Anyone who says the opening to The Deer Hunter is too long or that it’s boring is, quite frankly, an idiot. The opening, aside from being an amazing piece of cinema, is what makes us care so deeply about the characters. If it were shorter it would lessen the impact of the final scenes.

The most important part of the beginning is to get a flavour of where these characters live, their home, because that’s what the film is really about. It’s not really about the Vietnam War. It’s about what happens when your home is taken away from you – the characters could be involved in any conflict.

And the opening scenes work tremendously well in painting a portrait of how and where these characters live. They’re ordinary, blue-collar guys, and like most of those guys they get drunk and take the piss out of each other. They’re also cocky and are reluctant to express their emotions. However, in one little moment, Nicky (Christopher Walken) tells Mike (Robert De Niro) how much he likes the trees in the mountains when they go hunting. He can’t express himself properly, either because he doesn’t want to lay himself bare or because he’s incapable of doing so, but you know that behind all the bullshit he loves the place where he lives and he loves the people around him.

But of course, Nicky expresses these sentiments more directly later on in a scene after the wedding. He tells Mike that he loves his hometown and that he doesn’t want to be left in Vietnam – if something goes wrong, he wants Mike to bring him back. Of course, these words are spoken in a drunken haze, but that’s the only way these characters can relate – as is the case with a lot of men, it is only alcohol that lowers the defences.

And there’s a beautiful scene after the wedding where all the guys retreat to a bar. They joke around and they drink, and then one of the characters begins playing the piano. Slowly you see each person in turn and you feel like they finally understand what might be about to happen. Before this they’re full of heroic delusions and toasts are made to the guys who are going to be fighting, but with the music the enormity of the situation seems to slowly dawn upon them. They don’t have the vocabulary to accurately voice their fears, but the music seems to do it for them.

Another criticism that’s levelled at The Deer Hunter is that there’s no evidence that prisoners of war were made to play Russian Roulette. Quite frankly, who cares? Whether you want to argue that the games are a metaphor for the randomness of war or whether they’re a microcosm of the Vietnam conflict, all that matters is that in a dramatic context, they work. And they work like gangbusters. Few scenes make me as angry or get me as worked up as those that happen in this film. With every game and with every person that’s killed, Cimino winds you up tighter. You’ve seen these guys get drunk, you’ve laughed at their jokes and now you’re watching them get killed.

One of the most upsetting moments in the film is when Steven (the character who gets married at the beginning) shoots himself in the head in a game with Mike. The poor kid cries as his captors laugh at him (his wound his non fatal) and Mike can only impotently say that he showed those bastards what he was made of.

But although some people moan that the Russian Roulette is exploitative or that it goes for cheap emotion, I think it’s a more dramatic way of showing the horrors of conflict. And at least it’s something different – at least Cimino doesn’t go for the standard war film clichés. And I guess you could argue that the scenes show the way that people and countries shoot themselves in the head by indulging in such pointless conflicts.

One of the scenes, though, that gets to me the most occurs in a Veteran’s hospital. Nicky, having survived the ordeal, looks down upon all the body bags and then has to suffer lots of pointless questions made by some bureaucrat. They’re simple questions, like ‘what’s your name?’ and ‘where do you come from?’, but after a while Nicky can no longer answer them. He’s reduced to tears. In light of all he’s been through the questions seem so pointless – his home has been taken away from him; after all he’s been through he can’t go back.

But although Nicky can’t go home, Mike does make the return trip. And of course, for him, everything has changed. And he can’t even face seeing his friends – they try and hold a welcome back party for him. But instead he drives by and heads for a cheap hotel. And here we have a wonderful little scene with Mike stuck in a lousy room. He’s constantly fidgeting, unable to get any rest, and from his wallet he takes a picture of Linda (Meryl Streep), the girl that both he and Nicky are in love with. You feel by looking at this picture Mike is trying to reclaim his home. He’s trying to get his old life back. But of course, it’s pointless. Those people he loves and who stayed at home don’t truly understand what he went through and those he fought and suffered with have been changed by the war – they’re no longer the same friends that he danced and got drunk with.

But it’s to Mike’s credit that despite everything he stays true to his promise. He tries to bring everyone home; he tries to put all the pieces back together. But as Steven says (now stuck in a wheelchair), he doesn’t fit anymore. And so therefore Mike’s mission to bring Nicky back is pointless – the man is too far gone. But at the same time, it’s essential. It’s essential for Mike and the rest of the community to have a definitive resolution. They need to be able to move on. And although Nicky may have lost sight of home, you feel like slowly Mike and Steve will reclaim what was once theirs.

M. Night Shyamalan is such a frustrating director. Here’s a man with a few of the skills necessary to be an exceptional filmmaker – he has a good eye, an ability to create mood and he usually comes up with interesting concepts – but he keeps pissing it away on pieces of crap. He just can’t seem to shake off The Sixth Sense – he goes to the well over and over and over again.

But what makes it even worse is Shyamalan’s inflated self-opinion. He really does think he’s making works of art rather than disposable fluff. He really does thinks he’s an auteur rather than a hack. He really does think he’s some sort of magician rather than a con artist. There really is nothing to his films. All he can do is try and attempt to pull the wool over your eyes.

Now I guess someone could look at The Village and say its some sort of comment on modern society – look at the way these people have isolated themselves and tried to revert back to a simpler way of life. Or they could argue that it’s a typical post 9/11 work. Those We Don’t Speak Of (the monsters who surround the woods) could represent a raised fear of outsiders. This is a community that fears it’s under constant threat of attack. But all of this would be to give Shyamalan far too much credit. He simply wants to try and give us a few scares and shout, Robot Chicken-like, ‘What a twist!’

I guess he also wants to pull our heartstrings, but the love story here is laboured and unconvincing. We have a blind girl (Bryce Dallas Howard – who actually is rather good) falling in love with Joaquin Phoenix (who seems to be comatose). But not only do they have little chemistry, but Phoenix is stabbed halfway through the film by a ridiculous retard (played by Adrien Brody), meaning that it’s almost impossible to invest in their relationship.

Having said this, the couple do get one enjoyable moment. There’s a scene early on where Those We Don’t Speak Of attack the village. Ivy (Howard) stands in the doorway, holding out her hand for Lucius (Phoenix). For an agonising amount of time her hand remains empty, and the monster outside is getting closer, but at the last moment Lucius appears and takes her to safety. It’s all shot in slow-motion and it has a poetry to it that the rest of the film sorely lacks. If only Shaymalan could create moments like this more consistently.

But when you think about it the film basically revolves around a resentful half-wit. Here we have a guy who has the hots for Ivy, but because he can’t have her, tries to kill her beau instead. So then Ivy has to scramble through the woods to find medicine for her love. And apart from the crap twist, that’s it. Therefore I think The Village should be retitled When a Retard Loves a Woman. It’s an instruction on not to let horny half-wits try and fall in love with you – the film shows us that the consequences are disastrous.

But such is Shaymalan’s pomposity that he tries to turn the half-wit’s demise into a tragedy. You see, after we’re told that the village is actually set in the here and now and that Those We Don’t Speak Of are really men in suits, the imbecile, seemingly by magic or lacklustre writing, appropriates one of these suits and follows Ivy into the woods. He terrifies her a little bit but the cunning lass leads him into a trap and kills him. In his final shot we see him lying broken on the floor, his face revealed and his body still covered by the costume. Shaymalan obviously wants to show us that he’s become half man half beast – look at how the horn has corrupted this poor imbecile – and asks us to feel pity, but I couldn’t care less. The moron got what he deserved.

However, I must point out that the village idiot is actually present in one the film’s other good scenes. The moment when he stabs Lucius is well filmed. I like the way the camera creeps up on Lucius as his back is turned to the moron. You know something is going to happen and you’re expecting a typical Shaymalan cheap shot. But instead there’s no attempt to make you jump. Simply the next thing you know Lucius has a knife in his belly. And it’s a bit of a surprise, when Lucius falls to the floor, that the idiot continues stabbing him. It’s quite brutal for a PG-13.

But although this is quite well done, everything else is poorly handled. The twist, for instance, comes far too early and lands with a dull thud. Plus, to find out that Those We Don’t Speak Of are men in suits at such an early juncture renders the final third without tension. Of course, Shaymalan tries to suggest that there actually might be real monsters in the woods, but it’s a feeble effort to try and keep our interest.

Then you have Shaymalan turning up himself in an acting role. Just hearing his squeaky, obnoxious voice is enough to bring me out in hives. You can feel the arrogance and the self-importance seeping from every poorly delivered line. When did this guy get it in his head that he can act? He can’t. He makes Roger Moore look like Robert De Niro.

Plus Shaymalan think he’s a talented writer. He’s not. Structurally the film’s a mess and all the dialogue is stilted and juvenile. And somehow he manages to wrest an awful performance from Sigourney Weaver – something I thought was impossible. If only Shaymalan left the writing to others and stopped being so precious he might make a serviceable hack.

It's a sad indictment of modern mainstream cinema when Pirates of the Caribbean becomes a smash hit. Now that's not to say it's a terrible film – it's entirely watchable. No, it's just that it's so mediocre.

What hurts the film most is the casting of its hero and heroine. Orlando Bloom and Keira Knightley are just incredibly bland. They're two actors who although not entirely incompetent (thus denying us the opportunity to laugh our arses off as we point and jeer at the screen) have no serious acting chops. But worse than that they have no charisma. There's no charm, no allure and no sex appeal. I mean, sure Knighley is easy on the eye and I'm sure girls cream themselves silly at Bloom's squinty little eyes and paedophile moustache, but they're almost entirely lifeless – there's nothing going on behind the eyes. And Knightley's presence is made even more unwelcome by the fact that she plays a prissy, self-righteous, wholesome bore who squeals all her dialogue at a decibel level so great it explodes eardrums. Seriously, Will Turner deserves her. He can look forward to a lifetime of high-pitched nagging and refusal of sex.

But Knightley's worst moment (and the film's worst moment) is when she hits a pirate while uttering the following line, "You like pain? Try wearing a corset." You know, because men don't know pain. And because wearing a corset is far worse than having your arm lopped off with a sword; or having a leg blown to kingdom come from canon fire; or having a sweaty, leering, corpulent, well-endowed seadog make you his rear admiral with all the supplies of lubricant run dry. And that cheesy line is made even worse because it's spoken by a woman so weedy, so skinny, so under-nourished that it's debatable that she could pick up the plank she hits the pirate with without regurgitating in exhaustion the kiddie-sized bowl of muesli she gorged on for dinner. Yeah, she's an empowered woman. She's pretty, she can kick ass and she's got a waist thinner than a tube of Pringles. (The politically correct 'empowering' of women also extends to one of the ships being captained by a black woman. I know it's just a kid's film and the mores of today are shoehorned into an earlier time, but couldn't the 'empowered' women actually resemble real women and not be bland model types who either squeal like anorexic harridans or screech a 'talk to the hand' brand of sass that's more suited to Jerry Springer?)

But I shouldn't be too tough on Knightley. Bloom's equally culpable. Just take the way he scrunches his forehead and squints his eyes when he has to communicate thought; or when he makes a passionate speech that's about as rousing as a punch in the groin; or when he wetly communicates his love for Miss Swan. If Luke Skywalker is a limp piece of lettuce, Will Turner is a flaccid one-inch penis.

And exacerbating the blandness is the casting of Jack Davenport. He's meant to be the pencil-necked Poindexter that does everything by the rules, but he plays his role too well. It's like watching an invisible man. His character is totally devoid of…anything.

But if Bloom, Knightley and Davenport are the schmoly trinity, then Johnny Depp, Geoffrey Rush, Jonathan Pryce, Mackenzie Crook and Lee Arenberg are the quintet that makes the film worth watching (I also like the two dumb soldiers). Enough people have expounded the joys of Depp's Keith Richards-inspired performance, but Rush actually makes me laugh more anyway. There's a fantastic bit during a swordfight where he walks along shouting "Aaaaarrrr!" And he also does the same thing while chasing Knightley. It's a clichéd pirate played with absolute glee. And Pryce is great, too. Admittedly he doesn't get to do much, but he makes up for everything in a moment near the end. After the British defeat the pirates he emerges from the room he's locked himself in and he proceeds to finger wag and shadow box the marauders. It just shows what a good actor is capable of; how an actor with wit and personality can make a small moment memorable.

But contrary to popular opinion, the film actually belongs to the duo of Mackenzie Crook and Lee Arenberg as a pair of knuckleheaded pirates. Every time they're on the screen the film is suddenly about a million times more fun. And I like the way the two are portrayed as something of a married couple. They finish each other's sentences and get on each other's nerves. And I also like the way the film wryly questions their sexuality. Take the scene where they have to dress up as women as they act as a decoy in a rowing boat. Crook tells his pal that he looks nice and a scuffle ensues. Funny stuff.

Unfortunately, though, while some of the interplay between the supporting characters is fun to watch, the action is rather uninspired. And it's not helped by the fact that all the pirates (and Johnny Depp) are immortal. Therefore you have to endure swordfights that have zero tension because there's absolutely nothing at stake. And action seems to take up the entire final third of the film. As a consequence it becomes something of a snoozer. But fortunately the photography and production design is first rate. So at least you get something nice to look at while swords clatter ad nauseam.

I like the fact that so many people tried to get themselves removed from the Borat film. Look, you got caught being a sexist, or a racist, or a gigantic pussy – just live with it; that’s the whole point of Borat, to expose people’s prejudices and idiocy with a sly wink of complicity. Sure Sacha Baron Cohen helped put the noose round your neck, but you chose to hang yourself.

The scene that makes me laugh the most in Borat is the dinner scene where the Kazakh reporter is invited to a posh Southern dinner party. At first he embarrasses himself in a minor way by asking whether one of the guests is a retard and by questioning the attractiveness of one of the women, but despite this the hostess is still optimistic. When Borat excuses himself to go to the toilet, she confidently states that it wouldn’t take much to civilise this uncouth individual – he could be Americanised in no time. But then Borat returns with a pile of shit in a bag – his shit. This causes red faces aplenty, but still the hostess tries to muddle through. She even shows Borat how to take a crap. But it’s only when a black whore comes a knocking at the door that the hostility begins. Somehow shitting in a bag, calling someone a retard and calling a guest ugly is acceptable (albeit in an exasperating kind of way), but the presence of a black person in this Southern haven is beyond the pale. Nothing is more offensive than this.

Another scene that jabs at America’s dark underbelly is the rodeo sequence. Yeah, Borat’s cries of jingoistic encouragement are amusing, but it’s the exchange between Borat and the cowboy that’s more revealing. This fool spouts nonsense about killing all the Iraqis and then suggests that all of America’s homosexuals should be removed too. He even says something along the lines that ‘they’ (he takes it upon himself to speak for the country) should all be strung up. And this is what makes Borat such a great character. By acting like such an idiot he puts everyone at their ease. And it’s only when people are comfortable that the truth comes spilling from their mouths.

Another painful truth is the misogyny that is present in certain sections of American society. The frat boys, for instance, spout nonsense about men being better than women. Indeed, after the tearful revelation that Pamela Anderson is not a virgin, they tell a distraught Borat that he’s better than any female. For all the progress that Western society has made, it still hasn’t really got that far. And also in the frat boy sequence, the drunken idiots claim that the minorities have the most power. What the fuck are they smoking? Doubtless, later in life, when their marriages fall apart and their careers go nowhere, they’ll blame the Jews, the gays and the blacks for their failures. They’ll do anything but take a hard look at themselves.

A less insightful sequence that had me chuckling was the one on the New York subway. I just love how willing New Yorkers are to tell someone to go fuck themselves. Here in London, Borat’s acts would only be greeted by looks of bemusement and the odd muttered insult. New Yorkers, though, are perfectly happy to get in someone’s face. And there’s an even funnier bit on the streets where a New Yorker, backed into a corner by Borat, tells the Kazakh to get out of his face, that he’ll pop him in the balls if he doesn’t back away (?!?). Quite why this individual would chose to pop Borat in the balls, I’m not sure (there are so many easier places to pop), but the humourless ‘get out of my face’ aggression that is particular to New York never fails to put a smile on my lips.

Something else that put a smile on my lips was the naked wrestling scene. There are few things less joyous in life than two men fighting in the buff (‘my moustache still tastes of your testes’, says Borat later on). And I love the way that Borat’s penis is obscured by a massive black letterbox. You just know that Borat has been in the editing room, trying to make himself look as good as possible. But although the homoerotic grappling garners laughs aplenty, there’s a wonderful little moment that is easy to miss. The fight spills out into the hotel and they even get into a lift. But while most of the people run out in horror, one man remains – he stares passively forward, desperately trying not to lose his dignity.

But although the film points its finger at the numerous freaks and idiots it encounters along the way, it also points its finger at the audience. Just how willing are we to buy into this myth of Kazakhstan – a place where old ladies are 34, where cattle live in houses with their owners and where men snog their sisters (and who are also prostitutes). Few things give us greater pleasure than a false sense of superiority. Our lives may be shit, we think, but at least we don’t have it this bad. Therefore you can’t help but ask yourself why you’re laughing at some of these jokes – am I really that far removed from the homophobic cowboy or the misogynistic frat boys? My excuse is that I’m a jerk. What’s yours?