THE MANSION

Stars: Carter Roy, Sebastian Beacon, Chris Kies, Amy Rutberg, Eva Grace Kellner, Travis Grant, Mark Ashworth and Joe Manus.
Writers: Lilli Kanso and Andrew Robertson.
Director: Andrew Robertson.

Rating: 4.5/5

Few movies have captured the tension of a post-catastrophic societal change with such teeth-grinding effectiveness as Andrew Robertson’s The Mansion. This slow-burn, ultra-naturalistic, distinctly human thriller may irk those used to the Mad Max-style of dystopic mayhem, but patience will be rewarded many times over; Robertson and co-writer Lilly Kanso have crafted a truly gripping work.

Vividly portraying a desolate American heartland littered with decaying indicators of a vanished society (homes, stores and, occasionally in graphic detail, bodies), Robertson focuses on a group of survivors who would once have been well-to-do middle-classers. Holed up in a suburban home, Jack (Carter Roy) and Nell (Amy Rutberg) play parents to pre-teen girl Birdie (Eva Grace Kellner) as best they can, celebrating a birthday and maintaining bedtime rituals in an effort to cling to the normalcy of a life once lived. Sharing the home is gentlemanly neighbour Kyle (Chris Kies) and hobbling, surly loner Russell (Sebastian Beacon), whose violent backstory is portrayed in well-placed flashback sequences.

Surviving on the meat of captured animals and whatever can be scavenged from their surrounds, the group’s plight grows increasingly desperate. In addition to Birdie’s ongoing health issues, the home is being watched by marauders, biding their time before invading. When the inevitable occurs, Robertson and DOP Sung Rae Cho create a terrifying sequence of glimpsed figures and desperate carnage; it is a technically superb, entirely compelling piece of action filmmaking.

Having fled their home, the ‘family’ undertake a perilous journey through the violent wasteland to the titular estate, home of Russell’s brother and perhaps the last vestige of hope and humanity for the group. Several scenes in the film’s second half recall staples of the post-apocalypse genre, most notably John Hillcoat’s adaptation of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road (2009), but also Tim Fehlbaum’s recent German film Hell (2010) and Nicholas Meyer’s nuclear-war drama, The Day After (1983).

The harsh geography of an America laid waste by pestilence (neither the disease nor how some humans have managed to survive is precisely addressed) is realised with precision by the production team, who have utilised with skilful set decoration and art design work the abandoned homes that litter the outer areas of the unit’s homebase in Atlanta, Georgia. Belying its low-budget roots and despite probably finding its biggest audience via small-screen exposure, The Mansion looks entirely at home on the big-screen and fully deserves a long-life on the genre festival circuit.

Despite its sci-fi/thriller pedigree, however, The Mansion finds its surest footing as an affecting drama. Committed acting from the entire ensemble fully fleshes out the complexities and insight in Robertson and Kanso’s words; audiences fully invested in these characters will find the final scenes inexorably tense and moving. Robertson, a first-time feature director, has sent out one of the strongest calling-card films in recent memory.    

THE HOST

Stars: Saoirse Ronan, Max Irons, Jake Abel, Diane Kruger, William Hurt, Chandler Canterbury, Frances Fisher, Stephen Rider and Scott Lawrence.
Writer: Andrew Niccol (based upon the novel by Stephenie Meyer)
Director: Andrew Niccol

Rating: 3/5

New Zealander Andrew Niccol’s adaptation of Twilight author Stephenie Meyer’s The Host affords him a third vision of a super-stylish future after the genre classic Gattaca and the insipid mess In Time. Taking as its focus the conflicted internal duality of a teenage girl within a dystopic science-fiction context, it is a bold take on teen alienation that has resulted in a flawed but not entirely uninteresting drama.  

Saoirse Ronan, an actress capable of exhibiting maturity and emotion beyond her age, plays Melanie, one of the last remaining humans after an invasion by an intergalactic force has slyly assumed control of mankind’s minds and bodies. Those taken by the well-meaning invaders, recognisable by their bright blue eyes, always drive to the speed limit and never lie or fight; such conformity was never going to sit well with a teenage girl.  Having lived life on the lam with little brother Jamie (Chandler Canterbury) and fellow refugee Jared (Max Irons), we meet her when all seems lost; Melanie has been seized by The Seeker (Diane Kruger) and has been implanted.

But Melanie’s soul/mind refuses to be conquered and enters into a tug’o’war with her new self for control of both the information in her memory that will lead The Seeker to a human outpost and a moral centre that may sway the alien within (dubbed The Wanderer, or ‘Wanda’ for short). Melanie leads Wanda back to the outpost, run by tough but fair Uncle Jed (William Hurt), and sets about teaching humans and aliens that we can, in fact, all just get along.

Far to light on dramatics to sustain its often laborious 125 minute running time, Niccol’s script never quite comes to terms with the ‘voice-over dialogue’ device that has Ronan conversing with herself for long periods. Occasionally, the effect is unintentionally comical, reminiscent of the Steve Martin/Lily Tomlin split-souls comedy All of Me. The twin voices bitch with each other like two teenage girls, fighting over such teenage existential dilemmas as boys and…well, mostly boys, specifically the romantic quadrangle that emerges between Mel, Jacob, Wanda and outpost hottie Ian (Jake Abel).

But Niccol deserves some kudos for tackling a sci-fi/adventure aimed squarely at the teenage girl demographic. For the target audience, Ronan’s depiction of internal struggle will make a strong impression and the defining role she plays as both an object of desire and sacrificial lamb-of-sorts will resonate. Simply dismissing The Host as a shallow Invasion of the Body Snatchers/Romeo and Juliet mash-up would be to ignore how effectively it will play to large herds of mall-dwellers.

Niccol brings his usual flair to the film’s visuals, with both the labyrinthine interior of the human outpost (complete with slightly naff wheat fields and mirror ceilings) and the vast desert of New Mexico looking stunning through the crisp lensing of Robert Schaefer (Quantum of Solace). Had veteran editor Thomas J Nordberg reined in his director’s penchant for over-statement, The Host may have been a less plodding affair and far more palatable to the wider, Twilight-sized audience it clearly seeks. 

WET AND RECKLESS

Stars: Jason Trost, Lucas Till, Scout Taylor-Compton and Sean Whalen.
Writer/Director: Jason Trost.

Rating: 3.5/5

It takes a little while to become accustomed to the shrill, obnoxious coarseness employed by multi-hyphenate Jason Trost in his third feature, Wet and Reckless. But the sheer relentlessness of his reality show douche-bag parody should win over anyone who discovers it via the web-based promotion and self-distribution model Trost is adhering to. But be warned; Mike Nichols it ain’t.

Reteaming with his All Superheroes Must Die accomplice Lucas Till, Trost continues his cinematic dissection of pop culture influences with far less money but far more fearlessness than any of his works to date. Not as fluid as his urban dance culture piss-take The FP but an all round more enjoyable romp than …Superheroes, Trost’s latest is a skewering of the roided-up ‘Jersey Shore’ types and self-absorbed manscapers that dominate and desecrate US cable nets.

In addition to just about all behind-camera roles, Trost plays ‘The Lobo’, the foul-mouthed marine vet with a ‘f*** anything’ attitude to women and ‘try anything’ attitude to life. His bestie is Till’s dim, slightly mincy Toby aka ‘Dollars’, a successful baby-model whose precociousness has developed into full-blown self-love. Together they star on The PPD, a worthless reality concept that is quietly fading from relevance – a development that our heroes have no notion of.

When sent to Thailand with newbie Sonya, aka ‘Turbo’ (a game, very funny Scout Taylor-Compton) in tow, they think life will be one big debauched rave (which it is, for a while; the trio clearly had fun filming the party scenes). But when it is revealed that the stars have been abandoned by their producers, it is up to the group to get their shit together, find some rubies Lobo’s father once spoke of, defeat Russian gangsters and get the hell outta Thailand with time to save their ‘careers’.

Clearly improvised at every turn and, one would guess, shot totally guerrilla style sans permits or government assistance in any way, it is not an inconsiderable feat for Trost, Till and Taylor-Compton to have maintained such aggressively boisterous characterisations for the duration of the shoot. These are not people you want to get stuck with at a party, but as caricatures of the worst type of modern celebrity, they work a treat.

Though preposterous and implausible in equal measure, it is nevertheless genuinely funny in parts. His signature eye-patch in place (he has admitted it is not an affectation – he is blind in that eye), Trost reveals himself to be comic of deft timing and quick wit. Crudities abound, but Wet and Reckless also exhibits some sweetness in its examination of out-of-control machismo; there is just enough sentimentality to counter the crassness.

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.