The sequel to Robert Rodriguez’s maniacally good Spy Kids, with budding-Bonds Alexa Vega and Daryl Sabara up against a rival team of adolescent agents and the monsters of mad scientist Steve Buscemi’s fantasy island. Suggesting a Ray Harryhausen movie invaded by the screwball surrealism of a Looney Tunes cartoon, it ups the first film’s formula of candy-coloured cool stuff for kids and in-jokes for grown-ups. Quite fantastic.

An assured if unspectacular directorial debut from Bill Paxton, Frailty turns Se7en on its head, splices in The Sixth Sense and casts a crazy-eyed Matthew McConaughey as an enigmatic witness to the mysterious “Hand of God” serial killings. The look is Southern Gothic, the performances solid, and the final reel twist wildly courageous.

Producer Lawrence Bender wears his Tarantino badge with pride. Which is fine when producing QT movies but problematic in everything else (see Killing Zoe, From Dusk Till Dawn 3). Knockaround Guys, in classic Tarantino fashion, has edgy twenty somethings (Barry Pepper and Vin Diesel), a bag of loot, leather jackets, guns, the mob and, natch, a high-intensity Mexican stand-off finale. Derivative.

Danny Aiello dominates this ensemble drama as the weary owner of an Italian restaurant in New York’s Tribeca, caught between mobsters and his son’s desire to transform the place into a chiceatery. Director (and restaurateur) Bob Giraldi keeps things hustling between tables, but cranks up the pace in the kitchens. A grittier companion to Stanley Tucci’s gastro-porn classic Big Night. Tasty.

The culmination of a sell-out 2002 tour sees a middle-aged Williams return to his maniacal roots, musing on Michael Jackson, the Puritans and Viagra, among other topics. However, his breakneck delivery, camp mannerisms and array of accents (including a dismal Winston Churchill) only emphasise, rather than conceal, the weakness of his material. And the “Joe I’m Pregnant” routine is shamelessly lifted from Sam Kinison.

A terrific primer on Scott-Heron’s lyrical, funky jazz bluesology, Robert Mugge’s semi-concert documentary was first broadcast on Channel Four in 1983. Two decades on, the charismatic proto-rapper still comes over as a warm and eloquent performer, wry social commentator and effortless stand-up comedian.

An opening tour of the interior of Snoop Doggy Dogg’s mink-lined Cadillac gives an indication of the spiritual journey that awaits the viewer here. Essentially an extended promo for the roster of Snoop’s label Doggystyle, this is a mixture of interviews, dull footage of Snoop cruising the ‘hood and music videos, the whole exercise redeemed by the divine, Aretha-esque vocal interventions of La Toiya Williams.

Yes Years chronicles the band’s career from the late ’60s through to their ’90s reunion via two hours of archive footage and interviews. Greatest Video Hits is more focused and concentrates on the late ’70s and ’80s when Trevor Horn and Buggles bizarrely joined the line-up. It’s easy to scorn Yes’ pretension, but Yes Years reminds us that the early material at least boasted some great tunes.

Psychiatric patient Prot (Kevin Spacey) seems remarkably sane, except for his assertion that he’s really an alien visitor from a distant planet named K-Pax. It’s Starman meets One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest (in a nicely ironic piece of casting, Jeff Bridges plays the psychiatrist determined to discover Prot’s real identity), and works nicely even if it does err on the side of sentimentality.

Football terrace choruses, phonetically spelt song titles, top hats with mirrors, half-mast trousers, bad haircuts, bugger-grips and Superyobs. It was said that glam “cheered up the ’70s” and none seemed cheerier than Slade, the former Black Country bower-boys who, by late 1974, had become the genre’s most successful exponents. With 12 consecutive Top Five hits and six No 1s to their name (a statistic that knocked Sweet, Bowie and even T. Rex into the shade) Slade seemed invincible. Until, that is, they decided to make their first and only feature film.

Released in 1975, Flame wasn’t, as anticipated, a light-hearted glamorama choc-a-bloc with glitter boots, big hits and slapstick capers (even though it was initially suggested they commit to a Quatermass sci-fi spoof entitled The Quite-A-Mess Experiment). Instead, the band first took debut director Richard Loncraine and writer Andrew Birkin (who would go on to make Brimstone And Treacle and The Cement Garden, respectively) on the road in America to show them the harsh, dismal, sexless and drugless truth behind the rock’n’roll clich

Made for HBO, John Frankenheimer’s final film shows how the US stumbled into the Vietnam war. Alternating choppy chaos with slow control, it considers the view from the White House during Lyndon B Johnson’s troubled administration. An ambitious three hours in length, with Michael Gambon’s LBJ backed by an incredible cast including Donald Sutherland, Alec Baldwin and Philip Baker Hall.