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.

THE END OF TIME

Writers: Alexandra Gill, Peter Mettler.
Director: Peter Mettler

Rating: 2.5/5

Toronto native Peter Mettler endeavours to define the unity of experience in The End of Time, a bewildering non-linear barrage of sound and image that is more than happy to leave its festival followers scratching their collective head. Sped-up clouds, bubbling lava, dead grasshoppers and the directors’’s mother are just a handful of the stunningly captured but seemingly abstract images Mettler utilises to convey the interwoven tapestry of time and its relationship to our existence. And if “unity of experience” and “interwoven tapestry of…existence” struck you as a tad pretentious…well, this film may not be for you.

Mettler’s approach to his brand of ‘sensory cinema’ was honed in previous works like Picture of Light, a filmic study of the Aurora Borealis, and the provocatively titled Gambling, God and LSD (three letters that sprung to mind on a few occasions while watching his latest).  The End of Time literally launches itself into our world, with an opening sequence that chronicles the 1960 space-jump of US parachutist Joseph Kitinger, the Army Colonel threw himself earthward from 30 kilometres high.

From this point, the director takes us to the Large Hadron Collider underground facility in Geneva, perhaps as a symbolic gesture indicating the story he is going to present is about mankind and the natural world at its most primal, molecular level (or not). At different junctures, we are taken to the lava flows of Hawaii, a public funeral parade and cremation in India, an ant colony’s transportation of a large dead cricket and the crumbling metropolis of Detroit.

Each is captured with the most dazzling technical skill. Mettler, one of Canada’s most respected cinematographers, leaves no technique on the table in his coverage of a myriad of tableaus. The final 20 minutes, in which he embraces giddying effects that recall Kubrick’s trippy ‘space-journey’ in 2001 A Space Odyssey and Douglas Trumbull’s visions of the afterlife in Brainstorm, the results are truly mesmerising, occasionally even invoking a form of motion sickness.

Yet the questions arises, ‘Is The End of Time less a motion picture and more an art installation?’ Mettler asks so much of his audience, both in terms of interpretive skill and downright tolerance, one begins to wonder just what point is worth the patience required to sit through this extraordinarily original but frustratingly obtuse exercise. Without contextualising the author’s intent within the boundaries of a themed exhibition, The End of Time will prove largely impenetrable for even the hard-core avant-garde aficionado.

Not for one second should Mettler’s skilled method be doubted, nor the passion of his vision. But if his intent was to paint a portrait, however kaleidoscopic, of how the passage of time affects mankind as one, he may have chosen an aesthetic that doesn’t alienate the vast majority. In painting such a densely existential picture of us all, he ultimately engages no one.  

THE LONE RANGER

Stars: Johnny Depp, Armie Hammer, William Fichtner, Tom Wilkinson, Ruth Wilson, Helena Bonham Carter, James Badge Dale, Bryant Prince, Mason Cook and Barry Pepper.
Writers: Justin Haythe, Ted Elliott and Terry Rossio.
Director: Gore Verbinski

Rating: 2.5/5

Conviction far outweighs cohesion in Gore Verbinski’s panoramic but weirdly schizophrenic rebranding of the 70 year-old western hero, The Lone Ranger. Soaring then sinking jarringly, the director mashes up the genre-reworking skills he showed in his Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy and animated western Rango to forge an adventure comedy both anachronistic and contemporary, though never entirely convincing in either regard.

Concerns that just another franchise-launching superhero origins story is the last thing moviegoers need are not entirely dispelled, with the grinding gears of corporate Hollywood’s influence occasionally peaking out from behind Verbinki’s dusty façade. His is a film that wants to be a honourable nod to the radio/TV series traditions, yet also feels overly compelled to pander to the multiplex mindset for whom the term ‘western’ holds little relevance.

This is evident nowhere more than in the game but misguided casting of Johnny Depp as sidekick, Tonto, to Armie Hammer’s masked avenger. Depp keeps it minimal but still manages to mug mercilessly, never finding a basis in reality from which to create anything other than a one-dimensional comic presence (unlike his Captain Jack Sparrow, which was both at odds with yet wonderfully central to the appeal of the Pirates… series). The superstars’ approach clashes with Hammer’s buffoonish hero, whose broad, physical shtick might have suited Brendan Fraser a decade ago; the actors are both playing the comedic sidekick role, giving the planned laughs nothing to bounce off. 

The plotting, perhaps intentionally, represents a workmanlike but unremarkable melodrama from the genre’s golden era (and bears more than just a passing resemblance to Lawrence Kasdan’s much-loved Silverado). The rail line is cutting a scar across the Midwest under the ruthless, charming control of Cole (Tom Wilkinson), who has brought on board recent law school graduate John Reid (Hammer) to facilitate a peaceful sharing of the land with the Comanche and Apache states. John will be working alongside his tough-talkin’, seen-it-all Ranger brother Dan (James Badge Dale), whose wife Rebecca (Ruth Wilson) once had a passion for the younger sibling.

Simultaneously, Tonto is on his own mission to avenge the exploitation of his land and people when he was only a boy and for which, we discover via flashback, he is largely at fault. A good hour into the film, he and Reid bicker and banter their way into a tenuous partnership over their shared goals. All of this exposition is framed by its own narrative set-up, in which a withered and aged sideshow attraction (Depp, in exemplary old age make-up, ala Dustin Hoffman in Arthur Penn’s Little Big Man) tells a fascinated young Ranger fan (Mason Cook) of a time and legend long since past.

Most bewildering is Verbinski’s disregard for tonality. The key villain, Butch Cavendish (an unrecognisable William Fichtner), has a penchant for eating the body parts of his slain enemies; two sequences featuring massacres (of Texas rangers and peaceful natives, respectively) are old-school bloodbaths; in one attack sequence, native American and cavalry forces clash violently, resulting in lifelike carnage. Picture if you can a film with these elements that also features a cross-dressing henchmen (Harry Treadaway), a legless bordello madam with shotgun-packin’ prosthesis (Helena Bonham Carter); a mystical white stallion with impeccable comic timing and a slapstick action sequence/shootout finale that defies logic and physics in the name of good ol’ fashion matinee nonsense.

The Lone Ranger is ultimately an unwieldy and, at an inexcusable 149 minutes, overlong indulgence offering occasional thrills and giggles but none sufficient to warrant the effort; we’ve seen its type before, in the form of Barry Sonnenfeld’s Will Smith misfire, Wild Wild West. Veteran DOP Bojan Bazelli offers some stunning widescreen vistas that integrate well with CGI elements (horses, buffalos, trains…lots and lots of trains…), but if the U.S. summer audience exits after 2 ½ hours waxing lyrical about the cinematography, Disney’s hefty investment will be in trouble. More problematic may be that it is unlikely they will be talking highly about any other aspect, if they are discussing it at all.

THE CONJURING

Stars: Vera Farmiga, Patrick Wilson, Ron Livingstone, Lili Taylor, Joey King, Mackenzie Foy, Hayley McFarland, Shanley Caswell, Sterling Jerins, Shannon Kook and Steve Coulter.
Writers: Chad Hayes and Carey Hayes.
Director: James Wan

Rating: 3/5

The authenticity afforded any work under the ‘based on a true story’ banner is stretched to near breaking point in the name of old-school horror entertainment in The Conjuring. Bolstered by committed star turns from talent rarely attracted to this sort of malarkey, Australian-trained director James Wan (Saw; Insidious) continues to exhibit growth as a filmmaker with a keen eye for genre scares; if he can hone his ear to weeding out tinny dialogue, he will likely make a great film one day.

Working from a script by twins Chad and Carey Hayes (adapting from the House of Darkness House of Light trilogy of books), Wan eases us into the early 1970s world of self-proclaimed demonologist Ed Warren (Patrick Wilson) and his trance medium wife, Lorraine (Vera Farmiga). Glimpses into their home and work life share the film’s first act with the story of Roger (Ron Livingstone) and Carolyn Perron (Lili Taylor), a blue collar couple who, with their four daughters, have moved into a large home in rural Harrisville, Rhode Island.

From the very first night, strange phenomena (entirely familiar to fans of the haunted house genre) begin to impact the family – foul odours, bumps in the night, broken trinkets. The degree of intrusion escalates - Carolyn develops bruises; the girls are tormented as they sleep; the family dog suffers the fate of most animal co-stars in films like this. When finally summoned to the house, the Warrens sense it is less a haunting than, more worryingly, a case of demonic possession.

Wan is clearly an aficionado of this horror subset, with many nods to films such as Poltergeist, The Exorcist and The Amityville Horror (which the Warren’s worked on in real life and is referenced in the final moments). He slow-burns the early sequences to chilly effect, creating several solid scares and crafting a blanketing menace that holds the attention throughout, even as the third act events spin from the incredible to the implausible. The 1970 setting proves particularly inspiring for production designer Julie Berghoff and art director Geoffrey S Grimsman, whose artistry creates a type of neo-Gothic mansion in modern-day east USA.

Unfortunately, creaking almost as loudly as the home’s doors and floorboards is the dialogue. The Hayes brothers have some high-concept/low-IQ works to their names, namely House of Wax, the Hilary Swank bomb The Reaping and the little-seen Kate Beckinsale non-starter Whiteout. None boast of cracking wordplay and The Conjuring almost unravels under the weight of some B-movie howlers; that Wilson and Farmiga play Ed and Lorraine with such earnestness both shows up the writing flaws yet elevates the material beyond its inherent worth. Wan’s skill with pacing and veteran DOP John R Leonetti’s rich widescreen lensing also help push leaden passages of blah conversation into the background.

Some unexplored opportunities are left on the table. Both Lorraine and Carolyn experience maternal angst as the unknown takes hold (thematically reminiscent of the 2011 Katie Holmes film, Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark), though Farmiga and Taylor share little meaningful screen time together. The four Perron girls, richly observed and wonderfully played in the film’s first half, all but disappear as the investigation takes centre stage, only called upon to shriek a lot as the demonic force manifests.

Regardless of its shortcomings, Wan has crafted an effectively creepy work that honours both the work of Lorraine and the Ed Warren (he passed in 2006) and the dark legacy left by the tales of hauntings since storytelling began.  

THE FINAL MEMBER

With: Sigurdur Hjartson, Pall Arason and Tom Mitchell.
Directors: Jonah Bekhor and Zach Math.

Rating: 4/5

Eccentricity and ego are embraced and explored in The Final Member, a documentary that begins by welcoming us inside the world’s only penis museum then gets progressively weirder.

Directors Jonah Bekhor and Zach Math kick off their gentle journey into the macabre in Husavik, a small, traditional Icelandic village only 30 miles from the Arctic Circle. Here, we are introduced to Sigurdur Hjartson (‘Siggi’ to his friends and admirers), a man who has curated the world’s largest collection of mammalian penises, which he proudly displays at his internationally renowned Phallological Museum.

As retirement age nears, Siggi is becoming increasingly despondent, having yet to find the one genitalia he does not have in his collection – the human male. Fiercely nationalistic, he would like the specimen to be that of legendary Icelandic adventurer and ladies-man Pall Arason, though age may have withered his once virile male-muscle. But being the museum’s first human exhibit carries with it international fame, something that American Tom Mitchell is willing to sacrifice his all for.

It is Mitchell that emerges as the film’s most compelling character, if only because he seems such a genuine oddball. In his sixties, he is immensely proud of his penis (which he refers to as ‘Elmo’) and has no qualms about having it surgically removed, balls and all, so that it can live forever in Siggi’s penile palace. Mitchell is also a patriot, so much so that he has the Stars and Stripes tattooed on the tip of his member, and soon he and Siggi are clashing, with the Icelander more determined to have a countryman’s donation on his shelf than a foreigner.

The directors take a very matter-of-fact approach to the subject and that goes a long way to saving The Final Member from just being a silly, giggly, boys-own joke. Bekhor and Math capture the integrity and passion of Hjartson, a noble and gracious man who has found much respect amongst both the academic community and the Icelandic people. Similarly, the young filmmakers cast an incisive but non-judgemental eye over the irony-free and egocentric Mitchell. Wisely, the film explores the personal lives and family ties that have supported Hjartson over the years, including his wife, children (his son inherits the Museum) and, most convivially, his brothers.

There are certainly moments of tremendous humour (such as when the specialist Mitchell choses for to perform the procedure sees his tattoo for the first time) but they more often emerge from the characters and not at their expense. Thematically, The Final Member is an account of fame and obsession; the shadow of Arason's manly legend and the frail, bent man he has become is symbolic of the fleeting nature of dreams and ego. The three-way character-study of masculine traits takes as its central image a body part most often associated with masculinity, but proves to be about a great deal more.

Be warned; the film does not skimp on the more gruesome aspects of animal penis collection (anyone keen to see what the male harbour seal must carry around all day will not be disappointed).

THE WAY, WAY BACK

Stars: Steve Carell, Sam Rockwell, Liam James, Toni Collette, Maya Rudolph, Amanda Peet, AnnaSophia Robb, Rob Corddry, Alison Janney, Jim Rash, Nat Faxon, River Alexander, Robert Capron and Zoe Levin.
Writers/Directors: Nat Faxon and Jim Rash.

Rating: 3.5/5

When the summer-time feel-good dramedy, The Way Way Back turned up on the Sydney Film Festival schedule, there was a murmur from Harbour City cinephiles that a) suggested this sort of cute US teen tale can’t be worthy of a prime slot, and b) if it is, 2013 may be a lean year at the SFF.

Not for the first time, Harbour City cinephiles were wrong. The SFF 2013 programme was (mostly) up to standard; and, the writing/directing team of Nat Faxon and Jim Rash (hot off their Best Adapted Screenplay Oscar win for The Descendants) have delivered an entirely Festival-worthy offering. This charming coming-of-age effort features a low-key, thoroughly winning lead character in Liam James’ 14 year-old misfit Duncan and a bottomless pit of quality co-stars basking in the glory of a smart, warm, funny script.

Misunderstood sad-sack Duncan is accompanying his mom, Pam (Toni Collette) and her new boyfriend, the jerk Trent (an against-type Steve Carell) on a summer season vacation trip to Trent’s holiday home. We learn early on Trent has history there; his neighbour, the usually liquored-up Betty (a wonderful Allison Janney) is in the party’s face as soon as they arrive, her daughter, Susanna (AnnaSophia Robb) checking out the new arrivals from the porch.

Seeking distance from his twisted home life, Duncan stumbles into a part-time job at the local Water Whizz theme-park, under the tutelage of ultra-cool substitute dad-figure Owen (Sam Rockwell, heir to Bill Murray’s droll but adorable everyman crown, in the role his fans have been waiting for him to play). While Trent and an increasingly disillusioned Pam get complicated with summer friends Joan (Amanda Peet) and Kip (Rob Corddry), Duncan finds new and better authority figures in Owen, park boss Caitlyn (Maya Rudolph), water-shute operator Roddy (Faxon) and surly confession stand long-timer Lewis (Rash).

Not quite the new Little Miss Sunshine the studio marketers would have you believe (that film’s Collette and Carell are very different here), The Way, Way Back most resembles the criminally underseen 2009 Jesse Eisenberg/Kristen Stewart film, Adventureland. Utilising the warmth of rose-coloured retro-vision, both films get away with 80’s-style sentimentality by balancing those elements with tart-mouth quips and real-world emotions.

There is an adorable ease with which the feel-good elements of Rash and Faxon’s story unfold. James makes for an atypical teen lead but that ultimately serves the story immeasurably; even as Act 3 kicks off, the script never hints as to how bittersweet things will become for our hero. It is a work of outward simplicity but resonates with a depth that anyone who was ever an awkward teen will identify with instantly.

WORLD WAR Z

Stars: Brad Pitt, Mireille Enos, Daniella Kertesz, James Badge Dale, Ludi Boeken, Fana Mokoena, David Morse, David Andrews, Moritz Bleibtreu, Sterling Jerins and Abigail Hargrove.
Writers: Matthew Michael Carnahan, Drew Goddard and Damon Lindelof; based on the novel by Max Brooks.
Director: Marc Forster.

Rating: 3.5/5

Director Marc Forster transforms the geo-political/first-person focus of Max Brooks’ bestseller World War Z into an inter-continental blockbuster for a Hollywood star to play the all-American everyman. Fans of the novel had every right to be nervous, especially amidst reports of well-documented production problems and spiralling budget levels.

Thankfully, Forster delivers big-scale action entertainment, a compelling work that flexes its own sinewy muscles while still fulfilling the hopes of zombie fans, who have wanted to see the walking dead given the mega-budget treatment for some time. Die-hard supporters of the novel will begrudge the shift in focus and lack of ideological insight the novel presented. Most, though, will be thrilled to see wave after wave of flesh-eaters rendered large and in multiplexes.

Brad Pitt stars as family man Gerry Lane, whom we first meet at home cooking breakfast for his wife Karin (Mireille Enos) and pre-teen daughters, Constance (Sterling Jerins) and Rachel (Abigail Hargrove). As they banter, television news coverage features scenes of global chaos, as populated centres fall into unexplained anarchy.

Soon, we are with the family in a Philadelphia traffic jam. Helicopters whirl, distant screams can be heard, people are soon running. Almost instantaneously, the Lane clan are caught up in the downfall of civilisation; citizens are going all cloudy-eyed and twitchy, transforming into teeth-chattering, flesh-craving monsters. Forster kicks his film off with this extended sequence that is classic edge-of-the-seat filmmaking; the first 30 minutes, during which the family flee the city via helicopter (Jerry has friends in high places), is truly thrilling.

What follows are a series of immersive action scenes as Jerry, whose experience uncovering terrorist cells somehow makes him an expert re a global health pandemic, traverses the globe trying to establish the cause of the outbreak so that he may develop a cure. A floodlit, rain-soaked take-off in South Korea; a massive wave of zombies scaling one of Jerusalem’s giant walls; and, finally, an outbreak aboard a commercial airliner in which Gerry is travelling, are all handled with a directorial flair that utilises every corner of the widescreen frame (Oscar-winner Robert Richardson shot all the early footage, though is uncredited; Ben Seresin is afforded sole DOP status).

The zombies themselves are never seen chomping into pink flesh or ripping at entrails, as hard-corers who grew up on the George Romero classics might expect. They are portrayed more as a singular surge of destruction, not unlike the African killer ants in Byron Haskin’s The Naked Jungle. The script, which was worked over by lots of LA’s best script doctors but has been credited to Matthew Michael Carnahan, Drew Godard and Damon Lindelof, takes a very softly softly approach to even uttering the Z word; this is a depiction of the zom-pocalypse that wants to keep it very real (similar to the approach Steven Soderbergh used in his version of a cheesy disaster flick, Contagion).

Where the film will divide lovers and haters is in the finale. In a Vanity Fair article that details exactly how expensive it is to rework a tentpole film that doesn’t play well on first viewing, it is revealed a massive Moscow-set zombie bloodbath was filmed then discarded. It is clear from what is left on-screen that the film was gearing up to a huge denouement (its is called ‘World War’ Z, after all), and given Forster’s handling of the action in the film’s first two acts, it is a shame we don’t get to see the footage (the Blu-ray extras menu will be awesome).

Fears that Pitt’s character lost his family-oriented, audience-friendly persona in favour of a zombie-slaying Rambo type demanded reshoots. The new ending is a workmanlike rehashing of Resident Evil, but it plays at odds with the scale and overall aesthetic of Forster’s setpieces up to that point. It is a little hard to get too worked up over 80 zombies in a closed-in environment when your hero has just escaped 2000 of them in the Middle East.

Nailing the everyman archetype while still exuding action-hero chops, this is certainly Brad Pitt’s picture, but there are some support players whose presence (or lack thereof) hint at the film we may have seen. David Morse, German star Moritz Bleibtreu (Run Lola Run) and British actor Peter Capaldi (In The Loop) are reduced to 20-word parts; worse, Matthew Fox gets just a profile shot, his entire role all but excised. Most impressive is Daniella Kertesz as an Israeli soldier befriended by Pitt's character and who allows the family-oriented hero to focus on his caring-for-others side at critical moments. 

Overall, though, fears that the film was shaping up as a Heaven’s Gate/The Postman/Howard the Duck-style money pit have well and truly been laid to rest. World War Z delivers perfectly exciting mainstream thrills guided by a savvy A-list star and box office receipts should reflect that. 

AFTER EARTH

Stars: Will Smith, Jaden Smith, Sophie Okonedo, Zoe Kravitz, Glen Morshower and Kristofer Hivju.
Writers: M Night Shyamalan and gary Whitta; story by Will Smith.
Director: M Night Shyamalan.

Rating: 1.5/5

M Night Shyamalan’s laborious, plodding sci-fi adventure stumbles out of the blocks with a grating voice-over and lame ‘3 days earlier…’ title-card and goes downhill from there. Only the most forgiving of Will Smith’s dwindling audience will find anything of any worth in his portrayal of a career soldier and stoic father who must rely on his wayward son (real-life spawn, Jaden) to get them both home safely.

From its flashback-and-forth narrative to a voice from the grave that saves the day and offers redemption, Shyamalan’s one-trick gimmickry is employed to meagre effect yet again. Bar that daft detour into hired-hand territory with The Last Airbender, After Earth is as Shyamalan as Shyamalan gets; its father-son/grief-infused narrative probably most recalls Signs (for me, his best film) but there are recognisable bits that nod to The Sixth Sense, The Happening and, to a lesser extent, Lady in the Water.

The premise is hoary old sci-fi 101. A deep space mission hits some asteroid debris, jumps into hyper-drive to escape certain death and pops out in the galaxy at a point just a stone’s throw from Planet Earth. With the crew all dead and Earth now a vicious jungle where all creatures have developed into maneaters, it is up to Kitai (the younger Smith) to find the rescue beacon that will save his badly wounded Dad (the older Smith).

Shyamalan mashes up the man-vs-nature journey with some post-apocalyptic sci-fi stuff, and neither manages to hold audience interest. Dragging everything down is the monotonous dialogue, mostly spoken between Will from a chair in the crashed space-craft and Jaden out in the wilds. The elder Smith has mastered the art of ‘ghosting’, a fear-control mechanism that allows him to fight the Ursas, an alien species that tracks you by the scent of your fear pheromones. It also means one of the most vibrant leading men in Hollywood is reduced to a stoic (read, ‘bored’) look throughout. Young Jaden seems far too young to play a warrior-type and lacks the charisma to carry an action lead.

There are some ok effect-driven interludes, notably an airborne sequence which has Kitai being chased by giant condor; but, in line with the skewy logic at the centre of the film, its ‘predator/prey’ tension is undone when said condor turns saviour. It is one of many dumb moments that reveal the thinly-etched fabric of the plot.

There are also the much-discussed parallels with the Scientology principles; Smith and wife Jada Pinkett-Smith have long been rumoured to be closet disciples of the faith (they refuse to comment on any involvement). Those familiar with the basic tenets of the religion can’t help but draw comparisons between the hero who has learnt to control his fears, the young rebel who learns to toe the line and imagery such as volcanoes (central to founder L Ron Hubbard’s ‘Dianetics’ book). It should not cast a shadow over the film’s drama, however unengaging that may be, but it unavoidably will for some.

M Night Shyamalan, who takes a co-writers credit with Gary Whitta (The Book of Eli), has some fun with the look and feel of the mankind’s future world but never lifts the suspense above the most mundane level. An episodic, tension-free, trope-filled movie whose layers and levels of difficulties reflect more aesthetically video-game plotting, After Earth is another DOA misfire that must bring into question the director’s ongoing worth to Hollywood.