The Cinematic Experience of Forizzer

I know it’s been awhile since I’ve done one of these. Such is Oscar season. I’ll try to get through this day – I seem to be pumping out reviews with more ease these days – quickly, so if you’re reading this and it’s still the weekend, mission accomplished!

The first one the day was the only Canadian film I caught at the year’s festival in High Life. Why did I choose this to be my Canadian selection? A variety of reasons: Nothing else was playing at the time and the cast was one I appreciated (what with Timothy Olyphant and Joe Anderson). What did I get from this film? Exactly what you get from a film you’ve little interest in seeing – a fine, but superfluous product.

Drug films are a dime a dozen – this doesn’t disprove the theory that drug films (at least in recent years) have become lazily comprised and hackney. Although that does entail that the feature is of an exhausted premise, it does not, however, imply that the film cannot be a fine time regardless.

The story is about Dick (Timothy Olyphant) who is thrust into a risky situation after years of sustaining a mundane and statutory life style by old friend Bug (Stephen McIntyre) when he is released from prison. It takes only a few moments for Bug to get Dick fired from a job he’s held for months, and while not contented with the dismissal and loss of occupation, has faith in Bug’s plan to get rich quick.

The era in which the story takes place plays crucial as the angle of becoming wealthy plays entirely into the hands of malfunctioning new technology. Dick alters Bug’s plan plenty and the once dangerous plan becomes elicit – they plan on getting a good looking, friendly guy (who is later Billy, played by Rossif Sutherland) to approach personale at the bank and say that the machine is spitting out extra money, thus leading to Dick and Bug sauntering into the bank as repairmen; inevitably leading to them snatching as much cash as they can get their hands on. Of course complications in plotting arise thanks to various, miscalculated exponents, but none more vital than Bug’s vanity.

As per usual in films such as these, you encounter odd film references (be it literal or assumed through the mannerisms of the characters), screwy dark humor and cliche after cliche within character development. Like his character causes harm to the foursome attempting the heist, Bug is also the source of drawback in the script. He is so animated that is feels as if he written with the pen of Walt Disney; he never becomes a formidable antagonist what with his capricious behavior. If not for McIntyre’s scavenging the role for some semblance of a human, this would go down in film history as one of the worst displays of a bad guy in a crime film.

What this film boils down to is: Do you like idiot criminals? If you find these characters to be lovable goofs then you’ll certainly get more bang for your buck. If you’re like me and find dopey characters more a distraction from the plot than a necessity, you’ll most leave the film wishing you’d have seen a different feature. Regardless High Life is a fine time at the theater – bits of humor and tension connect that keep the viewer from being in a state of comatose and the performances are generally good. What’s interesting about this film is that it was adapted from a play by Gary Yates (who also co-penned the adaptation and directed the film). It isn’t a story that you’d expect to play out on stage and must have been far more interesting in that environment.

Funny, I went into this hoping for great work from Anderson and Olyphant – and while they were solid – I found Sutherland to be one fantastic talent. This guy needs more work, stat. [6/10]

Next on the day was Jean-Pierre Jeunet’s latest in Micmacs. Now I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not familiar with Jeunet’s work (I watched Amelie when I was 11, so not the most impressionistic of memories) but he did impress me with this, his most recent feature.

Very Marx-esque (Groucho and bros. – not Karl), Jeunet’s story about a solemn man named Bazil (Dany Boon) coming into his own within a group of eccentric individuals is as touching as it is hilarious. The film opens on a snappy briefing of Bazil’s life to the present – shooting through him getting canings as a child at Catholic school, witness his father being blown up by a landmine, being treated poorly by everyone and primarily every major event that would shape someone like him – a man working behind the register at a small video store. Structure-wise, this scene is parallel to Up and I feel that if this film will receive any applause, it will be thanks to the earnest, if minuscule seeming effort put in by Jeunet to fulfill his protagonist and set the tone for the feature. The tone, of course, is fanatically joyous and will leave you with a big grin come conclusion.

After being shot in the head at the beginning and losing his job because his employer figured he’d never wake from his coma, Bazil wanders aimlessly in life for a few weeks. With the notion that he can drop dead at any moment as the bullet was never officially removed (thanks to comedic doctors who made the decision based on flipping a coin), he is overly protective of himself and obsessive cautious of his surroundings. That is until he is taken in by the peculiar group of people that live beneath a salvage yard. With a mother-like head of the household, the most flexible woman in the world, an older man hard set on the notion of breaking a world record and what Bazil believe to be his true love – along with strange others – Bazil finds himself comfortable and with a family for the first time since he was a young lad.

In the back of his mind – or rather, within his mind – Bazil furiously contemplates taking down the company (well, now companies as two are forming to become one powerhouse in an additional plot) that killed his father. Coincidentally the same company that is branded on the bullet placed just outside his brain. Along with his new devoted friends, they set out to destroy internally as they (the weapon manufacturers) have destroyed externally.

As mentioned above, this is the creation of a silent comedy made with contemporaneity. Jeunet found himself a real star with Boon, whose potential has finally been capped. His slapstick humor, exaggerated facial expressions (especially when feeling the pain of the bullet in his head) and range of delivering lines – be it the breakneck conversations within his ‘family’ or the more somber, dopey deliveries when he feels unrequited love – identify him with the likes of Harold Lloyd. Harder to pull off for Boon as well, as he looks far more masculine than any other comedy star of the 20s.

Lightly designed, but with heavy steps, Micmacs‘ only drawback is that it follows the Marx’ film formula too well. The humor is enforced to a point of exorbitance and the galvanized dramatic element, while touching, does play off as overly palpable. Humor in bundles has never been a poor quality of any feature, but like fountain soda at a busy theater, expect to indulge in plentiful watered down scenarios.

A wacky romp across France – fans of Jeunet are bound to be pleased. As deserving of it’s standing ovation reception at TIFF as much as Favre the boos upon returning to Lambeau. [8/10]

It’s a fact that if you know me, you’ll be hardpressed to find someone else that is as devoted to Romanian New Wave as me. Hell, I’ve become so hooked on the wave that any film starring Anamaria Marinca or Dragos Bucur immediately makes my heart skip beats in anticipation. With Police, Adjective not only do you get Bucur in the leading role, but also Vlad Ivanov in a supporting role and Corneliu Porumboiu (writer/director of the fabulous 12:08, East of Bucharest) in the creative seat.

However, with Romania’s selection for Best Foreign Feature this year, not all is secure – this film will undoubtedly divide audiences. Occasionally you’ll hear the criticism for a feature be as simple as “it will test your patience”, well this is one of the few films where I’d agree with the consensus. Not that it makes the film a bad one. No, rather it makes it the most realistic depiction of man in a moral dilemma. Cristi (Dragos Bucur) is a policeman in modernized Romania. His job entails mundane tasks that, as unfortunately routine it is, is a ritual he must live by in order to provide for both himself and his live-in girlfriend Anca (Irina Saulescu) who is a student by day.

As Porumboui has stated in several interviews (and in the Q+A following the film), he has a fascination with words and how they are interpreted by every individual. Although there is seldom a word spoken in the opening 40 minutes, he explicitly prompts the importance of communication in the final two acts – even though neither are close to being verbose.

For the curious, Cristi’s assignment for the week is to stalk teenagers who partake in smoking marijuana in hopes of gathering enough evidence to take down one of their relatives who is bringing the drug in from another city. Never has crime been reduced to such a commonplace elucidation. If you’re not yet convinced the film is drier than a turkey left in the oven too long, sitting in the middle row of the cinema, I alone saw about 50 walkouts. This should be an adequate illustration.

It is only in the second and third act that you get any sensation of what Corneliu Porumboui is aiming to achieve. The initial sensation of his goal is projected when Cristi and Anca have a lengthy discussion about Mirabela Dauer’s “Nu Te Parasesc Lubire” – a song in which Mrs. Dauer uses the sky, the sea and various other natural elements as allegory for love. This dialogue both informative on the little intellect needed for one to become a police officer and sets up for how a conscience, like everything in life, can be misinterpreted or misunderstood.

The closing scene in Police, Adjective sums up the feature perfectly. It’s a film with a lot of build up, but little clout. Unless you find intellectual vigor and realistic plight virtuous, there is seldom for one to cling to positively with this. However, in my eyes, Police, Adjective - while the most extrinsic film about crime to be released this decade – is absolutely absorbing throughout its entirety, if a little elusive in capturing a thoroughly potent message. [9/10]

It has recently been announced that this film I’m about to review has received a December 2009 release to make it eligible for the Oscars. Can I say how much it delights me that the producers of the film feel the need to fasttrack this? I know little will come of this decision, but in a just world, Michael Shannon would get his first Lead Actor nomination.

My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done? was the second of two Herzog films I saw at this years festival (the other being Bad Lieutenant). Similar to the Cage led vehicle, Werner’s latest relies a lot on three things: a capricious, emotionally distraught lead performance, a perturbed environment to thrive in and a peculiar and ominous musical score. However, unlike Bad Lieutenant, this needs an effective baroque atmosphere to be believable in the message it preaches. Suffice to say, Herzog was maladroit in his approach of the air the film thrives on – feeling more or less like someone attempting to imitate David Lynch; a key producer on the film. This leads me to believe Herzog tried to balance his vision along with Lynch’s to create an existential horror, but couldn’t contain the thought processes of two masters. Needless to say, this would’ve worked better if Lynch was given complete control.

What keeps the feature hopeful is Herzog’s sticking to the basis of horror. He takes a unique concept that is based off of a true story (which is more disturbing than the actual film) and breeds it with what audiences know as typical horror elements and Lynch’s idea of worriment – leaving little room for his own personal artistic involvement apart from his animal fetish. In this film, flamingos are his animal of choice – symbolic for a creature that his difficult flying, has to be oddly positioned to sustain balance and immediately captures your attention upon laying your eyes on it; everything Brad McCullum (Michael Shannon) is or wants. Easier to interpret than alligators, anyways.

Written by frequent collaborator of Herzog, Herbert Golder (who tends to do the archival research for Werner’s films) and Herzog himself, this fragmented feature revolves around an older woman being murderer by her son, Brad. The initial perspective is found with Det. Havenhurst (Willem Dafoe) who is trying to construct a puzzle with all the pieces around him to understand why. He puts in motion a plan that revolves around talking to an assortment of Brad’s friends – including his once girlfriend Ingrid (Chloe Sevigny) – to get a sense of how to deal with this peculiar situation. Through conversation we, like the detective, get a sense of the roots from which Brad stemmed leading way to one of the more off-putting, depressive character studies of recent years. It is only in constructing the visual and audible aspects does detriment befall the film.

I’m unsure how to go about discussing this film. It’s a mix and match of brilliance that is perceives notions of so many elements that can construct a human. Brad has a heart for the theater, an exasperating mother, the loss of a love and various other ingredients that are directed to being the main sources in materializing him and his motive. And while his motives and reasons for said motives are as plain as day, the rest of the feature muddles around itself; aiming to be both a surreal introspective into the mind and mentally intrusive for those viewing it. It’s a little inspired in both columns, but resorts to being weird far too much. For example, a midget walking around aimlessly with a wide-angle camera to the apprehensively strung score by Ernst Reijseger. These decisions do not accumulate into something horrific or even gravely distressing, but something memorable nonetheless.

It is one of the few films of the year that continues to grow on me with each reflection. I’m antsy to rewatch this film (whenever Toronto gets it again) and am sure nothing, if anything will come from it if not for more admiration. Herzog adapts to a style parallel to his own and while that isn’t exactly impressive when put in motion, it is an admirable poke at trying something new. Even if his new is Lynch’s old.

Whether it’s because of Shannon’s quaintly austere performance or some of the other bellicose aspects, My Son My Son What Have Ye Done? is a film that will leave a long lasting impression on you – regardless of initial reaction. [7/10]

The last on the evening was Hirokazu Koreeda’s (who is having quite an exceptional year with the US release of Still Walking…) latest in Air Doll. It stars one of the finest contemporary actresses in Du-na Bae.

Based off a Manga (a sort of commonplace comic book that originated in Japan), this drama about alienation is about a blow-up sex doll Nozomi (Du-na Bae) who comes to life and must keep her human existence a secret from her depressed divorced owner Hideo (Itsuji Itao) as she fears the worst.

A lot like Lars and the Real Girl in structure, Air Doll’s more saddened than humorous approach on the material is commendable, but exhausting. However, unlike the 2007 feature by Craig Gillespie, the town the protagonist resides in is far from unified and far less accommodating to her wanting to harmonize herself with them – especially her owner who only wants her for sex, whereas Lars was far more passionate and humanizing towards his doll. She gets many disrespectful glances (primarily for her preset maid’s attire) and doesn’t nearly have an apt grasp of the world – mistaking things like stockings on women for the company set ones on her legs and believing there are others like her out in the world.

So she does what’s typical when you begin life in a new town by getting a job. She pops into a small video store and begins work there. Immediately, the family that runs the store fall in love with her. Be it the fatherly figure that feels the responsibility to guide her ignorant mind to the likes of classic films as she proclaims she’s seen none or her first real friend – the elder man’s son – named Junichi (Arata). As expected, their friendship progresses and like all young men Junichi does have sexual needs which brings Nozomi back into her familiar state of feeling less like a human and more like an inanimate object. It doesn’t sound too depressing, but the way Koreeda hands the material with a sentimentalist’s hands makes it so.

The primary problem area the film encounters is it’s pacing. It starts off as if it were a quirky comedy, but yields to saturate the aura with a disheartening kiss. Koreeda essentially makes love to his feature with his adorning of the material. The only issue with this is that he wrote it, so it’s like watching a filmmaker masturbate romantically – it doesn’t make for high quality cinema.

Alas, a solid product does find it’s way out of what appeared to be an aloof trial – a sense sparked roughly midway through the film. If not for the pervasive and rather pointless extension of a final scene (that would’ve otherwise let me in tears), the film would’ve been rather head and shoulders above similar films about feeling desolate. It’s a fine feature that contains an abundance of earth within its performers, but Air Doll has the misfortune of being pumped with an air of self-infatuation rather than an air of admiration. [6/10]

Sorry for the wait (for those who were excited for my TIFF reviews). Oscar season happened, like it tends to. I’ll try to finish the rest of my reviews before the end of November, but as there’s a plethora of Oscar contenders that I cannot wait to lay my eyes on and a Michael Shannon retrospective that I’ve an inkling to do, don’t expect too much punctuality. Cheers to anyone reading – happy Oscar season!

In an earnest attempt at getting to what I’ve promised people reading this, I’m going to try to churn out a day more frequently… this weekend, however, will be devoted to reviews of (hopefully) A Serious Man, Paranormal Activity & Bright Star.

First on the day was Italian political-thriller The Front Line. It stars the internationally acclaimed Giovanna Mezzogiorno, as well as up and comer Riccardo Scamarcio as the stories central focus. They play Susanna and Sergio respectfully – a couple whose anti-establishment directives take on an extreme during the wave of right-wing political events that swept up eastern Europe in the late 60s to early 80s. This, of course, is what sparks the conflict between the extremest organization and the Italian government.

Starting off with a character reflecting on past events is usually a poor decision — it is no different here. Sergio is found sitting in a dark and barren cell speaking to the camera. Instantly we know that he meets his ends with the police and that the way he speaks somberly about his relationship with Suzanna, that they also come to a tragic end. This nullifies any major suspense between the policia and either of the protagonists; especially since Suzanna’s perspective is only somewhat shown and she’s the only one whose end we don’t immediately interpret.

As traditional, the film follows a pro-terrorist agenda – well, if the terrorists are white, anyways. Like last years’ Hunger and The Baader Meinhof Complex, The Front Line negates the government’s side of the argument – impressing upon the viewer that the ones committing all the crimes out of distaste for the ruling establishment are the good guys. It’s blatant bias like this that bothers me most about films like these – seldom do you see the government get a fair shake, let alone a nibble of perspective. Their entire argument is condemned and everything they say converted to simple and asinine, yet the terrorists are filled to the brim with philosophy and idealist views to change the world.

Later on, the romantic dynamic comes into fruition. At first, the cold but identifiable glances shared between Sergio and Suzanna over their groups plans were their dearest form of communication – kind of humorous considering they are sought as the ones in control of this ‘take action’ organization. When the romance brews, it does contain its fair share of intrigue – not making it a habit of stepping into familiar territory. Plus pleasantries in both characters are uncovered that make way for a bit of real development in this exclusively stylish thriller. If you believe I’m exaggerating, look no further than the fancy editing of simple times and dates into frames – its a film wholly destined to excite.

What keeps this run-of-the-mill chronicle from being merely poor is the burgeoning suspense. I’ll admit that while you know how its going to unfold, there are scenes that absorb the viewers attention long enough to forget your preconceptions; inducing a sprinkle of flare. In addition, while the utmost lead performance by Riccardo Scamarcio isn’t by any means stellar, his co-star in Ms. Mezzogiorno encapsulates the exemplary hardened and reckless terrorist. There’s a reason why she’s so highly regarded and you’ll surely understand why after witnessing this dignified portrayal.

Even though the story takes expected turns, the structure and characterization are archetypal and the conversations profuse, The Front Line does well by balancing itself on the thin border that separates the good with the bad. [5/10]

As the days begin to wind down at TIFF, I find that its the second screening that is the toughest to make it through; you don’t have the early morning adrenaline to make it through the rest and your body has had enough time to shake off its fatigue with a meal or caffeine.

Youth in Revolt appears to be a typical indie-comedy with recurring face of the ‘movement’ in Michael Cera – a young man whose ordained his name in pop culture with his awkward shtick. For fans of cinema – or more specifically, people who grew up watching the classics – the film packs a far more identifiable punch that will certainly resonate with this specific type of viewer more so than one would expect given the charred outline. As is, the story is about a sixteen year old boy named Nick (Michael Cera) whose quest for cool is boundless. After coming to the realization that his life is headed in no specific direction, Nick decides to take matters into his own hands. And if you’re wondering, yes he is a virgin and yes this story is primarily about “getting some”.

We get a minor glimpse of Nick’s angst – he’s a loner, his mother and him don’t have any sort of understanding and he loathes her boyfriend, Jerry (the hilarious Zach Galifianakis). Suddenly one night, Jerry picks a fight with a trio of marines. Since they’re more fit and could certainly pummel him, Jerry decides to take his girlfriend and Nick to his dilapidated trailer in the middle of nowhere. Having nothing better to do with his life, Nick finds it a good idea to just go with it.

The first deviated plot point is that Nick’s a lone wolf. There is minimal banter conjured up and when it is its between either his promiscuous and grating mother Estelle (Jean Smart) or a various number of pompous acquaintances – for the first act, anyways. When out and about in the haggard terrain that the trailer trash landscape provides, he bumps into a young beauty – a diamond in the rough, if you will. Immediately one grasps that this will be a tale about finding love in the most unlikely of places – a tired concept that passes above the trend with its unique advances. Of course, she’s his soulmate of sorts – she loves foreign cinema and obscure literature as he does, only she has an avid obsession with French affairs. From Serge Gainsbourg to Jean-Paul Belmondo to the desire of a man named Francois, Sheeny Saunders (Portia Doubleday) is the ideal woman for any enlightened young man. She, too, has problems – a devoutly Republican (see: highly religious) homestead that, albeit wealthy and protruding considering the area, provides little in terms of sufficient understanding. Here, Nick and Sheeny make a pact – Nick will get kicked out of his home and figure a way to live nearby his new found infatuation if she can land Nick’s father George (Steve Buscemi in a small role) a job somewhere in the area.

When Nick’s “family” returns to their abode, they find an automobile in the middle of their living room. This is hilarious in areas, but symbolic in exaggerating finding something fitting where it doesn’t belong – even furthering the point that foundations would have to crumble in order for it to be removed. It’s cheap, but for those invested in the feature, it’s a delightful little marvel.

Back to Nick and his new objective – becoming the bad boy no girl can resist. In wanting to be as suave as imaginable, he conjures up an alter-ego named Francois Dillinger (Michael Cera again for the curious). The thought process of this character is attributed to two primary figures – Belmondo’s Michel in Breathless and John Dillinger. But even Johnny Depp’s recent portrayal of the infamous 30s gangster isn’t as calm or collected. Cera churns out an unexpected amount of gravitas in this role, adding a previously concealed depth to the young actor’s ability. In addition, the conversations neurotic Nick and his nonchalant inner persona are unquestionably the comical peaks in the feature.

In the end, Youth in Revolt is a coming of age tale of rarely matched proportions. It’ll take a very specific viewer to comprehend and enjoy the maladroit and manufactured conversations between Nick and the people around him and an even more distinct one to place themselves in Nick’s shoes. A triumph for the indie-comedy era and one that deserved a far more benevolent release date, if only for Cera to garner his first major award nomination at this years Golden Globe ceremony. [8/10]

One of my most anticipated features of the festival was next in Glorious 39. With a widely acclaimed television film director getting his first crack at a major cinematic film and a cast with some of the best British acting exports in Bill Nighy and *yawns* Julie Christie. After getting word that I was in for a real disaster the evening prior, my expectations for this film set to be released in the UK on my birthday (hint hint) were very low. Alas, I was hopeful that the “Hitchcock” in the film would emerge victorious and all the negative buzzing about the film was just from a few bad eggs. Sadly it wasn’t.

The story starts off innocently enough – a group of young adults frolicking around a wide-open marsh that glows beneath a perennially gorgeous British afternoon sky. Fortunately, not all the film is as palpable as the opening film would indicate… unfortunately, most of the film is either too vague or too direct to take seriously on its fundamental dramatic level; reaching moments of true absurdity.

Initially, Glorious 39 is a story about a pure young woman named Anne Keyes (Romola Garai) who is throttled into a spiral of nasty events brought on by the British and their debating over joining the fight against the Fuhrer. Her father, Alexander (Bill Nighy) is an upper-class citizen who is known to be associated with a plethora of petulant politicians, so it comes as no odd occurrence that the Keyes’ home is one of the several storage places for the governments files. Because of this, the atmosphere of the film takes on a completely separate sensation that gathers together too fast to be dire – placing unfounded exaggeration on the aura; essentially occurring overnight.

Turns out that there is plenty going on behind closed doors that no one but the upper echelon of England know about. Of course, precocious Anne attempts to cast some knowledge to fellow civilians – including her newly acquired love interest Hector (David Tennant) – about the ongoing debacle, but needs to educate herself first and foremost. Otherwise linear stories get entangled with one and other, people suffer and worrisome answers are given to happily prompted questions – its like everything you’ve seen before mysteries in the past. However, in order to stray from being too genial with the outline, writer/director Stephen Poliakoff opts to get more and more depressive with Anne’s story. This sporadically comes to avail, but seldom lands where one would like it too – creating some of the most inopportune laughs of the festival; especially in the final stretch of the loose thriller.

Usually a lead performance reflects upon the quality of the feature. With Glorious 39 the rarity that is “the lead performance is the feature” applies, and as a fan of Garai (in some respect) it pains me to say that both her acting and the feature vilely go hand in hand. Like the feature, Garai has sprouts of brilliance scatter across the parched role that is Anne Keyes. Wrapped up in a paragraph, Ms. Keyes appears to be a delicious role that any young woman would love to take a bite into – its only in practice that the role is erroneously assembled. Not all the blame can rest upon Romola’s shoulders, but here it’s evident that no one knew what they were doing with Ms. Keyes. In fact, most roles are malnourished in this feature – its only Nighy’s performance that really sticks out from the seemingly unconcerned characterization scribed by Stephen Poliakoff.

This grievous revelation has left this viewer crestfallen, because after her sublime portrayal in Atonement, I’m starting to believe that her ability on screen is greatly based on luck as opposed to skill; that her strength in grasping a role is prepubescent at best.

In essence, Mr. Poliakoff attempts to hit a sonorous chord with his audience by implementing real wartime tragedies (ie. the abundance of pet killing). His cut-and-dry approach to what potentially had masterpiece written all over it prompts a very fitting alternative title for the feature: Ordinate Without a Heart. [4/10]

Having to rush from the last feature to this allowed me to flush any disappointment I had from the former quite easily. Coincidentally, this was yet another wartime thriller – a different formula and one that works with the human heart as opposed to against it, but one nonetheless. With Guillaume Canet, Emir Kusturica and Alexandra Maria Lara being directed by a man who has only directed two features – one of which garnered his country an Oscar nomination in 2005 – in Christian Carion… what could go wrong? The answer: very little. A tad underwhelming considering the talent, but a solid outing by anyone’s standards.

Generally when one hears of a film about a man breaching their home country to give political secrets to another, one jumps to the thought that whizzing bullets, ferocious action sequences and outrageous explosions are to ensue. Here, director/writer Christian Carion opens up L’affaire farewell with a whimper – setting a melancholic and quiescent air for the subtle espionage to take place under. This contemplative film emphasizes finding your purpose in life and the importance of a good friendship – all the while balancing its existential thriller core and never losing sight of the intentions of either in the two hours it runs for. Plenty of filmmakers find themselves taking on complications when balancing two core human functions such as compassion and uncertainty. Favorably for viewers, this French filmmaker does both with restraint and a humbled sense of this enigmatic world and those that inhabit it.

Sergei Gregoriev (Emir Kusturica) and Pierre Froment (Guillaume Canet) are two individuals with scary parallels. Each have a loving wife and a son (although Sergei’s is going through puberty while Pierre’s is still a boy), each hold a strong esteem for democracy and each are essentially loners. They first meet when the French government sends Pierre to meet Sergei to learn about the military secrets he says he holds in secrecy against his Russian government. At first, Sergei is against the idea of having a young man running one of the most important French operations in their history, but soon warms up to the young Frenchman as he sees more and more of himself in Pierre.

With Pierre’s frequent moving due to his profession and Sergei’s standoffish persona, neither have truly connected with another human being since the first moment they laid eyes on their loves. However, in Sergei’s case the once prominent scent of love has now faded into obscurity; finding himself desperate for someone to relate with. Although Pierre is hesitant, Sergei peruses this one last opportunity at companionship with perhaps more energy than the French government does soliciting Sergei’s secrets. This takes their dynamic to a variety of levels from warming to unsettling – keeping the time the two spend together constantly interesting and unpredictable.

Generally the story stays metaphorical enough to keep its viewers attention from wandering – its only in the family drama aspects of the film does the plot begin to grow tired. In fact, its primarily only Pierre’s life at home that is tedious and sterilizes any dexterous tension. The whole wife worried about her family’s well being subplot runs on repeat here; leaving hardly any room for an apt sense of distinction between their relationship and the adjacent fleeting one of Sergei’s.

What the film lacks in obtusely manipulated action sequences it makes up for with intelligent performances, solid character development and a great use of contrast. Whether it be showing the difference in ideals between communism and democracy or just flagrantly displaying fundamentally parallel people in different circumstances, L’affaire Farewell effectively demonstrates the various challenges that the human condition entails. Also: leave it up to an acclaimed foreign director to deliver the best performance of the festival in Emir Kusturica – a very sympathetic performance full of humility and generosity towards the role given to him. [8/10]

Onto what is considered the most surprising foreign film of the year in Lebanon. After getting a hint from a friend that I’d love the film (on a hunch of his) before either Venice or TIFF started, I promptly swapped Gigante for this Israeli feature. And can I say, that was by far the best decision I made all festival – well, apart from the last minute audible between Les Dernier jours du monde and The Ape… but more of that later.

The film opens on a landscape shot of an agglomeration of sunflowers. They’re entirely hunched over and appear sad; as if nature – or better yet, the world – is already in a despondent state. With that image in mind, Lebanon begins its descent into the mentality of new soldiers and the corruption of their innocence.

Like last years Waltz With Bashir, the wartime experiences displayed on the celluloid are semi-autobiographical – director/writer Samuel Maoz’s harrowing depiction of war would spell it out clearly enough if he hadn’t said so beforehand. Set on the first day of the 1982 Lebanon war, the film follows the worrisome routine of four soldiers – two of whom are new to military duty. For the next 90 minutes, the viewer seldom sees outside of this brooding and dreary tank. As tension runs high and mistakes are made – Maoz demands viewer consideration, especially when dripping down a brief political agenda when characters aren’t lambasting one and other or bullets are being fired.

For the cast of character, Maoz swiftly prompts the similarities and distinctions between each soldier. We’ve got frail and fresh-faced gunner Shmulik (Yvan Donat), one of the two new recruits to the war; distressed and easily spooked youthful driver Yigal (Michael Moshonov); the experienced leader that has a refined emotional core and thinks studiously rather than with his gut in Assi (Itay Tiran); and the longtime comrade of Assi in foul and tense Hertzel (Oshri Cohen). Each of which is uncomfortable – both with the compact confinements of the tank and the idea of battle. They’ve some calmness instilled into them from the confident and blunt commander Jamil (Zohar Strauss) who places a simple sounding directive in front of them — this, of course, dissipates almost immediately the first moment things appear awry.

Length is the feature’s only problem – its too short. Each character, while developed somewhat, runs amiss with the initial characterization given to them for unfounded reasons. With a lengthier script or more time spent building deeper emotional capacity – a five minute scene where each of the men joke about sexual fantasies (but that’s surprisingly one of the more emotional and unique moments, so there’s even moments of brilliance in the detrimental scenes here) in great detail doesn’t exactly impress intelligent comprehension of characters towards the viewers. Virtuous in giving the public a bit of perspective on the strains of your typical soldier, but not nearly as fulfilled as recent others (see: Days of Glory).

By the final frame – that in which the tank we spend almost the entire duration in placed in the middle of the frame displaying the group of hunched over sunflowers – the viewer has grasped exactly what Samuel Maoz wanted. With a lucid message, lighting pacing generally reserved for top-tier popcorn fare and as fantastic an ensemble one will experience all year – Lebanon supersedes the excitement of modern day warfare films with its timeless theme: ‘the world is already a depressive place – what good can war do?’ [9/10]

One of only two six film days I had this year. And its the only day where I review a film that’s “old news” in The Informant!

First up on the day was Les Herbes Folles (US title: Wild Grass), a film I was mislead into believing would star Mathieu Amalric and have a plot that was tangible. Turns out Resnais was aiming for a lesson in abstract humor – and while it did have its moments of potency – it fell flat and ran a more uncomfortable course than the main characters and their relationships.

After opening on a dire shot of grass poking out through concrete, the story follows Georges Palet (Andre Dussolier), an aged man with mundane ambitions. Whether it be working on his literature or seeing classic cinema on cooled nights, Georges appears as simple as men come. His routine is disrupted when he stumbles upon the wallet of a beautiful middle aged woman named Marguerite (Sabine Azéma). Early on the film finds itself a voice – and a special one at that. We’re all accustom to film-noir, but in the preliminary stages of the feature the viewer will find themselves witnessing a film-blanc (as I’d like to call it) unfold; a film-noir set during daylight hours with sunny photography. These two ideas of convention clash impressively and it only makes the disaster that follows that much more a shame.

Soon, Georges begins to observe the descent of himself and the idea of being a recreant come into fruition. There is a minimal inkling that comes with a discovery like this, but what starts off as simply feeding curiosity snowballs into an incline into obsession – putting his achieved family life on the brink of catastrophe. He stays awake during countless nights pondering the idea of calling the woman he feels intimate with, yet hasn’t met.

On the other side of the story is the life of Marguerite, a partner in a dentistry firm ran with her strikingly beautiful and eerily close friend Josepha (Emmanuelle Devos). At first, the idea of the kind man being apart of her life seems laughable – she has her tiring routine to fulfill and does even give second thought to thanking the man. So as the elder plays cat to the workaholic’s mouse, the story takes on a familiar, but engaging formula.

Alas, Resnais doesn’t strive to achieve quiescence. As the first act rolls into the second, there is a complete shift in purpose, the thematic elements grow heavy handed and the story adjusts itself for a nose-dive in interest for all but those that appreciate satisfactory abstract filmmaking. Yes, Wild Grass diversifies itself from what most would consider a cinematic norm, but what is being particular when you place your story in peril? One might interpret the plunge in formality as a symbolic gesture to the erratic behavior of the lead characters’ back and forth, but its far too dissatisfying and alienating to be potent symbolically; a prime reason as to why the theme falters.

The theme is easily grasped – the idea of events occurring and people’s lives intersecting in areas where they shouldn’t; parallel to wild grass poking out of concrete. This is completely fine, there is hardly any exaggeration and Resnais’ work ethic towards a comprehensive soul is only matched by the story’s misconstruing final line.

The dialogue lethargically spoken attempts to torpedo cinematic semblance, as well as audience identification through its weary voice; comatose in contempt. And while I embrace the performances – especially the bit roles worked excellently by two preeminent exports of France via Mathieu Amalric and Emmanuelle Devos – I loathe the focus of the feature. If cinema is wildlife, Alain Resnais’ Wild Grass could be thoroughly plucked off the sidewalk without a moment of my concern. [4/10]

One of the few big surprises TIFF had to offer was Faith Akin’s Soul Kitchen – a thought front-runner for Venice’s Golden Lion. While that was the primary reason I watched it, I was perhaps blown away by the masterful embracing of an idea that already sounded overwrought with convention.

The film starts off with a young man strutting to an 80s rock-pop soundtrack on his way to work. Immediately you know you’re in for a delightful romp of a film. Zinos (Adam Bousdoukos) is the man and his job is owning and running a downtrodden bar/restaurant that serves as cheap a food as it does liquor. Including his establishment, Zinos’ life is quotidian what with the argumentative girlfriend, feelings of insignificance and a group languid people that regular his bar.

However, the film only briefly shows Zinos’ life prior to his bubble being burst which arises many questions and speculations as to how the film should turn out. Fortunately, Akin’s approach excessively benefits the story at hand – rarely treading into nugatory territory and maintaining a pace only surpassed by that of Usain Bolt.

When things come crashing down around Zinos, they seem adamant in landing as mercilessly as possible. His girlfriend, Nadine (Pheline Roggan) is leaving to Tokyo to pursue the highest education possible – causing an obvious disruption in their relationship. Zinos can’t leave the bar unattended, so they make-do with online video chats… or at least try to. Obviously this set-up runs into deep complications and their relationship begins to fall apart at the seams. This soon begins to beg the question “Is love worth the risk?”, and even more fundamental to the plot “Is she worth it?”.

Around the same time, Zinos’ convict brother Illias (Moritz Bleibtreu) is searching for work – or at least a job title to stand behind while he deals in assumed illegal activities. Zinos uneasily churns out a yes, but the uneasy adhesive that has brought these brothers together once again turns out to be a less worrisome glue than one would expect crime would produce.

There’s a bit more external conflict put in place by Thomas Neumann (Wotan Wilke Möhring), a former colleague of Zinos. He seems like a man with hidden intentions, and of course, he is. It’s examples of immediate cliches like these being replaced by familiar, but fortifying plot points that revitalize the story where they would cause detriment for others.

In another minimal, but wholly effective accommodation to the feature, Mr. Akin galvanizes an unusual photographic style. Not for the entire duration, but rather used diligently in nominal scenes. The picture chosen above parades the particular technique that works on a fundemental I cannot even begin to explain. It’s endearing, exaggerated and somehow scrupulous. It’s small audibles like these that put an enchanting film like this far above the tenacious cesspool of generic dreck.

With an eclectic group of characters each played expertly – the best ensemble I witnessed at TIFF, and that’s saying a lot – only adding to the endless pleasure of the film, Soul Kitchen cooks up a beat for all to groove to. It truly says something to me (as it should to you, too) that I love this film despite the fact that it represents everything I hate in cinema – montages, eccentric characters that are only wacky for the sake of being wacky and chance events that are integral to the plot. Whether it be the discotheque soundtrack, the winsomely outlandish chain of events or the blazing humor contained, this movie has something for everyone. [9/10]

Next up is the only film I saw at the festival that had any sort of immediate release. Having waited a month to write this review, this film is far and away old news. The feature is The Informant! and it is the second Steven Soderbergh feature of 2009 (the other, of course, being The Girlfriend Experience)

The Informant! follows the true story of compulsive liar Mark Whitacre (Matt Damon) and his attempts of achieving his own “so crazy is has to be true” story, which is masterfully applied by the intrinsic use of narration. The viewer learns what has shaped Mark into the man he is through interpretive stories that he likes to ponder as opposed to straightforward and tired “when I was a child…” scripting that meanders to the masses. This is where the script is most potent because it serves up a dish for the commonplace cinema-goer and the contemplative one – there’s both insight and amusement inflicted into the story in an area that is generally serviceable to a script at best. They’re all tales of contemporary folklore that consist large amounts of favorable insight into Mark’s psyche – each story discusses largely hypothetical situations and how Mark would adapt to those situations if he was one of the infamous.

Akin to The Hoax and various other films about liars, the film begins a little melancholic towards the white-collar workers of today. Jobs are being alleviated from hard workers all to keep profit at a high (a bit of social commentary, no doubt), but no worries, Mark is nearing the head of the corn syrup plant. When the FBI get ear of a possible kick-back scandal from within the company, all of the heads are suddenly on the brink of losing their jobs – increasing Mark’s odds of becoming CEO. This makes good headway for a decent story, but its what follows that makes this a true great in the espionage subgenre.

After appearing to be a hero to the FBI – risking his job to inform on his coworkers – he begins to take on more cases that hold more weight. All involving various other corn companies, of course. Events start to grow out of hand and the story snowballs into scandal. Here absurdity begins to take its course – making way for a riotous second act and a priceless final one.

Enforcing that this is the tale of one man is the family dynamic – or rather, lack thereof.  Mark’s family life is scarcely tapped into, which allows the viewer to believe that Mr. Whitacre is a rather selfish man – leading the film’s structure and baffled vantage points to play allegory to the soul of it all. What the viewer interprets from Mark’s home life is almost too facile and where one of the few flaws lays; we see Mark as a nice father who is obsessed with his work, a loving husband who is clearly too preoccupied with attempting to break out of an ordained existence to continue on with a charade.

I’ve come to witness something about Soderbergh this year – is he fascinated with airplanes or what? It isn’t particularly just having the need to set a couple of scenes in an airplane, but he places his actors inside a glow of softened white lights. It makes for a very hallucinatory viewing experience – appearing almost dreamlike. Political discussions primarily take center stage in these scenes (also in The Girlfriend Experience), but I’m not sure if this is all an intentional formula at bringing light to political agendas that run our lives – the plane serving as a turbulent setting to unsettle a thinking viewer -  or is just a two-time coincidence. Either way, it’s obvious that Soderbergh is adroit with his films.

The development of Mark Whitacre is acutely constructed – partly due to the excellent performance by Matt Damon and partly due to devout scripting by Scott Z. Burns. This blend allows for various interpretations and judgments of Mr. Whitacre – once more leaving the lingering feeling that nothing in life is an absolute; that there is far more than black and white. With this, the creation of Mark Whitacre surpasses the simple idea a character being nothing more than celluloid concoction; actualizing the protagonist unlike many blundering biopics. A intricate and extrinsic character study, The Informant! is a multi-layered feature filled to the brim with hearty humor and exceptionally genuine suspense. [8/10]

Seldom does one come across a picture that so accurately describes the film they’re going to review, and here, to fully comprehend the insanity of violence and drug addiction that Werner Herzog’s Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans employs all one has to do is look at the picture above. The first note I’d like to make is that this is only similar to Abel Ferrera’s ‘92 feature Bad Lieutenant in that the lead character is a cop with a drug addiction. The only plausible reason for Herzog to call this film a re-imagination of any kind would be to mislead viewers to the structure that Ferrera’s rotten cop feature has; surprising viewers with events that unfold more.

Opening in a prison swollen with water, Bad Lieutenant quickly sets a tense scenario by bestowing its location as New Orleans, Louisiana and the current topic of interest as the on-going storm named Hurricane Katrina. Terence McDonagh (Nicolas Cage) and his partner Stevie Pruit (Val Kilmer) walk into an area of the penitentiary they frequent to see a convicted, but repentant murderer screaming for one of the cops to save him. Immediately we learn that Terence and Stevie are scummy policemen – they place serious bets as to how long it will take for the criminal to drown instead of doing the noble thing and saving a life. Stevie comes off as more emotionally distant; hardened without a sense of morality that loves the idea of the bad cop shtick more than lives it. Terence on the other hand jokes cruelly about not wanting to dive into water with his fifty dollar cotton underwear – apprehensive towards ruining them as they’re a gift. Thankfully Terence breaks and saves the drowning man. This sequence eloquently conveys the difference between Terence and a truly ruthless cop – he is clearly a good man that has been corrupted by a defective city – which is of great importance when pondering the events that unfold in this feature.

However, saving the convict comes at a price; a bad spinal injury. He is given prescription drugs to ease the pain, but when we skip one year ahead its obvious his need for medication has expanded outside of prescribed drugs and into far more dangerous and expensive territory. This causes the newly appointed lieutenant to have erratic behavior and cater to his own needs infinitely more than the needs of the public. Terence’s exaggerated morals are first put to the test when it appears Big Fate (Xzibit), a local druglord has killed an immigrant family from Senegalese. His blunt force tactics – not condoned by the rest of the police force – collide perfectly with a crime of this nature. There is plenty to gain from all of this – be it drugs or more recognition – and hardly anything to lose. Upon arrival to the crime scene, Terence skims over the decimated bodies with professional eyes – reiterating his valiance.

From here on out, the rest of the story whizzes by eagerly. Herzog’s lunacy runs in excess during the more hallucinatory scenes where Terrence tensely eyes down envisions of Iguanas. Juggling a priority case with a meager, drug-addicted girlfriend in Frankie (Eva Mendes), as well as comforting his own habits – be them the minor gambling issues or his copious narcotic addiction – declares surprisingly simple for the lieutenant. Although his plate is full and his servings begin to mix into each other, Terence’s ‘live life in the fast lane’ mentality proves what would be a harrowing experience to further affected officers to be a rather cakewalk.

A plethora of scenes bounce around self-aware; exuding a tremendous amount of humor throughout the feature. Comedic exertion occurs too often to entirely enjoy the two-hour crime film. Apparently you can have too much of a good thing in cinema; who knew it’d take a German auteur to uncover a new truth. Initially, bewildering happenstance is found enchanting; its very peculiar, seldom utilized in “good” films and exploits the zany soul to an excitable degree. After the first half these antics becoming predictable and proves flimsy writing and that the majority of the film holds no artistic semblance. The script continues to hold audience engagement despite this, but upon pondering the feature one will feel a tad cheated by the flamboyant antics displayed.

Herzog also adds an implicit view on wildlife, as he tends to do for reasons only viewers could begin to wonder (I think he finds that its the most simple-looking things in life that are inevitably the most complex; it works in connection to this film as well). Here he shows the anguish of reptiles; clearly post-Katrina has done a number on them as well. Herzog attempts to administer a metaphysical side to the feature that generally revolves around the idea that wildlife do have a conscience themselves. From an alligator mourning a fallen friend on the highway to “do fish have dreams?”, William M. Finkelstein’s screenplay is filled with ponderous goodies for viewers to behold. Personally, I found great pleasure in the line “shoot him again, his soul is still dancing” – both through the expert delivery of the line and the many profound associations it takes on. Do our souls dance after we die? Must we die twice to officially face our maker? All of these frenzied scenes are far more ambiguous than one would imagine – each of them prompting the though that perhaps its only those on the brink of cataclysm that have the scope to view life and what it has to offer in its entirety.

Nicolas Cage’s performance as the wayward law enforcer is sensational – a true cinematic experience to behold and one of the rare marvels that one can enjoy with an assortment of peers; be they critics or typical filmgoers. His portrayal is as flustering as the character he plays is resilient; muddling recent conceptions that Cage has lost his fervor. Ludicrous, anticlimactic and without the delusions of grandeur that plague a tired genre, Bad Lieutenant dashes out of the gates and never finds itself hitting the proverbial wall. [8/10]

Romanian New Wave: the truest cinematic artform of the decade. After winning the Palme d’Or in 2007, Cristian Mungiu’s latest film is cumulative effort on the parts of he and four other Romanian directors – none of which have a real name and have been directing shorts until this feature, where they direct some more shorts. Tales from the Golden Age is an impassive collection of stories resonating the absurd political agenda that took place in 70s and 80s communist Romania prior to its upheaval brought on by its antagonized citizens. Each story is quaint and minimal in structure, but hold very heavy and disparate connotations – building up effectiveness in portraying discordant conditions and eventually bridging the gap between audience and film.

Like all anthologies, you’re bound to come into a rough patch or two. Fortunately, the film opens on the only chagrin. Here, a group of townsfolk are in immense anticipation to see their leader pass by the town in his automobile. This story gives heed to what will come in future shorts – the amount of inanity between political interaction (“will you do this, comrade?” – “yes, comrade!”) and jejune thought processes in the higher up echelons give a taste for the humor the viewer will experience.

Despite the contempt the filmmakers of the film have for communist Romania, they never berate the dissipated faction with self-conscious, “look audience, this is what happened!” immaturity. They’d rather take the high road and insipidly commentate on the neglect that ran its course – scheming the bewilderment imposed by Romania’s public through deadpan expressions and dialogue.

Not content with just touching on one or two areas where reckless government totaled the commonplace, each of Tales from the Golden Age’s stories embody a directive – the first is perhaps the only that doesn’t do justice to what its meant to convey. There’s a greatly humorous story about greed and poverty in communist time that happens to crawl over onto education as well. The indicated story is about a family of three – and later on a grizzly uncle – who drudge through less than acceptable conditions in their routines. In school, children bypass the norm by exchanging good foods for answers (from their peers, of course) and gallivant in their minds about the possibilities of young romance. This story works its way from being multiple shades of adorable to a truculent final act that records the desperation of hunger and the remiss that comes with trying to kill a giant pig. Its a cumbersome tale that takes on some of the films most bright spots.

Poignantly articulate, the following fable murmurs depression and the want to keep tradition alive and prosperous. Because jobs are scarce and many people cannot afford eggs, Easter isn’t very decorative. When a truck driver (Vlad Ivanov) is sent to bring chickens to a farm outside the small farming community he lives in, Grigore is coaxed into being a partner in a shady effort in obtaining hundreds of eggs from his truck by what is assumed to be a woman he’s been in love with for a long time. All he has to do is stay in the humble area – with the tantalizing woman, of course – for the two days of leeway he has to take the chickens to the farm. For those days, they’ll collect and sell off the eggs that the animals drop off. Its a very endearing tale of one man trying to modulate his life into something picturesque, but because its a Romanian feature, don’t hold your breath for the greatest outcome.

Each story has an excess in modesty – especially the final tale. There isn’t much to discuss about it, but it is my favourite of the bunch. Its a simple story about a compromising young woman wanting to go on a school trip, but cannot afford it. When a strange young man introduces her to a hilarious pedestrian way of obtaining the money she longs for, a civil romance sparks up and is perhaps too unrequited to lavish in as a viewer.

Style doesn’t play important with films like these – they’re simply shot; simply written; but complexly contrived. Cristian Mungiu substitutes kicking a person while they’re down with forging a label of being impoverish to what was once considered a wealthy powerhouse. It’s intelligence like this that keep these similar feature distinct from one and other – continually allowing for much to yet be divulged into. Meticulously fabricated and emotionally stimulating, Tales from the Golden Age is a more than reasonable depiction of government gone wrong – playing alertly to countries with its cautionary tale(s). [8/10]

Generally horror movies suck. Over the last decade or so, people in the horror business have resorted to cliche after cliche after cliche – or, if you’re in Hollywood, stealing foreign concepts and remaking them for their masses. Even the first installment of [rec] was remade only a year after it had initially been released in Mexico for Americans. So with the unique zombiefest that the first [rec] accumulated, you’d expect that this – if any horror film – would be one of the rare treats for fans of the freaky. Unfortunately writer-director duo Jaume Balaguero and Paco Plaza give into the temptation of an ulterior route that completely compromises the purpose of the launching ground that was [rec].

After the mayhem that ensued in the first, [rec] 2 pursuits a similar route as the first. Although there is no fleshed out lead-in like in the first, its clear that the paths laid out for these fictional characters are explicit: chase, kill, survive. At first, the story follows four SWAT members and a priest into the house – why the priest is there is unexplained at first, but when his importance to the story is revealed, one cannot help but escape the justification without laughing. And in a film that’s entirely serious, laughter isn’t exactly desired.

After a plot twist is revealed and the zombies begin to scream manically dissimilar to their reactions in the first, the story finds itself a steady and thoroughly enjoyable course filled with bullets and scares. In an attempt to preserve one of the fundamental components of the first, each of the soldiers is given a headset with a mini-HD camera installed. So yes, the shaky-cam is back – and yes, it is at its most exploitative use.

As a frenzied pace brews due in majority to malicious use of guns and blunt objects, the priest looks for answers in the several story apartment. He’s entitles himself the leader of the group while the decadent pursuit of his begins to endanger the lives of “his men”. They continue onward in this dilapidated abode, allowing the audience to revisit the diminutive rooms that had already had viewers gasping for air. Once again, these rooms are filled with indeterminate dangers and once again, the nauseating scares are repeated.

The soldiers’ entire segment begins to run in a loop; all freight dissipates quickly because of this. It’s only until the second half of the feature that the vigor anticipated makes a return.

In the second half, we come to witness the lives of three teenagers – a brother and sister combo with the brother’s best friend/a boy that the sister really adores. It’s cut-and-paste characterization, but it’ll do. Mischievous and clearly curious as to what is unfolding across the street, the trio make their way into the house of horrors via esoteric entrance. Their relationships together are more annoying than boring as the writers expect the zany actions of these teens are at all plausible enough to be taken seriously. They jest in obscure ways, have a jealousy dynamic running an infantile course, and obviously play ironic happenstance on plenty of occasions in the house.

Despite these flaws, I very much enjoyed the readmission of innocence into this house. It seemed all too immediate to have tough men go in and demonstrate what happens when a zombiehead meets blunt object. At least with precocious kids the scares seem more genuine.

There’s a big plot twist midway through just prior to the teens being ‘completely’ introduced that makes you wonder what’s really going on. It’s only until the end that you give the writers any credit for their haphazard attempts at fabricating excitement. All in all, [rec] 2 isn’t what you’d expect from the first. There isn’t a brooding air or darkened mystique about any of the settings which makes the backdrop very innocuous – an area in which the first flourished in achieving. Despite all these flaws, you can’t help but enjoy the swift pace or at least give credit to the filmmakers in trying to keep the [rec] name above water. Even if there’s a bucket of unoriginality for every drop of inspiration, [rec] 2 manages to keep its competency without depriving itself of excitement. [6/10]