Kingsman: The Secret Service

Colin Firth is...Colin Firth, same as always. But that's a good thing, isn't it? We haven't got totally fed up of his suave Britishness like we did Hugh Grant's stumble-bumble Britishness. Not yet. Anyway, he's a spy but it's not a government run thing, it's a secret society known as Kingsmen. But otherwise it's basically Bond with a junior Bond storyline thrown in for good measure.

Which is where Taron Egerton comes in with his kind of odd name as though he's American or made it up but he's actually like well chavvy n that. In this movie. When he's being Eddie the Eagle he's not chavvy. But he is much dumber. Lovably dumber. The Brits love a plucky loser. Wonder why more of us don't like Donald Trump, then?

Anyway (again), lost my train of thought there (again). Yup, Firth owes Egerton (even his surname sounds made up) a favour as he was present when the teenager's dad died during final training to become a cool spy. So he throws him a chance to do the same training and maybe die during the final part of it.

Michael Caine is the boss but don't get excited, he's emailing most of his performance in. Some young posho types are also in the training which we see scenes from alternating with an escalating plot involving the deaths, disappearances and some form of control over influential people of the world. Behind this scheme is Samuel L. Jackson but channelling Will.i.am for some reason. Trigger warning, one scene contains a very, very bad pun at the expense of McDonald's.

Egsy (Egerton's character has almost as odd a name as he does in real life but it's ok as it's a nickname), goes through various rites of passage scenarios. Yes they're faintly predictable but this isn't a movie trying to reinvent the wheel. This is a Matthew Vaughn film which from the off should lead you to expect some high class violence without too much gore and a better sense of humour than Guy Ritchie's films have displayed since Snatch. Much of the best violence comes from Jackson's henchwoman, Sofia Boutella.

End of the world as we know it scenario for the climax?  But of course. That's what we want from our spy films. Oh and for Michael Caine to say the word 'fuck' in that peerless guttural way of his. Does the world end? Does Samuel L Jackson get away with it or does he get thwarted by some pesky kids? Let's just say there's a sequel in the planning. Which is a good thing.

Seven Psychopaths

How to follow the surprise hit In Bruges? Stick with gun play and nutjobs. Increase the nutjobs, in fact, and get a cast Tarantino would envy to play them.

Writer/director Martin McDonagh also stuck with the all-conquering eyebrows of Colin Farrell but not as one of the psychopaths. Instead he is a screenwriter dragged further and further into an all too factual distortion of his fictional indulgences as the film progresses. Largely because the craziest psycho of the lot is his best bud, played without trademark ticks but subtle genius by Sam Rockwell.

The plot actually matters less than those of post-Snatch Guy Ritchie movies as the piece is more a commentary on contemporary gangster films than a genuine example of the genre in and of itself. In literature this kind of postmodern larking about is called 'meta fiction'. Doesn't quite work as 'meta movie' apart from a pleasing alliteration, but the concept is the same: not exactly absurdist theatre but intriguing pastiche.

And with figures such as Woody Harrelson, Christopher Walken, Tom Waits, Olga Kurylenko and an uncredited Joaquin Phoenix lending weight to the quality of the ensemble, Seven Psychopaths is elevated up into such exalted company as the work of the Coen Brothers and Charlie Kaufman.

Everyone appears to relish the splendid silliness of their respective roles and the knowing winks to camera delivered within the script rather than directorial instruction. Then again, McDonagh IS the writer and director so perhaps it matters neither where the in-jokes originate nor how they are presented, only that they poke gentle, accurate fun at the rules of the game. Which they do. Both jobs done, Mr M.

As a self-contained story In Bruges is the stronger work and will no doubt be the one that lasts the test of time more effectively but if you're looking for a thoroughly entertaining and mildly bloody way to spend an evening's viewing with occasional uses of the word 'cunt' thrown in, you can do a lot worse than Seven Psychopaths. Plus you get the bonus of trying to work out whether Farrell's eyebrows have already achieved sentience in their own right.