Picture the scene: It’s 10.30pm on a Saturday night and I am surrounded by glitter, false eyelashes and the distinct smell of hairspray; as a marvelously glamorous sequin-clad drag queen takes to the stage, welcomed by the rejoicing roar of an eclectic crowd of bourgeoisie zombies and blood-splattered doctors. One might be excused for assuming that what I am describing is a nightmarish Halloween night on Canal Street, that, however, is not the case.

In typical Burton style, stripy socks, unnervingly twisted flash-backs, and Helena Bonham Carter are in abundance; (no one could mistake this for any other director), and Tim makes the almost unforgivable mistake of detailing the ending at the start of the film.

Taking its inspiration from Marks’ 1996 autobiography of the same name, Mr Nice is unsurprisingly reverential and seems reluctant to ask any real questions of its protagonist. Most crucially, by presenting Marks as ‘Mr Nice’, the film fails to explore the moral dilemma inherent to his profession. Instead, Rose’s script opts for a rather shallow pro-legalisation, pro-Marks stance which ultimately suggests, to quote one glib piece of dialogue, that ‘it’s the law that’s wrong’.

Since John Cusack made his name as the face of the 1980s teen rom-com, it is fitting that Grosse Point Blank is, at its heart, a high school movie. Martin Blank, (Cusack), is a hit man facing something of a midlife crisis; he has recurring dreams of his prom night sweetheart; he no longer derives satisfaction from his job; and he’s being pressured to join a union (yes, apparently professional killers have those), led by union chief Dan Aykroyd.

Zuckerberg came up with the notion at Harvard and launched the primitive website from his dorm room. Weird to think; that something that has become a scarily large part of everyday life for 500 million people, was started in what a lot of first years are experiencing now: a room where old beer cans used as ashtrays are literally heavy with cigarette butts, where old orange skins cling to the bottom of waste paper baskets and where blackish grime and bits of indefinable matter stick to an unwashed bowl on your desk. Maybe it’s different at Harvard, but it’s still a fairly novel (if disgusting) notion.

An unfair rating on Rotten Tomatoes and a couple of overly-harsh critiques, means that this movie is one that rarely appears on the student radar. However, it is, in my opinion, arguably one of the most entertaining and interesting ‘superhero’ films in a long time.

‘Anatomically correct blow up sex doll’ and ‘heart rending tearjerker’ aren’t usually phrases that appear in the same sentence. This film, however, somehow manages to seamlessly entwine the two and sit them together as naturally as emos and Twilight.

Ah, the cinema; the student’s official alternative to getting completely smashed all the time. For those of you waking up on the floor fully-clothed with chips and cheese all round your mouth, (only to be told that in a few hours you will be repeating the experience), you might just consider attempting to persuade your mates with these great cinemas and offers instead. Just make sure you don’t see Requiem for a Dream. It’s not hangover material.

It is said that Bill Murray likes to sneak up behind strangers in New York, whisper, “Guess who?” and, when they turn around, tell them: “I’m Bill Murray. No one will ever believe you.” This would not be funny in a club, in Sainsbury’s or on campus, nor is it a good way to meet strangers.

Cheesier than cheddar, the old ballet-meets-hip hop story is given a new edge on the sparkling London backdrop. Granted, it’s not quite as glamorous as the Step-Up franchise, but a subtle British influence, (from Union Jack t-shirts to the music featured), adds a certain charm.