Honeymoon

US | 2014 | Directed by Leigh Janiak

Logline: A newlywed couple have their lakeside country honeymoon disrupted by the wife’s increasingly strange behaviour.

I love a great debut feature from a filmmaker who has done virtually nothing else in terms of directing. Leigh Janiak’s background has been as a producer’s assistant, but she’s obviously got the directing chops. She elicits solid performances from her small cast, and she knows a thing or two about atmosphere, the paramount element in a horror movie. Honeymoon is every romantic’s worst nightmare.

Paul (Harry Treadaway) and Bea (Rose Leslie) have travelled to a remote country cottage to celebrate their honeymoon. They are young and very in love. It’s the perfect no frills rustic indulgence; fishing on the lake, lazy continental breakfasts, and plenty of lovin’. What could go wrong? Oh, only like the most sinister of things.

Firstly there’s the strange encounter with the local proprietor of the nearby country restaurant, the intense Will (Ben Huber), and his timid wife Annie (Hanna Brown). It’s quickly revealed Will and Bea knew each other when they were much younger, but that’s not what bothers Paul so much as the weird tension between the husband and wife. It will come back to haunt Paul. Oh yes, indeedy.

The shit hits the fan after Paul discovers Bea sleepwalking in the dead of night out in the woods surrounding the cottage. She is nude and disorientated, her nightie nowhere to be seen. In the days that follow Bea begins to act oddly, and her physical appearance deteriorates. The mozzie bites on her inner thighs that are most certainly not from any insect Paul is familiar with. Bea isn’t interested in making love, and is lethargic and forgetful.

Whilst much of the movie’s action takes place at night, and most of it involves just Bea and Paul (Will and Annie are the only other characters in the whole movie), the tension is slowly ratcheted up as Paul’s paranoia escalates. Just who is Bea really? She looks like his wife, smells the same, tastes the same. But she’s different. Yup, it’s that kind of palpable nightmare.

The final quarter of the movie is when it all goes to pieces, Paul’s dream world falls apart completely as Bea’s new world beckons and takes full control. The suspense becomes nail-biting. The scene in the bedroom when Paul makes a horrific discovery - the body-horror element handled superbly - is one of the more insidious scenes in recent horror movie memory.

Honeymoon – and curiously, the title drips with dread on its own, whereas if it had been The Honeymoon, a comic tone would’ve loitered – is an excellent retro-vibed tale of dark cosmic intervention. A Lovecraftian shroud falls across the sacrament of love. Poor Paul, poor Bea.

Honeymoon screens as part of Melbourne’s Monster Fest, Saturday, November 22nd, 5pm, Cinema Nova, Carlton AND as part of Sydney’s A Night Of Horror International Film Festival, Saturday, November 29th, 5pm, Dendy Cinemas Newtown.

Interstellar

US/UK | 2014 | Directed by Christopher Nolan

Logline: In a near future ravaged by drought and dirt storms, a group of space explorers travel through a wormhole to another galaxy to try and find a suitable new home for humankind.

Originally a project Steven Spielberg was to direct, and Interstellar exudes much of the Hollywood titan’s exemplary feelgood vibe, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it won’t do the movie any favours in the long run, just as Gravity won’t weigh nearly as heavily ten or so years down the track. Christopher Nolan was hired by Spielberg to pen the screenplay, and when Spielberg opted to fry other fish, Nolan had the option to direct, and he brought his brother Jonathon in to co-script.

Based loosely on the theories of quantum physicist Kip Thorne, it deals with the travel undertaken by several astronauts through a rip in the space-time continuum, and the ultimate consequences, successful and perilous, involved in this kind of cosmic journey. Matthew McConaughy is Cooper, the former spaceman turned corn farmer who is brought back into the NASA fold.

Humanity is facing extinction, so it is imperative that another planet be found that is within reach, and that can support human life. A wormhole near Saturn has suddenly opened up, allowing travel to a distant galaxy where several new worlds exist. On the closest planet one hour on its surface is equal to seven years on Earth. Cooper’s 14-year-old daughter is inconsolable when she learns of her father’s decision to make the epic journey. He promises he will return.

Like Ridley Scott’s attention to detail, Nolan is excellent at immersing his audience completely in his world. The production design and special effects are stunning, especially considering that Nolan prefers to use, as much as possible, models and in-camera effects. Even when using green screen he has projections installed so the actors can work against a visually accurate background. A notable point-of-view are the spacecraft-cam shots, in particular the jettisoning of the sections during the first part of the journey.

This is a space journey, but the narrative backbone is the relationship between Cooper and his daughter Murph (Mackenzie Foy), and it is this that provides the movie it’s undeniably moving ending. As cynical as I might be at some of the Nolans’ screenwriting, in particular sections of dialogue, the silly robot (um, Demon Seed, anyone?), the awkward shift in tone – once again the movie turns into a James Bond adventure complete with ridiculous fight sequence (an uncredited Matt Damon suddenly appears!). And as for the trapped behind the bookshelves sequence, the less said the better.

There is one brief moment – which occurs twice in the movie, from two separate perspectives – that encapsulated the whole cosmic causality wormhole/blackhole phenomenon beautifully, and involves Amelia (Anne Hathaway)’s hand. For me, it was the highlight of the entire movie, a tiny speck of spacedust in the storm of humanity’s survival.

McConaughey is solid, but Jessica Chastain brings much gravitas to the picture. However the most notable element of the whole movie is Hans Zimmer’s amazing score, probably the best he’s ever done.

Interstellar isn’t the next piece of brilliance all the Nolan fans were anticipating. He cites 2001: A Space Odyssey, Star Wars, and Blade Runner, as inspiration. Robert Zemeckis's Contact was the movie that came to mind most often. I find Nolan suffers from illusions of grandeur; his movies becoming increasingly pompous, but it’s still an entertaining, exhilarating, heart-tugging ride.

Might be time to revisit Memento, his time-space masterpiece.

Sympathy For Lady Vengeance

Chinjeolhan Geumjassi | 2005 | South Korea | Directed by Chan-wook Park

Logline: After a woman is released from prison for a crime she didn’t commit she sets about reuniting with her daughter and orchestrating an elaborate revenge on the man who was responsible for the terrible crime and many more. 

It’s original title, Chinjeolhan Geumjassi, translates as Kindhearted Ms. Guem-Ja, and like the first movie in Park’s “Vengeance Trilogy”, it is a far superior title than the American/international version, especially since it conjures a bitter sense of irony, which is in keeping with the movie’s sombre, yet bewitchingly poetic tone. This is a tale of revenge as different from Oldboy as it is from Mr. Vengeance, it is still a dish served oh so chilled, as it will always – and best be, but there is also a strange, melancholic beauty that permeates the movie’s atmosphere.

Not as explicitly violent as its predecessors, yet just as dark and, in some ways, even more disturbing, as it deals with child abuse and the cold-blooded killing of children. Park is not shy or perturbed about dealing with such heinous material, yet he provides his protagonist with a wealth of ethical complications and moral dilemmas. This is a complex movie in terms of its thematic elements, but at the core is a tale of systematic retribution; justice in the hands of an elegant damaged soul.

After thirteen years in prison for kidnapping and murdering a young boy Geum-ja Lee (Yeong-ae Lee) is released and makes attempts to get her life on track. She finds a job in a bakery; orders the manufacturing of a special weapon; reunites with her daughter (who was adopted by an Australian family!); and, most importantly, plots her revenge against the real killer of the boy (who makes occasional ghostly visitations on her), the English teacher Mr. Baek (Min-sik Choi, star from Oldboy).

Geum-ja seeks redemption; she seeks to become “white” again. She orchestrates the union of the parents of the many children who had perished at the vile, cruel hands of the serial killer, and arranges for them to sate their shared desire for primal justice: and eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. As shocking as it is satisfying, this climax is delivered and executed not as one would expect.

Once again Park presents his deadly subversive tale with the eye of an artist; the visual narrative is stunning, the baroque classical soundtrack fits hand in glove, the performances, especially that of Yeong-as Lee is nothing short of brilliant. To add a dangerous level of tenebrous humour infused with touches of surrealism is only something Park could get away with (as he does in the first and second movies of the trilogy).

This is a movie of contrasts and juxtapositions. Park’s original intention was for the cinematographic palette to slowly change during the course of the movie; the colour slowly draining away eventually leaving the imagery in just black and white. Unfortunately the budget didn’t allow for such a complicated colour grade in post, however, for the domestic release a “Fade To Black Version” was completed, which is included on the Korean DVD release.

Forget Kill Bill (parts one and two), the “Vengeance Trilogy” is the essential viewing for Asian cinema lovers, leftfield crime fiends, and enthusiasts of the sub-genre of revenge flicks.

Sympathy For Mr. Vengeance

Boksuneun Naui Geot | 2002 | South Korea | Directed by Chan-wook Park

Logline: A businessman seeks revenge for the botched kidnapping of his daughter by a disgruntled former employee and his girlfriend.

Park is best known for his masterful revenge thriller Oldboy (2003), which is the middle movie in what is now referred to as his “vengeance trilogy”. The first movie’s original title, Boksuneun Naui Geot, translates roughly as "Vengeance is Mine", but it was re-titled Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance for its American/international release. Apparently Park prefers the Western title, but I think his original Eastern title is much more appropriate, especially once you’ve viewed the movie, and taken into account the complexity of its multiple takes on the act of revenge. Like Oldboy, this is a powerhouse thriller pulsing with a visceral intensity and packed with stunning imagery.

Needing money for a vital kidney transplant that will save his sister’s life, Ryu (Ha-kyun Shin), a deaf mute, and his girlfriend Cha Yeong-mi (Doona Bae) kidnap a wealthy divorced businessman’s only daughter in order to extort a ransom. When Ryu’s sister (Ji-Eun Lim) discovers that the young girl they’re “babysitting” has actually been kidnapped she acts in extreme protest, much to Ryu’s despair. Then the situation goes from tragic to double-whammy tragic, and the businessman, Park Dong-Jin (Kang-ho Song) seeks retribution.

This is vengeance as rite of passage riding shotgun with Murphy’s Law. Ryu tries to donate his own kidney to his sister, but his blood type is not compatible with hers. When Ryu is fired from Ilshin Electronics, he meets a black market dealer of human organs, but the criminals propose that he give them his kidney plus ten million to obtain a kidney suitable for his sister. Ryu accepts the trade, but he does not have money to pay for the surgery. His lover, Yeong-mi, who fancies herself as an anarchist revolutionary, is the one who convinces him to kidnap Yossun, the daughter of his former employer, the businessman Park, who owns the electronic company.

There’s also a retarded young man (Seung-beom Ryu) who turns up at the river where Ryu buries his sister. The physically disabled man complicates matters when he interferes. But later he provides Park with key information, via a necklace, the who and where, responsible for the death of his daughter. There is also Yeong-mi’s terrorist friends, the young circle jerks, living in the tiny apartment next door to Ryu and Yeong. They play their cards late in the game.

Chan-wook Park is a consummate visual storyteller, his mise-en-scene and composition is brilliant, as is his use of sound. He amply displays all the ingredients for compelling, provocative cinema. Morality is treated as both hero and villain, and extreme violence is par for the course; everyone is victim, everyone is perpetrator. Park elicits dynamic performances from his core cast, and as far as his finale is concerned, he doesn’t suffer fools gladly.

Housebound

NZ | 2014 | Directed by Gerard Johnstone

Logline: A young troublemaker is given home detention, forced to spend time with her estranged mother, and discovers very strange goings-on within the walls of the house. 

It’s one thing to embark on a labour-of-love, low-budget debut feature, it’s quite another to spend four years working on it, finally have it completed, and it's watched by fellow Kiwi Peter Jackson, who raves about it. Talk about career sorted! Gerard Johnstone is a genuine talent with an impressively well-earned notch on his new belt.

In the movie’s prologue meth-head Kylie (Morgana O’Reilly) and her partner-in-crime attempt to rob an isolated ATM in the dead of night. It goes pear-shaped quickly. She ends up with an electronic ankle bracelet and is confined to her mother Miriam (Rimi Ti Waita)’s property for an eight-month sentence. She’s not happy. But mum is. Until Kylie falls back into her old abusive, obnoxious behaviour, but Miriam’s wallflower partner Graeme (Ross Harper) is about as much use as a spare prick at a wedding, and counselor Dennis (Cameron Rhodes) only seems to antagonise her.

Superstitious Miriam believes the old house is haunted. Certainly the creaks, groans, and bumps in the middle of the night would suggest so. Kylie is not convinced. After discovering foul play has stained the home, she’s determined to prove there’s no ghost, only an evil neighbour. Initially, her probation officer-cum-paranormal enthusiast, Amos (Glen-Paul Waru), thinks otherwise.

Housebound sports a great script, bursting with hilarious characters spouting cracking dialogue. The casting is bang on; O’Reilly, who will be familiar to Neighbours fans, oozes screen charisma, and she nails the surly bitch attitude with aplomb (keep on eye on her, she’ll be real big soon enough), while veteran actors Ti Waita and Rhodes deliver superb support, at times stealing the scene. Waru’s buffoon is another comic delight.

The Kiwi comedy is a distinct sense of humour, and Housebound wriggles and writhes in it like a pig in mud. But most importantly, for the most part, it balances the tone between the comedy and the horror just right. Yes, the movie is a bit long, but the murder mystery reveal and most of the horror shenanigans all occurs in the last twenty minutes, the pacing has been spot on for the rest of the flick.

Edgar Wright’s Shaun of the Dead set the comedy-horror bar very high ten years ago. Few movies have come anywhere close. But there are a couple of antipodean contenders currently in the ring.

My Name Is Jonah

US | 2014 | Directed by Phil Healy & JB Sapienza

Logline: A portrait of a self-proclaimed real-life warrior and adventurer known only as Jonah, and how this cult of personality came and continues to be.

“In a time that lies just beyond yesterday, a boy given to dreaming, did become a man … forged in battle that raged within a tropical hell …”

One of the best true character documentaries of recent years, this is the kind of truth-is-stranger-than-fiction cases where the subject matter continues to defy all expectation and confounds the viewer with the enigma of their tenacity. If this aging All-American warrior’s fuel were an elixir and ambrosia, it would be rum and cranberry juice and two homemade cheeseburgers.

“And lo’ the man returned to the land he had inhabited in his youth, armed now with both the dreams of the boy and warrior’s guile of the man he had become …”

John Washnis has small man syndrome, it’s plain to see. But rather than it being projected as malice or spite or in any way vindictive, this bottled inadequacy is channeled into the spirit of the warrior on the edge of time. John became Jonah, his surname disappearing from public use eons ago. In its place he thrusts a broadsword, brandishes a crossbow, or whips around a nunchucker. He seizes role-playing adventure while others only daydream about it. He is Jonah … hear him roar like a fucking bear!

“Soon he found that reality not to his liking, so he created a new one for himself and those that chose to walk his path …”

Not only is Jonah a Myspace veteran and a Xmas-card legend (yes, for thirty years – 1976 to 2006 - he organised elaborate costume shoots for Christmas cards he designed and distributed to friends and followers across the world), but he is also one of the meanest harmonica players ever to hit the small town pub circuit. He even cut a record, Have Harp Will Travel, and continues to make notable guest appearances in rockin’ joints like The Stumblin’ Inn. 

Just as was revealed in the exceptional documentary Crumb, Jonah has family and friends that are, well, almost as curious as the man himself. One of Jonah’s best friends, apart from his Best Friend, the late canine Tonru, is Skip “The Trip” Evon, who began video recording Jonah’s exploits for archival purposes on a Hi-8 many moons back. There’s Gary Bader, Jonah’s childhood pal and longtime still photographer for the Xmas shoots. Gary has originals of the first ten issues of X-Men. There’s Mr. Chips, who was Jonah’s crazy chemical colleague.  There’s the Inhuman, Ferg, another childhood buddy of Jonah’s who liked to dress-up and play silly buggers. There's even a Russian bride.

And then there’s Jonah’s brother Jimmy, the ex-jock. Jimmy has a chip on his shoulder. A big one, it seems, as he has a quite a few shards he’s keen to throw Jonah’s way. Did Jonah really serve in the Special Forces in ‘Nam, or did he just hang out and drop acid in Germany? Hell, Jimmy’s convinced Jonah’s the Devil’s spawn! Quite the proclamation. Even Jonah’s sisters aren’t quite sure of the whole story.  

Not too dissimilar to the tragi-comedy that is Anvil: The Story of Anvil, this is an honest portrait, steeped in an endearing sadness, warts and all story, which demands to be lifted high on one’s shoulders and cheered on. My Name is Jonah brazenly steps onto its own comic-book pedestal and chants a cult mantra …

“You people are weeeeaak!!”

And we kneel and respond, “Only as weak as you are strong, Jonah!”

My Name Is Jonah screens as part of the 8th Sydney Underground Film Festival, Friday 5th, 10:30pm and Sunday 7th, 1pm, at Factory Theatre, Marrickville.

Teenage

US/Germany | 2013 | Directed by Matt Wolf

Logline: A documentary that traces the “creation” and progression of the teenager from the end of the 19th Century through to the middle of the 20th Century.

Based on the book Teenage: The Creation of Youth Culture 1875 – 1945 by Jon Savage, who is given co-writer credit along with the director, Teenage is a fabulous and refreshing overview of the so-called rise of the adolescent creature that now dominates the modern para-social world we currently live in. It is fascinating, endearing, provocative, and, at times, heartbreaking. But ultimately, it is uplifting.

Before the end of the 19th Century people were classed either young or old. The period of adolescence from the age of 13 to 19 was a grey area that existed, but was never indulged, and certainly not enjoyed by its kind. The pressures of living and working during every historical age culminating with the industrial revolution dampened any kind of joy of being young and curious.

But slowly and surely the voice of the young adult began to emerge. Through the flappers and the bright young things, the youth movement stirred and clambered, it shimmied and swang, tearing apart a divide between children and adults. A new generation was born, and it liked to have fun.

Matt Wolf’s fabulous documentary is a celebration of fantastic never-before-seen archival clips and still photos dating back to the very early part of the 20th Century. Using this collage of, mostly, black and white imagery, Wolf then adds his own filmed portraits of American, English, and German teenage abandon across the decades, each shot in the respective period aesthetic. On top of this he uses actors, including the distinctive voices of Jena Malone and Ben Wishaw, to narrate from diary entries.

War and music are the two most powerful elements that shaped the hood of the teenager, especially the two World Wars and Swing music. Jitterbugs and Sub-Debs became the voice of youth, the sound of freedom, despite the restrictive attempts by Hitler (who deemed that swing music was only fit for niggers and jews) and other rule-abiding stick-in-the-muds out to destroy their carefree spirit.  

Eventually by the end of 1940s the teenager was being championed with publications such as Seventeen. A new socio-political history had been established. The teen-ager had become teenager. They were going somewhere. Rock and Roll was just around the corner.

What gives this documentary a particularly memorable edge is the contemporary score by Bradford Cox, ambient-flavoured musings, similar in melody and tone to Fila Brazilia and Boards Of Canada. The music offsets the vintage imagery and gives it an utterly fresh context, a surge of melancholy floods the perspective, yet provides an unusual vitality.

This is one of my favourite films of the year.

Teenage screens as part of the 8th Sydney Underground Film Festival, Saturday 6th, noon, and Sunday 7th, 1pm, at Factory Theatre, Marrickville.

Enemy

Canada | 2013 | Directed by Denis Villeneuve

Logline: A college professor spots an identical-looking man in a movie and becomes obsessed with meeting him only to provoke the look-alike into a more troublesome agenda.

A man (Jake Gyellenhaal) is in the audience of an underground erotic fetish show, a clandestine club for voyeurs, watching a naked woman on a small stage about to crush a live tarantula under her stilettoed platform shoe. He partially covers his face, as if in detached horror, or maybe repulsion. His name is Anthony. He is an actor.

A man (Jake Gyllenhaal) lectures his university class on history. In the staff room a colleague recommends a movie, despite the teacher expressing no interest in watching films. But he rents it anyway. His name is Adam. He is a professor.

These two men look identical. One is the double. The other is the doppelganger. They are both one and the same.

Adam has a lover, Mary (Mélanie Laurent), who comes around for wine, dinner, and sex. Anthony has a wife, Helen (Sarah Gadon), pregnant with their child. Both are blondes. They don’t look the same.

Adam discovers one of the extras in the movie appears to be him, or looks exactly like him. This absurd weirdness becomes an obsession leading to the two men meeting secretly. They even share the same scar on their torso.

Now it’s getting very strange, indeed.

Especially when Anthony becomes convinced Adam has impregnated his wife and makes an aggressive proposition.

Based on the novel The Double by José Saramago, and featuring a superbly nuanced performance from Gyllenhaal, this is an elusive and elliptical portrait of infidelity, deceit, corruption, and betrayal. The excellent screenplay, by Javier Gullon, takes the basic elements of the novel and twists them into a parable of fear and desire, a creeping nightmare bathed in jaundiced daylight.

Be careful of what lies behind the door you now have a key to.

The visual motif Villeneuve uses significantly, and yet, keeps tantalisingly out of quick and easy comprehension, is the literal/symbolic use of the spider and its web.

There is no immediate or obvious explanation for the arachno-punctuation. The spider exists in a kind of limbo of interpretation. Curiously, a contractual clause for the cast was not to discuss the meaning of the spiders in any media interviews.

Narrative path as subconscious stream.

The spider represents different elements within the man’s mind, his subconscious: his morbid fascination, his reckless desire, his inexorable fear, his clutch on power, and his lack of control. The behemoth spider that looms over the city symbolises the power the women in his life have, the cracked glass of the car window represents the deadly web of the hunter and the hunted.

The giant spider frantically backing up into the corner of the room is coiled rage waiting to pounce and devour the enemy.

Chaos is merely order waiting to be deciphered.

Hell hath no fury like a woman cornered.  

These Final Hours

Australia | 2013 | Directed by Zak Hilditch

Logline: With only hours left before the end of the world a grim and self-involved young man leaves his lover for a huge party to reunite with his girlfriend, but finds his attitude changed by a young girl trying to reunite with her father.

It’s a shame this great Australian genre flick was burdened with a very mediocre trailer, because Zak Hilditch has written and directed a thoroughly gripping, visually stunning, powerful drama-thriller that slaps you around, and yet, ultimately embraces you in an apocalyptic gesture of doomed romance. It’s one of the most affecting, least seen Aussie releases of the past few years.

Mind you there would definitely be those that find it too bleak and nihilistic, its themes of suicide, drug abuse, and apathy overwhelming and unpleasant. But hell, this is the kind of take-no-prisoners science-fiction-esque nightmare that's right up my damnation alley! Hilditch has brought together a great cast, all of who deliver excellently. The production values are solid, with special note to the sunburnt cinematography and agile camerawork courtesy of Bonnie Elliott, a veteran of countless shorts and numerous documentaries.

Hilditch could be accused of a hollow narrative, but it is precisely this minimal plot, and only a few key players that make These Final Hours work on such an immediate and intimate level. In a beachfront property, after making love, James (Nathan Philips) abandons Zoe (Jessica De Gouw), claiming he must return to his girlfriend Vicky (Kathryn Beck) and the end-of-the-world party she has helped to organise with her brother Freddy (Daniel Henshall). James feels he’s capable only of blocking out the impending doom by getting trashed, he wants no other wayward responsibility.

On the car journey to his Perth destination James rescues Rose (Angourie Rice), a girl of ten or so, from the clutches of evil men. She wants to be with her father, but James is intent on his own agenda. At the party, the shit hits the fan. James is forced to flee, and is confronted with the option to redeem his own selfish behaviour.

These Final Hours represents the last twelve as the storm of a nuclear holocaust spreads virulently across the globe, having wiped out Western Europe and North America, it is on its way down under, fast approaching Southern Asia. The distinctive gravelly voice of David Field announces the apocalyptic spread over an AM station, a kind of narrator of hard truths. As the sun bears down over Western Australia, James drives hard and fast to rectify his actions.

There are a few particularly notable two-hander scenes; James and a strung-out Vicky arguing in the bunker her brother has prepared below the party house, James fast realising his mistake, Vicky remaining blind to everything. Later James reluctantly visits his estranged mother (Lynette Curan) and they share an awkward, but endearing few moments of reconcilation. It is the only time we see James smile. He and Rose share a particularly emotional scene of resignation.

If you’re lucky you might be able to catch These Final Hours in the cinema where the sound and image is best appreciated. Like Burning Man, this is vivid, captivating Australian drama that demands to be seen; at once sensual and sweaty, urgent and uncompromising.

Guardians Of The Galaxy

US | 2014 | Directed by James Gunn

Logline: Twenty-six years after being abducted by alien pirates, and light years from Earth, a space cowboy finds himself being hunted after discovering a powerful orb wanted by a ruthless supervillian.

“Ooga-Chaka Ooga-Ooga, Ooga-Chaka, Ooga-Ooga …”

Yup, I’m hooked on a feeling, I’m high on believing, 'cos this one heroic space adventure I’ll happily put on a pedestal high as a Mayan temple, because there are so many things right about it, the stuff that is less than amazing is still pretty darn cool. In short, Guardians of the Galaxy kicks some sweet Nebula ass (yup, that titan’s blue daughter has a great derriere). James Gunn has whipped out a fancy-dancy, interstellarockin’ phantasy for the adolescent in us all. Let’s just say that J.J. Abrams has got his work cut out for him if he intends for Star Wars: Episode VII to be any kind of serious contender for science fiction thrill ride of the decade. 

In the opening scene, after the poignant Earthbound prologue, our boy Quill (the very likable Chris Pratt) is now a cocky young man on the planet Morag looking for adventure, or at the very least, collectable artifacts and ancient souvenirs. Wandering into ghostly ruins, his trusty Walkman playing his late mother’s “Awesome Mix Vol. 1” cassette featuring Redbone’s Come and Get Your Love – the movie title splayed across the screen in huge plaque-like style - Quill does a boogie, kicking lizard vermin here and there, and spots a metallic orb that will cause him all manner of trouble.

Ronan the Accuser (Lee Pace) is the piece of Kree nasty work that wants the power to destroy whole planets. The titan Thanos (Josh Brolin, uncredited) wants his rogue daughter Gamora (Zoe Saldana) back to deal with her betrayal and sends his other daughter Nebula (Karen Gillian) in pursuit. Drax the Destroyer (WWE legend Dave Bautista), a volatile prison inmate, is befriended by Quill, Gamora, and a couple of bounty hunters, Rocket, a feisty genetically-engineered raccoon (voiced by Bradley Cooper) and his partner, Groot, the humanoid tree (career performance from Vin Diesel, snigger), and together the motley crew form a renegade team of heroes, the guardians of the galaxy.

Now, admittedly I’m no comic book fanboy, so I’d never heard of the Marvel source material, but the original screenplay drafts were penned by Nicole Perlman who was on a salary for two years in Marvel’s Writing Program, before handing over the project to James Gunn, who’d been hired as director (and given co-script credit for his re-write). Imagine being employed by Marvel to choose a comic to adapt into a feature, and given two years to leisurely tinker away. Nice for some.

Let's be straight up about this; comparisons of Guardians of the Galaxy to Star Wars are, at the very least, misguided. Yes, they are rollicking space adventures, cosmic cowboys and injuns, if you will, but Star Wars (certainly Episode IV - A New Hope) plays out like an opera, with emphasis on pathos and melancholy. Guardians, on the other hand, owes more to the playful, gaudy shenanigans of Flash Gordon (1980) and the camp, kitsch excess of The Fifth Element (Moebius’s brilliant cityscape design aside), except - and I'll champion this - Guardians eats Luc Besson’s puerile junk for breakfast and spits it into a wormhole.

Much more significantly, especially considering the work of French artist Moebius, Gaurdians of the Galaxy is the first movie that comes the closest to capturing the look and vibe of French adult-orientated science fiction/fantasy comic-strip magazine Metal Hurlant (Heavy Metal), the vivid cyberpunk and steampunk designs, the Chris Foss-inspired spacecraft, the sassy sex appeal (oh, Gamora and Nebula), the menace and the misfits. This overall aesthetic made me grin from the get-go. Even the use of music, especially the yacht rock (10CC, Rupert Holmes, Elvin Bishop, Blue Swede), tickled my fancy something wicked.

Whilst the first half of the movie is certainly the stronger and drips with cult appeal, introducing us to the various crazy characters, setting up the McGuffin, laying the groundwork for the hair-raising pursuit, the busy second half is more superhero conventional with a very hectic display of Ronan-orb prevention. It’s the same kind of save-the-galaxy stuff we’ve seen many times before, but at that stage you’re so caught up in the intergalactic fun it doesn’t really matter.

The Guardians of the Galaxy will return. I’ll be there. With stellar-bells and terra whistles, 'cos "I fooled around and fell in love, yes I did ..."

Blue Ruin

US/France | 2013 | Directed by Jeremy Saulnier

Logline: An obsessive loner returns to his childhood home to carry out an act of vengeance, but winds up in a brutal and messy fight to protect his estranged family.

The sleeper masterpiece of the year is the second feature from a cinematographer-cum-director. A drama that burns with the quiet ferocity of crawling lava, Blue Ruin is just as its title suggests, a tale of wretched revenge soaked in sadness, mired in melancholy, a tragedy of errors. Along with Cheap Thrills, it is one of the best independent American movies I’ve seen in the past five years.

Macon Blair, in a tour-de-force of restrained hysteria, plays Dwight, a disheveled and young man living on the bones of his arse in a pathetic, vagrant existence. But fueled by the memory of his parents’ double murder, and the release of Wade, the apparent culprit, he stumbles into a desperate call of duty: cold-blooded revenge.

After a vicious confrontation with Wade in a bar toilet Dwight finds himself on the run, with the killer’s equally murderous family members in pursuit. A deadly game of cat-and-mouse ensues as Dwight attempts to salvage what he has left in his life by arriving at Sam, his sister’s house.

Blue Ruin is Murphy’s Law incarnate. Everything goes pear-shaped, rotten even. It’s the stripped-back, slow-burn thriller from Hell. Mesmerising, like a horrendous train wreck in slow motion, powerful in its simplicity, as gripping as a wrestler’s handshake, and packing a serious visceral punch. Not forgetting a pitch black sense of humour that occasionally rears its head.

The movie was funded by a successful Kickstarter campaign, which goes to prove just how useful crowdfunding can be if the right people are on board the right project. It’s very inspiring to struggling filmmakers. I’ve no idea what the budget was, but Jeremy Saulnier and his producers used it very wisely and very effectively. One of the more striking poster designs of recent years too.

I must bring to attention the superb special effects make-up, courtesy of Toby Sells Creature Make up FX Shop. The set-pieces for Blue Ruin were better than many horrors I’ve seen recently, in particular, a screwdriver to the temple, removing an arrow from the thigh, and a high-powered rifle shot to the head. These were executed with a level of genuinely horrific, shocking realism.

If the scenes of violence hadn’t been done as impressively as they were the movie wouldn’t have been nearly as affecting, because Blue Ruin is an intense study of violence; the appalling domino/snowball effect revenge inexorably creates. Perfectly drawn, beautifully shot. 

The Hours And Times

USA | 1991 | Directed by Christopher Munch

Logline: A fictionalised account of what may have happened when John Lennon and Brian Epstein went on holiday together to Spain in 1963.

As a curious character study that clocks in at just under an hour, "speculative featurette" would be an apt tag for this quiet drama. Christopher Munch takes liberty with a poignant and peculiar moment in history; a few days in Spain that John Lennon, of The Beatles, and the band’s manager, Brian Epstein, spent in intimate rest and recreation following an exhausting stint of concerts back in England.

It was April 1963, and of course, The Beatles were fast becoming the international phenomenon that would change the world of popular music forever. John Lennon, who was struggling in his relationship with Cynthia, his first wife and mother of baby Julian, so he relished the chance to get away from the hordes and the pressures of fatherhood and husbandry.

Brian Epstein was openly gay (well, at least to close friends and the rest of the band) and he harboured an infatuation with John. John was well aware of Brian’s deep-rooted attraction, and being the mischievous rascal he played on it. But as charming and witty as John was, he could also be cruel and heartless, as observed in the scene where he is on the phone to Cynthia. He was also a prick (tease) to Brian.

John was an opportunist and he loved to experiment. The Hours and Times presents a possible series of moments that might have occurred between the two men as the lounged and lingered around the Barcelona hotel. John smoked like a chimney and chewed gum like it was going out of fashion. Brian wore clean shirts and made plaintive glances in John’s direction. There was a tension, some of it sexual, much of it a power game.

Christopher Munch captures a city trapped in time. Filmed in high contrast black and white and cleverly shooting the beautiful urban exteriors (a lot of Gaudi) so as not to give away that the movie was made nearly thirty years later. There’s a visual poetry that weaves and slides, languid and emotive. Nothing much actually happens, yet during these hours, the times they are a-changing. It’s fascinating and compelling, but strangely distant.

Ian Hart delivers an uncannily spot on performance as Lennon, looking remarkably similar in facial features, but also nailing the nonchalant body language, the Liverpudlian drawl, and his impulsive sense of humour. Hart would go on to play Lennon again in the excellent early Beatles biopic Backbeat. David Angus isn’t as strong an actor as Hart, but he has the Oxford-educated accent down pat, and he also bears a striking resemblance to the real Epstein.

Stephanie Pack is memorable as an airline stewardess whom Lennon flirts with in the movie’s opening scene and who turns up later at their hotel only to have Lennon play the whimsical tango fob-off. John didn’t know what he wanted, and Brian could only indulge him and keep his fingers crossed. When John pushed the envelope of their friendship it would only prompt tears before bedtime. Perhaps it was John’s rejection of Brian that fueled the manager’s suicidal tendencies? I guess no one will ever really know.

Big Bad Wolves

Israel | 2013 | Directed by Aharon Keshales & Navor Papushado

Logline: A rogue detective, a desperate father, and a meek schoolteacher find themselves caught up in the cruel machinations of a child serial killer.

It’s rare for an Israeli movie to make an impact in the realm of hardened genre lovers, but Big Bad Wolves does more than bark loudly, it has a nasty bite too. This is classic crime fare, told with an emphasis on character and situation. It’s not an action flick, but there’s some solid ultraviolence. It’s not a complex plot, but there are some neat diversions. It’s not a comedy, but there are some perversely funny lines of dialogue. Who's afraid of the big bad wolf?!

I can see why Tarantino was jumping up and down about this one; it’s got some of his style splashed on it, especially Reservoir Dogs. It is dialogue-driven, mostly interior-set, with strong performances, and some memorable  moments; for example the torturing. Oh yes, the finger-snapping, toenail-pulling, chest-blowtorching is guaranteed to make the most hardened viewer wince. The kind of over-the-top violence that immediately gives the movie cult appeal.

Micki (Lior Ashkenazi, looking, amusingly, like Steve Carroll) is a police detective on a vigilante hunt for the serial killer responsible for the heinous murder of a young girl (stuffed full of drugged candy, then maimed, raped, and beheaded!). The suspect, Dror (Rotem Keinan), a mild-mannered religious studies schoolteacher, has been arrested, but released due to lack of evidence.

Micki, after being suspended from the case, kidnaps Dror with the intent of extracting a confession. The father of the murdered girl, Gidi (Tzahi Grad), takes matters into his own hands and, assisted by Micki, tortures Dror in the basement of an abandoned house. Dror insists on his innocence, despite his horrific injuries. Then Gidi’s father (Doval’e Glickman) arrives and the situation begins to get even messier.

With Tarantino’s quote – “The best film of the year!” - emblazoned across the already striking poster art with its own succinct tagline – Some Men Are Created Evil – Big Bad Wolves promises big, bad things. But the first half of the movie is strangely wayward and mostly underwhelming. It’s the intense second half where the movie really comes into its own, and where the rich Tarantino-esque flavours come blistering to the fore.

This is one of those movies where it could’ve gone either way. The “twist” revelation right at the end is both satisfying, yet, oddly underwhelming. It’s a resolution that makes sense, but raises a couple of itchy questions.

I wasn’t wholly convinced by the extreme violence either. It packs a punch, but its consequences are far from realistic. Had the writer/directors paid more attention to that level of realism, and tightened the first act, the movie would’ve been very impressive indeed. That said Big Bad Wolves is solid Saturday night fare for the discerning beer and pizza crowd.

Big Bad Wolves is released in Australia by Transmission Films.

Beneath The Harvest Sky

US | 2013 | Directed by Aron Gaudet & Gita Pullapilly

Logline: Two teenage best buddies plan to leave their small-town trappings, but find more than they bargained for when they become embroiled in the criminal activity of one of the fathers.

Documentary filmmakers Gaudet and Pullapilly turn their talents to the feature and have crafted a solid coming-of-age drama, one that bristles with a thriller edge. Beautifully shot, and superbly acted by a fresh-faced bunch that includes the daughter of Kiefer Sutherland, a new Australian hearthrob, and Littlefinger from Game of Thrones, Beneath the Harvest Sky is sure to be one of the American indie sleepers of the year.

Dom (Callan McAuliffe) is working on the potato fields of Van Buren, a Maine country town that borders with Canada. It’s his final harvest, saving the money so that he and his pal, Caspar (Emory Cohen) can get the hell out of dodge. On Dom’s bedroom wall is a large map of America with a tag by their town saying “You Are Here, But Not For Long.” The harvest break can’t go fast enough, and Dom’s seen enough blue potatoes to last him a lifetime.

As close as they are as friends, Dom and Caspar couldn’t be more different. Whilst Dom is responsible and committed, Caspar is a volatile, aggressive, and impulsive. Harvest acquaintance Emma (Sarah Sutherland) is quietly pursuing Dom, while Caspar is cruelly stringing along the impressionable young Tasha (Zoe Levin), whom has dropped a pregnancy bombshell in his lap.

Clayton (Aidan Gillen), Caspar’s dad, smuggles pot and pills across the border, ingeniously hidden within his Ute. His anxious brother Badger (Timm Sharp) is the mule. The criminal business is ticking over nicely. Caspar gets a cool wad of cash from dad whenever he delivers a bunch of stolen pharmaceuticals from a breaking and entering. That dirty money goes straight into the duffle bag hidden beneath the floorboards in the dilapidated, derelict wooden home on the outskirts of town. The same place where he and Dom shoot spuds from their homemade potato cannon.

Like a well-etched novel, Beneath the Harvest Sky tumbles along, the narrative and character threads being tugged a little tighter as the plot thickens. The tone and atmosphere is reminiscent of the impressive subtleties and complexities of Shotgun Stories, another tale of small-town dysfunctional relationships and inexorable wrongdoings. This is dark harvest moon on the rise.

Beneath the Harvest Sky screens as part of the 9th Possible Worlds – US & Canadian Film Festival, Sydney, Saturday 9th August, 6.30pm

The Dirties

Canada | 2013 | Directed by Matt Johnson

Logline: Two high school best buddies embark on a film class project aimed at mocking the bullies, only to discover that one of them is deadly serious.

Quite possibly my favourite indie flick of the year; a pitch-black comedy aimed squarely at high-fiving those who have been bullied at school and slapping the mugs of those who bully. This is the shit that can happen. When a joke gets taken too far, a prankster loses control, or to be precise, becomes inexorably entwined in his own deadly machinations. This is a satire that steps into docu-drama territory, one foot in the truth, one foot in the fiction, the reality is rendered askew.

Young Matt Johnson’s debut feature is a brilliantly engineered and executed revenge plot of moments, asides, vignettes, sketches, and indulgences. Johnson plays Matt (ostensibly himself, and it's a gung-ho, bravura display of Geek), and pal Owen Williams plays Owen. They’re shameless movie geeks, Matt is forever referencing some cult or classic flick. They are dorks and they are cool. Their creative project in film class is titled "The Dirties", which refers to the two class bullies who take great pleasure in humiliating the two lads.

"The Dirties" stars Matt and Owen as two detectives out to bring the scum to justice. Their crew consists of two cameramen, who are never seen or heard, but are ever present, filming from close and far. Matt and Owen have wireless mics attached, so no need for a boom operator. Matt and Owen edit all their footage in Matt’s bedroom, surrounded by movie posters and memorabilia. This is a skeleton crew, shakin' dem bones.

Chrissy (Krista Madison), the class beauty, has been a long-standing crush of Owen’s since grade three. Now, she finally takes notice, and this drives a wedge between the buddies’ friendship. It seems the plan to take out the bullies for real is, in fact, a real plan, according to Matt. Owen is feeling more and more removed. Soon, the proverbial shit will hit the classroom fan.

Like Bobcat’s God Bless America, this is another fantastic example of when American filmmakers nail their own idiosyncratic failings. The Dirties is a hip-shooting, clever comedy that perfectly illustrates the disturbing unreality of our social climate. In a make-believe world of perfect retorts and hilarious movie context shenanigans Matt and Owen have created a monster.

Although it takes its cue – and reflection – from the infamous Columbine High School massacre, The Dirties is incredibly relevant in today’s increasingly pressurised para-social circumstances and trendy DIY filmmaking. There is a frightening rationale lurking behind Matt’s sarcastic, and ironic t-shirt statement, “We’re just here for the bad guys.”

Quite simply, The Dirties is the shiznit; the freshest, most original, and dangerously entertaining, low-budget indie flick in several years.

The Dirties screens as part of the 9th Possible Worlds – US & Canadian Film Festival, Sydney, Saturday 16th August, 8.30pm.

Shotgun Stories

USA | 2007 | Directed by Jeff Nichols

Logline: Three grown brothers bring a years-long hatred against four half-brothers to boiling point after they make an unannounced appearance at the funeral of their father’s.

Simmering like a Southern stew, the violence seething under the surface, with the rich characterisation of a Scorsese gangster flick, this dark rustic tale of a blood feud between two sets of half-brothers in the state of Arkansas is a modern American classic that has echoes of the tranquil beauty of Terrence Malick’s Badlands and the ominous intensity of a Shakespearean tragedy.

Michael Shannon commands the screen with a brooding intensity, and you can't take your eyes off of him, just as a young Sean Penn and Martin Sheen did in their early careers. This was the movie where I first really noticed Shannon, then I saw William Friedkin's Bug (released the previous year) and he immediately became one of my new favourite actors.

Jeff Nichols’ screenplay unfolds with the grace and careful pacing of a novel, yet he imbues the film with a visual punctuation that reflects the landscape; the cotton fields and dusty backroads, the straw sun setting, and those lazy porch afternoons suppin’ cold beer and watching the world go by. Curiously, despite its sensationalist title, a shotgun is only ever fired once.

The Hayes brothers, Son (Shannon), Boy (Douglas Ligon) and Kid (Barlow Jacobs), weren’t even given proper names by their loser father. Their young mother hated them for the dog-eared card life dealt her. The four half-brothers were given normal names and had the privilege of working the land, while Son works at a fishery, Boy lives out of his decrepit van, and Kid has a tent pitched in Son’s backyard.

Son has a wife Annie (Glenda Pannell) and son, and it becomes apparent that it is the children of these brothers than might be the saving grace, preventing the brothers from systematically killing each other over a hatred that should’ve been buried many years earlier. But old habits die hard. Annie provides a peripheral dramatic edge of reason and anxiety, while Cleaman Hayes (Michael Abbot Jr.), the sombre second eldest half-brother, and Boy, put the reasoning into precarious practice.

Nichols doesn’t opt for any showpony directorial flourishes with the visual narrative, instead concentrating on eliciting brilliant performances from his mostly unknown cast. The soundtrack is suitably mellow, fitting snugly, and yet providing a resonant contrast to the slow-burn thriller elements. These "stories" reflect the ironies of love, hatred, retribution and resignation. It's a masterful debut.

Shut Up Little Man! An Audio Misadventure

Australia | 2011 | Directed by Matthew Bate

Logline: When two friends tape-recorded the mostly verbal fights of their noisy and eccentric neighbors, they accidentally created one of the world’s first “viral” pop-culture sensations. This is their story.

Audio verité is the term used to describe real-life recordings made surreptitiously. These can include found sounds and phone pranks. When twenty-something university students Eddie Lee Sausage and Mitchell D. (Mitch Deprey) moved into The Pepto-Bismol Palace, a cheap pink stucco unit, 4/237 Steiner Ave, San Francisco, in 1987, little did they know they were moving adjacent to an encapsulated phenomenon just waiting for the unofficial release form. A couple years down the track Mitch and Eddie and had a piece of pop-culture cult history in their hands.

“I love people. I love the world. I love life. But I sure as fuck can’t love a piece of shit!” — Raymond Huffman

Peter Haskett and Raymond Huffman were the classic odd couple. You couldn’t write better characters for a hit sitcom. Peter was middle-aged and homosexual and Ray was middle-aged and straight-as-an-arrow. When they were sober they were best of friends. They shared an apartment, they even shared a room, with a cheap Formica dining table separating their single beds. But when they got drunk - and they were drunk most of the time - they fought like kings and queens. Verbal abuse was hurled back and forth at loud volume. The walls of each apartment were made with “snot and cardboard” according to Eddie, and so the two students could hear the mud-slinging as clear as day.

“I got a decent dinner ready. Nothing happened with the dinner. Because you crucified it. You ruined it. God damn you!” — Peter Haskett

Within a week of their arrival Eddie and Mitch were exposed to what would become a dependable and hilarious routine from their next-door neighbors. As Eddie puts it, “Evenings charged with belligerent rants, hateful harangues, drunken soliloquies, death threats, and the sound of wrestling bodies thumping against the wall that separated their apartments.”

“If you wanna talk to me, then shut your fuckin' mouth!” — Raymond

But it was following a middle of the night confrontation with Ray that left Eddie with the willies and sparked the two lads into deciding they should record the violent matches issuing from next door in case anything actually criminal went down. So they taped a microphone to an old lamp stand connected it up to their cassette recorder and when the shouting began they opened their window and probed the mic alongside their neighbours’ window. The funny thing is that Ray and Peter soon realised they were being recorded but didn’t care. And therein lies the subtle Rub.

“What did you do during the war? You were wounded? Yeah. Bullshit. You were maybe wounded when you fell over your bayonet when you were drunk.” — Peter

What is almost immediately obvious is that once Eddie and Mitch started inviting friends over on the night rent was due (almost guaranteed arguments from next door) then they were doing it for the lulz, as the modern expression goes. But the whole shebang really took off after Eddie and Mitch started giving tapes of the verbal assaults to friends who would then bootleg the recordings and give them to others. Soon enough Ray and Peter's clandestine audio files were worldwide, being satirised by famous cartoonists and inspiring playwrights and filmmakers. The collection of recordings became known as Shut Up, Little Man!, one of Peter’s favourite digs at Ray.

“I can kill you from a sitting position.” — Raymond

Matthew Bate has fashioned a superbly entertaining, and surprisingly poignant documentary. Using a cut-and-paste visual style, recreations, and posing intelligent questions about morality and exploitation, pop-culture, fame and infamy, and the true nature of art, Shut Up Little Man! is more than a document of a curious misadventure, it’s a wonderful pre-Internet date stamp, and a sly nod to the X-Generation. It’s essential viewing/listening for voyeuristic freaks and audio geeks, and those with a zany sense of humour.

"You always giggle falsely. You don’t have a decent giggle in you.” — Peter Haskett

Shortbus

USA | 2006 | Directed by John Cameron Mitchell

Logline: Several gay and straight characters struggle for sexual inspiration and a deeper understanding of love and commitment within their respective relationships.

The title takes its inspiration, perhaps a little obscurely, from the shorter yellow American school bus that often follows the longer traditional one. On board the main bus sit the “normal” kids, while segregated and trailing behind in the short bus are the outsiders; the emotionally-disturbed, dysfunctional misfits. In the movie Shortbus is the name given to an underground salon, infamous for its blend of art, music, politics, and carnality, where the main characters, immersed in their lurid subterfuge, all converge.

The whole look and feel of the film is very NYC; the Big Apple stretching as Grace Jones once crooned. From the brilliant animation sequences that inter-cut the stories – camera flying over a painterly model Manhattan, diving down through the trees of Central Park and zooming into the window of some lower eastside apartment block – to the biting, self-depreciating sense of humour, the nonchalant polysexual tone, and of course, the mischievous, no-holds-barred explicit sex.

Shortbus embraces sexuality with a bear hug and a reach around, part of the mid-noughties' boundary-pushing splurge that included Michael Winterbottom’s tenuous 9 Songs and Catherine Breillet’s contemptuous Romance and Anatomy of Hell. These were movies that featured unsimulated sex (or "actual sex", as the Australian Classification Board prefer to label it). Certainly not the first time in "mainstream" cinema (see 1975's In the Realm of the Senses for one of the early pioneers), but probably with a wider cinema audience than ever before.

Shortbus is one of the first to combine all orientations under one roof. In between the soul-searching and body-issues all proclivities get serviced, including a scene of rather impressive auto-fellatio!

The successful hardcore porn directors of the 70s had pipe dreams that the adult movie industry and Hollywood would eventually merge, but thirty years down the track and the contemporary provocative left-field Tinseltown directors can continue to dream away, as Hollywood will never make a film like this. Thankfully we have a clutch of independent filmmakers who are willing to push the envelope.

Shortbus is the kind of transgressive, genre-bending “mainstream” filmmaking that only rears its head periodically. Many stick-in-the-mud viewers will see it as nothing more than elevated porn, but hey, sex and art have always tangoed. Mitchell elicits performances that are surprisingly solid, injecting the film with intelligence, honesty, and a genuinely emotional edge. While the narrative meanders from time to time, its central themes of self-acceptance and open-mindedness anchor the movie.

Vividly colourful and frequently funny, it's an outrageous melting pot of underground styles ejaculating over the mainstreet. Think Federico Fellini meets John Cassavetes meets Nicole Holofcener meets Richard Linklater meets Robert Altman meets Jack Smith meets Woody Allen at a swingers club in downtown New York City, and you’ll get Mitchell's acquired taste. Whether you spit or swallow is up to you.

Don's Party

Australia | 1976 | Directed by Bruce Beresford

Logline: On the night of the 1969 Australian election, Don holds a party in his Sydney home, where his crass middleclass friends discuss sex and politics, get drunk, and try to seduce each other’s wives.

Arguably playwright David Williamson’s finest hour-and-a-half, Don’s Party is a superbly sustained comedic treatise on suburban wankery, macho hoohah, feminine guile, sociopolitical diatribes, and other shambolic party shenanigans. It worked brilliantly (and still does) as a play, and Bruce Beresford turned it into a classic of Aussie 70s cinema, complete with more bush and tackle than you shake a cold Coors tinnie at.

The feature was honoured six times at the 1977 AFI Awards with Best Director, Best Original Screenplay, Best Editing, Best Sound, Best Actress (Pat Bishop), and Best Supporting Actress (Veronica Lang). Williamson’s screenplay adaptation loses none of its finely-honed satire, and Beresford’s casting is top notch, the cream of Australian drama and comedy together under one roof and having a ball.

The male players; John Hargreaves as opportunist school teacher Don, Graham Kennedy as amateur pornographer Mack, Ray Barrett as sleazy embittered Mal, Greame Blundell as mild-mannered, safari-suited Simon, Harold Hopkins as cowboy Cooley, and Kit Taylor as grumpy lawyer Evan. The female players; Claire Binney as hot-to-trot Susan, Candy Raymond as adulteress Kerry, Pat Bishop as long suffering Jenny, Veronica Lang as impressionable Jody, and Jeanie Dryan as Don’s wife Kath, at the end of her tether.

Don’s and his democrat mates are confident of a win, and the election news early in the night suggests they’re celebrations won’t be in vain. But booze and boorish behaviour go hand-in-glove for these grotesque characters, and it’s not long before the layers start to peel back and reveal the beasts beneath the polyester shirts and flared slacks.

The dialogue spits and crackles like a dozen bangers on the barbie, and with the fine performances, baring more than just bad behaviour, the scene is raucous affair of competitive bullshitting and ill-conceived social commentary. The wives are the occasional bystanders, but eventually get their hands dirty. The wild card, nineteen-year-old free-sexpot Susan, is the springboard for temptation and corruption, but sultry Kerry knows a thing or two in the bedfellow stakes.

The background is very much Australian, but the true colours exposed are universal. There is a soft underbelly waiting to be slit open, the entrails of hypocrisy and fear of failure ripe for plucking and roasting, which Williamson and Beresford achieve with casual perfection. The narrative arc is terrific in exploiting the kind of chaos and disorder that swings at a party full of adults keen to shed their inhibitions, yet pathetically tied to their shortcomings.

Don’s Party is essential viewing for all well-read young Australians, and yet, dare I suggest it, but an intelligently cast remake set in this equally volatile, over-sexed modern age of too much information, too little political savvy, and ethical over-spill, could well be in order. But before that happens, indulge in a little lusty, hilarious distraction with the crackin' original.

The Wrestler

USA | 2008 | Directed by Darren Aronofsky

Logline: A middle-aged professional wrestler struggling with drug addiction, thankless gigs, and being estranged from his daughter, is told to retire by his doctor, yet he’s reluctant to throw in the towel.

This was the comeback gig that touched Hollywood’s heart - but not quite enough to win Mickey Rourke the Oscar everyone thought he should get, although it must be said Sean Penn’s performance as Harvey Milk was equally deserving. In one of those art-imitating-life curiosities, The Wrestler reflected much of what Rourke had been through in the past fifteen years; a wilderness of drug and alcohol addiction, a sport that left him dazed and battered, and a confrontational attitude that caused him to burn every bridge he crossed.

Visionary director Aronofsky originally had Nicolas Cage in mind for the role of Randy “The Ram” Robinson, but Cage out-priced himself. Legend has it Aronofsky tracked Rourke down and made him a proposal whilst prodding him in the chest, offering him a lead role, with fee deferred, but absolutely no prima donna bullshit and wastrel shenanigans, and he’d guarantee him an Academy Award nomination. Rourke wondered who the hell kind of arrogant hotshot had the balls to make demands of him like that?!

Rourke accepted, and found the initial going tough, especially with Aronofsky demanding take after take. But the director was bang on. Rourke delivered the performance of his career; a warts-and-all, heartbreaking portrait of a man lost in his own arena, a man emotionally scarred, physically wrecked, and psychologically unstable, yet a man desperate to get back on track, to right some family wrongs, and to earn the stable love of a decent woman, even if she does lap dance and strip for a living.

The Wrestler’s naturalistic production values and raw visual narrative harks back to the gritty, uncompromising stylistics of the classic filmmaking of the 1970s. In fact the whole movie almost feels like it was made and set several decades ago. The cold New Jersey climate, the cinema verite style camerawork, the method-style acting: both Rourke and Marisa Tomei, as Stephanie aka Cassidy, bare their souls, with Tomei baring quite a bit more - and looking in damn fine shape to boot! In a supporting, but pivotal role, Evan Rachel Wood, as Randy’s embittered teenage daughter, is excellent. Their scenes together, especially around the weathered, rundown boardwalk and derelict gambling palaces of Coney Island, are incredibly poignant.

This is a profound character study and one, like Lars Von Trier’s Breaking the Waves, that is determined, provocative, stubborn, and whilst uplifting, is ultimately bruised in tragedy. This is a movie that contrasts – in a clever, but understated way – grotesque brutality with touching sensitivity. The power of love doesn’t always conquer the fragility of institution.

Even if wrestling leaves you cold, you’ll definitely be stirred by this sad, beautiful tale; The Wrestler is unique, powerhouse filmmaking; the kind I didn’t think Hollywood could make anymore. And not to forget the striking poster design, hilarious glam-rock soundtrack and impressively-staged, “realistic” wrestling sequences! The Wrestler is a slam-down tour-de-force!