Peter Hoskin

Under the stewardship of John Reith, the BBC was godlier than it is today. In fact, when Broadcasting House was first opened in central London, Director General Reith made sure to dedicate the whole thing to Him up there. An inscription was chiselled into the wall of the building’s foyer, which began: ‘To Almighty God, this shrine of the arts, music and literature is dedicated by the first Governors in the year of our Lord 1931’. The words that followed included ‘decency’, ‘peace’ and ‘good harvest’. It’s not really the sort of epigraph that Auntie would put her name to now. But, reading that inscription again, it’s not so much the G-word that stands out as the A-, M- and L-words: arts, music and literature.

At first glance, Holy Motors is all about one astonishing performance — or several, depending on how you look at it. The performance in question is by Denis Lavant, who plays M. Oscar, a blank page of a man who scribbles over himself with make-up and wigs to portray a succession of different characters. At the film’s outset he is a Parisian businessman, leaving his home in a limousine to do battle with the markets. Soon after, he is an old beggar woman, a sex robot sheathed in rubber, a gangster, a father and more. We never really know why he does this beyond — in his own words — ‘the beauty of the act’. But then, look closer, and there’s more going on. Is it any coincidence that M.

You know how television is becoming like the movies, more expansive and more expensive? Well, what if the movies were to meet television halfway, becoming smaller and more routine? The result, I’m sure, would be something like Quartet, Dustin Hoffman’s first directorial effort since 1978’s Straight Time. If you ran past this film at speed, you could almost mistake it for an episode of Downton Abbey. It’s set in a country house. Maggie Smith is among its cast members. And it’s borrowed actors from small-screen series such as Gavin and Stacey and The Vicar of Dibley. Just the ticket for a lazy Sunday night in. Except Quartet is not nearly so grand as Downton Abbey.

Five minutes into You Will Be My Son (or Tu seras mon fils in its original French), I expected a very different film from the one that eventually emerged. The first scene takes place in a crematorium, as a coffin and its occupant are cooked to ashes. A relative of the deceased picks at a flower, and asks whether the ashes of the man and of the wood will mix. At which the funeral attendant leans over like a great crow to say, ‘It’s all just carbon.’ The whole thing seems very poised, quite refined and a little bit clever. But then the film turns into something else entirely. Its location switches to a vineyard in Saint-Émilion, where we are properly introduced to the owner, Paul de Marseul (Niels Arestrup), and his son Martin (Lorànt Deutsch).

Here’s a fun diversion for all the family: how many ‘high-concept’ film ideas can you think of in a single minute? These are the films with premises that can be summed up — and pitched to expectant, impatient Hollywood producers — in only a few words. ‘Jaws in Space’, say, or ‘Arnie versus Hitler’. Get started now, and you could soon have the studios drooling a path to your door, eager to turn your aphorisms into easily marketable products. Red carpets and golden paycheques await. I mention this because, at first glance, it seems as if Ben Wheatley’s Sightseers is the result of a similar game.

You know how it is: you wake up in your knock-down corrugated shack, surrounded by chickens and dogs and pigs, before staggering out into the morning sun to press the animals against your ear, listening to their heartbeats. No, sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself. You probably don’t know how it is, and neither did I before watching Benh Zeitlin’s Beasts of the Southern Wild. But this is what this film does to its viewer right from the off. It depicts a world so vivid and immediate that two dimensions naturally become three, without the need for any fancy Hollywood stereoscopics. It is, actually, our six-year-old heroine Hushpuppy (Quvenzhané Wallis) who tunes into the ba-dum, ba-dum of the animals’ hearts.

What used to be called the National Film Theatre, now BFI Southbank, is a weird sort of place. On the outside it is unprepossessing to the point of ugliness: a concrete mass sitting beneath the southern end of Waterloo Bridge, squat against the Thames, where it sulks away from the sunlight and overhead traffic. Whereas, on the inside, it offers a pretty jumble of conveniences for its clientele: a grand upholstered auditorium; a scattering of more utilitarian screens; a digital library of film called the ‘Mediatheque’; and a glassy bar and shop. The effect is rather like those ‘Ascent of Man’ diagrams that show the evolutionary links between monkeys and us, except in this case it’s for the movie theatre business.

Seriously, what has Hollywood got against wolves at the moment? First there was last year’s The Grey, which saw a bearded Liam Neeson stalked across Alaska by a pack of the beasts before using his survival skills — and some broken bottles — to smash them on to the endangered species list. Now we have The Bourne Legacy, which starts with a bearded Jeremy Renner being stalked across Alaska by a pack of the beasts before using his survival skills to, etc., etc. It’s very similar, except Renner doesn’t have broken bottles at his disposal. He has military drones. It would be wrong to dwell on this lupicide, however.

It’s Katy Perry! In 3D! And you’re almost certainly not going to see it! But for most of those who are, this is probably as good as cinema is going to get this year, or perhaps ever. Indeed, this documentary about Ms Perry’s rise to pop hyper-stardom is — to steal the title of her third studio album — a teenage dream. For many teenage girls (and younger), this is a chance to see their heroine’s life in exacting high definition. For many teenage boys (and older), it will be something else entirely. And in 3D too! But first some background information for those who are unfamiliar with Katy Perry and her work.

The awards season may be over, but can I nominate Neil White for a gong anyway? He genuinely deserves one. After all, he’s the chap from Nottingham who watched all of the 600 or so films that were released into British cinemas last year — and then blogged about them at www.everyfilmin2011.com. You might question his sanity, but you cannot question his dedication: hours and hours spent in the dark of cinemas across the country, and then further hours translating his thoughts on to the internet. And now? He is repeating the process for the current year. The rest of us would find it difficult to follow Mr White’s bleary-eyed example. After all, 600 films in a year equates to roughly 12 films a week, or nearly two films a day.