A new interview suggests that the Dark Knight's next outing will be his last. How will that play with cash-conscious studio execs?

Despite the fevered speculation about the future of Batman in the wake of the spectacular success of The Dark Knight two years ago, we've been given very little in the way of hard facts about the future of the series. That is, until now. A new interview with director Christopher Nolan, in which he talks about his plans for the third film, as well as his overseeing role on Superman, appears to outline where the man who brought Batman back from the horrors of the Joel Schumacher years sees the character going. And it may not make comfortable reading for execs at studio Warner Brothers.

Nolan, while characteristically tight-lipped, confirms that the third episode of his Batman series will be the final instalment, and will mostly feature the characters and actors who appeared in the first two films. "We have a great ensemble, that's one of the attractions of doing another film, since we've been having a great time for years," he told the LA Times.

"Without getting into specifics, the key thing that makes the third film a great possibility for us is that we want to finish our story," the film-maker added. "And in viewing it as the finishing of a story rather than infinitely blowing up the balloon and expanding the story."

Nolan refused to confirm whether there would be another main villain for the third film, saying only that Mr Freeze would not be appearing. But his comments over the returning cast make me wonder whether he and screenwriting brother Jonathan Nolan might have plumped for a scenario in which the story continues straight on from the end of The Dark Knight, in which Batman was left running for his life with the forces of Gotham at his heels, rather than a distinct new episode with a new bad guy to be outwitted.

"I'm very excited about the end of the film, the conclusion, and what we've done with the characters," Nolan said. "My brother has come up with some pretty exciting stuff. Unlike the comics, these things don't go on forever in film and viewing it as a story with an end is useful. Viewing it as an ending, that sets you very much on the right track about the appropriate conclusion and the essence of what tale we're telling. And it harkens back to that priority of trying to find the reality in these fantastic stories. That's what we do."

Ending it at the trilogy point will certainly help give the series a cohesive form (provided the film-makers get the final episode right). But one wonders what the reaction will be at Warner Bros, where that could presumably be read as shutting down a successful franchise just as it has got going. One can only assume that the movie would end with Batman either dead (unlikely, even in Nolan's dark universe) or retired. But even if Nolan does bring his tale to a satisfactory conclusion, who's to say that the studio won't attempt to revive the character in some form of continuation of the story, with a new director at the reins? It happened with Terminator, after all, though Warner has shown itself to be a careful (perhaps too careful) steward of its DC properties over the last 10 years, so there's a good chance the studio might do the decent thing and wait until it is genuinely time for a new reboot with a different vision.

At least Warner has a little time to play with when it comes to Batman. The rights to Superman, on the other hand, may well revert to the heirs of Jerome Siegel and Joseph Shuster, the original comic-book creators, if a new series doesn't start filming soon. Nolan revealed that the studio handed him the job of overseeing the Man of Steel's revival after another Batman screenwriter, David Goyer, pitched him a reboot concept during a break from planning the sequel to The Dark Knight.

"He basically told me, 'I have this thought about how you would approach Superman,'" Nolan recalled. "I immediately got it, loved it and thought: That is a way of approaching the story I've never seen before that makes it incredibly exciting. I wanted to get [producer] Emma [Thomas] and I involved in shepherding the project right away and getting it to the studio and getting it going in an exciting way."

Which doesn't tell us a whole lot about the project itself, although we know that Goyer will pen the screenplay, with Nolan overseeing the work of an unnamed director. There will be no cross-pollination with Batman, as Nolan plans to continue the concept of each superhero existing only in their own universes in the new franchise.

"Each serves to the internal logic of the story. They have nothing to do with each other," said Nolan, adding: "A lot of people have approached Superman in a lot of different ways. I only know the way that has worked for us that's what I know how to do."

Is Nolan right to bring the story arc of his Batman series to a conclusion following the next film, rather than leaving the series open-ended? And how do you feel about his plans for Superman? As always, I'd love to get your opinions.

To say Bigelow makes films to fit in with the male establishment is to crudely generalise about what subjects interest women

When Kathryn Bigelow won the Oscar for best director last weekend it was, somewhat shockingly, the first time a woman has done so in the entire history of the awards. While this fact has been rightly celebrated, there have also been many, including Richard Adams on this site, who have been quick to point out that she has made a "man's film". While Adams does not go so far as to suggest this is the reason for her success, there have been others who have done so. Critic Martha P Nochimson even responded to Bigelow's Bafta win by saying she was "masquerading as the baddest boy on the block" in order to win respect in a male-dominated industry.

There are a number of problems with this perspective, not least with the idea of Bigelow "masquerading" as something other than her genuine self. She has a history of making action films with male-dominated casts, such as K-19: The Widowmaker and Point Break. To say that she makes these films to fit in with the establishment, rather than because they are the films she wants to make, is to make a staggeringly crude generalisation about what subjects women find interesting. Her Oscar is a cinematic milestone. To greet it with complaints that this female director is somehow not female enough is like saying Obama is not black enough – insulting and beside the point.

Leaving aside Bigelow's personal motives, there is also the question of whether the Academy chooses to reward "masculine" films over "feminine" ones. It is certainly possible, given that the lack of high-profile female directors suggests that Hollywood is still very much a boys' club. A recent study of the top 100 films of 2007 showed that 83% of the directors, writers and producers were male, with only three female directors in the list. In addition, less than 30% of the speaking roles were for women, and I would be the first to argue that there is a dearth of decent female characters who are something more than victims, or eye-candy, or both.

But how meaningful is it to talk about a "woman's film", and what would such a thing even look like? The phrase "chick flick" is a derogatory one, used to refer to trashy romantic comedies, not Oscar contenders. Female directors who have been held up in contrast to Bigelow this year include Jane Campion for Bright Star, Lone Scherfig for An Education, and Nora Ephron for Julie and Julia, none of whom were nominated in the best director category, although An Education was for best picture. While this is a diverse selection of films, they all share an emphasis on relationships rather than action, which could arguably make them more typically female.

Even The Hurt Locker, despite its hyper-masculine subject matter and characters, resisted the epic narratives normally associated with war films. Instead it is a claustrophobic, psychological piece, with action sequences strung out at haphazard intervals, rather than building to a conventional climax. Its presentation of masculinity is certainly thoughtful, even if it offers no overt critique of its characters. In this respect, perhaps it could be said to offer a female perspective on masculinity.

In the end, however, such questions do not really do female directors any favours. Perpetuating the idea that male and female film-making fall into separate categories will only hold back women's progress in Hollywood. There is already a perception that women's films are somehow a niche category. Nia Vardalos, who wrote and starred in My Big Fat Greek Wedding, blogged last year about a studio executive who told her to change the female lead in her latest script to a male because "women don't go to movies". Ann Hornaday of the Washington Post has argued that Hollywood shies away from strong female characters, fearing that they will not be a big box office draw. The fear may well be based on the belief that men do not want to see films made by, or focusing on, women, while women will happily tag along to the latest Transformers film.

Going on and on about how Bigelow has made a "man's film" will only emphasise this view, by ensuring that she is seen as the exception, rather than the rule.

The actor is making his film directorial debut with the Shakespeare tragedy about a brilliant Roman general, with himself in the lead role opposite Vanessa Redgrave and Gerard Butler

Ralph Fiennes is poised to make his directing debut with a contemporary retelling of Coriolanus, the Shakespeare tragedy about a disputatious Roman general who leads a rebellion against the empire. Production starts next week in Belgrade.

Not content with calling the shots from behind the camera, Fiennes will also star in the title role. Vanessa Redgrave plays his ambitious mother Volumnia, while Gerard Butler co-stars as Tullus Aufidius, the commander of an enemy army whom Coriolanus coaxes into an uneasy alliance. Brian Cox rounds out the cast as the Roman senator Menenius. John Logan, the screenwriter behind The Aviator and Gladiator, wrote the script.

The production was first announced at last year's Cannes film festival, where Fiennes was keen to present it as racy, exciting action thriller. "People who've read the script think it's a page-turner," he told Screen International. "I want it to be an edge-of-seat film."

Fiennes, 47, will next be seen in the Ricky Gervais comedy Cemetery Junction. Later this year he makes his final bow as Voldemort in the two-part Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

It was, of course, inevitable. But it's also dangerous. What might happen when singing rodents go stereoscopic?

Because Alvin and the Chipmunks and Alvin and the Chipmunks: The Squeakquel left so many questions unanswered – questions like "Why won't they make it stop?" and "Oh God, why won't they make it stop?' – a third Alvin & The Chipmunks film has just been announced for next year. And this time it's going to be in 3D.

But of course it is. Thanks to the success of Avatar, Alice in Wonderland and, to a lesser extent, The Final Destination, most upcoming films will be released in 3D. The final Harry Potter films will be in 3D. The next Toy Story will be in 3D. There's talk of producing a 3D sequel to The Last Station – provisionally entitled The Laster Station: Tolstoy's Comin' Atcha! – just so that people can experience Christopher Plummer's magnificent beard as if it was right there in front of them.

So let's not kid ourselves – Alvin and the Chipmunks 3D was always going to happen. But what's it going to be like? That's harder to say. Obviously all the classic moments from the last two films will have to be given a 3D makeover – like the poo-eating skit from the first film, the confusingly erotic performance of Beyonce's Single Ladies (Put A Ring On It) by the three lady-chipmunks from The Squeakquel and the increasing look of desperation on David Cross's face as he slowly sails away from his little island of credibility from both films – but what else?

Well, there should at least be a nod to the Dramatic Chipmunk YouTube video. Imagine how amazing that would be – Alvin jolting his head around in three dimensions, threatening to take out the first seven rows of the cinema with his little furry snout. Or, failing that, some sort of horrible, needlessly graphic, three-dimensional extended orgy sequence between the chipmunks and the Chipettes. The technology's there, so it'd be a shame to waste it.

One thing that the Alvin and the Chipmunks producers should be wary of, however, is the manner in which they employ the 3D technology. The sensible thing to do would be to follow the example of Up and keep the effects as subtle as possible. You wouldn't want, say, Theodore to pop right out of the screen during one of the film's endless gratingly high-pitch song and dance numbers, for instance. Not only would it scare most of the children in the audience, but the parents – who by that point would be driven into a profound state of irritation by the film's constant shrill inanity – would begin to involuntarily lash out at it. Then they'd end up punching the person in front of them in the back of the head, and the next thing you know the cinema would have a riot on its hands. Three-dimensional discretion would save the producers a lot of bother, trust me.

And then there's the title to think of. You can't simply get away with calling it Alvin and the Chipmunks 3 or Alvin and the Chipmunks 3D, because the bar has already been set heroically high with The Squeakquel. Unless producers can invent a pun which can simultaneously convey that the film is a) about some chipmunks, b) the third part of a trilogy and c) being presented in 3D, then what's the point of even making it? It's tricky, too – try it. The best I could come up with after a full hour of head-scratching was Alvin and the Chipmunks Squee: Squee-Squee (Alvin and the Chipmunks 3: 3D), but that's clearly not very good. Can anyone do better than that? Can you?

The Museum of Modern Art's show of the Alice in Wonderland film-maker's art overflows with his distinctive creations, but the organisers have wasted an opportunity to take him out of his rabbit hole

Gallery: Tim Burton at Moma

"That's the big deer from Edward Scissorhands," a woman in the sculpture garden of New York's Museum of Modern Art tells her friend, pointing at an outsized topiary stag based on the one in Tim Burton's 1990 film. "And I recognise this one from Beetlejuice, when the furniture tries to eat [the characters]," she adds, gesturing at a large, pointy, painted sheet-metal piece that bears a passing resemblance to something from Burton's 1988 movie but is in fact Alexander Calder's 1959 sculpture Black Widow.

The attribution might have been wide of the mark but at least a connection was made between Burton and a larger artworld. The peculiar thing about Moma's Tim Burton show, which has been running since November and continues to the end of April, is how little effort its curators have made to glance backward or sideways to place Burton's work within a broader context.

Burton has a distinctive sensibility, consistently expressed with wit, imagination and macabre charm, but he is not an obvious candidate for a blockbuster show at one of the world's most prestigious art museums. Part of the exhibition's job is surely to offer an argument about why he should be given a platform alongside the likes of Claude Monet and William Kentridge, both of whom also have shows at Moma at the moment, and how his work fits into and enhances a larger cultural narrative. This the exhibition does not do.

Instead, it gives us Burton, Burton and more Burton. You can see why: the man is plainly prodigious and each of the hundreds of pieces on show has its own reasons to be admired – from early Mad magazine-influenced cartoons and public-service posters created by Burton as a teenager in Burbank, California, to props and production work from his movies (Edward Scissorhands's leather-switchblade costume, The Nightmare Before Christmas's Jack Skellington figure with his two dozen spare heads). There are also nine new pieces created for the show, from a giant inflatable "Balloon Boy" in the main atrium to the monster's maw through which one enters the exhibition proper.

The bulk of the work on show consists of drawings, the vast majority offering individual vividness while remaining consistent with Burton's overall sensibility: there are monsters, aliens, fairgrounds and suburbia; creepy-sympathetic figures that are sharp-toothed, spindly-limbed, bristling with stalks and spirals but often bulbously top-heavy or buxomly dominatrixy. Stark black-and-white stripes alternate with splattered palettes of riotous, even fluorescent colour.

This consistency is striking and limiting. There's really not that much difference in sensibility and technique between Burton's latest works and the paintings of alien invasions or monstrous animations created during his adolescence. Impressive stuff for a teenager, no question, but it leaves the show feeling awfully samey. Even the novelty value of glimpses of early or uncompleted projects is qualified by a feeling that if we never saw Burton's Hansel and Gretel or Little Dead Riding Hood, we can probably imagine how they would look without much difficulty. Nor, a couple of installation pieces notwithstanding, does the show give you the feeling of being in Burton's world yourself in the way that, say, the unsettlingly immersive 2007 David Lynch exhibition at Paris's Fondation Cartier, with its disorienting red curtains and grinding industrial soundtrack, did.

All the more reason, then, for the exhibition to look beyond the contents of Burton's metaphorical garage. There are obvious connections to be made here: with other popular illustrators, such as Charles Addams, Edward Gorey, Ralph Steadman, Ronald Searle and Maurice Sendak; with ideas of childhood, sexuality and outsiderdom that could easily encompass the Grimms, Poe and Freud; and with cinematic movements such as German expressionism and classic monster movies. A Moma film season running in conjunction with the show, called The Lurid Beauty of Monsters, juxtaposes Burton's features with just these kinds of cinematic reference points (Nosferatu, The Brain That Wouldn't Die, Tex Avery cartoons, etc). But the response to the main exhibition is a bit like the response you might have to many of Burton's characters: have you thought about getting out a bit more?

Impish, irrepressible star of The Lost Boys and other 80s teen movies

If the Artful Dodger had smartened himself up, dyed his hair, worn snazzy jackets with the sleeves rolled up, and sought an alternative career as a Jackie or My Guy cover star, he would have resembled Corey Haim at the peak of his career.

The Canadian actor, who has died unexpectedly aged 38, did not spend more than a few years in the limelight. Yet it was his chirpy, irrepressible personality, as much as the occasional high-profile film role between the mid-1980s and early 90s, that earned him the affectionate regard of mainstream audiences. Out of a meagre selection of movies, many of which went straight to video or DVD, it was the 1987 vampire romp The Lost Boys which earned him his teenybopper fanbase; the lopsided smile, impish eyes and jauntily spiked hair made him perfect pin-up fodder. The Lost Boys paired him with Corey Feldman, another rising young actor, who would become his close friend and frequent co-star. Viewers responded positively to the rapport between these young clowns who relished visibly the privileges of their fame.

Haim was born in Toronto to Bernie, a salesman, and Judy, who worked in computing. His parents separated when Haim was 11; by this time, he had already expressed an interest in acting after attending auditions with his older sister, Cari. He landed a regular part on the Canadian television series The Edison Twins, then travelled to Los Angeles to appear in his 1984 debut film, First Born. This drama starred Teri Garr as a divorced mother-of-two whose disreputable new boyfriend is rumbled by her offspring, including Haim as the younger lad. Haim was also cast as Sally Field's son in the romantic comedy Murphy's Romance (1985).

He started to attract positive notices, including one from Roger Ebert of the Chicago Sun-Times, who singled him out in a review of Lucas (1986), the actor's first lead role. "Lucas is played by Corey Haim, who ... does not give one of those cute little boy performances that get on your nerves," wrote Ebert. "He creates one of the most three-dimensional, complicated, interesting characters of any age in any recent movie. If he can continue to act this well, he will never become a half-forgotten child star, but will continue to grow into an important actor. He is that good."

Joel Schumacher hired Haim to play the younger brother to a brooding vampire in The Lost Boys, in which the stylistic cues came from MTV rather than Hammer Horror. Many of the cast members (Jason Patric, Kiefer Sutherland) went on to greater success, but for Haim this was as good as it got. The goofiness that made him so appealing here – his bathtub rendition of Ain't Got No Home was a dotty highlight – would come to define him, and to inhibit any progress as an actor. In 2007, Feldman reflected explicitly on his friend's apparent unwillingness to stray far from his own persona. "I would love to see Corey find the greatest stretch, the hardest character, the most removed element from him ... I would be a huge fan of that work. I would just love to see anything that didn't represent him as Corey Haim, because I've seen enough of that."

Haim got by for a few years after The Lost Boys in a succession of undistinguished comedies, reuniting with Feldman in License to Drive (1988) and Dream a Little Dream (1989). He branched out into futuristic roller-blade science fiction in Prayer of the Rollerboys (1991). But his star was in decline, and an addiction to drugs preceded spells in rehab, as well as a dramatic weight gain that saw the diminutive performer hit nearly 300lb. His mother persuaded him to move away from the temptations of Hollywood and back with her to Toronto. In 2004, he was recalled in a popular single by the Thrills, Whatever Happened to Corey Haim? Despite its title, the song had little to do with Haim, though it did at least put that question onto people's lips. (The actor's response was: "I'm clean, sober, humble and happy.")

The moderate revival of interest which the song provoked may in some small way have helped to get Haim and Feldman's reality TV show, The Two Coreys, off the ground. That series, which began in 2007, revolved around Haim moving in with Feldman and his wife. Despite carrying the whiff of an extended publicity stunt, the show supplied the occasional instance of car-crash television, such as Haim coming to blows with Feldman after insulting his wife, or breaking down in tears upon discovering that his services were not required for a Lost Boys sequel.

At the time of his death, Haim had three films ready for release, including the thriller American Sunset. It was no secret that he hoped to recapture his 1980s success. "I want to be the guy they talk about when they talk about comebacks," he said three years ago. "I want people to learn from me, see I'm human, and understand that I make mistakes just like they do, but it doesn't have to consume you. You've got to walk through the raindrops, and that's totally what I am trying to do."

• Corey Haim, actor, born 23 December 1971; died 10 March 2010

Jack Nicholson's storming performance aside, this 1992 biopic of Jimmy Hoffa suffers from an excess of fictional embellishment in David Mamet's screenplay, and unintentional nods to Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody video

Director: Danny DeVito
Entertainment grade: C–
History grade: C

Jimmy Hoffa was an organiser for the International Brotherhood of Teamsters, an American trade union, serving as its president for 13 years.

After a controversial career, mixed up with organised crime, he disappeared in 1975.

Crime

The film begins with Hoffa (Jack Nicholson)'s rise to power, depicting union politics as a long round of violence, thievery, bombings and Mafia deals. According to Robert F Kennedy's prosecution case against Hoffa, this is more or less accurate. Kennedy began to pursue Hoffa through the courts in the late 1950s. Sadly, the film doesn't invest much in RFK, portraying him as little more than a posh, irritating suit. In real life, Hoffa and Kennedy's personal class war was dynamite material. When Kennedy published The Enemy Within, his sensational memoir of the case, he sent a signed copy to Hoffa, inscribed: "To Jimmy, I'm sending you this book so you won't have to use union funds to buy one. Bobby." Miaow!

Justice

A few clips from Hoffa's extensive televised trial can be seen on YouTube. Just as in the film, there's Bobby Kennedy hurling fierce accusations, and Hoffa in the defendant's chair, scowling and flapping like an angry owlet. Nicholson does a note-perfect impression of said owlet. Kevin Anderson, as RFK, takes the accent a smidge too far, heading past Kennedy's nasal, upper-crust Boston drawl into the territory of Droopy Dog. And there's a regrettable directorial decision to film the closing scenes of the trial with the witnesses in three-quarter profile against a black background, overlaid against each other, which means the proceedings start to resemble the Bohemian Rhapsody video. Hoffa resists the temptation to defend himself with the line "I'm just a poor boy, nobody loves me," prompting the rest of the Teamsters to rise from the public gallery with "He's just a poor boy, from a poor family, spare him his life from this monstrosity!" Though that would have paraphrased the film's case for the defence.

People

Various Hoffa associates are composited and fictionalised into Bobby Ciaro (Danny DeVito), an all-purpose lackey. This is confusing both historically and dramatically. Historically, because it gives the false impression that Hoffa had one close sidekick who stayed with him for his entire career. Dramatically, because with the underdeveloped Ciaro as the lead character, the audience is distanced one step from Hoffa himself. He was a complex and enigmatic man, but the film seems shy of digging deep. Nicholson blusters and cusses his way through David Mamet's authentically sweary screenplay as best he can, but it still feels like we're viewing him through the wrong end of a telescope.

Gangsters

The film creates a fictional crime boss, Carol d'Allesandro (Armand Assante), and has him set up an ostensible peace meeting with Hoffa at the Roadhouse Diner. To be fair, if you were making a movie full of gutsy allegations about the role of the mafia in a high-profile disappearance and presumed murder, you might change a few names. In real life, the FBI suspected Anthony "Tony Pro" Provenzano and Anthony "Tony Jack" Giacalone of ordering the hit. They arranged to meet Hoffa at the Machus Red Fox, a suburban restaurant next to a shopping centre in Bloomfield, Detroit. Unlike in the film, he went alone.

Disappearance

The film shows Hoffa and the fictional Ciaro being murdered in the parking lot. In real life, the Red Fox was busy and even the toughest of mob hitmen probably wouldn't have risked shooting him in plain view of shoppers, diners and restaurant staff. One witness claimed to have seen a car drive away with Hoffa and three men in it. It seems probable that he was taken to another location to be killed. No body has ever been found.

Verdict

The film attempts a cautious middle route between celebrating Hoffa as a working-class hero and condemning him as a gangster. But despite a watchable performance from Nicholson, after more than two hours of screentime, Jimmy Hoffa remains an enigma.

Parallels between the Na'vi and oppressed people in the Arab world are flawed – and imply the need for a foreign saviour

The gigantic blue Na'vi of Pandora have captured Egyptian and Arab minds over the past few months. When they were snubbed at Sunday's Oscar ceremony in favour of The Hurt Locker, the Twittersphere and blogs were ablaze with people crying foul. How, they cried, could a politicised movie glorifying war in Iraq win over a film, Avatar, which "so resembles the causes of struggling people"?

The battle between Avatar and The Hurt Locker has revealed a great divide in the culture of Egypt and the Arab world, where films that show brutal reality are often shunned in favour of the otherworldly tale of the Na'vi, which had made more than 8m Egyptian pounds (£1m) by mid-February. It is still number four in the Egyptian box office chart.

Egyptians usually dislike films that look into political situations in the region unless there is a direct anti-American angle. Body of Lies is the model for success in winning Egyptian and Arab support. Ridley Scott's film is weak and barely scrapes the surface of the harsh realities in the region, but many Egyptians thought it spoke to the wrongs of the American government's war on terror.

Consequently, there was little that Egyptians liked about The Hurt Locker. To their mind, it was an American pro-war film that did little more than show the greatness of the American soldier. Eman Hashem, an Egyptian women's activist, told me The Hurt Locker is a story that glorifies war and the "struggle" of the United States in the region against the "angry Arab". She was more partial to Avatar.

Others gave similar arguments. On Twitter, dozens of Avatar supporters claimed The Hurt Locker was only getting mentioned in the lead-up to the Oscars because it was about Iraq and "makes Arabs look like terrorists". Sure, there is the opening scene that shows an Iraqi man use his mobile phone to detonate an IED, but this happens in real life. What needs to be understood and what the anti-Hurt Locker camp seems unable to realise is that this is not a film about Iraq but a film that reveals the tragic side of soldierhood.

The Hurt Locker does not glorify war. It is a film about soldiers and the neurotic addiction that war can produce in them. It is essentially an anti-political movie about the hardships war brings on the individual and the family inside and outside the war theatre. Egyptians and Arabs should be commending the ugly truth portrayed by the writer Mark Boal and the director Kathryn Bigelow in their gutsy attempt to show the truth about war.

"Egyptians don't like to see reality on the big screen, this is why films such as Syriana and The Hurt Locker are not popular. Egyptians want an escape," said Mohsen Goma'a, an aspiring filmmaker. But their support for Avatar also misses the mark. They have escaped from reality only to enter a new imaginary world where a film speaks directly to their struggle. "Through Avatar I lived the story of the Palestinian, Iraqi, Afghan and Lebanese peoples and the wars waged against them; where the west treats these peoples as if they were the children of the Na'vi" wrote the blogger South Lebanon.

There are numerous short films on YouTube paralleling the stories of the Na'vi and the Palestinians. One Arabic blog argues that Avatar is delivering a message to Americans that is "optimistic and hopeful despite the current situation". What are Americans supposed to be optimistic about? That they are the holders of the world's destiny, much in the same manner that Jake Sully is with the Na'vi? Sully, not the Na'vi, is the hero of the film. He becomes their leader in order for the Na'vi to defend themselves from the vastly superior technology of his former brethren.

Egyptians want something to believe in and Avatar offers a vague picture that is being co-opted into something it isn't. These arguments that Pandora represents the modern Middle East are essentially people pulling an idea out of the sand in order to connect with a very entertaining film. One could see the struggle of the Palestinians and other occupied societies as akin to that of the Na'vi in Avatar, but why would we want to? If Palestinians are dressing in blue and going to the streets in protest to show how connected they are to the fictional people of Pandora, does it not also reveal a stark reality that they would deny: a foreign saviour is needed if they are realise their goal of throwing off the yoke of Israeli occupation?

'I've been offered £8k to do a razor advert'

The most wonderful thing has happened. I have been offered a telly advert! I have been asked to appear as part of an ad campaign stretching across TV, radio and the internet. And the marvellous thing is that this is a beauty product: the new Gillette Venus Embrace, the "first five-blade razor for women . . . hugs every curve and even lets you shave bikini hair for dramatically smooth, begs-to-be-close skin". Short of actually being asked to contribute to Come Dine With Me, or made a Companion of Honour in the Queen's Birthday Honours List, I could not be more proud or excited.

Now, of course, I assumed at first that I had been asked to appear because of my own delicate, epicene, almost feminine beauty which has, however, become more rugged in my 40s. But sadly no. The idea is that, in my capacity as the Guardian's balding, unattractive film reviewer, I would sound off about the eternal feminine loveliness of great romcom movie heroines like Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally. Then a genuinely young, sexy person would appear, explaining how the product will make the user resemble these goddesses.

Even after this explanation of my role emerged, the offer still caused incredulity. At the pub, my dissimiliarity to an oil painting has been loudly discussed. Some have hurtfully suggested that my physical unattractiveness is such that, on appearing in the commercial, I should speak from behind a screen, like an SAS man giving evidence in court.

However, there is the money: £8,000 – for a few hours' work. Eight grand! A superbly calculated offer: just high enough to let you know you're selling your soul, not high enough for it to be worth it. Was this how Faustus felt, tempted by Mephistopheles? I mean, it's just embarrassing. Demeaning. I couldn't compromise my position as film critic like that. How could I discuss Iranian cinema after gushing on in the service of the Gillette Venus Embrace?

Still. Eight grand. Should I do it, do you think?

Kenneth Anger's crazy, gorgeous, disturbing films almost landed him in jail. The avant-garde pioneer talks Simon Hattenstone through all his demons

The gallery is so tiny I think I've walked into somebody's front room. A 10-minute film plays on a loop. Weirded-out rock stars who look like Mick Jagger, or who are Mick Jagger, preen, strut and do their late-1960s satanic thing. White dots form a pyramid on a black background, naked boys lounge on a sofa, marines jump from a helicopter. There's a cat, a dog, an all-seeing Egyptian eye, people smoking dope out of a skull. A synthesiser makes an unbearable noise. There are no words, no story.

Around the screen, in London's Sprüth Magers gallery, a bunch of 21st-century trendies and stoners are watching this film, called Invocation of My Demon Brother, in awe, their ages ranging from late teens to late 80s. Next door, hallucinogenic photographs eyeball you from the wall. You walk in, you walk out – and the show's all over in a flash. It can only mean one thing. Kenneth Anger is back in town.

Anger is a Hollywood legend. He has created some of the most disturbing, gorgeous, crazy and influential films ever, even if he has yet to make a feature. This great avant-gardist is also a writer, best known for Lalaland's two most scurrilous gossip digests: Hollywood Babylon 1 and 2; the first was published in 1965, banned immediately and not published again until 1975. Among the books' more scandalous passages are allegations that Lucille Ball started Hollywood life as a prostitute; that James Dean had a "disconcerting interest" in a 12-year-old boy; and that Bette Davis killed her second husband.

We meet at a London hotel that smells of cabbage. Anger is 83 years old; his hair is jet black, his shoes red, his trousers tan. One eye is bigger than the other, and his face is unlined. He is both beautiful and grotesque: Warren Beatty meets Frankenstein's monster. Anger wasn't always an outsider. He trained as a dancer, and as a boy danced with Shirley Temple. He was handsome enough to have been a leading man. But he did not want to be part of the system. "There was a possibility of going into the industry, but there was a very unpleasant atmosphere in the early 50s, the ridiculous witch-hunt of reds. I wasn't a communist, I just found it very unpleasant." His voice is a cat's purr.

Although he made films as a boy, Anger's earliest surviving work is 1947's Fireworks. This appeared three years before Jean Genet's groundbreaking homoerotic prison masterpiece, Un Chant D'Amour. Fireworks features a young man (Anger) wet-dreaming a sequence in which he is seduced/gang-raped by a group of sailors after he tries to pick one up. As with all his films, there are no words, and the story, such as it is, has a dramatic music score. The camera lingers on his apparent erection – which turns out to be a model of an African soldier. Blood pours from his eyes as he is pulverised by the sailors, and a firework explodes from his zip. His heart is ripped apart to expose a ticking time-piece. It's not only surreal and scary, it is devastatingly beautiful.

Astonishingly, it was made in the McCarthy era. Anger was arrested on obscenity charges following its release. The case went to the California Supreme Court, which declared the film to be art. Anger made it in his parents' Beverly Hills home when they were away at an uncle's funeral. "I just put the furniture in the garden and the living room was the set. Luckily it didn't rain."

How did public screenings go? "Well, it was shown to an elite audience," Anger says. "Among the people who came was James Whale, the British director of Frankenstein, and I became friends with him. Dr Alfred Kinsey, the sex researcher, also came. I became friends with him, too." Did his parents see it? "Um, no. My grandmother saw it. She was like my sponsor: she bought my camera for me. She said it's terrific. She was a painter." Did he know what he was trying to do with films? "Well, I knew all about French avant garde, so I was the American avant garde."

Six-packs, scorpions, swastikas

Anger was born Kenneth Anglemeyer in 1927. His father worked for Douglas Aircraft and his brother went into the airforce, but it was his grandmother who was his inspiration. She took him to exhibitions, introduced him to art and film. At Beverly Hills High school, he remembers looking out of the window watching The Song of Bernadette being made at 20th Century Fox next door. He was friends with Harry Brand Jr, son of Fox's head of publicity. They would swap Hollywood gossip during break.

In his teens, he founded his own film society to screen obscure European movies. By the time of Fireworks, Kenneth Anglemeyer had disappeared. The sole opening credit reads: "A film by Anger." Was it a name that reflected how he felt? "I just condensed my name," he says. "I knew it would be like a label, a logo. It's easy to remember."

It is Anger's use of music as a substitute for dialogue that marks him out from other film-makers of his time. He set 1954's Inauguration of the Pleasure Dome, inspired by Coleridge's poem Kubla Khan, to Janácek's Glagolitic Mass. His most famous film, Scorpio Rising (another sadomasochistic montage of bikers, beatings, six-packs, scorpions and swastikas), has possibly the greatest pop soundtrack in movie history: Fools Rush In, My Boyfriend's Back, Blue Velvet, Hit the Road Jack, He's a Rebel. Scorpio Rising would later encourage Martin Scorsese (in Mean Streets) and David Lynch (in Blue Velvet) to use pop songs to help tell a story.

Lucifer Rising, a celebration of pagan ritual featuring Marianne Faithfull, had a soundtrack written from prison by Bobby Beausoleil, a convicted murderer and an associate of the Manson family. Wasn't Beausoleil a boyfriend of his? "He was a friend. We lived together." Has he known a lot of bad boys? "I seem to be attracted to bad boys, but I never let it go too far. In other words, there's always, 'OK, it's time for me to move out.'" I ask Anger if he was a bad boy. He smiles. "I was a smart boy. Too smart to be involved in badness." He has always preferred badness by association.

Anger was also a friend of Anton Szandor LaVey, who founded the Church of Satan in the 1960s. Is he a satanist? "No, I am not a satanist. I am a pagan. Satanism is another thing." But, I say, people look at your dystopian films, with their myriad references to the devil, and assume you are a devil-worshipper. "Well, I can't help what people see in them," he says. Were you playing with ideas or was it your belief system? "Well, I suppose, a belief." In what? "Underneath it all is an appreciation of nature."

In Lucifer Rising, Faithfull plays Lilith, a demon. It was Anger's most expensive film because it involved a trip to Egypt. "I said to Marianne Faithfull, don't bring any drugs because they'll execute you. So she hid her heroin in her makeup box underneath her face powder. I think she was powdering her face with heroin."

'Hollywood is a dried-out prune'

Anger often found it hard to finance his films. This is where the Hollywood Babylon books came in useful. Although it took him years to get them past the lawyers, they became bestsellers. Many of their stories are still disputed. For years, we have been waiting for Hollywood Babylon 3. Anger says it is written, but it's on hold. "The main reason I didn't bring it out was that I had a whole section on Tom Cruise and the Scientologists. I'm not a friend of the Scientologists." He says today's Holly-wood is a dried-out prune of a place, its stars not even worth gossiping about. "I covered most of the people who were interesting to me in the first two books."

Not only is Anger still filming in his 80s, he tells me he is in the middle of a purple patch, having recently made a number of shorts: one about military uniforms called Uniform Attraction; another about football warmups called Foreplay; and a third, Elliott's Suicide, about his friend, singer/songwriter Elliott Smith, who killed himself in 2003 at the age of 34. "He stabbed himself in the heart after a quarrel with his girlfriend. It's the most ridiculous reason to kill yourself."

Although Smith's songs feature in Elliott's Suicide, it is a film without dialogue. After all, why change a winning formula? Actually, there is one thing I have always wondered: does Anger ever watch, say, Lucifer Rising and wonder what the hell it's all about? He smiles for a long time, casting his mind back over all those years, all those films. "They are close to being dreams – and in dreams, you don't have to analyse what everything means."

Kenneth Anger is at Sprüth Magers, London W1, until 27 March. Then touring. Anger appears in person tomorrow at Tyneside cinema, Gateshead. Details: avfestival.co.uk