FINAL CUT - LADIES AND GENTLEMEN

Director: Gyorgy Palfi

Rating: 4.5/5

If there is a film buff who exits a screening of Final Cut - Ladies and Gentlemen without their cheeks aching from the 90-minute ear-to-ear grin that Gyorgy Palfi’s stunning montage film inspires, they need to hand in their union card. It is inconceivable that a lover of all things cinematic will not find this extraordinary work just about the most fun they’ll have in a theatre over the duration of their love affair with movies.

The director of the far more hard-edged Taxidermia has compiled clips from over 450+ films, from high-profile classics (Raiders of the Lost Ark, Singing in the Rain, Psycho, Dr No, Avatar) to the most niche cult items (Johnny Corncob, 80 Hussars, Bizalom), and melded then into a classic love story narrative. No actor or actress plays the same part twice, yet every one onscreen helps create a vivid, instantly engaging romantic journey that celebrates storytelling and film language in the most unique of ways.

Constructed over three years by the filmmaker, co-writer Zsofia Ruttkay and a team of four editors, the project took shape when the Hungarian film sector collapsed its subsidy scheme and Palfi was left with production dollars but no way to spend them. Ingeniously, he utilised his vast knowledge of film history and love for international cinema and set about constructing his wonderfully playful, very moving and occasionally boldly graphic love story. He refers to it as his ‘recycled film’, obviously referring to his pilfered footage but also a nod to the clichéd but beautiful plotline which, most nobly, honours the notion that ‘cinema is romance’

Given the copyrights nightmare the film represents, it is unlikely to ever see a DVD/Blu-ray release, but there is something perfectly ok with that. Final Cut - Ladies and Gentlemen should be seen in a theatre as a shared experience, recalling the very early days of the artform when crowds would flock to see the latest flickering images. The millions of frames that have made up a century of cinema are honoured here in one of the most exhilarating montage constructs ever produced; it is a suitably grand yet deeply intimate work.

THE RAMBLER

Stars: Dermot Mulroney, Lindsay Pulsipher, James Cady, Scott Sharot, Natasha Lyonne, Paul Blott, Robyn Reede and Christopher Dempsey.
Writer/director: Calvin Reeder.

Rating: 2/5

Dermot Mulroney’s ‘Man with No Name’ drifter is all too appropriately at the centre of offbeat auteur Calvin Reeder’s ‘Film with No Point’, The Rambler. Overflowing with dreamlike imagery, illogical narrative progression and impenetrable directorial vision, this dusty, dimwitted indulgence will seem cool to some who think its very obtuse nature is reason enough to praise it. It isn’t; The Rambler is mostly just ridiculous.

Mulroney, a solid presence in both mainstream and indie cinema for two decades, goes out on a career limb associating himself with a work of such niche appeal and debatable worth. The film certainly benefits from his involvement, but what he could possibly gain from taking on the titular role (or, more precisely, what artistic growth could he achieve) is beyond me.

We meet ‘The Rambler’ as he is released from prison into an American Midwest filled with dark-hearted eccentrics. Among them, Rambler’s trailer-park girlfriend (Natasha Lyonne, making a welcome return to the screen) who boots him out of their shared RV; a cab driver (Scott Sharot) with an obsession for old monster movies; a twisted mad scientist (James Cady) whose VHS dream-recorder literally blows the mind; and a girl (Lindsay Pulsipher, working with Reeder again after 2010’s little-seen The Oregonian) who inexplicably falls for Mulroney’s bad-boy caricature.

Reeder’s vision invites consideration and involvement for most of its first half. There is something compelling about Mulroney’s road-trip journey (he is on his way to his brother’s property to work breaking in horses) and sideways detours into odd landscapes, invariably accompanied by a pulsating ambient soundtrack, hold a certain allure. It is clear that Reeder is a big fan of David Lynch, his film rather shamefacedly drawing on imagery from Blue Velvet and Twin Peaks, though ultimately minus the character definition that was so crucial to Lynch’s work.

The films’ last 40 minutes, quite frankly, are indecipherable. Reeder indulges in 80s-style gore, physical monster effects, a messy aural mix and swift editing to crazy up Rambler’s descent into a dissociative, nightmare state. Dogs snack on corpses, rotting demon-monsters accompany country-and-western tunes, our hero stoically stares down all manner of B-horror manifestations. None of it makes a lick of sense to anyone bar Reeder himself and his disciples, but it drones on for 99 minutes of incomprehensible inanity.

If the film achieves anything, it is in its raising of the question of just how much responsibility a director has to both his vision and its audience.  Bravo to Reeder for getting this before festival crowds, but outbreaks of full laughter and frustrated walkouts, as happened at the Sydney Film Festival screening that SCREEN-SPACE attended, can’t have been what he envisioned. He has somehow managed to not only hold onto but also bring to festival audiences the type of gaudy pretentiousness usually drummed out of over-confident students in their first year at film school. Which is not to say there isn’t a place for totally off-centre works like The Rambler, but inside public theatres is not it.  

LOVELACE

Stars: Amanda Seyfried, Peter Sarsgaard, Chris Noth, Debi Mazar, Juno Temple, Sharon Stone, Hank Azaria, Bobby Carnavale, Adam Brody, Robert Patrick, Wes Bentley, Chloe Sevigny, Eric Roberts and James Franco.
Writer: Andy Bellin
Directors: Rob Epstein and Jeffrey Friedman.

Rating: 2.5/5

Perhaps four decades of generating an iconic status put the telling of Linda Lovelace’s life story behind the eight-ball from the get-go, but as this biopic unfolds under the direction of doco-vets Rob Epstein and Jeffery Friedman, well…there are just not that many surprises.

Lovelace ticks all the boxes that audiences lining up for this sort of sordid content will expect: small town girl, ultra-religious parents, violent boyfriend, exploitative producers. What is lacking is a distinctive point of view that differentiates the biggest name in adult entertainment from every other misguided, abused waif caught up in the maelstrom of the sex-for-profit film industry.

What doubly disappoints is that between them, the directorial duo has some of the most profoundly insightful factual-film explorations of sexual politics of the last 30 years. Grounbreakers such as The Times of Harvey Milk, Common Threads: Stories from the Quilt, The Celluloid Closet and the James Franco starrer Howl are all held in enormous regard. That their take on one of the most influential figures of the sexual and, ultimately, social revolution of the early- to mid-1970s should prove so anaemic is the source of greatest dissatisfaction.

There are some potent moments and compelling performances. As Linda, a fearless Amanda Seyfried (clearly not averse to embracing and embodying sexuality, after temptress roles in Chloe and Gone) bares all emotionally and physically in the title role. Hers is a vanity-free performance, the actress proudly displaying the curvier, ‘ungroomed’ preferences of the period and ageing convincingly from the late teens to mid-30s.

Support players waiver between cartoonish caricature (Hank Azaria as director Jerry Damiano; Bobby Carnavale as production go-between Butchie Peraino) and convincing (Robert Patrick and an unrecognisable Sharon Stone as Linda’s parents; Chris Noth’s thuggish money-man). The extended period the film spent in post-production suggests problems, as does the two-sentence appearance of Chloe Sevigny as a TV interviewer and the complete excision of Sarah Jessica Parker, whose portrayal of Gloria Steinhem is totally absent and hints at the deeper exploration of Lovelace’s impact on a generation that fails to materialise. 

Central to the drama is Peter Sarsgaard as the abusive boyfriend, Chuck Traynor; it is a compelling portrayal of a controlling, manipulative brute, but one that was given far more scope by Bob Fosse in 1983s Star 80. That story of slain Playmate Dorothy Stratton casts a vast and superior shadow over Lovelace, to the extent that Eric Roberts, who played the similar role to Sarsgaard’s thirty years ago, has a bit part here.

As a biopic of the woman that brought hardcore pornography to mainstream audiences, Epstein and Friedman’s Lovelace is just far too strait-laced. Given content that screamed out for a vital, ‘Boogie Nights’-style treatment, what we get is a workmanlike biopic that feels TV-safe rather than big-screen daring. Like her alter-ego, Seyfried seemed totally up for the challenge; it is a terrible shame that the material steadfastly refused to go with her sense of all-or-nothing professionalism. 

THE GREAT GATSBY

Stars: Leonardo DiCaprio, Tobey Maguire, Carey Mulligan, Amitabh Bachchan, Joel Edgerton, Isla Fisher, Elizabeth Debicki, Jason Clarke and Jack Thompson.
Writers: Baz Luhrmann and Craig Pearce; based on the novel by F. Scott Fitzgerald.
Director: Baz Luhrmann

Rating: 1.5/5

A vapid, cartoonish rendering of a literary work that has achieved greatness only after decades of academic dissection, Australian aggrandiser Baz Luhrmann’s The Great Gatsby is unlikely to garner any interest at all from future generations.  An impenetrable folly of gaudy excess and crass emoting, the film’s only achievement beyond the technical prowess of its staging is in highlighting the shortcomings of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s tome: as an allegory, it is masterful, but as a romantic narrative, it is a meagre work.

Peopled by flapper-era caricatures partaking in white-collar social orgies fuelled by selfish hedonism, Luhrmann’s interpretation of Fitzgerald’s oft-debated novel emerges as grotesque melodrama that plays more like a Mexican telenovela than a respectful reinterpretation of 1920’s New York high society.  

The director has earned the right to put his spin on classic literature after his ultra-modern take on Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet and the dazzling reworking of the legend of the Moulin Rouge, but those works lent themselves to an aesthetic that embraced high drama and rewarded an adventurous vision. Though superficially a chronicle of the partying lifestyle of the wealthy few before their greed subverted a nation, The Great Gatsby novel is never in any way a celebration. And if Luhrmann’s films excel at anything, it is in self-conscious celebration, mostly of their own visual cleverness. The result is a film that, perhaps moreso than any other bigscreen adaptation, seems intrinsically, even defiantly, at odds with its source material.

Most strikingly, what emerges from the film is Luhrmann’s utter disregard for dialogue. Whether in the script stage, where the words he co-authored with regular partner Craig Pearce were penned with a grating affectation (undoubtedly to mimic Fitzgerald’s prose), or during post-production, where those words are forced into the background amidst arrhythmic camerawork and fragmented editing, the director determinedly refuses to let his cast construct and finish sentences. The camera soars clear of the action for another sweeping CGI cityscape, a dozen partygoers shimmy between the characters and the audience, the throbbing Jay-Z-produced soundtrack wells; Luhrmann finds a hundred different ways to rob his able but overwhelmed stable of actors any real voice.

The plot is a standard recollection scenario centred on Nick Carraway (a wan and unfocussed Tobey Maguire), now a ravaged alcoholic writer seeking sanitarium treatment under Dr Perkins (Jack Thompson, one of many great Aussie actors who turn up for three lines and a rare Hollywood-size paycheque). He recalls, on the page, his time with the great J. Gatsby, a Howard Hughes-like figure whose parties were events of legendary largesse. Gatsby is played by Hollywood golden boy Leonardo DiCaprio (as it was in 1974, by then it-guy, Robert Redford), who makes the most of his close-ups and furrows his brow with exaggerated angst, but never fully convinces or engages. Carey Mulligan is Daisy Buchanan, Nick’s cousin and the apple of Gatsby’s eye, though she is all doe-eyed airiness and utterly disposable in the part.

All support cast members play to the back row, as no doubt instructed to by Luhrmann, but perhaps also as a means by which to be heard above the aural and visual shrillness of every scene. Joel Edgerton (as Daisy’s brutish husband, Tom) looks particularly uncomfortable and resoundingly miscast, though Isla Fisher (as the doomed Myrtle Wilson) and Jason Clarke (as her oafish mechanic husband, George) are fine. Most striking is Elizabeth Debicki as starlet Jordan Baker, though her part is giving short shrift by the third-act.

Luhrmann has pronounced his affinity for the novel and, in particular, the character of J. Gatsby. It is an analogous relationship that could come back to haunt the filmmaker, for there is indeed a very clear connection. Like Gatsby, Luhrmann loves to put on a party but has an addiction for the ornate that leaves no room for the emotion and intricacy of real life; it ultimately leads to both their downfalls.

Archetypically, Luhrmann's current creative mindset reflects more PT Barnum than J Gatsby; a manipulative showman able to conjure images of light and colour to dazzle the masses while wilfully neglecting their hearts and minds. In his last film, an entire continent was done a disservice by being viewed through this prism; here, it is just one man, F. Scott Fitzgerald, who must endure the ignominy.

A HAUNTED HOUSE

Stars: Marlon Wayans, Essence Atkins, Marlene Forte, David Koechner, Dave Sheridan, Nick Swardson, Alanna Ubach, Andrew Daly, Affion Crockett and Cedric the Entertainer.
Writers: Marlon Wayans and Rick Alvarez.
Director: Michael Tiddes.

Rating: 2.5/5

The enthusiasm and willingness of the players far outweighs any wit or invention exhibited in the ghost-story parody, A Haunted House, Marlon Wayans first foray into big-screen comedy sans his brothers. Sporadically misogynistic, homophobic and grade-school puerile in equal measure, it is also not without the occasional laugh-out-loud moment, though be warned – no body function (or its by-product) is overlooked if a giggle, however meagre, can be milked.

Wayans is a gifted comedian, but here he has to work the physical schtick to a far greater degree than we have come to expect from him. He tackled the ‘genre parody’ material to slightly better effect 13 years ago in the original Scary Movie; at best, his latest effort allows him room to work his improvisational skills but must be considered a sideways career step.

The film’s first half is essentially a send-up of the first Paranormal Activity film (for those who can recall it), with Wayans as Malcolm Jones, a new homeowner welcoming his long-time girlfriend, Kisha (Essence Atkins) into his man-world. In line with the film’s specifically male-centric point-of-view, gags abound about her weird sleeping habits, sudden lack of sex drive, messy bathroom routine and reluctance to cook. Atkins (reteaming with her Dance Flick co-star) is funny and lovely, a patient foil and good sport opposite Wayan’s coarse every-man (a highlight is her somnambulistic dance moves).

When some wacky supernatural moments spook them, they call on David Koechner’s CCTV expert/ghost hunter Dan and his simpleton brother Bob (Dave Sheridan), gangsta cousin Ray Ray (Affion Crockett) and, to greatest comic effect, Nick Swardson’s occasionally hilarious though glaringly un-PC gay psychic, Chip. Turning its satiric eye on the 2012 hit The Devil Inside opens the film up to Cedric the Entertainer’s ex-con priest Father Williams; the final half hour, which features all key players trying to subdue and exorcise the possessed Kisha, is good for a few well-timed chuckles.

Feature debutant director Michael Tiddes clearly understands the found footage concept well, though to suggest this is an auteur’s work is a bit of a stretch. His main role seems to be to let the cast work their comic chops and hope the footage all cuts together at some point. Some gags push accepted boundaries; rape and domestic violence ‘jokes’ need to be a lot more contextual and subversive (ala Todd Solondz) to soften the inherently distasteful elements. Most other attempts at humour amount to unwieldy extended skits that may appeal to juvenile intellects and those familiar with the source material. 

Read the SCREEN-SPACE interview with Marlon Wayans here.

THE HANGOVER PART III

Stars: Bradley Cooper, Ed Helms, Zach Galifianakis, Ken Jeong, John Goodman, Heather Graham, Justin Bartha, Melissa McCarthy and Mike Epps.
Writers: Todd Phillips and Craig Mazin.
Director: Todd Phillips.

Rating: 3/5

The scattershot resume of director Todd Phillips takes an interesting turn with The Hangover Part III, which forgoes a high laugh-per-minute ratio in favour of an admirable dedication to character. A surprisingly heartfelt conclusion to his unplanned comedic franchise, this final instalment of the ‘Wolfpack’ films refuses to try for the giggly rhythm of the first film, preferring a solid examination of the endearing themes of friendship, individuality and eccentricity. Most important of all, it is a vast improvement on #2.

Given the cache of lead players Ed Helms, Zach Galifianakis and, most obviously, Oscar nominee Bradley Cooper, the immediate question is ‘Why would any of them risk their marquee value for a third turn in a series that left many cold last time around?’ Sure, upfront paycheques and backend deals were undoubtedly sweeteners, but each actor benefits from a script (by Phillips and fellow series regular Craig Mazin) that nails key moments between blokey mates who have matured (by varying degrees) since their first and frantic 2009 adventure.

There are some big leaps to make if one is to go with a plot that kicks off with breakout star Ken Jeong’s Mr Chow escaping a Thai prison, Shawshank-style, followed by a cruel set-piece involving Galifianakis’ Alan, a giraffe and an overpass (even more distasteful than it sounds). Brought together at a funeral for one of the franchise regulars, the ‘Wolfpack’ are soon in the clutches of crime boss Mr Marshall (John Goodman, auto-piloting menace) who demands of them the gold that Chow absconded with before his incarceration. Frankly, the machinations of the plot are too labyrinthine to fully convey here, suffice to say guns, drugs, Heather Graham and Las Vegas are all employed to service a narrative that ultimately plays out more like a shoot-‘em-up heist caper than the buddy comedy many will expect.

The script never fully allows Cooper or Helms to find a strong comic voice, instead using them as devices in the ever-unfolding plot. But nor does it abandon them, instead providing each with a personable presence that makes them slightly more human that in Parts 1 and 2; Galifianakis gets the most screen-time in the first act, but fades back into his sidekick persona. Overall, this third instalment is a distinct departure from the elements that have defined the series to date; gone is the fractured, reverse-storytelling ploy, the supporting female cast and, most noticeably, the drug-and-booze component that fuelled and partially accounted for some insane actions.

Phillips and veteran comedy DOP Lawrence Sher create a vast, widescreen canvas that gives this third instalment an air of epic importance that is only truly definable in terms of the group’s strong mateship. That is to say, nothing truly epic or important happens on-screen, yet the scope of this group’s slightly off-centre bond comes through. This sentimentality invariably helps a subplot involving Alan and comedy ‘it-girl’, Melissa McCarthy, as a pawnshop clerk who clicks with Galifianakis’ nutcase.  

It is not the laugh-riot that many will have hoped for, but The Hangover Part III is certainly a truthful conclusion to a trilogy based upon the notion of three friends trying to help a fourth. The boy-men of the first film are older, wiser here; that makes them slightly less funny, but also makes their sober actions more noble and heartfelt. I didn’t laugh at them as much, but I grew to like them a whole lot more.

STAR TREK INTO DARKNESS

Stars: Chris Pine, Zachary Quinto, Zoe Saldana, Benedict Cumberbatch, Karl Urban, Simon Pegg, Anton Yelchin, John Cho, Peter Weller, Bruce Greenwood and Alice Eve.
Writers: Alex Kurtzman, Damon Lindelof and Roberto Orci.
Director: JJ Abrams.

Rating: 2.5/5

Utilising every visual trick in his arsenal to keep the franchise pulse strong and the pictures pretty, director JJ Abrams and his trio of writers (original instalment scribes Alex Kurtzman and Roberto Orci, working with the ubiquitous Damon Lindelof) explore accepted Star Trek lore with skill, ensuring die-hard fans, both old and new, will have lots to knowingly nod their heads about.

But Into Darkness proves a misleading title; despite a vivid central villain, there is thin, shiny veneer of shallowness that infuses this second instalment of the rebooted series. Thematically, Abrams works in scenes of friendship, honour, loss and loyalty, but the drama coasts on the emotional legacy of the series rather than creating any of its own heart or warmth. The production generally fails to overcome the false empathy associated with franchise characters that are never really in peril.

Following a frantic opening sequence that nicely positions Kirk (Chris Pine) and Spock (Zachary Quinto) as conflicted moral adversaries, a terrorist attack on the London-based Starfleet archive prompts a gathering of the top brass, unknowingly furthering the diabolical agenda of the evil John Harrison (a glowering Benedict Cumberbatch).  

Harrison flees to the distant Klingon outpost of Cronos with the USS Enterprise in pursuit, its crew under direct order from Admiral Marcus (Peter Weller) to terminate their target. But Harrison secures passage aboard Kirk’s ship and is soon willing his way into the heads and consciences of key crewmembers with his own grandly evil scheme unfolding as planned. 

Abrams convolutes cliffhanger after cliffhanger, relying heavily on at least three old-fashioned ‘counting clock’ moments to up the tension. There is a grinding relentlessness to the film’s third act, as characters run everywhere and yell at each other while often seeming to peer out from behind the director’s blinding lens flare (Abrams really needs to rein in this affectation). Devoid of emotion, Abrams’ style less resembles his hero, Steven Spielberg, than it does the hollow visuals of contemporaries such as Len Wiseman or Paul WS Anderson.

Anglophiles will be chuffed at the more central role afforded Simon Pegg’s Scotty and newcomer Alice Eve, as the sex-kittenish science officer Carol; regulars such as John Cho’s Sulu, Anton Yelchin’s Chekhov and, in particular, Zoe Saldana’s Uhuru are underserved, existing largely as plot devices. Karl Urban’s ‘Bones’ McCoy, a highlight of the first film, descends into the comic relief role, which does not suit Urban’s burly persona. Pine is fine in the action moments, though his impetuous playboy captain (when called into action, he must cut short a threesome with two long-tailed alien babes) is less endearing this time round; as it was in round one, Quinto’s take on Spock is the film’s strongest suit.

Perhaps most worrying is the general air of ‘seen-it-before’ ambivalence the effects work inspires. Post screening, the gathered crowd bandied about titles such as Minority Report, The Avengers and the Total Recall remake as obvious reference points. With the Star Wars saga next on Abrams dance card, one hopes new software or, better yet, a commitment to a fresh vision emerges from Hollywood’s ‘Golden Boy’ and the tech sector at his disposal.  

IRON MAN 3

Stars: Robert Downey Jr, Gwyneth Paltrow, Guy Pearce, Jon Favreau, Ben Kingsley, Rebecca Hall, Don Cheadle, William Sadler, Miguel Ferrer, James Badge Dale, Stephanie Szostak and Ty Simpkins.
Writers: Drew Pearce and Shane Black.
Director: Shane Black.

Rating: 2.5/5

Though the top brass at Marvel Studios and their new Disney cohorts are positioning the third Iron Man instalment as a four-quadrant ‘Avengers’-size blockbuster, writer/director Shane Black’s underwhelming take on Tony Stark’s heroic alter-ego is very much a fanboy’s-own adventure.

Despite a central character steeped in cutting-edge technology, Iron Man 3 creaks through an overly familiar structure and blah tropes that hurtle the series back into the world of 80s action flicks. Brought on board to punch up leading man Robert Downey Jr’s smart-mouth dialogue between scenes of generic mayhem, Black achieves a modicum of success with some well-played one-liners. If Iron Man 3 outdoes the first two instalments in any significant way, it is with a welcome and surprising shot of non-Downey inspired humour in the form of Ben Kingsley’s Bin Laden-esque bad guy, The Mandarin.

But there are too many moments that recall Black’s past works (most famously, Lethal Weapon, Last Action Hero and The Last Boy Scout, as well as punching-up tough-guy talk on Predator, The Hunt for Red October and Battle Los Angeles, too name just a few). Those familiar with his over-played beats will recognise such clichéd tools as the smart-mouthed kid sidekick (here, played well by Ty Simpkins), the hero’s fractured mental state (in one of several nods to the events in The Avengers, Stark has PTSD-like anxiety attacks), a cartoonish villain prone to monologue-ing (an OTT Guy Pearce) and the necessity for our protagonist to hit rock bottom (here, represented by snowy, small-town America) before ascending once again to full hero status.  

Where Black falls noticeably short is in his depiction of the franchise’s key relationship between Stark and Pepper Potts (a game but under-served Gwyneth Paltrow). Keeping the pair separate for much of the film robs the mechanical vision of much needed humanity. Oddly, Black keeps the principal characters in different corners for long stretches – Favreau’s Happy Hogan is taken out of the action early-on; Don Cheadles’ own iron-suited soldier, War Machine, is off in Pakistan seeking out insurgents. Even Stark is separated from his suit for much of the films mid-section (not unlike the recent third instalment of The Dark Knight Rises, during which Bruce Wayne spent a long time sans suit and which resembles Iron Man 3 in its portrayal of a troubled tech-heavy hero).

Action set-pieces are top-tier, though exhibit no particular auteuristic vision (unlike, say, those of Black’s longtime collaborator, John McTiernan, in his heyday). A helicopter attack on Stark’s home (previewed heavily in the trailer) represents desktop effects work par excellence; a drama aboard Air Force One allows for some old-fashioned stunt work and green-screening; the hero-villain standoff finale has a been-there-done-that blandness. The scenes, like the rest of Shane Black’s perfunctory, fatigued film, will suffice for the fans who have to have their regular cinematic superhero fix, but will leave others generally unmoved.     

OBLIVION

Stars: Tom Cruise, Olga Kurylenko, Morgan Freeman, Andrea Riseborough, Nikolaj Coster-Waldau, Melissa Leo and Zoe Bell.
Writers: Joseph Kosinski, Karl Gajdusek and Michael Arndt.
Director: Joseph Kosinski. 

Rating: 3.5/5

It is just as well director Joseph Kosinski renders his vision of a post-apocalyptic Earth with such crisp acuity, because his story plays a little fuzzy at times. Taking its early and best cues from Andrei Tarkovsky’s existential sci-fi classic Solaris and Duncan Jones’ angst-ridden Moon before settling into an Independence Day-like/A-list heroic vehicle, Tom Cruise’s latest is a beautifully produced work with a slow burn set up that may burn too slowly for some.

The lines are setting into Cruise’s face and he may not have to many more action hero roles left in him, but his slightly less youthful appearance perfectly fits our protagonist, Jack Harper. He is a man racked with unexplainable dreams and vivid memories of a woman (Olga Kurylenko) he never knew from a time in which he never lived.

He pushes them aside to do his job; he is a ‘tech’, left on Earth in the year 2077 with his co-worker and lover Victoria (Andrea Riseborough) to maintain the fleet of drones that subdue the remaining ‘scavengers’, scragglers of an alien force that sought to conquer the human race. Having destroyed the moon and sent our planet into chaos, they were ultimately defeated by nuclear means but the war left the surface of Earth largely unliveable; mankind is now situated off-planet. As Jack's assignment period nears its end, their existence is changed by a downed spacecraft of human origin, a fateful discovery that sharply focusses his visions and the emergence of a band of surviving rebel fighters (led by Morgan Freeman’s Beech).

The depth of understanding that the director has for this world, drawn upon from years of his own pre-visualization, is breathtaking at times. The Earth’s barren surface, littered with fragments of a long-gone society (and reflecting Harper’s own piecemeal mental state), is captured with extraordinary detail by Oscar-winning Life of Pi cinematographer Claudio Miranda. Tech representation (Harper and Victoria’s home base, which perhaps deliberately resembles an iPhone writ large) and effects work (the fleet of drones; the enormous water processors; Jack’s ‘dragonfly’-shaped vehicle) are spectacularly top-tier.

Kosinki’s screenplay (co-written by Karl Gajdusek and the new Star Wars scribe, Michael Arndt) is based upon the highly-touted but as-yet-unpublished graphic novel he wrote with Arvid Nelson. On screen, it feels somewhat episodic; audiences may struggle with its initial lack of a compelling rhythm. This is not necessarily a bad thing, as Oblivion is a very thoughtful work, steeped in a slightly more mature thematic structure (grief and loss; betrayal; the corrosive power of the fractured mind) than might be expected from the trailer.

The narrative unfolds in small increments as a means by which to build mystery and tension, resulting in a first act that is decidedly low-key (save for some well-staged subterranean action). As was the case with his debut feature, TRON: Legacy, Kosinski proves a thrilling visual artist but struggles with second-act detail; the film looses momentum at the very point a major reveal is delivered. He finds sturdier ground within the films denouement, wrapping up the loose ends of the mystery with compelling, resonant clarity.

Supporting the state-of-the-art visuals and ultra-modern sheen given the film by the 4K resolution is the use of alterna-pop leaders M.8.3 (aka Anthony Gonzalez), providing an pulsating, ambient score (as Daft Punk did on TRON: Legacy).

BUCK WILD

Stars: Matthew Albrecht, Joe Stevens, Isaac Harrison, Dru Lockwood, Jarrod Pistilli, Meg Cionni, Mark Leslie Ford and Tyler Glodt.
Writer: Matthew Albrecht and Tyler Glodt
Director: Tyler Glodt

Rating: 3/5

Broken Lizard meets Dawn of the Dead in Buck Wild, an OK yokel-themed zom-com that relies on cast chemistry above anything really amusingly ground-breaking in its quest for genre laughs.

Destined to be pitched against Edgar Wright’s laddish classic Shaun of the Dead (and A Night of Horror festival’s other undead gagfest, Cockneys vs Zombie), Tyler Glodt’s well-paced low-budgeter offers ample blood and guts when needed though could have used some tighter scripting in its first act. The overall impact suggests it will fall short of breakout hit status, but it is certainly fun enough for those that will watch anything zombie-themed.

An outbreak is unleashed when rancher Clyde (Joe Stevens) stumbles across a mythical Chupacabra hiding in his barn. Some murky logic mutes the fact, but it seems that after the hideous beast bites him, Clyde becomes Patient Zero, responsible for kickstarting an undead uprising in his small, dusty hometown.

The timing could not have been worse for a gaggle of four city guys, heading to the backwoods for a weekend of game hunting. Co-writer Matthew Albrecht channels Matthew Perry as nice guy Craig, Decent Guy 101 enjoying some manly time before becoming betrothed. He is entirely unaware that his root-rat camping buddy Lance (Isaac Harrison) is getting it on with his fiancé-to-be. Making up the posse is the slightly too prissy Tom (a mannered but very funny Dru Lockwood) and the off-kilter Jerry (Jarrod Pistilli), a nutty New Yorker whose presence puts the whole group on edge.

The plotting is negligible, barely providing a framework upon which to hang episodic bouts of character based humour and increasingly icky blood-letting, though its wafer-thin foundation doesn’t necessarily undercut the laughs. Central to the boys nightmarish experience is Clyde’s typically sexy farmgirl daughter, Candy (an alluring Meg Cionni) and a dimwit sheriff (Glodt himself, in a convincing cameo). Harder to explain away is Mark Leslie Ford’s Brit-accented bad guy Billy Ray, a particularly odd and under-explained presence in this otherwise all-American setting.

Zombie action is entirely at the service of the comedy, though gore is at the fore when required. A mauled deer, an undead-ite taking a pointy crucifix to the face and one nasty Romero-esque disembowelling will ensure horror buffs leave happy. Glodt has gone for runners instead of shufflers, although it waivers depending on the level of threat required.

Tech package is pleasingly top-notch, given remote locale and presumably low budget. Glodt and co-editor Lynel Moore deserve kudos for nailing comedic beats and effective horror moments with equal aplomb; Tod Campbell’s skill as DOP is captured (via the ubiquitous Red One rig) in a backlit zombie onslaught that looks awesome.