Valentine’s Day is, for better or worse, a film that cannot fail. Almost every aspect of this financial venture is loaded with a studio’s various and unyielding attempts at success insurance. With a wholesome message, a well timed release date and the celebrity pulling power of over sixty Boeing jet engines, it’s hard to imagine Valentine’s Day doing anything other than phenomenally well in the box office.

I can, of course, accuse Valentine’s Day of these things because I am definitely not part of its targeted demographic. There is a tendency for the camera to move away  from the action, on numerous occasions, in order to employ imagery that is quintessentially unnecessary for the progression of the film’s plot or the relaying of any kind of image that compounds or contextualises any event that may be going on within it. What we are given in these instances is cute. Just cute. At any moment you could find yourself looking at either two toddlers awkwardly kissing each other, a baby, two attractive, rich, Caucasian blondes canoodling in a park, or even a rose petal floating atop a river as a family of ducklings and their mother swim past it. As a consequence of this, I’m lead to believe that Valentine’s Day is aimed squarely at the faces of the fairer sex. It’s a chick flick, and it fulfils its brief well.

And why shouldn’t it? You signpost a product as being targeted at women and suddenly your market is half the population. Score. Aside from this, lip-service is paid to racial, sexual and gender equality throughout to widen the market. George Lopez is of particular note, playing the funny, slightly-poorer-than-the-rest-of-the-cast, world-wizened Mexican immigrant. I wouldn’t bring it up if George Lopez was simply ethnic and present, but the script is full of reminders of the fact that he is ethnic and present. We apparently have to be reminded.

This isn’t to suggest that this is a bad movie, however. For a film that juggles around as many subplots as it does given the extensive cast list, everything is tied off very neatly and satisfyingly. It also showcases a specifically modern kind of comedy. The standardised slapstick is there, but much of the dialogue is characterised by a kind of oddball social awkwardness pulled from the likes of The Office and Arrested Development. It’s slightly more contemporary in style than you might expect from something that’s advertised as a more classical kind of romantic comedy. And, more importantly, it’s quite funny, and I’m unable to claim that I didn’t enjoy it.

However, in spite of Valentine’s Day’s strengths, I must here address anyone thinking of seeing it directly: are you so lacking in imagination as to actually consider taking a loved one to a film named after the event that you are so lacklustrely and dutifully attempting to celebrate? Why not ask your partner what they want to do for the day, or even if they care to make much of a to-do over the whole affair, or, better yet, why not figure out something you’ll both get some kind of mutual enjoyment out of? Maybe you could buy them their favourite sandwich or that shiny thing you saw them eyeing up in that store last Saturday. That one they pointed to saying, “Doesn’t that look nice?” as their eyes widened as if to scream, “Purchase! Purchase it for me!”. Failing that, just give them a cuddle and tell them they’re appreciated, and don’t take them to a generically titled film, which will only serve to highlight your own laziness.

Chinese epics are all about spectacle, and John Woo’s Red Cliff is no exception. It’s just in this case it’s a John Woo kind of spectacle, i.e. less emphasis on gorgeously crafted settings and lovingly choreographed fight scenes that approach the calibre of brilliant ballets, and far more emphasis on explosions and the arbitrary saving of babies. Red Cliff is a welcome treat for anyone who misses the likes of John Woo’s earlier work; it’s a high octane, slightly cheesy, good humoured, exciting action film and it doesn’t pretend to be anything else.

Set in the latter period of the Han dynasty, the Battle of Red Cliff represented a pivotal moment in China’s history in which Prime Minister Cao Cao was defeated by Sun Quan and Liu Bei, ending his campaign to conquer the kingdoms of East Wu and Xu. Here in the West, we’ve been given a reduced version of the original two-part epic released in Asia, the first part of which defeating Titanic as being the highest grossing film upon release in cinematic history, raking in a hefty US$124 million.

Whilst you and I may only cream ourselves over what that must have been like, this version is still worthy of sharing its Asian counterpart’s success (although it probably won’t). The majority of the film is made up of ever more impressive battle sequences that showcase a characteristically visceral kind of fight scene along with grand displays of tactical excellence and wit which never cease to excite or impress. What’s interesting about these sequences is that they’re very much ensemble pieces in nature. Although focus isn’t taken away from old John Woo favourite Tony Leung as Xu General Zhou Yu and Takeshi Kaneshiro’s Zhuge Liang, Woo still gives an appropriate amount of screen time to each of the films principal arse kickers, of which there are many. The result is a varied and fast paced experience, and even in this watered down version of the original release, you’re never left with the sense that Leung and Kaneshiro’s characters haven’t come off as fully realised.

In between battles and political manoeuvring, a number of slightly cheesy romantic sequences between Zhou Yu and his wife ensue; all sentimental scores and fade shots. A cynical viewer might regard this as out of place in relation to the rest of the film, but I can’t help but think they add to its charm. This film is fun, and rarely forgets that brief. More than once I saw Red Cliff arouse laughter and heartfelt applause from its audience.

Efficiently edited, thrilling and surprisingly funny, Red Cliff has been one of the most enjoyable cinema experiences I’ve been subjected to in a long time.

First and foremost, let it be known that John Hillcoat’s The Road is about as depressing as watching a limbless puppy cry. The film is about as irrepressibly bleak as a McCarthy adaptation should be, and it doesn’t lose any of its poignancy as a result. The plot centres around a nameless father, played by Viggo Mortensen, as he attempts to ensure the survival of his young son in post-apocalyptic America defined by barren, grey landscapes and the ever present threat of cannibalism from its more violent and starving inhabitants.

When cannibalism eventually enters the screen, Hillcoat moves from the eerily suggestive to the downright horrific with alarming speed. It starts with a lingering shot of a chopping block and axe here, a close up of an empty meat hook there, and without so much as “by your leave” it’s all guts on the street, blood in the bath and naked writhing bodies on a cellar floor. At times, this can seem a little bit excessive. When a more suggestive approach might have been more effective, Hillcoat chooses to show us the horror of the event as violently and starkly as possible without showing victims actually being eaten. You shouldn’t think of this as a violent film, however. These moments only serve as occasional breaks from a more consistent dreariness.

As a whole, The Road maintains a slow and quiet pace, giving it a more existential feel. Much of the film consists of sets of gorgeously dismal establishing shots, showing the father and son characters as small and insignificant specs slowly trudging along wrecked and empty highways, or through seemingly endless dead forests. Hillcoat leads us down a hopeless path rather than a gruesome one. Performances are solid throughout, including an abrupt but stunning cameo from Robert Duvall as a partially blinded hermit. I should mention also that the make-up work seen on Duvall and on all the film’s performers is incredibly impressive. Duvall literally looks like the walking dead, physically and figuratively, and the homeless vibe imposed on Mortensen is nothing if effective and appropriate. Mortensen is convincingly stoic and broken (as you might expect him to be), and is well supported by Kodi Smit-McPhee as his son. At times overstated, but never less than evocative, The Road is a successfully grim critique of the fearful and isolated nature of a desperate man in a world where brief moments of charity and community are all that remain when the human spirit fails to endure. It is well worth your time.