FOXFUR

Stars: Paris Wagner, Cassie Yeager, Sarah de la Isla, Angel Corbin, Tessie Tracey, Khris Kaneff, Stephen Walter, Kristine Caluya, Jared Cyr, Steph Dawson, Stanley Griego, John Karyus, Rigg Kennedy and Lori McShane.
Writer/director: Damon Packard.

Rating: 3/5

Damon Packard continues to bolster his reputation as an auteur of unique if unfathomable vision with his latest opus, Foxfur. Casting five different actresses in the titular role of a 60 minute mini-feature is the least confounding trait of this riff on bookstore communities, West Coast eccentricity, the language of cinema and UFO lore. Frankly, I didn’t get much of it, but followers of Packard’s new-agey, free-for-all mindset will lap up the latest from a talent who is proving immovably idiosyncratic.

From his early works (which bared such self-consciously ironic names as The Early 70s Horror Trailer, The Untitled Star Wars Mockumentary and SpaceDisco One), Packard has danced to the beat of his own ultra-low budget, determinedly non-linear, garishly-realised drum. Foxfur is no different, though the occasional use of ever-so-slightly more traditional framing and sense of comic timing suggests that perhaps, just perhaps, his visually assaultive aesthetic is softening.

We meet our heroine hunched over a laptop, performing some lounge-room post-production on a rap video, suggesting an affinity with cutting-edge urban pop culture. An occasionally unintelligible pre-credit rant from her landlord (Stephen Walter), which sets the rambling, slightly insane tone for the rest of the film, informs that she will soon be evicted. Foxfur calls her best bud Khris (a very funny Khris Kaneff) and, after some nicely improvised scenes in their Scooby-doo van, embark on a short journey that has them encounter the disconnected population of everyday LA (seemingly lobotomised hardware store clerks; zombie-like hordes of mobile phone users; spruikers of trans-dimensional existences) and other-worldly properties (black ink that traverses the day sky; UFOs hovering on street corners; cats, shot in close-up, that seem to comprehend human interaction).

The film employs an absurdist’s dream-like rhythm, highlighted by random lens flaring and aural punches, during which Packard dips in and out of different planes of reality. This is most clearly represented as each new ‘Foxfur’ is introduced; Paris Wagner, Cassie Yeager, Sarah de la Isla, Angel Corbin and Tessie Tracey are all served well by Packard, who gives each a moment or two shine; Kaneff aside, most other actors are clearly non-pro. The shifting from one locale to another, seemingly unrelated spot (including a woodland-set final act that involves elfin beauties, bad puppets and fat bus drivers, all of whom crash the set of the TV series, M*A*S*H) also plays a significant if, at times, bewildering role.

The denouement seems to suggest that what we have witnessed is a post-apocalyptic reality influenced by the final year of mankind’s existence – 1982 (I think). And that beautiful Plieadian aliens, led by Semjase (Lori McShane), have been watching us while living, largely unnoticed, amongst Los Angeles landmarks. But for many, so much of what has gone before will be too abstract to expect that some pat, B-scifi denouement along the lines of ‘We Are Not Alone’ will wrap things up satisfactorily. If you are still with Foxfur by the time the end credits roll, you will have long dispensed with the expectation that this will somehow all fit neatly into place. Which, perhaps, may be Packard’s point entirely.