Two recently released thrillers make apparent the vast gulf between work that’s memorable, and a film that in my case I walked out of. What’s interesting is that in theory at least, Killer Elite and Drive are on a level playing field. So why did one keep me holding onto my seat, while the other propelled me from it?

On the surface, Killer Elite has everything going for it. Or if not everything, three big names that should be indicative of a quality thriller: Jason Statham, Robert de Niro, and Clive Owen. I know I’m unusually fervent about the small but perfectly formed talents of the man they call Stath, but put him on his home territory of violent action and he can deliver the goods reliably. I think of him as a British Vin Diesel, with less steroids and no penchant for Dungeons & Dragons (which Vin introduced Helen Mirren to when they were making Chronicles of Riddick).

Put the Stath together with Owen and de Niro, and what can go wrong? Well, as it turns out, rather a lot. Like, someone involved in the film was so excited at having got the three A-listers signed up, they neglected to pay attention to the script, which is where it all starts. I stuck it out for a while, but then came a scene so leaden that it was beyond the transmuting capabilities of even the most skilful alchemist. That scene features a group of middle-aged men sat around a table. One of them for some reason feels compelled to remind the others that they are former SAS men, now businessmen and politicians. That’s pretty much the words used in fact; “We are former SAS men. Now businessmen and politicians.” There is assent to this. He continues, “And we are called the Feathermen because it’s important that we have a lightness of touch.” This the Feathermen had singularly failed to demonstrate in the film to that point, which had featured numerous explosions and gunshots filmed in a very mundane way. That’s the point I left.

Thankfully, Drive is an altogether more enticing proposition. Directed by Nicholas Winding Refn, the Danish director who did such a strong job on Bronson in the UK, this is the first American film he’s done, and on the basis of this one I expect more to follow. Really, the premise is no more substantial than Killer Elite…but here we have a filmmaker in command of his material with a very sure sense of what he wants to achieve and how he wants to do it.

From the start, you know you’re in capable hands. There’s a look to the film that only comes from someone thinking long and hard about what he’s after, and making sure that the team under him are capable of realising that vision. Vibrant colour is central to the look of the film. And why not? It’s set in LA after all, home of diners and cinemas and all the sunbaked ephemera of American pop culture. The palette frequently features red and white, quite often white being a surface on which red blood ends up spattered which it does with alarming intensity.

The protagonist is Ryan Gosling, a stunt driver who gets involved in criminal dealings. From then, it has the remorseless inevitability of Point Blank. The driver wears a white jacket, which has angelic connotations, but on its back is a scorpion, the greater clue to its wearer’s character, as a Buddhist fable recounted in the story makes clear. Gosling will simply not give in, determined to turn the tables on the crooks who’ve involved him in a million-dollar heist. He’s content to return the money and regain his life, but that’s not going to happen. His jacket gets increasingly bloody through the course of the film as he follows the chain of lowlife hoods involved in the crime, all to a pulsing electronic score that’s an interesting counter to the old school nature of this hardboiled story. I don’t know where Refn plans to go next, but all I can say is follow him there, even if you have to watch what happens between your fingers at times.

Olivier Megaton. Olivier Megaton. Say it a few times to take in the magnitude of the name. Olivier Megaton. Surely, in this era of personal branding, this is a name that someone chose for themselves. Or perhaps commissioned from a naming agency, briefing them to come up with something that unforgettably associates the person named with high impact movies. Olivier: one of the finest actors ever! Also, sounds French. Megaton: instantly brings to mind one of the defining images of the 20th century, Hiroshima.

After the wow! of the name though, what then? There is the matter of living up to it, and O.M. (even his initials have cosmic connotations!) has yet to secure himself a place at the table with those he’d like to be buddied up with. Other than his mentor Luc Besson anyway, who got him the gig directing Jason Statham vehicle vehicle Transporter 3 (not a typo: it’s a vehicle for fast cars, as much as Statham). Let’s just say that Megaton didn’t buck any trends where third in the line films are concerned.

But, he’s got something — if only an imagination that’s not afraid of well worn ideas. What, do you suppose, do the Latin gangsters who feature prominently in his new film Colombiana look like? Would you be surprised to discover they are stubbled, expensively dressed, and inhabit sprawling mansions where artwork is notable for its gaudiness, and one decorative feature is a swimming pool containing a pair of lethal sharks?

And how about our heroine? Lithe and beautiful, burdened with enacting revenge against these terrible men because they killed her beloved father. Does she have a lover? For sure, but she cannot burden him with the truth about her life, though when she has finished her spree of killings, she agrees that they can meet up again, and thus allow the possibility of love to enter her life where there has only been bloody death.

What of the authorities? Surely they have something to say about an assassin who can kill 20 or more men without being found? Ah, they are handicapped not just by mostly inefficient agents, but some manner of corruption within their ranks. Fear not, our heroine finds an ally of sorts within their ranks and uses him to get the information she needs.

And are there perhaps quick bursts of opera during the action, some of which is styled in the fashionable parkour mode, where participants treat the urban environment as a gym? You are ahead of me there. But if I were to tell you that this sequence has a relatively novel twist through happening in a Latin American environment, then you will see that some novelty has been brought to the table.

Novelty meaning that Besson and Megaton have seen City of God? I dare say that assumption is correct, and all the reference points for a chase through Latin squalor are in place. Still, it makes a pleasant change to the streets of Vancouver, which all too many films have made us familiar with.

And is it quite as predictable as you’re claiming? Well, yes. But that doesn’t matter. It’s all delivered very capably, in a fast and fluid blur of motion, styled to the Nth degree. If you’re in a mood for this sort of thing, then this sort of thing is just fine.

There’s no doubting that Megaton has tremendous aptitude for creating kinetic films that leave your mind untroubled as the images pass through. His work has the feel of a high-end commercial, but the only thing being sold here is Megaton himself. Hopefully he’ll come to realise at some point that if he wants his films to be as memorable as his name, something more is called for. I like to call it ’substance’.

Now, here’s one to puzzle over. Apollo 18. The film hasn’t been previewed to critics in the UK, which tends to suggest that those involved in its marketing are wary of press response. Which is understandable. And I suspect the other part of the equation is that this is just the sort of film that could find an audience for itself regardless…

The conceit of Apollo 18 is that it’s created from footage of that doomed Moon mission. As such it plays into the realm of real world conspiracy theories, which have become a substitute for actual thought in some audiences. Dan Brown’s millions of readers lap up the way the author ties together historical facts with supposition with a cliffhanger at the end of every short chapter, ensuring that there was always going to be an audience for Da Vinci Code. And X-Files plundered the shadowy American mythology that leads some to believe aliens play golf with air force pilots at Roswell. Apollo 18 brings together these streams, and the ersatz documentary styling is entirely appropriate to the venture.

That use of supposedly found footage affects the look of the film, which is created perfectly — presumably through digital processes. And it means that the narrative has to be conveyed in a way that the audience registers as authentic. Here, it’s less successful. While it conveys the characters of the three astronauts well through the use of home movie footage of a barbecue, rooting them to a time and a place in the early 70s and in a context where they’re husbands and fathers, it’s less elegant in getting across some of the beats of the story itself. There’s also a toe-curling moment when in an attempt to capture the (then) zeitgeist, and how it relates to their situation, mention is made of Watergate. The idea’s fine, but the execution comes across rather like saying “Let’s go for a coffee in Carnaby Street, centre of so much that happened in London’s swinging sixties.”

The other constraint on the film is a physical one. Much of what transpires takes place within the cramped confines of an Apollo landing module. There are cameras within to film the crew, who also have their own handheld cameras to capture anything of interest. Which takes its time coming…but to be fair the groundwork had to be established firmly before the filmmakers could lead the audience from the known facts into unknown territory.

The twist, when it comes, is an interesting business. We know by now that a twist is going to come, but have hopefully been lulled by the authenticity of the ‘found footage’ notion that it will still surprise us. Sure, it’s just the good old contract with the audience, but when you’re playing your cards like the filmmakers here have, you need to pull off the reveal with real skill. And the film does that reasonably enough, first with the reveal that there’s an abandoned Soviet spacecraft not far from their own, and then…well, you can find out yourself if you choose to see Apollo 18. A shame that the Watergate mention was so clunky — it foreshadows the resolution perfectly.

Make no mistake: this is not quality cinema in the generally understood sense. But a lot can be learned from the way it operates. With a few constraints chosen for their relevance to the situation they want to depict, and which by the way serve to keep costs down, the filmmakers have come up with an unusual and effective claustrophobic drama that does a pretty good job at racking the tension and convincing you that maybe, just maybe, this version of events really is what befell the team of the ill-fated Apollo 18 mission. And if you’re a writer or director, that’s a good reason to catch this film — preferably at the cinema, where the work done to give the right texture to the visuals will be all the more convincing.

Now that, I wasn’t expecting. Which is sadly something you can say all too rarely about anything with the label ‘horror’. Typically speaking, the appearance of a nasty within the first five minutes, offing someone who has rashly decided to open the wrong door (kitchen or dimensional) lets the audience know precisely what sort of ride they’re in for. If the thing the other side of the door has pointy teeth, it’s a vampire. Pointy teeth and fur; a werewolf. Wonky head and erratic gait; a zombie. We go to the cinema to be scared, but only when we know what it is that’s going to scare us. No wonder that the new wave of Asian horror films was such a breath of fresh air.

And now we have Kill List, part of the power of which is it really does feel truly nightmarish. There’s an utterly prosaic tone to the film when it opens, when we discover the domestic lives of a hitman and his associate. It’s not long before they’re taking hammers to peoples’ hands, stabbing and shooting others — and all of the victims thanking the killers for what they’ve done. That alone is deeply unsettling in a way that seeing a caped figure appear in the background just can’t compete with. Making appalling violence a literal occurrence, within an inexplicable frame…it’s profoundly unsettling.

There’s a backdrop here to do with our hitman having served in the military abroad, and that seeimingly forming part of what’s going on now. But things take a distinctly different turn in the direction of The Wicker Man when our two cronies are planning a hit on an MP who lives in a country house. Taking time to case the joint from nearby woods, they’re startled to come across a procession of people with straw masks wielding torches. Clearly with this lack of respect for health and safety they’re seriously unhinged, but inevitably the two get caught up in what’s happening with appalling consequences, turning from hunter to hunted in a — nightmarish, again — sequence where they’re chased through the tunnels in the grounds of the country house.

It’s the film’s inexplicability that gives it power. Starting in what seems to be a socially realistic vein, somewhere between Ken Loach and Mike Leigh, it then takes a turn into something like Dead Man’s Shoes or Straw Dogs before the weirdass pagan stuff kicks in. The mix is powerful and uncanny, the fever dream of someone who’s seen and been influenced by those films and offers something that contains elements of all and concocts a still more potent brew from the mix. It’s the filmic equivalent of drinking the bong juice, and if that thought makes you shudder you’ll have some idea of the appeal of Kill List, the second feature from director/writer Ben Wheatly, brought to the screen by low budget genre splicers Warp.

All of which is a world away from the banal safety of Pedro Almodovar’s new offering. The Skin I Live In wants to say something clever about feminism and the Frankenstein story, but it’s all too conscious and not nearly messy enough. Much is made of a male surgeon creating new skin for his car crash victim wife, and the way it’s shot makes it clear that we’re to realise that this is as much as anything a look at the male gaze. To reinforce the notion, pretty much every scene features a classic portrait of a naked woman.

There’s undoubtedly a good movie to made of such material, but not by someone tackling it with the detached academic view that Almodovar takes. Give the theme to David Cronenberg or Lynne Ramsey and I’m sure something special could result. But as it is, The Skin I Live In demonstrates by its failures all the things that make Kill List a vibrant raw example of contemporary filmmaking.

If ever there was a title designed to put off the group of 16-22 year olds who Hollywood has decided is its core audience, Waitress would be about it. No promise of aliens and battles, or a bunch of guys having comic adventures together, just a hint that maybe coffee and pie will be on the menu, and where’s the fun in that? Writer and director Adrienne Shelly knew exactly what she was doing in crafting this gorgeous gem, a film whose resounding success comes from something tragically rare in the world of film: a female perspective.

Never mind the fucked-up situation that results in cinema being an overwhelmingly masculine pursuit. Let’s instead celebrate a film that comes at things from a different angle, and is all the more interesting for that. Jenna works at a diner, and is married to a control freak husband. The one joy she has in life is making pies, the creation of which is filmed lovingly as Jenna conjures tasty confections that commemorate moods and moments — she has a pie for every occasion, a tradition that she inherited from her mother.

Sure, there’s a fairytale element to all this, with Jenna very much the Cinderella of the three women who work at the diner. The others aren’t ugly sisters, but there’s no doubting who is the kindest, and most deserving of another life. Which she gets, in a form she could do without, when Jenna discovers that she’s pregnant. This provides the impetus she needs to get the hell out of her current life, the only way she sees to do so being to win a pie making contest.

Things take a twist when Jenna meets a handsome new doctor, who soon provides her with the genuinely attentive loving that she’s never had with her needy and paranoid husband, Earl. Used to Earl pleading for sex and succumbing to his wheedling, she’s surprised in the doctor to be with someone who can hold her just for its own sake, and not as a preamble to lovemaking. Which makes her all the more willing to get engrossed in an affair with the doctor.

The fly in the ointment is that doc is married. And that leads to a wonderfully twisted scenario late on when the doctor is helping her give birth, her husband is filming the proceeedings with a camera bought from her escape fund money that he found, and the doc’s wife is one of the team of interns in the theatre. An uneasy situation even when you’re feeling on top of things. Certainly not a recipe for giving birth with ease.

This being a fundamentally happy film, all works out well in the end, in a way that might annoy some viewers but reflects the realities of Jenna’s situation. Old Joe, who owns the diner and a few other businesses, gives her the money to escape her situation and start a new life elsewhere. For a working class wife whose husband has been taking most of what she earns, like it or not, this kind of generosity is perhaps one of the few ways that she could start again.

There’s a real buzz to the film, which comes from a strong script coming from a place where the mainstream has nothing to say. That said, it’s a thoroughly accessible and enjoyable story, just the kind I’d love to see more of. Only, in the case of Adrienne Shelly, that’s not going to happen: she was murdered soon after the film wrapped. I’d only got to found out about her recently through her work with Hal Hartley, and it seems everyone found her a truly lovely as well as an immensely talented person. Her husband established The Adrienne Shelly Foundation to support filmmakers with scholarships, stipends, finishing funds and grants. Let’s hope that one result of the Foundation is work that will in some way live up the promise that this very special woman demonstrated in her brief life.

There have been a good few films set in the milieu of Planet of the Apes, none of them with the unlikely satirical charm of the original book by Pierre Boulle, where gorillas in tweeds display photos of themselves atop a pile of freshly shot humans that they’ve hunted. That description puts it in the tradition of ‘world turned upside down’ stories which have been popular for centuries, where servants and masters swap places and all is generally topsy-turvy…at least for a day, before social order is restored.

In the chronology of the films, we know what’s going to happen — apes overrun Earth. What we haven’t known until now is just how it comes about. Which is the flimsy justification for the latest film to tackle the ape/human saga. Unfortunately it comes after the poisoned chalice of the Tim Burton version of the story, which was universally derided. So it’s great to be able to say that Rise of the Planet of the Apes is a surprisingly good film — not just by the hokey standards of its predecessors, but when put alongside any number of ‘proper’ (monkey-free) movies.

Let’s get the technology out of the way. Yes, the monkeys look fab. Better than they ever have thanks to digital technology and Andy Serkis doing another impressive and expressive turn as a non-human character for motion capture purposes. And that doesn’t go for individual apes, it means that we now get to see apes en masse do things that were impossible before. The sight of a horde of apes, seen from above, breaking into two war bands to attack different parts of San Francisco, is a seriously impressive shot that could only be realised with contemporary technology.

Being blown away by the newest tricknology is a bit like being given a ride in a petrolhead friend’s expensive new motor: you know why they’re enraptured, but the buzz doesn’t rub off on you. Much more important is the human dimension, and here the new Apes film delivers more than any of its predecessors. There’s an emotional core to the story that’s captivating, as a scientist takes in an ape whose mother was subject to experiments with an intelligence-enhancing drug. No surprise that junior grows up to be even smarter than mama, though with a home routine involving signing lessons, art and music and access to an extensive library, I was starting to feel that the story is a parable about the dangers of hothousing children.

Junior is Caesar, and his story is a heartbreaking one. Close to the family who bring him up, he’s taken to what amounts to a prison for badboy apes when he attacks a neighbour in defence of the oldest male in his human tribe. It obeys all the tropes of the prison movie at that point, just with hairier inmates. You can imagine that the tyre hanging from a tree becomes as potent a symbol as a crucifix to a sensitive chap like Caesar, but in practice he has a tormented relationship with the image of the distinctive window that he looked out from his attic room, which becomes a symbol for the ape revolution.

The arc the story takes is predictable but well executed. And along the way there are some strikingly realised images: the sequence where people going about their business notice the cascade of leaves that’s coming towards them as a legion of apes move through the trees in their suburban neighbourhood is exquisite. Similarly, the battle on Golden Gate Bridge is realised with more inventiveness than many previous Apes directors would have brought to the table. Faint praise? It’s not intended as such. For all you know where the story is headed, it gets there through the skilled execution of the beats along the way. More importantly, the story has real emotional impact; considerably more than I’ve experienced in lots of films where hairless apes have been centre stage.

There’s much frustration among musical types about the way things are going in that world, where MP3 formats are a challenge both to the economics of the business, and sound quality. Put simply, MP3 compresses sound and the results can be unsubtle. While many in the scene are caught up in arguments about it, Bjork has found another way to deal with the situation. The new work that she’s releasing at present under the Biophilia tag in a series of apps as well as in more conventional forms is designed to capitalise on the limitations of the MP3 format and sound good within its parameters.

Well, of course. Treat the situation as a challenge and work with it. The same applies to filmmakers. How do you make an impact with a low budget feature when there’s not much in the kitty for effects and name actors? Hmm…nice though those are, what’s wrong with going back to basics and writing a good script with some striking (and inexpensive) moments?

That’s the solution that a few interesting filmmakers have hit on. Rather than emulating something where your lack of budget really will draw attention to the shortfall between intention and reality, come up with a milieu of your own where you set the rules. Hal Hartley is an excellent case in point. His second feature Trust relies on arch scripting, performances that don’t acknowledge the humour of what’s happening, and some moments guaranteed to make the viewer sit up and take notice.

Those moments? How about putting your boss’s head in a vice as you quit the place? Having an awkward conversation with a mother who suggests that her oldest daughter will be good in bed? Going to the abortion clinic when you find your boyfriend in bed with your sister after your mum got him drunk and put him there? None of those are ideas that cost money. They’re all about having an imagination, and — beyond that — a sensibility.

Sensibility is an interesting one…some people have it, some people don’t. It’s a function of worldview and style. You can see it in the work of Woody Allen or Jim Jarmusch. Less so Michael Bay or George Lucas. The joy of a sensibility is that people will come and seek your work in the hope of experiencing it some more if it appeals to them. Hmm, maybe we could use the word ‘aesthetic’, as long as you realise that it doesn’t mean it’s about making things look good. Not at all. But a distinct look is often part of a sensibility, and both can be realised with little or no budget.

Anyway, Trust is a delight, an underplayed curio that will appeal to some, but not all. And that’s another of the things with having a sensibility. Those that get it, get it. But that number will invariably be fairly small. Still, you can make that work as a career if you’re lucky: Quentin Tarantino and the Coens have got by pretty well through having an idiosyncratic worldview that’s distinct from whitebread Hollywood offerings.

Which brings us back to Bjork, kind of. There’s a distinct sensibility about her work that carries through across projects. It’s there in the choices she makes, and the people she chooses to work with. And it’s present at this point in the way she manages her career. She’s an excellent role model for anyone aspiring to a modern media career, straddling different artforms and collaborating with people known for the quality of what they do. The apps for Biophilia are interesting not just in their own right, but as a business model, with the developers and Bjork each getting half of the proceeds. Which is a much more attractive proposition than the kind of deals monopolistic distributors and broadcasters are partial to. Just a thought…

You know what it’s like when you’ve been for a great night out, and try to recapture it? You can have the same people there, go to the same places, eat and drink what you had before while listening to the same music…but it’ll never be the experience you first had. That’s just not possible. Even less so when you have that first time to compare it with. All of which is by way of explaining that Super 8, fabulous though it is in so many ways, just can’t replicate what it was created to sit alongside: E.T. and Close Encounters of the Third Kind.

I can’t imagine how the chats with Steven Spielberg, the film’s producer went, as director and writer J.J. Abrams told him how the story would be about a group of kids in the 70s who live in dysfunctional families rather than Disney-esque ones and come across an alien that’s been hidden by the army, who put their suburb under military law to reclaim the beast. That would feel a bit creepy to me, and I’d be very wary if J.J. uttered the words “I’m your biggest fan”.

Only, given that much of the film is told with the same visual brilliance and flair for the epic that Spielberg has, it would be churlish to quibble. Especially when Super 8 hits all the right emotional buttons too. The kids are brought together by the desire of their leader to make a short film for a local festival — both J.J. and Spielberg were doing just this sort of thing at their age — and all the right notes are struck around the kids themselves, and the family situations they need to be extricated from in order to participate in the filming.

It’s possible that the added ease of creating massive spectacle through digital means detracts from the power of the film. The train crash which alerts the kids to the presence of the alien creature is so huge, and so much time is devoted to it, that the narrative is suspended for a while to let the audience be stunned by the effects. Same happens again with the sheer scale of the army’s presence in the town: it’s arguably too epic. Where that kind of scale sits well with Spielberg’s War of the Worlds, as he’s looking at the impact of alien invasion on a major city, the sense of suburban life and the place of the kids in it is to some extent overwhelmed by the truckloads of money that J.J. has access to. Sometimes less is more — if we’re going to echo Spielberg scenes, I’d love to have seen something more akin to the mashed potato business in CE3K, which achieves its power through nothing more than the simplest ingredients, human and vegetable, while having absolute thematic relevance.

Still, there is plenty to enjoy here. Super 8 is great fun from start to finish, the kids giving strong performances as they go through whatever rites of passage the script has set up for them. It’s a connection to something very important that Spielberg absolutely gets: the cosmic makes a lot more sense in terms of the personal. Messy feelings are what drive people, at least primarily: it’s much more noble to achieve nobility from that starting point than to display it all along.

If there’s something to be learned from Super 8 that I hope other filmmakers take note of, it’s that spectacle is empty unless it’s rooted in emotion. All too many films, from the Star Wars sequels to Narnia and Inception, can put digital filmmaking technology to good use. Far fewer can tell an affecting story. When the two come together the combination can be work of true beauty. And while Super 8 falls short of that, it does at least head in the right direction.

Here we are again, with the latest superhero film from the Marvel Comics stable. After a decidedly patchy start with the likes of Daredevil and Ghost Rider failing to bring to life what makes those pulp comic heroes appealing, far more impressive — if formulaic — takes on Iron Man and Thor have made the superhero film a workable box office proposition. Spider-Man is a separate issue: he was lucky enough to have Sam Raimi chronicle his adventures in a trilogy that has plenty to offer. The thing with Iron Man and Thor is that they’re an attempt to build up a sequence of connected films that will lead up to a Joss Whedon-helmed Avengers movie next summer. So it’s important that they get the latest in the series right. And, somewhat to my surprise, they have: Captain America is a resounding success.

What makes the film shine is they’ve stuck to what makes the character work. A superhero who’s a symbol of his nation works a lot better in days before there was irony about that notion. So the bulk of the story happens back in World War Two, when a patriotic hero kicking Nazi ass played well with the public. Steve Rogers is a wimp with the heart of a hero. When he’s given a supersoldier formula he gains the body and prowess to go with his convictions. One interesting touch is that he’s initially conceived of as a propaganda tool, and has to win over those who view him as a jingoistic vaudeville turn. Smart touch: having made the transition to having a hero’s physique does not make him a hero. That’s something Rogers has to win.

It’s tremendously enjoyable stuff. Nazis are biffed, and we discover something more evil still in the form of HYDRA, an organisation dedicated to the promulgation of mad science headed by the villainous Red Skull. The name is pretty much a spolier for his appearance, and one thing that struck me was that the only vivid reds in the film are associated with Herr Skull and the figure-hugging dress that Cap’s paramor Peggy Carter wears to attract his attention. Sex and death — a combination as classic and lethal as burger and fries.

One thing that definitely appeals is that Cap is a man of action. No prevaricating and neuroticising in the style of a Brian Bendis written hero. There’s a place for all that, absolutely. But believe me, it’s not in the majority of superhero fiction. Seeing Cap having dilemmas about whether to pursue the Red Skull as the evil mastermind heads for New York with a deadly cargo in his sweep-wing jet, or wrestle with his conscience about the ethics of using HYDRA disintegrator weapon technology…no, there’s a time when what’s needed is unadorned action in pursuit of a morally inarguable objective. And that’s precisely what the film delivers.

If you’re in a mood for a high-octane action yarn, you’ve come to the right place. As with other recent Marvel movies, Captain America is dotted with much better actors than you might be expecting to see, this time including Hugo Weaving and Stanley Tucci, and the whole is more than capably choreographed by director Joe Johnston, who in many ways seems to be picking up where he left off with Rocketeer — another strong adaptation of something with a vintage pulp feel.

Fast and kinetic, this is high-adrenaline filmmaking that’s thoroughly enjoyable from first to last. And for long term Marvel readers there are a few Easter eggs dropped into scenes that don’t get in the way of comprehension for the audience at large. That — please take note, Green Lantern team — is how you do these things. The source material is disposable fun, not the Old Testament. And it all bodes very well for the Avengers film. I look forward to Joss Whedon building on the contributions of his predecessors.

A musician I know wrote a song that she was told could be a hit, because she’d touched on a universal experience that hadn’t been written about often. Her song was all about waiting for a letter from a lover, this back in the days when postal communication meant receiving something handwritten from someone special, maybe involving all kinds of in-joke cartoons and extra stuff like mixtapes and sweets and plastic toys.

Horrible Bosses ticks just that same box of universality. I don’t know if the script was commissioned by someone who had the realisation that vile employers would make for a widely appealing movie, or if it was a conclusion reached independently by the writers (Michael Markowitz, John Francis Daley and Jonathan Goldstein). Whichever, you’ve got to admit it’s a genius commercial move. Finding a universally shared experience like that always indicates potential for a story. The question then is about the quality of its execution.

The writers took a sensible route here. Having hit on a theme that everyone can identify with, they approach it in a manner that suits a mass audience. Right now, that means fitting in with the fairly extreme style of humour that’s formed a winning formula for moves like Hangover and Bridesmaids.

I’m discussing the film from an industry viewpoint because it’s a good example of what happens when commerce and not art leads the process. Often, that leads to dismal spectacle with no trace of humanity — witness the career of Michael Bay. I mean that with no disrespect: there’s a certain kind of experience you get from a Bay spectacular, and if that’s what you’re in a mood for he delivers it reliably.

The fact that Kevin Spacey appears in the film tells you that Horrible Bosses aims higher than the lowest common denominator. He is one of two almost-credible vile employers, a tyrant whose egomania and paranoia combine to blight the lives of others, and ultimately leads to his own downfall. Another is the son of a company founder, who intends to squander the business’s money on coke and hookers, and his portrayal is strong too. The letdown is the third candidate, a nymphomaniac dentist who is sexually harassing her assistant. The concept might just work, but in execution it speaks of a pitifully immature approach to sexuality which borders on the misogynistic.

Our three stalwarts band together and realise that only death will stop their employers in their tracks. But how do three white middle class guys go about committing murder? By going to the wrong side of the tracks of course, and meeting up in a bar populated by black people, where they encounter one Motherfucker Jones. It’s a dumb move, but as M.F. Jones himself points out, they deserve what they get for assuming a black guy will know how to eliminate their enemies just on the basis of his skin colour.

Fortunately, if only because of the exuberance of the performances — the actors are clearly enjoying themselves — the film delivers laughs on a consistent basis. Much of what’s to relish is visual. The coke-snootin’ boss lives amid an astonishing collection of martial arts artefacts, and a multi-cultural array of sacred statues chosen for how cool they look rather than any unifying spiritual framework. No surprise that they encounter a coke stash that Scarface would be proud of, and are affected by it when they knock it over and try and put it back in using a vacuum cleaner and a colander.

The exuberance it’s delivered with makes for any shortcomings in other respects. Forget sophisticated entertainment and instead enjoy some real belly laughs from the trio as they embark on their vengeful plans only for everything to fall apart. You can kind of see it coming, but that really doesn’t matter. There are other nights to go to the cinema for thoughtful empathic filmmaking. Go and see Horrible Bosses because you’d like to see what happens when some people with career histories like your own decide to take action against their employers. Enjoy.