No matter how spectacular, expensive or star-studded Hollywood blockbusters may be, there will always be vibrant, inventive, international gems that consistently prove that less is more. Very little happens in Pablo Giorgelli's debut feature Las Acacias (2011, Verve, 12), a pitch-perfect, low-key road movie about a long-distance lorry driver (Germán de Silva) who agrees to transport a young woman (Hebe Duarte) from Paraguay to Buenos Aires, only to discover that she has a five-month-old child in tow.
Initially dismayed by the prospect of the overcrowded journey ahead, loner Rubén gradually warms to his charges, and a hesitant relationship emerges between him and Jacinta. Casting an established actor (De Silva) opposite a talented newcomer (Duarte), Giorgelli conjures an extraordinary balance between an air of unaffected naturalism and a precisely defined, acutely observed dissection of human interaction. The result is an absolutely beautiful movie that brilliantly captures the changing notes and cadences of a relationship through the smallest gestures between the often silent protagonists; entire sections of this unexpected treat resemble nothing so closely as a silent film. A deserving winner of the Cannes Caméra d'Or prize, Las Acacias is an honest pleasure that heralds the arrival of more than one major new talent; if only more movies were made this way.
The biggest problem with Another Earth (2011, Fox, 12) is that it is destined to dwell forever within the shadow of Lars von Trier's superior Melancholia. Both films feature the spectre of a large blue planet looming ominously into view above our skies, provoking both dismay and elation among the earthbound onlookers who are the movies' real focus. In Melancholia, a central character's depression seems to be drawing disaster and damnation down upon the entire human race; in Another Earth it is the anguish of guilt that effectively pulls an alternative world into being, perhaps offering a chance of salvation. Brit Marling is the affecting indie kid at the centre of Mike Cahill's noodly navel-gazing affair, serving as both star and co-writer and lending an air of emotional credibility to the increasingly unbelievable proceedings. At its best it plays like an intriguing episode of Doctor Who for the mumblecore crowd, replete with cod philosophising and angsty breast-beating; at worst, it's a Lars-lite for post-Twilight Zone slackers; no wonder it became a Sundance prize winner. Extras include deleted scenes, music video and flimsy featurettes.
The number of footballers who have successfully parlayed their field skills into screen-acting careers is tiny indeed. Here in the UK we have Vinnie Jones, who went from being a hard man on the pitch to being a hard man in Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels via a "transitional" role presenting the self-explanatorily entitled video Vinnie Jones: Soccer's Hard Men. By contrast, in France they have Eric Cantona, who spouted Shakespeare and Sartre while playing the beautiful game, and who has since appeared in such diversely upmarket fare as Shekhar Kapur's Elizabeth and Ken Loach's Looking for Eric. In Gallic B-movie thriller Switch (2011, Anchor Bay, 15), Cantona downshifts into cutout caricature as a gruff, chain-smoking cop who has no time to shave and is constantly being chewed out by his superiors for following his instincts instead of observing protocol. The film itself has a cute set-up – a young Canadian woman signs up online for a French house-swap and promptly finds herself framed for a Parisian murder – but slips all too easily into the realms of making no sense whatsoever. Cantona acquits himself with as much grace as is necessary for this curry-and-a-six-pack time-passer.
Having tanked in America (and made zero impact in UK cinemas) despite an all-star cast including Jack Black, Steve Martin and Owen Wilson, gentle birdwatching comedy The Big Year (2011,Fox, PG) ships up on DVD, where it may finally find an audience. For despite its dismal track record this is actually quite an amusing tale of the crossing paths of bird lovers, each on a (secret) mission to compete in a pastime-cum-sport in which competition itself is frowned upon. Although not in the same league as Christopher Guest's world-beating Best in Show, this does have an affectionate attitude towards its variously messed-up obsessives, and there are plenty of moments of understated charm as each makes their inevitable journey toward ultimate self-discovery. A relief, too, to find Black downplaying it for once, reminding us that he can do quiet as well as loud; his scenes with Martin are particularly rewarding. Hey, it made me laugh…
Which is more than can be said for Breaking Wind Part 1 (2011, Revolver, 15). Somewhere in the very bowels of hell there is a special place where unfunny "spoof" movies can putrefy and fester for evermore. Top of the stagnant pile will be this unremittingly vulgar "spoof" of the Twilight saga, which makes Vampires Suck look like Some Like it Hot. Massively unamusing knob "jokes" slop like watery faecal matter into the pestilent slough of despond upon which the entire sorry venture is predicated. I honestly can't remember the last time I felt so soiled – and so bored – watching a movie. Nothing about this is funny, least of all the sniggering, mean-spirited closing jibes at the Twi-hard fans upon whose cash this cynically hopes to prey. Vile.
