MIDNIGHT IN PARIS

Starring: Owen Wilson, Rachel McAdams, Marion Cotillard. Dir: Woody Allen.

Woody Allen continues to produce a film every year, most of which go unnoticed outside Europe where, unlike America, he is revered. Last year's one wasn't even released in New Zealand. And despite the odd clunker (Cassandra's Dream anyone?) his output is fairly consistent. Critics bash him by comparing newer films to seventies classics, but Woody seems to have abandoned ambitions to create a masterpiece, instead making modest films, much like short stories, each a small idea that he economically explores.

Midnight in Paris is the same. The central conceit being that each night in Paris Owen Wilson, who longs nostalgically for the great literary Paris of the 1920s, is magically transported back in time to those glorious days where he mixes with Hemmingway (Corey Stoll), Gertrude Stein (Kathy Bates), Salvador Dali (Adrien Brody), Cole Porter and the whole gang of ex-Pats who haunted the bistros and salons.

It's a lovely idea, handled with wit and charm, a light frothy concoction that takes such delight in its characterisations (Hemmingway talks just like one of his books and is particularly funny), that it's easy to turn a blind eye to the flaws – McAdam's thankless role of fiancee, the string of stunningly beautiful women that Wilson continually meets – and just enjoy the ride.

Want to see the scariest film of the year? Forget zombies, vampires and serial killers. In the first scene of Contagion Gwyneth Paltrow coughs; 10 minutes later she's dead. With a strong cast – names like Fishburn, Damon, Winslet, Cotillard, Law and Gould – director Steven Soderbergh explores the repercussions of a global pandemic, say if bird flu became easily transmittable, a scenario that many say is a matter of when, not if.

The first half is truly terrifying – you'll never look at a bowl of peanuts the same way again. Though a couple of the multiple strands go nowhere and there's a loss of focus towards the end, it's still an alarmingly believable journey.

Only one word is needed to describe the premise of Anonymous – rubbish. It follows an argument that Shakespeare couldn't have written his stuff because he was a badly-educated commoner. Only a Lord could have the breeding to produce such brilliance. Ignoring many facts and misrepresenting others, an unlikely tale of political intrigue emerges, which would be fine – Shakespeare hardly needs defending from the man who remade Godzilla – were it not interminably long and confusingly plotted. And dull. The snippets of plays are fun, Vanessa Redgrave and Rhys Ifans are good, but that's about it. Did Shakespeare write his plays? By the end you won't care.

Also out on DVD: When A City Falls, the wonderful, heartbreaking documentary about Christchurch which recently showed on television. The DVD has extra footage not in the TV version.