It’s ok to enjoy schmaltz every now and then. Even critics can’t live on Three Colours alone. Although art-house cinema has its rewards, something about pure, flagrantly manipulative schmaltz is necessary to maintain good movie-mental health. I know there are those who would insist Disney’s Enchanted is an insult to the art-form that gave us Au Hasard Balthazar, but let’s face it, with a choice between manipulative joy and a dead donkey lying in a field – are you really such a stick-in-the-mud? Enchanted might not be art, but it has a sense of fun that few art-house movies’ possess. It’s also impossible not to sing-along to, which is not something you say of, say, Mouchette.