces Sunset Boulevard. This is simply one of those films that has such stature it is almost beyond criticism. Gloria Swanson revels in overacting as Norma Desmond, the faded silent movie star, living alone save for her Butler in a strange, isolated Hollywood mansion. William Holden plays a struggling screenwriter whose ragged attempts to escape sacrificing his car to bailiffs lead him to her weird world. Tentatively, he agrees to write a script for her, but he soon becomes deeply spellbound by her graceless, tragic decline. She claims 'I'm still a big star - it's just that the films have got smaller!'. In fact, her fan letters are invented by her butler (brilliantly played by Erich Von Stroheim), and her attempts to reignite her partnership with director Cecil B. De Mille (gamely playing himself) are distinctly uncomfortable. Nancy Olsen is vibrant and energetic as the young pretender who comes between them. The performances are pitched perfectly, coping admirably with the demands of an intelligent and powerful script and the tone is tightly controlled. The final conclusion has a grim inevitability which lends it more power. An essential and timeless classic of the cinema.

I'm not sure that I would describe Neil Jordan's The Company of Wolves as a classic, but it certainly compelled me. It's one of those fairytales for adults, where every scene is imbued with psycho-sexual tension, and the world is seen from the primitive gaze of a young girl on the cusp of adolesence. Dreams merge with stories and stories merge with reality, and the structure of the film reflects these themes by being elusive and occasionally confusing. It looks fantastic, there is snow and mist - eerie darkness, and some stunningly nasty visual effects when humans mutate into wolves. This is a nightmarish world where everything is threatening, and where an innocent must confront her innermost fears. The symbolism is occasionally overbearing, and some may balk at the implicit sexualisation of youth. Nevertheless, the film benefits greatly from a confident performance from its young lead and also the commanding presence of Angela Lansbury, who is in her element as the girl's storytelling grandmother. It's not the most subtle piece of cinema, but it is extraordinarily well designed, and for that reason alone both distinctive and impressive.

Film Round-Up

Easter holidays - everything pretty much quiet. No new music in my bag this week - although I've been tempted by the prospect of the new album from Tortoise, may pick that up later. Instead, I've spent most of the week glued to a TV set - and one that, it must be said, is starting to show its age. Most of the films I've watched this week have been bathed in a rich blue light, because the contrast on out TV is so terrible. Anyway, I've always found that holidays are a great time to catch up on classic movies on VHS, so here are just a few that I've seen....

Laurent Cantet's wonderful Time Out definitely stands up to repeated viewings. I saw it in the cinema on its initial release a couple of years ago and found it to be a very striking picture that poses very serious moral questions about the expectations which society places on individuals and the expectations which individuals place upon themselves. The film concerns a man who has lost his job who, rather than face up to the prospect of lengthy unemployment, pretends to continue to go to work, concocting non-existent meetings and business trips in phone conversations with his family. He invents a new, elite position for himself with the UN. He does his research meticulously, and is able to speak convincingly about his role, albeit with a slightly sinister reluctance that does not go unnoticed by his considerate wife. Eventually, his story spirals out of control, as he cons some of his closest friends out of considerable sums of money to fund lavish spending sprees on his family.

The film relies on Aurelien Recoing's extraordinary central performance for its captivating quality. Somehow, he is able to radiate warmth, vulnerability, despair and ruthlessness in equal measure. His character and actions are complex and it is therefore impossible for the audience to jump to swift moral conclusions about his methods or his madness. He is able to communicate a great deal with very minimal actions, and in his conflict between devotion to his family and his inability to confront his fears, he elicits sympathy and revulsion in equal measure.

The quality of the performance is more than matched by the exemplary confidence of Cantet's direction. He is not concerned with sentimental emoting or even the overuse of technique. Instead, he creates dynamic scenes with coiled tensions, and allows them to run for as long as they need to. The pace of the film is remarkably unhurried, and Cantet allows himself to create a sustained and powerful mood. Visually, for me, the best moment in the film came when Recoing's character becomes involved with smuggling contraband goods (watches, designer clothing) across European borders with a kind petty criminal who takes pity on his situation. Their quietly revealing conversation takes place against a night-time journey through heavy snow, set to a deeply affecting string score from Jocelyn Pook.

In writing about the film in The Observer, Philip French claimed that it was ostensibly more about deception than not working. To my mind, this misses the point entirely. At the core of this film is a deceptively simple, remarkably perceptive and entirely valid point. For most people lucky enough to have secure employment in the modern world, work characterises their very existence. It provides routine, order, and constant activity. When it is suddenly and harshly removed, someone's very purpose and character may go with it. The market-driven world in which we live sees human resources as expendable and transferrable - and we regularly expect ordinary working people to endure indignity and move on. Not only this, but we expect them to continue their contribution to society - working their debt nine to five with another grinding routine. The film's closing scene arguably spoils the ambiguity of the preceding climax - but it is there for a purpose. It demonstrates clearly that work is something none of us can avoid for long - this is a world of life experience, transferrable skills and CV points. The final words - 'I'm not scared' are quietly devastating.

Beyond a Reasonable Doubt is the last film the great German director Fritz Lang made in Hollywood. The blurb on the video case proclaims it to be 'a masterly exposition of American justice', whatever that might actually mean. The film itself also seemed slightly uncertain, vascillating between being a bold critique of complacent state prosecution, where manipulative movers and shakers seek convictions and executions above finding the truth, and being a confused thriller, full of twists and turns. Even the central premise of the film - whereby a writer struggling to overcome writer's block frames himself for a murder (with the assistance of a pernicious newspaper editor), is slightly implausible, but forgiveable as a plot construct to make the essential point that it is possible for entirely innocent men to be sentenced to death row. The courtroom scenes are charged with a poweful inevitability and the performances are appropriately steadfast. Perhaps unsurprisingly for a Hollywood film from the 1950s, the female parts are slightly underwritten, with Joan Fontaine's suffering but dutiful wife only finding her own space towards the end of the film. The directing is assured, with some careful staging and subtle editing, but any moral point made by the film is surely undermined by the final twist. (If you intend to see the film - I'd avise you to stop reading now as I will only spoil it for you).

It eventually turns out that, despite planting evidence at the scene necessary to condemn him, that the writer did have a former connection with the murdered club girl and had killed her after all. Of course, he did it to protect his loving wife -but this final scene is hurried and entirely unconvincing. There will of course be no final pardon - and he is marched back off to death row. The concluding implication therefore seems to be that the death penalty system is fine if it condemns genuine murderers, but problematic only when it convicts the innocent. It would be churlish to expect enlightened liberalism in Hollywood during this era, but the preceding hour of the film had seemingly attempted to show how difficult it is to establish truth beyond a reasonable doubt. Maybe this final undignified flourish adds effectively to our confusion - but I can't help feeling that it poses more questions than it answers, and at less than 80 minutes, the film is slightly too brief to deal adequately with such weighty issues. A much more successful crime film from Lang is 1939's 'M', which is a genuinely chilling and supremely measured presentation of a child killer and the violent reactions to his killings in a German city.

I felt it was about time I saw a John Cassavetes film, having read a fascinating article in Sight and Sound magazine about the two considerably different versions of 'Shadows', considered by many to be his masterpiece. I picked out a copy of The Killing of A Chinese Bookie, admittedly enticed by its unusually convoluted title. This is certainly extremely different from any kind of American film I'd seen before. It is utterly distinctive in its aversion to style and technique. There is atmosphere for sure - a number of the scenes are dark and moody, but more often or not the look of the film is refreshingly amateurish - with jerky camera motions tracking characters through corridors and darkened rooms. Ben Gazzara gives a naturalistic and affecting performance as Cosmo Vitelli, a strip club manager who is forced to murder to repay his debts to the mob. His face eludes perennial sadness and regret, and his big personal compromise is convincingly played. It's certainly arguable that the darkened appearance and mood of the film appropriately reflects his own dark personal dilemma.

The problem for me is that the film is simply too existential. There is really only cursory examination of Vitelli's relationship with those who work for him and thos he is close to. His final speech is moving - but has he really earnt our sympathy. After all, he has committed murder. Some have praised Cassavetes for his character development in this film - but I couldn't really see too much of it outside Vitelli's own personal nightmare. It has an elusive visual narrative - but, despite its feature length, the full force of the plot seems strangely compacted. Many of the extended scenes seem more concerned with atmosphere and tension than with actually exploring the moral issues at the heart of the film. It's worth watching for its distinctive approach, but it has as many flaws as virtues.

Part 2 of the Great Easter Film Round-Up will come tomorrow....