Pride

A sensitive coming-of-age tale; an astute commentary on the politics of the 80s; and a newly Welsh Imelda Staunton brandishing a dildo -- how could this be anything other than brilliant? Pride is raucously funny and unapologetically camp, yet its humour is always firmly couched in a respect for its subject matter: the shared struggle of mining communities and gay rights activists in a decade of social and economic upheaval.

Things begin in Croydon, where the frustrated, outspoken Mark Ashton (Ben Schnetzer) is looking for a cause to back. The plight of the miners provides the perfect opportunity for demonstrative action. And so, the succinctly named Lesbians and Gays Support the Miners (LGSM) is born -- a group which includes the still closeted Joe (George MacKay) and a wonderfully bleached Dominic West as Jonathan, an ageing thesp. Inevitably, tension and hilarity ensue when they shack up with their reluctant comrades in a tiny mining village in South Wales.

Where this film really succeeds is in capturing the intense social web that exists in such small, rural places. Power is wielded by those who have survived it the longest -- in this case, a wonderfully eccentric best-of-British lineup including Staunton, as the inimitable Hefina, and Bill Nighy as the modestly tortured Cliff. When LGSM arrive, friction blisters between the opposing factions, although the demarcations are not always clear. 

Pride doesn't exactly go in for gritty realism. There are several references to the deeply ugly, often violent effects of homophobia, but any examination of prejudicial structures is fairly light. Matthew Warchus is keen to keep his film in the crowd-pleasing realm of sex toys and 80s disco. And there is nothing wrong with that. There is some truly touching evidence of human empathy amongst the gags (in both senses), and moments of comic levity are often balanced by an awareness of the hysteria surrounding homosexuality, which found its focus in the AIDS crisis. 

This is a film of fiery divisions and unexpected unions. It works because it plays to its strengths, namely a brilliant cast and a razor-sharp script. All jokes aside, the song of protest at its core is one inscribed on British social history, and here it is given a worthy rendition.

Lucy

Nobody makes an action thriller quite like Luc Besson. It's been twenty years since the French director's cult classic Leon: The Professional, and he is very much back to his old tricks with Lucy, a frequently entertaining, often bizarre mashup of suspect science and gangster politics. Led by Scarlett Johansson, riding her post-Under the Skin wave of edgy appeal, this foray into the world of brain-altering narcotics is consistently ridiculous, and all the better for it.

The premise is this: Johansson's Lucy is led astray whilst studying in Taipei and finds herself the involuntary carrier of a new drug, CPH4, which, we are assured, all the kids in Europe are going to love. Somehow, its inventors have failed to realise that their creation will allow consumers to unlock their full brain capacity. We are told (by none other than Morgan Freeman, so it must be true) that most humans use only 20% of the cerebral function available to them. Unsurprisingly, when Lucy accidentally ingests large quantities of CPH4, things start to go awry.

What is surprising, however, is just how awry they go. Apparently, a person with this kind of brain function is capable of such feats as levitation, mind-control, and, finally, time-travel. And so begins Lucy's bloody rampage from the far East to Paris, where she plans to meet with Freeman's learned scientist to tell him the secrets of the universe. On the way, she pulls a bullet out of her own chest and starts to melt after drinking champagne. We've all been there.

What saves Lucy from being unbearably silly is Besson's awareness of just how far he is straining credulity. Everything is performed as if on speed -- the violence is stupidly gory and, crucially, the scientific discussions are usually interrupted by somebody pulling out a gun. Just when you think it can't get any more absurd, Besson brings out the dinosaurs. There are also some wonderfully tasteless montages designed to hammer home the metaphors. As Lucy looks warily at the obviously dodgy group of thugs in black suits, we cut to an antelope eyeing a pack of lions. Deep stuff.

In spite (and possibly because) of its flaws, it is very difficult not to enjoy Lucy. Johansson leads the film effortlessly, even when her apparently unbearable new consciousness leads her to look like she's constantly suppressing a bout of hiccups. Given the joy Besson takes in draining the film of any emotional or philosophical integrity, it is a brilliant move to go all 2001 on us at the end. He might be making a point about the universe's immense unknowability, with Lucy at its heart as a HAL-like cipher. Or maybe he just ran out of fake blood.

Two Days, One Night

The quiet precision of the title is telling: this is a film about the subtle measurements of the everyday. With Two Days, One Night, the Dardenne brothers have accomplished the difficult task of making the resolutely ordinary totally compelling. This is in large part thanks to Marion Cotillard's perfectly judged performance as Sandra, an employee at a solar panel factory who finds herself fighting for her job in the aftermath of a nervous breakdown. Hers is the kind of suffering that so often goes  untreated and undocumented, but here its repercussions are brought into sharp focus.

Sandra's period of depression has left her visibly drained -- Cotillard's usual glamour is replaced by dark circles, hollow cheeks, and messily assembled hair. Her whole way of moving is reluctant and pained, making the weekend's demands all the more excruciating. In order to save her job, she must visit each of her co-workers and ask them to vote that she be allowed to stay, sacrificing their bonus in the process.

In the wake of the world's recent economic catastrophes, this reads like a relatively minor dilemma: one woman's job or €1000? But the Dardennes are keenly aware of the moral and practical agonies this very real question can raise. As we follow Sandra from one house to the next, a picture of a shared struggle gradually begins to emerge. Her colleagues' dramatically varied responses -- from violent rejection to tearful support -- reveal a whole scale of ethical ambiguity within a small group of people. The film's unhurried pace creates the impression that each scene, regardless of its significance or intensity, is just part of life's daily dose of victory and loss.

This could lead to accusations of drudgery, and I would be lying if I said there weren't a couple of people fidgeting in their seats. But there were far more entranced by this picture of one woman's effort to hold on to both her job and her integrity. There is a lot at stake for Sandra, and for her family, particularly her husband Manu (Fabrizio Rongione). Their relationship is fraught with pressures like so many -- there are no explosive fights, only one bitter suggestion that they might separate, casually delivered by Sandra. The absence of any melodrama makes these discordant notes all the more powerful.

Although the focus of Sandra's canvassing, Monday morning's vote at the factory is not any great climax. The Dardennes are not interested in big scenes or hysterical set-pieces; their concern is with the human gestures that frame such moments. Glimpses of empathy, humility, and self-sacrifice are the touchstones of this piece, and the story at its core is one that lingers.