THE RANTING BRUMMIE REVIEWS: "CAPTAIN AMERICA - BRAVE NEW WORLD" (2025)

Let us, for a moment, imagine a world where the Marvel Cinematic Universe, that great clanking juggernaut of spandex and CGI, has finally run out of puff. A world where the superheroes hang up their capes, the villains retire to grow begonias, and the audience is spared yet another two-hour sermon on the virtues of punching things very hard while looking noble. Captain America: Brave New World, alas, is not that film. Instead, it’s the latest dispatch from the franchise’s tireless assembly line, a movie so determined to be significant that it forgets, somewhere along the way, to be interesting.

Anthony Mackie, bless him, steps into the star-spangled boots of Sam Wilson, the new Captain America, inheriting the shield and the burden of living up to Steve Rogers, a man so wholesome he could have been baked in a pie. Mackie’s Sam is a different beast—not super-soldiered, not serum-enhanced, just a chap with a jetpack, a vibranium frisbee, and a grin that says, “I’m doing my best here, folks.” 

It’s a valiant effort, and Mackie carries it off with the kind of charisma that could charm a tax auditor, but the script—credited to a committee of five, which explains a lot—seems unsure whether he’s meant to be a hero, a social worker, or a straight man in a buddy cop flick with Danny Ramirez’s chirpy Joaquin Torres, the new Falcon. The result is a character arc flatter than a Kansas prairie, interrupted only by the occasional mid-air twirl to remind us he’s got wings.

Then there’s Harrison Ford, rumbling onto the scene as President Thaddeus “Thunderbolt” Ross, a man who spends half the film growling about treaties and the other half turning into the Red Hulk, presumably because someone at Marvel thought, “What if we made him angry and gave him a dye job?” Ford, now in his ninth decade of looking grumpy on screen, plays Ross with the weary gravitas of a man who’d rather be fishing, and who can blame him? The plot—a labyrinthine tangle of assassinations, mind control, and something about a Celestial island full of adamantium—feels like it was stitched together from the cutting-room floor of better Captain America films, notably The Winter Soldier, whose paranoid-thriller vibes this one mimics without ever matching. Ford’s transformation into a crimson behemoth is the film’s big money shot, spoiled months ago by trailers, and when it arrives, it’s less a shock than a shrug—an eight-minute tantrum that suggests Marvel’s idea of escalation is to make the Hulk look like he’s been dipped in ketchup.

The villains, such as they are, include Tim Blake Nelson as the Leader, a gamma-irradiated brainiac with a forehead so swollen it could double as a parade float. Nelson chews the scenery with gusto, but his evil plan—something about revenge and probability—never quite gels into a threat worth caring about. Giancarlo Esposito pops up as Sidewinder, a mercenary so underused he might as well be credited as “Guy Who Frowns in Background,” and Shira Haas’s Ruth Bat-Seraph, a former Black Widow turned presidential aide, gets one decent fight scene before fading into expository wallpaper. It’s a rogue’s gallery that feels less menacing than mildly inconveniencing, like a queue at the post office.

The action, to be fair, has its moments. Sam’s shield-and-wing combos are crisply choreographed, and there’s a certain glee in watching him surf a missile for five glorious seconds before the film remembers it’s meant to be serious. But for every tidy punch-up, there’s a CGI slog—green-screen backdrops so clunky they make you pine for the days of matte paintings and men in rubber suits. The climax, a predictable showdown with Ross’s Red Hulk, is loud and long and utterly devoid of stakes, a reminder that in the MCU, nothing ever really ends, it just pauses for the next instalment.

What’s most exasperating about Brave New World is its refusal to take a swing at anything meaningful. It flirts with big ideas—Sam as a Black Captain America, the legacy of Isaiah Bradley (Carl Lumbly, the film’s quiet MVP), the murk of American power—but retreats into platitudes and explosions before it can say anything sharp. This is a film that wants to be Winter Soldier with a social conscience, but it’s too busy nodding to Eternals and The Incredible Hulk—Marvel’s equivalent of dusting off old photo albums—to find its own voice. By the time Kendrick Lamar’s “I” blares over the credits, you’re left wondering if the real brave new world is one where Marvel dares to let a movie stand alone, unburdened by the weight of 35 predecessors.

In the end, Captain America: Brave New World is neither triumph nor disaster, just a serviceable pit stop in the MCU’s endless road trip. Mackie deserves better, Ford deserves a nap, and we, the audience, deserve a breather. But the machine grinds on, and so must we, until the next one rolls around. At least the popcorn’s still good.

THE RANTING BRUMMIE GOES TO THE BAFTAS

Ah, the 2025 BAFTAs, the British version of the Oscars where everyone pretends they're not as self-important while simultaneously proving they are. It's a curious British institution, one that manages to be both self-deprecating and self-congratulatory in equal measure, much like a vicar who accidentally swears during his Sunday sermon - you know it's wrong, but it's also delightfully British.

The BAFTAs have this charming little habit of trying to convince us they're not just another awards show; they're a celebration of British cinema with a nod to the world. But let's be frank, it's an awards show, and like all awards shows, it's a parade of the same old faces, the same old speeches, and the same old "I never expected this" surprise faces. If acting classes included "How to Look Shocked While Accepting an Award," every BAFTA winner would be an A-lister.

There's a quaintness to the BAFTAs, with its setting in the Royal Festival Hall, which gives it the air of a posh garden party where everyone just happens to be wearing designer clothes instead of tweed. But beneath this veneer of British decorum, you'll find the same Hollywood machine at work, just with a slightly different accent and an insistence on tea rather than champagne... though let's be honest, there's plenty of the latter too.

First off, let's applaud David Tennant, who returned as host, proving once again that if the Time Lord gig doesn't work out, he can always fall back on charming an audience into thinking they're not at an award show but rather at a particularly engaging episode of "Doctor Who." Tennant managed to navigate the evening with the kind of wit that makes you forget you're watching people win awards for films you've probably never heard of unless you're deeply entrenched in the film festival circuit or have an unnatural obsession with reading every film blog on the internet.

The big winner of the night, "Conclave," with its four BAFTAs, including Best Film, reminded us all that nothing says "cinematic excellence" quite like a papal conclave. It's like "The Godfather" but with less violence and more theological debate. Edward Berger, the director, took home the award with all the humility of a man who knew he'd just outmanoeuvred every other director in the room with his papal plot twists.

Then there's "The Brutalist," another four-time winner, which managed to make architecture look not just interesting but downright sexy. Brady Corbet, the director, and Adrien Brody, the leading man, turned what could have been a snore-fest into something that had everyone in the audience thinking, "Perhaps I should take up bricklaying as a hobby."

The supporting categories were where the real drama unfolded. Zoe Saldaña, winning for "Emilia Pérez," proved she could excel in a language other than Klingon, even if the film's star, Karla Sofía Gascón, was absent due to some Twitter faux pas from the dark ages of the internet. And let's not forget Kieran Culkin, who continued his awards season tour de force with "A Real Pain." One can only hope he's saving space on his mantelpiece for more awards.

The night was peppered with performances that ranged from the sublime to the "why on earth did we actually need that?" The remaining 60% of Take That took to the stage to remind us all that nostalgia sells, especially when associated with a film's soundtrack. And Jeff Goldblum on the piano? Well, that was either a delightful nod to his eclectic career, or a reminder that even in the world of cinema, there's always room for a bit of progressive jazz.

And let's not overlook the fashion parade, which is less about celebrating film and more about who can wear the most avant-garde outfit without tripping on stage. It's like watching a high-stakes game of musical chairs where the music is provided by a string quartet, and the chairs are replaced by a red carpet. The red carpet itself was, as always, a spectacle of fashion where the participants seemed to be in a silent competition to out-do each other with their sartorial choices. From Timothée Chalamet's matching all-black ensemble making him look as if he was preparing for to star in the remake of the Cadbury's Milk Tray adverts, to the dazzling array of gowns, it was clear that even if you weren't winning on stage, you could certainly win in the fashion stakes. 

There was one gown that looked like someone had accidentally spilled a bucket of glitter over an inflatable mattress, and they just went with it. And let's not overlook the pièce de résistance: a dress that seemed to have been inspired by a particularly ambitious origami project gone wrong. It was as if the designer thought, "What would happen if we took all the world's napkins and just... draped them over the poor sod wearing it?" But the real highlight? The sheer audacity of a gown that appeared to be made from repurposed car seat covers, complete with airbag motifs. Because nothing says "I'm ready for my close-up" like the threat of sudden deployment. 

In conclusion, the 2025 BAFTAs were a charming evening of cinema appreciation, British-style, with just enough pomp to remind us of the Oscars, but with a dash of humour and humility that makes one think, "Well, at least they didn't take themselves too seriously." They're Britain's way of saying, "We do awards shows too, but with less Hollywood gloss and more British cheek." It's a night where the film industry pats itself on the back with one hand while the other hand is busy tweeting about how down-to-earth everyone is. 

Here's to the BAFTAs, then - a charmingly British spectacle of cinema, ego, and sartorial risks, all wrapped up in the comforting blanket of tradition, with a side order of irony from the local Five Guys.

FROM MIDDLETOWN TO MUNICH: THE JD VANCE DANCE

In the grand theatre of European politics, where the stage is set with flags and the air is thick with the scent of bureaucracy, we find the EU leaders, a group of individuals with the military prowess of a well-meaning but utterly ineffective school safety patrol. They've been crying out for a European army, much like a spoilt rich child might demand a pony for Christmas, fully aware that the stable is empty and the budget is spent on less fanciful things like subsidies for cheese, tethering bottle caps and homogenising bananas.

The EU leaders, in their infinite wisdom, have decided that what Europe really needs is its own army, after they've spent years promoting policies that are about as welcome as a vegan at a steakhouse. They've taught the kids not to be proud, not to be competitive, and certainly not to be masculine – because, heaven forbid, we might end up with soldiers who can actually march in a straight line. Instead, they've pushed fragility, division, and victimhood, creating a generation that's less likely to fight for their country than to write a strongly worded tweet about it.

Oh, the irony! These are the same leaders who have spent years systematically dismantling the very sinews of military strength in their own countries. They've cut funding to the armed forces with the precision of a budget-conscious accountant armed with the world's biggest red marker pen, leaving their militaries about as robust as a paper umbrella in a monsoon. And now, they're all for building a European army? It's like watching someone burn their house down and then complain about the lack of a proper roof. And let's not forget the grand plan of mass immigration, which has done wonders for national unity. It's like inviting a thousand guests to your house, forgetting to tell them where the bathroom is, and then wondering why there's a queue in your living room.

Meanwhile, in the grand old city of Munich, where the beer halls are as famous as the political talkfests, a new voice rang out with refreshing clarity, and that voice belonged to none other than America's newly-elected Vice President, JD Vance. Now, in the world of political speeches, where verbosity often trumps veracity, Vance's address at the Munich Security Conference was like a breath of fresh, crisp Bavarian air.

Vance, with the audacity of a man who knows he's speaking truth to power, painted a picture of European politics that was as candid as it was cutting. He didn't mince words, much like a fine German sausage maker wouldn't skimp on the quality of his wurst. Vance highlighted the issue of media censorship and political correctness with a precision that would make a watchmaker from the Black Forest proud. It was as if he was holding up a mirror to Europe, and what they saw wasn't the prettiest reflection.

Now, let's be clear, this wasn't your typical diplomatic drivel where everyone pats each other on the back while secretly plotting to undermine one another. No, Vance was like the guest at the party who dares to mention the elephant in the room, or in this case, the ideological fissures that have Europe quaking more than a plate of wobbly aspic served at a diplomatic dinner. He spoke of an entrenched elite, a phrase that rolled off his tongue with the ease of a well-aged Riesling, pointing out how they've manipulated systems to remain in power, much like a magician performing a trick with smoke and mirrors.

Vance's critique of Europe's internal dangers was not just a speech; it was a political sonnet, a critique wrapped in the cloak of concern. He questioned why, in a continent supposedly united, the security conference was more focused on defence budgets than on what they were defending. It was as if he was saying, "You're all dressed up with nowhere to go, and you're not even sure why you're dressed up."

The reaction? European leaders were stunned, much like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming Volkswagen. His critique was not just a speech; it was a wake-up call that echoed through the halls of the conference like the peal of the Frauenkirche bells. And here we have the EU, architects of their own downfall, now architects of an imaginary army. The irony is as thick as the fog in London, only this time, it's over Brussels.

In the tradition of memorable political orations, Vance's speech in Munich will be remembered not for its length but for its depth, its honesty, and its sheer audacity to speak the unspeakable. He didn't just reset relationships; he redefined them, with the grace of a statesman and the candour of a satirist. The solution is clear: dismantle the EU, let each country go back to what's best for them, celebrate their unique, individual cultures, and make friends with their neighbours so they can all block-vote for each other in the Eurovision Song Contest. 

It's a recipe for a good old-fashioned European recovery, minus the raw, earthy taste of Brussels sprouts. But let's keep our expectations low; after all, expecting Europe to unite after all this is like expecting a cat to herd sheep. Entertaining, but utterly futile.