Early on in this travesty of a film, an elderly African American is watching a John Wayne WWII flick. Spittling at the screen, he intones "we were there, TOO, pilgrim..."

This, then, is Spike's answer to all those films that "forgot" to include Blacks in their retelling of war tales. Much was made of Spike's verbal attack on Eastwood for ignoring African American involvement in his Iwo Jima/Flags of our Fathers projects. All this pre-release drama and heavy handed introductions of character would, of course, be completely forgiven if we were presented with a nuanced, intelligent, well drawn tale of heroism.

Instead, we get what can be simply described as the worst war film I've seen since the prurient Passchendaele. Now, given that that was two days ago takes nothing from that sting - this is a truly awful, horrendous film, best avoided if not downright ignored.

Forgetting the dull plot, ridiculous situations and boring-as-hell "McGuffin" (in the form of a statue head), the most abhorrent thing about this film is that it is almost virulently racist. You've got token characterizations throughout: forgiving the "cracker", southern white boy who callously massacres his own men because he doesn't believe they've succeeded in the first phase of their mission, the characterizations of the black characters are the stuff of a Bamboozled-like Vaudeville shtick. There's the over sexed light skinned black, the uncertain dark skinned black who fawns at the site of the most gratuitous display of white boobs since Dolomite. There's also the big, hulking giant, clinically retarded it seems but strong as an ox and with a heart of gold, able to woo even the most precocious of children with his feats of power.

Then there's the language - forgetting the off-putting use of the term "nigger" as a form of affectionate banter, this term is offensive in this context on aesthetic grounds, if only because of its historical inaccuracy for the period. I'm not sure if Spike was trying in some way to contemporize the slang (in the same way that Milch uses "cunt" in Deadwood in place of "damn", as the force of the former term has diminished while the latter continues to be, well, provocative. Regardless, the writer/director shamefully parades the n-word, making each soldier little more than characterizations of themselves, silly pawns from just another rap video.

This is such a total failure, such a total disappointment, that the trite and convenient ending is saved from being risible by being merely pathetic and patently ridiculous.

The tale of African American involvement in this conflict may certainly deserve more attention than it gets, but, if anything, this film serves to do nothing less than piss on the memories of those who actually served, making Black soldiers seem like bumbling idiots incapable of keeping their dicks in their pants, while engaging in militarily ridiculous activities and shlepping a superstitious avatar in the form of a plaster, not-coincidentally white head. Horrendous, simply horrendous.

It’s hard to say definitively, but certainly one of my earliest introductions to non-English “World Music” was the collaboration between Peter Gabriel and Senagalese sensation Youssou N’Dour. And what an introduction - his soaring tenor seems to cut through any arrangement with bell-like clarity, a distinctive instrument that can truly be said to be one of the planet's true musical treasures.

With this documentary, we trace the creation of N'Dour’s acclaimed Egypt album. Fusing a Cairo-based Arabic orchestra with West African musical heritage, the album is a celebration of pan-African love for shared religious convictions.

Films about the tension between secular and religious music are hardly new, dating back at least to The Jazz Singer as a topic for cinematic exploration. However, with this contemporary look at two topics shrouded in misunderstanding, namely the cultures of Islam and West Africa, we share in N'Dour’s troubles and triumphs as this controversial album is received to both acclaim and (initially) reticence.

This is a serious, heady film about important topics, but it’s also at its heart a celebration, a joyous compilation of live performances. The passion with which the musicians play this “faith” music is extraordinary, and the sheer conviction demonstrated by N'Dour to provide a positive international voice for his faith in the shadow of contemporary struggles within the Muslim community is inspirational. Attractively shot, intimate and unflinching, this is a wonderful document of a musical legend as he tackles what proves to be his most personal work.

Pretentious, obnoxious film about working in a pallet factory. Telling what should be an enlightening tale about a boss who is imposing his Islamic faith upon his workers via the construction of a mosque, we're instead inundated with long, drawn out images of rows upon rows of red painted pallets, with forklifts scurrying back and forth.

Sure, there are bonus marks again for a grown man who gives himself a circumcision, but in the end this is a pointless, plodding film, attempting to make some grand political statement but instead falling utterly flat.

By the time I learned about the exploits of Muhammad Ali, he had long since moved from being a boxer to being a political, historical figure, a celebrity afflicted with a medical condition that effectively muted his fiery speech. It was the exemplary When We Were Kings that first opened my eyes to Ali the boxer, the athlete, and the most eloquent and engaging figure sports may have ever seen. That doc was decades in the making, touching upon the political difficulties in staging the fight in Zaire, and touching upon the music concert that was meant to coincide with it.

Soul Power very much owes much of its power to the earlier film - in any other context this concert would have been the highlight, but given the sheer drama and improbability of the fight itself, this mega concert really did become the sideshow. That said, there was some magnificent music created here, and this film rightfully places the music at the fore.

Directed by one of the editors of When We Were Kings, Soul Power is more than simply B-roll footage from the previous doc. We get a far better sense of the scope and scale of the show, of the logistical challenges brought by pulling off a megaconcert in a challenging political climate.

The highlight, surely, is the music. The African American and Afro-Cuban artists are clearly revelling in this so-called "return", and the performances (by the likes of James Brown, the Spinners, and Celia Cruz) are all top notch. This is the early 70's, after these artists had honed their groove, but before Disco would pasteurize the beat. These are hard driving, funky performances, sweaty and intense. The reunited JBs are on fire, with Maceo blowing his mind out with a righteous tone, and, of course, giving the film its title. The Spinners, just climbing their ladder of success, look somewhat out of place with their sweaty sideburns, but they bring their harmonies to the fore. Miriam Makeba, who in the previous film was relegated to snippits of her more intense gesticulations, is finally allowed to shine. Her introduction to the so-called "Click Song" has a far more cutting introduction than her similar intros with Belafonte, hinting not-so-subtly that the title is forced upon her as the "colonialists" can't pronounce the Xhosa words.

It is an unexpected delight, however, to find that B.B. King shines brightest, with a downright unforgettable performance of the (now well tread) "The Thrill is Gone". Injecting the blues with a laid back funk groove, this is B.B. at the top of his game, a simply extraordinary performance.

The audience is a wonderful part of the story as well. Amused and certainly entertained by the more mathematical precision of James Brown's groove, it is Mongo Santamaria's Cuban drumming that brings the audience to ecstasy. Certainly there is no more direct connection between African and North American music than the drum, and his dexterity on the bongos cuts through any cultural division. The uproar after his solo is electric.

Aside from the performances, we get greater insight into the activities of the artists themselves (again, a funny and charming B.B. steals the backstage show), and the film is peppered with extended scenes and interviews with Ali. His opponent, George Foreman, is nowhere to be found throughout the doc - his absence telling, if only that the artists themselves were certainly on the side of "The Champ". That said, this (and other) absences are more than made up by the prior doc, allowing this film to tell its story unencumbered by the overriding narrative of the fight. It is thus at once more intimate and more specific in its focus (absent as well are the talking-head interviews).

Compelling, energizing, ecstatic, this is a show for the ages, and the doc does a great job adding another layer to the already sublime documentation of these events.

I have a simple demand for exploitational, genre films like Deadgirl – if you’re going to bother opening the proverbial pandora’s box, you might as well open it up all the away. There’s nothing more frustrating than a half-assed horror flick that thinks it’s scarier and gorier than it actually is, relying on loud noises and spooky lighting to make up for terrible acting, poor screenwriting, and a spoiled high-concept hook.

The hook in question is that a bunch of rejects from the 90210 casting call are inexplicably digging through an abandoned insane asylum, where they open up a sealed off door, only to find a woman chained to a bed. We then learn that the woman is apparently unable to be killed, prompting the lads to do the obvious – fuck her relentlessly, poke holes in her for fun, and generally use her like some locker room sock.

Right, so it’s that kind of movie…

The film thus has a truly repulsive and potentially terrifying/enjoyable story line, but, aside from the obvious offensiveness of the central plot line, it unfolds with such patently amateur results. There’s zero suspense generated in any of the goings on, and the twenty-something’s playing high school students seem utterly out of their element. I spent more time worried about the “plumbing” issues than I did feeling any sense of dread.

The film lacks either a sense of irony, or the balls to go to the obvious limits that such a situation would present. There’s lots and lots of creepy, truly sick-as-hell directions that the film could have gone down, questions of gore and disgust that are touched upon and then dropped for what amounts to a pedestrian, gormless tale. The end result is neither disgusting enough to be shocking, nor interesting enough to remain compelling during a midnight screening.