Immortals

Generally concerned with juggling perfume ad hardbodies and bland hero questing, Immortals briefly springs to life whenever Mickey Rourke's King Hyperion stalks the frame. Hyperion wields the same kind of casual cruelty as Malcolm McDowell's Caligula. Subordinates are routinely mauled to pass the time, enemies bundled into bull shaped ovens to power abstract musical instruments. Enlist in Hyperion's cause and you can at least expect to have your face gashed and genitals obliterated. Hyperion's objective is simply misery. His presence choking all around him while he sits gnawing his way through an unceasing supply of stoney fruit. He's repulsive. Every level of Rourke's performance invites disgust. He fights like an animal, stabbing at eyes with thumbs, and hooking fingers deep into cheeks.

Rourke's performance lifts Tarsem Singh's film, a terrifying villain that lacks any sort of equal, moral opposite. In comparison, Henry Cavill's Theseus is a one-dimensional spear thruster, deeply fixated on equalising sneers targeted at his mother, with a surprising gift for pep-talks. Luke Evans's Zeus simply mopes around with the rest of his Versace pantheon, constrained by nonsensical cosmic laws that sometimes require him to murder his children. This is Greek myth by way of the action adventure assembly line. Gods hamstrung by noble notions of Judeo-Christian divinity, heroes passively locked into dull journeys. Only the baddies get to have any fun.