Parky at the Pictures (In Cinemas 1/12/2011)

A quarter of a century later, Moretti has returned to the theme of ecclesiastical duty. But rather than focusing on the doubts of a humble priest, he speculates in We Have a Pope on what might happen if a cardinal had his moment of doubt in the moments after being elected pontiff and takes off into the streets of Rome to reconnect with a world he would be renouncing forever in the hope that it would reassure him that he had the abilities that God had seemingly detected in him in entrusting him with the stewardship of His Church.

Following the funeral of Pope John Paul II, the college of cardinals assembles in the Sistine Chapel for the conclave to select his successor. As spectacularly inept TV news reporter Enrico Iannello thrusts out his microphone in the hope of getting a sound bite, Vatican press officer Jerzy Stuhr reminds him that he is an a holy place and that the sanctity and dignity of the occasion must to be maintained. However, it soon becomes clear from the ensuing shots that the process of choosing a pope is a lengthy and tedious one and whispered prayers before each count suggest that nobody actually wants to assume the Throne of St Peter.

Eventually, after several ballots in which the favourites with the bookmakers were closely tied, elderly French cardinal Michel Piccoli emerges as the compromise candidate and his colleagues turn to applaud as the votes are counted and he acknowledges with a quiet smile that seems to signal pious modesty. But, as the camerlengo appears on the balcony to deliver the words `habemus papem' to the crowd in St Peter's Square, the serene Piccoli suddenly gives out a scream and declares he cannot be pope and rushes back into the chapel to be alone.

As the watching faithful wonder why the new pope has not appeared, senior cardinal Renato Scarpa sits beside Piccoli and tries to coax him into accepting the mantle by reassuring him that everyone has trials to face and that he will be fully supported by his fellow princes of the church. But Piccoli refuses to be cajoled and retires to his apartments, while Stuhr stalls the media with an announcement that the Holy Father is communing with God in an act of deep humility before making himself known.

Such is the conviction that Piccoli is simply suffering from a psychological rather than a spiritual block, Stuhr hires leading Roman psychiatrist Nanni Moretti to examine him. Unsurprisingly, however, Piccoli is reluctant to discuss personal issues in the presence of the curia and Moretti finds himself subjected to the same rules of sequestration as the cardinals, who retire to their rooms to play patience, do jigsaws and listen to Piccoli's anguished cries, as he wrestles with his conscience.

The next morning, Moretti suggests that ex-wife Margherita Buy might be able to discern Piccoli's problem and he agrees to consult her incognito. However, his feels guilty spinning a story that he is an actor who feels unsuited to his next role and gives Stuhr the slip and disappears into the city centre to think things through. Determined to prevent anyone from discovering his blunder, after Piccoli calls to say he needs some time to himself, Stuhr instals Swiss guardsman Gianluca Gobbi in the papal suite and orders him to pace before the curtained windows and give the impression that Piccoli is in residence.

As Moretti discusses health issues with the cardinals and complains about Buy's insistence she is a superior therapist, Piccoli attaches himself to an acting troupe staying in the hotel where he finds a bed for the night. Having witnessed highly strung star Dario Cantarelli suffer a breakdown while dashing distractedly down the staircase while delivering lines from Anton Chekhov's The Seagull, Piccoli goes to the theatre and sits in on rehearsals. He is even invited to supper and sees the news coverage of the Vatican crisis on the television. But he remains reluctant to return, even after hearing priest Salvatore Miscio delivering a sermon about accepting obligation, and calls Stuhr to ask if there is any way he can rescue him from his ghastly dilemma.

Interrupting the volleyball tournament that Moretti has organised between the cardinals, Stuhr and Scarpa hit upon a plan to bring Piccoli home. But it backfires with potentially calamitous consequences for the papacy and the tradition and authority on which the entire Roman Catholic Church is founded.

Such is the shattering nature of the final sequence that it's easy to overlook the fact that Moretti gives the Church a pretty easy ride here. The cardinals are presented as fallible human beings who pray to be passed over for preferment and throw themselves into the distraction of volleyball with the enthusiasm of boisterous seminarians. Indeed, as played by Franco Graziosi, Camillo Milli, Roberto Nobile and Ulrich von Dobschütz, they seem more like kindly old uncles than out-of-touch conservatives refusing to acknowledge problems with child abuse, the connection between condoms and AIDS or the role of religion in a time of crippling social injustice and faith-inspired terror.

Only Piccoli seems cognisant of the colossal challenge facing Catholicism and his flight seems to owe as much to an understanding of how much needs to be changed as to an awareness of his own inadequacy for the task. But, such is the soul-shaking enormity of the sudden realisation that God has chosen him that it's not always easy to gauge what is going on behind an expression of preoccupied bemusement from only the Chekhovian troupe can arouse him. Thus, this is a performance of intense impassivity, as though Piccoli is waiting for divine intervention to rectify a celestial error and bestow the Triregnum on somebody else.

Although himself sorely troubled, Moretti gives a much breezier performance and his glib discussion of faith with Scarpa during the round robin games adds a some much-needed causticity to proceedings. Yet this is never as scathing in its satirical assessment of the Church as The Caiman (2006) was about Italian politics in general and Silvio Berlusconi in particular. However, it's playful and gently provocative and there are several charming moments, including a seeming homage to The Shawshank Redemption when Gobbi turns on the stereo to relieve the boredom of being cooped up alone and the upbeat song is relayed by speakers throughout the Vatican and the cardinals begin clapping along just as Piccoli encounters buskers playing the same tune.

The use of Arvo Pärt's `Miserere' over the closing credits provides another musical highlight to match the majesty of the sets Paola Bizzarri designed for the Cinecittà soundstage and the lustre of Alessandro Pesci's photography. But, while this is engaging and amusing, it becomes a touch pretentious in the theatrical sequences and the digression involving Buy and her bickering kids seems typifies the rather dead end nature of the psychoanalytical sub-plot.

Another crisis of identity drives the considerably more anarchic action in Jan Švankmajer's Surviving Life, in which the veteran master animator makes audacious use of photographic cut-outs to create the real and dream worlds experienced by Václav Helsus in an uncompromisingly complex, but surprisingly accessible psychological satire that succeeds in telling a rattlingly good yarn while also commenting upon recent Czech history. Dismissed in some quarters for lacking the macabre humour of earlier outings, this still has a sharp edge to match its surreal incisiveness.

The picture opens with Švankmajer explaining how a lack of funding influenced his aesthetic choices and apologising for producing a comedy that not everyone will find funny. However, it soon becomes clear that this is not only a film of deceptive intellectual depth, but also of astonishing creative ingenuity, as familiar symbols and fresh concepts jostle for space in a dystopic fantasy bursting with ideas and wit.

Middle-aged and mediocre, Václav Helsus has been married to Zuzana Krónerová for 25 years and seems content enough, even though she keeps nagging him about buying lottery tickets. He works with little enthusiasm with bored colleague Marcel Nemec for the tyrannical Karel Brozek, whose snarling sidekick has a dog's head on a human body. But everything changes when Helsus has a dream about Klára Issová and becomes so besotted with her that he begins seeking ways in which he can spend more time asleep and gain greater control over his subconscious thoughts.

Having eaten too much rich food before bedtime, Helsus makes himself sick and doctor Frantisek Polata recommends a visit to psychiatrist Daniela Bakerova. He also finds a book on dreams in antiquarian Jan Pocepický's shop and rents a shabby room from landlord Pavel Nový so he can slumber in peace while sucking the handle of his dead mother's handbag. However, the more he dreams, the more troubling the scenario becomes and the portraits of Freud and Jung on Bakerova's office wall begin fighting with each other as she debates whether Helsus is suffering from an Oedipus Complex or from an over-assertive anima.

Helsus himself has little clue what is going on, as Issová keeps changing her name each time they meet and he has to compete for her attention with a boorish husband (who bears an uncanny resemblance to himself) and a young son (Jakub Frydrych). But rather than rejoicing at the elimination of these rivals, Helsus becomes increasingly guilt-stricken and, as Issová suggests they have a child together, he finds himself being browbeaten by superego Emília Doseková, who looks like a baglady, but lays claim to being any number of deities, historical heroes and theoretical titans.

Eventually, Krónerová becomes suspicious and she discovers that not only has Helsus lost his job, but he has also won 90 million crowns in forged banknotes on the lottery and has been communing on a regular basis with both Issová and Bakerova. Thus, when she gives her husband an ultimatum, he has to decide once and for all whether he wishes to exist in the real world or in his imagination. But it takes the intervention of photographer Miroslav Vrba for Helsus to understand finally about his relationship with his parents and the significance of his mother (also Issová) teaching him to swim in a pool of red water.

Whether it involves huge bouncing apples, ravenous snakes, naked women with chicken heads, giant tongues French kissing across a street or buildings with applauding hands, there is so much going on in this dazzling reverie inspired by one of Švankmajer's own dreams that it's impossible not to admire its ceaseless ambition, acuity and artistry. Constructed from enactment and decoupage, the performances are splendid, as are Juraj Galvánek and Jan Ruzicka's cinematography, Ivo Spalj's sound mix and Aleksandr Glazunov and Jan Kalinov's score. Animators Eva Jakoubková, Martin Kublák and Jaroslav Mrázek also deserve enormous credit. But it's Švankmajer's auteuristic individuality as writer, production designer and director that makes this so idiosyncratic, compelling and accomplished.

The manner in which the disparate details of Helsus's dreams slot into place is as slick as any master detective's case summation, while there's an unforced canniness about the equation of his parents with the authoritarian powers that shaped Czech destiny. But even those unfamiliar with the psychological and allegorical aspects can still enjoy the boldness, inventiveness and vibrancy of the storytelling and acknowledge the visionary brilliance of its technical proficiency.

Jean-Pierre Ameris's Romantics Anonymous is much less demanding, but there is a genuine sweetness about this misfit comedy that is only partially due to the fact it is set in a chocolate factory. Isabelle Carré and Benoît Poelvoorde make a charming pair, as they blush and stutter their way towards a wedding day denouement that recalls Mike Nichols's The Graduate (1967). However, even though Améris himself suffers from anxiety attacks, he is never sure whether the story of a twosome separated by pathological shyness should be deliciously dark or quirkily quaint and, consequently, this affable confection always feels a touch arch.

Raised by promiscuous mother Christiane Millet, Isabelle Carré has always been bashful around men and has joined Romantics Anonymous to help her come to terms with her issues. Fellow members Jacques Boudet, Alice Pol, Céline Duhamel, Philippe Fretun, Grégoire Ludig, Philippe Gaulé, Joëlle Séchaud and Isabelle Gruault have problems of their own, which they share in group therapy sessions that are intended to provide mutual support. However, they become most intrigued by Carré's liaison with Benoît Poelvoorde, who poses as the martinet boss of the Chocolate Mill to keep staff Lorella Cravotta, Lise Lamétrie, Swann Arlaud and Pierre Niney on their toes. But, in fact, he is a nervous wreck who has inherited his father's panphobia and relies heavily on regular sessions with psychiatrist Stéphan Wojtowicz.

Such is Carré's timidity that she had spent the last few years making exquisite chocolate in secret for elderly mentor Claude Aufaure, who had spotted her talent despite her crippling coyness causing her to faint during a confectionery competition. However, with his recent death, Carré had been left without a job or references, even though everyone recognised that Aufaure's sweets were the finest in town. So, she applied to work at Poelvoorde's struggling factory and was appointed his new sales rep because he got so nervous during the interview that he forgot to ask her any questions that would have established that she was wholly unqualified for the post.

Nonetheless, Carré is happy to be back in the chocolate business and she throws herself into boosting orders. But the nature of her relationship with Poelvoorde keeps shifting, as he seeks to complete the simple tasks that Wojtowicz keeps setting him to increase his confidence. He invites her out to dinner, but overheats so badly through tension that he spends the entire evening shuttling to the gents to put on a new shirt from a supply stashed in a brief case. Then, when challenged to touch somebody, he becomes so embarrassed at shaking Carré's hand that he kisses her to cover his confusion.

Much to their mutual surprise, each likes the sensation and Carré goes off on her rounds kicking up her heels with happiness and singing `I Have Confidence' from The Sound of Music, as she breezes through a shopping mall having coaxed best customer Marie-Christine Demarest out of cancelling her standing order by convincing her that the company is about to launch a new range of chocolates. Carré intends making the bonbons herself, but is loathe to lose her anonymity as Aufaure's hermit chocolatier. However, an Anonymous Romantic friend rigs up a false webcam connection so she can teach the staff how to produce the new flavours using such eccentric ingredients as mint, porcini, paprika and green tea while making it seem as though she is merely a confidante of the reclusive master.

Having already surmised that love is in the air, Cravotta and Lamétrie see through the ruse. But the delighted Poelvoorde remains oblivious and accedes to Demarest's suggestion that they launch the new line at the prestigious Roanne festival. However, a mix-up at the hotel sees them booked into the same room and they take a long walk in the rain and linger over dinner to delay returning. But Poelvoorde's rendition of `Ochi Chernye' with the house band so enchants Carré that she jumps on him when he creeps back into the room after confiding his misgiving to duty clerk Jean-Yves Chatelais. But, no sooner have they made love than Carré starts planning their future together and Poelvoorde flees in panic and, by the time he rushes back to propose, she has departed in a taxi. All seems lost - until Cravotta and Lamétrie reveal Carré's true identity and coerce Poelvoorde into attending a meeting of Romantics Anonymous.

Full of smileworthy moments and the odd sentimental contrivance, this is an effortlessly enjoyable movie that makes a virtue of its frothiness. Poelvoorde reins in his instinct for broader comedy to play the tongue-tied, excessively perspiring swain with gauche gallantry, while Carré remains the epitome of mousy inhibition even when breaking into a song and dance routine in a crowded arcade. The ending may feel more than a little forced - although it's a vast improvement on co-scenarist Philippe Blasband's efforts in the execrable Irina Palm (2007) - but Pierre Adenot's jaunty score sustains the whimsical mood, while Philippe Bourgueil's meticulously timed editing ensures that a couple of the sight gags are laugh out loud funny.

Unfortunately, there are a few unintentionally amusing moments in Ghett'a Life, Chris Browne's second study of the Kingston garrisons that he exposed in his hard-hitting debut, Third World Cop (1999). With cousin Justine Henzell (whose father, Perry, directed the seminal Jamaican movie, The Harder They Fall, in 1972) and former heavyweight champion Lennox Lewis among the producers, this has impressive credentials and there's no doubting the sincerity of the plea for the reform of a political system that places too much power and influence in the hands of gang leaders. But the quality of the narrative and the performances leaves much to be desired.

Kevoy Burton is the teenage son of community activist Carl Davis, who is courting local MP Lenford Salmon in the hope of winning an upcoming election. However, he also needs to keep on the right side of neighbourhood don Chris McFarlane, who is prepared to eliminate anyone who dares oppose him, whether they belong to a rival clan or reside on his patch. Indeed, in the opening sequence, he executes a kid who has defied him and Davis proves powerless in helping the mother find her missing son.

Davis and wife Karen Robinson are grieving themselves, as their oldest boy was murdered because he was having a Romeo and Juliet-style romance with a girl affiliated to the opposition party. Thus, Burton and best buddy O'Daine Clarke try to keep out of trouble and steer clear of Kadeem Wilson, whose brother was supposedly behind the killing of Burton's sibling. However, a bouncing football brings them face to face and the ensuing fight is witnessed by Bruising Gym owner Teddy Price and his veteran trainer, Winston Bell. They are impressed with Burton's style and invite him to become a member - much to the disgust of Wilson and his posse.

Anxious to prevent his parents from discovering he is fraternising with the enemy, Burton attends training sessions in secret. But Wilson's crew refuse to have anything to do with him and it's only when he rescues one of them from drowning during a team-building exercise in the country that they finally accept him. However, in winning his first bout, Burton's deception is uncovered and the scarfaced McFarlane begins making life a misery for his entire family.

Davis is furious that his candidacy has been placed in jeopardy by Burton's misguided ambition, while McFarlane punishes him during a fund-raising contest by smearing his opponent's gloves with hot pepper juice so that he is blinded during the last round. Moreover, he orders Burton to throw his first representative bout for Jamaica against Cuba so he can skim the bookies. Terrified by the prospect of having his `lion's paw' removed by a circular saw, Burton consents to throwing the fight. But he also spots his brother's distinctive crucifix in the machinery and vows to avenge him, while an attempt on Robinson's life only keens his purpose.

Despite exposing the iniquities of the Jamaican `politricks' and ably using Bobby Bukowski's digital camera to capture the simmering atmosphere of the garrisons, Browne struggles with the pacing of an over-plotted and often wildly melodramatic story. He also stages some of the worst boxing scenes in screen history and fails to coax persuasive performances out of his younger cast members, with the exception of Lisa Williams as Bell's granddaughter and Burton's underwritten love interest. The adult players are more animated, however, with Robinson exuding maternal concern and McFarlane delivering a snarlingly vicious display, as he abuses the system with a corrupt cynicism that gives this call for national unity and an end to factional violence an unexpectedly strong resonance.

Opinion is naturally divided over the greatest concert movie ever made. Some make claims for DA Pennebaker's Monterey Pop (1968), Albert and David Maysles and Charlotte Zwerin's Gimme Shelter (1970) and Saul Swimmer's The Concert for Bangladesh (1972). But informed observers have invariably had Michael Wadleigh's epochal Woodstock (1970) pip Martin Scorsese's The Last Waltz (1978) and Jonathan Demme's Stop Making Sense (1984) for the title. However, the reissue of The Last Waltz may well see a few doubts being raised about its status, along with several reminders that this was the documentary that inspired Rob Reiner's masterly rock satire, This Is Spinal Tap (1984).

Designed to mark the end of 16 years on the road for Robbie Robertson, Rick Danko, Levon Helm, Richard Manuel and Garth Hudson, the concert held at the Winterland Ballroom in San Francisco squared a circle, as this is where The Band first played together live. All bar Hudson had started out in the late 1950s as The Hawks, backing rockabilly legend Ronnie Hawkins, and they had contemplated names like The Honkies and The Crackers before settling on The Band and accompanying Bob Dylan in the late 1960s. But the toll of constant touring soon began to tell and, while Robertson hoped the combo could continue recording in the studio, it was decided to call it a day on 25 November 1976.

Originally, The Band were scheduled to run through their greatest hits with Hawkins and Dylan putting in special appearances. But the guest list began to grow and Martin Scorsese was brought in to record the event for posterity. He replaced the 16mm portables that Robertson had envisaged with 35mm cameras and storyboarded every track to ensure the visuals complemented the lyrics of the songs. Moreover, he hired cinematographers of the calibre of Michael Chapman, Vilmos Zsigmond and László Kovács to capture the action unfolding on a stage designed by Boris Leven, who had worked on West Side Story (1961) and The Sound of Music (1965).

On the night, however, a combination of cocaine and caprice prevented Scorsese from covering each song as he had intended. Indeed, several were missed altogether and Muddy Waters's rendition of `Mannish Boy' was only caught because Kovács had removed his headphones to avoid listening to Scorsese's incessant instructions and had missed hearing him suggest a camera reload. A couple of tracks - `The Weight' with The Staple Singers and `Evangeline' with Emmylou Harris - were filmed days later on an MGM soundstage, while Scorsese recorded the infamous `Marty DiBergi' interviews in the Shangri-La Studio in Malibu, where Danko was already working on a solo album. Rumours even abound that the majority of the tracks were overdubbed to improve their quality.

Thus, The Last Waltz has more in common with Michael Lindsay-Hogg's Let It Be (1970), as a record of a group in its joyless death throes than a celebration of five friends going their separate ways with no hard feelings or regrets. No one seems to be enjoying himself and precious little emotion is displayed at playing trademark songs like `Don't Do It', `Up On Cripple Creek', `Shape I'm In', `It Makes No Difference', `Stagefright', `Old Time Religion', `The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down'', `Genetic Method/Chest Fever' and `Ophelia' for the final time. The performances are never less than slick and never descend into the abject drudgery with which poets Michael McClure and Lawrence Ferlinghetti respectively recite the Introduction to The Canterbury Tales and `Loud Prayer'. But this is hardly a valedictory gig to treasure.

The standard improves during some of the guest slots, with Eric Clapton's `Further On Up the Road', Dr. John's `Such a Night', Neil Young's `Helpless' and Paul Butterfield's `Mystery Train' standing out over Ronnie Hawkins's `Who Do You Love', Joni Mitchell's `Coyote', Van Morrison's typically shouty `Caravan' and Neil Diamond's horribly out of place `Dry Your Eyes'. But the biggest disappointment is Dylan, who seems distracted during `Forever Young' and `Baby Let Me Follow You Down' and utterly detached during the all-star version of `I Shall Be Released', which boasted Beatle Ringo Starr on drums and Rolling Stone Ronnie Wood on guitar.

It later emerged that Levon Helm objected to Scorsese's excessive focus on Robbie Robertson both on and off the stage. But he does seem more animated and his anecdotes about playing in a shabby club owned by Lee Harvey Oswald's killer Jack Ruby is topped only by the classically trained Hudson's revelation that he insisted on being paid $10 a month by his bandmates so he could tell his parents that he was working as a music teacher.

Clearly Scorsese had a masterpiece in his head when he embarked upon this project, but he was thwarted by the chaos on the night, the lacklustre performances and the problems surrounding the production of New York, New York. But, rather than being a failure as a film, this proves a compelling study in physical and psychological exhaustion and the extent to which playing music can become just another job when the magic has gone and how even a glamorous milieu like the rock`n'roll circus can seem superficial and imprisoning.

Luckily, the mood is much lighter in this week's other musical documentary. If the dark evenings are beginning to get you down, Tony Coleman's documentary Mighty Uke: The Amazing Comeback of a Musical Underdog will put a little sunshine back into your life. This joyous celebration of the ukulele will play at the Phoenix on 4 December and will be accompanied by a live performance by uke ace James Hill. Moreover, there will also be a chance for amateurs to bring along their instruments for a strum jam!

Mention the ukulele and most Brits of a certain age will think of George Formby. Others might consider George Harrison or the Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain (who rather shamefully don't merit a mention here). But few would class the uke as a chic instrument - and how wrong they would be.

Originally adapted by Hawaiian craftsmen from the cavaquinho and rajao stringed instruments introduced to the islands by Portuguese refugees from Madeira in the 19th century, the ukulele was promoted as a national symbol by King David Kalakaua, who was the last reigning monarch before Hawaii became part of the United States in 1959. However, it had already made its mark on American show business long before this. Roscoe `Fatty' Arbuckle, Ben Turpin and Buster Keaton all serenaded fair maidens with ukes in their silent slapstick comedies, while Roy `Wizard of the Strings' Smeck starred in two early sound shorts, Stringed Harmony (1923), which employed the DeForest Phonofilm sound-on-film process, and His Pastimes (1926), which utilised the Vitaphone sound-on-disc system and accompanied Warner Brothers's first feature with a recorded soundtrack, Don Juan.

Among the most famous strummers of the period was Cliff `Ukulele Ike' Edwards, who had a huge hit with `Singin' in the Rain' long before Gene Kelly crooned it while splashing through puddles on an MGM soundstage. However, the uke lost its popularity with the coming of rock`n'roll and there's a certain irony that George Harrison should have done so much to jettison the instrument out of fashion when Paul McCartney's rendition of `Something' at The Concert for George proved to key to its rehabilitation.

Coleman acknowledges the debt the current boom owes to Macca, Robert Plant and Pete Townsend, but he is more interested in the ordinary people who have taken up the ukulele in places as unlikely as France, Sweden, Israel and Japan. He marks the contribution made by pioneer teachers like Chalmers Doane, songbook compilers Jim and Liz Beloff, historian Dan Scanlon, influential ukulelist and teacher John King and enthusiasts like Andy Andrews and Tim `Nipper' Lewis, who run open-mike groups in Santa Cruz, California and Taunton in Somerset. He also offers a moment in the spotlight to Aaron Keim and The Boulder Acoustic Society, Hawaiian maestro Kimo Hussey, singer-songwriters Uni and Her Ukulele (aka Heather Marie Ellison) and Dent May & His Magnificent Ukulele and ukulele hip hop rebel Jon Braman.

However, the most magical moments are provided by virtuoso Jake Shimabukuro, who is the uke equivalent to Andrés Segovia or Django Reinhardt, the dynamic duo of James Hill and Anne Davison and the Langley Ukulele Ensemble led by teacher Peter Luongo, whose interpretations of classical, popular and traditional Hawaiian songs - whether performed in school concerts or during a two-week summer residency at a Honolulu hotel - have to be heard (and in the case of `Tico Tico' seen) to be believed.

Neatly slipping between archive footage and still photographs, Coleman tells his tale with admirable efficiency. But the focus is always on the music and the joy derived from it by everyone featured in a film that is bound to tempt more than a few into a making an impulse purchase.