ANYONE FAMILIAR with Russian director Timur Bekmambetov's fantasy thrillers Night Watch and Day Watch will know that he knows no bounds. Not only does he have an extremely fertile imagination, he also feels no need to rein it in for the sake of moderation, modesty or reality. Wanted, his first American film, is equal parts daft and inspired, thrilling and absurd; we alternate between laughing with it and at it.

Based on the comic book series by Mark Millar, it follows the progress of Wesley (James McAvoy) from meek accountant to trained killer for "The Fraternity" of assassins - a self-governing band intent on ridding the world of evil-doers, whose high adrenalin threshold and super-sensitivity makes them fast, agile and with a neat ability to put spin on a bullet.

It's good to see Glasgow's own McAvoy elevated to action hero status - the fact that he looks so unlikely in the role, but is a good enough actor to convince us, makes him all the more engaging. He's funny too, especially when the newly empowered Wes avenges himself on his office manager, cheating girlfriend and treacherous best friend, all in one blissful afternoon. McAvoy teams well with Angelina Jolie, whose Lara Croft days have left her laconically well prepared. Together they take part in car chases and gun fights that are deliriously, destructively over-the-top.

The Scot's career was beginning to buzz when, in 2005, he gave a charming turn in The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe, adapted from the first of CS Lewis's Narnia series. While the film lacked the book's sense of wonder, it benefited hugely from McAvoy's fawn Mr Tumnus and Tilda Swinton's White Witch, both of whom met squarely with one's memory and imagination. The absence of equivalent performances is one reason why The Chronicles Of Narnia: Prince Caspian is so disappointing.

Again directed by Andrew Adamson, who was much more nimble with Shrek, this second outing, in which the Pevensie children defend Narnia from heinous humans, seems fuelled by a desire to beef up the action. This misses the point: the Chronicles don't need action, they need amazement. Like its predecessor, Prince Caspian is matter-of-fact rather than magical, merely serving to underline the total, transporting conviction with which Peter Jackson invested The Lord Of The Rings.

Though the battle scenes are well constructed, it's difficult to believe in kids as warrior leaders, especially when these particular child actors are so limp. Swinton does have a cameo, as the White Witch tries to return to the fray. And as she exhales frosty malice, we find ourselves willing her back - not, I'm sure, the expected response.

The French second world war drama Female Agents is an impressive account of the largely unacknowledged women who fought for the Resistance. It's not just an exciting film, but a disturbing one, in that it refuses to take the customarily soft option when showing women as the victims of violence - many of these agents were tortured and killed by the Nazis.

Sophie Marceau stars as a doughty Resistance sniper, ordered to select a team to rescue a British spy captured by the Germans, before he reveals information about the D-Day landings. Her choices make for a motley crew: a prostitute with a killer instinct, a devoutly Catholic explosives expert, an Italian Jew and a showgirl once in love with the Nazi officer (Moritz Bleibtreu) who holds their target.

Writer-director Jean-Paul Salome adeptly blends action set pieces with character-driven drama. One scene, in which all the major players come into play with deadly intent in a Metro station, has an invention and tension worthy of Brian De Palma.

A Complete History Of My Sexual Failures offers exactly what it says on the tin, as director Chris Waitt turns the camera on his own appalling relationship record. A shambolic thirtysomething with an appalling lack of self-awareness, Waitt charts his attempts to get in touch with his ex-girlfriends and find out why they all dumped him. The problem is they hate him so much, that at first no-one agrees to an interview. As Waitt persists, he also seeks an answer to his erectile dysfunction, and readies himself for another go at a relationship.

One wonders to what extent this is a documentary, or a "mockumentary". Waitt has won awards for his previous films, and has acted also, so while the people and situations are real he's probably accentuating his flaws for the camera. This question, though, is part of the film's charm. And whether Waitt's mum is reading him the riot act or a dominatrix is attacking his genitals, it is bizarrely brave and fabulously funny.

There must be a dozen fine films to be made about the firebrand Welsh poet Dylan Thomas. The Edge Of Love, despite a cracking story and talent on both sides of the camera, is somehow not one of them.

It's based on the true, wartime love triangle between Thomas (Matthew Rhys), his wife Caitlin (Sienna Miller) and childhood sweetheart Vera (Keira Knightley), while Vera's soldier husband William (Cillian Murphy) suffers in the wings.

One problem is that director John Maybury's recreation of a London bohemian world, in which roués and artistes prop up the bar oblivious to the Blitz, is too similar to that employed in his portrait of Francis Bacon, Love Is The Devil. As a result, the London scenes feel horribly old hat.

Worst is the dull script, written by Knightley's mother Sharman Macdonald, who fails to capitalise on the potential of this wary female friendship or the phenomenon of genius bubbling in the breast of such an unappealing man. We long for poetry and passion; instead we get kitchen sink melodrama.