If you haven't heard of Heather Cocks and Jessica Morgan then you're obviously missing out on one of the greatest joys of the internet.
I’m dragging my damp feet a little on the way to the Royal Academy’s 244th Summer Exhibition: I don’t tend to enjoy seeing those beautiful galleries stuffed ceiling-high with thousands of uninspired animal paintings, still lifes and landscapes, and I find the show’s lack of engagement with new media (if we can still even call it that) borderline perverse.
I finally "got" Wes Anderson the other day. Which is not to say that I hadn't "got" him before – in the sense of liking his work and always being willing to substitute his vision of the world for mine for an hour or two. Though I'm not very fond of fey art-house whimsy (see references to Miranda July passim), there has always been something about.
Wes Anderson's films are as formally distinctive as Peter Greenaway's, and sometimes as maddening. They are pictorial things, but less in the way of a film than, say, a graphic novel. Where Greenaway thinks like a painter, Anderson uses the camera like a cartoonist, each frame hyper-composed in colour and composition, an eccentric mini-work of art in itself. What the frames don't have is much sense of physical or emotional movement from one to another. It's the same with the dialogue. People in Wes World don't overlap in their conversation – a character says something, then there's a pause, then another character replies. Again, it's like the thin white lines dividing one box from another in a comic strip. Some find the effect very charming.
As Walker's stark, striking and weirdly stunning set of pictures show, the actress has long been inspired by David Bowie
For the Hollywood A-lister unable to find his perfect leading lady the single life may be too attractive
As arthouse film-makers announce vampire movies, Geoffrey Macnab wonders if respect for the undead will kill the fun of the fear
Henning Mankell wraps up the detective's final case, plus new work from Ali Smith, Graham Swift, Joyce Carol Oates and a host of others looks set to make this a thrilling year for readers
Nothing was funnier or warmer than Lisa Cholodenko's comedy of familial dysfunction, which features a standout performance by Annette Bening as one half of a lesbian couple with kids trying to cope with the appearance of their sperm donor (Mark Ruffalo). Californian faddishness and foolishness are nailed as never before.
Anton Corbijn's handsome second feature leaves its superstar stranded between God and 'amore'
The Edinburgh Film Festival is now billed as an opportunity for discovery. Geoffrey Macnab takes the temperature
An Italian affair to remember
It's freezing when I meet Tilda Swinton, in a hotel overlooking London's Leicester Square. The country is still in the grip of the grimmest winter in 30 years, not that it has dented her mood. "We were snowed in for seven days!" she says, with glee. "In the north of Scotland, it's been extraordinary. It's been like Siberia. Just to show you..."
This Mexican 'Badlands' is a joy, until the bloody ending leaves a sour taste
A man with no name in a film with no point ... hardly a thriller