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William H Macy and Oscar-nominated Alec Baldwin are exceptional in this downbeat Vegas-set drama from first-time writer-director Wayne Kramer. Hardly anyone does pent-up malice better than Baldwin, and he's particularly combustible here as an old-school casino boss under pressure to modernise his operation, who turns somewhat unreasonable when Macy tries to walk out on him.

PERFORMANCE

Sam Phillips, Joe Esposito and The Crickets lend authority to a doc that includes early footage and snippets of Elvis interviews, although none of his music. Glen Campbell and Kenny Rogers recall The King's growing isolation and Tom Jones reminisces about Vegas, although the cheese-burger era's largely ignored.

This deeply schizophrenic teen vampire movie classic from Joel Schumacher has dark ambitions, not least in its child-murder subtext and blood-red lighting hues from Raging Bull cinematographer Michael Chapman. But too often it's railroaded by Schumacher's baser window-dresser's instincts, and ends up like a goth Goonies on acid.

Barely six months after the demise of Theatre Of Hate, Kirk Brandon was braving it on stage in Manchester in March 1983 with a new band, name and repertoire. That his audience look mighty perplexed by SOD's brassier tribal goth-dub makes his fearless performance, caught here, even more compelling.

Footage of the stern old art-rockers in their pomp is hideously rare. Wire On The Box counteracts this, a full-length show recorded for German TV before a few dozen polite hippies. The tension is delicious, the music (mainly from 154) fantastic. Best of all, there's the mystique-smashing vision of the young band: gawky, self-conscious, striving cutely for the froideur that only age would bring them.

Charlize Theron earns her Oscar as confused Florida serial killer Aileen Wuornos, not just for looking less attractive but because, after 20 minutes, you forget she's even a woman. So macho is her white-trash lesbian aggressor that you believe Christina Ricci is 'her' arm candy. Both excel as fuck-ups, and Patty Jenkins' script and direction are grim and gristly. Superb.

The duo's 1994 take on Unplugged, which involved recording new material in Morocco and rearranging old Zep songs with Middle Eastern flavours and musicians, was a brave but preposterous conceit. Filmed in a Welsh valley, in a slate quarry and cross-legged with locals in Marrakesh, they're only really credible and incredible in their natural environment—a stage.

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