A family of nomadic shepherds in the Gobi Desert assist the birth of a rare white camel colt, buts its mother rejects it. The Mongolians send envoys in search of a magical musician to make things right. So far, so Bambl. What raises this is the direction, which shows the nomad boys coveting miracles like batteries, TV and video games without patronising their time-honoured mores.

Engrossing, gritty, Shane Meadows-style debut from Chris Cooke, wherein three boozehounds on a rehab course scheme to scam portly tycoon Hywel Bennett. The lo-fi camerawork's iffy, but after starting slowly it tightens like a vice as cocktails, weed and violence kick in. Well written and acted, and surely the only film to argue that Jean-Michel Jarre's comeback gig was better than Glastonbury.

The second of George Romero's classic zombie trilogy, from 1978. This time the blood and guts were in full colour, the make-up and effects more inventive. Much of the action takes place in a shopping mall filled with zombies lurching mindlessly around?not the subtlest of satires on consumerism, but still highly effective, and as slyly funny as it is gory.

John Woo's 1992 cop thriller was his last Hong Kong movie, and it's a self-conscious career peak. Chow Yun-Fat packs an arsenal that would shame the Pentagon as a cop called Tequila; Tony Leung rehearses for Infernal Affairs as his undercover mob contact. The original HK title translates as"Hot-Handed God Of Cops", which is about right.

Compiled, it seems, by lucky dip, but Stage Fright, I Confess, Dial M For Murder, The Wrong Man and North By Northwest all explain why he's still The Master. The centrepiece, though, is a special-edition Strangers On A Train (also available separately).

It's 1988 and rising features writer at New Republic magazine Stephen Glass has charm, style, modesty and good looks. Trouble is, his reportage is pure fiction. Billy Ray's film, based on a true story, juxtaposes two fine performances from Hayden Christensen, who plays Glass as a passive-aggressive manipulator, and Peter Sarsgaard as his editor Chuck Lane.

Provocatively, one of the most eloquent feminist film-makers extant is an Iranian muslim, Samira Makhmalbaf. Her latest entrancing— and most expansive—movie is set in the rubble of Kabul, where a young woman dreams of becoming Afghanistan's first female president. Men—Taliban mullahs and foreign invaders—have ruined this country, is her subtext, but Makhmalbaf is too artful to be merely polemical.

In remotest Russia, a father suddenly returns to the wife and sons he left 12 years earlier, and takes the two boys into the barren countryside on a fishing trip. Whether you read it as psychological thriller or allegory on human existence, Andrei Zvyagintsev's devastating directorial debut has established itself as a modern classic. This elegant film is charged with mystery, and dread that descends like fog.

John Frankenheimer's ruthlessly constructed, hugely entertaining actioner is essentially three stand-out car chases (Paris by night, Nice, and Paris by day) surrounded by a heist movie, a silver McGuffin suitcase, a sassy Provo pin-up (Natascha McElhone), an ex-CIA hitman (De Niro), the Russian Mafia, Sinn Fein and the Northern Ireland Peace Process. Naturally.

Kerry has a long face. At the time of writing Bush leads in the polls by 10 per cent. Despite everything. If only the volatile, human Howard Dean hadn't scared the Democrats into playing safe. Moore's documentary mostly doesn't, but if it can't swing the election, history might deem it a failure, a rebel yell forgotten at daybreak. We live in interesting times, which sucks. Considering all the Vietnam literature/cinema, Moore isn't doing anything new. He's doing necessary protest for the 21st century. He manipulates our emotions brilliantly, and is certainly a force for good.