I don't know when a mainstream film sparked off so much argument as The Killer Inside Me, the noir thriller by Michael Winterbottom. I've had so many heated conversations about it, my head is spinning. The film, as you must surely have read, features two scenes in which women (played by Jessica Alba and Kate Hudson) are viciously attacked out of the blue by the baby-faced, castrato-voiced, faux -charming cop, played by Casey Affleck, with whom they've become sexually involved. The violence is extremely graphic, relentless, shocking and hard to watch; but should we criticise Winterbottom for the extreme quality of his depiction? If he were depicting an earthquake, wouldn't we applaud him for making it as graphic and bone-rattling as he, and the sophisticated resources of a film studio, can make it? Isn't there a post-feminist case, that the more realistically you portray violence against women, the more you'll show complacent people how disgusting it is?
This well crafted, excessively violent story lacks irony – but largely stays true to the 'dime-store Dostoevsky' whose characters it reveals
Some of our greatest stories have always defied movie directors – but a few are finally being realised on screen.
Another week, another cinematic misogyny row. Last week the silt was stirred up – in a rather intriguing way – by Sex and the City 2, a franchise extension which seemed to unleash an informal contest amongst largely male critics to come up with the most scathing dismissal. I think Philip French probably took gold with his, perhaps debatable, suggestion that "most reasonable people would probably prefer to be stoned to death in Riyadh than see this film a second time". But it wasn't just men who hated the movie. Women writers also weighed in, to lament the way that the characters they loved had been reduced to air-headed clothes-horses capable of nothing more creative than swiping a credit card. The charge of misogyny was aimed squarely at the film itself, with some ingenious bloggers introducing an extra triangulation, pointing out that the writers of series and film are gay, and that this might have fed into less than enlightened views about what women really care about.
Zooey Deschanel has been melting hearts now for almost a decade, since her supporting role in Cameron Crowe's Almost Famous, her second film after debuting in quirky comedy Mumford with Hope Davis and Jason Lee in 1999.
This unfunny, watch-between-splayed-fingers "comedy" pairs Kate Hudson with Anne Hathaway as two supposed best friends who want to get married in the same New York hotel on the same day.
I should probably face it: I'm never going to look like Matthew McConaughey. I'll never have those locks, those pecs, that smug grin. But by watching his movies, atrocious though they are, I might learn what makes him so irresistible to women. In his new film Ghosts of Girlfriends Past, for example, McConaughey seduces his way through most of the models in North America, sabotage his brother's wedding, and snare Jennifer Garner.
Tank (Dane Cook) has a gift – he can make any girl think he is the biggest moron in the world.
After 2001's Lions, the Black Crowes' singer Chris Robinson became a gossip staple through his hitch to Kate Hudson, while other band-members wandered off up various blind alleys.
Sitting cross-legged on a sofa in a London hotel, Chris Robinson is reflecting on how, nearly 20 years ago, his band The Black Crowes crept in under the radar and stole the rock'n'roll crown.
The Hollywood actress Kate Hudson, daughter of Goldie Hawn, is taking legal action against five publications for publishing pictures of her accompanied by articles suggesting that she was suffering from an eating disorder, which she denies.