Continuing Best For Film’s series of slightly mucky blogs in the run-up to Nymphomaniac‘s release tomorrow, our resident pervert Vincent has rolled up his sleeves and charged fist-first into the unexpectedly lavish castle of erotic inspiration (well, unexpected to everyone but Vincent) that is the Disney canon. Ever wanted to witness a grown man confess to fancying a fox? You’ve come to the right place.

Sex is awful isn’t it? Sweaty rutting that fails to stimulate a beneficial experience greater than the nerves, the physical exertion or the time you could have spent playing Final Fantasy XIV. Hello ladies, why yes I am single. Like most crippling personality defects, revulsion of sex probably stems from cinema. The great sex scenes are bad enough, creating a standard for physical beauty, ambient lighting and stamina that a mortal male could never hope to achieve, but it’s the terrible sex scenes that have really burrowed deep into your psyche.

Hollywood is big business. With more and more films now scraping, or downright flying, past the billion-dollar mark in box office receipts, it’s understandable that studios are going to pump cash into projects they think will net them a profit. Quite often, however, they appear to have absolutely no idea that a film is going to bomb. Here are a few examples of when studios should have absolutely known beforehand that a project was doomed.

Navigate office life that much smoother with our guide to The Princess Bride’s best pithy put downs and responses; just make sure you don’t accuse your boss of being the six-fingered man who slaughtered your father unless you’re ABSOLUTELY sure it’s true.

The world’s press has descended upon Sochi, home of this year’s Winter Olympics, to discover that you really shouldn’t let former KGB agents with latent sexuality issues to design an international sports centre. Twitter is rife with stories of missing floors, broken doors and filthy water in the official press hotels; although we obviously have zero interest in sports journalism, here are some Hollywood hostelries that, on balance, we’d rather frequent.

In the land of television it’s almost universally agreed that Benedict Cumberbatch has the coat competition sewn up with his oft-swished Belstaff now widely regarded as being as essential to the show as Watson being miffed or the presence of mild, modern intrigue. Film, however, has a more competitive battle going on and as evidenced here it’s one that spans genre and era and sees everyone from murderers and romancers to cartoons and children fighting it out. In a bid to find out the best coat in film history we’ve rounded up our ten favourites, concluding with the coat that Sherlock wishes he had.

It’s one of the rules of the Internet – whenever something makes a lot of money AND is critically acclaimed, it’s due a colossal backlash. Contrary is what I would normally call it, and maybe that’s what I am being; a contrarian. But I cannot in good conscious read another article about how great Disney’s Frozen is without making a stand. This is it.

The lot of a film critic is not an easy one; actors hate us, we inevitably have breakdowns during LFF, and every now and again we get accused of being paedophiles when we go to kids’ films alone. (This is a true story.) And as an unfortunate soul proved this week in America, once Google Glass rolls out we won’t even be able to further Google’s terrifying march towards global dominance in cinemas! Not that we’d especially want to, mind. Here are five other gadgets (none, alas, real) that we’d much rather take to the pictures.

Film fans are hypocrites. We all pretend we’re in love with French dramas and ruminative comedies about AIDS, but when you get right down to it everyone wants to be – and, therefore, to watch – a superhero. We count down the heroes who’ll be setting your pulse racing in 2014.

It’s that time of year again – for the next six excruciating weeks, film pundits will have nothing better to do than bitch about how their favourite film of the year didn’t get the Oscar nominations it deserves, while whoever moderates IMDb heads towards a nervous breakdown. There’s an easy way to solve this, and he’s called Nicolas.