The story of the demise of Barbara Daly Baekeland is one that seems filled with the kind of intrigue and scandal that would be ripe for a juicy film exposé: money, glamour, betrayal, lust, murder and, most notoriously, incest. While Savage Grace dodges sufficiently the temptation to go for all-out sleaze, the shallow characters we are introduced to render the film rather cold – just why should we care about such a dislikeable group of wealthy bored socialites?

This would make a good companion-piece to P.T. Anderson’s There Will Be Blood (2007); if Daniel Plainview is a turned into a monster by his relentless pursuit of wealth, then the characters in Savage Grace are ruined by wealth they are born or married into. Brooks Baekeland is the multi-millionaire inheritor of the Bakelite fortune, wanting for nothing financially, living a playboy’s life seeking adventure around the world. However, he seems to live very much in the shadow of his illustrious grandfather, jaded of his life of much wealth but little achievement.

The centre of the film is not he, but his wife Barbara and their son Antony, and the unusual relationship that slowly develops between them. As the film opens, we immediately get the measure of her: unstable, heartless, lapping up the rotten decadence of the social scene she inhabits, ready to provoke scandal at any moment. Unable to hold her own in the cultural stakes of the gliterati, her inferiority complex results in a less-than-charming combination of vengeful rudeness and arbitrary promiscuity.

The couple are too wrapped up in their own issues to really care about their offspring; even Barbara’s coddling of her son feels unnatural, a pose. The film covers the span of thirty years, but while the infant Antony emerges into teendom and eventual young manhood, and the setting changes decades and continents, the two adults are oddly static, locked in their respective emotional stases. Antony, meanwhile, has become increasingly withdrawn, whether as a result of his itinerant lifestyle, burgeoning bisexuality or the continued sexual philandering of his parents.

Matters take a turn for the worse when Brooks abruptly takes off with Blanca, the beautiful young Spanish girl Antony had recently rather awkwardly lost his virginity to – this is just the kind of thing that’s going to mess a young man’s head up, isn’t it? This inevitably forces him closer to Barbara, now employing a ‘walker’ to encourage her to get her face back on the social scene, as well as getting her to paint more of her hideous portraits. But as time wears on their relationship becomes increasingly co-dependent and frankly rather weird. If ever there was the sense that a film was not going to end happily…

Julianne Moore gives a routinely strong performance as the monstrous Barbara – is there any other actress that can come close to her on form? If this can form a loose trilogy of similar roles with The Hours (2002) and Far From Heaven (2002), then this does feel the most two-dimensional; though it is the material that is in question, not her acting talent. Stephen Dillane’s Brooks is suitably angst-ridden, and the extraordinary face of Eddie Redmayne – Tadzio from Death in Venice (1971) with Cillian Murphy’s cheekbones – provides ample enigma to the much confused Antony.

Director Kalin, whose previous feature Swoon (1992) centred on a similarly scandal-filled true story, the infamous Leopold and Loeb murder case, shows real restraint in what could easily descend into shock-and-awe s-exploitation. A fine eye for both period and locational detail make for a visually sumptuous watch. The problem is the material: while an intriguing and somewhat shocking story, one cannot help but feel an icy detatchment from proceedings as the central characters are all so wretchedly pathetic. I knew nothing of the real-life case before watching the film, so the surprise turns that events took were enough to keep me interested. Those familiar with the story looking for insights into these messed-up peoples lives are likely to leave empty-handed. But then again, perhaps they are not worthy of such scrutiny.

Outrageously rude. At times massively offensive. Utterly hilarious. This should adequately describe the script of Martin McDonagh’s debut feature, whose snappy quotable dialogue and dark humour will inevitably draw comparisons to the work of David Mamet. But where Mamet’s frequent artificiality draws him as many detractors as acolytes, In Bruges utilizes McDonagh’s considerable stage experience to forge a comedy-drama refreshingly driven by deep characterization rather than high concept.

We are, of course, in Bruges, the picture-postcard Belgian city enthusiastically described in the guidebook as “the best-preserved medieval city in Belgium”, for what that’s worth. Enter our two main men: Ken, the wisened face and portly presence of Brendon Gleeson, is keen to immerse himself in the city’s sights and sounds; his younger travelling partner Ray, a baffled-looking Colin Farrell, is mortified at the prospect of spending any time at all in what he cheerily describes as a ‘shithole’. If our sense of location is firm, just why these two men are here is decidedly less clear. The opening monologue tells us a little: Ray is a hitman whose last whacking went decidedly awry, so he has been told to hole up in his present location. But as he questions – why Bruges? It is entirely possible to hide in Croydon, after all.

Comparisons to Harold Pinter’s drama The Dumb Waiter are inevitable; in that play, two hitmen have to fulfill seemingly arbitrary orders emerging from the titular dumbwaiter, responding to them via a strange speaking-tube. Here, they use the rather more conventional means of a telephone to their mysterious paymaster Harry, Ralph Fiennes in full-on cockney gangster mode, who seems comically keen on them enjoying their newly-found surroundings. Ray tries his best, not only scoring a date with a beautiful local, but also befriending a ketamine-taking dwarf. As one does on holiday.

Needless to say, the full extent of Harry’s plan for the two men becomes apparent, forcing difficult decisions to be made, and loyalties to be tested. What keeps the film constantly engaging is how it chooses to reveal the answers to its mysteries slowly. McDonagh controls the narrative with a tight precision that would put many another screenwriter to shame; there is no over-loading of exposition, allowing character and plot to slowly unfurl naturally, and for situations to emerge and resolve themselves believably. If the hitman film is one loaded with genre traditions, this is one inventive enough to keep the audience guessing at every turn.

Given his theatre background, it is little surprise McDonagh coaxes two superb performances from his leads. Gleeson is, as always, able to inject real pathos into his Ken – the kind of outstanding character acting we have come to expect from him. If there is a surprise, then it is in the depth Colin Farrell demonstrates he is capable of: charming, aloof, menacing, witty – but beneath it all frightened, unable to reconcile himself with what he has done. Not only do the two stand as great characters individually, the interaction between them is priceless. Their comical banter, enhanced by the clashing of their clear personality differences, places their unlikely partnership as one of the funniest in recent years – the De Niro / Grodin axis of Midnight Run (1988) the closest comparison I can come up with. There is also real tenderness underneath it all; that neither man has any close family to speak of means they really only seem to have each other.

The humour of the film is decidedly dark, as would fit a story about paid killers. The easily-shocked or offended would do well to stay away – not only are there liberal uses of all available profanities, there are also some decidedly un-PC comments by our two straight-talking assassins, as well as their similarly unrestrained boss. Violence is frequent – in Sopranos fashion it is sometimes comic and sometimes certainly not – you have been warned.

The difficulty of moving from a stage career to directing films is ensuring the resulting work is sufficiently cinematic. In Bruges wholly succeeds in this respect by making its location an integral part of the whole: much like the Vienna of The Third Man (1949) and Before Sunrise (1995), or the Venice of Don’t Look Now (1973), the location almost becomes a character in itself. That the latter film is an explicit reference in the diegesis is no stray piece of homage. Martin McDonagh has made the transition to the screen from the stage with considerable panache, creating a fine character-driven piece that has no trouble standing up as a piece of cinema. It he can continue to craft films as good as this, we are in for some considerable treats in the future.

The protagonists in George A. Romero’s zombie classic Dawn of the Dead (1978), with a helicopter at their disposal and the ability to hole up just about anywhere, choose the shopping mall as the best place to take refuge from the undead. After all, where else would you find such unlimited supplies of those two essentials, food and guns? Not such good fortune for the residents of Bridgton, Maine who find themselves in a rather less well-stocked supermarket when a strange mist descends outside, filled with strange tentacular creatures seemingly intent on cutting the townspeople’s lives short in as gruesome ways as imaginable.

But hey! Guess what? Maybe the real enemies are inside the building – like the crazed Bible bashing shit-stirrer, who takes a distinctly Old Testament view of events. And those army guys in the background looking shifty – they wouldn’t have anything to do with what’s going on outside, would they? When will they learn not to meddle with science, eh?

If this all sounds like fairly standard bug movie fare, then you’d be right. Other genre archetypes are inevitably present: the rugged handsome everyman, complete with annoying unadvisably running-around child; the dweeb who just might turn out to be a bit handy with a firearm; the foolish doubting expendables running headfirst into gory deaths. And of course the will-they won’t-they couples for whom things aren’t probably going to work out in the long term.

For all of its stock characters, standard CGI aliens and predictable scenarios, The Mist has opened to some breathlessly enthusiastic reviews. Part of this is down to director Frank Darabont’s name on the credits; a tremendous amount of goodwill surrounds his first Stephen King adaptation, The Shawshank Redemption (1994), whose broad theme of hope in the face of despair sees it regularly propelled to the top of favourite film polls, despite its shortcomings. Like Shawshank, The Mist is based on a King novella; the theme here though, instead of the possibility of hope, is its almost entire absence. As those trapped inside the shop realise the helplessness of their situation, there is a slow descent into Lord of the Flies savagery, with a touch of JG Ballard-esque ritualism. There is obvious social commentary here: what happens to good decent America when faced with an unknown enemy, or at least the perception of one.

Whether or not the film succeeds on this plane of social comment though is questionable: the leaden script and wooden characters don’t help matters, despite some good performances from the well-chosen cast. At least from my British perspective, Marcia Gay Harden’s rabid evangelist is more than a little too over-the-top to properly satirically bite, her overly eager to follow flock all too easily swayed towards bloodshed. As a genre bug movie, it does offer pretty good value, if at times rather too predictably. Many times references are made to other, better films – the Romero films, Aliens (1986) – which only manage to highlight this one’s shortcomings. At over two hours long it also rather over-stays its welcome: maybe a Roger Corman would have been rather less forgiving in the editing suite.

Shawshank, for me, had similar problems: noble ambitions, an interesting setup, excellent performances, let down by a cheesy script and a lack of directorial subtlety. The one standout moment in that film was the well-executed penultimate reel detailing Andy’s escape – one of cinemas more memorable triumphant endings. Darabont has produced a similarly memorable ending here, surprising in its unremitting bleakness and certain not to leave one skipping out of the cinema in glee. If the rest of The Mist is somewhat lacking, then it at least hits the mark squarely here.

Dawn is just an ordinary girl dealing with the troubles of adolescence: attractive, but bemused by the changes her body is going through, she suffers from the customary teenage lack of confidence in her self-image. Whilst becoming increasingly aware in members of the opposite sex, she has found herself as a spokesperson for the ‘True Love Waits’ movement, who encourage the wearing of rings as a sign of pre-marital chastity. ‘Purity’ is their mantra. So when Dawn becomes attracted to a boy at her school, Tobey, she is naturally conflicted, her physical attraction to him in contradiction to her promotion of abstinence. Her brother, on the other hand, is a promiscuous misfit, taunting her with some seriously innapropriate comments.

The subject of chastity movements is extremely ripe material for parody, and there is some light mockery: for instance, Dawn’s erotic dreams of Tobey suitably intertwined with some rather strange wedding imagery, poking fun at the idea that marriage is the answer to healthy sexual relations. But there is one simple twist to the film’s satire: Dawn, unfortunately, is not exactly like everyone else as she has teeth in her genitalia. The results of this condition are as grimly predictable as the havoc inflicted by Carrie (1976), and we are spared little graphic detail – any men going to watch this are strongly advised to pack a strong stomach and some loose-fitting underwear. Needless to say, her increasingly dysfunctional encounters with a succession of terrible men do not end well for them.

Vagina dentata, we are informed, is a condition rooted in many different mythologies, but is ultimately a product of genophobia (male fear of sexual castration) as well as being rooted in misogyny. So what Teeth does is cleverly turn this misogyny on its head (no pun intended), making her condition an empowering one: she demonstrably can have normal relations, but when being taken advantage of physically, quite literally bites back (ouch). The subject of gynaecology raises the spectre of David Cronenberg’s masterpiece Dead Ringers (1988), a film which is rooted in the subconscious male fear of the female organ, and while Teeth never aspires to that level of psychological insight, it is certainly a kindred spirit.

At the centre of it all is the wonderfully cast Jess Weixler – a picture of cherubic innocence, looking a cross between Reece Witherspoon and Heather Graham. Her confusion and horror at the realisation of what is happening is played straight, but with real comedy, and pleasingly won her a Special Jury Prize at Sundance last year. Elsewhere the peripheral characters are a little too cliched: the heavy-metal misfit brother, the unhelpful if well meaning parents, and her succession of nerdy, sexually charged victims. But, after all, this is a camp exploitation horror, not a painstaking character study.

I found myself laughing out loud at least five times at some terrifically comic moments, though admittedly uncomfortably so. Director Mitchell Lichtenstein, son of pop art painter Roy, exploits the setup for all of its worth, and keeps a control over the pacing so as to keep the blood and guts neatly spaced apart, slowly ramping up the graphic intensity to keep the audience increasingly amused and horrified simultaneously. I found it hugely enjoyable, but those of a slightly more squeamish disposition should be advised to steer well clear.