THE GREAT GATSBY

Stars: Leonardo DiCaprio, Tobey Maguire, Carey Mulligan, Amitabh Bachchan, Joel Edgerton, Isla Fisher, Elizabeth Debicki, Jason Clarke and Jack Thompson.
Writers: Baz Luhrmann and Craig Pearce; based on the novel by F. Scott Fitzgerald.
Director: Baz Luhrmann

Rating: 1.5/5

A vapid, cartoonish rendering of a literary work that has achieved greatness only after decades of academic dissection, Australian aggrandiser Baz Luhrmann’s The Great Gatsby is unlikely to garner any interest at all from future generations.  An impenetrable folly of gaudy excess and crass emoting, the film’s only achievement beyond the technical prowess of its staging is in highlighting the shortcomings of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s tome: as an allegory, it is masterful, but as a romantic narrative, it is a meagre work.

Peopled by flapper-era caricatures partaking in white-collar social orgies fuelled by selfish hedonism, Luhrmann’s interpretation of Fitzgerald’s oft-debated novel emerges as grotesque melodrama that plays more like a Mexican telenovela than a respectful reinterpretation of 1920’s New York high society.  

The director has earned the right to put his spin on classic literature after his ultra-modern take on Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet and the dazzling reworking of the legend of the Moulin Rouge, but those works lent themselves to an aesthetic that embraced high drama and rewarded an adventurous vision. Though superficially a chronicle of the partying lifestyle of the wealthy few before their greed subverted a nation, The Great Gatsby novel is never in any way a celebration. And if Luhrmann’s films excel at anything, it is in self-conscious celebration, mostly of their own visual cleverness. The result is a film that, perhaps moreso than any other bigscreen adaptation, seems intrinsically, even defiantly, at odds with its source material.

Most strikingly, what emerges from the film is Luhrmann’s utter disregard for dialogue. Whether in the script stage, where the words he co-authored with regular partner Craig Pearce were penned with a grating affectation (undoubtedly to mimic Fitzgerald’s prose), or during post-production, where those words are forced into the background amidst arrhythmic camerawork and fragmented editing, the director determinedly refuses to let his cast construct and finish sentences. The camera soars clear of the action for another sweeping CGI cityscape, a dozen partygoers shimmy between the characters and the audience, the throbbing Jay-Z-produced soundtrack wells; Luhrmann finds a hundred different ways to rob his able but overwhelmed stable of actors any real voice.

The plot is a standard recollection scenario centred on Nick Carraway (a wan and unfocussed Tobey Maguire), now a ravaged alcoholic writer seeking sanitarium treatment under Dr Perkins (Jack Thompson, one of many great Aussie actors who turn up for three lines and a rare Hollywood-size paycheque). He recalls, on the page, his time with the great J. Gatsby, a Howard Hughes-like figure whose parties were events of legendary largesse. Gatsby is played by Hollywood golden boy Leonardo DiCaprio (as it was in 1974, by then it-guy, Robert Redford), who makes the most of his close-ups and furrows his brow with exaggerated angst, but never fully convinces or engages. Carey Mulligan is Daisy Buchanan, Nick’s cousin and the apple of Gatsby’s eye, though she is all doe-eyed airiness and utterly disposable in the part.

All support cast members play to the back row, as no doubt instructed to by Luhrmann, but perhaps also as a means by which to be heard above the aural and visual shrillness of every scene. Joel Edgerton (as Daisy’s brutish husband, Tom) looks particularly uncomfortable and resoundingly miscast, though Isla Fisher (as the doomed Myrtle Wilson) and Jason Clarke (as her oafish mechanic husband, George) are fine. Most striking is Elizabeth Debicki as starlet Jordan Baker, though her part is giving short shrift by the third-act.

Luhrmann has pronounced his affinity for the novel and, in particular, the character of J. Gatsby. It is an analogous relationship that could come back to haunt the filmmaker, for there is indeed a very clear connection. Like Gatsby, Luhrmann loves to put on a party but has an addiction for the ornate that leaves no room for the emotion and intricacy of real life; it ultimately leads to both their downfalls.

Archetypically, Luhrmann's current creative mindset reflects more PT Barnum than J Gatsby; a manipulative showman able to conjure images of light and colour to dazzle the masses while wilfully neglecting their hearts and minds. In his last film, an entire continent was done a disservice by being viewed through this prism; here, it is just one man, F. Scott Fitzgerald, who must endure the ignominy.

A HAUNTED HOUSE

Stars: Marlon Wayans, Essence Atkins, Marlene Forte, David Koechner, Dave Sheridan, Nick Swardson, Alanna Ubach, Andrew Daly, Affion Crockett and Cedric the Entertainer.
Writers: Marlon Wayans and Rick Alvarez.
Director: Michael Tiddes.

Rating: 2.5/5

The enthusiasm and willingness of the players far outweighs any wit or invention exhibited in the ghost-story parody, A Haunted House, Marlon Wayans first foray into big-screen comedy sans his brothers. Sporadically misogynistic, homophobic and grade-school puerile in equal measure, it is also not without the occasional laugh-out-loud moment, though be warned – no body function (or its by-product) is overlooked if a giggle, however meagre, can be milked.

Wayans is a gifted comedian, but here he has to work the physical schtick to a far greater degree than we have come to expect from him. He tackled the ‘genre parody’ material to slightly better effect 13 years ago in the original Scary Movie; at best, his latest effort allows him room to work his improvisational skills but must be considered a sideways career step.

The film’s first half is essentially a send-up of the first Paranormal Activity film (for those who can recall it), with Wayans as Malcolm Jones, a new homeowner welcoming his long-time girlfriend, Kisha (Essence Atkins) into his man-world. In line with the film’s specifically male-centric point-of-view, gags abound about her weird sleeping habits, sudden lack of sex drive, messy bathroom routine and reluctance to cook. Atkins (reteaming with her Dance Flick co-star) is funny and lovely, a patient foil and good sport opposite Wayan’s coarse every-man (a highlight is her somnambulistic dance moves).

When some wacky supernatural moments spook them, they call on David Koechner’s CCTV expert/ghost hunter Dan and his simpleton brother Bob (Dave Sheridan), gangsta cousin Ray Ray (Affion Crockett) and, to greatest comic effect, Nick Swardson’s occasionally hilarious though glaringly un-PC gay psychic, Chip. Turning its satiric eye on the 2012 hit The Devil Inside opens the film up to Cedric the Entertainer’s ex-con priest Father Williams; the final half hour, which features all key players trying to subdue and exorcise the possessed Kisha, is good for a few well-timed chuckles.

Feature debutant director Michael Tiddes clearly understands the found footage concept well, though to suggest this is an auteur’s work is a bit of a stretch. His main role seems to be to let the cast work their comic chops and hope the footage all cuts together at some point. Some gags push accepted boundaries; rape and domestic violence ‘jokes’ need to be a lot more contextual and subversive (ala Todd Solondz) to soften the inherently distasteful elements. Most other attempts at humour amount to unwieldy extended skits that may appeal to juvenile intellects and those familiar with the source material. 

Read the SCREEN-SPACE interview with Marlon Wayans here.

THE HANGOVER PART III

Stars: Bradley Cooper, Ed Helms, Zach Galifianakis, Ken Jeong, John Goodman, Heather Graham, Justin Bartha, Melissa McCarthy and Mike Epps.
Writers: Todd Phillips and Craig Mazin.
Director: Todd Phillips.

Rating: 3/5

The scattershot resume of director Todd Phillips takes an interesting turn with The Hangover Part III, which forgoes a high laugh-per-minute ratio in favour of an admirable dedication to character. A surprisingly heartfelt conclusion to his unplanned comedic franchise, this final instalment of the ‘Wolfpack’ films refuses to try for the giggly rhythm of the first film, preferring a solid examination of the endearing themes of friendship, individuality and eccentricity. Most important of all, it is a vast improvement on #2.

Given the cache of lead players Ed Helms, Zach Galifianakis and, most obviously, Oscar nominee Bradley Cooper, the immediate question is ‘Why would any of them risk their marquee value for a third turn in a series that left many cold last time around?’ Sure, upfront paycheques and backend deals were undoubtedly sweeteners, but each actor benefits from a script (by Phillips and fellow series regular Craig Mazin) that nails key moments between blokey mates who have matured (by varying degrees) since their first and frantic 2009 adventure.

There are some big leaps to make if one is to go with a plot that kicks off with breakout star Ken Jeong’s Mr Chow escaping a Thai prison, Shawshank-style, followed by a cruel set-piece involving Galifianakis’ Alan, a giraffe and an overpass (even more distasteful than it sounds). Brought together at a funeral for one of the franchise regulars, the ‘Wolfpack’ are soon in the clutches of crime boss Mr Marshall (John Goodman, auto-piloting menace) who demands of them the gold that Chow absconded with before his incarceration. Frankly, the machinations of the plot are too labyrinthine to fully convey here, suffice to say guns, drugs, Heather Graham and Las Vegas are all employed to service a narrative that ultimately plays out more like a shoot-‘em-up heist caper than the buddy comedy many will expect.

The script never fully allows Cooper or Helms to find a strong comic voice, instead using them as devices in the ever-unfolding plot. But nor does it abandon them, instead providing each with a personable presence that makes them slightly more human that in Parts 1 and 2; Galifianakis gets the most screen-time in the first act, but fades back into his sidekick persona. Overall, this third instalment is a distinct departure from the elements that have defined the series to date; gone is the fractured, reverse-storytelling ploy, the supporting female cast and, most noticeably, the drug-and-booze component that fuelled and partially accounted for some insane actions.

Phillips and veteran comedy DOP Lawrence Sher create a vast, widescreen canvas that gives this third instalment an air of epic importance that is only truly definable in terms of the group’s strong mateship. That is to say, nothing truly epic or important happens on-screen, yet the scope of this group’s slightly off-centre bond comes through. This sentimentality invariably helps a subplot involving Alan and comedy ‘it-girl’, Melissa McCarthy, as a pawnshop clerk who clicks with Galifianakis’ nutcase.  

It is not the laugh-riot that many will have hoped for, but The Hangover Part III is certainly a truthful conclusion to a trilogy based upon the notion of three friends trying to help a fourth. The boy-men of the first film are older, wiser here; that makes them slightly less funny, but also makes their sober actions more noble and heartfelt. I didn’t laugh at them as much, but I grew to like them a whole lot more.

STAR TREK INTO DARKNESS

Stars: Chris Pine, Zachary Quinto, Zoe Saldana, Benedict Cumberbatch, Karl Urban, Simon Pegg, Anton Yelchin, John Cho, Peter Weller, Bruce Greenwood and Alice Eve.
Writers: Alex Kurtzman, Damon Lindelof and Roberto Orci.
Director: JJ Abrams.

Rating: 2.5/5

Utilising every visual trick in his arsenal to keep the franchise pulse strong and the pictures pretty, director JJ Abrams and his trio of writers (original instalment scribes Alex Kurtzman and Roberto Orci, working with the ubiquitous Damon Lindelof) explore accepted Star Trek lore with skill, ensuring die-hard fans, both old and new, will have lots to knowingly nod their heads about.

But Into Darkness proves a misleading title; despite a vivid central villain, there is thin, shiny veneer of shallowness that infuses this second instalment of the rebooted series. Thematically, Abrams works in scenes of friendship, honour, loss and loyalty, but the drama coasts on the emotional legacy of the series rather than creating any of its own heart or warmth. The production generally fails to overcome the false empathy associated with franchise characters that are never really in peril.

Following a frantic opening sequence that nicely positions Kirk (Chris Pine) and Spock (Zachary Quinto) as conflicted moral adversaries, a terrorist attack on the London-based Starfleet archive prompts a gathering of the top brass, unknowingly furthering the diabolical agenda of the evil John Harrison (a glowering Benedict Cumberbatch).  

Harrison flees to the distant Klingon outpost of Cronos with the USS Enterprise in pursuit, its crew under direct order from Admiral Marcus (Peter Weller) to terminate their target. But Harrison secures passage aboard Kirk’s ship and is soon willing his way into the heads and consciences of key crewmembers with his own grandly evil scheme unfolding as planned. 

Abrams convolutes cliffhanger after cliffhanger, relying heavily on at least three old-fashioned ‘counting clock’ moments to up the tension. There is a grinding relentlessness to the film’s third act, as characters run everywhere and yell at each other while often seeming to peer out from behind the director’s blinding lens flare (Abrams really needs to rein in this affectation). Devoid of emotion, Abrams’ style less resembles his hero, Steven Spielberg, than it does the hollow visuals of contemporaries such as Len Wiseman or Paul WS Anderson.

Anglophiles will be chuffed at the more central role afforded Simon Pegg’s Scotty and newcomer Alice Eve, as the sex-kittenish science officer Carol; regulars such as John Cho’s Sulu, Anton Yelchin’s Chekhov and, in particular, Zoe Saldana’s Uhuru are underserved, existing largely as plot devices. Karl Urban’s ‘Bones’ McCoy, a highlight of the first film, descends into the comic relief role, which does not suit Urban’s burly persona. Pine is fine in the action moments, though his impetuous playboy captain (when called into action, he must cut short a threesome with two long-tailed alien babes) is less endearing this time round; as it was in round one, Quinto’s take on Spock is the film’s strongest suit.

Perhaps most worrying is the general air of ‘seen-it-before’ ambivalence the effects work inspires. Post screening, the gathered crowd bandied about titles such as Minority Report, The Avengers and the Total Recall remake as obvious reference points. With the Star Wars saga next on Abrams dance card, one hopes new software or, better yet, a commitment to a fresh vision emerges from Hollywood’s ‘Golden Boy’ and the tech sector at his disposal.  

IRON MAN 3

Stars: Robert Downey Jr, Gwyneth Paltrow, Guy Pearce, Jon Favreau, Ben Kingsley, Rebecca Hall, Don Cheadle, William Sadler, Miguel Ferrer, James Badge Dale, Stephanie Szostak and Ty Simpkins.
Writers: Drew Pearce and Shane Black.
Director: Shane Black.

Rating: 2.5/5

Though the top brass at Marvel Studios and their new Disney cohorts are positioning the third Iron Man instalment as a four-quadrant ‘Avengers’-size blockbuster, writer/director Shane Black’s underwhelming take on Tony Stark’s heroic alter-ego is very much a fanboy’s-own adventure.

Despite a central character steeped in cutting-edge technology, Iron Man 3 creaks through an overly familiar structure and blah tropes that hurtle the series back into the world of 80s action flicks. Brought on board to punch up leading man Robert Downey Jr’s smart-mouth dialogue between scenes of generic mayhem, Black achieves a modicum of success with some well-played one-liners. If Iron Man 3 outdoes the first two instalments in any significant way, it is with a welcome and surprising shot of non-Downey inspired humour in the form of Ben Kingsley’s Bin Laden-esque bad guy, The Mandarin.

But there are too many moments that recall Black’s past works (most famously, Lethal Weapon, Last Action Hero and The Last Boy Scout, as well as punching-up tough-guy talk on Predator, The Hunt for Red October and Battle Los Angeles, too name just a few). Those familiar with his over-played beats will recognise such clichéd tools as the smart-mouthed kid sidekick (here, played well by Ty Simpkins), the hero’s fractured mental state (in one of several nods to the events in The Avengers, Stark has PTSD-like anxiety attacks), a cartoonish villain prone to monologue-ing (an OTT Guy Pearce) and the necessity for our protagonist to hit rock bottom (here, represented by snowy, small-town America) before ascending once again to full hero status.  

Where Black falls noticeably short is in his depiction of the franchise’s key relationship between Stark and Pepper Potts (a game but under-served Gwyneth Paltrow). Keeping the pair separate for much of the film robs the mechanical vision of much needed humanity. Oddly, Black keeps the principal characters in different corners for long stretches – Favreau’s Happy Hogan is taken out of the action early-on; Don Cheadles’ own iron-suited soldier, War Machine, is off in Pakistan seeking out insurgents. Even Stark is separated from his suit for much of the films mid-section (not unlike the recent third instalment of The Dark Knight Rises, during which Bruce Wayne spent a long time sans suit and which resembles Iron Man 3 in its portrayal of a troubled tech-heavy hero).

Action set-pieces are top-tier, though exhibit no particular auteuristic vision (unlike, say, those of Black’s longtime collaborator, John McTiernan, in his heyday). A helicopter attack on Stark’s home (previewed heavily in the trailer) represents desktop effects work par excellence; a drama aboard Air Force One allows for some old-fashioned stunt work and green-screening; the hero-villain standoff finale has a been-there-done-that blandness. The scenes, like the rest of Shane Black’s perfunctory, fatigued film, will suffice for the fans who have to have their regular cinematic superhero fix, but will leave others generally unmoved.     

OBLIVION

Stars: Tom Cruise, Olga Kurylenko, Morgan Freeman, Andrea Riseborough, Nikolaj Coster-Waldau, Melissa Leo and Zoe Bell.
Writers: Joseph Kosinski, Karl Gajdusek and Michael Arndt.
Director: Joseph Kosinski. 

Rating: 3.5/5

It is just as well director Joseph Kosinski renders his vision of a post-apocalyptic Earth with such crisp acuity, because his story plays a little fuzzy at times. Taking its early and best cues from Andrei Tarkovsky’s existential sci-fi classic Solaris and Duncan Jones’ angst-ridden Moon before settling into an Independence Day-like/A-list heroic vehicle, Tom Cruise’s latest is a beautifully produced work with a slow burn set up that may burn too slowly for some.

The lines are setting into Cruise’s face and he may not have to many more action hero roles left in him, but his slightly less youthful appearance perfectly fits our protagonist, Jack Harper. He is a man racked with unexplainable dreams and vivid memories of a woman (Olga Kurylenko) he never knew from a time in which he never lived.

He pushes them aside to do his job; he is a ‘tech’, left on Earth in the year 2077 with his co-worker and lover Victoria (Andrea Riseborough) to maintain the fleet of drones that subdue the remaining ‘scavengers’, scragglers of an alien force that sought to conquer the human race. Having destroyed the moon and sent our planet into chaos, they were ultimately defeated by nuclear means but the war left the surface of Earth largely unliveable; mankind is now situated off-planet. As Jack's assignment period nears its end, their existence is changed by a downed spacecraft of human origin, a fateful discovery that sharply focusses his visions and the emergence of a band of surviving rebel fighters (led by Morgan Freeman’s Beech).

The depth of understanding that the director has for this world, drawn upon from years of his own pre-visualization, is breathtaking at times. The Earth’s barren surface, littered with fragments of a long-gone society (and reflecting Harper’s own piecemeal mental state), is captured with extraordinary detail by Oscar-winning Life of Pi cinematographer Claudio Miranda. Tech representation (Harper and Victoria’s home base, which perhaps deliberately resembles an iPhone writ large) and effects work (the fleet of drones; the enormous water processors; Jack’s ‘dragonfly’-shaped vehicle) are spectacularly top-tier.

Kosinki’s screenplay (co-written by Karl Gajdusek and the new Star Wars scribe, Michael Arndt) is based upon the highly-touted but as-yet-unpublished graphic novel he wrote with Arvid Nelson. On screen, it feels somewhat episodic; audiences may struggle with its initial lack of a compelling rhythm. This is not necessarily a bad thing, as Oblivion is a very thoughtful work, steeped in a slightly more mature thematic structure (grief and loss; betrayal; the corrosive power of the fractured mind) than might be expected from the trailer.

The narrative unfolds in small increments as a means by which to build mystery and tension, resulting in a first act that is decidedly low-key (save for some well-staged subterranean action). As was the case with his debut feature, TRON: Legacy, Kosinski proves a thrilling visual artist but struggles with second-act detail; the film looses momentum at the very point a major reveal is delivered. He finds sturdier ground within the films denouement, wrapping up the loose ends of the mystery with compelling, resonant clarity.

Supporting the state-of-the-art visuals and ultra-modern sheen given the film by the 4K resolution is the use of alterna-pop leaders M.8.3 (aka Anthony Gonzalez), providing an pulsating, ambient score (as Daft Punk did on TRON: Legacy).

BUCK WILD

Stars: Matthew Albrecht, Joe Stevens, Isaac Harrison, Dru Lockwood, Jarrod Pistilli, Meg Cionni, Mark Leslie Ford and Tyler Glodt.
Writer: Matthew Albrecht and Tyler Glodt
Director: Tyler Glodt

Rating: 3/5

Broken Lizard meets Dawn of the Dead in Buck Wild, an OK yokel-themed zom-com that relies on cast chemistry above anything really amusingly ground-breaking in its quest for genre laughs.

Destined to be pitched against Edgar Wright’s laddish classic Shaun of the Dead (and A Night of Horror festival’s other undead gagfest, Cockneys vs Zombie), Tyler Glodt’s well-paced low-budgeter offers ample blood and guts when needed though could have used some tighter scripting in its first act. The overall impact suggests it will fall short of breakout hit status, but it is certainly fun enough for those that will watch anything zombie-themed.

An outbreak is unleashed when rancher Clyde (Joe Stevens) stumbles across a mythical Chupacabra hiding in his barn. Some murky logic mutes the fact, but it seems that after the hideous beast bites him, Clyde becomes Patient Zero, responsible for kickstarting an undead uprising in his small, dusty hometown.

The timing could not have been worse for a gaggle of four city guys, heading to the backwoods for a weekend of game hunting. Co-writer Matthew Albrecht channels Matthew Perry as nice guy Craig, Decent Guy 101 enjoying some manly time before becoming betrothed. He is entirely unaware that his root-rat camping buddy Lance (Isaac Harrison) is getting it on with his fiancé-to-be. Making up the posse is the slightly too prissy Tom (a mannered but very funny Dru Lockwood) and the off-kilter Jerry (Jarrod Pistilli), a nutty New Yorker whose presence puts the whole group on edge.

The plotting is negligible, barely providing a framework upon which to hang episodic bouts of character based humour and increasingly icky blood-letting, though its wafer-thin foundation doesn’t necessarily undercut the laughs. Central to the boys nightmarish experience is Clyde’s typically sexy farmgirl daughter, Candy (an alluring Meg Cionni) and a dimwit sheriff (Glodt himself, in a convincing cameo). Harder to explain away is Mark Leslie Ford’s Brit-accented bad guy Billy Ray, a particularly odd and under-explained presence in this otherwise all-American setting.

Zombie action is entirely at the service of the comedy, though gore is at the fore when required. A mauled deer, an undead-ite taking a pointy crucifix to the face and one nasty Romero-esque disembowelling will ensure horror buffs leave happy. Glodt has gone for runners instead of shufflers, although it waivers depending on the level of threat required.

Tech package is pleasingly top-notch, given remote locale and presumably low budget. Glodt and co-editor Lynel Moore deserve kudos for nailing comedic beats and effective horror moments with equal aplomb; Tod Campbell’s skill as DOP is captured (via the ubiquitous Red One rig) in a backlit zombie onslaught that looks awesome.

THE MANSION

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

Rating: 4.5/5

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE HOST

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

Rating: 3/5

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

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

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

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

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

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

WET AND RECKLESS

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

Rating: 3.5/5

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

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

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

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

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

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