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.

Like Seinfeld and The Larry Sanders Show before it, the hilarious, misanthropic mayhem of Larry David's CYE has been lamentably treated by UK TV schedulers, clearly unused to programming such unfettered genius. All the more reason to recommend this five-hour festival of mordant mirth, in whose presence humbled awe is the only appropriate response.

IN 1981, IN MILPITAS, California, a 16-year-old boy raped and murdered his girlfriend. Over the next few days, he took friends on trips to see her corpse, left lying by the riverbank.

Highly entertaining Stephen King adaptation, stylishly directed by David Koepp, with a mesmerising Johnny Depp as a best-selling mystery writer in the throes of a messy divorce who's accused of plagiarism—and threatened with unpleasant retribution—by sinister hillbilly John Turturro. Cue havoc on all fronts, and bodies piling up very quickly indeed. Splendid.

112 minutes of Robert Altman's floaty, wispy ambient eavesdropping in the company of Chicago's Joffrey Ballet, with producer/star Neve Campbell drifting into dance numbers, performing a few grands jetes, drifting out again, snogging non-dancing co-star James Franco, then it's back to the real troupe, dancing, rehearsing, then dancing again. A test for even the most ardent Altman fan.

While the US administration portray. Iran as hostile to culture and dissent, Samira Makhmalbaf's films suggest otherwise. Her 1997 debut, made when she was 17, tells the story of the Naderi family (played by themselves), whose daughters were kept unwashed and imprisoned until they were 12. Simple, painterly, weirdly engaging, it subtly reveals that excessive faith and the repression of women are outmoded concepts even in that 'axis-of-evil' capital Tehran.

A 1986 John Hughes charmer which has acquired, over the years, near-legendary status for accidentally pre-empting the "slacker" (lack of) movement. Matthew Broderick and his Chicago buddies play truant, but through quick wits get the wheels and the girls—wish fulfilment for the pre-Nirvana generation. Crisp fun for those who found Pretty In Pink a little too dark and troubling.

Muddled, witless look at the notorious 1981 murders on LA's Wonderland Avenue, with an unconvincing Val Kilmer as faded porn star John Holmes, in over his coke-addled head in drug scams and violence. A pale cousin of Boogie Nights, its attempted narrative/ editing tricks flop badly. Kate Bosworth and Lisa Kudrow weep, and there's a scorching soundtrack (lggy, Patti, T.Rex). But kindness to the living exacerbates the mess.

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.

Although panned on its 1967 release, Roman Polanski's third English-language movie, a horror comedy, is a delightful oddity. There's a dream-like, gothic quality to it as Prof Abronsius (Jack MacGowran) and assistant Alfred (Polanski) root out a nest of the undead in wintry Transylvania. The climactic Vampire's Ball is strikingly mounted, and it's easy to see how Polanski fell for leading lady Sharon Tate.