Tony

If the London district of Dalston has a tourist board, they'd do a lot worse than to get behind this tale of a high-rise killer who evades detection by storing his victims in the wardrobe (or, ­occasionally, bed), laboriously butchering their limbs, wrapping them in copies of the Evening Standard and dumping them, in plastic bags, in the canal. The place looks amazing – there are some ­gorgeous wide angle shots of the flats and loads of ­local ­colour. Shame about the hero: Tony (Peter Ferdinando) lives alone, speaks funny, and does, frankly, look exactly like a killer, with his odd hair, council glasses, Sparks-style 'tache and creepy ironing. He hits it off with a couple of junkies, but blows the friendship by suffocating them with yet more carrier bags. (This is a man who'll be in trouble once ­convenience stores start charging for them.) ­Gerard Johnson's debut is ­undeniably ­exploitative and rather pointless, but enough red herrings get chucked into the mix to keep you ­interested, and Ferdinando's performance, though perhaps one sandwich short of awards glory, is none the less nuanced and surprising.