So I won't be interviewing Matthew Vaughn. The director of Stardust took objection to my review of the film's premiere. Although I genuinely found this British-made-and-accented fantasy charming and delightfully visually inventive, my reservations about the dialogue (which fails to come alive) and the pacing, as well as the miscasting of Robert de Niro in an unconvincing cameo as a cross-dressing lightning pirate, were enough to scupper our scheduled chat. I think this is a shame. I first interviewed Vaughn after his directorial debut, Layer Cake, which had enirely the opposite virtues and vices to Stardust (although slickly professional, it was entirely lacking in heart). He was charming and courteous, and let our interview run on: it had started late because he had been engaged in discussions on filming a Neil Gaiman book. Coincidentally, that book was Stardust, and even more coincidentally, I had a copy of Gaiman's Neverwhere in my bag at the time. I thought we got on well enough. Vaughn assured me then he had not intended to make a gangster movie like Layer Cake, and would never do so again - that his next project would be much less violent and more lyrical. I didn't ask him dumbass questions about what it was like to be married to Claudia Schiffer, and I even pronounced her name right. Sadly we won't now go to round two. Not this time.

To repeat, I think this is a shame, although I understand Vaughn's reasons. It's a pity that the journalistic tropes of criticism and feature writing are so often in opposition - since the pre-release interview tends to be predicated on a mood of uncritical admiration. It's a pity that one can't discuss a film's flaws with a director (an exception to this was Martin Campbell, who confessed to me that he wished he'd been able to make Casino Royale shorter). I realise it didn't help that my review of Stardust was one of the first to appear in a British newspaper. Although I liked the film much more than I disliked it (and was desperately trying to like it more), I can understand how my positive comments sounded like faint praise when set beside the negative ones. I hope I get to speak to Matthew Vaughn again. Next time, eh?

Anton Corbijn's Control is a beautiful enigma. It is a sensitive and painterly exploration of the life and suicide of Joy Division singer Ian Curtis by a man who knew him, but at its heart is a yawning mystery. Was it his epilepsy, or the pressures of fame or early marriage and fatherhood that led Curtis to hang himself at 23 on the eve of the band's first American tour? Corbijn doesn't say, which is to his credit. And Sam Riley's performance, which proves as uncanny as everyone predicted, also gives no clues of what went on behind those wounded eyes. Control plays like a heartfelt funeral peroration by those still reeling from grief and incomprehension. Or it would if it weren't leavened by occasional flashes of humour. I hugged to myself the revelation that the "tss-tss" percussion on She's Lost Control, which I always thought was done with a brush and cymbal, was in fact created by someone squirting an aerosol at a microphone. And, I love the fact that, along with 24 Hour Party People, we now have a subgenre of films - well, two - which portray Joy Division/New Order bassist Peter Hook as a handsome idiot. Surely a festival or a theme night for Hooky - perhaps including his appearances for his then wife Caroline Aherne's creation, Mrs Merton - should be organised. (The scene in Control where Bernard Sumner cooks Ian Curtis tea is also a gem).