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.

ALL SUPERHEROES MUST DIE (AKA VS.)

Stars: Jason Trost, Lucas Till, James Remar, Sophie Merkley, Lee Valmassy, Sean Whalen, Nick Principle and Brian Taylor.
Writer/Director: Jason Trost

Rating: 2.5/5

Constantly struggling to match the promise of its premise, writer/director/star Jason Trost becomes mired in his own cyclical construct in the offbeat but underwhelming All Superheroes Must Die.

Straining to employ the same sort of square-jawed silliness that made his 2011 debut feature The FP an underground hit, Trost opens with some intriguing images but soon settles into a Watchmen-meets-Saw mash-up that can’t be sustained (even over the scant 77 minute running time).

In an abandoned small town, four superheroes awake to find themselves robbed of their powers, the result of an injection that has left bloody wounds on their wrists. Senior among them is strongman Charge (Trost, costumed to recalled Aaron Johnson’s Kick-Ass character), who has retained some of his muscle; Cutthroat (Lucas Till, clearly inspired by Matthew Goode’s Ozymandias in Zack Snyder’s epic), Shadow (Sophie Merkely) and The Wall (Lee Valmassy) are all entirely mere mortals.

Having found each other, they are confronted by the image of arch-enemy Rickshaw (a scenery-chewing James Remar) who, via video monitors he has positioned all over the enclave, sets in motion a devious plot that pits the heroes against each other, often making them choose between their own lives and those of innocent townsfolk. Along the way, soap-operatic backstories reveal an awkward alliance between the four exists, though these scenes add little to the drama.

It is perhaps too much to ask that such a micro-budgeted effort (which, admittedly, looks very polished at times) should delve too deeply into the psychological implications of super-hero types forced into an immoral life, but that is exactly where Trost’s film needed to go to have any resonance. As it stands, it is far too episodic in nature, merely nudging the dwindling number of heroes into same-same situations until a seen-it-before payoff.

Logic is not this project’s strong suit (How does Rickshaw take a whole town hostage? And wire it with explosives and all-seeing CCTV? How long must the heroes have been out for this to all happen? The list goes on…) but that is not the biggest problem with All Superheroes Must Die. Trost’s film is just too one-note; having contextualized his conceit, he has nowhere of particular interest to take the narrative. In the absence of irony or satire, or a grand setpiece to enliven proceedings, this small-scale graphic-novel brought to life is admirably earnest but, ultimately, rather dull. 

THE HUMAN RACE

Stars: Eddie McGee, Paul McCarthy-Boyington, Trista Robinson, T. Arthur Cottam, Brianna Lauren Jackson, Fred Coury, B. Anthony Cohen, Noel Britton and J Louis Reid.
Writer/Director: Paul Hough

Rating: 4/5

A thrilling indie-sector vision that trumpets the arrival of a skilled, bold storyteller in writer-director Paul Hough, The Human Race is everything that adult viewers had hoped the similarly themed Hunger Games might have been.

Filled with fine performances, splattery effects and an electrifying out-of-nowhere third-act twist that pushes Hough’s feature debut into instant cult status (and adds a further sly spin on the film’s titular pun), The Human Race gives early notice that the narrative is unlikely to go anywhere one may expect. A singularly uplifting storyline involving cancer survivor Veronica (Brianna Lauren Jackson) is cut short in spectacularly hideous fashion; from that point, the true nature of Hough’s film becomes apparent.

From a street corner in downtown LA, a group of random citizens experience a blinding light and instantaneously find themselves in what appears to be the exercise pen of an abandoned prison. An omnipresent voice fills their heads with the rules of survival: ‘If you are lapped twice, you die. If you step off the path, you die.’ Everyone is confused, disoriented, but the first glimpse of how fatal a breaching of the rules will be proves motivating. The race is on, and soon both the light and dark nature of mankind is exposed as the desperation to survive escalates.

Hough is fearless in his depiction of the inherent horrors such an event would lead to. Apart from the graphic depiction of cranial explosions and bleeding-out that befalls those that stray from the path or slow to crawl, the director also indulges in nightmarish episodes of rape and murder; one scene involving a heavily pregnant woman will separate hard-core horror-philes from the merely inquisitive.  The cast are all up for anything the director wants to dish out; standouts are real-life amputee Eddie McGee, Fred Coury in a superbly villainous turn and the stunning Trista Robinson.

The script (expanding upon ideas and imagery that Hough introduced in his 2007 short, The Angel) deftly explores the prejudices and hatred that would arise if a cross-section of the ethnically diverse Los Angeles population were put in such a pressure-cooker environment. The British-born filmmaker also examines how the faithful may explain the event (B Anthony Cohen’s character, The Priest, says, “It is purgatory, God directing us to stay on the righteous path”), though such a pat explanation would not suit Hough’s nihilistic vision.

Web denizens are decrying it is too much like the Stephen King short-story The Long Walk or Kinji Fukasau’s Battle Royale, though such comparisons suggest complainers haven’t seen the entire film. It is probably closest in mood to Sydney Pollack’s 1969 dance-marathon drama They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?, reworked as a modern horror-fantasy. Any comparison, however, does a great disservice to the work of an exciting young filmmaker, who has crafted a polished low-budget stunner that should be mandatory programming at any genre festival boasting a commitment to new horror talent. 

OZ THE GREAT AND POWERFUL

Stars: James Franco, Mila Kunis, Rachel Weisz, Michelle Williams, Zach Graff, Joey King, Bill Cobbs, Tony Cox and Bruce Campbell.
Writers: Mitchell Kapner and David Lindsay-Abaire; based upon the novel by Frank L Baum.
Director: Sam Raimi.

Rating: 2.5/5

A bewildering array of Oscar-worthy acting talents and a director with Hollywood at his feet make some odd choices in Oz The Great and Powerful, not the least of which may have been becoming involved in this asking-for-trouble project in the first place.

Tackling an origins story for Hollywood’s greatest fantasy adventure seems fraught with resume-darkening danger. All four principals and their director Sam Raimi emerge no worse off for the experience, but nor do they cover themselves in any type of ground-breaking glory. Fans of Raimi will be particularly perplexed by the sideways-step the film represents; after the reinvigorated assuredness of Drag Me to Hell, this cumbersome studio project feels particularly calculated and rote.

We meet sideshow illusionist Oscar ‘Oz’ Diggs  (James Franco) crassly seducing a naïve small town lass (Abigail Spencer), before indulging in some hoary stagecraft to amuse a bunch of easily-swayed rubes. Franco cracks that beaming grin to winning effect, but his manners and voicing are ultra-modern; barring some effective costuming, little effort is made to define his character within the Depression-era dustbowl setting.

Fleeing his carnival life, Oz’s hot-air balloon is caught in a spectacularly staged tornado that transports him to the wondrous land of Oz. Having honoured Victor Fleming’s original work by opening his film in sepia tones and 1.33 ratio,  Oscar’s arrival is afforded the full colour, widescreen treatment by Raimi and his band of CGI landscapers. Though garishly convincing, the world of Oz lacks the ‘wow’ factor of James Cameron’s Avatar; here, the vividly realised but oddly disengaging setting recalls the after-life world of Vincent Ward’s What Dreams May Come.

It is at this point that Mitchell Kapner and David Lindsay-Abaire’s script stumbles when it should soar. Oscar is greeted by an exposition-spouting Theodora (Mila Kunis) and they begin a tedious slog back to the Emerald City, where scheming sister Evanora (Rachel Weisz) awaits. This plodding sequence allows for the introduction of flying monkey butler sidekick Finley (Zach Graff, his Jersey drawl disconcerting) and chemistry-free make cute between the two stars. The lack of characters for whom audiences may feel empathy and plotting that might engage extends to the midway point of the film; the introduction of two kid-friendly characters - porcelain cutie-pie China Girl (voiced by Joey King) and The Good Witch, Glinda (Michelle Williams) - doesn’t come a moment too soon.

The film’s second half finds more stable footing, with Oz and Glinda’s army of peace-loving tinkers and, yes, munchkins taking on the tyrannical evil witches. Featuring an underlying riff on the magic of cinema and the wonders of storytelling, Raimi slams home the denouement with effects work and monstrous moments that recall his Evil Dead sequel, Army of Darkness, more often than the Judy Garland classic. (Parents, beware. There are several convincing scares in the film that will rattle under 10s).

Audiences may leave on a high after the whizz-bangery of a thrilling final 20 minutes but the sensation is illusory. It is all smoke and mirrors, the ultimate sleight-of-hand of a well-travelled trickster. Raimi and his Wizard have that in common; for much of their shared journey, neither seems to have a problem turning a quick buck off of innocence and wonder. 

THE LAST STAND

Stars: Arnold Schwarzenegger, Johnny Knoxville, Luis Guzman, Peter Stormare, Forest Whittaker, Rodrigo Santoro, Genesis Rodriguez, Eduardo Noriega, Zach Gilford and Jaimie Alexander.
Writer: Andrew Knauer.
Director: Kim Jee-woon.

Rating: 3.5/5

Resembling more the ‘Austrian Oak’ with each passing year, Arnold Schwarzenegger still manages to make a big, bloody fist of the archetypal action-hero in Kim Jee-woon’s The Last Stand.

His small-town sheriff Ray Owens probably won’t stand alongside Conan, The Terminator, John Matrix, Dutch or Harry Tasker in the Schwarzenegger panthenon of larger-than-life heroes, but as a noble figure of moral virtue willing to combat the effects of his autumn years in the face of merciless villainy…well, Arnold’s latest he-man will do just fine.

The American debut of the South Korean director is a remarkable departure for the director, whose most high-profile works to-date have been the nerve-rattling horror/thrillers I Saw the Devil and A Tale of Two Sisters. That said, he is clearly a fan of the American action flick that ruled the 1980s box-office and launched his leading man to global stardom. The director’s slick visuals and frame-perfect blocking make the preposterous seem possible, notably in a dazzling set-piece that sees the films snarling, soulless bad guy, Gabriel Cortez (Eduardo Noriega) escape the custody of FBI agent John Bannister (Forest Whitaker).

With agent Richards (Genesis Rodriguez) as hostage, Cortez hightails it to the sleepy Arizona outpost of Summerton Junction, a dusty no-man’s land where an advance party of his heavily armed henchmen, led by sociopath Burrell (Peter Stormare, chewing scenery with obvious glee) are prepping for the druglord’s border crossing. What no bad guy is counting on is the ageing sheriff and his rag-tag battalion of cops, each one just this side of caricatures – goofy newbie Jerry (Zach Gilford), ageing veteran Mike (Luis Guzman) and feisty hottie Sarah (Jaimie Alexander). Along for the ride is Sarah’s ex-bf returned serviceman Sam (Matthew Greer) and gun nut Lewis (Johnny Knoxville).

Ostensibly crafting a modern spin on the one-horse-town-shootout of classic Western lore, Kim wisely keeps his cards close to his chest in the film’s first act. He wisely eases Schwarzenegger and the big man’s faithful audience back into top billing status (it is his first lead role since 2003s Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines) before unleashing the splattery gunfight goods.

As comfortable as Arnold appears on screen, it is patently obvious the window of opportunity for the anticipated action-hero comeback will be small. Kim employs the tried-and-true editing technique of cutting away whenever long passages of dialogue are required but, for the first time in Schwarzenegger’s career, it is also employed when the action is in full flight; some pretty obvious stunt stand-in doubling is employed, too.

Not that forty-something fans (like your critic) who remember Ah-nald’s heyday like it was yesterday or new followers happy to bask in the warmth of ironic 80s nostalgia will mind. While unlikely to figure in the mind of Oscar voters, The Last Stand nevertheless achieves its two-fold aim – to reignite the legend of the most unlikely all-American movie star of the last 40 years while delivering a thoroughly enjoyable action romp to boot.

FOXFUR

Stars: Paris Wagner, Cassie Yeager, Sarah de la Isla, Angel Corbin, Tessie Tracey, Khris Kaneff, Stephen Walter, Kristine Caluya, Jared Cyr, Steph Dawson, Stanley Griego, John Karyus, Rigg Kennedy and Lori McShane.
Writer/director: Damon Packard.

Rating: 3/5

Damon Packard continues to bolster his reputation as an auteur of unique if unfathomable vision with his latest opus, Foxfur. Casting five different actresses in the titular role of a 60 minute mini-feature is the least confounding trait of this riff on bookstore communities, West Coast eccentricity, the language of cinema and UFO lore. Frankly, I didn’t get much of it, but followers of Packard’s new-agey, free-for-all mindset will lap up the latest from a talent who is proving immovably idiosyncratic.

From his early works (which bared such self-consciously ironic names as The Early 70s Horror Trailer, The Untitled Star Wars Mockumentary and SpaceDisco One), Packard has danced to the beat of his own ultra-low budget, determinedly non-linear, garishly-realised drum. Foxfur is no different, though the occasional use of ever-so-slightly more traditional framing and sense of comic timing suggests that perhaps, just perhaps, his visually assaultive aesthetic is softening.

We meet our heroine hunched over a laptop, performing some lounge-room post-production on a rap video, suggesting an affinity with cutting-edge urban pop culture. An occasionally unintelligible pre-credit rant from her landlord (Stephen Walter), which sets the rambling, slightly insane tone for the rest of the film, informs that she will soon be evicted. Foxfur calls her best bud Khris (a very funny Khris Kaneff) and, after some nicely improvised scenes in their Scooby-doo van, embark on a short journey that has them encounter the disconnected population of everyday LA (seemingly lobotomised hardware store clerks; zombie-like hordes of mobile phone users; spruikers of trans-dimensional existences) and other-worldly properties (black ink that traverses the day sky; UFOs hovering on street corners; cats, shot in close-up, that seem to comprehend human interaction).

The film employs an absurdist’s dream-like rhythm, highlighted by random lens flaring and aural punches, during which Packard dips in and out of different planes of reality. This is most clearly represented as each new ‘Foxfur’ is introduced; Paris Wagner, Cassie Yeager, Sarah de la Isla, Angel Corbin and Tessie Tracey are all served well by Packard, who gives each a moment or two shine; Kaneff aside, most other actors are clearly non-pro. The shifting from one locale to another, seemingly unrelated spot (including a woodland-set final act that involves elfin beauties, bad puppets and fat bus drivers, all of whom crash the set of the TV series, M*A*S*H) also plays a significant if, at times, bewildering role.

The denouement seems to suggest that what we have witnessed is a post-apocalyptic reality influenced by the final year of mankind’s existence – 1982 (I think). And that beautiful Plieadian aliens, led by Semjase (Lori McShane), have been watching us while living, largely unnoticed, amongst Los Angeles landmarks. But for many, so much of what has gone before will be too abstract to expect that some pat, B-scifi denouement along the lines of ‘We Are Not Alone’ will wrap things up satisfactorily. If you are still with Foxfur by the time the end credits roll, you will have long dispensed with the expectation that this will somehow all fit neatly into place. Which, perhaps, may be Packard’s point entirely.

SAFE HAVEN

Stars: Julianne Hough, Josh Duhamel, David Lyons,  Cobie Smulders, Noah lomax, Mimi Kirkland, Ric Reitz, Cullen Moss, Robin Mullens and Red West.
Writers: Leslie Bohem and Dana Stevens; based upon the novel by Nicholas Sparks.
Director: Lasse Hallström

Rating: 2.5/5

“Nothing very much exciting happens, but it sure is beautiful,” utters our square-jawed leading man Josh Duhamel, and there is no more apt description of Safe Haven. Yet another bewilderingly bland late-career effort from the once important Lasse Hallström and his second adaptation of a Nicholas Spark’s novel, this Valentine’s Day programmer will earn serious points for patient boyfriends but in every other respect is slumber party home-video fodder.

Hallström’s melodrama is essentially a reworking of Joseph Ruben’s Sleeping With The Enemy, in which Julia Roberts flees a violent Patrick Bergen to start all over again in a small town with Kevin O’Connor, only to have Bergen reappear for a third act face-off. Roberts was a winning screen presence who drew audience empathy effortlessly (in what was an otherwise dire effort); Hallström is lumbered with the exceedingly pretty but one-note Julianne Hough as Katie, who we glimpse in flashback blood-stained and fleeing what appears to be a murder scene.

Clearly a strategic career move to alter perceptions regarding the young actress’ range after song-and-dance parts in Burlesque, Footloose and Rock of Ages, Hough’s greatest achievement is reminding audiences of Meg Ryan in her prime. Co-scripters Leslie Bohem and Dana Stevens struggle to give her anything remotely engaging to say, thereby relying upon the actress’ admittedly endearing physicality to convey character depth.

That said, her chemistry with the increasingly reliable Duhamel is solid, his single-dad Alex the film’s most fully realised character (though, it must be said, his wavy hair and tragic past is classic ‘airport-romance hero’). Acts 1 and 2 are almost entirely their burgeoning, getting’-to-know-you romance, which is cute but dry-docks any pretence of suspense or narrative momentum. The ‘Bergen’ is played by David Lyons, who nails ‘violent-drunk’ convincingly in flashback domestic scenes that are lit with unsubtle, Hostel-like darkness, but whose home-grown skills (NIDA, Class of 2004) can’t pull off some nonsensical police-procedural scenes that damages all sub-plotting credibility.

Support player Cobie Smulders impresses here to far less an extent than she did in The Avengers, her character’s very existence proving to be the films ultimate undoing (no spoilers, but….really?). The idyllic seaside village in which the action takes place is the film’s real star, its salty flavour and surrounding woodlands beautifully captured by DoP Terry Stacey. A heartfelt interlude in which Katie and Alex are caught in a bayou thunderstorm is lovingly rendered (author Sparks loves rain; remember The Notebook?), but it’s sweet romanticism only serves to highlight how lacking in that crucial component the film really is.

MY OTHER ME: A FILM ABOUT COSPLAYERS

Featuring: Danae, aka ‘Rifa’; Lilly aka ‘SecretAttire’; and, Lucas aka ‘Twinfools’.
Director: Josh Laner.

Rating: 4/5

Canadian documentarian Josh Laner’s plunge into the world of fancy-dress geekdom, otherwise known as ‘Cosplay’, yields surprisingly profound insight into not only the convention floor eccentricity of the archetypal nerd but also the precipitous brink of young adult self-identity. By focussing on three vivid personalities for whom the construction and public display of their costumes is a defining trait, Laner’s camera captures personalities being formed and generational change being documented.

Laner, who explored the more hardcore of society’s disassociated in Wastings & Pain, his 2010 doco on Vancouver’s skid-row population, lends a remarkably empathetic lens to his film’s first-person perspective. Drawing life-sustaining strength from their devotion to intricate and artistic full-body recreations of anime/sci-fi/comic book icons, the three late-teen/twenty-something subjects central to My Other Me seem outwardly ordinary types but are soon revealed to each have complex back stories. Their profiles not only fuel their cosplay obsession but also strengthen Laner’s notion that everyone is intrinsically normal, no matter what course their mentality or biology dictates.

Danae Wilson’s web-profile is Rifa, one of the cosplay community’s most beloved and respected artisans; she funds her obsession with film industry makeup gigs. Her journey before Laner’s camera is not an unfamiliar one – the arty teen from a broken home who finds both solace and angst in her devotion to artistic expression – but she also struggles with unrequited love and a personality prone to anxiety and impatience. Sweet early-teen Lily Rose Smith is aka SecretAttire, an every-girl personality whose home-made costumes (influenced by the love her grandmother guardian) are confab hits and whose re-connection via cosplay with her recovering-addict mother provides the film with a deeply emotional core.

The most enigmatic of Laner’s cosplayers is Lucas Wilson, aka Twinfools, an online legend who struggles with his e-fame while being seemingly at ease (at least, for the camera) with his transgender status. Laner is forced to deal with every documentarian’s nightmare when Wilson abandons the project mid-shoot, a development that his handled with an assuredness by the production that belies its first-feature inexperience. Wilson is a compelling figure and both his decision to abandon the shoot then relent to allow an 11^th hour interview makes for terrific viewing.

What binds them all is Laner’s determinedly humanistic approach to what is otherwise viewed as a niche, ‘weirdo’ fan sector. The intertwining of Rifa, SecretAttire and Twinfool’s fantasy existence with the universally recognisable early-life dramas of Danae, Lily and Lucas ensures that this high-def, no-budget work is a smart, funny and involving slice of real-life factual film-making. Laner is a talent to watch; My Other Me is a film to seek out.

Read the SCREEN-SPACE interview with Josh Laner here.

My Other Me: A Film About Cosplayers will have its Australian premiere at the Gold Coast Film Festival on Friday, April 19.