W.E.

As much as I love both Andrea Riseborough and Oscar Isaac, despite their best efforts they simply cannot save this melodramatic mess from a naff script and Madonna’s appalling direction. 

Les Misérables

Or, Three Minutes of Anne Hathaway Awesomeness Surrounded by Three Hours of Overwrought Rubbish. Why does everyone sound like the cast of Oliver! when they’re supposed to be French? Why is that one bloke having a sing-song while he beats a prostitute half to death? Must we deepthroat Eddie Redmayne with the camera while he sings? Maybe the answers to these questions were crammed into the fifteen minutes of the film that I napped through. 

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