And the winner is... Yes, after the Oscars, who can doubt that the brothers Weinstein, Harvey and his younger sibling Bob, are back on top in Hollywood? The Weinstein Company distributed The Artist in the US, and orchestrated its campaign to win Best Picture, and that wasn't the only one of the firm's movies taking plaudits.

The production company behind the Bridget Jones's Diary movies was yesterday forced to deny reports that Hugh Grant had quit the third instalment because of issues with the script.

Meryl Streep is superb, but the story is of one woman fulfilling her destiny rather than the pell-mell of politics

There is one very good reason to see The Iron Lady, perhaps good enough to neutralise the reasons to feel annoyed by it. Meryl Streep as Margaret Thatcher gives a performance of uncanny exactitude and command that overleaps the bounds of mimicry: despite a face encrusted with prosthetics and make-up, Streep somehow conveys through outward presentation (clothes, hair, voice) the inward drive of her personality. Strictly as an impersonation it will be seen as definitive for years to come.

Starring: Meryl Streep, Richard E Grant, Jim Broadbent, Anthony Head

Simon Pegg and Nick Frost (Hot Fuzz, Shaun of the Dead) reunite for the comedy sci-fi Paul as two geeks whose pilgrimage to America's UFO heartland brings them face-to-face with the titular alien.

Their output to date includes the zombie comedy Shaun of the Dead and the action comedy Hot Fuzz. Here Simon Pegg and Nick Frost are pictured arriving at the world premiere of their latest film Paul with co-star Sigourney Weaver last night.

Rarely is the interplay of form and narrative function so fittingly enacted as in William Boyd's TV adaptation of his own 2002 novel.

Starring: Jim Broadbent, Ruth Sheen, Lesley Manville, David Bradley

As Mike Leigh's new film, Another Year, is released, James Mottram explores the rigorous processes behind the performances his work is famed for, while stars reveal the demands involved.

Two thugs scrunch pistachio nuts in front of Cillian Murphy's petrified low-life, Michael.

"Call me Ishmael" goes the famous opening line of Moby Dick. "Call me a taxi," I muttered under my breath. To be fair, it gets better, as the quartet of performers in Spymonkey warm to their task of doing a sort of Marx Brothers meets Hellzapoppin' job on Herman Melville's epic, the joke being, of course, that the whale is a rubber duck and Captain Ahab's a delusional idiot.

A volatile caper told with fizz