I have mixed feelings when watching films and TV shows set in the 1980s. Look at all those silly haircuts! Why did everyone look like they got dressed in the dark? WHERE OH WHERE DID MY YOUTH GO?

The eighties are a popular target for today's film-makers as that's when they grew up. Or "came of age" as they like to put it for some poncy reason, usually in a fake American accent voicing over all the best clips. That's when today's pros started making films themselves, using cine cameras or clunking great VHS video cameras the size of Cardiff.

For young amateur film-makers the must-watch of those halcyoff early Thatch days was TV's Screen Test, where for most of the show bespectacled proto-nerds were probed by Brian Trueman (who replaced Michael Rodd) on excerpts from the latest blockbusters. (Except, as I remember, they were never the blockbusters we actually wanted to see - presumably the studios refused permission to show long clips. We watched anyway, hoping that this week, this week would be the week they'd show a clip from Star Wars.)

The quiz was, generally, tedious and overloaded with earnest Children's Film Foundation tosh. But Screen Test's Young Film-makers Competition was more interesting. My brother and I never created anything we deemed worthy of submission; shame, really, I think we could have done well. Some of the films they showed, I remember, were rubbish.

I'd like to have made a version of Poltergeist, the pirate video of which scared the bejebus out of me on several occasions (the soundtrack still sends a shiver down my spine). I'm not sure that would have been suitable for tea-time telly, though. And we'd have had trouble with the special effects. Today's kids could knock up something like that over a long weekend and already be yesterday's Internet meme by the following Thursday.

So yes. Eighties, Screen Test. Which brings me to Son of Rambow, in which an eighties scruff teams up with a religious extremistmember of the Plymouth Brethren, plus a French exchange student and sundry hangers-on, to make a film - Son of Rambow - for Screen Test, and Hilarity Ensues.

Less hilarity than I was expecting, though; it's funny, yes, but deeper than that. It's about how friends and family can collide.

Believable performances all round, I felt. Jessica StevensonHynes plays it straight as Religious Mum, and the two main child actors are pretty good. Adam Buxton has a humorous cameo, not quite as gory as his role in Hot Fuzz.

There are a few authentic scenes from Screen Test in the film: in one of them we see the young film-maker trophy being awarded to some geeky speccy chap. That, it turns out, was Jan Pinkava: he went on to win an Oscar and co-direct Pixar's recent Ratatouille. Yeah. Geek.

That could have been me, you know. I coulda been a contender. Had I actually entered.

Avaragado's rating: one Kia-Ora multipack

"Oh, there's a bit in it that'll really make you jump," said the Picturehouse barman as he handed Chris five tickets for The Orphanage (along with the more traditional bar fare, a bottle of wine). A comment like that sets you on edge before the film even begins, albeit an edge dulled by half a bottle of Pinot. But the unspoken implication of such a statement is that there is only one spring-loaded moment.

That's not a bad thing (nor, in fact, was it strictly true in any case). Too many random shocks and you're either laughing from the ridiculousness or shrieking in a self-made puddle and being led out by the St John's Ambulance, depending on temperament. The scary moments are the ones you're waiting for, the ones in plain sight: it's all anticipation, of course. (The scariest parts of BBC classic Ghostwatch are the scenes where you happen to spot Pipes subtly inserted into the background.)

The Orphanage scores quite highly on the anticipation scale. The orphanage of the title is now owned by a small family; the mother used to be housed there. She and her husband have an adopted child, who has several imaginary friends. But just how imaginary are they? Who is the woman with the thick glasses? And why do they all speak Spanish?

Well, it's a Spanish film, produced by Guillermo Del Toro. There's a pointless American remake in production for people unable to cope with subtitles or without casual violence.

We saw it with a talkative audience, but in a good way: the odd "oh no!" heightens the tension.

Without giving anything away, it's a film about loss. It contains no haunted videotapes or rabid emos climbing out of TVs, but it does contain the creepiest children's game you'll see this year.

Avaragado's rating: five blueberry muffins

A British film about teenage pregnancy would feature the following:

• Bleak, run-down council estates sprinkled with Sky dishes.
• Chain-smoking from all cast members, including the unborn child.
• Kathy Burke.

The "gymslip mum" (© Fleet Street) would grunt monosyllables at the father, a half-tracksuit, half-trainer oik prone to casual violence. A hopelessly miscast Lee Evans would play a well-to-do city type, wrongly named in standard mistaken-identity plot #94 as the baby's father - with hilarious consequences. The ham-fisted resolution would include a guest appearance by Richard Branson and a pile of used tenners.

Juno, on the other hand, is a Canadian/American film about teenage pregnancy. Made for tuppence, it's nominated for four Oscars including Best Picture. There's a Best Actress nomination for Ellen Page's excellent portrayal of the title up-the-duff character.

I think the film's operative words are "sweet" and "sassy". It's written by someone called Diablo Cody, which is surely all the incentive you need to go and see it. If that's not enough, two of the cast were in Arrested Development.

Three films in three weeks, all of them crackers. It can't last!

Avaragado's rating: four things of orange tic-tacs

This year marks the 75th anniversary of the original King Kong film, the 50th anniversary of Attack of the 50 Foot Woman, and the 25th anniversary of Jaws 3-D. Mix them together and stir in a camcorder and you've got the first draft of Cloverfield.

King Kong is, of course, a love story; and so is Cloverfield. The creature wreaking havoc in New York is but a monstrous and very expensive macguffin providing the framework for the storyline, a traditional boy meets/loses girl. A very effective macguffin, it has to be said.

Attack of etc concerns a large, unhappy creature; as does Cloverfield. The film contains a great deal of attacking, and I'm sure you've seen the clip in which the head of the Statue of Liberty - a tall glum female - splats various residents as it bounces to a halt in a city street.

Jaws 3-D gave people nausea from 3D glasses; Cloverfield does ditto from authentic handheld camerawork.

There are naturally many differences. Cloverfield contains none of King Kong's biplanes on strings. The large creature is always big, unlike Attack of etc or indeed the kitten from The Goodies or the sheepdog in Digby, the Biggest Dog in the World. And unlike Jaws 3-D, Cloverfield is not rubbish.

It's exceedingly well-made. The camcorder viewpoint is maintained from the first frame until the start of the closing credits; there's no film score, lots of odd jump cuts, poor framing, etc. And the effects fit seamlessly - I'd really like to see some of the original footage just to see how they mangled it.

Apparently some critics proclaimed that using unknown actors was a big mistake. Idiots. It was essential to keep the truthiness of the film. And, really, the only effects of casting Tom Cruise or some other loon would be to double the budget and ruin the film.

On the down side, there were a couple of dodgy product NOKIA placements and a general implausibility of certain events (leaving aside the whole creature thing).

But overall, recommended. J. J. Abrams wisely chose Kong, Woman and D as his 25-year influences for Cloverfield: 1933 also brought us Duck Soup, 1958 South Pacific and 1983 National Lampoon's Vacation. I dread to think what his mash-up of those three would be like. The new Star Trek film, probably.

Avaragado's rating: four tubs of St Ivel Gold

The moral of Sweeney Todd appears to be: never visit a Dickie Davies-lookalike barber working above a pie shop. Oh, and never eat the pies.

Chris, Melanie and I braved the crowds at the Picturehouse last night to see Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham Carter, two shock castings for a Tim Burton movie, sing their way through various brutal slayings.

Depp's Todd sports a direct descendant of the Jack Sparrow accent; his arrival at a grim, almost monochrome, early nineteenth century London by boat made me momentarily think I was watching Pirates of the Caribbean 4: The Dark Knight Returns, but then he bursts into song. Well, not burst exactly. He's not Julie Andrews and we're not up a mountain with some annoying children, a job lot of lederhosen and some rubbish Nazis. Nor does the entire cast suddenly start dancing, possessed by the tortured souls of a thousand Dick van Dyke chimney sweeps. When the time is right, characters just start singing instead of talking.

With music by Stephen Sondheim the songs are high quality; they're altered from the stage musical but apparently not completely different. The lyrics are worth paying attention to - they're often funny and always clever.

The only strong colour in the film - apart from one brief sequence that's more in the mind of Bonham Carter's Mrs MigginsLovett than reality - is red. And that's confined to the several, spectacular scenes in which our demon barber despatches his victims, usually to a jaunty tune. If you are at all squeamish about blood - in particular, blood gushing copiously from freshly sliced necks - then I recommend watching something more pedestrian instead, like, say, Driller Killer.

From the supporting artistes, Alan Rickman plays Alan Rickman to great effect, as usual. Timothy Spall enjoys his part tremendously by the look of it, and I'm glad to say there's a great performance - even in the songs - by child actor Ed Sanders playing Toby. Sacha "Ali G" Baron-"Borat"-Cohen appears as a rival barber, adding a touch of humour to the early stages.

It's a fantastic film and a strong contender for my film of the year, even though it's still January.

Avaragado's rating: one mince pie

After the film we returned to the Picturehouse bar to join Louise, Colin and Louise#2 for a quick drink, then all six of us went for a meal at Varsity.

My only previous visit was in November or December 1988. It was near the end of my first term at college (which is why I can pin it down to those dates) and all the current Cambridge students from my school were invited to dinner by our headmaster, Chris Lowe. I'm not sure why; he never did it again.

Following the "never again" theme, I suspect my next visit to Varsity might not be for another twenty years. The food was OK but the service was appalling. It took them ages to take our order, and our waitress struggled with it - returning at least twice to clarify details. Many of the dishes weren't available, neither was our first choice of wine.

Only two of the six starters arrived; and then a third, but it certainly wasn't the hummous the waitress claimed it was - it was grilled halloumi - so back it went. It must have been about ten minutes later when another waiter asked us whether we were waiting for more starters. Almost as he did so more appeared, but not my hummous+pitta. Eventually I got the hummous, but the waitress mumbled "no pitta" at me and scurried off. Louise#2 shared hers with me. (The "no pitta" was a blatant lie, since more appeared later.)

It took another age for the starters to be cleared. The main courses arrived with a mumbled apology that they were running short of salad, so we got smaller portions. Nice. Louise#2 said her halloumi tasted of salt with a hint of cheese. My moussaka was OK but I wouldn't have called it hot.

Not coincidentally, we talked for a few minutes about Fawlty Towers.

Speaking as an expert on restaurants, having watched almost all episodes of Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares, I'd hazard that the kitchen had lost control of the orders on a busy night and our waitress was new on the job (and not particularly fluent in English).

Oh well. We heavily under-tipped and scarpered.

Avaragado's rating: one tin of fruit salad

With yer Radcliffes and yer Grints of this world growing up into not-quite-as-rubbish actors in the cash machine that I am legally obliged to call the Potter phenomenon, there's a new set of kids on the block. No, not the tedious Narnia tosh again, at least not yet; now we've got the parallel world of Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy, as realised in The Golden Compass (Northern Lights being too subtle a title for the U. S. of etc., or maybe they were worried about possible confusion with the 1985 "Canadian supergroup" of the same name).

I do read books, honestly, but I haven't read Northern Lights. I may get round to it some day, since I have a soft spot for the parallel universe/alternate history genre. However, I suspect that day should have been before yesterday, when I saw the film along with Chris, Melanie, Louise and Mikey.

Unlike JK's oeuvre, not I understand deeply troubled by the wonders of a multi-layered storyline, there's a well-known religious allegory in Pullman's work. And, praise be to Dawkins, it's not the CS Lewis perspective of magically resurrecting lions seducing buck-toothed children through the preaching of dental treatment or whatever it was. Here we've got talking animal demons and a good old adventure romp for the kids, with the talky intrigue and allegory to keep the sniffy grown-ups amused.

But there are flaws in the film: kids, dialogue, pacing. The kid problem is the usual one: I don't think there's a convincing British child actor under 13. We don't have any Dakota Fannings or Haley Joel Osments, sadly. The lead actor, Dakota Blue Richards (what's with all the Dakotas?), isn't bad but isn't that great either.

The dialogue is generally OK, but every now and then it goes a bit Basil Exposition. And I think it does so because they wanted to keep the pace up: cutting the "boring bits" to the bone to keep the running time under two hours. That being, I presume, the maximum time between toilet visits for overexcited preteens. Consequently the film feels a little rushed.

In the cinema I was pleased to note the general absence of noisy kids. Only one screamer dragged out temporarily by a harassed parental unit, but then I too would have been scared aged fourish by the sight of armoured polar bears yards from a front row seat. I did hear a constant subdued commentary from some mini-Motty girls old enough to know better in the row behind us, though it was not enough to rouse me from my traditional British reserve.

As is now apparently law for all film trilogies, there's an appearance by Christopher Lee. Bizarrely only a single line. I don't believe he was CGI, though as Mikey said, they've probably scanned every inch of him in case he's, er, corporeally unavailable for sequels.

Though not confirmed, I assume this film will be followed up with adaptations of the other two books. It's interesting and exciting enough to earn back its $180 million budget (Charlie Chaplin used to make his films alone, you know, for a farthing and a bowl of porridge). And I'd like to see what happens next. Or maybe I should just read the books?

Avaragado's rating: four gobstoppers

On Saturday night at the Picturehouse we saw Sicko, Michael Moore's new documentary about the glorious American healthcare system. Part-way through it turns into NHS-worship and Tony Benn is wheeled on to offer an opinion. Then there's some French healthcare analysis that includes a man's bottom. Apparently in France you get paid time off work for almost every conceivable activity, including moving house and going on honeymoon.

Moore's usual tactics are in evidence as he takes some 9/11-affected Americans to Cuba for treatment. He's typically befuddled-to-order by the horrific spectacle of socialised medicine and its dastardly "free at the point of use" ethic, clearly not the American Way. A short-cut to communist rule, according to sundry fat American cats rolling in the bloodstained cash and discarded body parts of privatised healthcare.

One-sided, of course: nobody could accuse Michael Moore of balance. But true nonetheless. We grumble about the NHS and its problems, but it's far far better than the US system.

Three days after seeing the film I woke with a cold, the first I've had all year I think. I suspect doctors may have sprinkled vials of unidentifiable substances on the cinema seats to make us appreciate the NHS a bit more.

Avaragado's rating: one bottle of Night Nurse

Last night saw a trip to Cambridge's very own Wagamama before nine of us squeezed into a half-empty cinema for Once (caution: unmarked spoilers), the best and probably only Irish musical since The Commitments.

One of the characters in The Commitments was played by Glen Hansard, who stars in Once alongside Markéta Irglová. They're both musicians rather than ac-tors, Hansard being lead singer/guitarist of popular Irish beat combo The Frames.

Glen Hansard is also a friend of Isobel, one of the nine of us at the film; they're both from Dublin, where the film was shot. Isobel works with Andy and Louise at Qualcomm; her other half Simon works at Taptu with Neil, with whom I worked at ANT.

To complete the circle, Andy, Chris, Melanie, Chef, Lynda and I are going to Dublin for a weekend in December to see Ross, who turns 30 at the end of the year.

I'll do a diagram later if you want. I think that means we qualify for Baftas.

It's a very naturalistic film, shot on a budget that wouldn't cover Tom Cruise's toenail polish. No studio sets, no special lighting, no crowd control. Some street scenes were filmed with long lenses (and without permits), passers-by oblivious to the acting.

There's a slight documentary feel about it - until the songs kick in. But unlike yer Sound of Musics or yer Bollywoods, the songs are built into the story. The cast don't drop everything and start supercalifragilisticexpialidociousing with comedy chimney sweeps: the plot revolves around our (unnamed) male protagonist's ambitions for a singing career, and our (unnamed) female protagonist's assistance. And it's a love story, of course.

Hansard and Irglová together wrote almost all the songs, and they're pretty good. YouTube's full of examples; give Taptu a whirl.

Definitely one of my films of the year. I look forward to any sequel, undoubtedly called Twice. Hahaha.

Avaragado's rating: nine potatoes

Last night the usual gang of five went to the Vue to see Run, Fat Boy, Run, the new David Schwimmer-directed, Simon Pegg-starring film. I thought the ginger one was just acting in this one, but he has a screenplay credit too.

It's a by-numbers Brit romcom, heavy on the product placement from a manufacturer of overpriced swoosh-bearing footwear. (I mean, one present of trainers I could live with, but two?) Two men battling for the affections of one woman - check. Precocious child - check. Comedy hangers-on - check. A galaxy of Britslebs in cameos - check.

Supposedly Bill Bailey appears dressed as Gandalf in one scene set during a marathon; I must have missed that one. I did spot Noel Fielding walking past in another scene. The funniest guest appearance is by David Walliams, playing a near-clone of his Mr Mann character from Little Britain.

The film won't win any awards, but it made me laugh, so that'll do.

Avaragado's rating: two gingerbread men

I have still never read any of the Harry Potter books. I fear I never shall, with the final book imminent and whatever resolution it contains sure to be plastered onto all web pages by law within fifteen seconds of its release. Hardly seems worth it. Oh, I know what I'll do. I'll open a copy of the new book at the last page just to see how it ends. Yeah. In the middle of Borders, on release day, surrounded by excited kids. Then I'll say "Oh, it was all a dream!" and walk away.

Last night, venturing to the opening night of HP5 at the Vue with Chris, Melanie, Lynda and Louise, we were second in the queue behind a group of Americans and vowed not to sit near them. They did whoop, but only once or twice. Sadly there were no people dressed as wizards to mock; nor did anyone storm out furiously at a trivial difference from the book. Disappointing really.

For a non-fan like myself, I did find it slightly confusing at the beginning trying to remember who the hell some of the characters were. Did we see him/her in HP[1234] or am I imagining it? While I'd hate to see a "previously on Harry Potter" segment, some kind of script-based reminder (subtle, not "Hi Harry, remember me from the fight to the death at the end of last term?") might have assisted the more casual viewer.

(Ranty aside: blockbuster films can blithely assume you remember events of the last film 18 months ago, but all lifestyle/makeover TV shows are compelled to repeat themselves endlessly, telling you after a break what happened before the break, telling you before a break what's going to happen after the break, reminding you who everyone is and what they're doing because you haven't seen them for all of three minutes, as if we're all drooling mouth-breathers unable to retain the most trivial factoid for more than a microsecond. I blame Thatcher. End of rant.)

Scenery, effects, comedy moments: all present and correct.

Ginger gurning update: only once. He can't act scared, poor lad. Otherwise the performances aren't bad, though I'm never convinced by the Hermione girl. Imelda Staunton steals the show as (checks Wikipedia) Dolores Umbridge.

The biggest laugh in the film was, I am sure, not intended as such. It's up there alongside Anakin's dream about his mother. That'll teach us to go to an evening showing.

POINTLESS FACT: This is the shortest film so far, and adapted from the longest book. It's true, I read it on the intertubes. And the film is relatively fat-free; no superfluous scenes that I remember. One character who might qualify as padding was, apparently, cut in an earlier draft and resurrected at the request of a certain billionaire author, hinting strongly of a pivotal role in book seven.

POINTLESS FACT: The word "muggle" is now in the OED.

POINTLESS FACT: JK Rowling is now secretly Empress of Earth and walks only on powdered diamonds.

Avaragado's rating: one packet of assorted nuts

Cambridge has in the last few weeks gained a spanking new Wagamama, hiding above All Bar One. At midday on Monday, it being a wet'n'windy Bank Holiday in the traditional fashion, we were banging on the front door begging to be fed (AKA waiting patiently for a youth to tell us we could come in, and tutting about lack of respect when an old man jumped the queue).

We were on a tight timescale - just an hour to eat and escape for the 1pm showing of Pirates of the Etc #3. A nice young man with a biro and a memory took our order promptly, scribbled it on our placemats and in his head, and wandered off. I ordered number 72 - aubergine/potato lumps in breadcrumbs, with a light curry sauce and some Japanese rice - and expected to receive something else entirely.

Meanwhile Chris told us of his exploits cycling around Ireland (well, Connemara). And Andy explained why he spent quite so much time in lifts while in Rome for work (the closest thing to a Faraday cage, apparently). And we drank a bottle of wine between us (except for Melanie, keeper of the car keys).

Happily, all numbers were correctly delivered to the appropriate placemats. My breaded lumps in curry sauce was acceptably tasty.

Avaragado's rating: number 73

A short skip and a hop through the rain to the Picturehouse and it was time for the Johnny Depp three-hour, hereinafter called POTCAWE, presented in super-crisp digital HD. I miss cue marks already.

There's no plot to speak of, just a sequence of set-pieces tied together with an unnervingly accurate CGI version of old rope. Much like POTCDMC in all respects. I was glad to see that Keith Richards had more than a one-line throwaway role, but it wasn't much more. On balance a good thing; the film is long enough as it is.

I had a suspicion there'd be a post-credits scene, and there is, but we didn't stay for it - I heard about it afterwards. Ah, I'll google it.

Overall, my enjoyable-toshometer glows a healthy orange-yellow (contrast with POTCTCOTBP's brilliant white). The sequeliser, however, remains firmly anchored at 2.

Avaragado's rating: arrrrrrrrrtichokes

Most of the usual mob, minus Andy who's apparently testing a lift in Rome, went to see 28 Weeks Later on Thursday night. I remember seeing the original in a packed cinema, with our group stuck at the front in row 2 - not the best seats for a fast-paced horror film shot in relatively low-res DV. This time we nabbed the prime locations as we were first in a very short queue (and consequently there was a slight lack of atmosphere, sadly).

I'd seen the trailer and was worried that the plot would revolve around the USA saving Britain from the insurgentsinfected - a thinly veiled allegory combined with yo' da man star-spangled chest-thumping. I was pleased to discover that my concerns were unwarranted. The plot is a little thin, of course - run away! - but hey, it's zombies in London.

The shots of the deserted city are surreal and amazing. The POV-shots of the infected, the quick cutting, the gore, all very effective.

The gore, yes. I think it's fair to say that Heinz had a run on tomato ketchup during filming. There is one sequence - if you've seen it you'll know the one I mean - that is just outstandingly, gloriously gory. You have to laugh, really.

I do have a criticism. Yes, I do. Coincidences. That's all I'll say. (I have another criticism but it veers towards spoilishness, so I'll keep quiet. Oh, I could say "but it doesn't look like that!" I guess.)

I was reading a thread on t'Internet about the film earlier. Londoners on the thread huffed and puffed that in one sequence some characters took an implausible route through the city. It was as if the thread had suddenly been invaded by taxi drivers: "Oof, via Shaftesbury Avenue? You're 'avin a larf, aincha? Talk about rage, I'll give 'em rage. Nah, I don't go sarf of the river, mate, full of infected. I 'ad that Danny Boyle in the back of the cab once."

There was also much shaking of heads regarding the timeline: some buildings, such as the Gherkin, appear in the new film but weren't built at the time of the first film. These picky-picky comments were hushed with "it's a film about zombies".

I must have enjoyed the film. When I got home I boarded up all my doors and windows, turned off the electric and cooked a tin of hoops over a candle.

Avaragado's rating: 28 leeks

This afternoon in the company of my friend Mark I escaped the dull, drizzly wi-fi-enabled noughties and timewarped to July 1983 through the magic of the cinema. A time when Thatcher (Mrs) ruled with her iron handbag and wonky finger, when Tony Blair had just entered parliament, and when, if memory serves, we must have been packing up to move house. We were leaving leafy, suburban, right-wing Broxbourne for Oundle, a genteel town in the Northamptonshire countryside infested with posh young toffs. (No, I didn't go to the public school.)

The film This is England opens on the last day of the school term. (Because we were moving away from the area, I remember that day vividly. How odd.) It's non-uniform day, and the main character of the story - 12-year-old Shaun - is picked on as he's wearing less-than-trendy flares. His dad was killed in the Falklands. The film shows his life over the next few weeks, and to say any more would spoil it.

It's funny, disturbing, scary and violent. Thomas Turgoose, the actor playing Shaun, is pretty amazing. The hair stylists, make-up artists and fashion designers in the production team deserve awards for their dedication above and beyond to reproducing the hideous fashions of the day. I pity the actors who suffered for their art and actually had their hair done like that. I will overlook the two shots in which (adopts nerd voice) modern satellite dishes were clearly visible (reverts to normal geek voice).

If you like your films gritty, realistic and tattooed, you'll like this one. It's superb. (Expats: apparently it has a limited release in the US in July.)

Avaragado's rating: twiglets

From December 1999, for a year, I wrote a journal. Not on paper, don't be silly, but not online. I have it on disk somewhere and I haven't read it since I wrote it. It covers what has been, so far, the most bonkers year of my life for a number of reasons; sadly the margin is too small to contain them.

Writing the journal was hugely cathartic. I sat where I'm sitting now, often into the early hours, unburdening myself, if that's not too pretentious for you. It is far too, uh, honest to ever be published in full. I probably talk about you, by the way.

It seems such a long time ago now. It seems like yesterday. I'll read it again one day; but not yet.

So, Notes on a Scandal. Insanely good. Funny, touching, and for me marginally uncomfortable (but I should like to point out that my journal contains no stars of any hue). Screenplay by Patrick Marber, aka Peter O'Hanrahahanrahan from The Day Today, now a proper grown-up writer with awards and stuff.

Judi Dench will be fighting Helen Mirren for the Oscar, I think.

Avaragado's rating: two new potatoes

On Thursday night, after my gassy fun, I headed into town to meet up with the usual suspects for food and a film.

For some reason we ended up in Nando's on Regent Street. I don't know why but I felt about ten years too old for the place. It reminded me of a 1970s trip to a Wimpy bar in Waltham Cross when my grandma asked for a knife and fork. And when tomato ketchup came in tomato-shaped squeezy bottles. Mind you, Nando's had proper Heinz bottles.

Anyway, the food was OK and the view was acceptable.

Avaragado's rating: a chickpea

To the film! Pan's Labyrinth. At first glance, a screenplay that must surely have been the result of a photocopying catastrophe: A gritty thriller about Spanish fascists in 1944 accidentally collated with an effects-filled fantasy about a young girl and some fairies, now with automatic stapling!

But no. Writer/director Guillermo del Toro weaves the two story strands together pretty well - and he doesn't hold back on gruesome camera shots either. It always amuses me to hear audiences when they see a needle penetrating skin in glorious digital widescreen colour. It's rated 15 in the UK, R in the US, so, you know, think on. Strangely from the trailer I imagined a more fantasy-oriented child-friendly film with the fascists only in the background, but maybe that was just me.

It's in Spanish with subtitles, but then I always think that makes the acting better.

Avaragado's rating: two grapes

Let's get the bad stuff out of the way first: I don't like the theme tune. It is much better than the awful Madonna theme from Dire Another Day (do you see what I did there?), but fails to pass the Bondness threshold.

That's a shame, because everything else about Casino Royale is pretty much spot on. There's no campery, over-reliance on gadgets, mwa-ha-ha-take-over-the-world-with-my-big-laser plots or scenery chewing, unlike in yer Brosnans or yer Moores. It's very much as advertised: back-to-basics, raw, gritty, violent. A bit like yer Daltons or yer Connerys, but with fewer wigs and not, you know, in the 1980s. And just generally better.

I was never one of those nay-sayers who scoffed at the casting of Daniel Craig as Bond, none of whom could come up with reasons better than "he's a bit ginger". They forgot that Bond is supposed to be English, and yet has been played by a Scot (Connery), an Australian (Lazenby), a "Welsh-born Englishman" (Dalton) and an Irishman (Brosnan). And that Felix Leiter, that old fraud, has been played by about a million different actors, both white and black. And ditto Blofeld, etc.

I've decided that most Bond films take place in their own universe, independent of all other Bond films. This works, apart from some disparities (such as the multiple appearances of Jaws and J.W. Pepper and others, a few references to Bond's dead wife, and more), and it's the only way to avoid cranial implosion regarding continuity. This film blows away any attempts to do so anyway, since it shows the start of Bond's 00 career and yet has Judi M rather than harrumphing old Bernard M, and is of course set in the present.

Oh, enough Bond geekery. Wikipedia has it all, you know.

Avaragado's rating: salty water

The Prestige stars Christian Bale as The Great Soprendo and Hugh Jackman as Paul Daniels. Scarlett Johansson plays the lovely Debbie McGee, Michael Caine is Ali Bongo, Gollum plays Andy Serkis and David Bowie is Nikola Tesla.

One of those is true.

The "prestige" refers to the third part of a magic trick, the reveal. The first two parts are the pledge (the set-up) and the turn (the doing of the trick). Roughly. The "wait" in the subject above refers to the restaurant we went to after the film. Anyway.

It's a film about magic, if you hadn't guessed. My brother used to do magic; his favourite trick involved a set of invisible playing cards, but he lost them. Fact!

The film's plot concerns a rivalry between The Great Soprendo and Paul Daniels, two up-and-coming magicians who disrupt each other's shows, try to steal tricks, cause death and destruction, that sort of thing. They haven't yet realised that all anyone apparently wants to see on a Saturday night is one of the many Simon Cowell clones telling hapless amateurs/celebrities to get out of his manor before he releases the hounds, or whatever it is that happens on X-Factor these days.

Points to note:

• Some concentration is required, since the film darts back and forth between three different time periods without any wibbly-wobbly transitions, black-and-whiteness or captions.
• Some of the lady acting is rubbish.
• This is Michael Caine's 4,905th consecutive film in which he plays a supporting role while retaining his own accent.
• I can do a better "drunk posh toff" accent than Hugh Jackman. This is not, please note, because I am a posh toff.
• Despite this being a Hollywood film primarily set in turn-of-the-twentieth-century England, Dick Van Dyke makes no appearance.
• Please won't someone think of the little birdies!

I enjoyed this film a lot, especially since I figured out what was going on half-way through. Like Memento, one of director Christopher Nolan's previous films, a second viewing would no doubt bring several more a-ha! moments.

Avaragado's rating: two mangoes

This week's post-film food hunt took us to the Rice Boat on Newnham Road. Indian Kerala food.

Reviews had warned us that the food was good, the service not so good. And so it proved. Two bottles of wine stood unopened and undrunk on our table for nearly ten minutes due to an absence of wine glasses. The culprit seemed to be the dish-washer, since when glasses finally arrived they were hot to the touch. Call me old-fashioned, but a simple solution to this problem would be to buy more wine glasses. It's a popular restaurant, after all.

They were slow in other respects too, and forgot a starter. It was a three-hour meal that really didn't need to be that long. Food was good though.

Avaragado's rating: tomato ketchup (possibly Heinz)

Jumping straight into my top five films of the year, The History Boys.

Now I don't remember school being quite like that in the 80s, but then I went to a comprehensive.

Hang on. I've just remembered one particular teacher. But apart from him (and that was just gossip), it wasn't like that.

We did have a day trip to Cambridge, but not for formal interviews - just a snooping session, friendly chats, that sort of thing, to see whether we were interested in applying. Our head-of-year drove the three of us to Cambridge in her mini; the only details I remember from that journey are, bizarrely, joining the A1 (from a country lane, slip roads were for wimps) and listening to Bohemian Rhapsody at full volume. It was the first and only time she ever seemed human (the rest of the time she just clomped around school in her very sensible shoes being grumpy).

I went to see Downing and Magdalene. The tutor we saw at Downing told us he knew one of the students from our school at the college, "Judith Mel-hyoo-ish, yes, I know her well." Not well enough to know how to pronounce her surname, though. I remember we had lunch there with some undergrads, but not much else.

At Magdalene I chatted to a tutor in his little office in the ramshackle tudor buildings behind Magdalene Street. I decided I preferred Downing; one reason, I remember, was that Magdalene was then still males only. Insert your own jokes here.

Our teacher took us for a cup of tea at the University Arms before we went home.

And then, of course, I went to Kent. But that's another story.

Anyway, the film's great. If there's any chance of your seeing it, do. That would please Hector. "Your seeing it." It's a gerund. He likes gerunds.

Avaragado's rating: rubber chicken and rice, I think

On Saturday afternoon I lunched with a religious zealot and some hecklers. It was unplanned.

I'd wandered into town for a bite to eat pre-film, of which more later, when I was attracted by noise and a large crowd. As I got closer I saw a flip chart and a shouty American, and then a plucky young Brit shouting back. The American was spouting forth about how evolution is fake (using the old "everything has a designer" nonsense), showing diagrams of the dimensions of Noah's Ark ("he took baby animals, not fully grown ones"), claiming the Earth is 4000 years old, and that sort of thing. The Brit was telling him he was an idiot.

Interested but hungry, I bought a sandwich and returned to watch the argument (resolving to keep my mouth shut, as I'd only get wound up if I joined in). More than one heckler was now involved.

It was scary and creepy stuff. The zealot, a relatively young man, was clearly experienced at this - more experienced than the hecklers. He knew all the tricks, such as deploying the "look, a shiny thing" change of subject whenever anyone started demolishing his argument; requiring proof of any assertion made by a heckler but refusing to offer any when the same question was asked of him; presenting discredited evidence; and so on. And all the while, his comrades circled the group, handing out leaflets.

Most of the watchers knew it was all nonsense and cheered on the hecklers. One heckler, most likely an academic, probably a philosopher or similar spod, knew his theology better than the zealot. It was no use: as in the wider world, the American shouted loudest.

Scariest of all, when the zealot finished a few people applauded and went up to congratulate him. I hurried into Waterstones and cuddled the new Richard Dawkins hardback, The God Delusion.

Thence to the Picturehouse, for Little Miss Sunshine with Chris, Louise, Andy and Chef. Satirical, dark, funny. Superb. I'll say no more on that, as I hadn't even seen a trailer before watching the film and it was all the better for that, I think. But if you have seen the trailer, see the film anyway.

Avaragado's rating: frozen yoghurt

Next up: Cotto, a new restaurant next to the Tram Depot on East Road. This too met with my approval, though it might not suit those (a) on a budget and (b) with Chef. Expensive tastes, these city boys. "I didn't think I ordered port," indeed.

Avaragado's rating: too much salt

Chris took a selection of photos during the day with his new camera. Yes, we went to pubs too.

Knocks, enters.

Bows—from the neck—walks forward, shakes hand, bows again.

We saw The Queen tonight. It's odd to watch on the big screen what is, in essence, a historical drama-documentary for events as recent as nine years ago. (But I guess no less odd than the recent spate of September 11-related films.)

Thank god it wasn't a Hollywood treatment. No, actually, that might be quite funny.

The major players in the drama are all well realised, her maj herself in particular - Helen Mirren looking like a morphed version of herself and the real Brenda. Philip is suitably grumpy, Charles permanently paranoid and fiddling with his cuffs, the dear old Queen Mum half-cut, and Tony Blair all bright eyes and cheshire grin in the heady early days of his premiership.

There are no villains in the film; everyone tries to do the right thing, even if it's entirely the wrong thing given the circumstances. It's a very sympathetic portrait of the Queen, in fact - stuck between the traditionalists and modernisers, with her own instincts letting her down.

Tony Blair is portrayed more or less as the hero of the piece: not exactly the saviour of the monarchy, but certainly the one giving it a slap when it needed it. Some people will harrumph about this, but it's hard to say that he did anything wrong. (The film shows how the newspaper headlines were entirely pro-Blair at the time; I wonder what the Daily Mail's film reviewer thinks of it.)

The week after Diana's death was of course completely bonkers and increasingly surreal, and we see it all: from Blair/Campbell's "people's princess" speech to the crowds in Hyde Park applauding Earl Spencer's eulogy in Westminster Abbey. It brought back a lot of memories, not least Tom at the Wrestlers telling us that yes, he would be open on Saturday, the day of the funeral, because "it's what she would have wanted".

Excellent film.

Avaragado's rating: one green olive

Exits walking backwards.