Spartan is serious in a way it seems only Mamet can manage while screenwriters the world (or at least America) over continually treat audiences like idiots, hammering every joke home with the subtlety of a jackhammer, leaving flashing neon arrows on top of every clue.

The much-commented on doldrums of the Australian film industry can be attributed partly to the fact that we have only two distinct cinematic voices.

James Spiderman Franco leads a group of squeaky clean Americans who travel to France at the bloodiest height of World War I to become pilots in the Lafayette Escadrille, France’s burgeoning air battle wing. Love triangles, friendships lost and found and standard issue military chestnuts like the stern drill commander with a heart of gold fill the dull gaps between battle sequences, and after the first few even they get tired.