THE DIPLOMAT HOTEL

Stars: Gretchen Barretto, Arthur Acuna, Mon Confiado, Nico Antonio, Sarah Gaugler and Joel Torre.
Writer/director: Christopher Ad Castillo 

Rating: 3/5

A gripping, tragic opening scene and some chilling, technically proficient scares in a hospital corridor set the stage for a potentially terrifying haunted house yarn in Christopher Ad Castillo’s The Diplomat Hotel.

But the Filipino auteur’s third film takes a muddled slow-paced turn into its second act, relying on some stylish though shallow atmospherics that deny a game cast of the opportunity to more fully define their characters. Castillo was clearly aiming to craft an emotionally resonant narrative within the genre, a la Kubrick’s The Shining, but instead the undeniably talented filmmaker delivers an arty riff on material more closely associated with the Corman/Castle stable (specifically, 1959’s House on Haunted Hill).

The main protagonist is Victoria (a fine Gretchen Barretto), a TV journalist whose career nosedives after a murder/suicide in front of her eyes puts her in a psych ward. Upon release, she pleads for her job back, finally landing the assignment of staying in the decrepit, reputedly haunted dwelling of the title.

Allowing a woman recovering from PTSD trauma this kind of gig first day back is one of the illogical missteps that Castillo’s script occasionally offers up. Along for the ride is Gani (Mon Confiado), the son of cult leader Herman Tau (played in flashback by Joel Torre) who committed horrible acts within the hotel walls; Gani is introduced as a loving family man with a small child, so why he agrees to revisit his bleak pass is never explained.

Veronica’s friend, cameraman Danny (Art Acuña) carries a secret shame surrounding the death of his teenage daughter Heidi (Brooke Chantelle), whose ghostly visage appears to him only to morph mid-embrace into a rotting spectre (recalling Jack Torrance’s encounter in Room 237 in Kubrick’s film). Along for the ride are perky production assistant Anna (Sarah Gaugler) and dope-smoking sound-guy Jake (Nico Antonio), characters who have their moments but both prove to be horror fodder.

Thematically, the film addresses the ghosts that haunt us all and the corrosive nature of memory and guilt left unchecked. As the group wander the deserted hallways, they become lost and disoriented; the building clearly represents the endless downward spiral into madness and depression our characters are trapped within. Castillo sets up the psychological underpinnings of his story with skill, but frustratingly little is ever explored. Ultimately, the film delivers suitable scares staged with consummate skill but falls short of transcending its genre trappings as the early promise suggests it might.

After its recent screening at the Cinemalaya Film Festival, The Diplomat Hotel is positioned well for its domestic debut this week. Adding to the sense of anticipation surrounding Castillo’s work is the publicity-friendly fact that the film’s location is the real-world haunted relic famous in his homeland and that the writer/director is the son of one of the region’s most revered filmmakers, the late Celso Ad Castillo (to whom the film is dedicated and who shot 1987’s The Mystery of the Dove, co-starring his son, on the same site). 

THE MORTAL INSTRUMENTS: CITY OF BONES

Stars: Lily Collins, Jamie Campbell Bower, Robert Sheehan, Kevin Zegers, Lena Headey, CCH Pounder, Jared Harris and Jonathan Rhys Meyers.
Writer: Jessica Postigo Paquette; based upon the novel by Cassandra Clare.
Director: Harald Zwart

Rating: 1.5/5

From its clunky title resembling more a typing class exercise than a sequel- friendly franchise starter through to its gapingly illogical and overwrought climax, Harald Zwart’s adaptation of author Cassandra Clare’s teen fantasy romancer is a shallow, noisy and occasionally giggle-inducing mess.

The latest entrant in the “Who is going to be the next Twilight?” game that Hollywood continues to obsess over (note recent non-starters The Host and Beautiful Creatures), this self-conscious, irony-free plodder reeks of focus-group input, their brief apparently to pinpoint every reusable and exploitable aspect of Stephanie Meyer’s work then up the production stakes to the level of gaudy camp. Other pop-culture reference points include Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Star Wars, Men in Black and, of course, Harry Potter, but any chance that Zwart’s cacophonous melodrama will attain similar lasting importance are nil.

Our every-girl heroine is Clary (Lily Collins), who lives with mum (Lena Headey) in Brooklyn. She’s 13, cute and cool, partial to attending poetry groups with her best-bud Simon (Robert Sheehan) who, naturally, has secret longings for her. With the onset of the sudden self-awareness associated with puberty, she begins to notice symbols, signs and, most worryingly, sword-wielding ‘shadowhunters’ among the good people of NYC. It seems Clary comes from a long line of these human/angel hybrid warriors, who slay the demons that live amongst the ‘mundanes’ (that’s us regular folk, everyone…).

Most charismatic amongst the hunters is the chiselled R-Patz clone,  Jace (Jamie Campbell Bower), who is soon in a romantic tug’o’war for Clary’s affections with Simon and most other boy-men demon-slayers she comes across (except for Kevin Zegers’ Alec, who secretly fancies Jace). Having somehow acquired a new wardrobe of fetishistic-influenced combat garb (Clary rightly ask, “Why do I have to dress like a hooker?”), she and her shadowhunter posse (each one ripped and splashed with the coolest in body art, as you’d expect) set about slaying demons, werewolves, warlocks and witches (veteran actress CCH Pounder whoops it up as a black-magic witch in one of the film’s more entertaining characterisations).

Succumbing to all the traps of an origin-story episode that more skilled storytellers would handle with greater dexterity, first-time screenwriter Jessica Postigo Paquette allows herself to be bogged down in lore and detail. This dense intricacy may please fans of the books, but it grinds the film to a near standstill on several occasions; not helping at all is some risibly cheesy dialogue. 

Collins is luminously lovely in the lead role and does what she can to keep her head above the waves of convoluted, nonsensical exposition she and her endless parade of co-stars are forced to lumber through. Her portrayal is infinitely more engaging than Kristen Stewart’s mopey protagonist, representing one of the few elements in which this carbon-copy improves upon its ‘inspiration’.  

UNHUNG HERO

Stars: Patrick Moote, Annie Sprinkle, Dan Savage.
Director: Brian Spitz.

Rating: 4/5

Director Brian Spitz’s wildly entertaining international odyssey to define the nature of the relationship we share with our most schizophrenic organ draws many cogent conclusions, not least of which is that the size of one’s penis will always be second to the size of one’s heart as a man’s defining body part.

The warm, bittersweet journey of comedian Patrick Moote begins when his Jumbo-vision wedding proposal is knocked back, only to have further insult added to injury when his girlfriend announces (ultimately to the world, via a viral YouTube posting) that she said no because his penis was too small.

Set in motion is a man’s quest to learn more about that most enigmatic of appendages. Initially, Moote revisits past lovers who confirm, with varying degrees of shock and honesty, that yes, he is relatively small (oddly, he never fully reveals his manhood for the camera); he approaches strangers in the street to ask if size is of consequence to the average woman (as well as gay and straight men); he even reveals the reasons behind his break-up to his parents, sibling and childhood friends, in some of the film’s most tummy-tightening moments. Following the lead set by the likes of Morgan Spurlock and Michael Moore, Moote suffers for his art by subjecting himself to ‘enlargement methods’ such as pumps, pills and a stretching technique called ‘jelqing’ (Google it, kids…).

Having maintainined a playful tone throughout its first half, with Moote proving a game, likable subject and his steady voice-over providing personal insight, the film turns slightly more serious when the crew jet to Asia and the prospect of penile enhancement day surgery in Korea, needles filled with tribal lotions in Papua New Guinea and genital weights as prescribed by masters of the martial art of Qigong all become very real.

It is in Spitz’s third act that Unhung Hero reveals itself to be both a powerful character study and a revealing commentary on the manipulated, inherently false image of the penis in our society. Moote is shaken by just how much self-worth he has unknowingly placed upon perception of his size, largely based upon the pornification of western culture over the last half-century; credit to the production for rightly acknowledging that women have had to deal with societal issues regarding breast size for a lot longer than men have had to confront self-image problems.

Punny title aside, Unhung Hero emerges as a thoroughly winning and subtly serious story of one man’s emotional redemption via an immersive period of personal examination. That it should also reveal the depths to which our environment and society dictate our very sense of self is both enlightening and gently heartbreaking. Ending on a high with one of the best last lines in a movie in years, Spitz and Moote have crafted a thoughtful crowdpleaser.

Unhung Hero will screen as part of the Sydney Underground Film Festival on Saturday 7th and Sunday 8th of September. Tickets and further details here.  

NOW YOU SEE ME

Stars: Jesse Eisenberg, Mark Ruffalo, Woody Harrelson, Isla Fisher, Dave Franco, Melanie Laurent, Morgan Freeman, Michael Caine, Common, Michael Kelly and David Warshofsky.
Writers: Ed Solomon, Boaz Yakin and Edward Ricourt.
Director: Louis Leterrier

Rating: 4/5

One must approach Louis Leterrier’s ridiculously entertaining Now You See Me with exactly the mindset you would adopt if you decided to sit down for one of the magical extravaganzas central to the movies conceit. If you are going to avail yourself to two of hours slight of hand and slippery conjuring, you are going to have to be willing to believe the unbelievable to fully enjoy the show.

The lean, snappy, funny script from Ed Solomon, Boaz Yakin and Edward Ricourt spins the story of a quartet of magicians with varying skills who, under the stage name ‘The Four Horsemen’, enact elaborate bank heists and elude international authorities with arrogant panache. Showman Daniel Atlas (Jesse Eisenberg) is the self-appointed leader of the group, though mentalist Merrit McKinney (Woody Harrelson), illusionist Henley Reeves (Isla Fisher) and upstart Jack Wilder (Dave Franco) keep his ego in check with quick asides and their own well-honed skills.

A pre-title montage establishes them all as down-on-their luck bit players in the world of magic, until a mysterious invitation and the presence of a hooded figure spins all their lives off into Vegas superstardom. Backed by smug benefactor Arthur Tressler (Michael Caine), the quartet make headlines when a showstopping act of international thievery puts them in direct conflict with grizzled FBI agent Dylan Rhodes (a terrific Mark Ruffalo) and Interpol sidekick Alma Dray (Melanie Laurent). The investigators, constantly flummoxed by the quick hands and minds of their suspects, employ debunker Thaddeus Bradley (Morgan Freeman) to help crack the case.

Given his hit (Unleashed; The Incredible Hulk) and miss (Clash of the Titans; Transporter 2) career to date, Leterrier exhibits a sure and professional touch with his fifth and best feature. He adheres closely to the primary tenets of the magician’s code, spinning his narrative on the maintenance of illusion via misdirection create the perception your audience is one step ahead when in fact they are two steps behind. He wisely keeps his magicians at an enigmatic arms-length from the audience, never quite revealing motivations until the timing is just right. Some viewers may be a little surprised at the central role Ruffalo and the stunning Laurent take in the plot, but the pay-off, however convoluted it may feel, is immensely satisfying.

The result is a supremely slick piece of commercial filmmaking; despite being patently implausible in every respect, the swirling camera and warm colours employed by DOP’s Mitchell Amundsen and Larry Fong, the rich depth of Peter Wenham’s production design and the beat-perfect cutting of editors Robert Leighton and Vince Tabaillon dispel disbelief with a giddy pace. Special credit goes to Brian Tyler’s driving, buoyant score, which ebbs and flows beautifully with the onscreen action and goes a long way to making Now You See Me a daft but dazzling adventure.

PARANOIA

Stars: Harrison Ford, Gary Oldman, Liam Hemsworth, Amber Heard, Julian McMahon, Embeth Davidtz, Richard Dreyfuss, Lucas Till, Angela Sarafyan and Kevin Kilner.
Writers: Jason Dean Hall and Barry Levy; based upon the novel by Joseph Finder.
Director: Robert Luketic

Rating: 2/5

Afforded just enough effort from everyone involved to see it through its late US-summer release date, Robert Luketic’s blah techno-thriller Paranoia employs all the tropes and red herrings required to pad its micro-chip thin premise out to a respectable running-time. Otherwise, the tempting pairing of Indiana Jones and Dracula is a wan non-event.

Adapting Joseph Finder’s novel, screenwriters Barry Levy (Vantage Point, 2008) and novice Jason Dean Hall aim for a fresh, smart-phone era take on tech-thrillers like Phil Alden Robinson’s Sneakers (1992), but Luketic fails to convey any of that films excitement, urgency or sense of fun. Given the Australian director is still best known for 2001’s vibrant Legally Blonde, the dour dramatics of Paranoia are particularly hard to fathom.

One’s first reaction may be why on Earth talents like Harrison Ford and Gary Oldman would bother with this sort of programmer but, in fact, stars have been filling their down time and bank balance with dross like this since the biz began. Remember Johnny Depp’s Nick of Time? Tom Cruise’s Knight and Day? Al Pacino’s The Recruit? No one does (least of all, most likely, the actors themselves) and nor will anyone involved recall Paranoia by the time it hits home video shelves in about six weeks.

Aussie export Liam Hemsworth plays it ultra-safe in his first leading man role, his he-man physique and bushy eye-browed good looks front and centre in lieu of any real character depth. He plays Adam Cassidy, a hotshot developer for ruthless Brit CEO Nicholas Wyatt’s (Gary Oldman) comm-tech mega-corporation. When he unwittingly puts himself in a compromising position, Cassidy becomes Wyatt’s tool; via nefarious (and boldly ridiculous) means, Cassidy compromises his beliefs and agrees to infiltrate the upper echelons of Wyatt’s fierce rival and ex-business partner Jock Goddard’s (a startlingly bald Harrison Ford) competing market leader.

There are peripheral support parts that the producers fill with quality co-stars as a means by which to give dramatically inert subplots some onscreen oomph. Richard Dreyfuss as Cassidy’s hard-working, blue-collar dad (a role that carries with it the same heavy-handed symbolism as Martin Sheen’s part did in Wall Street); Julian McMahon and Embeth Davidtz as Wyatt’s shady offsiders; a likable Lucas Till as Adam’s best mate and the barely glimpsed Josh Holloway as an FBI investigator all do what needs doing.

Most hard done by is Amber Heard who, as Goddard’s recruitment exec Emma Jennings, is relegated to the sexy but soft corporate stereotype who serves no greater purpose than to be the leading man’s ultimate reward. Since her attention-grabbing role in 2006’s All The Boys Love Mandy Lane, Heard has been skirting super-stardom while doing admirable duty in flops Drive Angry, The Rum Diary and The Joneses and little-seen indies The Ward, And Soon The Darkness and The River Why. She exudes integrity and strength in the right role; in Paranoia, you can almost see her grinding her teeth.

As the plot thickens, the contrivances multiply. Most irksome – everyone is at the cutting-edge of technology, until it is convenient to forget or overlook the most basic communications system so as the story can proceed. The most heavily-guarded tech secrets in the smart-phone business are infiltrated in a whim; the security team in charge of the complex seems to number about three, and is led by one of those types that yell “He’s in the stairwell!” a lot. The ambient electro-pulse soundtrack of Dutch techno-guru Tom Holkenboirg, aka Junkie XL, fails to convince that this is a very old B-movie heist caper hoping to look very modern.

PASSION

Stars: Rachel McAdams, Noomi Rapace, Karoline Herfurth, Paul Anderson, Rainer Bock, Benjamin Sadler, Michael Rotschopf, Dominic Raacke and Max Urlacher.
Writer: Brian De Palma; based upon the screenplay ‘Love Crime’ by Alain Corneau and Natalie Carter.
Director: Brian De Palma.

Rating: 2.5/5

Director Brian De Palma descends further into late career dirge fuelled by an artless ‘dirty old man’ fascination with niche, particularly sapphic sexuality with Passion, his most lurid, loopy melodrama to date.

This Berlin-set battle of the same-sexes potboiler is a wildly indulgent work for the 73 year-old, once celebrated as Hitchcock’s heir apparent and lauded member of the film-school brat, 1970’s wunder-kinder generation. Like his contemporaries Francis Ford Coppola, George Lucas and Peter Bogdanovich, it’s been a long time since De Palma has made a decent film (1996’s Mission Impossible, maybe; certainly 1987’s The Untouchables); more recently, his output has been notable misfires (The Bonfire of the Vanities, 1990; Mission to Mars, 2000; The Black Dahlia, 2006; Redacted, 2007) and little-seen guilty pleasures (Snake Eyes, 1998; Femme Fatale, 2002).

Passion falls somewhere in between. Christine (a game but never fully convincing Rachel McAdams) is the driven head of an advertising agency, determined to be promoted back to the corporation’s NYC head office. We meet her giggling over wine and work with her underling Isabelle (Noomi Rapace), a 24-hour ad exec who nails the concept for the firm’s most important client only to have Christine brazenly steal it. So begins an increasingly ruthless sequence of get-squares between the pair, which soon involve Isabelle’s PA Dani (the stunning Karoline Herfurth) and Christine’s slimy boyfriend Dirk (Paul Anderson).

Stylistically, De Palma displays all the skill audiences have come to expect from the director who, in his heyday, gave us Carrie, Blow Out and Scarface. But when the plot turns all murder-y at the midway point (and a convoluted, implausible murder at that), the veteran filmmaker indulges in garish, random lighting and skewy camera angles (DOP Jose Luis Alcaine, Pedro Almodovar’s go-to lensman, may have something to answer for). We get that it is meant to represent one characters descent into madness, but it is jarring and pretentious, taking the audience out of the already daft plot even further.

Passion never quite becomes as generically dismissable as its title suggests, but there are an awful lot of elements that we have seen before in the director’s oeuvre; the complex psychological bond between siblings, specifically twins (Sisters, 1973; The Fury, 1978; Raising Cain, 1992); the manipulative and ultimately corrosive nature of potent, twisted sexuality (Obsession, 1976; Dressed to Kill, 1980; Body Double, 1984). De Palma returns again and again to these themes but unlike his hero Alfred Hitchcock, it has become clear the director’s own obsession has overtaken his ability to creatively explore itself.

For those still there at the end, De Palma ramps up the energy for a deliriously enjoyable denouement (aided immeasurably by an omnipresent Pino Donaggio score). But Passion is the work of a director falling back on what he has done well for four decades and plays tired and desperate. Apparently, with nothing new to say, Brian De Palma settled for repeating himself. He should have called his film something else. 

V/H/S 2

Stars: Lawrence Michael Levine, Kelsy Abbott, Adam Wingard, Hannah Hughes, Simon Barrett, Mindy Robinson, Monica Sanchez Navarro, Jay Saunders, Bette Cassett, David Coyne, Fachry Albar, Hannah Al Rashid, Oka Antara, Epy Kusnadar, Riley Eisner and Zack Ford.
Writers: Brad Miska, Simon Barrett, John Davies, Jason Eisener, Gareth Evans, Jamie Nash and Timo Tjahjanto.
Directors: Simon Barrett, Jason Eisener, Gareth Evans, Gregg Hale, Eduardo Sanchez, Timo Tjahjanto and Adam Wingard.

Rating: 3.5/5

The anthology trip V/H/S 2 (formerly S-VHS) is a fully immersive assault on the senses that will fuel the fire of naysayers who hate the predominance of handheld ‘shaky cam’ projects. But for those who are keen to see some of world cinema's most visually arresting and narratively fearless new directors working through some pretty f***ed-up horror visions, your wishes are granted.

Essentially a Twilight Zone-like compendium for the found-footage/YouTube generation, this sequel to the 2012 cult DVD hit waivers in its overall fright factor but slam-dunks enough horror moments (most of them inventively bloody and grotesque) to ensure a franchise arc in years to come.

As with the first film, the bridging device is home intruders (here, smug PI’s Lawrence Michael Levine and Kelsy Abbott) who discover a wall of TV screens and piles of VHS tapes in an abandoned house. One by one, they work through the footage on the tapes; it is not fully explained how all the tapes come to be in this particular rundown dwelling, but V/H/S 2 is so full of tenuous links and off-the-wall logic it barely maters.

Director Adam Wingard takes lead acting duties in the first instalment, entitled Clinical Trials, which sees him agreeing to be guinea pig for new medical technology that replaces his damaged left eye with a bionic substitute. His vision is improved to the extent that he can see all the vengeful demons he shares the world with. It is a one-note premise to kickstart for film, though features some well-staged shocks and one particular icky scene that was probably the inspiration for the entire segment.

Eduardo Sanchez, co-directing with fellow Blair Witch Project alumni, producer Gregg Hale, offers up A Ride in the Park, a first-person take on the early stages of the zombie apocalypse. A recreational biker, recording his backwoods trail workout, is bitten by an undead; his descent into a zombie state is cleverly tracked by helmet-cams and video footage from a child’s birthday party, horribly interrupted by the swarming savages. Capturing the zom-poc from the pov of the infected proves a better premise than finished product, but it is gruesome and funny enough to satisfy.

The film kicks into high gear with the third instalment Safe Haven, co-directed by The Raid’s Gareth Huw Evans and Indonesian-born filmmaker Timo Tjahjanto. A TV-crew enters the compound of mysterious cult group Paradise Gates, only to find their presence is part of the Satan worshippers overall plan to introduce their master to our earthly plane. Evans and Tjahjanto go to places horrifically indescribable, playing on possession lore, child-birthing imagery and Jonestown-like blind faith in their relentlessly shocking tale (during a rare silent moment, one patron at the screening attended by SCREEN-SPACE pleaded loudly “Make it stop,” drawing a big, tension-relieving laugh from the audience).  

Rounding out the instalments is Hobo With a Shotgun director Jason Eisener’s Slumber Party Alien Abduction, which…well, you get the picture. The Canadian schlock maestro employs some of the film’s most inventive handheld technique, somehow getting his camera strapped to a small dog as the home-alone teens flee Slenderman-like extra-terrestrials.

So assaultive is the overall impact of the segments that come before, the fate of Levine and Abbott’s ‘host’ characters provides a meagre wrap-up. But those few minutes certainly allow audiences, most of which will be the ‘Midnight Slot’ festival crowd or teenage horror-DVD connoisseurs, to take a breath before venturing into the night. There’ll need it….

HARRY DEAN STANTON: PARTLY FICTION

Featuring: Harry Dean Stanton, David Lynch, Debbie Harry, Kris Kristofferson, Sam Shephard, Jamie James, Logan Sparks and Wim Wenders.
Director: Sophie Huber

Rating: 4.5/5

Feature-length documentary debutant Sophie Huber’s filmed biography of character actor Harry Dean Stanton achieves the precise laconic, abstract, existential depth and grace one associates with the man himself. An artful, mesmerising ode to the ultimate character actor’s outlook on the industry and life in general, …Partly Fiction never teeters over into hagiographic adulation yet manages to convey the very uniqueness that has made Stanton the enigmatic force he is today.

Portraying a man who exists within a sharply-defined world focussed via his own experience, Swiss filmmaker Huber employs subtle, lovely camera technique and lulling sound design to capture Stanton as a benevolent spirit, rich in wisdom. Credited with 40 years worth of iconic support turns in films as diverse as Cool Hand Luke, The Missouri Breaks, The Straight Story, Alien and Repo Man (all cliped here), and one of American cinema’s most affecting lead roles (as ‘Travis’ in Wim Wenders’ Paris Texas), the subject is now a ragged, camera-friendly presence who doesn’t give up a lot of words yet still conveys a great deal.

Ironically (or, perhaps, fittingly, given his skill at choosing well written parts), Stanton’s true self is most revealed in the lyrics of his favourite songwriters. He breaks into song regularly (accompanied by his offscreen guitarist friend), usually to the words of Johnny Cash; in one sequence that conveys just how respected he is by actors and musicians alike, he is serenaded by his Cisco Pike co-star Kris Kristofferson (from whose song, ‘He’s A Pilgrim’, the film draws its title).

The softly-softly approach Huber takes pays dividends when Stanton drops the occasional incisive bombshell. Most shocking amongst them his recounting of his long-term but ultimately doomed love affair with actress Rebecca de Mornay; “I lost her to Tom Cruise,” he laughs, recalling the fling the toothy star and leading lady had during the shooting of 1983’s Risky Business.  Another revelation hinted at is the actor’s past with punk-pop queen, Debbie Harry.

Harry Dean Stanton’s Hollywood standing is legendary; he is humbly open about his relationship with Hollywood players such as Marlon Brando and ex-roomie Jack Nicholson. One the films most delightful passages is a couch chat between Stanton and his seven-time collaborator, David Lynch (it could have been eight, it is revealed, had Stanton taken the Dennis Hopper role in Blue Velvet, a part he was offered but felt was too dark for his sensibilities).

Perhaps the most revealing scenes are those that capture Stanton as the ‘everyman’, downing shots at his local bar with old friends who adore him and young suited types who don’t know who he is (in one hilarious sequence, he convinces an ignorant twenty-something that his real name is ‘Ron’ and that he is a ex-astronaut who now works for NASA).

But both Stanton and Huber understand that true character is defined by the most non-verbal of traits; the lines in the aging actor’s face, or the pauses and silences that Stanton dwells in whilst contemplating, are the film’s greatest strengths.

Particular credit must go to DOP Seamus McGarvey, who lensed Stanton’s bit part in last summer’s blockbuster The Avengers but here exhibits a true artist’s touch; his use of crisp black-&-white cinematography for the interview close-ups captures every ragged crevice of the subjects face, while his warm, rich use of night-time colour helps Stanton become one with his surroundings.

Read the SCREEN-SPACE feature, Troupers: An Appreciation of Character Actors, here.

INTERIOR. LEATHER BAR

Stars: Val Lauren, James Franco, Travis Mathews and Christian Patrick.
Writer: Travis Mathews.
Directors: Travis Mathews and James Franco.

Rating: 2.5/5

Those drawn to this experimental ‘acting group’ piece hoping to see A-lister James Franco partaking in a much-touted recreation of gay S&M action so gratuitous that it had to be excised from William Friedkin’s 1980 thriller, Cruising…well, you’ll be resolutely pissed off.

Co-directors Travis Mathews (who seems to do all the directing) and Franco are instead endeavouring to confront the ingrained prudishness of modern society to the open and graphic portrayal of sexuality in mainstream film narrative. That much is all spelt out for the viewer by Franco in an impassioned rant about two-thirds of the way through this intriguing though wanly sterile oddity. 

When Cruising landed in cinemas, audiences weren’t ready for the frankness with which Friedkin tackled the underground homosexual club culture in an time prior to the AIDS epidemic. Starring Al Pacino as a detective who delves into the leather-clad world of the hardcore gay lifestyle, the first full cut left the MPAA rattled; legend has it the Board demanded at least 40 offending minutes had to go just to secure the film an R rating. The fact that no shooting script remains intact and Friedkin's reputation as an joyous embillisher of facts has led many to believe the 40 minutes is an urban myth (though there is no denying Cruising is, to this day, a confronting and disturbing work).

The production enlists straight actor Val Lauren, a long time friend of Franco’s, to play the Pacino part in a restaging of some key scenes (all shot in a downtown LA warehouse, evoking the entirely un-sexy ambiance of a modern porno film set). He is surrounded by gay actors, all of whom are willing to don studded, buckled attire, grind their sweaty bodies against each other and, ultimately, perform oral acts when called upon (in full view of cast, crew and audience).

Mathews and Franco exude an air of self-importance in the film’s early stages, which they endeavour to impart upon Lauren (who doesn’t really get their aim) and the gay actors auditioning for key roles. But after the meagre 70-ish minute running time, there is little to no didactic clarity. The gay cast mutter a lot as to what might really be the point of Matthews’ exercise, but no precise answer is ever revealed; in fact, most of the extras admit to just turning up to see Franco, a personality who has been happy to convey ambiguity about his private sexual preferences.

Lauren is an under-whelming presence on camera; had the production really wanted to make an impactful stance, surely Franco should have stepped into the faux-Pacino part.  The actor derides middle-America’s puritanical views on sexuality, going so far as to state the aim of his film is to shatter staid attitudes to intercourse on screen. Though he has portrayed gay characters in films such as Howl and Milk, Franco’s refusal to portray himself as an actor/artist willing to engage in graphic onscreen gay love is at odds with the aims of the entire project.

Ultimately, Interior. Leather Bar proves to be little more than a tease, not unlike the come-hither montage of pick-up expressions the cast is asked to perform to camera. At first glance, the film offers the exciting prospect of discovering new boundaries; by the end, you begin to wonder if all that went before was worth the time and effort.

Read Part 1 of the two part SCREEN-SPACE feature, The History of LGBT Cinema in Australia, here.

PACIFIC RIM

Stars: Charlie Hunnam, Idris Elba, Rinko Kikuchi, Charlie Day, Diego Klattenhoff, Burn Gorman, Max Martini, Robert Kazinsky, Clifton Collins Jr and Ron Perlman.
Writers: Travis Beacham and Guillermo de Toro.
Director: Guillermo de Toro.

Rating: 2.5/5

The niggling pre-release concern that Guillermo del Toro’s monsters-vs-robots action epic Pacific Rim was going to be his arty Euro take on Michael Bay’s Transformer series never really materialises; its an infinitely superior work to those travesties in every regard. What does surprise is that it still manages to carbon-copy one of Bay’s earlier ear-shattering works; essentially, Pacific Rim is Armaggeddon.

Once you substitute ‘undersea alien giants’ for ‘shards of meteorite’, the narrative comparison falls into place with startling detail. An ensemble of international types, each with a troubled past and under the command of a stoic leader with his own secret issues, must track threats to densely populated areas until the breadth of the enemy’s force dictates that the ultimate sacrifice will have to be made to protect mankind.

Also recalling the 1998 Bruce Willis blockbuster is a clunky plot and cheesy dialogue, the kind of shortcomings that genre fans were hoping del Toro would rein in for his first big summer entry (sorry fanboys, but Hellboy’s 1 & 2 were sleeper hits at best). Astonishingly, the harder one looks into the parallels, however minute, the more overtly obvious they become – Ron Perlman’s much-needed eccentric fronts up at about the same time as Peter Stormare’s crazy Russian did; a square-jawed Idris Elba, as the mission leader, has daddy-daughter issues with Rinko Kikuchi’s strong-willed heroine (ala Bruce Willis and Liv Tyler); Charlie Hunnam fulfils the scarred but solid hero role well, echoing the Ben Affleck part in Bay’s film.

Support players such as Max Martini and Robert Kazinsky as father/son Aussie hunks (sporting awful Down Under accents) and a visibly uncomfortable Clifton Collins Jr as the nerdy tech round out the trope-y caricatures. Several turning points rely far too heavily upon bickering nerdy scientists Charlie Day and Burn Giorman, whose contributions should have amounted to little more than comic relief but who are called on to plug plot holes, much to the story’s detriment.

The highly-touted effects work is photo-realistic (or as ‘realistic’ as acid-spitting behemoths and 6-storey high mechanic men can be). There is a genuine beauty in the detail, though it is frustratingly hard to make out at times. Australian audiences may appreciate the significant role a monster attack on Sydney plays in the unfolding plot, even if the details in the scene are nonsensical (a huge wall that fails to hold back the marauding beast runs down the middle of Sydney Harbour; pictured, right). That said, the rain-soaked clashes between machine and beast more than make up for some truly eye-rolling leaps in logic and coherence.

Guillermo de Toro’s film is not a total bust – let’s face it, it is probably the best sea-monsters-vs-giant-robots bash-‘em-up we’ll ever get - but the ‘bigger is better’ mantra he embraces overwhelms the genre intelligence and class for which he is revered. In an American summer season of less-than-stellar efforts so far, Pacific Rim is not the worst of the bunch but it is clearly the film that falls furthest from its inherent potential.