TRANSFORMERS: AGE OF EXTINCTION

Stars: Mark Wahlberg, Jack Reynor, Nicola Peltz, Stanley Tucci, Kelsey Grammer, Titus Welliver, Sophia Myles, TJ Miller, Thomas Lennon and Bingbing Li.
Writer: Ehren Kruger.
Director: Michael Bay.

Rating: 0.5/5

No one expected director Michael Bay and the shareholders at Paramount Pictures to expand the art of cinema when they okayed a fourth Transformers film; we all get that these films only exist to drive quarterly earnings and fuel the ‘business’ of showbusiness. But nor was anyone envisioning just how insultingly low the creative team were willing to stoop to grind out their product. In ‘fast-food cinema’ terms, Transformers: Age of Extinction equates to one of those beef/bacon/cheese/beef monstrosities; those who dream it up know how horrible it is, but they also know everyone will want to try it for a couple of weeks.

The resurrection of Optimus Prime by good ol’ boy junk merchant Cade Yeager (Mark Wahlberg, going through the everyman-hero schtick with a couldn’t-care-less ambivalence) is at the heart…no, wrong word…centre of the narrative. After the destruction of Chicago in the last (and, up until now, worst) Transformers epic, Prime has hidden as a rust-bucket rig in an abandoned picture palace. This setting allows Bay and writer Ehren Kruger (who wrote two good movies over a decade ago – Arlington Road and The Ring – before descending into Hollywood hackdom) the films only flourish of ironic ‘wit’ – the crotchety old gent theatre owner (great character actor Richard Riehle, wasted here) complains that all they make sequels and remakes nowadays.

Yeager, with his dimwitted surfer dude stereotype offsider Lucas (TJ Miller) cracking wise by his side, get the truck back to the family homestead and begin the repair work to bring the Transformer hero back to life (Yeager is an amateur robotics expert, you see). But that is an illegal act, as all alien robots have been deemed enemies of the state, and soon black-suited, comically overstated ‘federal agents’ are tearing up the farm to find Prime.

The first act set-up is pure idiocy, with Yeager painted in very broad brush strokes as the square-jawed, blue-state archetype, every shot of him bathed in the dusk/dawn glow of sunlit heartland purity, a gently unfurling American flag always at the edge of frame. Yet Yeager is so relentlessly dimwitted and lacking in self- awareness, it becomes unclear as to whether the production is celebrating or mocking traditional American values.

However, the bewildering first act is Shakespearean compared to an extended mid-section which may represent the worst second act in scriptwriting history. Stanley Tucci, reprising his shrill paycheque performance from previous instalments, and Kelsey Grammar amp up the villainy as techno-entrepreneurs who have adapted the Transformer mechanics into new weaponry behind the government’s back (the current administration is stoopid, get it?) Wahlberg, his tarty-Barbie Doll daughter Tessa (Nicola Peltz, Bay’s latest shameful fanboy fantasy take on womanhood) and her Irish (?) boyfriend, Shane (Jack Reynor) run and shoot and yell a lot, with no discernible impact on the plot for over an hour. From that point on, Transformers Age of Extinction is an unforgivably dull showreel of mindless carnage and mass destruction coupled with an extraordinary disregard for time, place, life, logic, physics…everything, in fact, but its own boorish, bombastic existence.

Other elements that grate include a new level of grotesque product placement (I know, the whole film is ‘toy brand product placement’, but…really, Bud Light?); the perpetuating of ‘Are we still doing this?’ stereotypes, mostly racial (all Asians know martial arts) and gender specific (the only women to make it in the corporate world are 20-something models in mini-skirts); and, blue-screen effects work that looks amateurish for a 2014 film budgeted at a stomach-turning US$165million.   

Bay has bludgeoned a throne for himself in the Hollywood upper echelon that has allowed for final cut on a series of insanely over-priced sequels. Above all other Hollywood by-products, these clunking mechanical behemoths need a committee of bureaucrats to keep egos like Bay’s in check. That his latest effort runs to 165 incoherent minutes is arrogant self-indulgence of the highest order and indicative of a hubris that will ultimately lead to an industry’s equally immense fall from grace.

JUST THE FACTS, MA'AM: SNAPSHOT REVIEWS OF THE REVELATION DOCOS

The documentary feature strand at the 2014 Revelation Perth International Film Festival makes for a daunting viewing schedule. Each of the 20 films represents a unique vision of life from every corner of the globe. With thanks to the festival organisers, SCREEN-SPACE has seen several of the works programmed and offer our thoughts, however brief, on the RevFest docos that explore the world we live in today…

HAPPINESS (Dir: Thomas Balmes; Finland/France/Bhutan; 80 mins; Trailer)
Having captivated global audiences with his 2010 hit, Babies, French filmmaker Thomas Balmes delves deeper into the harsh existence and insurmountable spirit of children in Happiness. His focus is the charismatic Peyangki (pictured, above), an eight year-old boy sent to a monastery by a tough mother at precisely the moment his homeland, the mountainous monarchy of Bhutan, gets television and the internet. Breathtaking photography counterbalances the intense intimacy of Balmes’ subject; the story is about the boy, but the boy’s story encompasses his village life and the changing face of an ancient culture. 
Rating: 4/5

TINY: A STORY ABOUT LIVING SMALL (Dirs: Christopher Smith, Merete Mueller; USA; 66 mins; Trailer)
The ‘tiny house movement’ is leading the charge to downsive mankind’s centuries-old footprint. Chris Smith and Merete Mueller (pictured, right) chronicle their own efforts to construct a mobile home of barely 120 square-feet, yet which affords them the comforts of ‘MacMansion’-style living. The everyday characters driving the momentum to smaller, smarter dwellings populate this sweet, down-home slice of the new Americana; the ‘message moments’ are tempered by the personal story of Smith and Mueller, whose construction frustrations and romantic maturation give the film a compelling warmth.
Rating: 3.5/5

HARLEM STREET SINGER (Dirs: Trevor Laurence, Simeon Hunter; USA; 76 mins; Trailer)
Directors Trevor Laurence and Simeon Hunter recount the remarkable story of The Reverend Gary Davis, a blind southern black man who rose from tobacco warehouse busker to become one of the influential American guitarists of the 1960s. His unmistakable, incomparable blues/folk pickin’ made him hero to the likes of Peter, Paul and Mary, The Grateful Dead and Jefferson Airplane, not too mention the young boys who heard him play and sat at his feet to learn his craft. Though the film never skimps over Davis’ boozing and womanizing, Harlem Street Singer emerges a grand celebration of a man who redefined an artform.
Rating: 4/5

LED ZEPPELIN PLAYED HERE (Dir: Jeff Krulik; USA; 80 mins; Trailer)
Underground legend Jeff Krulik (pictured, right), that great gonzo archivist of America eccentricity (Heavy Metal Parking Lot; Ernest Borgnine on the Bus; I Created Lancelot Link), tackles the mystery surrounding the alleged appearance of supergroup Led Zeppelin at the nondescript Wheaton Youth Hall, Maryland, in the chilly winter of 1969. Krulik’s fluid, playful and engaging work is a terrific piece of detective storytelling, as well as a great Modern Music History 101 lesson; a vivid collection of aging promoters, record company execs, small-town fans and grey-haired musos, Led Zeppelin Played Here captures the early days of the rock music industry with a giddy glee.
Rating: 4.5/5

THE MAN WHOSE MIND EXPLODED (Dir: Toby Amies; UK; 77 mins; Trailer, below)
Drako Oho Zarhazar modelled for Salvador Dali, appeared in the films of Derek Jarman and led a wildly hedonistic lifestyle that made him the toast of the progressive thinking community. But by 2012, Zarhazar lives the hoarder’s life in a cramped flat in Brighton, England, his slowly disintegrating mind stimulated by hardcore pornography, a scattershot memory and self-abuse. Director Toby Amies befriended the eccentric and captured their interactions in a series of increasingly harrowing, intimate moments. The heartbreaking story of an unique friendship; bring tissues.
Rating: 4/5

FREELOAD (Dir: Daniel T Skaggs; USA; 65 mins; Trailer)
Ten minutes into Daniel T Skaggs raggedy, ‘hobo-hemian’ odyssey, it is tough to find much love for the coarse, self-focussed social dropouts who bum rides on America’s unsuspecting freight rail network. But their brattish arrogance and ‘f**k you’ posturing is peeled back by a filmmaker determined to uncover the truth behind the tattoos and chains; these kids are smart, determined, independent and legitimately at odds with society expectations. A love letter to the rebellious spirit, Freeload is also a bittersweet account of alienation and finding a sense of family while living a boxcar lifestyle.
Rating: 3.5/5

FAITH CONNECTIONS (Dir: Pan Nalin; India/France; 115 mins; Trailer)
The Kumbh Mela is the largest socio-religious gathering on the planet, an event that sees 100 million Hindu pilgrims travel to the junction of three spiritual waterways in Allahabad, India. Pan Nalin (Samsara, 2001) presents an epic yet intimate account of lives that both define and are influenced by the sea of humanity around them. Though unwieldy and overlong, Faith Connections is nevertheless a remarkably insightful film, full of stunning images and imbued with a strong sense of family and personal growth.
Rating: 3.5/5

WEB JUNKIE (Dirs: Hilla Medalia, Shosh Shlam; Israel/USA; 75 mins; Trailer)
The foreboding tagline ‘How do you de-programme a teenager?’ is explored with stark intensity in Web Junkie, a glimpse inside the medical/military machine that is weening Chinese teenagers off their addiction to online gaming. Sharing directing duties with respected documentarian Hilla Medalia is Shosh Shlam, who explored institutionalized mental health care for Holocaust survivors in her award-winning Last Journey to Silence in 2003. Their free form, peak-around-corners style deprives the film of structure but ensures moments of often brutal honesty.
Rating: 3.5/5 

DEAD SNOW: RED VS DEAD (Død Snø 2)

Stars: Vegar Hoel, Orjan Gamst, Martin Starr, Jocelyn DeBoer, Ingrid Hass, Stig Frode Henriksen, Hallvard Holmen, Kristoffer Joner, Amrita Acharia and Derek Mears.
Writers: Tommy Wirkola, Stig Frode Henriksen and Vegar Hoel.
Director: Tommy Wirkola.

Rating: 3/5

Though the blood (and intestines and spinal columns) of the innocent and the undead alike flow just as freely as five years ago, returning director Tommy Wirkola favours the jocular over the jugular in the opportunistic follow-up to his surprise 2009 hit, Dead Snow (aka Død Snø).

The fresh plot follows on from the final moments of the first film, as Martin (Vegar Hoel), the only surviving cast member, flees the clutches of the dentally-challenged zom-commandant, Herzog (Orjan Gamst). But Herzog’s singularly-focussed undead mind recalls a mission to seize the small but strategic coastal town in which Martin is recuperating.

In a post-op haze, Martin learns that an arm has been reattached to his bloody elbow stump, albeit the wrong one; he is now the owner of Herzog’s evil limb, which has a bloodthirsty mind of its own (a further callback to Bruce Campbell’s Evil Dead hero Ash, who had to fight off his own possessed hand before upgrading to a chainsaw attachment).

In a flurry of nonsensical narrative developments that highlights the general ‘Looney Tunes’-level of logic to which Wirkola adheres, we meet a trio of US zombie-hunter nerds (Martin Starr, Ingrid Haas, Jocelyn DeBoer); an army of undead Russian soldiers who have their own score to settle with the Nazis; and, buffoonish small-town cops (including the droll and adorable Amrita Acharia) who take far too long to figure out what is going on.  

Returning to his Norwegian homeland after studio struggles on his US debut, Hansel & Gretel: Witch Hunters, Wirkola takes full advantage of the increased funding afforded his Nazi-zombie sequel. He boldly attempts the same conceptual upsizing that Sam Raimi pulled off when he turned the no-budget cabin-in-the-woods splatter classics Evil Dead 1 & 2 into the time-travel undead-army goof-off, Army of Darkness.

But Raimi carried over the anarchic, inventive essence of the first instalments into his expanded version; Wirkola (co-scripting with his leading man and bit-player Stig Frode Henriksen, who co-wrote Dead Snow) merely applies the bigger-is-funnier approach, the downfall of a great many sequels. There are a lot of disparate elements at play, few of which are maximized; the ‘vengeful arm’ angle peters out and the American trio lack comic focus. Gruesome, mean-spirited gags involving the elderly and babes-in-prams don’t help generate much goodwill, either.

Wirkola is a skillful director; the production values are high and the gore effects good. But unlike the character-based comedy and genuine scares he generated on a miniscule budget first time around, the overall impact of his sequel is less than the sum of its bloody parts.

IMAGINE: LIFE SPENT ON THE EDGE

Featuring:
RIDERS SKI: Jeff Annetts, Sam Favret, Mickael Lamy, Wille Lindberg, Tim Swartz, Drew Tabke, Jeff Leger, Nate Siegler, Casey Wesley
SPEED RIDING: Ueli Kestenholz, Dominik Wicki, Florian Wicki 
SNOWBOARD: Matt Annetts 
SURF: Matahi Drollet, Keala Kennelly, Alain Riou, Hira Teriinatoofa 
WINGSUIT FLYING: Ludovic Woerth, Mathias Wyss 
KAYAK: Shannon Carroll, Mariann Seather, Katrina Van Wijk, Martina Wegman 
KITE SURF: Tetuatau Leverd, Manutea Monnier, Mitu Monteiro, Rony Svarc 
STAND-UP PADDLE: Patrice Chanzy, Aude Lionet-Chanfour.

Director: Thierry Donard

Rating: 4/5

The latest from Europe’s leading sports documentarian, Thierry Donard, is a soulful, contemplative vision that posits the extreme sportsperson as the modern keeper of life’s great truths. Imagine: Life Spent on the Edge may prove too earnestly reverential for those venturing indoors simply for ‘The Rush’, but Donard has crafted an inspiring work that defines a spiritual unity between the athlete, his environment and our search of fulfilment.

Donard, whose Nuit de la Glisse (Night of Skiing) series of films have chronicled athletes pushing their bodies and skills to breaking point, wields the new Go-Pro mini-digicam unit with stunning efficiency and clarity. The sports footage is immersive and, at times, giddying. Skiiers dropped onto mountaintops weave fearlessly down sheer mountain faces as waves of avalanche snow cascade around them; Tahitian surfers glide through the tubes of giant waves; kayakers plunge over Icelandic waterfalls. Genuinely jaw-dropping is the helmet-cam coverage of wingsuit experts Mathias Wyss and Ludovic Woerth, the pair pulling 4Gs as they hurtle past rock cliffs and snow plains.

But the director also invests in an inordinate amount of backstory to provide an intimacy to his subject’s exploits. Champion surfer Matahi Drollet is the focus of Donard’s camera in Tahiti, but moreso for his decision not to ride the Teahupoo break given he has a one month old son. Similarly, Keala Konnelly returns to the ocean that nearly tore her face off in a horrific spill, determined to conquer her demons. Snowboarder Matt Annetts (labelled as a 'soul rider') speaks at length about the support his family has afforded him, allowing him a life of self-discovery via his sport.

Imagine: Life Spent on the Edge dwells not only on the beauty of the sport but also on the value of life balance. This is not a film drenched in sponsor’s tags or glammed-up with the shallow by-products of the macho sports machine (there is nary a bikini-clad beach beauty in sight). What Thierry Donard captures are dedicated, mature individuals for whom an adrenalized existence focuses the mind on what is ultimately most important – integrity, loyalty, family and friendship.

NEXT GOAL WINS

Featuring: Thomas Rongen, Jaiyah Saelua, Nicky Salapu, Liatama Amisone Jr, Ramin Ott, Gene Ne’emia, Larry Mana’o, Rawlston Masanai and Charles Uhrle.
Directors: Mike Brett and Steve Jamison.

SCREENING AT THE 2014 SYDNEY FILM FESTIVAL ON SAT JUNE 7 AND WED JUN 11. DETAILS HERE.

Rating: 4/5

One of the smallest triumphs in world sport inspires one of the year’s most moving and entertaining documentaries in Next Goal Wins, a rousing study of dedication, soulful mateship and steely determination set against the high stakes arena of World Cup football.

In 2001, the national soccer team for the island nation of American Samoa lost 31-0 to Australia during a regional qualifying round. It would prove to be the worst loss in the history of official international matches, a record that remains to this day, and began a losing streak that would last a decade. The non-professional squad of players remained bonded by national pride, but American Samoa seemed destined to remain on the very bottom of the FIFA world rankings for many years to come.

British documentarians Mike Brett and Steve Jamison, making their feature debut, begin their chronicle of the team as it prepares for the 2014 event qualifiers. The governing body of American Samoa football reached out to their US head office and are assigned a new coach in the form of Thomas Rongen, an abrasive, occasionally ill-tempered but experienced journeyman from The Netherlands. The introduction of the ruddy-faced firebrand coach into the idyllic world of the tropical enclave fuels key moments of conflict in the film.

As the training sessions unfold and the channelling of the team spirit into a cohesive, competitive unit takes shape, Next Goal Wins succinctly diverges from the path most will assume it takes; the essence of the film emerges as the personalities and motivations of the key players. Most notable amongst them is goalkeeper Nicky Salapu, who comes out of retirement to quell the demons that haunt him from that fateful game against Australia, and Jaiyah Saelua, a roving, statuesque defender who hails from the nation’s acknowledged third gender, the Fa’afafine, and who represents the only transgender player in international soccer. Perhaps most moving will be Coach Rongen’s personal revelations and the impact the island and its people have on his fractured soul.

Having artfully engaged the hearts of their audience with insightful, compassionate storytelling, Brett and Jamison allow the three qualifying games to unfold with a minimum of filmmaking overkill. With the ultimate aim being to just not lose and, God willing, score that elusive goal, the stakes could not be lower by feel-good movie standards. That the outcome should prove to be edge-of-the-seat thrilling and so deeply affecting is a testament to the skill of the first-time filmmakers and the profound humanity of the on-screen subjects. 

GOAL OF THE DEAD

Stars: Alban Lenoir, Charlie Bruneau, Tiphaine Daviot, Ahmed Sylla, Bruno Salomone, Patrick Ligardes, Xavier Laurent and Sebastien Vandenberghe.
Writers: Tristan Schulmann, Marie Garel Weiss, Quoc Dang Tran, Izm and Laetitia Trapet.
Directors: Benjamin Rocher and Thierry Poiraud.

SCREENING AT THE 2014 SYDNEY FILM FESTIVAL ON MON JUNE 9 AND SUN JUN 15. DETAILS HERE.

Rating: 2.5/5

The scares are too few and the satire too meagre in Goal of the Dead, despite a roster of behind-the-scenes contributors who have plenty of game time when it comes to convincing genre works. Football fans may get a giddy thrill from seeing their passion filtered through the bloodthirsty mindset of a zombie apocalypse, but there is little sports action and even less genuine entertainment value in this gory Gallic romp.

Clearly inspired by the lunacy of the Edgar Wright/Simon Pegg brilliant collaboration Shaun of the Dead, this simply-plotted tale meanders along at a canter rather than the full sprint required. The pretentiously-titled top-tier Olympique de Paris football team are making their way deep into the provinces for a lopsided match against the non-pro hackers from Caplongue. For ageing midfielder Sam Lorit (Alban Lenoir; pictured, top), it is a return to the hometown that hates him, the locals furious he abandoned them for the big city lights 17 years ago; everyone from the quartet of drunk ne’er-do-wells known as The Coyotes to little children in the streets have it in for him.

None hold more of a grudge than Sam’s childhood friend Jeannot (Sebastien Vandenberghe), who was left behind when Sam hit it big. Jeannot’s doctor father has built his lad into a mountain of vengeful muscle with illegal injections but, on the eve of the game, he goes a needle too far; Jeannot becomes a raging, bloody monster, bent on murder and mayhem as he races toward the stadium in the ultimate state of ‘roid rage’.

The great zombie works have always had one eye on potential social commentary while delivering the blood-splattered scares and it seems a no-brainer to focus on the big-business world of professional football, so ripe for taking down a peg or two. But co-directors Benjamin Rocher (2010’s undead bloodbath, The Horde) and Thierry Poiraud (2004’s comedy-horror oddity, The Return of James Battle) stumble from the set-up, dragging out character definitions and narrative elements to extreme lengths and distancing their audience in the process. A disregard for logic, even by horror movie standards, is the film’s first misstep; in one daft scene, a key player is fatefully left behind after the team bus stops, his absence unnoticed until the team is in the dressing room.

Support characters include an ambitious but naïve journalist (Charlie Bruneau), a star forward whose value is waning (Ahmed Sylla, the film’s best asset), a douche-bag player-agent (Bruno Salomone) and a pretty young thing (Tiphaine Daviot) who carries the burden of Sam’s soccer-groupie past. The elements are all in place for a ripping satire skewering football and its relationship with the media, player profiteering and the immorality of the modern sports industry machine, but its six writers (!!) and two directors conjure little more than rote jump-scares and splashy effects.

The decision to run the film as two distinct 60-minute halves (get it?) is cloying; indulging in an entirely fresh credits sequence mid film undoes what little momentum Goal of the Dead has generated. (The film was released in two parts in its homeland, but surely global distributors could have prepped a palatable cut for the international market). If non-fans think soccer can run a tad long and get dull, the 120-minute version screened at the Sydney Film Festival is not for them.

A MILLION WAYS TO DIE IN THE WEST

Stars: Seth MacFarlane, Charlize Theron, Giovanni Ribisi, Sarah Silverman, Liam Neeson, Amanda Seyfried, Neil Patrick Harris, Christopher Hagen and Wes Studi.
Writers: Seth MacFarlane, Alec Sulkin and Wellesley Wild.
Director: Seth MacFarlane.

Rating: 1/5

If there is a contender to wrestle the 2014 Worst Picture Razzie from Adam Sandler and his much maligned non-com Blended, it may well be Seth MacFarlane for his starring debut, A Million Ways to Die in the West. One of the most misguided and flagrantly self-indulgent vanity projects in recent memory, ‘The Man Who Killed The Oscars’ puts his talent front and centre with this crude, witless western spoof that reaches its comedic peak when Doogie Howser kicks over a hat full of diarrhoea. Hooray for Hollywood.

MacFarlane refuses to take a backward step from critics who label his brand of shock-schtick frat-boy level puerile; the very first joke is a misogynistic slur, followed by a steady stream of body fluid gags, some homophobic stereotyping and lots of very modern cussing. His on-camera appearance is itself a non-concession to the conventions of the dustbowl melodrama, with his pearly white teeth, gelled hair and man-scaped features entirely at odds with…well, everything. Which, as was evident from his hosting of the Academy Awards, is the essence of his comic persona; MacFarlane looks the dapper traditionalist, but only to the extent that it allows him to infiltrate the establishment  and amuse himself by setting light to a bag of poo on their doorstep. A Million Ways to Die in the West represents his latest bag of poo.  

The widescreen lensing of DOP Michael Barrett captures the landscape imagery associated the genre, yet MacFarlane does very little to engage on a comedic level with the setting. In one seemingly endless rant that feels pilfered from an outdated stand-up routine, the shrieking actor rattles off all the negatives of the frontier life in 1880’s Arizona; surely some of these could have been explored in greater depth had the script been less reliant upon the auteur’s bottomless well of faecal references.

MacFarlane plays sheep grazier Albert, a whining nobody who loses his girlfriend Louise (Amanda Seyfried) when she tires of his general unmanliness. Albert finds a (very) patient ear in his virginal best friend Edward (Giovanni Ribisi) and his lovable Christian-whore Ruth (Sarah Silverman), but Albert is near the end of his tether. Things begin to brighten up when Albert saves the beautiful Anna (Charlize Theron)during a bar brawl and an entirely unfathomable romance blossoms, until it is revealed she is scouting the town for her gunslinging bad-guy hubby, Clinch (Liam Neeson, looking nonplussed). On the periphery is moustachioed creep, Foy (the film’s biggest asset, Neil Patrick Harris), who is wooing Louise and remains at odds with our anti-hero.

The solid cast is shunted aside for long passages, allowing MacFarlane underserved centre stage for most of the film’s inexcusable 116 minute running time. Deft comedians like Ribisi and Silverman are left floundering with weak, obvious gags before disappearing entirely; Seyfried’s career takes a backward step in a role that feels brutally truncated, as if the majority of it will bulk up the DVD extras package. The most awkward player is clearly Oscar-winner Theron, who good-sports herself for the benefit of her co-star’s project but is clearly uncomfortable. Broad comedy is not prevalent on the actress’ resume and her casting seems less to do with her comedic skill (despite her natural likability onscreen) and more to do with MacFarlane’s over-seer role; if given the power of veto as writer/director/producer on your first studio pic starring role, why not cast the world’s most beautiful actress, regardless of her suitability, as your love interest?

MacFarlane falls back on his well-worn trick of abstract pop-culture references, the likes of which sometimes worked in his overvalued TV series, Family Guy; the IMDb credit list spoils the surprise factor for fans of Christopher Lloyd, Gilbert Gottfried and Ewan McGregor, but there are some other A-list cameos, all affording the overall production no particularly advantage. Some druggy humour and shock-effect gore is employed, the likes of which may raise a goofy smirk amongst stoners, but the scenes are so devoid of inventiveness or context as to have no impact.

The failure of A Million Ways to Die in the West falls entirely at the feet of Seth MacFarlane and one hopes he wears the blame with the same enthusiasm with which he accepted the accolades for his surprise 2012 hit, Ted. In hindsight, the strength of that film was not the foul-mouthed CGI bear but the warm point-of-entry that its star Mark Wahlberg provided. MacFarlane’s follow-up lacks any connective tissue to human realness, preferring cartoonish coarseness and random excess; it is as if that twisted, needy sociopathic soft-toy was given a one-picture deal as reward for his success, and this is the end result.

IN YOUR EYES

Stars: Zoe Kazan, Michael Stahl-David, Jennifer Grey, Nikki Reed, Mark Fauerstein, Steve Howey, Steve Harris and Preston Bailey.
Writer: Joss Whedon.
Director: Brin Hill

Rating: 2.5/5

Indulging in the kind of starry-eyed, low-profile magic-realism project that only directing a Marvel-backed blockbuster will facilitate, writer Joss Whedon threatens to turn all his fanboy followers into diabetics should they seek out director Brin Hill’s take on the Firefly scribe’s ultra-saccharine romantic fantasy, In Your Eyes.

Core demographic devotees of The Avengers (and their parents, who fondly remember his Buffy the Vampire Slayer series) left bewildered by Whedon’s last under-the-radar effort, the modern retelling of Much Ado About Nothing, will find their fan love strained further by this twee, simple-minded love story. The hipster/festival crowd who might otherwise warm to such an offbeat idea are just as likely to react against the under-developed premise, suggesting that rainy afternoon cable viewers will be the film’s likely audience.  

The ‘delightfully dorky’ Zoe Kazan plays Rebecca, an East Coast society gal who is feeling increasingly ill at ease with the airs and graces she must put on to advance the career of her boorishly ambitious hospital administrator husband, Phillip (a slimy Mark Fauerstein). Same time, different place; pretty-boy ex-con Dylan (Michael Stahl-David) is trying to make a new life for himself as a mechanic in a seedy New Mexico town. Stahl-David gets to play his bad-boy dreamboat to the hilt, ably assisted by the production design team who have him living a loner’s life in a caravan overlooking a picturesque gorge; he is usually dressed in a white singlet and spends his free time planting a flower garden in the glow of early evening sunlight.

When Rebecca and Dylan connect telepathically and they both (rather too quickly) cope with the fact they can talk to each other across a continent, an unlikely romance blossoms.  All the expected highs and lows that could manifest from this predicament are played with conviction by Kazan and Stahl-David, who generate a modicum of chemistry despite next-to-no screen time together. How they deal with their secret allows for some meagre comedy (she gets in his head intrusively while he is trying to woo Nikki Reed) and one saucy bout of self-love, the sensations conveyed despite the space between them.

There are a few too many ‘Hey, who were you talking to?’ close-calls with support players; it is never made clear why the pair need to speak aloud when conversing, but…well, they just do. Nor is it ever coherently explained how they can turn the ‘gift’ off (or turn it back on) or why they never connected for all the years he was in prison or she was being romanced by Phillip. The all-too predictable climax is on the back of some wildly convoluted third-act developments that puts way too much strain on the premise and audience suspension of disbelief.

However, these kinds of film’s do find a great deal of love amongst the die-hard romantics; be very careful in whose company you deride such malarkey as the Christopher Reeve/Jane Seymour weepie Somewhere in Time or Sandra Bullock’s letter-box love-story The Lakehouse, both of which awkwardly mix fantasy and romance yet have proven inexplicably enduring. The same following is likely to grow for In Your Eyes, a disposable but not entirely unlikable confection that feels like a first-timer’s passion project and not the work of an A-list writer of Whedon’s stature.

SXTAPE

Stars: Caitlin Folley, Ian Duncan, Diana Garcia, Daniel Farado, Julie Marcus and Eric Neil Guiterrez.
Writer: Eric Reese.
Director: Bernard Rose.

Rating: 3/5

Although the ‘shakie-cam’ found-footage horror genre prides itself on a style-less aesthetic, the craftsmanship of a director with highly-regarded credentials is plainly evident in Bernard Rose’s LA-set haunted-hospital shocker, sxtape. This latest addition to the Brit’s eclectic career is as far from his period dramas (Immortal Beloved; Anna Karenina; The Kreutzer Sonata) as any film could be, but is steeped in the gritty, grimy minutiae of urban decay and chillingly well-defined supernatural components that made his breakout hit Candyman an enduring cult favourite.

Like the 1992 film that introduced horror fans to Tony Todd’s iconic ‘Man in the Mirror’ boogeyman, Rose finds old-school scares in the heart of the modern metropolis. Back then, it was the Chicago projects; this time around, it is in an abandoned sanitarium in the wilds of inner-city Los Angeles. A vibrant blonde artist named Jill (Caitlin Folley) is being followed about town by her horny new beau, Adam (the barely-glimpsed Ian Duncan), who is recording her as she prepares to launch her first exhibit. Sweet time together fills most of the film’s first act, which bounces from boho-loft bonking to playful public giggles and back again; Rose’s film takes a broadminded approach to energetic and frank lovemaking that will attract tough censor attention in some territories.

Adam surprises Jill by taking her to a dingy old mansion to get her thoughts on the place as a gallery space. He surprises her further when, as some kind of bad joke, he straps her to a guerney and briefly leaves her briefly; this allows for the film’s first big scare and the beginning of Jill and Adam’s descent into the vengeful spiritual memory of the building. The plotting comparisons to The Shining grow increasingly apparent (Rose references the ‘naked hottie/old hag’ mirror moment from Kubrick’s film at one point), though it is hardly the first to do so and ultimately carves out its own satisfying narrative path.

Just as fellow veteran Barry Levinson showed on his criminally-underseen handheld horror work The Bay, the format can reinvigorate a director who has spent a career grinding through the traditionally cumbersome production process. Rose held his own camera and cut his own footage on sxtape and the confidence of an old-pro given free reign comes through in every well-timed scare. He has major assets in leading lady Folley, whose all-or-nothing performance goes from darling free-spirit to bloody, shrieking banshee, and production designer Bradd Fillmann, whose vision of a hellish hospital landscape is clearly influenced by those first-person horror games that I refuse to play because they terrify me.

sxtape never fully overcomes the inherent problems that dog the found-footage film - why don’t they just leave? why would they keep filming? why doesn’t the camera battery run out? who adds the post-production elements? The film has its own unanswered conundrums, such as who would still  be running power to the clearly derelict building, although the biggest logical misstep in Eric Reese’s script comes in the form of a prologue in which a cop questions a bloody and distressed Jill; if she is seen to have survived and the fate of her companions is in no doubt, who finds and watches the footage?

Fortunately, Rose and his team generate enough goodwill with some solid scares and a truly icky final frame to overcome any shortcomings. sxtape breathes some fresh air into the handheld-horror genre via the skill of a deft, proven journeyman filmmaker who is clearly enjoying himself.                 

MINUSCULE: VALLEY OF THE ANTS

Writers/Directors: Helene Giraud and Thomas Szabo.

Rating: 3.5/5

The bigscreen adaptation of co-directors Helene Giraud and Thomas Szabo’s French TV hit is a charming adventure that only stumbles when it favours an increasingly expansive plot over its delightful six-legged stars. Which won’t matter one bit to the under 10s, for whom this unlikely, sweetly-told tale of friendship in the insect world will prove irresistible.

Giraud and Szabo stumbled upon a cottage industry when they launched the first series of six-minute shorts in 2006 chronicling anthropomorphised insect life in the French countryside (the film’s backdrop is the woods of Provence). To date, the pair has produced 78 mini-episodes; all are sans dialogue (as is the film version), ensuring easy transition into a global marketplace that now numbers over 70 territories. The step-up to cinema-sized coin was inevitable and has proven audience-friendly; Minuscule is already one of 2014’s top-earners, with Eu14million banked domestically.

The theme of family is established early, when a pregnant woman enjoying a picnic with her beau abandons her blanket of food to dash to the hospital. Jump cut to a birth, but not the one expected; instead, we are under a vast leafy frond and witnessing three ladybug eggs pop open. The new winged family set out on an exploratory adventure, only to have one little one become separated. All alone, his misadventures in survival lead him to the blanket, where he inadvertently befriends the leader of a black ant food-scouting regiment.

With the ants balancing a tin of sugar cubes and the wee ladybug along for the ride (a damaged wing renders the poor critter flightless), a cross-paddock odyssey is undertaken to return the bounty to the ant’s home. Dangers abound (including one very scary lizard, when viewed from the ant’s perspective), not least of which is a determinedly evil red ant platoon led by the film’s villain. The red ants are continuously denied some sugar (both good guys and bad almost falling victim to an ant life’s many dangers, including fish and motorcars) until they can take it no more; the reds launch an all out assault on the black ant hill.

It is this third-act/ninety-degree turn into a Lord of the Rings-style ‘castle siege’ that betrays the elegant, character-driven warmth of Minuscule; the wonderfully expressive eyes of the key protagonists and the major threats posed by minor obstacles are all the narrative needed. By the time the warring ant armies drag slingshots, fireworks and a bug-spray can into battle, audience empathy and interest has waned. One senses Giraud and Szabo were unsure of how to upscale the story as convincingly as the visuals; the narrative hiccups when our ladybug hero/heroine must travel back to the rug, becoming side-tracked into an unnecessary encounter with a spider and frog.

In every other respect, Minuscule is an enormously entertaining adventure. It effortlessly finds more engaging interplay and laughs amongst its handful of tiny, wordless characters than the entire cast of most recent smart-mouthed US animation efforts.