Super (2010)

Not all superheroes can afford fashionable rubber suits and utility belts.
Huh, Batman, you fucking bourgeois douche-bag!

If injecting some much-needed color in the superhero sub-genre (which as of late has all been painted black) sounds like an appealing proposition, then you will probably want to go out and rent a copy of Super today. No trite political intrigue here, nor any overwritten, moralistic, or otherwise gritty attempt at creating a restrictive dramatic canvas. Only fan service, which is what the genre is all about. Overdetermined, drug-dealing, gun-totting villains abound and the retribution for their crimes is brutal and bloody, even gory at times. The protagonist (Rainn Wilson) is the quintessential nerd turned avenger and not simply a good-looking teenager disguised as a nerd disguised as an avenger (such as Tobey Maguire's Spiderman). His sidekick (Ellen Page) is a similar, albeit more seductive, misfit, hers being an obsession for crime-fighting turned exclusively inward, an outlet so to speak, for her manic-depressive unconsciousness. The two paired together form an irresistible tragicomic duo involved in a wide array of oft-hilarious, always politically incorrect schemes, including semi-random beatings, pipe bomb crafting, brutal murders by cars and near-rape. Add a second beauty (Liv Tyler) to the mix, as well as a large cast of seasoned vets such as Kevin Bacon, Michael Rooker and Nathan Filion and you've got a stellar, star-studded indie gem, amounting to a kick in the ribs of Nolan's Batman and the unfortunate tradition of gritty superhero films that it has spawned.

The story of Super is that of Frank (Wilson), a poor, aging diner cook whose two "perfect" moments include his marriage with co-worker, and former junkie, Sarah (Tyler) and that one time when he directed a cop toward the hiding place of a fleeing robber. Suffice it to say that Frank's happiness hangs by a thread, which is severed when Sarah leaves him for local drug peddler Jock (Bacon). Hellbent on getting her back, he acts on his latest "vision" when spurred on by comic book store clerk Libby (Page) and becomes a superhero dubbed "The Crimson Bolt". Armed with a rather large wrench, he patrols the streets in search of petty criminals whom he beats up senselessly until he has worked up the sufficient amount of courage to attack Jock's mansion. When his plan backfires (literally), he turns to Libby for help. Ecstatic with being the Bolt's privileged confident, she insists on becoming his kid sidekick, Boltie, donning a super-sexy outfit for the occasion. And while there is obvious sexual tension between the two, culminating in a surprising rape scene, Frank remains focused on Sarah, which he finally manages to rescue after a lengthy stand-up fight with Jock's goons.

Calling all destroyers!

The first salient feature of this film is the jaw-dropping opening credits, comprised of a crude hand-drawn depiction of the cast involved in a frenzied choreography which had the entire audience clapping vigorously at the screening. And I'm not just talking claps, I'm talking loud cheers. Hell, those credits alone were worth the admission price, colorful and fast-moving as they were, as well as perfectly coordinated with Tsar's pop-rock anthem Calling all destroyers, a so-so song which finds new relevance here. That said, opening credits are one thing, an important one, granted, but a single element in a much more complex ensemble. As they should, they are an integral part of the story, reflecting on Frank's obsessive retreat in a cartoon world which he has created for himself in order to escape from the grim landscape of everyday life. The manic energy contained in the credits, the raw power emanating from the crimson-colored hero, all these elements are the crystallization of a wish made by a helpless nerd, the realization of which constitutes the crux of the narrative. That said, the biting black humor at work here proceeds mostly from how pathetic Frank really is, and how seriously he considers his calling.

Personally, I must say that I entered the theater enticed first and foremost by the perspective of seeing Ellen Page don a skin-tight, green and yellow superhero costume. Hell, just a glance would've been alright. Instead we get, as stoic protagonist Frank puts it, a very "inappropriate", intensely lascivious parade in which she poses seductively while rubbing her body with both hands. Now, that's the kind of fan service one rarely gets from over-intellectual, trend-setting Hollywood. We're not just talking entertainment here, we're talking hysterical, contagious energy seeping from every shot. This includes each hilarious moment of politically incorrect, sometimes highly original humor. Whether you like to see butters or pedophiles getting hit across the face with a wrench, horny girls raping middle-aged men, gun-shopping with rednecks, or tentacle-filled epiphanies, Super has got it in store.

That said, this new film by James Gunn contains just the right amount of Slither to make it work, whereas his former film contained too much thereof and not enough engrossing characters. This time around, Michael Rooker is perhaps a little underused as an empathic henchman, but there are two very enticing leads to cover for Elizabeth Banks and Nathan Filion (who's got a bit part here). As for the tentacles, they are back! And I was happy to see them. I mean, director Gunn clearly entertains a fetish for Japanese tentacle porn, and it shows here, but in a surprisingly novel, disturbingly iconoclastic way. I won't spoil it entirely, but there is that one scene (a definitive highlight of the film) where God himself intervenes using some very intrusive, wiggling tentacles. Playing well outside the traditional Judo-Christian canon, former Troma affiliate Gunn offers us a refreshing portrait of divinity, one of the most original thereof on this side of Mind Games.

By now, you will probably have noticed that I use a large number of superlatives to describe the film. Well, Super is just that kind of film: one that makes you so enthusiastic and content as to distribute hyperboles as generously as one gives out free tickets to a NY Islanders game. It has that effect on people. And the reason why it had a hard time striking a distribution deal? Blasphemy and sex, two things which are rather revered by hardcore film fans, those who crowd film festivals and midnight screenings, those who understand that if film is meant to echo life, it MUST contain blasphemy and sex. Super is not made for critics. It's not made for the MPAA. It's made for fans, for people who would rather have fun watching a superhero film rather than getting tangled in a political intrigue, people who enjoy the fate of little people trying to cope with a real, albeit disgusting world more than that of rich socialites or brainy science students navigating lush dystopian worlds.

Unlikely romance under the bridge of normalcy: Page and Wilson

While focused on fan service, the film manages to create a very engrossing dramatic canvas by emphasizing the everyday aspect of its superhero narrative and by making its protagonists two true-to-life nut-cases, both of whom embody a distinct tradition of costumed escapism. While Frank is the sad, under-confident weakling who dons his gear in order to feel stronger than he actually is, Libby uses it as an outlet for her psychotic alter-ego trapped deep within the confines of her outward shell. Driven by the desire for power, and for freedom respectively, the two individuals are oblivious to social responsibility, which is obvious in their frenzied exaction of justice. Much more than those of any Batman or Spiderman, their motivations are perfectly intelligible to anyone who has ever experienced isolation or a sense of powerlessness. In that regard, Rainn Wilson is perfectly cast in the lead. And while his unforgiving looks do a part of the work for him, the man gives a full, touching dramatic performance culminating in a heart-breaking scene where he asks tearfully begs God to know why he was made such an object of ridicule. Contrary to that of Page, his performance is perfectly subdued, which makes his outbursts of emotion all the more gripping. As for the tiny Canadian, she breezes by on her soft, irresistible looks and addictive screen persona, embodying, as she did so many times before, the whimsical dream girl that guys love to love (entertaining lustful thoughts about her since I first saw Hard Candy, I was surprised to see that ALL of my male friends find her attractive, no matter their usual preferences for busty blondes or redheads). But while she is great in the role of Libby, the comic book clerk, she appears a tad overzealous as hysterical Boltie, especially considering her limited vocal register. That said, her whimsical smile, murderous Wolverine claws, and proclivity for seductive poses make her easily forgiven in the present context.

The only real qualm I have with the film is its getting rid of her character so conveniently. And while it is common practice to eliminate sexualized, or otherwise extroverted women in order to quell the protagonist's dilemma in choosing a mate with whom to live "happily ever after", I didn't expect it from James Gunn. Granted, Boltie is a psycho, and she would have most likely driven Frank crazy with her ramblings had he decided to side with her instead of Sarah. But at least she loved him, with the passion unfortunately reserved only for mental patients. So why should it be okay for him to cum inside her, then violently push her inside (at which point, one can narrowly see her crotch) and subsequently lead her to her death? Why shouldn't we pissed off by that, the wanton murder of such a carefully crafted object of desire? To some, her brutal execution will provide some giddy thrills by way of a nasty shot of her mangled face, but for those who truly love women, it will be an ordeal to watch. And that single tear shed by Frank in her memory, it is not nearly enough to celebrate the myriads of exquisite female characters murdered by the hands of screenwriters hellbent on saving male protagonists from arduous amorous choices, but not from casual sexual encounters. Not nearly enough.

All in all, while director James Gunn is not the most talented filmmaker around, he is fast establishing himself as a true author, one who values viewer satisfaction above all, indulging in all forms of excessive imagery for them to savor anonymously and without guilt. Those who have seen Slither will probably remember that scene where a captive woman is literally torn apart by an army of oily slugs feeding on her innards. As for those who have seen Super, they will effortlessly recall the girl-on-guy rape scene, or the brutal beating of two butters. Personally, I reckon that it is the kind of shit people want to see. Not that their brain demands it, but their guts, where the appreciation of any genre film first springs. After all, what guy hasn't dreamed of a horny girl ripping their pants off? And who hasn't wished of kicking the shit out of annoying line-cutters, or other social parasites? Now, maybe you don't condone such behavior, but surely you sometimes contemplate it. Which is where genre cinema comes in, as a very therapeutic outlet for pent-up emotions, the new pope of which is irreverent James Gunn, who earns his rightful place in the landscape of American genre cinema by making it so that popular cinema becomes crowd-pleasing once more. The man's current rise to (indie) fame comes at an appropriate time when ancient filmmaking traditions are in dire need of new blood in order to counter Hollywood's systematic recycling of used material (particularly foreign genre films and comic books). And while his films are somewhat derivative of older stuff, they revel in excess to a point where genre cinema manages to regain its lost essence as a primordial, visceral form of expression.


3,5/5 Hilarious, irreverent superhero film brings some much-needed color back to the genre while managing to frame an engrossing, true-to-life drama.

You Are Here (2010)

Philosophy is the art of asking questions, not of gathering answers:
You Are Here

It's hard to delineate You Are Here and make it sound appealing to larger audiences. Actually, it is somewhat of a hard sell anywhere outside the festival circuit, considering popular tastes in matters of story structure and the crowning importance too often given to the literary model of storytelling. Barely narrative, but not technically experimental either, this Canadian oddity rather invites the viewer to play along in a series of philosophical games embodied by several micro-narratives popping up suddenly, then interconnecting in a surprisingly coherent grid of ideas. While amateurishly-produced, the film boasts crisp HD photography used to frame various intriguing, intricate images bursting with meaning.

The merger of several short films, this aggregate entity manages to attain the lofty goal of elaborating a very potent model of the human mind in its reckless search for meaning. Left to fend for himself, the viewer can choose to enjoy it as a puzzle, question its nature or dismiss it altogether, the former of which is the optimal approach to really get a kick out of this rather unique film experience. Because while Your Are Here puts forth a series of questions, some of which are nearly opaque, it also criticizes obsessive over-intellectualism in trying to peg answers down, begging in the process an urgent question about the very nature of philosophy. After all, the latter is the art of asking questions, not of demanding answers. And although answers are more comforting than questions, they merely help the mind stagnate in a cesspool of self-satisfaction, whereas questions open it up to renewing influences. But most importantly, it helps one hover above the mundane acceptance of things as they are, making one ripe to try and change these things. In other words, we could say that You Are Here is actually a revolutionary film for it cultivates the legitimacy of questions over the stagnant process of answer-hunting. That said, while it harbors professorial looks, it eventually amounts to a series of delightful, playful narrative experiences that are sure to draw the viewer in. Believe me, fun is the name of the game here, that is if you manage to adhere to a liberal, non-mechanical approach to its intellectual structure.

Contrarily to many attendees, I didn't stay in the theater for the Q&A, happy enough with what I saw not to be bothered with superfluous, contrived explanations. I rushed aside instead, scribbling away my thoughts incoherently, creating a jumbled amount of notes which I have a real hard time deciphering now. Needless to say that my excitement got the better of me for I had just unearthed an unexpected gem, just as the guy who discovers one morning that his property lies atop a rich oil well. You see, You Are Here was just filler. I had no intention of purchasing a ticket when I first went through the program. But seeing how it lied just between Bullhead and Victims, I decided to give it a try, thus encouraging local production... and not the big Hollywood bullies. I couldn't believe my eyes as the film unfolded, multiplying constantly in a sea of obsessive interlocking episodes, all of which seemed designed to catch over-thinkers off guard. Mimicking the confused protagonists onscreen, those puzzled viewers who fished for immediately intelligible solutions, probably felt frustrated as answers kept eluding them to better give center stage to other questions.

To those people, I would loved to have given this simple answer, which I think sums up the bottom line of You Are Here better than anything else: "the answer lies across the street". You see, while the film played to a sold-out crowd in the De Sève theater, Cronenberg's seminal Shivers was playing in the Hall. And I must say that such a programming choice is tantamount to genius, both films being perfectly complementary in their criticism of over-intellectualism. For those unfamiliar with Cronenberg's first commercial feature film, filmed right here in Montreal, I will etch a brief synopsis.

Discontent with society and its fixation on the intellectual rather than the physical, medical researcher Emil Hobbes devises a parasite made of "venereal diseases and aphrodisiacs" designed to turn normal people into sex-crazed zombies no longer focused on trivial, "intellectual" affairs. At some point in the film, his partner in crime, the fantastically-named Rollo Linsky, quotes him saying: "man is an animal who thinks too much, an over-rational animal that's lost touch with its body and its instincts". While this doesn't warrant the elimination of all thinking humanity, it certainly is true, especially where You Are Here is concerned. Man is an animal that thinks too much. This is precisely what I took out of this latter film as I watched some very helpless characters trying to find precise explanations for facts that would better be delineated using only one's imagination.

A good example of this is the mystery door appearing on the side of a skyscraper. Since it leads nowhere, one of the characters starts obsessing over its origin. And thus, the desire to crack the mystery eventually overwhelms said character, entangling him in the futile pursuit of an unnecessary explanation. It is as if the immediate world around us could no longer be merely felt, but needed to be explained also, as if only an intellectual explanation could be satisfactory in making sense of anything caught by the eye. The film then proceeds to entrap a variety of characters in similar binds, making them search for answers and follow predetermined routes with slavish nonchalance, showing the pursuit of answers as a way to lose sight of the very question to which it pertains.

Ignorance is bliss: children see the world as a place of
wonder, not as a problem to be solved

As I sat in the tiled hall of the Norris building after the screening, I watched people come out of the Q&A and comment on the film. From what little bribes of conversation I could overhear, I understood that many were annoyed with the fact that the film is "merely" a collage of short films, brushing its fragmented narrative aside as a sign of weakness, when it is actually only one of budget. From where I stand, You Are Here cannot be dismissed with one fell swoop. And while it is a collage, it is a pretty awesome one, one that manages to be entirely coherent, even within the vacuum of ideas which constitutes the narrative. Anyways, people should like collages in this day and age, when everything (fashion, art, thought...) is a patchwork of previous forms stitched together for better or for worse. Hell, Montreal is a collage, encompassing colonial-age mansions, international-style skyscrapers and orange-plated apartment complexes within a single block. Many families are collages, crowding houses with tens of children from several different marriages. The importance now is not conformity, but coherence. Hence, while I love Montreal for its uniquely post-modernist look, so too do I love You Are Here as a single entity. Not as a series of questions, but as a living film which precisely mirrors what little grasp we have on our surroundings, and most of all, the crippling desire to find answers where one should formulate a secondary question instead.

That said, if you can't remember your password one morning, when faced with a blank line on the computer screen in your diminutive cubicle, in a vast city of which you occupy but an anonymous 100 square feet, then maybe you shouldn't even try remembering. Instead of trying your best to put one and one together, trying to pinpoint the precise moment of inspiration which has led you to select this or that password, maybe you should ask a question instead, such as "Isn't it better for my session to remain locked and for me to walk out of the office building, into the streets, and as far away from the city as possible?". Better yet, why not start asking "What is the Matrix?" as one jaded daytime programmer once did, and which led him to save humanity from the clutches of rampant capitalism? How about "What data can be so important as to be password-protected?".

Humanity can be dwarfed by the scenery and put into
square blocks only insofar as it accepts boxed knowledge

If the pursuit of knowledge is done mechanically (without conscience), it is null for it becomes akin to the data processing achieved by computers. And at the dawn of 2024, the projected year when computer chips will have the power to replicate the processing power of human neurons, acting like a computer makes one almost obsolete, an empty shell from a dead world. Because while gathering information can be done by men and machines alike, it is the ability to reflect on this data (read: to ask questions) which separates the former from the latter, making humanity more than the sum of its knowledge. Tagging and classifying found objects, or mechanically solving problems doesn't help one achieve sentience, nor does following orders. Thus, I suggest we consider one of the main tenets of Cartesian thought: "I think therefore I am" in order to reclaim our minds from the debilitating effects of capitalism, which disseminates fake equivalences such as "I buy therefore I am" or "I talk/text therefore I am". If we accept to become the simple aggregates of the items we own and the factoids we have integrated as party tricks, then we barely qualify as sentient beings and thus lend ourselves to being literally replicated and replaced by any machine able to store same factoids and eruct them given the appropriate cue. And that is where films such as You Are Here come in to save the day.

The appeal of Cockburn's film lies in a clever mechanism which involves the viewer intellectually, prompting him to try and solve riddles with the film's characters while simultaneously pointing out the rigidity of the answer-gathering process in which they are all involved. This antagonistic process can best be explained by discussing the enjoyment derived from experiencing the film proper. While it works perfectly as a puzzle, drawing the viewer in as if it was an elaborate game room for idiot savants, it loses all relevance if one finds a definite solution to the puzzle, then pushes it aside, hence defusing its potential as a mind-cultivating device. In the end, the very fact that it prompts questions instead of offering answers makes You Are Here a worthy enterprise and one that should be celebrated as a rare example of involving storytelling focused on active film viewers, the final result being more of an intellectual collaboration between the director and his audience than a dry lecture that provides answers to be jotted down in rigidly structured notepads.


3,5/5 A revolutionary film, not so much in a narrative sense as in its ability to tickle the mind and make one remember the majors tenets of Cartesian thought. Also a powerful reminder of 2024 and the consolidation of the idea according to which the quest for knowledge is a purely mechanical process devoid of sentience. One will certainly find shades of Ghost in the Shell in this delectable meta-puzzle.

Midnight Son (2011)

Jacob, THE definitive emo vampire: Midnight Son

For those who thought the Twilight films were the pinnacle of the emo vampire sub-genre, Midnight Son is a brutal reality check. Behold the one true emo vampire, 24 year-old night watchman and awkward lover Jacob. Condemned to a life of solitude by a strange disease akin to vampirism, he spends his days painting sunsets in his sun-proof city apartment. His complete transformation is coming to a close when he meets night bird Mary, an equally lonesome young woman bearing a dark secret of her own, with whom he manages to forget his loneliness for a spell. The only problem is that Jacob cannot make love to her, on account of his disease manifesting itself in various ways whenever the pair is nearing the bed.

The first time around, a sudden nosebleed (due to Mary's earlier coke consumption) distracts Jacob from the task at hand, leaving him a queasy mess unable to fulfill the desires of the eager lover in his midst. Things get even dicier the second time around, when his eyes take a predatory greenish color while atop Mary, urging him to dash toward the refrigerator and quickly consume a handy pint of blood. The third time is when the girl starts getting really angry with him, right after they engage in some hot preliminaries which are cut short when Jacob freezes, arguing that he cannot "do it" for fear of hurting her.

While the vampire has always been established as somewhat of a sexual predator, rarely has the link between sexuality and vampirism been established so brazenly and so relevantly as in Midnight Son. Jacob's emphasized impotence results from his ill-assumed predatory instinct. In other words, one could say he is a closeted vampire, a direct byproduct of the now-predominant tradition of increasingly fragile male characters. While vampire fangs are a deadly giveaway toward Freudian psychoanalysis, their failure to penetrate the flesh of their female victim is a timely sign of the weakening masculine resolve, extinguished in a sea of female empowerment and shifting sexual models.

Seeing how the new James Bond is a consummate weakling, one finds the perfect example of the identity crisis plaguing the representation of masculinity at the dawn of the 21st century. Originally intended as a phallus, resourceful superman Bond has now found the ability to cry, and hurt, in a bid to create a more realistic, if not necessarily representative male figure for the series' reboot. This identity crisis finds further anchors in the childish looks of international heartthrob Justien Bieber and the mannerisms of bleak-looking Robert Pattinson, who shouldn't even be considered on par with muscular opposite Taylor Lautner. Considering his hypnotic charm and phallic assets, the vampire figure is the ideal vehicle to expose the cultural male's steady weakening, and never has it been done so eloquently as in Midnight Son.

Wishing her boyfriend was Jerry Dandrige, Mary tries
her best to cope with Jacob's impotence.

Unfortunately, the film doesn't score big points for originality or style, content as it is with boring, everyday sets (as urban California contributes its unmatched ugliness to the story) and mild genre novelties. That said, the idea of a sunset-nostalgic vampire is telling but obvious, as well as weirdly underplayed here (Jacob's paintings have narrative weight in themselves but their content nearly doesn't). As for the coffee mug full of blood, it makes for a rather lame marketing gimmick, especially when a simple pair of rubber fangs would've been much more relevant... and intriguing.

Yet, what really struck me here is the characterization of the black antagonist, which in my eye neared racism a little too much. The guy starts out as a street-smart orderly who surprises Jacob trying to steal blood from a bio-hazard container. Intrigued at first, raising surprised eyebrows and smirking wildly, he soon sees Jacob's addiction not as an alarming oddity, but as a way to make money off him. From then on, he seems to become increasingly evil, sequestrating a poor old man in a run-down house in order to harvest his blood, then turning into a vampire himself, and trying to enslave Jacob. While his character provides some much-needed counterbalance to weakling Jacob, he reeks of overdetermined blackness. Maybe I, myself, is being biased, but it seems that any drug-peddling, abusive, street-smart black with well-groomed facial hair owes more to white-perpetrated archetypes than to any honest attempt at characterization. Then again, it is racial discourse such as this which helps create a cleavage between blacks and whites. And so, I'd better keep my thoughts to myself...

In the end, despite the necessary drawbacks stemming from filming a romance with two no-namers and a video camera, Midnight Son contains enough weeny novelties to keep fans interested. But ultimately, it is through meta-discourse regarding the sexual nature of the vampire figure that the film achieves induction in the "higher sphere" of genre cinema, fiercely deconstructing a powerful mythological figure to create a lesser, but more timely monster, the common Western male.


2,5/5 One of those rare examples where self-reflexivity alone can elevate the level of a genre film above its technical and narrative limitations to create an essential historical document.

Knifepoint (2011)

It's hard not to think about Haneke's Funny Games when watching Knifepoint. Actually, it's hard not to think about his bone-chilling thriller when watching any given home invasion film. Truth is Haneke's uncompromising work has become somewhat of a reference point in terms of film sadism, amounting to what is probably the finest example of torture porn ever to grace the screen. Although it contains no onscreen violence at all, it manages to handle its subject matter with such technical mastery and dramatic savvy as to virtually nullify any attempt at creating a worthy successor.

The reason for Funny Games' efficiency is threefold. Aside from Haneke's directorial skills, the motiveless nature of the antagonists' crimes and their obvious, and very much emphasized, complicity with the filmmakers serve as rocket-powered engines for the straightforward narrative. The feeling of hopelessness pulsating across the screen is the direct result of these two converging factors. Knowing that 1) the antagonists are pure evil, torturing people without any motivation other than torture itself and 2) the viewers and filmmakers are willing accomplices in their crimes, giving them all the latitude necessary to accomplish their nasty deeds, one is caught between a rock and a hard place, unable to watch, but unable to stop watching either. In the end, we are forced, even tortured into contemplating, and detesting our own sadism by the clever filmmaker who entraps us exactly like he entraps his protagonists.

The fact that Knifepoint is produced independently, without so much as a tenth of the talent at work in the former film has no bearing on the present analysis. After all, Knifepoint is a successful film in its own right. As the director so rightfully put it before the screening, the film is primarily meant to shock and it does so with surprising bravado. By upping the ante in terms of how many despicable acts of torture can be shown in a 88-minute film, it deserves to find a loyal audience of gore fanatics and jaded fans of cinematic extremities.

Submission is the name of the game as the protagonists are raped
and tortured for nearly the entire duration of the film

The film contains no less than three rapes (with two more coming dangerously close to fruition), one involving a spit-covered dick, one with a gun and one with a strap-on knife (à la Se7en). Two of the victims are male and one of the aggressors is female, so there is no sexual discrimination here. At least, the film and its violence cannot be solved using gender representation theories. But while it showcases both males and females indulging in atrocious acts of misanthropy, the film is never quite as gripping as Haneke's Funny Games. There are two main reasons for this, the first of which is the very conventional, almost archetypal look of the antagonists, which almost totally prevents any attempt at deeper characterization. The greasy-haired, tattooed ex-cons onscreen can be little more than what one can imagine them to be. Just close your eyes and picture an ex-con. Then, you'll manage to invoke one of the villains from Knifepoint. That said, the introduction of a female villain is hardly a twist for she acts no different than her male counterparts. Now, the second distinguishing factor between Funny Games and the present film involves the villains' motivations, which, while they fail to explain the full extent of their barbarity, are clearly delineated and overdetermined, which in turn makes their evil seem contrived.

The opening credits are somewhat misleading in that regard, and they help defuse the explosive potential of the ensemble. Using rhythmic editing and B&W freeze frames of the antagonists setting up their plan, the filmmakers have effectively, and inexplicably, likened them to the suave, hip rogues from recent capers such as the Ocean films. This is a moot point to make, but you cannot show antagonists in such a positive light and then turn the tables 180 degrees and make them out to be bloodthirsty demons from Hell. You must do one or the other, not both. Even better, you can try nuancing the ensemble, which is admittingly a very hard thing to do considering the specific aims of the film, but one that would have given the film a much needed extra dimension. At any rate, there is no point in setting up the antagonists to such an extent. The duration of the credits should've been allotted to the protagonists instead, allowing the filmmakers to shape them out a little better in order to make us more sympathetic to their plight, which is filmed without a hint of humor to spare our feelings. In fact, any extra attempt at characterization would've been appreciated, or any effort to capitalize on some facts established early on (such as the rivalry between the two sister protagonists). Because as it stands, the narrative clams up once the slaughter starts and the remainder of the film plays like a series of surprisingly uninvolving vignettes.

All bad guys look the part in Knifepoint

Setting up the antagonists as robbers does little to account for their barbarity. If indeed they had been mere robbers, as the intricacy of their plan suggests, they should not want to kill people, and especially in that amount. Of course, there's some slight psychosis affecting the group, but this contradicts the more Cartesian aspects of their psyche at work here. In the end, what it all boils down to is a crime spree perpetrated by inhuman, prison-trained criminals. So you can either see the film as purely a shock film meant to test the limits of one's endurance to disgusting, gratuitous violence or, to a lesser extent, you can see it as a critique of the American prison system and its manufacturing of hardened criminals. Whether or not you want to scratch the surface a bit is up to you but frankly, I can't say that I recommend it for you are unlikely to find anything really meaty underneath.

Seeing how the film is bursting with close-ups of flesh scraps hanging from various types of weapons, I am tempted to think the film as merely a gross-out fest, which isn't bad in itself, considering the type of audiences at which the film is aimed. However, it will never achieve greatness for it is founded on a contradiction of intentions crystallized in the burning desire to explain the inexplicable. A case example of this is the final rape scene. Before the main antagonist proceeds to rape the patriarch with his gun, he starts telling him about the rationale behind prison rape. He goes on to tell him that in prison, rape is made independently of pleasure, even desire. Apparently, it is merely a means to break one's spirit. And so, before jamming a gun in his ass, he assures him that he takes no pleasure out of it, but does it simply for business purposes. Not only is all of this bullshit (there's a direct connection between horniness and prison rape), but it impairs the sense of horror one might derive from such a rape scene. Because it allows the viewer to circumvent the event not as a manifestation of evil, but as a practical action. That said, it is what the mind can't conceive which terrifies it most, and that is how the horror genre has established itself as such a lasting form of expression. Bearing more resemblances to the psychological thriller than to the horror film per se, Knifepoint lacks the dramatic content to make it all stick.

Actually, it is narrative ambivalence which almost sinks the film. Because in the end, Knifepoint is made of restrained excess, hesitating between total gross-out horror and psychological drama, as if unsure of either one's potential to drive the story. By maximizing the bloodletting, it tends to tilt toward horror, but by circumventing it within the confines of a home invasion film, it penetrates the realm of genre-less cinema, with so-so results. Luckily for us, the film lives up to its tagline by offering a record amount of meaty grub, which allows it to redeem itself but only for a thin slice of film audiences, that of jaded gorehounds.

2,5/5: Mean and disgusting, this one will manage to impress even the most hardened gorehounds. Unfortunately, it will not impress anybody else.

Chop (2010)

With Chop, screenwriter Trent Haaga (Citizen Toxie, Deadgirl) tries his hand at directing with awful results. His would-be comical torture porn film may be less self-indulgent than the Saw films, but it is almost equally moralistic and definitely weaker in technical terms, which should tell you quite precisely how bad it is.

The film's premise is its strongest suit. It involves a recovering drug addict named Lance who crosses path with a very zealous everyman whom he has wronged in the past. The latter eventually kidnaps and tortures his former tormentor in order to pry out an admission of guilt, but Lance confesses to other crimes instead, for which the antagonist is prompt to find victims willing to join him in bloody retribution.

While many important plot points are established only in passing, with crude gestures devoid of emotion (such as the stroking of a crack pipe in order to establish Lance's former addiction), the narrative manages to draw you in somehow, mostly by veiling the nature of Lance's crime against the antagonist and making you wanting to know, even though you will necessarily suspect something so mundane as to jokingly defuse all dramatic tension.

Unfortunately, said intriguing narrative is marred by incredibly unimaginative direction (only halfway does the film break the chain of shots/counter-shots) and a crippling ambivalence between genuine drama and flat-out camp. The awfully limited lead is caught in a similar bind as he struggles to deliver both the lighthearted moments of comedy and the dramatic moments of tension, often grinning or sulking at grossly inappropriate times.

Look closely at the actors' faces. Notice the unease. It is as if the
pair was involved in a mid-term film school project...

Some inspired gore and a decent turn by Timothy Muskatell as the antagonist manage to elevate the whole a bit, but not up to par. The film almost peaks during a grotesque sequence in which a leather-clad S&M freak menaces to cut off the bound protagonist's leg and fuck the stump, carefully selecting the location where he wants to jizz. But as the action is cut short (by a non-collaborative ringleader), so does the film proves its lack of dedication toward its own would-be twisted material. Had there been some stump-fucking, I might have given the film an extra half-star for daring to go the extra mile. But as things stand, there's nothing novel enough here to recommend the film.

In the end, one could say that Chop is either a limp Header or a campy Saw, both of which are awfully bad. There's very little redeeming value here save for a couple of good jokes, which is sad for Muskatell, who does his best as the baby-faced psycho. Narrowly saved by the rather funny "twist" ending, Haaga's first film is best forgotten.

1,5/5 Some intriguing ideas are nullified by mediocre execution in this amateurish torture porn variation.

Detective Dee and the Mystery of the Phantom Flame (2010)

There's little to add about this film other than to say that it is one of Tsui Hark's finest. Boasting stellar production values and some unique screenwriting prowess, Mystery successfully incorporates some wildly heterogeneous narrative elements (both realistic and fantastic) into a surprisingly coherent whole, drawing the viewer into a unique universe where anything seems possible. Part political intrigue, part fantasy action, the film juggles historical facts, lighthearted comedy and tightly-choreographed fights so as to blur categorical distinctions in the name of entertainment. Dualistic in nature, it uses both grandiose, would-be realistic sets (such as the Empress' palace and towering gold Buddha) and fantasy locales (such as the creepy underground lair of Donkey Wang), to offer the viewer a fun slice of revisionist history, depicting an exciting era better known through tall tales and hear-say than through hard facts. As such, it becomes a welcome alternative to the dry and slavishly realistic period pieces made in the West, which often sacrifice fun in the mad pursuit of historical accuracy.

Gorgeous art direction at the service of historical recreation...

Highlighted by elaborate, high-flying action scenes choreographed by seasoned vet Sammo Hung and splendid art direction containing a fair amount of seamlessly integrated CGI, the film boasts a lofty budget, every bit of which is visible onscreen. Thus, we are easily drawn in beautiful China, circa 690 A.D., at the dawn of a crowning moment in the annals of history. Wu Zetian is about to embark on the throne as the first female Emperor of all times. For the occasion, she commissions the creation of a towering Buddha overlooking the royal palace. But when the official inspector, as well as a high-ranking police officer succumb to a mysterious flame that consumes them from within, the future Empress starts suspecting foul play and fears that antagonistic forces are plotting against her. That is when she decides to put old qualms to rest and summon an old rival to investigate the case. The titular lawman thus enters the scene, freed by the very same woman who jailed him for conspiracy many years ago. And luckily for everyone, most of all himself, the man is not only an expert at solving crime, but also an expert martial artist, one who will need all his wits and skills to crack the case. Forced to team up with gorgeous, whip-wielding bodyguard Shangguan Jing'er and albino police inspector Pei Donglai, both of whom seem to have a secret agenda of their own, Dee embarks on a colorful adventure along the tracks left by the mastermind behind the phantom flame affair.

...with pulp fantasy being just a step behind.

Using the basic narrative template of the private investigation, the film capitalizes on supernatural answers, which the viewer is unlikely to decipher. And while some might see this as a dishonest way to keep the viewer guessing, it's all in good fun. In fact, one could say that the film actually challenges narrative conventions rather than embracing them, spiking the narrative with twist, after twist, after twist, overly complexifying an investigation that could've been solved in the first minutes of the film. That said, while one can see the resolution of the mystery as the film's finality, it must be said that the way to get there is much more exciting than the objective, as the story finds relevance not as a series of narrative stepping stones, but as a series of set-pieces erected in the name of spectacle. Whether you, the viewer, decide to watch this as one reads a mystery novel or instead experience the film sensually as a child would is up to you. But I would suggest the latter approach.

And while the private investigation template provides a predetermined structure for the storyline, it also allows some very involving inter-personal dynamics to take hold. That said, the interplay between the three charismatic leads is what truly cements the narrative, providing several humorous innuendos, elaborate fight scenes (paramount of which pits the three against the mysterious and resourceful Chamberlain) and loads of tension by way of veiled intentions. In the tradition of the Hollywood noir, friends and foes become indistinguishable as both Dee's allies seem to play for keeps, yet also seem to share his enthusiasm. And so the poor detective must constantly watch his back, knowing that he is scrutinized by both Jing'er and Pei, who respectively report to various levels of government. Each claiming a unique background, they all entertain different motivations for finding the murderer and they all possess different, complementary skills. Lovely Jing'er is established early as a potential love interest, while being simultaneously portrayed as a supremely devoted servant of the Empress. As for creepy-looking Pei, he looks just like a typical back-stabbing sleaze bag, with just enough fighting skills to make him a worthy adversary for Dee. As the film unfolds, one is not so much preoccupied with finding the mastermind behind the two murders, but with finding where Jing'er and Pei's allegiances lie.

Pei and Jing'er are invaluable allies, or are they?

Defying logic, and physics, Mystery indiscriminately mixes reality and fantasy in a bid to tell an entertaining story free of any unnecessary constraints. And while the conclusion might not satisfy mystery fans, the film provides a little something for every genre fan. Most importantly, it reminds us of what cinema is primordially about: imagination and amazement, both of which are usually under-used by period pieces, and Western cinema in general.

3,5/5 A prime example of what genre cinema should be, a wondrous vehicle of creative imagination fueled by the viewer's faith in the magic of cinema.

Red State (2011)

I wonder what the cynical adulescents of Kevin Smith's early films would have to say about Red State... Just imagine this new outing as The Phantom Menace seen through the eyes of bitchy, over-analytical Randall from Clerks. What would you think he'd say? Would he rip it to shreds? Probably. Would he point out how uncaring the work is in regards to fans? No doubt. Would he ever stop talking about how bad it is? No. And although I am reluctant to praise Randall in any way (except for his hilarious depiction of the Lord of the Rings trilogy and his closing rant against Dante at the end of Clerks), I must say that I felt exactly like him while watching Red State. I felt like an abused fanboy ready to latch out violently against what I considered to be a cruel trick by Smith. However, it also got me thinking of a practical way to remove the horrible shit stain left on the screen by the director. Another film, a sequel, about the reactions of nerdy fans to his abysmal new film. Then maybe he could redeem himself, seeing how he can only make relevant films when they're entirely located within the confines of malls, convenience stores, studios and other such places where slackers congregate to talk shit about this or that dreadful cultural product.

Are you seeing what I'm seeing?

Three high school slackers decide to go out one night and leave their boring suburban town in search of pussy. After selecting a nameless pair of tits from a singles website and making sure that its proprietor is willing to fuck them all at once, they hit the road in daddy's car and head for a distant trailer isolated by the dark, rural surroundings. Unfortunately for them, something unholy and ill-intentioned is also lurking in the shadows, ready to jump out and claim their soul. Demented preacher Abin Cooper, a composite archetype inspired by Fred Phelps and David Koresh, has actually lured the young men into the trailer in order to capture them and make them pay for their sins. Intended to die in a ritualistic execution, one of the guys escapes, but it doesn't matter, for his story becomes secondary as soon as the cynical fed played by John Goodman appears onscreen. The remainder of the film sees Cooper and his fanatical followers pitted against Goodman's agents in an endless, uninvolving gunfight, which drags the narrative slavishly to the end, where a succession of jokes finish defusing the mood set up in the first twenty minutes.

While eagerly anticipated by flocks and flocks of fans, Kevin Smith's new film, a confused hodgepodge of torture-porn-cum-action comedy, plays strictly for cheap laughs and dry, witless cynicism directed at the most obvious of targets, the Southern red states. In the literal sense, a red state is simply a Republican state. Hence, the film title alone should tell you just how unfocused Smith's attack on conservatives is. Gun-toting, gay-bashing, religious fanatics abound. Sometimes ridiculed to the point of silliness, sometimes gravely depicted, they never come off as characters. They're mere archetypes crafted to push on the viewer's buttons instead of being cogs in a real narrative. Such indeterminacy plagues the entire film, starting with the early promise of torture porn, which quickly evaporates to set the stage for a never-ending action sequence that would feel more at home in a Michael bay film. Torpedoed by Smith's unsure foot at the helm, and in the editing room, this film is a highly unwelcome departure from the character-driven, slacker-realist comedies that have made fat, bearded Smith a staple of the American indie scene. It is an ill-advised attempt at generating cynicism outside of his comfort zone and away from the involving and everyday look of his better outings. New rarely means better, and it is certainly not the case here.

Don't be fooled by the gag; this ain't a horror film.

I will not fiddle with the puck here, as Smith did while shooting his film. Red State is an exercise in futility, a tedious, never-ending series of uninspired, flavorless vignettes trying to pass off as a legitimate, high-minded critique of religious extremism. And while the main antagonist manages to give an occasional jolt of electricity to this lifeless outing, he cannot balance the shit-filled scale that is the narrative. Red State is probably one of the worst Fantasia films I have seen in years, and certainly the worst Kevin Smith film out there. While the famed anecdotalist struggles to create a coherent storyline out of the many big ideas and genre inclinations contained in the film, he also struggles in the editing room, where he multiplies the abrupt cuts and awkward alternations of contrasting moods contributing to the atrocious pacing of the ensemble. Cutting back and forth between genuine moments of dramatic tension, mean-spirited snippets of over-the-top violence and absurd comedy bits, the film ultimately amounts to a confused and highly dubious mish-mash of ideas thrown in a mixer, which is then flicked on with crossed fingers. It's like throwing the entire contents of your vegetable crisper in a blender, pushing the button and hoping for the best. In this case, Smith hadn't realized that there were lots of rotting onions and rancid kelp in the mix, which is probably what caused the debilitating sickness of his narrative.

Michael Parks does what he can to try and
bring a silly caricature to life

Aiming to please both his own fan-base and the horror film crowd, Smith manages to please neither. Because while he sets up an horror film early on, he never follows up on this, nor does he manage to craft the kind of likeable slackers and engrossing, over-the-top situations which he is famous for. Drawing energy from the torture porn premise he apparently vows to update, Smith offers horror fans a tantalizing perspective, which he never capitalizes upon. Instead, he abruptly branches into Greengrass-esque territory, leaving his three leads in the dust and starting anew, with a new protagonist and a new, lighter mood at the halfway mark of the film. The ultra-lengthy, but strangely involving monologue meant to establish Cooper as a delusional, but charismatic monster is thus defused and so are all the efforts made to establish mood up to that point. After that, the film never recovers, deconstructing and rebuilding itself endlessly much to the dismay of the viewer. Throw in some useless, incongruous peripheral characters such as the gay sheriff portrayed with unease by Stephen Root and you've got a narrative far too dense for its own good. Had I trusted my instincts, I would've walked out when the boat started drifting away toward the maelstrom of irrelevance. But I stayed instead... which isn't bad, considering the extra ammo I was given to whine about the film, and thus, to stay true to Kevin Smith, whom I still love.

1/5 Throw a whole bunch of narrative influences, bland caricatures and one hell of a vain, overlong gunfight together without any discrimination and you get something like this: an empty, uninspired farce that will forever scar Smith's filmography.

Another Earth (2011)

Imagination doesn't cost a penny: Another Earth

Young star and co-writer Brit Marling teams up with ex-boyfriend director, and fellow writer Mike Cahill to create somewhat of a rare gem: an effective, low-budget sci-fi film relying on human emotions rather than dry philosophical ideas to fuel its thesis. The result is a memorable film that will leave you shaken up, and one of the finest examples of indie cinema's power to capture the most intimate, and thus most relevant aspects of life. It is also a welcome addition to the sci-fi genre, which has almost vanished from contemporary screens, except in various truncated or diluted forms. Using the multiverse theory, the film questions the perennity of human mistakes and the dynamics of atonement and forgiveness as two complementary processes.

The protagonist of Another Earth is a brilliant young woman who commits an unforgivable act of vehicular manslaughter during a minute, drunken moment of inattention. Following a party thrown to celebrate her induction at the M.I.T., Rhoda takes her car home and inadvertently crashes into a BMW driven by renowned composer John Burroughs, killing his wife and son, while leaving the poor man in a coma. She draws four years in prison for this, during which the world becomes increasingly interested in the most recent astrological find, Earth 2, a mirror copy of the blue planet hanging in the sky as a tantalizing promise of hope. On its alien surface, speculation has it that another seven billion souls are living as we do, sharing our names and backgrounds while dwelling in mirror cities. The very find of Earth 2 coincides with the night of the crash, and it is actually the spectacle thereof which has caused Rhoda to stare away from the road for an instant, thus destroying the four lives of Burroughs, his wife, his son, and herself.

Unfortunately for physics-buff Rhoda, her Cartesian mind has no interest for Earth 2 after four years in jail but as an hypothetical source of atonement. You see, if one believes that their exact double lives on the mirror planet, sharing their name, appearance, background and so forth, one is also entitled to believe that a discrepancy might arise regarding the question of life choices. After all, aren't we, parental and social influences aside, simply the sum of the choices we have made through the years? For better or for worse, haven't we defined ourselves beyond the scope of our natural traits only by being cowardly at times and courageous at other times? To Rhoda, this question is of particular relevance. After all, what would be her life if she hadn't killed? What if the other Earth hadn't distracted her during that fatal moment four years before? Where would she be today? At M.I.T.? Probably. And if so, would she be close to solving the mystery of the obsessive doppelganger? At any rate, she certainly wouldn't be cleaning for a living, which she decides to do after hard time in jail has made her a social pariah. But then again, she wouldn't have the chance to cross paths with Burroughs either, and try to find atonement in the real world, while struggling with the raw emotions necessary for one to become truly human.

Aren't we the sum of our life choices?

Curious about the fate of her victim, Rhoda Google-searches him (how contemporary!) and learns of his address. And so, she works up the courage to contact him and ask for forgiveness. But when she is finally faced with the man, and the derelict looks he harbors, she is overwhelmed and quickly decides on a subterfuge to explain her visit. Seeing how she is a professional maid, she offers the ill-organized widow a highly dubious "trial cleaning". Right after rebuking her, Burroughs eventually accepts the proposal, on account of its gratuity, opening his home, and his secrets, to Rhoda. If the reigning disorder is any indication of the man's shattered resolve, things are very far from hunky-dory. And so, the young woman sets to work, literally and metaphorically putting order back into his life. To put it another way, she tries to give him back his life in exchange of her own, which she has abandoned after joining the caste of ex-cons.

That said, her ex-con status unlocks another narrative path when she decides to enter a contest to win a trip to Earth 2 as part of a leisurely trip organized by an opportunistic transport company. The rules are simple. All she has to do is write a 500-word essay, convincing said transport company that she is an ideal candidate for the trip. Romanticizing herself a social undesirable like the whores and criminals who crossed the Atlantic toward the New World, she claims to be a perfectly expandable crew member. As the story unfolds, this and the other narrative paths established earlier will converge to form a surprisingly coherent whole, one that leaves just the right amount of unanswered questions so as to stimulate the viewer while managing not to alienate him.

The screenplay contains many "what ifs" as does the imperfect human soul, devoured by nostalgia and grief. But as these questions multiply, we realize that they all bear the same answer, an earthly answer, anchored in the tangible world we experience everyday and delineated, as all things earthly, by the spectrum of human emotions. Earth 2 can thus be understood as nothing more than a wish distracting one from the more concrete, more real aspects of life. After all, asking "what if" only amounts to wishful thinking and it never helps one solve the problems ahead of him. That said, there is only one way to go and it is forward, not backward or sideways. The only forks in the road that one should contemplate are the ones ahead. Previous ones, the choice of an occupation, the choice of a mate or the choice of driving drunk for example, have since been crystallized into static memories. And instead of dwelling on these memories, one should use the emotional content therein as a driving force and shed the hypothetical "what ifs" embodied by the multiverse theory.

After all, one has but one life to live, and this is how the two protagonists eventually make sense of human existence, helping each other in times of need to the fullest extent allowed by their flaws and character limitations. Painful memories and the desire to overcome those memories is what fuels them, allowing them to grow beyond their immediate feelings into the more noble realm of human virtues. Thus, forgiveness and atonement become more than "what ifs". They become a beautiful reality as two complementary processes involving two complementary beings whose lives are intertwined both in love and hate and whose bodies and minds are probed and felt by each other in a celebrated sense of communion, which makes Another Earth one of the most relevant, most touching films I have seen this year at Fantasia.

The intimate camera perfectly delineates the Earthly
nature of the drama at hand

Narratively, the film achieves the crucial task of infusing the sci-fi premise with palpable human drama, without which the genre is no less sterile than an action film without action. This is achieved through the issues delineated by the screenplay, as well as through the sense of immediacy brought forward by the clinging hand-held camera. Oftentimes, it transforms immediacy into urgency, such as when it frames Rhoda's pale skin in close-up as she bares her body and lies down in the snow in order to die the frigid death she thinks she deserves. Drama is multiplied tenfold by the crisp, inhospitable aspect of the snow against her fragile skin as captured by the prying eye of the lens. Then there is that love scene, or the sight of Rhoda's finger tapping on a wooden table, all little things on which the camera focuses, giving the viewer the impression that there is no space between life as they experience it everyday and life as it is captured onscreen.

And while the camera frames details in order to better flesh out the tangible reality of the narrative, so too does the screenplay uses everyday details to seamlessly integrate the sci-fi elements within said narrative. To that effect, the film contains a blabbermouth DJ, who comments mundanely about the discovery of Earth 2, as if it were no more than a traffic incident. Then, there is that wonderful scene in which a woman scientist tries to make contact with the not-so-distant planet, managing to reach another woman scientist whom she establishes as a mirror self using a common childhood memory, that of "space berries". If God is in the details, than so is the crafting of an involving sci-fi film. And while the simple use of everyday elements to anchor otherworldly concepts in a readily intelligible reality trumps the recourse to overly elaborate, extravagant devices and situations (such as futuristic space shuttles or apocalyptic disaster scenes), it also allows idea-driven efforts such as Another Earth to bypass budget limitations. That said, a mere imprint of Earth hung in the sky becomes a very powerful narrative device. Actually, it was the sight thereof which sold me to the idea of the film. I mean, here's another hospitable planet in our midst. What does it hold? The dream of any space explorer, or anybody with the slightest inkling of imagination is suddenly realized. That promise alone is enough to warrant the purchase of a ticket. As for the fact that the narrative contained within is just as subtle and involving as that promise, it is almost miraculous.

4/5 Indie cinema at its best: wits defy low production values to create a supremely engrossing sci-fi wonder.

Helldriver (2010)

Loud, dark and filled to the brim with compulsory slow motion shots of gushing blood, this is a typical example of Nikkatsu/Sushi Typhoon's recent line of gore-drenched action melodramas. Relying on a derivative storyline and flat characters constructed from traumatic flashbacks, Helldriver manages to reach its goals not with the accumulation of pickled body parts and blood hoses within the gloomy scenery, but with some genuinely exhilarating battle scenes scattered about, mostly near the end, and a crowd-pleasing screenplay involving many key concepts of the zombie sub-genre.

The story is simple, but it involves many heterogeneous elements making for a surprisingly coherent, if completely implausible whole. Kika (Yumiko Hara) is a school girl who comes home one day only to find her helpless father being murdered by her psychotic mother (Eihi Shiina) and uncle, caught grounding the meat harvested from his severed legs in order to eat it succulently later. Joining the endless parade of emotionally shattered schoolgirls in the Japanese genre film landscape, Kika vies revenge and she pits her resolve squarely against her demented mother. While facing each other atop a car near the projects they call home, evil Rikka is suddenly struck by a meteor which digs a round hole in her body, right where her black heart used to be. In order to survive and commit further atrocities, she decides to rip her daughter's heart out and plug it back into her severed, but still pulsating arteries. Logic is suspended for a spell as she does so, leaving the heroine to die in front of her eyes while she laughs frantically.

The bitch is back: devilish temptress Eihi Shiina stars
as monstrous head zombie Rikka

Fast-forward many months, as Kika awakens to a new world order in which the recently dead are rising from the grave and eating the living as a result of the widespread infection caused by alien fumes from the meteor. Following pressures from human rights groups claiming that "zombies are people too", Japan is split in two halves, not unlike the British Isles from Neil Marshall's Doomsday. One half shelters the disenfranchised survivors, while the other half acts as a vast reservation for the infected. All the while, the government is secretly elaborating a program of zombie-killing cyborgs meant to eradicate the plague, the prototype of which is Kika, harboring a metal-plated, external pace-maker and a chain-katana plugged to a backpack full of gasoline.

As the plot unfolds, Kika befriends the head of a humble orphanage and his last remaining protegee, both of which are rummaging through the zombie wastelands, harvesting zombie horns for a local kingpin. You see, the grounded horns are used to create a powerful, hallucinogenic drug fetching a high price amongst the desperate poor living in shantytowns near the border. But when the battle-weary trio is arrested during a drug bust, they are forced by the new, anti-zombie government to infiltrate the Northern reservation and annihilate the head zombie, source of the plague. Of course, that head zombie is none other than Rikka, whose evil knows no bound and whose beating heart was stolen from a daughter hellbent on getting it back. The ensuing series of battles is not to be missed.

Not unlike Tokyo Gore Police, Helldriver is
also a crude political satire

I apologize for this lengthy, and mostly superfluous description of the film. Let's just say I got carried away trying to expose every one of the numerous plot points making up the narrative. After all, while the film goes all over the place, discussing important issues pertaining to drug addiction, government abuse, poverty and human rights, all within the restrictive framework of the Nikkatsu action melodrama, it manages to make sense, in a twisted, synthetic sort of way. And although no one will attend the film hoping to find anything other than ruthless gore and grotesque monsters, it's fun to find some substance in the screenplay, which, while not fully original, is a worthy addition to the zombie sub-genre, if only for its all-inclusive take on the living dead mythos.

Still, this is a crowd-pleaser, complete with imaginative, highly energetic action sequences and loads of immoral violence, directed at everyone from innocent bystanders to bloodthirsty zombies. Using a jittery camera, rapid editing and a super-loud soundtrack, the film provides all the excitement one could expect from such fare, while throwing many neat gimmicks all across the battlefield. The protagonist's motored chain-katana is one of those, and so are the modular zombie limbs used to create horrendous vehicles, flying booby traps and over-powered composite zombies. The grand finale set atop a flying giant made from thousands of slithering zombies perfectly exemplifies the extravagant Japanese approach to genre film-making, one that relegates the dramatic issues so dear to Western cinema to the backseat of a hot-rod driven by the immediate impulses and desires of the film audience. And while such an approach is bound to exacerbate the shallowness of its narrative material, it makes for some pulse-pounding, highly-entertaining films that are unimpaired by morality or plausibility.

Helldriver, your number 1 source for chicks
with metal breastplates and chain-katanas

In the end, all you need to know about this film is that the action is fast and furious and the violence messy and ruthless. Add to that a sexy, tall and thick-lipped protagonist and a manic performance by iconic villainess Eihi Shiina, and you've got what genre fans crave: a relentless effort made with contagious zeal by a bunch of genre fans like themselves. That said, the film contains a fun little reference to Odishon that shan't be lost on fans of Miike's seminal one-scene film. Enjoy.

2,5/5 Zany, but derivative crowd-pleaser is, as tagline states, a full-fledged "joy ride".

Love (2011)

Contrarily to what some critics would have you believe, Love is not too ambitious. The problem here lies not in scale or feasibility, but in the crew's lack of confidence in their own skills as filmmakers. And while it does seem like an ordeal to seamlessly merge two timelines almost two hundred years apart (one will probably be reminded of Aronofsky's The Fountain here), it could've been carried out successfully hadn't it been for the overwhelming soundtrack by Angel & Airwaves and the overly wordy screenplay. But as it stands, despite great cinematography and some extremely crafty art direction (the futuristic space station and replicated 19th century battlefield are a sight to behold), the film reminds one of a music video, stretched to the unbearable length of 90 minutes.

Early jitters: first-time director Eubank isn't convinced by
the intelligibility of his images, needs explanatory dialogue to
complement every one of them

The year is 2039. Gunner Wright stars as Lee Miller, a single astronaut aboard a space station, which he is given the task of maintaining. All is well and good until the man loses contact with his base back on Earth and becomes stranded in the sidereal void, completely cut-off from his loved ones, and the oh-so awesome humanity he has left behind. At first, he manages to keep his sanity by exercising and trying his hand at the ship's comm station. But as years pass by, he becomes increasingly desperate and starts sinking into madness, which is depicted with all the conventional signs thereof (endless monologues, writings on the wall, hallucinations, dwindling personal hygiene...). At some point, Miller stumbles upon a handwritten diary describing the exploits of a soldier in the American Civil War on a mission to investigate some alien remnants in the desert. And thus, two distinct timelines collide, the earliest of which contains the brief, introductory chapter of the film. As the astronaut starts reading, endlessly pursuing a tedious conversation with himself, so does time pass, until the year 2045, when he decides to exit the space station, no matter the cost.

And so Miller's ordeal lasts from 2039 through to 2045, two dates which weren't chosen arbitrarily. After all, the film is about memory, memory as one's last recourse against death. Since science has now located the cradle of thoughts and feelings directly in the brain, death necessarily implies the disappearance of what we understand as "conscience". While this has allowed the liberation of many from the clutches of religion, it has also left them in a distressing void. The death of one's conscience is not a very exciting perspective and so people strive to be remembered after their deaths so as to attain immortality through agency. That is why one needs peers so dearly: for remembrance, and for providing material on which to leave a lasting imprint. And so the titular emotion, while it is hardly an item that can be precisely delineated, is understood as a way to leave an indelible mark on humanity and thus transcend the reality of death, which is what grants it supreme relevance within the narrative.

This is all well and good and there are many unseen depths to the screenplay. Unfortunately, the execution is completely atrocious. While one would need to reflect on the images onscreen and to bask in solitude in order to better understand the protagonist's plight, the director constantly overwhelms us with the presence of humanity. While silence would've best befitted most scenes, as Love vies to use absence in order to convince its audience of the need for agency, we get deafening music all the way through. And I do mean deafening, as the soundtrack becomes increasingly distracting from the images at hand. Then, there's the incessant blabbering as lonely Miller enters in an endless dialogue with himself, his home base and various hallucinatory characters.

Director Eubank seems to think that Angels & Airwaves hold
the whole world in the palm of their hand

Hell, there is one instant where he picks up an instruction manual detailing how to service a certain control panel. When he does, the camera frames the pages as he flips through them. A Russian text appears onscreen. And so we understand that the protagonist cannot grasp the instructions. Any further reaction of frustration coming from him should become immediately intelligible. So there is no need to have the actor whine about the instructions being in Russian, or worst, make a joke about it. So why does director Eubank do it? Is it because he doesn't give us credit for understanding the images onscreen, or is it rather that he doesn't give himself credit for creating immediately intelligible images? In all fairness, I believe that the latter assumption is true, and that is precisely what torpedoes the film.

While the images Eubank crafts bear some definite narrative weight in themselves, the man decides instead to put sound in charge of propelling the storyline. Which is a terrible mistake considering that the film aims (not unlike Tarkovsky's wondrous adaptation of Lem's Solaris) at cultivating a sort of nostalgia for human contact and what one could call the paramount human feature, love. And while it is hard to convey the feeling of love through the sight of Malibu sunsets (which Miller dubs the grandest sight he ever beheld) and some snippets of a half-naked beach bimbo (the astronaut's wife) who seems to have crawled out of some Miami strip club, it is even harder to convey solitude when the film is crowded with extra-loud noise and incessant dialogue. Strangely unhappy with the well-composed shots he has painstakingly crafted, Eubank doesn't abide by the principle according to which an image is worth a thousand words. He rather seems to think that each image is worth no word at all, and that they all need to be complemented by a thousand words. This creates a film far too dense for its own good, one which eventually self-destructs under the weight of its own uncertainty. It is as if every point Eubank was trying to make couldn't be shown pictorially, but needed instead to be hammered home with an abundance of dumb, explanatory texts and one hell of a nasty power drill called Angels and Airwaves, which ends up numbing the viewers' sensory apparatus to the point of obliviousness.

A distinct feeling of déjà-vu overshadows the entire project

The use of talking heads is a further example of Eubank's lack of self-confidence, and a surprising one at that. Popping up here and there while the main narrative is unfolding are random people's confessions, all of which would feel more at home in a TV report about recovering alcoholics. While all these interventions follow a common thread, each vying for the need of human agency, they feel completely superfluous considering the nature of the narrative, which itself emphasizes that point a great deal. Said interventions actually impair the flow of the film and its unrealized need for absence. They also point to the crippling legitimacy crisis plaguing Eubank's work. By resorting to such a vox populi, the director seems to require outside intervention to help him establish his own, very personal message, trading the author's mastery over his own material for the reassuring multiplicity of arguments. Unfortunately, a film is not a philosophical treaty and so the accumulation of proof will not necessarily amount to a better result, only a more tangled one.

Strangely enough, ex-cinematographer Eubank doesn't even seem to grasp the importance of cinematography in setting the mood of a film, but also in telling the story outright. And so he relies far too heavily on sound, as if trying to find crutches for an Olympic sprinter. Metaphors aside, his film would've been much, much better had there been no sound at all and had one been given the chance to watch the screen and not the cracks forming behind the speakers. In a bid to strengthen his central thesis by every mean at his disposal, and trying to make sure everybody got the point, what Eubank ended up doing is alienating his target audience, fans of space as a black, empty void, those very people who look at the stars in quiet awe, hoping that film could capture, as Kubrick, Tarkovsky and Scott did, the feeling of wonder one derives from otherworldly silence and solitude. Which is precisely the kind of expectations that the director generates when blatantly referencing untouchable classics such as Solaris and 2001: A Space Odyssey, two films without which most of the ideas contained in Love would be non-existent. That said, attempting to crossover those two latter films is a very dangerous move for it necessarily forces comparison, highlighting Eubank's weaknesses as a director and making his film seem pointless.

Upon exiting the theater, a close friend and sci-fi enthusiast voiced his lack of appreciation for Love with a somewhat relevant question: "Whose idea was it to make a lesser copy of 2001?", he asked. And while this comparison is rather unfair, it should precisely reflect the inner reaction of any film buff at the threshold of the revolving doors. After all, Eubank's work will always draw that kind of resentment for it replicates too many of Kubrick's images without even thinking twice about their contemplative nature. But while some might call this a travesty, I call it merely a faux-pas. After all, the man at the helm shows some definite potential, which he shall exploit fully when he stops borrowing and finds a voice of his own.


2/5 Love underplays some superb pictorial assets to better showcase its derivative ideas, knack for superfluous dialogue and pathological obsession with Angels and Airwaves (from whom the title of the present film is borrowed!). It's a shame because first-time director Eubank shows some definite potential, which should come to fruition when he starts taking control over his own material.