Parky at the Pictures (In Cinemas 22/3/2012)

Eleven year-old Thomas Doret is convinced that father Jérémier Renier would never abandon him and escapes from his foster home to return to the housing estate where he used to live. Distraught at finding no one home and his beloved bicycle gone, Doret tries to give social workers the slip by rushing into a nearby doctor's surgery and pleading with hairdresser Cécile de France to protect him. She reluctantly lets him go and he is taken to the empty apartment to see for himself that Renier has absconded and that submitting to council care is now Doret's best option.

De France is deeply moved by the boy's plight and, next day, she brings him his bike. She tells him she bought it from a man on a nearby estate, but Doret is convinced it must have been stolen because his dad knew how much it meant to him. He is touched by De France's concern, however, and asks if she will look after him at weekends and she agrees without fully realising what she has let herself in for.

Stung by the discovery of an advert for his bike in the local paper, Doret becomes keener than ever to track Renier down and De France decides to accompany him to the restaurant where Renier is attempting to make a fresh start. Unsurprisingly, he is anything but pleased to see his son and orders him to stay away, as he wants nothing more to do with him. De France tries to console Doret. But, having alienated her boyfriend, he shrugs off her sympathy and drifts into the orbit of Egon Di Mateo, a shifty gang leader, who recruits kids because they are easy to control. However, Doret's first attempt at a robbery is somewhat botched and Di Mateo is so sure than news vendor Fabrizio Rongione will recognise Doret and incriminate him that he orders him to keep the cash and make himself scarce.

Hoping the money will bring him closer to Renier, Doret offers him the ill-gotten gains and is surprised when they are rejected. Confused and hurt, he seeks out De France, who manages to convince Rongione to accept his cash back along with Doret's apology. But the kiosk owner's son is less forgiving and he vows to mete out his own brand of justice when he bumps into Doret on the street.

Originally conceived as a modern-day folk fable, with De France acting as a kind of fairy godmother, this is markedly closer in tone to the kind of neo-realism perfected by Vittorio De Sica in Shoeshine (1946) and Bicycle Thieves (1948) than the harsher style developed by Ken Loach in Kes (1969) and subsequently made even more uncompromisingly gritty by Lynne Ramsay in Ratcatcher (1999) and Andrea Arnold in Fish Tank (2009). Making rare use of music (in the form of Beethoven's `Emperor Concerto'), the Dardennes even allow themselves a little self-reflexivity in contrasting Doret's prickly tweenager with the character played by Renier in La Promesse. Even Alain Marcoen's summery cinematography errs more towards lustre than edginess, while the presence of Cécile De France on her return to Europe after featuring in Clint Eastwood's Hereafter (2010) suggests commercial concession as much as acute casting.

This is not to say that the Namur-born De France is anything less than superb, with her scenes with the remarkable Thomas Doret. being genuinely touching, as she reaches out to offer the solace he so desperately needs and that she, in turn, yearns to give in order to shore up the holes in her own life. But the Dardennes seem to lose faith in the potency of this relationship and drift towards melodrama by letting Doret fall in with such an obviously predatory lowlife as Di Mateo and the bids to buy Renier's affection and Rongione's forgiveness feel conspicuously designed to tug on the heartstrings rather than provoke moral outrage.

Edited, as usual, by Marie-Hélène Dozo with a keen sense of the rhythms of the daily grind, this is a solid outing by master film-makers. But it feels deficient in the compassion that has become a Dardenne trademark. Moreover, it lacks the caustic wit that makes actor Dexter Fletcher's directorial bow Wild Bill more engaging and empathetic, despite it tendency to lean a little too heavily on threadbare plot devices and its surfeit of distracting cameos and thinly sketched minor characters.

Released from a stretch in Parkhurst, Charlie Creed-Miles ventures back to the East End of London to check up on his family before heading to Scotland for a new life on the oil rigs. Regarded as something of a hothead in his prime, Creed-Miles seems to have been tamed by his prison experience and he intends steering well clear of old mucker Leo Gregory and his sidekicks Neil Maskell and Mark Monero. However, he can't resist visiting his favourite boozer and finds himself being presented with prostitute Liz White as a `welcome home' before being left the worse for wear at his high-rise flat in the middle of the night.

Fifteen year-old son Will Poulter is less than delighted to see him, even though he has spent the last nine months labouring on the velodrome at the nearby Olympic site since his mother ran off to Spain with her boyfriend. However, 11 year-old Sammy Williams is intrigued by the father he barely knows and is glad to have his support when he gets quizzed at the school gates about his persistent truanting. But, when Creed-Miles lets slip to parole officer Olivia Williams that he intends leaving the boys behind, social workers Jason Flemyng and Jaime Winstone descend on the flat and warn him that the pair will be taken into care unless he makes a firm commitment to parenting.

Striking a deal with the resentful Poulter to hang around long enough to get the authorities off their backs, Creed-Miles is warned off lapsing into crime by copper Sean Pertwee and gets mocked by Gregory and his oppos when he lands a job as a sign holder on the high street. He also received a friendly warning from old boss Andy Serkis (who let him take the rap for the death of Gregory's brother) to keep out of his hair. However, their paths are soon to cross, as Williams has been recruited as a pusher by Iwan Rheon, a minor dealer on Gregory's payroll, who has fathered a child with Charlotte Spencer, the trainee hairdresser on whom Poulter has a crush.

Given that Fletcher appeared in both Guy Ritchie's Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels (1998) and Matthew Vaughan's Layer Cake (2004), it's only to be expected that this amiable saga should tap into their mockney ethos. Indeed, the picture is least convincing when attempting fotofitted BritCrime sequences like the ludicrous barroom brawl finale. But, while there are few surprises and a surplus of clichés and stereotypes in the screenplay Fletcher that co-wrote with Danny King and Tim Cole, it also has more than its share of slick one-liners and reveals a narrative confidence that suggests the former child star paid close attention while collaborating with such luminaries as David Lynch, Derek Jarman, Ken Russell and Mike Leigh.

He allows Poulter to confuse volume with intensity on occasion and lets Rheon and Serkis get away with lazy caricatures. Moreover, unlike the Dardennes, Fletcher not only contrives for Creed-Miles to turn over a new leaf, but also to find romance with a golden-hearted woman who is desperate to settle down with a ready-made family. Yet, the scene in which the newly minted quintet share a Chinese takeaway is unaffectedly touching, as is the speech in which Creed-Miles convinces Williams that there is nothing glamorous about a life of crime. Indeed, there is plenty here to suggest that Fletcher will make a decent director. His sense of place is particularly acute and he has a good ear for dialogue. He just needs to offer fewer of his mates walk-ons and be less daunted at the prospect of ditching the breezy laddishness and tackling something genuinely gritty.

Andrei Smirnov is at the other end of his career, but Once Upon a Time There Lived a Simple Woman feels like a second debut, as it is over 30 years since the Russian veteran last released a feature. Despite being acclaimed for pictures like Angel (1967), Belarussian Station (1970) and Autumn (1974), Smirnov has most recently been feted for his acting performance in Andrei Zvyagintsev's Elena, which is due for release in this country later in the year. However, no longer feeling constricted by the state censorship that had so bowdlerised Faith and Fidelity (1979), he returns behind the camera for this epic and often angry account of how one peasant woman managed to survive the vicissitudes of the Russian revolutionary era between 1909-23.

Darya Yakamasova lives in the Tambov region of Imperial Russia. Life is hard and, following long hours of back-breaking work in the fields, she has to endure the drunken bestiality of husband Vlad Abashin, whom she was forced to marry. Her in-laws are equally abusive and expect her to fetch and carry for them at all hours of the day and night. But, when she tries to defend herself against her lustful father-in-law, she accidentally pushes him against a rock and she has to flee with Abashin when he dies.

Despite the birth of a daughter and the chance to start again on a new estate, things scarcely improve for Yakamasova and she is separated from Abashin when the Great War breaks out in 1914. Driven from home by the chaos caused by advancing and retreating armies, she finally returns to her shack. But the brutality of the Tsarist forces is nothing compared to the lawless cruelty of the Bolsheviks and Yakamasova is subjected to repeated rapes and beatings as the battle for supremacy between the Reds and the Whites ebbs and flows during the ensuing civil war. Finally, Yakamasova thinks she has found a protector in Alexei Serebryakov. But he is executed for counter-revolutionary crimes during the 1920-21 Tambov Rebellion and she is left alone to face the deluge that submerges her village (like the legendary city of Kitezh) and with it the spirit of the true Russian people.

The product of nearly a quarter of a century of intense research and filmed on location by a cast that not only had to acclimatise itself to period living conditions, but also had to master the local Mordva-Moksha dialect, this is a hugely ambitious picture. It has caused considerably controversy in Russia for the fact that proclaims on-screen thanks to such oligarchs as Roman Abramovich, Viktor Vekselberg and Anatoli Chubais, as well as such government ideologues and ministers as Vladislav Surkov, Anatoli Serdyukov and Vladimir Yakima. However, it has also been compared to Exodus, the 2010 sequel to Nikita Mikhalkov's Oscar-winning Burnt By the Sun (1994), which was condemned in many quarters for being Putinesque propaganda.

There's no denying the ferocity of Smirnov's hatred for Lenin and his regime or for the manner in which history has masked the atrocities perpetrated by the Poor Peasants Committees, which were established to sew discord in the countryside and turn the uneducated against each other and the clerics who filled their heads with the religious teaching the Bolsheviks despised as superstitious nonsense. Determined to expose the perfidy of the Tambov uprising, Smirnov stages some imposing set pieces, with the aid of production designer Vladimir Gudilin, costumier Lydmila Gainceva, cinematographers Nikolai Ivasiv and Yuri Shaygardanov, and editor Alla Urazbaeva. But the endless miseries heaped upon Yakamasova eventually leave the viewer emotionally exhausted and detract from the wider significance of the ruinous grain levies imposed by Moscow and the wilful desecration of the Orthodox churches. Moreover, the characterisation is often as subtle as an Eisensteinian typage tirade and it is sometimes difficult to tell whether Smirnov is blaming Bolshevism or the Russian psyche for the capability of unleashing such hideous genocidal barbarity.

Finally, The Barbican in London must be hoping that The Artist dividend pays off in the form of increased attendances at its monthly silent screenings. However, one of the things that Michel Hazanavicius's Oscar winner has proved is that image should be paramount, particularly in a film without dialogue. Those attending the rare showing of Jean Mihail's Manasse (1925) might wish that this landmark Romanian feature had paid heed to this lesson, as the surfeit of intertitles and statically photographed proscenium sequences will make this heavy going for those with deficient linguistic skills. Let's hope that the atmospheric score produced by Minima will be accompanied by a live narrator, as this is an important film.

When Moise Ronetti-Roman premiered his new play in Iasi and Bucharest in 1901, it was denounced by nationalist for its outspoken discussion of the treatment of Jews in Christian states. Moreover, anti-semitic groups called for the work to be outlawed and, long after its first performance, it could still provoke street demonstrations and was the subject of several court injunctions before it was eventually banned because `the guardians of Romania's spirit could not see a play written by a Jew as part of the national dramatic literature'.

Yet, while Manasse was attacked for its political trenchancy, it proved a considerable inspiration to a new generation of Jewish writers and intellectuals for its strident views on integration into Mitteleuropean societies. It was, therefore, a bold film for Jean Mihail to tackle, especially as he had only made his debut the previous year with Pity.

The action opens in the Moldavian town of Falticeni, where conservative Jew Manasse Cohen (Ronald Bulfinski) is devastated by the loss of his wife. A message is sent to his son Nisim (Pepe Georgescu) in Bucharest and he sets out immediately with wife Esther (Maria Ciucurescu) and arrives at the snow-covered cemetery just as the mourners are leaving.

Back in the capital, the Cohens are happy to play host to lawyer Matei Frunza and his sister Natalia (Vichy Lazarowska), who have become firm friends with their children, Lazar (Al Finti) and Lelia (Dorina Demetrescu). However, Manasse has been fretting about his family since the funeral and he arrives in Bucharest with matchmaker Zelig Sor (Iosef Kamen), with the aim of finding Lelia a suitable husband.

Unbeknown to the family, Lelia has started taking walks in the park with Matei and is distraught when her father insists she is introduced to the wealthy, but much older Emil Horn (Ion Constantiniu). Lazar sympathises with her, as he shares his businessman father's disregard for insular traditions and thinks that people of all races and creeds should get along. But his efforts to talk to Nisim fall on deaf ears, as he is scared of offending his father and the date for the wedding is set.

As the guests arrive, in an impressive variety of motor cars, hansom cabs and decorated carts, Lelia takes the opportunity to run away and seeks sanctuary with Matei. The news is broken to the assembly, who take great pleasure in the Cohens' humiliation and begin gossiping about possible reasons for the ceremony being postponed. Eventually, Lelia is tracked down to the Frunza residence and Manasse delivers a damning speech about the persecution of the Jewish people by Christians whose cruelty and exploitation betray the principles of their own faith.

The story ends with Manasse collapsing in the arms of Sor, who seems more concerned with the loss of his fee than the old man's heartfelt words. But, while Sor may be presented in a regrettably stereotypical manner, Mihail laudably attempts to maintain a balance between the staunch orthodoxy of Manasse and the liberalism of his son's household. Moreover, he seems as interested in the growing gap between the generations and the clashing contrasts between metropolitan and provincial dwellers than religion per se. However, it's easy to see why Ronetti-Roman's ideas proved so combustible and they become even more intriguing within the context of what was to happen in this part of the continent over the next two decades.

Purely on cinematic terms, however, the film is somewhat disappointing. Too many scenes take place on what is essentially a stage set and they are primarily photographed in medium shot from the middle of the auditorium. Mihail employs a few close-ups as the drama intensifies, but its only when he Vasile Gociu's camera into the open that the film comes alive. The procession to the cemetery, the car ride through the bustling city streets, the park stroll, the train station reunions and the desperate search for the missing bride all add impetus to the story and capture something of the flavour of mid-20s Romania.

Born in 1896, Mihail continued working until six years before his death in 1963. He made 23 films in all, with his most significant credits being The Marriage Proposal (1926), Lia (1927), Burden (1929) and the talkie, Golden (1931). But Manasse remains his most enduring achievement.