THE TAKING

Stars: Alana Jackler, John Halas, Frank Bliss, Lynaette Gaza, Olivia Szego, Gordon Price, Lynn Mastio Rice, Linda Rodriguez, Nicholas Hanson, Mia Elliott and Corinne Bush.
Writers/Directors: The BAPartists (aka Cezil Reed and Lydelle Jackson)

Rating: 3.5/5

Destined to confound and frustrate as many as it frightens and disturbs, The Taking is a determinedly non-linear dreamscape of foreboding if occasionally abstract imagery. Whether one emerges from the cinema screaming, “A work of existential brilliance!” or “Pretentious faux-artsy twaddle!” (and a good case can be made for either side), there is no denying the skill and vastness of vision that directors Lydelle Jackson and Cezil Reed bring to their feature debut.

Borrowing liberally from low-budget horror classics The Evil Dead and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (they are hardly the first to do so, so no crime there), the young writer/directors craft a nightmarish woodland setting via a complex series of swift, bloody edits and an aural tapestry that is undeniably disconcerting. Credited as ‘The BAPartists’, after the pair’s LA-based production collective, Jackson and Reed have announced themselves with a calling-card offering of bold confidence, though critical response will be wildly divergent.

Carl (a fine John Halas) is a cuckolded young man bent on murderously avenging the betrayal by his fiancée and his best friend; Jade (Alana Jackler) is a mother barely containing her desire to slay the killer of her daughter. Inexplicably, the find themselves tied to trees in a forest and at the mercy of a demon-worshipping clan. The woods are home to an entity that feeds of the hatred and malice in damaged human souls; the ‘family’, led by a hooded emissary of the otherworldly force, collects and sacrifices his offerings.

It is a solid B-movie premise that may have been milked for ironic fun or OTT genre thrills. But the young filmmakers have auteuristic intentions and instead explore the set-up by employing a strong psychological element that suggests that hate-filled memories will damn the living. The Taking is steeped in memory, loss and grief; the spirit of Marilyn (Olivia Szego) and the bloody visage of her killer (Frank Bliss) tug at Jade’s subconscious as she flees into the woods.

There is a strange dichotomy that exists at the dark heart of The Taking that affords the film some contemplative resonance. From his sunny place above the tree-line from where he speaks down upon his minions in portentious, subtitled soundbites (“Your vessel is merely a cache of hatred”; “Your legs cannot carry you beyond the ambit of this holt“), the raison d’etre of the ‘presence’ is to consume the evil that blackens the souls of many. Carl and Jade, as tragic as their plight is, are not innocents; they are on a path to commit their own sinful acts when they are taken. The family, assumed to be Horror 101 hillbilly killers at first glimpse, soon seem more like contractors, merely at the service of their ‘boss’. A final image suggests there is no shortage of people driven by wicked thoughts; despite the blood-soaked imagery and recognisable slasher-film elements, does The Taking really exist to send the message, ‘Just think happy thoughts, everyone…’?

THANATOMORPHOSE

Stars: Kayden Rose, Davyd Tousignant, Emile Beaudry, Karine Picard, Roch Denis Gagnon, Erika L Cantieri and Pat Lemaire.
Writer/Director: Eric Falardeau

Rating: 4/5

The ‘body-horror’ genre reaches new heights and disturbing lows in Eric Falardeau’s Canadian production Thanatomorphose, so named after the French term given to the process of decay that human tissue undergoes post mortem. The defining qualities of body-horror films are amply provided; the loss of control of one’s physicality is a potent visual and metaphorical tool and the debutant director displays the by-products of degeneration with nightmarish style.

The most mainstream reference point for those wanting to indulge in the often gruelling body-horror experience is fellow Canadian David Cronenberg’s The Fly, in which Jeff Golblum’s Seth Brundle gradually morphs into a humanoid mutation of the titular insect (Cronenberg has a particular fascination with the field of physical manipulation, having directed the fleshy psycho-thrillers Videodrome and eXistenz). Other gross but effective examples include Brian Yuzna’s Society, Stuart Gordon’s From Beyond, William Sach’s The Incredible Melting Man, Shinya Tsukamoto’s Tetsuo: The Iron Man, Philip Brophy’s Body Melt, The Soska Twin’s American Mary and Tom Six’s Human Centipede films.

Falardeau’s grotesque, bleak horror opus takes the underlying premise to its most extreme and will repulse many. He tells the story of a struggling sculptress (Kayden Rose) whose life is a series of stalled creative endeavours followed by nights of rough sex when her brutish boyfriend (Davyd Tousignant) demands it. Alone in her small, dark apartment, her increasingly detached mental state starts to manifest as bruises, blotches and occasional hair loss. With each passing hour, the process of death takes firmer hold of her physiology; her skin turns bluish and begins to rot, her joints protrude (at one point, she tapes herself together with duct tape) and simple functionality such as swallowing and bowel control disappears.

As her body disintegrates, her fractured mental state takes hold. Much like ‘Brundlefly’ in Cronenberg’s classic, the transformation is a liberating one despite the crippling disabilities. Her sexuality, a base sensation she embraces, refuses to wane, leading to a bloody bout of self-pleasuring and a truly sickening oral-sex indulgence with her last caring male friend (Emile Baudry); a vagina-like crack in the ceiling above her bed that transform overnight pre-empts her darkening sexual mindset. Feeling entitled to retribution and descending further into bloody madness, her skewed moral compass allows her vengeful indulgences. The premise plays out to its inevitable but steadfastly shocking end.

Falardeau tests his audience by refusing to offer pat explanations to his protagonists’s situation. The viewer must become invested in the physical journey to further understand his heroine and that is a tough ask for even the most jaded viewer (full disclosure – I looked away a couple of times). The film exudes a stomach-tightening claustrophobic element, as well; the bare-bones apartment is transformed into a red-hued dungeon by films end, thanks to the visual prowess of DOP Benoit Lemire and art direction of Veronique Poirer (recalling the attic setting of Clive Barker’s equally corpulent Hellraiser).

There are some illogicalities that need to be brushed aside if one wants to fully commit (Why doesn’t she just go to the hospital, as her friend demands? Why are her muscles and organs still strong enough to sustain her despite her outer self being a mushy mess?).  But patient viewers are rewarded with a deeply contemplative, even moving narrative, thanks in large part to Rose’s convincing, committed portrayal (predominantly naked, most often covered in horrific full-body makeup) and Falardeau’s probing, non-judgemental camera.

This serious study of empowerment derived from alienation and despair is a complex, challenging, often perplexing work that probably won’t be viewed outside of the specialist genre circuit, despite certainly deserving to be. 

THE HISTORY OF FUTURE FOLK

Stars: Nils d’Aulaire, Jay Klaitz, Julie Ann Emery, April L Hernandez, Onata Aprile and Dee Snider.
Writer: John Mitchell.
Directors: John Mitchell and Jeremy Kipp Walker.

Rating: 4.5/5

Two humanoid aliens from the planet Hondo fall in love with music and the people they were sent to destroy in co-directors John Mitchell and Jeremy Kipp Walker’s hilarious, heartwarming gem, The History of Future Folk.

An all-too-rare example of the cynicism-free modern comedy, this charmer stars the real-life conceptual performance duo of the title in an origins story that outlines how they came to be amongst us Earth folk and singing sweet, toe-tapping bluegrass tunes about life on their home planet. If it sounds nutty, it is; but it is also an effortlessly lovable study in friendship, the power of the imagination and the joy of a musical awakening.

Quite astonishingly, leading man Nils d’Aulaire makes his acting debut as Bill, the young family man who works at a JPL-like institute as a janitor, though has convinced his wife Holly (Julie Ann Emery) that he is a researcher. He shares detailed, melancholic bedtime stories with daughter Wren (Onata Aprile) of a planet far away called Hondo, before disappearing into the night to play a unique brand of banjo tunes at a sparsely populated club run by friend, Larry (ex-Twisted Sister frontman, Dee Snider).

But Bill is hiding a vast past life in which he was General Trius, Hondo’s greatest soldier, sent to Earth to destroy the population so that his people could relocate; Hondo, it seems, is under threat by a giant meteor. But having fallen in love with music and our people, Bill’s mission is at risk. Enter chubby Hondo envoy Kevin (Broadway veteran Jay Klaitz), who is tasked with fulfilling General Trius’ mission but who also falls for music (and April L Hernandez’ pretty cop, Carmen) in a big way. Soon, they are playing to packed houses wearing their official Hondonian red-helmet and jumpsuit garb, despite that pesky meteor still threatening their planet.

The pairing of d’Aulaire, resembling a more insular version of Paul Rudd, and the eternally effervescent Klaitz provides endless comedic juxtapositioning and great chemistry on-screen; think Tenacious D minus the overt obnoxiousness. Klaitz evokes unbridled joy in scenes such as when he first hears Bill’s banjo or, in one of several beautiful scenes with co-star Hernandez, serenades her in her native tongue.

Though one assumes it to be a low-budgeter, The History of Future Folk is a polished and professional production, guided with a remarkably assured hand by two first-time directors who should have their pick of studio comedy fare in no time based upon their work here.  

If there is one downside, it is that the current model of film exhibition works at just too fast a pace for films like The History of Future Folk. Today, it is most likely the target audience watch it on their preferred tablet; 20 years ago, a savvy distributor would have rolled it out to college campuses and arthouse cinemas before the overwhelming word-of-mouth launched it into the mainstream and on the path the sleeper hit glory. Where possible, see it with an enthusiastic, like-minded paying audience.

SPACE MILKSHAKE

Stars: Robin Dunne, Billy Boyd, Kristin Kreuk, Amanda Tapping and the voices of George Takei and Amy Matysio.
Writer/Director: Armen Evrensel.

Rating: 3.5/5

Entirely impervious to serious critical appraisal is Space Milkshake, the feature debut for Canadian writer/director Armen Evrensel. All the elements that should make it a big fat target for high-brow dissection – cheap sets, schlocky effects and fatally derivative plotting – are also all the bits that make it such a wacky joy to watch.

Evrensel is clearly a serious genre buff, taking aim at tropes and conventions that will be instantly recognisable to those familiar with B-movie lore; there are well-played nods to Star Wars, the Alien films and, in one particularly giggly reference, star Billy Boyd’s days as the large-footed hobbit Pippin in Lord of the Rings. Perhaps due to the low-cost confines, there is also a decidedly small-screen sensibility about much of the schtick; if you like Red Dwarf, Futurama or Firefly, you’ll appreciate the cast chemistry and sustained nuttiness of Space Milkshake even more.

The plot is a convincing mash-up of solid sci-fi pseudo-tech, character comedy and time/space continuum hooey. The crew of an orbiting sanitation station, a necessary space vehicle of the near future that collects the tonnes of garbage floating in our atmosphere and clears paths for inter-stellar travellers, begin to experience unexplainable phenomena.

Captain Anton (Boyd, instilling his leader with an often hilarious case of small-man’s syndrome) has just split with his 2IC, the statuesque Valentina (Amanda Tapping); newbie tech-guy Jimmy (Robin Dunne, a naturally-gifted comic) is mostly at a loss for how to assimilate with the captain and crew, so focuses on the gritty, gorgeous Tilda (Kristin Kreuk) to distract himself. Things get weird when a rubber duckie, inversely identical to one given to Valentina by ex flame Professor Gary (an off-screen presence, ultimately voiced by Star Trek veteran George Takei), slams into the side of the craft and a glowing device called The Time Cube is found on board. Soon, Tilda begins to exhibit odd behaviour, all contact with Earth is lost, and the duck proves to harbour a vengeful, interplanetary threat to the crew and all mankind.

One of the great joys of this daft adventure is that everybody is in on the joke but no one winks to the camera ironically. Evrensel has his cast pitch their performances at a precise level that hints at self-knowing yet plays as being fully committed to the premise and all its ludicrous plot twists (Boyd, especially, is a hoot). The big-budget equivalent would be Dean Parisot’s Galaxy Quest, though the fun beats derived from meagre means feels more akin to such 80s outer-space romps as Ice Pirates or Battle Beyond The Stars.

Regardless of its heritage, Space Milkshake (the title? I’ve no idea…) is the ideal mood-lightener for any genre festival, especially in this indie-film production period steeped in morbid visions of zombies and post-apocalyptic wastelands. It has great fun with itself by never indulging in anything profound; any viewer would be wise to be of the same mindset.  

SLEEPWALK WITH ME

Stars: Mike Birbiglia, Lauren Ambrose, James Rebhorn, Carol Kane, Cristin Milioti, Amanda Perez, Aya Cash, Emily Meade, Jessi Klein and Loudon Wainwright III.
Writers: Mike Birbiglia, Ira Glass, Joe Birbiglia and Seth Barrish.
Directors: Mike Birbiglia and Seth Barrish.

Rating: 2.5/5

The street-cred of This American Life guru Ira Glass, lending his talents to producer and writer duties here, may afford Mike Birbiglia’s leading-man debut far more cultural influence than it deserves. Sleepwalk With Me is a disposably sweet ‘Annie Hall’ rehash that achieves its minor ambitions with unremarkable efficiency.

Playing all their charm cards in their film’s first act, Birbiglia and co-director Seth Barrish explore the life of a commitment-phobic struggling comic with somnambulistic tendencies. The film, an expanded version of the star’s hit staged monologue of 2008, is structured as a flashback as Birbiglia’s Matt drives between gigs, recalling the life he shared for eight years with muso Abby (Lauren Ambrose, the film’s biggest asset).

This oddly unaffecting portrait of a thirty-something man trying to interpret long-term romance through the filter of his own immaturity and cynicism blends old-fashioned rom-com beats with post-modern dialogue. But the determinedly stoic lack of warmth in any of the characters makes it tough to connect with the film. Even character actor veterans like James Rebhorn and Carol Kane, cast as the parents of Matt and called upon to up the cute old-folk comedy content, can’t breathe much life into stock parts.

Matt finds some success while on the road; the extras employed to laugh at his routine laugh at his routine, but none of the material (which begins to draw rather disrespectfully upon his anxious view of marriage and his long term relationship with Abby) ever seems particularly funny. Bit parts from comics familiar to the target audience (Wyatt Cenac, Kristen Schaal) will up the likability of the film to the key demo (the ploy of casting recognisable faces in two-line walk-ons is as old cinema itself).

Most scenes between Matt and Ambrose’s Abby are worth the price of admission, but they spend a significant mid-section of the film apart once he gets stand-up slots across America’s north-east. On his own, Birbiglia proves an increasingly grating presence, despite some funny lines. One might search for symbolism in Matt’s sleepwalking activities, though it never impacts in anything other than minor comedic terms.

The influence of Woody Allen’s Oscar-winning classic becomes a little too transparent. In one scene, Birbiglia conjures sleep disorder specialist William Dement for much the same but far less impactful purpose as Allen summoned author Marshall McLuhan. Ambrose is the equal of Diane Keaton’s Annie, a beautiful, talented musician who foregoes the momentum of her career to fall in love with a beneath-her-status dweeb. The deeper one digs into the comparison, the less charitable one tends to feel towards the 2012 version.

Though pleasingly amiable, the film’s standing amongst indie festival crowds and some critic groups (astonishingly, it was placed amongst the National Board of Review’s Top Ten Independent Films list of 2012) only serves to prove how meagre the pickings are from the current wave of American independent auteurs.

FOUND

Stars: Gavin Brown, Ethan Philbeck, Phyllis Munro, Louie Lawless, Alex Kogin, Andy Alphonse, Shane Beasley and Angela Denton.
Writer: Scott Schirmer; based on the novel by Todd Rigney.
Director: Scott Schirmer:

Rating: 4/5

A grisly but oddly affecting amalgam of JJ Abrams’ Super 8 by way of William Lustig’’s slasher classic Maniac, Scott Schirmer’s Found paints a realistic vision of internalised teen alienation as filtered through a horrific external existence.

Set in a strangely unidentifiable time and place not dissimilar to smalltown America but in which dads take their 12 year-old sons to midday showings of Zombi Massacre, Found is thematically invested most profoundly in a world of secrets and memories.

Our protagonist, the cherub-faced early-teen Marty (a superb Gavin Brown), finds solace and strength in the slyly procured knowledge he has of his family’s lives – his mum (Phyllis Munro) keeps love letters from an old flame; his dad (Louie Lawless) hides a stash of porn magazines; his older brother, Steve (Ethan Philbeck) keeps the severed heads of his serial-killing indulgences in a bowling-ball bag in his bedroom.

The tensions in Marty’s home are familiar, as his response will be to many who have sought out Schirmer’s film. He descends into a world of manufactured horror, embracing the world of B-slasher movies (in another nod to a fractured timeline, he hires VHS ‘video nasties’ from his local drive-up rental den). This backfires when he discovers a film called ‘Headless’, a grotesque work that chronicles the sick actions of a killer whom Marty fears has inspired Steve.

Already a social outcast having been bullied at school and soon on the outer with his tough-talking friend David (Alex Kogin), he turns to Steve for understanding. He begins to relate to the dissociative, sociopathic world of the mass-killer; it is not a great leap to imagine John McNaughton’s landmark 1986 film, Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer, as a sequel of sorts. The final image, a blackly brilliant piece of tension relieving humour accompanied by a perfect line-reading, suggests a long, horrible existence awaits Marty.

Feeling way more violent that it actually ever becomes (barring the graphically-staged ‘Headless’ footage), Todd Rigney’s adaptation of his own novel will nevertheless tax the fortitude of even the hardiest horror-philes. Whilst the majority of the narrative’s uglier moments take place off-screen, audio clarity and the gruesome by-products of a maniacal rampage are employed in detail (Australian audiences who recall the details of the 2001 Gonzales killings in Sydney’s North-west may be especially rattled).

Scenes away from the home (a schoolyard incident and its consequences; a violent encounter at a church meeting) feel somewhat over-staged and rudimentarily acted; no character development or narrative momentum would be lost if these passages were tightened up. At 103 minute, the running time feels a little strained.

But not a single frame is wasted whenever Gavin Brown or Ethan Philbeck are on-screen. Marty seems worryingly close to just about every single ‘average kid’, suggesting the motivation to indulge in the dark, confused musings of ones early youth is always a possibility; Brown, on-screen for almost the entire film, is a revelation. Philbeck, quite simply, is terrifying in his own ordinariness.

Scott Schirmer’s crafting of a young boy’s hellish suburban normality is as strong a coming-of-age tale as Abram’s drama. Whereas that film knelt at the altar of Spielberg, Found takes its film-buff inspiration from the likes of early De Palma,  Argento or Cronenberg. They are hard acts to follow, but Schirmer knows his stuff. Found is a singularly sick, sad story and announces the filmmaker as a notable talent.

MON AMI

Stars: Mike Kovac, Scott Wallis, Chelsey Reist, Bradley Duffy, John Fitzgerald, Teagan Vincze, Len Harvey and Justin Sproule.
Writer/director: Rob Grant.

Rating: 4/5

Two tragically co-dependent nobodies entwine themselves in feckless mayhem and murder in Mon Ami, a brutal, brilliant black comedy from Canada’s next-big-thing, writer/director Rob Grant. Imagine Wayne Campbell and Garth Algar transplanted into a Fargo-esque milieu and you’ll get some idea of the dark fun to be had with this awfully malicious yet utterly engaging film.

Grant returns to the A Night of Horror fold with many of the cast members he introduced to Australian audiences in his 2009 debut, the zombie saga Yesterday. As fine as that film was, Mon Ami suggests the Vancouver-based filmmaker has grown immeasurably as a both a scenarist (his script finds a sublime balancing of otherwise disparate elements) and craftsman (his lensing, in collaboration with DOP Michael Baier, is of the highest low-budget quality).

His rough diamonds are lead actors Mike Kovac and Scott Wallis. The bespectacled, smart-mouth Kovac is Teddy, a nearly-thirty nobody clinging to a memory of his responsibility-free youth despite being married to a harpy of a wife, Liz (a frighteningly omnipresent voice via Teddy’s phone until a comically adept appearance late in the film by the wonderful Teagan Vincze); chubby, slobbish Wallis is Callum, Teddy’s best-friend since age 6 and a boy-man who steadfastly refuses to leave behind the glory days of their friendship.

Grant defines his protagonists with deft visual cues. Teddy and Callum try to act like adult males – they play the most obvious pieces of classical music, sip red wine and smoke ridiculously large calabash pipes when driving. These flourishes both add to the adorable eccentricities of the characters and give the film a comically off-kilter sensibility that explains away some impossibly stupid decisions by the pair.  

Together they devise a preposterous plan to kidnap Crystal Halpern (Chelsey Reist), the daughter of their hardware store boss Hank (John Fitzgerald). Caught up in the mix is nutcase small-time crim Vincent (hilarious Bradley Duffy), as well as various neighbours, cops and co-workers, most of whom will regret ever meeting these losers. With Crystal tougher to subdue than first thought (given the abuse she endures, the lovely Reist wins this week’s Cinema Good Sport award), Teddy and Callum make one bad decision after another to try to wrestle control of their plan after each luckless backward-step.

No matter how much fun you’re having watching Mon Ami, Grant will occasionally remind you that you’re watching it at a horror festival. He is as adept at shooting bloody carnage and its aftermath as he is at character comedy, frame-perfect pacing and blackly-funny ambience, so be warned.

COCKNEYS VS ZOMBIES

Stars: Alan Ford, Harry Treadaway, Rasmus Hardiker, Michelle Ryan, Jack Doolan, Georgia King, Ashley Bashy Thomas, Tony Gardner, Honor Blackman and Richard Briers.
Writers: James Moran and Lucas Roache.
Director: Matthias Hoene

Rating: 3/5

 

A comic-relief bit part in an outrageously bloody zom-com may not have been the swansong that the late Richard Briers envisioned for himself. But one can assume that he had as much fun making it as the target audience will have watching Matthias Hoene’s East London-set splat-tacular.

A completely naff pre-credit sequence sets up how the zombie plague erupts; why is not addressed so convincingly. When two construction workers discover an ancient Roman tomb, the fresh air and sunshine that floods in is apparently all that is needed to stir the entombed undead. Soon, everybody’s shuffling…

It is the last thing that a pair of inept young crims, Terry (Rasmus Hardiker) and Andy (Harry Treadaway), need as they prepare for their first big bank job. Nor do the residents of a soon-to-be-demolished old folks home want a zombie intrusion on their weekly dancercise session. Particularly put out is Terry’s grandfather, ageing ne’er-do-well Ray (the inimitable Alan Ford, master of the foul-mouthed putdown and handy with assault rifle).

The two disparate groups – hopeless bank robbers and barely mobile old folks – are flung together and set about blasting their way out of trouble. That’s where the title comes from (ahem). All that Hoene must do is stage his action well (he does), nail the comedic beats (gets it mostly right) and generally bring enough freshness to the endeavour so that detractors don’t bleat “It’s not as good as Shaun of the Dead” (which it is). A more pertinent comparison may be Peter Jackson’s cult classic Braindead, which was similarly action-oriented and gore-obsessed.

By filling out his mid-budget effort with quality actors, the likes of which don’t usually turn up in horror-comedies, was Hoene’s first and best decision. Treadway and Hardiker have great comedic chemistry; of their gang, Michelle Ryan’s zombie-slaying Katy is a blast. Alongside Ford is ex-Bond girl Honor Blackman, who hasn’t forgotten how to handle men and guns. Briers, who passed away on February 17, gets the film’s biggest laugh as he escapes zombie clutches while ambling with a walking frame.

To say that the whole endeavour is bleeding obvious would be understated (and a bad pun), although there is a pleasing subtext about working class values (a bit hard to swallow, given the lead protagonists are also crims). Not that anyone buying tickets to a film called Cockneys vs Zombies will be looking for kitchen-sink dramatics. They’ll want blood and guts and giggles, which Hoene’s film supplies amply.

THE TSUNAMI AND THE CHERRY BLOSSOM

Director: Lucy Walker

Rating: 5/5

I lost the means to live and I lost the meaning of my life – Tsunami survivor, The Tsunami and The Cherry Blossom.

Lucy Walker’s heartbreakingly sad account of the 2011 East Japanese tsunami begins with a first-person/camcorder sequence that captures both the scale of the merciless destruction and the fear and horror in the voice of those lucky to have escaped its path. As the March 11 anniversary of the immense tragedy unfolds, Walker’s film should be mandatory viewing.

Having displayed a profound empathy for her subjects in her Oscar-winning feature doc Waste Land in 2010, Walker again captures with aching accuracy the scarred personalities of those that survived but who, inevitably, lost many family and friends. Few can recall the experience without breaking down. One man sobs when telling of losing a lifelong friend, his outstretched arm too short to grasp by mere inches; a young woman describes watching the elderly get swept away, unable to run from the encroaching surge.

But the intent of Walker’s film is not to simply recall the moment but to also capture how the Japanese people have fallen back on ancient traditions to ease their pain and comfort themselves. On site only a matter of weeks after the disaster occurred, the filmmaker captures the first spring cherry blossoms blooming, quite incredibly, amidst the square miles of debris and unidentified deceased.

Despite the destruction of the natural landscape and the life-decaying by-products of the Fukushima nuclear plant leaks, the life-affirming buds of the sakura flourished. But in 2011, the soft-pink flowers took on even greater cultural resonance, signifying new hope and a nation’s rebirth. Although the annual festival of hanami (blossom viewing parties) was curtailed, the joy brought by the ancient plant was immense.

Walker’s documentary (wondrously photographed in conjunction with Aaron Phillips), despite being a mere 40 minutes long, captures the deeply human and proudly nationalistic spirit of the country in general and the survivors in particular. The end-credits roll to a Moby track, from which emanates a strong pulsating heartbeat that rhythmically implies life. Like the rest of Lucy Walker’s achingly beautiful elegy, the music honours the nearly 20,000 dead who will live on in a country’s memories as well as those who survived, who did so with unshakeable faith and centuries-old fortitude.

Many many things they call to mind, these cherry blossoms – Traditional haiku.

JACK THE GIANT SLAYER

Stars: Nicholas Hoult, Eleanor Tomlinson, Ewan McGregor, Ian McShane, Stanley Tucci, Bill Nighy, Ewan Bremner, Eddie Marsan, Christopher Fairbanks, Warwick Davis, Simon Lowe and John Kassir.
Writers: Darren Lemke, Dan Studney and Christopher MacQuarrie.
Director: Bryan Singer.

RATING: 2.5/5

Slightly more fun but far less assured than last year’s big-screen fairy-tale Snow White and The Huntsman, the usually unflappable Bryan Singer seems to be barking up the wrong beanstalk for much of Jack the Giant Slayer. This long-delayed project has big shoes to fill, with similar reworkings by Tim Burton (Alice in Wonderland) and Sam Raimi (Oz The Great and Powerful) proving box-office gold with audiences (if not all critics, which will probably be the same here).

The classic bedtime story plays more like a medieval mash-up of Jurassic Park’s 1 and 2 , with 40-foot high ogre-like warmongers taking the place of prehistoric beasts. Essentially, a group of misfits travel to a distant land (not an island of the coast of Costa Rica, but a mythical world above the clouds) and face-off against an unnaturally matched foe, escape, then have said foe come a-calling at our hero’s doorstep.

From the earliest known printed text of the English folktale, gone is Jack’s mother (replaced by Christopher Fairbank’s cantankerous uncle) the singular giant (now a filthy, stinking horde of nose-picking, malformed gargantuans led by a CGI-excised Bill Nighy) and the giant wife who hides Jack away; barely glimpsed and utterly redundant to the story is the golden egg (the goose from which it is laid is never seen) and the magical harp (inexplicably adorned with massive breasts that positively pop from the screen in 3D).

It’s a little hard to fathom what the director of The Usual Suspects and Valkyrie saw in this project, beyond a studio-sized paycheque. The script from Darren Lemke and Dan Studney (given a credit-worthy polish, apparently, by Singer’s ‘…Suspects’ collaborator, Christopher McQuarrie) is devoid of even the slightest sense of whimsy, instead driven forward by the promise of the next impactful special effects sequence. The CGI showpieces are clearly the film’s raison d’etre; the massive beanstalk that surges skyward, the first glimpse of a giant, the rendering of the world in which they live, and the massive creatures eventual intrusion upon this land below are all visually splendid (though, in all fairness, giant-people effects seemed more convincing in Norwegian’s Andre Ovredal’s far superior 2010 adventure, Trollhunter) .

As Jack, Nicholas Hoult (or, as he’s most often referred, ‘that kid from About a Boy’) proves both entirely likable and mostly unremarkable.  Like the rest of the cast (those paying some bills include Ian McShane, Ewen Bremner, Eddie Marsan and, rather shamelessly judging by their performances, Stanley Tucci and Ewan McGregor), Hoult and romantic interest Eleanor Tomlinson mostly bide time until they are called upon to make-believe in front of a green-screen.

If you are sensing a degree of cynicism in these words, you are spot on. Warner Bros and New Line have latched onto an instantly recognisable childhood memory (or, in modern parlance, a brand), padded out the sweet, humanistic and small story with hollow spectacle (see The Hobbit) and flung big cash at the pool of Hollywood A-list celeb-directors sunbaking between gigs.

Much like Raimi’s uninspired work on the Oz story, Singer is a hired gun here and it shows. He has been quite open as to why his misguided Superman adaptation seemed a tad mechanical and lifeless (in the current issue of leading film mag, Empire, he admitted, “With Superman Returns, I struggled a lot.”), yet his X-Men films are the best kind of comic-inspired drama. Few other mainstream directors wear their creative heart on their sleeve like the talented Singer; when next offered a time-filling gig, he may think twice.