Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban

Not content with the several bizillion pounds already languishing in the (possibly spooky but undoubtedly large) bank vaults at Potter Inc., the franchise that felled a million trees continues its Great Leap Forward with a third big-screen outing for the lovable though disconcertingly popular miniature-magus.
By now you’re probably acquainted with the plot details through sheer cultural osmosis. Our titular boy-wonder (Radcliffe) returns to Hogwarts and finds himself being stalked by Sirius Black, an escaped foaming-at-the-mouth criminal implicated in the murder of Harry’s parents. Naturally, the part of gibbering madman has been earmarked for Gary Oldman who puts in his most implausibly maniacal turn since whatever his last movie was. (I’d like to believe he’s squirreling away for Nil By Mouth 2, I really would.) Additional jeopardy is provided by the arrival of the Dementors, terrifying vampiric creatures who act as prison screws in wizard world. Avid fans will derive further pleasure from the new fabled beast, a new Dark Arts teacher and a supporting cast ably played by most of Britain.
As the protagonists age, so does the target demographic, and while you have to wait until The Goblet of Fire for the bodies to start piling up, Prisoner of Azkaban is a far more genuinely gothic enterprise than either Philosopher’s Stone or Chamber of Secrets. Happily, an actual director has been hired for the occasion, replacing well-known Hollywood software package Chris Columbus (presumably he was required for something more asinine).
Predictably outshining the auteur who gave the world Mrs. Doubtfire and Nine Months, Alfonso Cuaron’s faux-Dickensian theme-park has considerably more edge than its predecessors. The imaginative visual flourishes display a dark, Quentin Blake-ish wit – black umbrellas bob about in storms, candles are moulded like twisted, extricated spinal cords, the Quidditch is played by lightning, the whomping willow is a triumph of Frankenstein horticulture, and there’s lots of freaky ginger people who look like they’re on their way to a Fairport Convention convention. As a small mercy for those of us who sat through the vacuous Van Helsing, special effects exist to serve the narrative rather than merely for their own tedious sake.
True, those expecting the director of the smouldering Y Tu Mama Tambien to have fashioned something akin to slash fiction may be disappointed, but Prisoner does feel properly moody and adolescent. Although his school-chums are still a bit Enid Blyton, the opening scenes with Master Radcliffe offer so much hormonal angst and petulant furniture-kicking that I imagined I had wandered into a boy version of Thirteen by mistake.
It’s a first-rate production then, but there remains a lingering feeling that all comers fear the (very fashionably) stilettoed wrath of J.K. Rowling. They certainly tiptoe around her creation when some spontaneity and unpredictability would be welcome. (What’s Werner Herzog doing this weather?)
Perhaps it’s just a complete Catch 22 for anyone wishing to make a Potter flick. You either slavishly include everything from the meticulously, superbly plotted source literature (thereby skimping on such refinements as character development) or you axe cherished scenes and spend your remaining days outrunning a veritable juggernaut of irate ten-year-olds and unmarriageable women.
But even these anoraks, however pernickety, will be thrilled with this accomplished fantasy. Prisoner of Azkaban is a real bouncy castle of a film – big, loud, fun and replete with inflatable flying buttresses. Meanwhile, the more cynical and prurient among you can find amusement in speculating what the future holds for our three central moppets. Which will be the first to grace the cover of Heat with a sordid ‘My Bestial Text Sex and Petrol-Sniffing Addiction Hell!’ exclusive? My money’s on Rupert Grint. With a moniker like that, he’ll surely be crashing and burning in no time.

142 mins. Cert 12pg. Out now