I visited an animatronic Viking attraction in York recently. It was very charming and light-hearted and created a warm and safe learning environment.

Suffice to say, it did not prepare me for the blood-spattering gut-punch that is The Northman.

Robert Eggers’ much-awaited Viking movie hits the screens this week; or rather, bludgeons, butchers and batters the screens this week.

The screenplay, co-written with Icelandic poet Sjón, is a retelling of the Scandinavian legend of Amleth, from which Shakespeare’s Hamlet was derived.

Set at the end of the ninth century, the story revolves around young Viking Prince Amleth (Oscar Novak), who finds himself on the run when tragedy strikes his family.

Many years later and no longer a prince, he’s grown into Alexander Skarsgård, and vengeance is still very much on his mind.

In fact, it’s the second time in as many months that I’ve been impressed by a big-screen release where the main character, The Something-man, growls about how they are vengeance personified.

Posing as a slave, Amleth encounters slave-girl Olga (Anya Taylor-Joy), who helps him plot against the man who wronged him and save those that he loves.

There’s a whiff of 2000’s Gladiator to this, in terms of scope and ambition; arguably in terms of plot too, but Eggers’ film plays around with the familiar storyline and deftly deconstructs mythological tropes.

Over the two decades since Ridley Scott’s Roman epic, film-making has evolved and the Viking genre has grown in popularity, partly thanks to fare like Lord of the Rings and Game of Thrones. There have also been several other directly-related Viking TV shows, with varying degrees of success. 
Despite the increasing crowded nature of this genre, Eggers firmly puts his stamp down and has created a stunning and visceral epic.

Having loved The Witch, but missed The Lighthouse, I can only guess that the director has made a quantum leap in scale with his third film. The naturalistic shooting conditions, the long takes, Robin Carolan and Sebastian Gainsborough’s atmospheric score; it all immerses you in the blood soaked world of ninth century Vikings. 

Despite running over two hours, it’s also quite a lean film, zipping along at pace as if matching Amleth’s drive.

Speaking of whom, Skarsgård’s Amleth evokes vulnerability despite his often feral physicality, and manages to avoid being a one-dimensional hero. Frankly, there are no heroes in the world of The Northman.

Brutal and uncompromising, The Northman lives up to the hype. You’ll hear of many must-see films this year; this definitely is one of them. 

Conor Brennan

The Nee Brothers’ new film is not only about airport novels, it’s also the cinematic equivalent of an airport novel.

The Lost City, as presumably Romancing the Bullock probably didn’t sound right, features Sandra Bullock as adventure novelist Loretta Sage.

Loretta is where all novelists would presumably like to be in life: supping wine in her ample apartment, alienated by her own massive success.

She also anachronistically uses an answering machine to play messages from her agent (Da’Vine Joy Randolph); didn’t that kind of thing end with smart phones?

Channing Tatum plays Alan, the goofy, life-embracing cover model for Loretta’s main character Dash McMahon.

Alan’s success is intrinsically linked to Loretta’s but they’re complete chalk and cheese. I wonder what will happen with these two!

Following a publicity event where Loretta announces she’s going to kill off Alan’s character, she is abruptly whisked away by treasure hunter and rich kid, Abigail Fairfax (Daniel Radcliffe).

Fairfax has read a little too much into Loretta’s latest novel and rashly concluded that she is an expert on a real-life precious artefact called the Crown of Fire. He needs her help to translate hieroglyphics which will unlock the artefact’s location.

Loretta doesn’t have a scooby what he’s on about so he holds her captive on a remote island until she complies.

As you do.

Alan, who witnessed the initial abduction, sets out across the Atlantic on a rescue mission. Capers ensue.

The plot is therefore a patchwork of various things you’ve seen before, but the cast helps this to feel quite buzzy if not totally fresh. Radcliffe enjoyably echoes previous villains he has played, and Bullock and Tatum’s star power and chemistry are undeniable.

There are various references in the press about the stars’ concerns that the script would be outdated, given how long it had been in development.

Sure, there are very faint attempts to subvert the beautiful-people-in-exotic-peril tropes: gratuitous clothes-shedding scenes are tempered by the fact that hey, Alan has mild eczema, and Loretta wretches at the sight of leeches. I guess these two anatomically perfect people ain’t so perfect after all. 

There are also contemporary gags sprinkled in, mostly delivered by Loretta’s social media assistant, and a surprise cameo helps to ramp the humour up to eleven; a surprise unless you’ve seen the trailer that is.

But ultimately there’s a thin line between being outdated and unashamedly harking back to crowd-pleasing comedies of old. The Lost City falls into the latter camp and wholeheartedly succeeds in what it sets out to be: a fun, smile-planting way to pass the time.

Conor Brennan

To quote a famous film franchise, ‘you either die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain.’

Words that could apply to JK Rowling and her Fantastic Beasts franchise, with both having slipped from grace recently.

It’s been more than 10 years since the final Harry Potter film, but the wizarding world has persevered through the adventures of Newt Scamander and co – and Rowling’s latest chapter of this proposed quintology, Fantastic Beasts: The Secrets of Dumbledore, is out this week.

And if the main criticism of the last Fantastic Beasts film was that it felt like an interim entry treading water, imagine what the actual middle section is going to feel like?

I don’t remember too much about The Crimes of Grindelwald, but I recall the finale promising all out war between pro-muggle and anti-muggle wizards.

This promise seems to have been considerably walked back, with Secrets of Dumbledore picks up with Grindelwald and his cohorts, including Credence Barebone and latest recruit Queenie Goldstein, in exile.

Grindelwald, who has previously masqueraded as Colin Farrell before morphing into Johnny Depp, is now embodied by Mads Mikkelsen who plays this role with typically understated malevolence.

While Grindelwald is busy stirring up dissent and creating ruptures in the wizarding world, Albus Dumbledore stands against him on the other side of the magical divide along with the Scamander brothers Newt and Theseus, Yusuf Kama and muggle born Jacob Kowalski.

Completing this wizarding X-men set-up is new character Professor Lally Hicks, with this rag tag collection of misfit wizards and muggles all that stand between Grindelwald rallying magical support for his war with non-wizarding folk.

How do they set about achieving this? As Grindelwald can see into the future, they decide that the best way to beat him is to be as unpredictable as possible – and the plot duly obliges, as our characters embark upon a journey that often makes little sense.

I mean, I got to the end of the film and I’m still not sure what the Secrets of Dumbledore are.

If a coherent plot appears to be hidden under an invisibility cloak, the artistic vision and creative talent can not be faulted. Set designs, costumes, music, cinematography, and more are all as high end as we’ve come to expect form this wizarding world. 

The same goes for the cast too; Jude Law continues to carve out a memorable Dumbledore amidst all the exposition, Eddie Redmayne is still a joy as Newt, Jessica Williams makes an impression as Lally and Dan Fogler’s Kowalski provides the heart of this story. 

It’s a shame that these individual elements weren’t served better by a sleeker and well crafted storyline.

Is Secrets of Dumbledore a sombre prequel about the mysterious past of Hogwarts favourite Headmaster, or a lighthearted follow up to the previous Fantastic Beasts films?

The film doesn’t seem to know, falling between both stalls – though it’s telling that the marketing material has Law literally overshadowing Redmayne, despite Newt Scamander’s initial prominence in the series,

Minor characters are picked up and put down whenever the plot requires, Katherine Waterston’s Tina Goldstein character is dispensed with for reasons that remain unknown by the end, save for a fleeting cameo in a bolted on epilogue that may signal the end for this Fantastic Beasts franchise.

Overstuffed in terms of both plot and character, Secrets of Dumbledore may please die-hard fans of the wizarding world – but it’s not the return to form most of us had hoped for.

Conor Brennan

There have been more film and stage adaptations of Edmond Rostand’s Cyrano De Bergerac than you can shake a stick at.

In my day, the most famous interpretation was 1987’s modern-day reworking, Roxanne; but the Steve Martin classic is perhaps not the best benchmark against which to judge the newest version.

Cyrano, presumably because calling it Bergerac would have UK viewers expecting John Nettles to pop up at some point, is directed by Joe Wright and hits cinemas this week.

Unlike Roxanne, which leaned into the farcical potential of Rostand’s story, Wright’s version is a heavier, more tragic affair.

An adaptation of the 2019 Off-Broadway production, the film sees Peter Dinklage reprise his role as Cyrano De Bergerac, a soldier and soon-to-be member of the world’s most painful love triangle.

In this version, instead of a large nose, Cyrano is frequently mocked for his stature, and defends himself with a quick wit and a quicker blade.
Beneath his bravado, he is deeply in love with Roxanne (Hayley Bennett), a childhood friend from his home town.

Cyrano cannot pluck up the courage to tell her how he feels, imagining that they could never be together due to his appearance.

One day, Roxanne summons him to a private meeting, which raises his hopes, but it turns out that she has fallen in love with a new recruit under his command, Christian de Neuvillette (Kelvin Harrison Jr).

Ouch.

Downhearted, but wanting to make Roxanne happy, Cyrano agrees to fan the flames of romance between her and Christian.

It’s a tough gig, and Dinklage compellingly squeezes every drop of heartache and pain from the role. So much so, that Bennett and Harrison Jr’s performances take a bit of a back seat; but hey, it’s not their characters’ names in the title.

The other performance of note is Ben Mendelsohn as De Guiche, the secondary villain of the piece. After Unrequited Love, of course.
Mendelsohn not so much chews, as devours, the scenery, particularly as he belts out and snarls his way through the song What I Deserve halfway through.

The renditions of the other songs are a mixed bag, but the tunes will dance around your head for at least a day or so after the credits roll. For my money the most memorable is Wherever I Fall, partly, I expect, because it features fellow Irishman Glen Hansard.

Lastly, the film looks great, which is ironic, given one of the themes is about seeing beyond outer beauty. Seamus McGarvey’s cinematography and the lush Sicilian settings conjure up a sublime backdrop for the story.

It is worth catching for Dinklage’s central performance and for the sumptuous visuals, but for anyone expecting light Steve Martin vibes, be warned that this is definitely more rom-trag than rom-com.

Conor Brennan

Not unlike its title character, the 2018 Venom film had a certain, inexplicable offbeat charm.

Tonally it took a while to find its feet, but once it did, the rest was a blast.

The sequel, Venom: Let There Be Carnage, makes the ever-shortening transition to Blu-ray and DVD this month, and mostly leans into the wackiness which worked the first time round.

Boasting a welcome, yet suspiciously short run-time of 97 minutes, the film picks up about a year after the mid credits scene of its predecessor.

Cletus Kasady (Woody Harrelson) is an imprisoned serial killer who continues to give interviews to Eddie Brock (Tom Hardy), right up to his death sentence.

During one prison visit, Kasady bites Brock’s hand and becomes infected with the alien symbiote. As you do.

In much the same fashion that Brock became Venom, Kasady then becomes an entity known as Carnage, and escapes from prison.

Kasady’s main goal is to liberate his one true love, Shriek (Naomie Harris), who has sonic powers and is imprisoned elsewhere.

They reunite and embark on a bloody rampage.

Just call them Supernatural Born Killers.

Brock and Venom are meanwhile having domestic issues; Venom wants to eat criminals but Brock disagrees. The usual relationship stuff.

The two must ultimately put their differences aside to confront Carnage and Shriek, with a little help from Michelle William’s Anne Weying.

Andy Serkis takes over directorial duties from Ruben Fleischer and keeps the stakes refreshingly low: there are probably only six or seven characters in the whole film and the admittedly thin plot revolves around personal vendettas rather than universal destruction.

Joining Serkis, Hardy and Harris in the predominantly Brit-involved production, is Stephen Graham as the detective who originally apprehended Shriek and who is also on the couple’s kill list.

Harrelson, Harris and Graham are wasted, Williams feels like she’s there purely out of contractual obligation and story-wise it’s all over the place, but the Brock/Venom interplay is still amusing (I could watch Venom make breakfast all day long) and keeps the first half of the film mostly afloat.

Picture an episode of Channel 4’s Peep Show, only with a bloodthirsty alien symbiote instead of an irascible flatmate. More of that please.

The final part of the film is less satisfying, involving another nocturnal CGI smash-em-up (why are they always set at night) reminiscent of the 2018 film. It’s hard to work out what’s going on or, frankly, to care.

The sequel will largely please supporters of the first outing but won’t win any new fans; having ‘carnage’ in the title is a pretty effective audience filter.

Sony seem keen to make further sequels, but if every Venom movie descends into the same royal rumble territory then, much like the titular symbiote, the franchise will need to latch onto something bigger to survive.

Conor Brennan

I tried out various sports as a kid. Everything from Archery to Zorbing. Well, actually neither of those, but it was a broad range.

I was largely unsuccessful; it turned out I much preferred munching popcorn in front of screens in darkened rooms.

Out of everything I tried, I retained the most fondness for the sport where love, famously, means nothing.

My mum is a big tennis fan too, and we’d spend many a Summer in front of telly watching Wimbledon.

See? Sitting in front of a screen, my preferred sport.

I was a bit sceptical when I heard of a forthcoming movie on the formative years of the legendary Williams sisters; mainly as I guessed that tennis would be a major focus, and I couldn’t think of many, if any, good tennis films.

As it turns out, the film isn’t really about tennis, and is all the better for it.

King Richard, named for the Williams sisters’ father, opens with Richard Williams (Will Smith) trawling tennis clubs to persuade benefactors to sponsor Serena and Venus’ training.

His five daughters are meanwhile pictured as quite content, despite the strained economic conditions of their upbringing and their father’s stringent approach to life: he has mapped out Serena and Venus’ tennis career paths via a 78-page book.

Like a tennis match, the film takes a while to warm up. It kicks into gear when Richard starts making headway with coaches, the first being Paul Cohen (Tony Goldwyn), which gives Richard’s character something to bounce off, and we start to see the development of friction between Richard and the coaches, and between Richard and his daughters.

We then follow the Williams family’s relocation to Florida so that the girls can be coached by Rick Macci (who isn’t happy to see Jon Bernthal pop up in a film?), and the film culminates with 14-year-old Venus’ match against Arantxa Sanchez-Vicario in 1994.

Although it features some thrilling tennis set pieces, I reiterate that the film isn’t really about tennis. The main focus is instead on self-belief versus others’ belief in you, which frequently segues skilfully into nuanced commentary on parenting and on racial equality.

One of the film’s fieriest moments occurs, not on court, but in the driveway of the Williams’ Florida residence. Richard and Rick nearly come to blows about Richard’s attempts to avoid pressurising the girls, which arguably create pressure nonetheless.

Smith is predictably charismatic in the lead role but ,like countless biopics before it, the film throws off lines like “your son showed up out of nowhere” as an attempt to briefly acknowledge, but not dwell on, certain details.

Special mention also goes to Saniyya Sidney, who hits the perfect balance between charmingly modest and convincingly driven as Venus.

If you can ignore the thin, initial layer of Hollywood cheesiness, there is an important and vibrant film here about inner and outer triumph, and you’ll likely be punching the air as the credits roll.

Conor Brennan

Within a month of James Bond finally making it back to the big screen, we get the Digital, Blu-ray and DVD release of The Courier, starring Benedict Cumberbatch.

Both films share DNA with the British gentleman-spy film, but the latter is less of an explosive affair: no gadgets, stunts or pithy one-liners. It is, however, rooted in an incredible true story.

Cumberbatch plays Greville Wynne, a British businessman who, in the early 1960’s was approached by British Intelligence to serve his country. Angus Wright plays Wynne’s contact, with Rachel Brosnahan’s CIA agent also taking a keen interest.

Greville learns from the pair that a high-ranking Russian officer, Oleg Penkovsky, had reached out to the West to offer himself as an undercover asset in the hopes of averting a nuclear war. The British and Americans need to make contact with Penkovsky, using someone whom the Russians wouldn’t suspect.

Greville, who is counting down the days to retirement and seems to be enjoying domestic bliss with wife and son, ultimately agrees to pose as Penkovsky’s business partner and act as a go-between.

Penkovsky and Greville are successful in their espionage efforts, and even form an unlikely friendship, but matters soon intensify in Cuba and the KGB start to question how certain intelligence is making it across to the other side.

Despite the compelling source material, this doesn’t feel as gripping as it should.

Yes, it’s unfair to compare this with the fantastical antics of 007 and co, but even as a real-life thriller, the film feels a little anodyne until the final stretch. Cumberbatch puts in a fine and committed performance, but his star power is undimmable and it’s hard to buy him as a relatively unassuming businessman. As a result, we never fully feel that he is in over his head or truly in jeopardy.

Merab Ninidze is solid as Penkovsky but the film, which feels like it should have been a two-hander, arguably tips towards Cumberbatch; it would have been interesting with a slightly less-recognisable actor as Greville and see more of a balance between the two performances. 

Rounding out the cast, Wright and Anton Lessor are fine as the dispassionate secret service handlers, but Brosnahan feels like she’s in a different film altogether and the great Jessie Buckley gets precious little screentime as Greville’s wife. The rest of the Russians, including Kirill Pirogov’s KGB officer, are reduced to shadowy phantoms.

On that note, Greville’s past infidelity is briefly treated as a plot complication instead of being explored as part of, say, his sense of loyalty. His motivation as a whole is mostly unexplored; he is a businessman, but flatly turns down remuneration, and we don’t really see what drives him to undertake such considerable risk.

The final act of the film is more satisfying than the rest in terms of drama and pace, but it all feels too little and too late. Overall, it’s a fascinating story but a passable film.

Conor Brennan

Great expectations are rarely a good thing.

Unless they’re written by Dickens.

The longer we wait for something, the greater expectations become for the object of our delayed gratification.

And I’ve waited such a very long time for Denis Villeneuve’s latest sci-fi epic, Dune.

The year is some time in the future, humans have decimated their own habitat and present, and the future has had to be reimagined by what remained of the past.

Just as will happen in real life, some noble families have miraculously survived the past to thrive in the future, and no house is greater than that of the Atreides bloodline.

You know what, if you haven’t read Frank Herbert’s cult novel – and I haven’t – there’s really not much point trying to explain the labyrinthine back story in too much detail here.

The film doesn’t really bother with this, so neither can I.

Here’s what I can tell you about Dune – there are good guys and bad guys, obviously, and a plot that relies far too heavily on tropes of the fantasy genre that you’ll be all too familiar with.

There’s the messianic boy who would be king – Paul Atreides – who may be the chosen one that can bring balance to the force.

Or is prophesied to destroy Voldemort.

Or maybe just toss that damned ring into Mount Doom.

Paul is being groomed by his dad and a few other father figures to one day lead house Atreides to a glorious future, but the boy’s not so sure that he wants such responsibility thrust upon him.

Our future king’s also been having recurring dreams of a future that may or may not come to pass.

There’s also something about a drug called spice that gives you powers, seems to make you eternal and allows you to travel through time and space.

Which is nice.

And of course we’ve got some one dimensional baddies for house Atreides to fight with over said spice production.

It’s pretty basic young adult fare, unfortunately – and even worse, Villeneuve doesn’t try to digress from Herbert’s boring source material.

Essentially, Dune is a film for fans of the novel and not much more.

Villeneuve assumes you already know a lot of the backstory here, so you’re probably not going to get everything that’s going on unless you’ve also read the book.

Only problem is the original source material has proven to be so influential that the themes of Dune feel dated and predictable. 

Herbert has clearly influenced such heavyweight cultural touchstones as Star Wars and Game of Thrones, and does Dune come off as a cross between the two – without ever touching the heights of either.

So if you’re a fan of either of these two behemoths, you won’t be surprised by anything you see here.

On the plus side, Dune does look and sound incredible, as you’d expect from the auteur behind recent sci-fi epics Arrival and Blade Runner 2049, and the cast is great – but despite this, Dune just didn’t really make me feel anything.

The slow parts move by far too slowly, while the action sequences fly by in a rush of special effects and cgi that’s hard to keep up with.

I think Dune would have made for a compelling tv series, so these characters and themes are given more time and space to breathe and we actually care about the things that they go through.

Like the first half of a certain George RR Martin fantasy epic. 

Instead, Dune is little more than some beautiful cinematic eye candy that’s very easy on the senses, but just as easily forgotten by the time you get home.

Such is the problem with great expectations.

Jonathan Campbell

Woke up this morning and got myself off to a screening of the highly anticipated Sopranos prequel, The Many Saints of Newark.

Fair warning though, if you haven’t seen The Sopranos watching this film – or reading my review – will whack you over the head with a litany of spoilers.

So, we’ve gone back in time to the not so swinging sixties and Tony Soprano is little more than a fat, 10 year old kid wobbling around his neighbourhood.

It’s his father and uncle – Johnny Soprano and Corrado ‘Junior’ Soprano – who are the made guys running New Jersey, and they’re not doing that on their own.

Their merry gang of mafiosa include the familiar names (if not faces) of Paulie ‘Walnuts’ Gaultieri, Silvio Dante and Salvatore ‘Big Pussy’ Bonpensiero, as well are some unfamiliar names like Dickie Moltisanti, whose heir will be a lot more recognisable to Sopranos fans.

And it’s Dickie’s story that is told in The Many Saints of Newark.

As with pretty much every Italian mobster film, this one’s all about family – so it’s fitting that we’re introduced to Dickie Moltisanti as he greets his father on his return from Italy.

Stepping on to the docks from a cruise ship with a new wife who’s young enough to be his granddaughter, ‘Hollywood Dick’ Moltisanti certainly lives up to his name.

His son Dickie does his best not to stare at his new ‘mother’ – but a young Tony Soprano, who Dickie’s brought along for the ride, has no such familial ties.

Dickie doesn’t have a son of his own – yet – so he’s taken Tony under his wing, which certainly jumps up a notch after Johnny Soprano is jailed for 5 years.

Something else that jumps up a notch are the racial tensions in New Jersey, fanned by the flames of indiscriminate police brutality against the black community.

I guess some things never change.

Unlike the rest of his mob though, Dickie has no inferiority complex when it comes to race relations, evidenced by one of his most trusted allies Harold McBrayer.

The colour of Harold’s skin brings out the worst in Dickie’s ‘family’, and as tensions come to a head for the Moltisanti’s of Newark, new gangsters are both lost and born.

Pitched as a coming of age prequel for Tony Soprano, The Many Saints of Newark is actually something else entirely, with the fledgling future mob boss relegated to a supporting character.

This story is all about the Moltisantis, as we watch three generations of this family play the cards they’ve been dealt.

And trust me, they’re no saints.

Alessandro Nivola plays Dickie Moltisanti, tying the various strands of this story together with some echoes of Tony Soprano himself; a conflicted man capable of both good deeds and bad, though obviously the latter outweigh the former.

Mobster royalty Ray Liotta plays both Dickie’s father and his jailbird uncle in a dual role that allows Liotta to showcase his signature intensity through two very different vessels.

And then there’s Christopher Moltisanti, with Michael Imperioli returning from beyond the grave to narrate the tale of his father.

First off, fans of The Sopranos can relax – The Many Saints of Newark is not only a good film in its own right, but it’s tone and feel fit seamlessly into the now iconic world that David Chase has created.

Chase has returned to writing duties here, and his juxtaposition of made men who are also family men again blurs the lines between good and evil, as even characters we want to root for show their true colours in the end.

Michael Gandolfini plays the teenage Tony Soprano, manfully filling the shoes of his father James – but wisely, Chase doesn’t make Tony Soprano the heart of this film.

Younger versions of favourite characters are mostly present and correct, though some of these early iterations veer too close to caricature for comfort, and the violence here feels more graphic and shocking than anything I remember from the tv series.

But it also feels like Chase’s storytelling has jumped forward even as they go backwards, with the backdrop of real life race riots adding another dimension to the tried and tested recipe of Italian mafia tall tales

By the end, there are still a few loose ends to tie up – so I wouldn’t be too surprised if an extended Sopranos ‘universe’ continues on a big or small screen near you in the not too distant future.

As for The Many Saints of Newark, you don’t have to stop believing to buy into the future past of a young Tony Soprano.

Jonathan Campbell

Fighting with her family is something Florence Pugh’s used to by now, but this jumps up a notch in Scarlett Johansson’s Marvel swan song Black Widow.

It’s 1995 Ohio, and we’re watching a teenage girl with a penchant for dying her hair ride around town on her bicycle before playing with her little sister at home.

Of course, Ohio isn’t Natasha Romanoff’s real home town – and her family isn’t as real as they appear either.

One impromptu nighttime escape from the American authorities later, lead by her superhumanly strong father, and things become a little clearer when their getaway plane touches down in Cuba.

This all American family are actually a Russian sleeper cell who have been stealing information from their cuckolded yankee employers for their Moscow based superiors.

Natasha’s not nearly so keen on going back to the USSR though, and is happy to wave a gun in her military comrades faces to prove the point.

A couple of intravenously applied sedatives later sees Natasha and her little sister safely transferred to a military airplane, and the forcibly conscripted future that awaits them.

Fast forward 21 years and we catch up with Natasha in 2016 – she’s still on the run from some American authorities, but at least this time she’s choosing her own cause.

Back in mother Russia, an elite squadron of female assassins – lead by Natasha’s now estranged little sister Yelena – are in the process of acquiring a target by any means necessary.

When this mission goes awry, there’s only one person Yelena trusts to have her back – as we’re ushered towards a seemingly unlikely ‘family’ reunion.

Black Widow is the long awaited finale for Scarlett Johansson’s Marvel character and, like most Marvel films these days, everything goes according to plan.

So we’ve got a sped up introductory credits montage that sees our heroines go from girls to black widows, big budget action sequences where the bigger the action the less you actually care about what’s going on, and a ridiculously over the top Russian baddie – played ridiculously over the top by Ray Winstone – who has a personal score to settle with Natasha.

Amongst this all too predictable Kevin Feige formula, director Cate Shortland weaves in some far more engaging moments that break out between the main characters who make up this family reunion.

Rachel Weisz’s mother character is wasted in a throwaway role, but David Harbour brings some comic relief to his washed up father figure who sees himself as Russia’s answer to Captain America.

But it’s the sibling rivalry between Johansson and her Florence Pugh shaped sister that lies at the beating heart of this movie, as the baton is passed from old black widow to new.

One spectacular prison break scene apart, and a minor third act twist that’s effectively given away in the opening credits, there’s really not too much going on here.

Black Widow is enjoyable, especially on the big screen, but disposable and easily forgotten – which is unfortunate as there’s a seed of a good film lurking here, especially with this cast.

But the Marvel universe has become so staid and risk averse these days, Black Widow is never allowed to fully bloom.

Jonathan Campbell