'Dirty God' lays its cards on the table from the start. Director Sacha Polak treats us to an uncomfortable yet strangely sumptuous montage of her star’s facial burns, scored by a sanguinely poppy soundtrack. This is a film which places its focus squarely on the survivor of an horrific acid attack, never dignifying the assault itself or the perpetrator with undue screen time. It also pulls no punches in showing us the harsh realities of a young working-class woman living with trauma, whilst also allowing its lead to be a fully fleshed out, sensuous human being.

Newcomer Vicky Knight is resoundingly impressive as the steely yet fragile Jade, flung into an unfamiliar world where her one currency – conforming to classical beauty standards – is no longer available to her. Knight’s scars are her own, and she brings a wealth of lived experience to bear in this role, her quiet dignity and simmering anger infusing her audience to blood-boiling effect, and enabling her character to do some reckless, stupid and indeed utterly reprehensible things without ever losing our sympathy. By any standards it’s an impressive debut (for Polak too, her third feature but first in the English language), and Knight’s assured performance makes for an engrossing and affecting 100 minutes. She fares less well with her (admittedly very infrequent) soliloquies, occasionally struggling to make the words sound fully owned, but when bouncing off others she absolutely soars, and her physicality and world-weary expressiveness are mesmeric.

Similarly Polak’s use of dreamlike expressionistic sequences to pepper and break up her unflinching kitchen sink drama is deft and hypnotic, giving us a window into the hallucinatory realm of Jade’s mind post-trauma. In another director’s hands these might come across as incongruous, but here Polak’s keen eye and canny restraint ensures we are almost unaware of the tonal and stylistic shifts, suddenly finding ourselves immersed in a fantastical world removed from the grim reality of a few moments before, yet also inextricably linked to it.

Ultimately 'Dirty God' serves to remind us just how cruel the world can be to one to has already suffered unimaginable cruelty. Even those who are supposedly in Jade’s corner are constantly re-emphasising that her life is now effectively over because she’s lost her looks, and it could be said that the real villain of the piece is not her assailant but oppressive and ever-prevalent ideas of feminine beauty. Jade is presented as a fiercely sexual being, but any time she takes control of her own image, her destiny or her sexuality, she is roundly taken advantage of and punished for it. The real eye-opener is that the unthinking cruelty that is visited upon her again and again throughout the film could easily befall any female-presenting person who doesn’t conform to societal expectation, but her sudden newfound disfigurement allows her and us to examine this in sharp relief. Just when she’s most in need of love and validation, she has it cruelly snatched away by a society that is stupid and broken, far more than she is. “He destroyed you” her mother tells her ruefully. “No,” she responds defiantly, “He didn’t”.

Jade’s skin is innocent in all of this. We’re trained by our culture to see features such as hers as the problem, a taboo to be hidden or pitied. In fact the issue is within and without, her flesh merely a wall between two toxic wells of prejudice, one external, the other tragically internalised. Throughout the film she must find workarounds to enable her to partake in the things she enjoyed before her assault, even things as innocuous as walking down the street without being harassed. Then one remembers that as a teenage girl in South London she probably couldn’t do that anyway, and we are reminded that her facial scars really aren’t the problem here, and that the people who commit these crimes are only afforded their power to create long-lasting harm by a complicit populace who place a corrosive ideal of beauty over all else, including basic human compassion.

Review by Jenet Le Lacheur.

Olivia Wilde’s break into feature film directing showcases a hilarious Beanie Feldstein (Molly) partnered with equal comedic match, Kaitlyn Dever (Amy). The inseparable pair have used their time at high school to play it safe and get good grades with their eyes set on illustrious careers. This whole escapade topples down the day before graduation when Molly overhears a conversation in the school’s gender-neutral bathroom. She uncovers that her supposedly dim-witted classmates, who have seemingly spent their high school careers partying hard, will also be gracing the halls of the Ivy League. Fuelled with resentment, Molly coerces Amy into a night of frivolity to show her fellow students she, too, can work hard/play hard.

Female friendship is finally getting its cinematic due. Molly and Amy are two imperfect people who have found a genuine and sincere bond in a way that is reminiscent of Feldstein playing against Saoirse Ronan in Greta Gerwig’s 'Lady Bird'. The two lay in Amy’s childhood bunkbeds and cover a multitude of topics from masturbation to the girl Amy has a crush on and not once is the conversation superficial or toxic, it is simply two young women enjoying the company of one another. It may sound so simple; however, it is still too often that women are written talking down on other women, a theme Amy herself highlights. Watching them just get along and laugh and hype one another up with pep talks about how good the other’s outfit is is what makes this narrative so endearing.

Wilde did an immaculate job of dealing with her ensemble cast, aided by the words of all four women credited as writers; Susanna Fogel, Emily Halpern, Sarah Haskins and Katie Silberman. Every character that Molly and Amy met along the way felt fully realised and would be deserving of their own spin-offs, which is incredibly difficult to achieve. Supporting cast members are often victims to their stereotypes but the likes of Hope, Jared and Annabelle all possess subtle nuances which help to paint colourful and detailed personalities that still manage to serve the story of the two leading ladies.

Comedies can so often be laborious with their consistent notion of pushing for laughter which makes them one of the most dangerous genres to tackle. It is so easy to jump at the cheap laugh; a pratfall or two will often do the trick but the writing in 'Booksmart' commits to striking a balance between witticism and physical humour. Watching Feldstein and Dever tackle this challenge, bouncing off one another’s comedic energy for 102 minutes is the great excitement of this film.
Everything just works. The marriage of Wilde’s direction with the words of great women is a dream for two fantastic up and coming actresses who are making wonderful career moves as of late. It is one of the greatest female driven comedies since 'Bridesmaids' and I hope everybody involved continues to burst the door wide open for more pieces like this to be made.

Ron’s upset that his mum, Olga, has nicked his cheese. Irate, he bundles her into his car in her pyjamas with the intention of making her buy more, but crashes into an open shipping container bound for Morocco, and when the pair awake they find themselves miles from home with no apparent means of returning.

​Writer-director Alberto Sciamma attacks his piece with energetic abandon, ensuring that this high concept comedy whips past at a sprightly pace, never allowing us to get bored. The cinematography by Fabio Paolucci is also sterling and endlessly inventive, which again valiantly manages to maintain our interest despite the film’s not inconsiderable flaws.

Tommy French embraces his role of the put-upon Ron with gusto and impressive naturalism. Unfortunately the humour is too broad to put his performance to good use, and while technically impressive, he’s lumbered with a character so spectacularly unlikable that it is impossible, even in moments of pathos and vulnerability (of which, thanks to Sciamma’s swift plotting, there are frustratingly few) to invest one iota in his plight. The same goes double for his mother, realised with repellent relish by Kierston Wareing.

To say this undoes the film would be an understatement. Ron and Olga embody the very worst aspects of humanity; boorish, obnoxious, abrasive, arrogant, and impressively loud. Why we would want to spend ninety minutes in their company is a mystery which is not illuminated as the film progresses. There is no redemption, only one-note animosity. In the hands of a different writer or pair of actors there might be a nihilistic comic delight in these twin grotesques, but here they are merely exhausting. When the sometimes deafening score overwhelms their incessant arguing it is, frankly, a welcome respite.

If you can get past this and engage meaningfully with the central couple and the admittedly inventive plot, it might be possible to appreciate this film as an undemanding bit of quasi-comic diversion. But even here there are roadblocks, as inconsistencies in the dialogue loom large, and it slowly becomes horribly clear that pretty much every supporting character in this film is more interesting than the leads, and belongs to a more interesting film. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the cases of Aida Folch’s feline karaoke queen Paloma – her effortless screen presence and unforced honesty elevating every scene she’s in – and the French cast, who probably come off best out of everyone, an eight-year-old child and an elderly restaurant manager landing the film’s two laughs. There is also a particularly grating sequence featuring laudable work from Gabriel Andreu as a Spanish doctor. If I see a more justifiable violation of the Hippocratic Oath in a film this year, I shall be very surprised.

'I Love My Mum' is perhaps best enjoyed (like so much other material in this area, with a truly perverse pleasure) as an allegory for Britain’s current relationship with the EU. The Brits here are adrift and scared, frequently confrontational, aggressive or just plain impatient with the Europeans (who are for the most part entirely reasonable and genuinely trying to help them), and constantly scuppering themselves with their own blinkered infighting. With this reading, the film ascends to a bitingly perceptive satire, and the very last beat is absolutely perfect on about three distinct levels. I supremely hope this is what Sciamma had in mind, otherwise the journey on which he has taken us, like that of his lead characters, seems distressingly pointless.

A fairly predictable psychological thriller where a timid and nervous high school girl Maria (India Eisley) is bullied by her schoolmates and gradually exacts revenge by absorbing her sinister alter ego mirror image. Maria’s parents (Mira Sorvino and Jason Issacs) are no help: mother being a repressed, depressive housewife and father a philandering plastic surgeon, who totally fail to communicate with both her, or each other. 

It all starts after Maria discovers a hidden ultrasound of twins, and starts to take on the personality of the bolder ‘Airam’, who it seems is her twin that never survived. We are shown flashbacks from Mum Amy’s nightmares and realise that Dad, Dan, thought it was "for the best" that only the "perfect" twin survived. So Mum is ineffectual, and Dad is a cold perfectionist that offers his beautiful daughter plastic surgery for a birthday present when she was hoping for a car…

Dysfunction all around, as her only friend, Lily (Penelope Mitchell) is shallow and deceptive, not rescuing her when she is humiliated at the Prom, and Lily’s boyfriend Sean (Harrison Gilbertson), who seems to be the only one who has any genuine kindness in him - and naturally Maria harbours a secret crush.  But all does not end well for the people in Maria’s life, to say the least, and it’s easy to guess who’s going to be on the receiving end of her wrath. 

As she becomes more bold in her execution of retribution, her actions as the mirrored Airam become more violent, and there are some nasty results. We are initially willing her on to stand up for herself, but she certainly gets a bit carried away! The wealthy plastic surgeon’s house and the stylish lifestyles of the clearly privileged high-schoolers certainly don’t amount to much happiness. 

It’s a decently filmed yarn, about the vengeance of a privileged, intimidated and unhappy teen that you’ll definitely have seen before. But it lacks any real tension, and although the "missing twin" theme is a good one, most of the characters are superficially written. Some are pretty cliched, particularly the high-schoolers. Directed and written by Assaf Bernstein, with some style in the first instance and very little depth in the second; Sorvino and Issacs are somewhat wasted here. But what do you want from a teen tale of angst and revenge? I quite enjoyed it, but I don’t imagine it will make much of a mark.

Actor turned writer-director Cameron Nugent opens his debut feature with the strains of “Row Row Row Your Boat” reinterpreted as a buoyant yet haunting mariachi piece. It’s a sound which infuses a number of other folk and popular songs throughout, and beautifully sets up the sun-drenched, childlike world inhabited by our lead character: a boy, appositely enough, named Sailboat.

​So named because he was obsessed with – and able to draw – the eponymous vessel from a miraculously tender age (according to his parents, before he’d ever actually seen one). We find our hero in bleak circumstances. A house permanently listing to one side, held up by a single, much-vaunted stick (one of Nugent’s more delightfully on-the-nose visual metaphors, of which there are several), and a gravely ill grandmother, for whom he vows to write the greatest song ever using his new acquisition: a beat-up ukulele. It’s not exactly a spoiler to say he succeeds, but this film does nothing in the way you expect.

Faintly reminiscent of the sweet-yet-macabre surrealism of Quentin Dupieux’s similarly sparse 'Rubber', via the super-saturated symmetry of Wes Anderson, this is a cosily off-kilter curio, which even as it constantly wrongfoots, never causes discomfort. This is quite the achievement given the film’s unrelenting strangeness and occasional menace, but every character is possessed of a kind of earnest innocence, sweet but never saccharine, which creates a sense of the world being drawn by our diminutive hero. A barnstorming turn by newcomer Julian Atocani Sanchez, Sailboat is our eye and our narrator, and not since the likes of Lenny Abrahamson’s 'Room' have we been ushered into a child’s world with such uncanny accuracy, transporting us to a simpler place and allowing us to us to enjoy some blunt yet elegant truths from the place such things always seem to come: out the mouths of babes.

None is more acutely felt than Sailboat’s appraisal of people’s response to his grandmother’s song (religious in fervour, his audiences – quite rightly, one could argue – treating the composer of the greatest song ever as an almost messianic figure): he observes that before his opus, everyone was quiet around him, and now, they’re still quiet. But maybe there are different types of quiet. It’s not breaking any new ground for a piece of art to examine the process of making art, but some phrases capture the process of creation better than most. “Sometimes you do a thing for someone, and everyone thinks it’s for everyone, but it’s really for someone. Everyone just forgot.” From out the mouths of babes, indeed.

'A Boy Called Sailboat' eloquently enquires of us, why make art? What drives us to do it and who is it ultimately for? Given this fact it’s not surprising Nugent has ensnared so many fine artists to help him tell his determinedly odd tale. The ever reliable JK Simmons appears in a tiny yet pivotal capacity, and the supporting cast is a roster of standouts, from Jake Busey as Sailboat’s trenchantly ridiculous teacher, to Noel Gugliemi and Elizabeth De Razzo as his peculiarly adorable parents. The latter three share most of the film’s laughs, Gugliemi in particular doing sterling work with a bearded dragon as a novelty pest control device (though if he wants an effective predator of wood ants, he’d do well to go for a smaller lizard).

Overall, Nugent has crafted an unlikely gem, amusing, gently affecting, exquisitely scored and replete with eminently quotable lines. For a debut feature it has an incredibly strong sense of personality, and an intensely personable one at that.

‘Extremely Wicked, Shockingly Evil and Vile’ is not for those looking for the gory details of Ted Bundy’s murders. Nor is it an in-depth analysis of his life prior and the trial. Anyone with a vague interest in true crime will know the man and what he did, this film takes a different approach.

The film is based on the book ‘The Phantom Prince: My life with Ted Bundy’ by Elizabeth Kendall (formerly Kloepfer) and therefore primarily focuses on her relationship with Bundy. The story is heart breaking as it depicts the real life vulnerability of a woman just looking for some security. Lilly Collins powerfully portrays Elizabeth Kendall’s complex feelings towards Bundy and the life long struggle she went through. The authenticity of her emotions radiates through the screen making it impossible not to feel everything along with her.

Zac Efron as Ted Bundy is charismatic and subtly evil. He shows how Bundy was a master manipulator, charming everyone he met in to doing his bidding. His looks may seem to some like he is glamourising a murderer, but this was Bundy’s whole persona. The film does nothing more than depict what is already known as fact. Filmmaker Joe Berlinger concentrates on remaking memorable media moments from Bundy’s trial. These scenes run along side Elizabeth Kendall’s story creating a narrative that is informative and representative. Although, as the film is based on Kendall’s perspective, it felt like more could have been done to showcase this. There were moments that could have been explored more in more detail to fully establish her emotional journey.

The performances of the principle actors are what make this film powerful. As well as Efron and Collins, John Malkovich as Judge Edward Cowart and Jim Parsons as Larry Simpson carry the densely factual and harrowing narrative. With out these performances the film lacks a certain creativity which is commonly found in films based on real life events.

​Overall ‘Extremely Wicked, Shockingly Evil and Vile’ was very enjoyable. As someone who knows the ins and outs of Bundy’s story I found watching the story from another point of view incredibly interesting as it was devastating.

Martin Richard’s science fiction effort 'The Bomb' imagines a violent post-Brexit where a leather clad maverick bomb disposal expert takes freelance diffusing gigs until he comes up against new challenge. The film’s main concept is an AI bomb defence system that preys on your emotional weakness by taking the form of someone you’ve lost. It’s an interesting thought experiment, although the script relies on the viewer to do too much of the work filling blanks. The final effect is a little flat and lacks narrative clarity, but the idea has merit and the effects are nicely done for an indie film.

The standout offering of the block is 'The Critic', written, directed by and starring Stella Velon. It delves into the psyche of an actor and questions the role of critics; their value and the casual cruelty of those paid to judge, rather than do. Velon’s actress faces down a shadowy interviewer who belittles her and tries to trap her in cunningly worded questions until you’re willing her to cut him down to size. Although the mechanism of the narrative isn’t novel, it is immaculately executed and as the only visible face on screen Velon ably carries the film. Her wealth of expressions do far more work than any dialogue could, admirable for anyone directing themselves. Understanding the form and purpose of a short story is just as important as screencraft and 'The Critic' succeeds on all fronts.

'Ghost Dance' by Emilia Izquierdo may have gone over my head. On the surface it is a bewildering animation which felt wildly out of place in the programme and offered little more than diverting shapes. Several minutes of wiggling colours and swirling figures may well have been a triumph of animated technique but within the context of a series of clear narratives, and especially following such a strong contender, there is little to remark on.

Saam Farahmand’s 'A Portrait of the Artist Angus Fairhurst', an homage to the least-known of the Young British Artists of the late 80s, is a little worthy, an art student kind of film in every sense. That said, the cast do well with the convincing dialogue, and the intercut snippets of Fairhurst’s underrated work is well-managed and thoroughly entertaining. Likewise, the shaggy dog story that the eponymous artist tells to his enfant terrible contemporaries works as a neat metaphor for the whole era of thoroughly commercial art. The sumptuous black and white film cements the effect, and the affect.
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Luke Bradford’s 'Risk' shows its cards early and what we expect to be the big twist is signposted a mile off, making the wait for the reveal a little tiresome. The true twist however comes in the closing credits when a few words reframe everything that has just passed. More of a PSA than an entertainment film it is nonetheless fully effective in its mission to shock and challenge. Confident direction shines through and the film easily stands up to much higher budget rivals. Perhaps a less obvious (and more contentious) consequence of the film’s proselytising is how it raises the question of how much right, and how much responsibility, others bear when a woman’s choices for her own body are potentially causing untold harm to another.

Based on Jennie Rooney’s 2013 novel, 'Red Joan' tells the tale of pensioner Joan, played with vulnerable venerability by Judi Dench, who is accused of having engaged in espionage during the Cold War on behalf of the Russians. The film follows her inquisition while skipping to flashbacks of her youth at Cambridge while becoming embroiled with dreamy Russian Marxist Leo and his alluring cousin Sonya. Inspired by the story of Melita Norwood, whose real life exploits are documented as having been rather less twee than the film would have us believe.

'Red Joan' nonetheless works as a solid book to film adaptation that captures the palpable fear of communism in Britain in a way few films in the genre have done before. Lindsay Shapero’s screenplay works female empowerment into the script with wily charm while still leaving plenty of intrigue and a spiralling plot that heaps betrayal upon betrayal. As the enigmatic Sonya, played by Tereza Srbova with drawling glamour, states "nobody would suspect us- we’re women" and certainly it is wildly exciting to have a woman front and centre of a spy story, even if the film’s conclusion rather disappointingly winds up reverting back to type with a half-hearted sub plot concerning Joan’s grown, disapproving son coming on side.

Sophie Cookson is full of bright brilliance as Joan’s younger counterpart, dashing wide-eyed around Cambridge and surreptitiously sneaking core intel through microscopic cameras with schoolgirl propriety. Equally stellar is Stephen Cambell Moore as Max, our heroine’s true ally and progressive professor who, at times, appears a heavily romanticised problematic fave but who nevertheless injects what would otherwise be a gratifyingly average teacher-student romance with sincerity rather than cynicism.

Paul Hart’s demonic reinterpretation of the Bard’s best -loved comment on regicide and tyranny falls remarkably flat. Hart’s production attempts to incorporate the musical talents of its cast to create a cacophony of sound to accompany the terrible tale of ambition, greed and murder. Yet the jagged interruptions of various versions of Johnny Cash and the Rolling Stones seem to take the piece out of itself and far from subverting the darker themes or enhancing a sense of unease and foreboding, they simply read as inauthentic.

Following the ascension of Macbeth to the throne of Scotland a cover of Frank Sinatra’s L.O.V.E accompanies the monarchs dance and far from being a moment of subversive hilarity or imbuing the moment with a deeper disturbance seemed frankly, out of place. Elsewhere the production is riddled with structural inconsistencies through ill-thought through gender swaps. Banquo and Fleance become woman and girl, causing one to question whether Lady Macbeth’s descent into madness isn’t rather postponed; given it is originally the brutality and wasteful murder of Macduff’s wife and children that provides the ultimate catalyst for her demise. Hart works around the question of witches by animating an army of military undead as a cohesive voice of supernatural prophecy, which given the over-reliance on demonic imagery seems rather a missed opportunity for occult visuals.

Despite the clear effort exerted by the production team to work the concept of the Macbeth's owning a hotel in hell, as one long neon sign flickers out the ‘O’ and ‘T’ periodically to spell ‘HEL’ atop three hotel room doors each baring the number 6, the concept seems rather haphazardly hustled together. Given that the play’s themes are already alarmingly obvious the extension of this into the slightly campy set design in the Watermill’s intimate, murky interior does very little to transport us to Scotland’s harrowing heaths and the Macbeths fortress. Likewise Emma McDonald and Billy Postlethwaite as our cunning bloodthirsty couple shimmer with overly zealous determination to really sell it to us without the crucial connection between them that makes the exploit so electrifying. Victoria Blunt’s Malcom is one of few standouts in an overwhelmingly young cast, bristling with regal recalcitrance and poignant pragmatism and despite the productions desperate need for dramaturgical re-evaluation, the sight of a gender equal cast in regional theatre is genuinely heartening.

Jessie Buckley was always destined for greatness. First coming to prominence in televised talent contest I’d Do Anything, where her performances were clear standouts, she went on to tackle numerous heavyweight Shakespearean roles, and warble her way through the Menier’s acclaimed A Little Night Music, all of which stood her in good stead for taking on Rose-Lynn Harlan, the exuberant aspiring country (not western) singer at the heart of 'Wild Rose'.

Buckley’s is a virtuosic performance. The hard-bitten Glaswegian whom we first meet being discharged for the umpteenth time from prison is as far removed from the soft-spoken Kerry native as one is likely to get. About the only thing they have in common is their love of music and the lungs of steel with which they express it. But as integral as the songs are to this piece, infusing and pulsing through it as they do through our lead character, there is far, far more to this film than a simple rags-to-riches tale of a frustrated musical prodigy.

Nicole Taylor’s screenplay is a masterclass in economy, effortlessly eliciting tears and laughter and revealing swathes of information in a few choice words. She is helped of course by her stellar cast. Not only Buckley but the incomparable Julie Walters, an inspired choice for Rose-Lynn’s long-suffering mother Marion – too often lumbered with looking after her wayward daughter’s young children – who walks a knife edge between aching compassion and an almost terrifying steeliness. Even as she repeatedly and brazenly urges our hero to give up her dreams of stardom for the sake of her real-world responsibilities, we are never fully able to root against her. Taylor skilfully keeps our allegiances shifting, sympathetic to both the idealistic dreamer and her ruthlessly pragmatic would-be protector. Their long history is apparent in every scene, whether they are at loggerheads dredging up old scores, or sharing a moment of tender reconciliation. When Marion offers Rose-Lynn an olive branch, conceding that her grandson prefers his long-estranged mother’s mince to hers, her daughter tearfully responds: “I don’t have a mince. My mince is your mince.” Cue waterworks.

Elsewhere we are treated to fabulous work from Sophie Okonedo, the disgustingly affluent yet delightfully naïve wife of a conservatory mogul who employs Rose-Lynn as a cleaner. Initially wrong-footed by her new employee’s uncouth demeanour, her attempts to appear cool and worldly are played to comic perfection and the ever-shifting status dynamic of their relationship provides many of the film’s laughs. We are also privy to a cameo from BBC Radio 2’s “Whispering Bob Harris”, which while entertaining is perhaps the film’s only misstep, Harris evidently being better suited to presenting than acting.

At its heart, 'Wild Rose' is a meditation on finding your own voice, recognising that what you want and what you think you want may be radically different things, and ultimately turning what you might perceive as insurmountable obstacles into strengths. As one character cheerfully observes: “May all your heartbreaks be songs, and all your songs be hits.” In Rose-Lynn, Taylor and Buckley have created a heroine for the ages, constantly striving to do what’s right for her and her children, bereft of any meaningful guidance, and all too often failing both. We see ourselves at every turn. So eminently believable is she that at times it’s hard to accept we aren’t watching a musical biopic of an already established star. Much must be made of Tom Harper’s canny direction, of course, grounding his film so beautifully, but the detail and specificity from all departments is exemplary, and for all the deserved fanfare around its central star turn, this is a consummate ensemble piece.

Which brings us, at last, to the music. As soon as Buckley opens her mouth it’s plain to see why Rose-Lynn pursues her dream with such fervour. Her voice vibrates with passion, running the gamut from trembling fragility to thunderous, brassy power, and the material with which she is gifted is hauntingly, transportingly beautiful. A fitting heartbeat to a film that has heart to spare, and then some.

‘Little’ is nothing if not completely and embarrassingly predictable. As I sat waiting for the movie to start I couldn’t help but cringe at the poster displayed in front of me with the tag line: "Her Boss from Hell Woke Up Like This" with arrows pointing to relevant characters just in case the age, attire and cartoonish poses of the actors wasn’t hint enough for us. I knew I was safe in the land of cliches and tired old formulas. Mean boss who at heart is just a hurt child needing some TLC, the side kick with a heart of gold who needs to find her courage and a dash of unexplained magic in an otherwise normal world and we have lift off!

These story lines have been rehashed so many times that we can all guess the entire plot and the ending just by looking at the poster! I can almost hear the conversation in the board room: Lets do another body swap big/little movie again. Yeah but we’ve done all the different varieties already. Boy to man, man to boy, woman to girl, girl to woman, boy to girl, man to dog… maybe we should come up with new idea. HOW ABOUT AN ALL BLACK CAST!!!! No one ever thought of that before! actually yeah, they just did that with ‘What Men Want’! Nevermind, we can still make a ton of money!!!

But fear not. Not all is not lost with this movie. There are three reasons why you will still very much enjoy it and those reasons are Issa Rae as April, Regina Hall as Jordan Sanders and 14-year-old Marsai Martin as young Jordan. These women bring all their comedic timing, physical acting abilities and charm to the table and manage to turn a badly written script and a painfully mediocre production into a reasonably enjoyable movie.

The titular pun aptly sums up the diverting subject matter of this affectionate documentary. Filmmaker Lloyd Ross takes a look at the sociopolitical landscape of post-apartheid South Africa framed in the unconventional (and uniquely South African) context of contemporary Nando’s advertising. Known for their daring and singular voice, they became one of the country’s best-loved and most archetypal brands. Made with the co-operation of the restaurant chain and talking heads from representatives of the marketing companies they worked with over the years, Ross’s film celebrates the moral stance and distinctive character of the little chicken shop that could.

The film’s narrative hangs on the television advertising campaigns for the company in the 1980s and 90s; Virtually unknown outside of South Africa, and entirely emblematic of the era, they were risky, of the moment and always a talking point. It is a fascinating insight into a company that has largely played it safe elsewhere in the world. Although Nando’s has a reputation for being “cheeky”; only in South Africa is it seen as defiant, a voice for the people, a chain with a strong social conscience. The film effectively illustrates the significance of the Nando’s rise to popularity and captures a lot of the spirit and energy now fondly remembered by South Africans who came of age in the era.

Ross’s film is a loving and informative slice of life inside the early years of the New South Africa and paints a rosy picture of a company that didn’t always get it right but had heart and was willing to make a stand. Perhaps too easily uncritical of the choices made by the commercial arm of the chain, it is nonetheless a charming and edifying watch that gives voice to the ordinary people and striving business owners of a country beset by assumptions and stereotypes from Britain, especially.

Guaranteed to raise a smile, and a few eyebrows, though it could have stood to dig a little deeper and present more substance alongside the confection. 'Pluck' is a pleasing watch and a worthwhile potted history of a distinct time and place.