MANDELA: LONG WALK TO FREEDOM

Stars: Idris Elba, Naomie Harris, Tony Kgorge, Riaad Moosa, Jamie Bartlett, Terry Pheto, Gys de Villiers and Robert Hobbs.
Writer: William Nicholson; based upon an autobiography by Nelson Mandela.
Director: Justin Chadwick.

Rating: 4/5

Justin Chadwick’s biopic of the great man’s life is a well-crafted, largely conventional but no less moving account of an everyman who learnt to deal with the consequences of having greatness thrust upon him.

Chadwick’s background in high-end TV drama serves his latest project well; the airs and graces he attempted with middling success in past big-screen efforts (The Other Boleyn Girl, 2008; The First Grader, 2010; Stolen, 2011) finally find the substance to warrant his style. The UK-born auteur’s command of subtle composition and quietly powerful drama suits Nelson Mandela’s steady climb from idealistic lawyer to iconic freedom fighter.

The ace in this sweeping tale is, of course, Idris Elba in the lead role. Delivering a performance that requires the actor to age from a 30-something firebrand open to the temptations of the flesh above family duties to a noble survivor of cruel imprisonment who would come to represent the hopes of a downtrodden people, Elba delivers fully upon the promise he has exhibited for some time now. Matching his on-screen potency is Naomie Harris as Winnie in a role that has been oddly ignored by the award season predictors; as both the rod that strengthens her husband’s resolve and the burgeoning warrior for her people’s plight, Harris (last seen as Bond’s ballsy offsider in Skyfall) invests wholly in the role.

Chadwick and Elba imbue their Mandela with a richness that honours the living embodiment and a vitality that makes for a compelling screen character. Early scenes that establish him as being at one with his people meld with act two dramatics that see him sacrifice a stable future for the nobility of his beliefs. By the time the stoic, aged activist faces off against the imperilled leaders of a crumbling Apartheid regime, Elba has assumed a gigantic persona and consumes every inch of the widescreen frame.

It is not always an easy task for productions employing the man-vs-myth approach to pull off both aspects with success. Although he accomplished it with skill in Gandhi, Sir Richard Attenborough’s subsequent spins on the lives of Charlie Chaplin, Ernest Hemingway (In Love and War) and Steve Biko (Cry Freedom) are admirable but have not aged well; Spike Lee’s Malcolm X impresses as a cinematic treatment, but seems under-cooked by today’s standards (despite Denzel Washington’s stunning lead performance).

A slightly saggy mid-section means it is not quite the classic biopic treatment that perhaps the late, great man deserved, but Mandela is nevertheless both a stirring tribute and gritty portrayal of a man righting a wrong and influencing a planet in the process. 

WALKING WITH DINOSAURS 3D

Stars: Charlie Rowe, Karl Urban and Angourie Rice.
Featuring the voices of: Justin Long, John Leguizamo, Skyler Stone and Tiya Sircar.
Writer: John Collee.
Directors: Barry Cook and John Nightingale.

Rating: 3/5

Fifteen years after the groundbreaking BBC documentary series became a television phenomenon and in the wake of the arena spectacular that brought the creatures of prehistory to a live audience, the inevitable big-screen brand expansion of the Walking with Dinosaurs property proves to be as slickly-packaged an endeavour as you’d expect from any franchise entrant. That said, extinction for this mighty marketing behemoth feels a little bit closer.

The co-directing mash-up of animation savvy Barry Cook (Mulan; Arthur Christmas) and wildlife doco maestro John Nightingale (producer of the recent theatrical release, One Life) is understandable; each brings the prerequisite skills needed to nail both the emotional and natural realism asked of by the story. They stick very close to the visual aesthetics that proved so successful on the smallscreen; state-of-the-art effects propel the audience into the late Cretaceous period, specifically to within a Pachyrinosaurus herd and their hatchlings as they enjoy an Alaskan spring.

Also held over from the 1999 series is an educational element; as each dinosaur appears, the frame will freeze and a child-like voiceover will give the scientific name, its English translation and its dietary requirements.

Where the film will most wilfully divide impatient parents and their pre-teen company is in the decision to anthropomorphize the lead characters with tart, mall-teen attitudes in the service of a rickety first love/boy-to-man plot. Our protagonist, ‘Patchy’, is voiced by Justin Long with that wide-eyed, ‘golly gee!’ cadence personified by stock Mouse House characters. It is not the only similarity to the Disney oeuvre: many elements recall the studio’s own Dinosaur (not to mention the Land Before Time animated series) and the films narrator, Alex (voiced by John Leguizamo), a wise and witty overseer and feathered friend to Patchy, is clearly modelled upon Rowan Atkinson’s Zazu from The Lion King.

The ultra-realism of the beasts and their surrounds are done a disservice by the ‘Saturday-morning cartoon’ dialogue from the usually reliable John Collee (Happy Feet; Master and Commander). One can envision a version from which the dialogue is removed entirely and fresh narration recorded to accompany the journey of the main characters, with far greater emotional impact. The prehistoric-set narrative is bookended by scenes between a paleontologist (Karl Urban) and his surly teen nephew (Charlie Rowe) that are designed to enhance the ‘personal growth’ subtext but seem throwaway.

Reservations aside, the beautiful widescreen cinematography (landscape footage was shot in Alaska and New Zealand) by first-timer John Brooks melds seamlessly with the pixel-perfect creations of Australian effects house Animal Logic and proves sufficiently captivating in spite of the blah storytelling. Our fascination with the thunder lizards of yore has never waned, which should ensure this spectacle, however undercooked narratively, is a big hit with family audiences.

ANCHORMAN 2: THE LEGEND CONTINUES

Stars: Will Ferrell, Paul Rudd, Steve Carell, David Koechner, Christina Applegate, Meagan Good, Josh Lawson, James Marsden, Dylan Baker, Greg Kinnear, Kristen Wiig and Harrison Ford.
Writers: Will Ferrell and Adam McKay.
Director: Adam McKay.

Rating: 2.5/5

Will Ferrell’s maroon-hued egomaniac, legendary newsman Ron Burgundy finds nirvana in the early days of the 24-hour news cycle in Adam McKay’s loose-limbed, indulgent sequel. The ensemble seems to be having fun and there are some scattered belly laughs, but the truly inspired nuttiness that made the first Anchorman a cult hit is in short order.

Burgundy has shifted his base from San Diego to New York, where he has established a successful on-air partnership with his wife, Veronica (Christina Applegate). When she is offered the prime time gig to which he felt entitled, Ron descends into a deep depression, hitting rock bottom as a foul-mouthed announcer at SeaWorld. These early scenes are well paced (and feature a fun cameo from Harrison Ford) but don’t strongly establish an inspired reason to revisit Burgundy’s world.

That reason finally manifests in the form of the Global News Network, a soon-to-launch network financed by Aussie millionaire Kench Allenby (Josh Lawson) and headed by strong-willed Linda Jackson (Meaghan Good). Despite his fall from grace, Burgundy is (rather implausibly) given free rein to bring back his old crew – boisterous sports guy Champ Kind (David Koechner), reporter Brian Fantana (Paul Rudd) and knuckle-headed weatherman Brick Tamland (Steve Carell).

The overriding gag is that Burgundy’s ‘lowest common denominator’ approach to broadcasting gave birth to the ‘news-as-entertainment’ era; when Burgundy utters, “Why do we have to give people what they need and not what they want?,” dollar signs register with the new network. It is the sequel’s only meaningful attempt at thoughtful satire; in all other regards, McKay and Ferrell’s script is utterly reliant upon puerile silliness and the improvisational skills of its cast.

The best bits are between Carell and guest star Kristen Wiig as like-minded dimwits who fall in love; Rudd has some moments, but Koechner is background noise and Applegate, Greg Kinnear (as Veronica’s new man) and James Marsden (as Ron’s rival) are relegated to bit player contributions. Most troubling is Ferrell’s energy in the lead role. He is older (and looks it) and struggles to recapture the youthful brashness he brought to the part almost 10 years ago. Burgundy 2013 doesn’t inspire laughs as much as he does pity, the casual misogyny and racism that suited the first film’s tone now appearing boorish and outdated.

Anchorman 2 eventually finds a kind of Python-esque craziness in the final third, when disparate elements such as temporary blindness, a great white shark pup and a ‘white bronco’ police chase factor into the denouement. The best reason to see the film is a nonsensical but hilarious sequence that has Ron and his posse facing off against newsmen from the cable network channels. It could be the greatest sequence of cameos in film history and is presented with such fresh vigour that it feels like the inspiration for the entire project.

BIG ASS SPIDER!

Stars: Greg Grunberg, Ray Wise, Lombardo Boyar, Clare Kramer, Lin Shaye, Patrick Bauchau, Ruben Pla, Bob Bledsoe and Alexis Peters.
Writer: Gregory Gieras.
Director: Mike Mendez.

Rating: 3/5

The most pressing mental involvement that Mike Mendez’s silly, scary guilty pleasure requires is – where does one place the inflection? Is it Big ASS Spider (maybe, cos’ it’s got a huge opisthosoma)? Or is it BIG Ass Spider (as in a big spider that lives in…ugh, that’s disgusting)?

Though easily shoehorned into the current craze for D-grade schlock such as Pirahnaconda and Sharknado, Big Ass Spider! exhibits smarter comedic chops and slicker production values that place it above such self-conscious efforts, rightfully earning it critical warmth and audience affection.

The film opens with a striking slow motion piece in which our hero, schlubby pest-control guy Alex Mathis (Greg Grunberg), awakens amidst a scene of urban havoc. Audiences are introduced to the titular star as it scales a downtown skyscraper, Kong-style, before the inevitable ’12 hours earlier’ graphic brings us back to the beginning of the hero’s journey (a funny sequence involving the great Lin Shaye).

Most of the film’s first half is confined to a hospital set, where Mathis is being treated for (you guessed it) a spider bite. In the building’s morgue (lit in typically B-movie dark and creepy shadows), a corpse has been delivered with an unwanted eight-legged passenger that makes short work of a coroner and escapes into the airducts. These scenes play well with horror buffs, riffing inventively on key moments in such genre staples as John Carpenter’s The Thing and Ridley Scott’s Alien.

The military descends, led by Major Braxton Tanner (Ray Wise, stoic and dependable) and Lt Karly Brant (Clare Kramer) and, with Alex and his new offsider, hospital security guy Jose (a scene-stealing Lombardo Boyar) in tow, set about securing downtown LA and stopping the B.A.S.

TV veteran Mendez and writer Gregory Gieras (returning to the sub-genre of ‘Exclamation Mark Cinema’ seven years after Centipede!) find a fun balance between comedy and horror. Grunberg (an experienced support player, best known for long stints on the TV series Heroes, Alias and Felicity) is in sync with his director’s vision and makes for an engaging leading man. A couple of gruesome moments (notably, a Raiders…-style face melt and the giant spider’s first big rampage, through picnickers in Elysian Park) bring what is essentially a homage to 50’s era ‘big bug’ pics into the modern film realm.

Perhaps deliberately, special effects waiver between terrific (the spider’s perch atop the crumbling tower is definitely the money-shot) and a bit wobbly (web imagery proves a problem). But all are proficiently staged and in line with the knowing but respectful self-parodying tone that the production wants to convey.

HOMEFRONT

Stars: Jason Statham, James Franco, Winona Ryder, Kate Bosworth, Izabela Vidovic, Clancy Brown, Rachel Lefevre, Marcus Hester, Omar Benson Miller and Frank Grillo.
Writer: Sylvester Stallone; based upon the novel by Chuck Logan.
Director: Gary Fleder

Rating: 3/5

The biggest risk that the producers of Homefront take is in the casting of a non-American lead in what is very definitely a down home, gun-&-family, flag-wavin’ action opus. Any doubt that the production was squarely aimed at that demographic is dispelled with one glance at the US one-sheet, in which Brit tough-guy Jason Satham wears a Toby Keith-esque Stars’n’Stripes shirt - the likes of which never appears in the film.

Journeyman director Gary Fleder’s slick vision of Sylvester Stallone’s script is a flyover-state fantasy, in which a man of honour, ex-undercover narc Phil Broker (Statham, dependably stoic) must rebuild a life a with his too-cute daughter, Maddy (a terrific Izabela Vidovic) after a biker gang drug-ring sting goes bad.

One of only a handful of surprises in the mix is the name cast in showy but decidedly supporting roles. Winona Ryder getting all skanky as an aging middle-woman under pressure; a skeletal Kate Bosworth, compelling as a fired-up addict who clashes with Broker; and, above all others, A-lister James Franco as ‘Gator, the small-time Louisiana meth dealer who uncovers Broker’s true identity and brings bloody vengeance into the new life that the ex-DEA agent has made for himself.  

Franco’s casting is not by chance. The ultra left-leaning real-life antics of the star, along with the hillbilly scourge that is the meth epidemic and the lawlessness perpetrated by leather-clad organised crime, are the most frightening threats to an American ideal still clung to by the Red Staters who will buy into this old-school action set-up.

This America is the America of Western mythology, existing beyond traditional justice (Clancy Brown’s posturing sheriff is an ineffectual buffoon), in which a lone gunfighter (or, in Statham’s case, martial-arts maestro) stands up for all that is honourable. Archetypes that populated the dusty prairie town’s of old Hollywood are everywhere, from Rachel Lefevre’s sweet school marm to Omar Benson Miller’s upstanding best buddy (tellingly, the film’s only African American cast member) and Frank Grillo’s seething and sweaty killing machine.

So anachronistic is much of Fleder’s film, it comes as no surprise when Franco’s Gator, having broken into Broker’s home, finds all he needs to know about the man’s past by rummaging through some boxes in the basement. Why Broker would have his old files lying around after having been relocated or why they exist in hard form at all, and not on a hard drive in Washington, is never explained.

But, if one is able to cast aside such cynicism, Homefront is a film that understands its audience with a precise, non-condescending clarity. Affection for the macho action-man genre is Sylvester Stallone’s stock-in-trade as a storyteller (few films have delivered for the fans like his 2008 Rambo redux). Despite crafting this as a vehicle for his own on-screen talents, passing the reins to his Expendables co-star was the right move; Statham is no De Niro, but he nails the nuances and motivations of a man like Broker with skill and confidence.  

Along with top-notch production values (particularly the widescreen lensing of the stunning bayou vistas by Theo van de Sande), Homefront provides a solid, well-structured and exciting diversion. 

ERNEST AND CELESTINE

Featuring the voices of: Lambert Wilson, Pauline Brunner, Anne-Marie Loop, Patrice Melennec and Brigitte Virtudes.
Writer: Daniel Pennac.
Directors: Benjamin Renner, Vincent Patar and Stephane Aubier.

Rating: 4/5

The late Belgian author Gabrielle Vincent’s books about the unlikely friendship between a sweet-natured mouse named Celestine and grumpy, ne’er-do-well bear named Ernest came to magical life on the page and find a similar passion via water-coloured textures and warm-hearted fullness in this highly-anticipated film adaptation.

A triumvirate of directors (Benjamin Renner, Vincent Patar, Stephane Aubier) make full use of the imaginative treatment afforded Vincent’s much-loved works by scriptwriter Daniel Pennac, who has taken elements from several tomes to create an original narrative created in the spirit of the books.

A captivating opening sequence set in a boarding house for mice in training to be dental assistants (teeth are currency in the underground world of the mouse colony) outlines the relationship between the subterranean rodent population and the brutish, above-ground world of the bears. Despite being taught that never the twain shall meet, Celestine (voiced by Pauline Brunner) dreams of a world where each exist in harmony.

Starving after having been woken from hibernation by robins and snowflakes, Ernest (veteran leading man Lambert Wilson) stumbles across Celestine, who has been trapped in a garbage can after a night raid to collect teeth went wrong. Predator and prey come face-to-face, only to strike up an ‘odd couple’ partnership and undertake an adventure that pits them against the prejudices that have kept the species apart.

The pairing grows in depth over a series of episodic misadventures, although it is the dialogue shared in the quieter moments and the superbly-timed character interaction that gives the film its resonance, far more so than the sometimes extravagantly staged schtick. The animation technique is particularly effective in conveying both the beauty of the landscape and the inner self of key characters; tight close-ups reveal the kind of emotional meaning in the slightest of facial movements that the most experienced of live-action actors would struggle with.

Despite a decided lack of bold primary colours, the likes of which mainstream audiences feed on in an animation era ruled by the CGI divisions of major studios, Ernest and Celestine provides a sweetly subtle alternative to the barrage of manipulative emotional cues usually called upon in this modern age. It is a beautiful work (that will play just as well whether sub-titled or dubbed), effortlessly engaging the hearts and minds of young and old alike.   

DOGGIEWOGGIEZ! POOCHIEWOOCHIEZ!

Directors: Commodore Gilgamesh and Ghould Skool.

Rating: 4.5/5

As difficult as it is to interpret surrealist iconoclast Alejandro Jodorowsky’s 1973 freak-out The Holy Mountain, it is a walk in the park when compared to the bizarre, often hilarious vid-clip montage homage, Doggiewoogiez! Poochiewoochiez!.

The third feature from avant-garde American ‘comedic imagists’ Everything is Terrible! (EiT), this re-envisioning of the Chilean maestro’s filmic dreamscape consists entirely of dog footage compiled from hours of films featuring man’s best friend (including Man’s Best Friend, a 1993 sci-fi thriller starring Lance Henriksen).

Detractors will see nothing more than a gimmicky gag, but directors Commodore Gilgamesh and Ghoul Skool exhibit an extraordinary command of their craft. Having combed hundreds of hours of film (including 90’s cop/dog ‘classics’ K-9 and Turner and Hooch; Jon Voigt’s career lowpoint, The Karate Dog; Tim Allen’s The Shaggy DA and director Pier Paolo Passolini’s Salo, too name a few), documentaries (Australian audiences will recognize entertainer Su Cruikshank’s appearance from Mark Lewis’ 1990 film, The Wonderful World of Dogs) and television (Punky Brewster moppet Amy Foster sings with a puppy puppet in an excrutiating sequence), the EiT team then split-screen, white-noise, over-expose, photo-shop and re-dub much of the content to mimic Jodorowsky’s non-linear framework and reinterpret the spiritual core of his film.

It is a bold endeavour that is uproariously funny, but it also addresses the very nature of the centuries-old relationship between the human race and the canine world. There is an underlying thematic line that draws comparison between the bestial essence of dogs (a joyous embrace of a life spent eating, sleeping, shitting and fornicating) and how that appeals to mankind, a race that has used its intelligence to over-complicate is existence. It suggests that the bond we share with dogs symbolises our longing to live the purest of lives, however dark and difficult that may be at times (and Doggiewoggiez… does get very warped and weird on more than one occasion).

It is also fascinating to so deeply ponder the message of a film that uses some of the most ridiculous pop-culture moments ever mined from the VHS boom period. Gilgamesh and Skool (apparently, not their real names) find substance and new meaning in some of the most embarrassingly awful film content of the last three decades. Like fellow contemporary ‘junk artists’ such as trash-sculptor HA Schult and garbage-dump visionary Vik Muniz (subject of the film, Wasteland), EiT craft an artistic message made from, in this case, the dire remnants of lowbrow video inanity.    

It is a terrible shame that such intellectualising will be too great a stretch for some, who will find the film too indulgent and incomprehensible (even over its scant 55 minute running time). The Everything is Terrible! unit are masters of video-image artistry and Doggiewoogiez! Poochiewoochiez! is a thrilling work that bridges the gap; not only between baffling gallery installation and cinematic giggle, but mankind and his most faithful companion. I think Jodorowsky would have loved it.

Doggiewoggiez! Poochiewoochiez! will be presented by The Golden Age Cinema in Sydney as a one-off Special Event screening at 6.00pm on January 12. Tickets are available at the website.

FALLOUT

Director: Lawrence Johnston

Rating: 2.5/5

Director Lawrence Johnston strives to bridge the tactical genocide of the Japanese population with the impact of a film production upon Victoria’s capital in Fallout, the source novel ‘On The Beach’ by Nevil Shute acting as the thematic anchor in this interesting if flawed work.

As a biography of the British author, whose works include A Town Like Alice and The Far Country, within the context of the shifting global landscape circa-1940s, it is a well-researched collection of clips, talking heads and background music. The omni-presence of journalist/author Gideon Haigh casts a long shadow over the film’s first half, his earnest and well-recited straight-to-camera narration both an asset and a liability.

With Shute’s daughter and some Nuclear Proliferation 101 lessons providing the only counter points over the first 40 minutes, Johnston’s work comes across as a little stiff. A history lesson that endeavours to paint a portrait of the geo-political landscape, engineering background and human cost that inspired Shute, there is a lot of familiar stuff here; unlike Johnston’s past works, the visually splendid Eternity (1994) and Night (2008), his eye here is static, his palette blah.

Suggesting that this 90 minute effort will play better as a government-broadcaster free-to-air two-parter, the second half refocusses upon Stanley Kramer’s Melbourne–based shoot for his 1959 adaptation of Shute’s blockbuster bestseller. The author’s point-of-view all but disappears from the film, with Johnston instead addressing the impact of A-listers Gregory Peck, Ava Gardner, Fred Astaire and Anthony Perkins upon this colonial outpost. The only surviving principal, starlet Donna Anderson, offers pertinent insight.

For film buffs, the recounting of one of Hollywood’s most high-profile off-shore shoots is a joy. Archive interviews with Kramer put the importance of his project into perspective against the fear of nuclear war, but never at the expense of a b&w still from the set or a little salicious slice of production gossip. When the film does re-invest in Shute’s opinion, it is with regard to his thoughts on how his novel’s chaste protagonists become overtly implied lovers; like the rest of Johnston’s film (and, apparently, Australian society of the day), the studio behemouth becomes the focus of everyone’s attention.

The upshot is that it is never quite clear what story Johnston is trying to tell with his film. There is an abundance of clarity in his facts, but their relation to each other in anything other than the most perfunctory of ways remains elusive. Fallout will play well as a tertiary education study guide, but falls short as a theatrically worthy work.

WHITE LIES

Stars: Whirimako Black, Rachel House, Antonia Prebble, Nancy Brunning, Te Waimere Kessell, Kohuorangi Ta Whara and Elizabeth Hawthorne.
Writer: Dana Rotberg; based on the novel by Witi Ihimaera.
Director: Dana Rotberg.

Rating: 4/5

New Zealand’s leading independent production outfit, South Pacific Pictures, return to the source of their biggest hit, Whale Rider author Witi Ihimaera, for their latest exploration of traditional Maori culture, White Lies. Producer John Barnett can’t expect the same sort of international adoration that greeted his feel-good 2002 classic for this deep, dark tale, but critics and arthouse audiences will appreciate it’s refined quality and thematic depth. Fittingly, it is New Zealand’s 2013 submission for the Foreign Language Oscar category.

Expat Mexican filmmaker Dana Rotberg reportedly moved to New Zealand after having been inspired by director Niki Caro’s worldwide hit, a Kiwi classic that secured an Oscar nomination for its leading lady, 12 year-old Keisha Castle-Hughes. It was Rotberg’s mission to craft a similarly moving narrative and has adapted Ihimaera’s story ‘Medicine Woman’ into a darkly personal chamber piece that represents the struggle for identity, both gender specific and as an indigenous culture.

Set in the racially volatile landscape of 1920’s rural New Zealand, the protagonist is the nomadic elder Paraiti, played with a regal nobility and graceful warmth by Whirimako Black (a recent Best Actress nominee at both the New Zealand Film Awards and the Asia Pacific Screen Awards). Carrying the guilt of having forsaken a young mother and her child who died during labour, Paraiti agrees to help a well-to-do pakeha woman, Rebecca Vickers (the chilly Antonia Prebble) with the termination of an unwanted pregnancy. Rebecca is served by Maraea (Rachel House), a maid that casts a watchful eye over her in the absence of a fiery husband.

The intermingling of the three women’s lives becomes a complex study in deception, social standing and heritage. Paraita’s mission is to save the child, not have it perish, but that ruse is countered when the horrible truth behind Rebecca’s past and the role Maraea has played is revealed. The raw, stark nature of the bonds that the trio share and the immensity of the lies being perpetrated makes for potent, graphic drama (heightened during an extended birthing sequence that may be too challenging for those of a weak constitution).

Whereas Caro’s vision was a vivid cinematic work, rich in colour and movement, Rotberg opts for a very still frame. The result is no less visually compelling (thanks to ace DOP Alun Bollinger, one of NZ’s most renowned lensmen), but the stillness does amplify the single-setting, three-hander theatricality of the narrative. White Lies is full of dark shadows and long passages of silence, exemplifying the chasm between the women and their place in the world; it is an aesthetic that may prove taxing for some.

Above all, it is a stunning showcase for Whirimako Black, one of Aotearoa’s most prominent and successful Maori singer-songwriters; she was awarded the New Zealand Order of Merit in 2006. Given her long-established status as an artist that embraces the humanistic traditions of her race in her music, Paraiti is a role she was destined to play. From the Ta Moko tattoo on her face to the spirituality she embraces when performing post-birth rituals of the earth, Black is a towering screen presence who honours not only Rotberg’s and Ihimaera’s creation but also the centuries-old dignity and customs of her people. 

THE UPPER FOOTAGE

Director: Justin Cole

Rating: 3.5/5

The oldest rule of comedy is ‘If they buy the set-up, they buy the gag’ and it is sage advice to those seeking maximum thrills from the found footage shocker, The Upper Footage. Debutant director Justin Cole and fellow first-timer, producer Tiffany Baxter, are proving old-school savvy in their handling of all aspects of their first roll of the dice, most notably in the intricate construction of the narratives mythology and a determined line in ‘real-or-fake’ conjecture.

Set on one fateful night amidst the douche-baggery of NYC’s spoilt teen culture where the only thing that is cheap is a young woman’s life, three young men and a pretty blonde cruise the streets in a limo, doing coke, boozing and blustering in the most obnoxious of ways (c**t, f****t and n****r are all screamed at various points throughout the film); the entire evening is being captured on a single camera by one of the lads. A sojourn into a downtown nightclub leads to a pick-up, the sweet party girl Jackie, her lower social status a constant source of amusement to the rich brats.

Coercing her back to a penthouse apartment, the group get deeper into a cocaine-and-alcohol binge until Jackie can take no more and heads for the bathroom, the cruel taunts of the group behind her. Things turn horribly dark when Jackie is found dead and the tenuous link between friends, the potential of their future lives and the moral responsibility of respecting the departed stranger above themselves all collide.  

Having convincingly manipulated media outlets since the projects inception, it has been revealed that Cole and Baxter entirely staged the footage. That’s no surprise, as there are several elements of the found-footage premise that don’t really hold up (not least of which is the fact that the action takes place from dusk ‘til dawn without a single ‘battery charge’ warning). Despite the best efforts of the production, The Upper Footage never quite overcomes the question that casts a shadow over many f-f efforts, namely ‘Why is anyone filming this?’.

The film also frustratingly shifts its own moral compass. When the director fades to black instead of showing the boys take sexual advantage of the catatonic Jackie, a title card states the scenes have been deleted out of respect to her family. How those family members might react to footage of their late relative guzzling booze, doing blow and face down and dead in a toilet bowl must have been harder for the production to gauge…

But Cole’s accomplishment of rendering his film in the most realistic of milieus should not be undervalued. He proves particularly adept at extending scenes beyond any traditional notion of narrative guidelines or conventional production elements (lighting, editing, sound, etc). As the penthouse descends into panic following Jackie’s passing, Cole boldly captures the mayhem from a distance as the camera lays on the bathroom floor, the entire frame filled for what seems an eternity by the dead girl’s hair.

Justin Cole has acknowledged that his inspiration for both the filming style and groundbreaking marketing campaign was the grandfather of all found-footage pics, 1999’s The Blair Witch Project, and he and Baxter have honoured that film’s legacy with aplomb.  It is a shame that his film’s secret escaped before Cole and Baxter had milked it for all its inherent value. Despite being an aggressively hard-to watch film at times (the characters alone may be the most singularly unpleasant human beings on-screen this year), The Upper Footage is a strong vision of personalised horror, a modern take on morality amongst the privileged and a textbook case of inventive genre marketing.

Footnote: In correspondence with director Justin Cole, he offered insight into one element raised in the review: "You made a comment about how the battery alert would pop on screen. For that camera when battery is low it shows up on the viewfinder but not the actual footage. We shot every night with 2 batteries and always had time left over."