Swamp Thing falls awkwardly between taking itself seriously and not; the end result is a wierd cocktail of the corniness of The Incredible Hulk TV series and Walter Hill's bayou thriller Southern Comfort. A more developed eco message might have helped but even that feels like an afterthought. Half of the film seems to consist of Adrienne Barbeau being thrown into the swamp, too.

One of the many joys to be had with The Sting is that that it makes such smooth viewing out of such a complicated caper. True, it does spoonfeed us what is happening with aesthetically corroborative chapter titles, but the Depression era costume and set designs are terrific and David S. Ward's script, full of twists, turns and other witticisms, is near-perfect. I could have probably done with more Newman than I got, but Robert Shaw as the maybe clueless mark (one of the greatest actors who ever lived, if you ask me) is a great compensation.

Hypnotic and brilliant, Jonathan Glazer's art-house rendering of Species explores the human form from an extrinsic perspective. The film tackles the notion of beauty being skin-deep in its own singular way as well as exposing just how uncomfortable we can be with our own bodies, echoing only the greatest Cronenbergian works. A uniquely transgressive modern masterpiece, Under The Skin may well be very best film of the year.

Inside Llewyn Davis is a soulful and great looking film with the Coens' trademark droll humour, a moving folk soundtrack (often sung live by the cast) and some cool cats. Although Oscar Isaac's performance is terrifically delivered, his titular character seems troublingly removed despite the odd outburst. His constant meanderings also prevented him from securing a fuller sense of engagement in me. A good movie, but not one of the Coens' very best.