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|44 reviews in total|
Lodging itself eventually in the creepy-people-doing-creepy-things
tradition of religious/occult horror films like The Wicker Man and
Rosemary's Baby, director Ben Wheatley's hit-man horror flick Kill List
comes on, initially, like a bad-boy bit of British Social realism.
It's rough around the edges, shaggy and idiosyncratically edited, with dialogue so unpolished and authentic-seeming that it's occasionally hard to decipher. It's filled with a handful of legitimately great performances by actors allowed to work improvisationally, seemingly, lending the first half of the film an incredibly charming unpredictability, a low-key volatility that had me bouncing back and forth between moments of disturbing darkness and happy familial pleasantries. Then it gets really crazy.
Jay and Gal are ex-army, estranged friends and partners in crime. Eight months after a disastrous (and mysterious) gig in Kiev, Jay's home life is disintegrating, and after a raucous dinner party with his ex-partner and his creepy new girlfriend he agrees to get back in the saddle and take a job. They're given a list - three targets - and soon they're settling back into a charmingly macabre groove, carousing "salesmen" on the road from town to town and target to target. But after an inadvertent discovery during a routine bit of hit-man work derails their plans, the pair realize they may be part of something much bigger - and much darker - than a back-room murder-for-hire.
Kill List a stunning piece of very smart genre filmmaking. Wheatley not-so-gently inserts chunks of spooky, disturbing horror into what's already a charmingly dark kitchen sink drama. It's this transition - that either a social realist framework can be twisted into a framework supporting high horror or that a horror film can work filled with improvisational dialogue and broody bits of working-class British anxiety - that makes the film such an immense, jarring pleasure.
Will it work for horror fans used to slick, post-'80s supernatural spookery? Will Ken Loach fans do with a little blood and forest horror? Who knows. For fans of both, it's a stunning - literally - hybrid, something completely unexpected, a real discovery. Kill List is a brilliant idea, brilliantly well executed.
Director Eduardo Sánchez begins his newest spooky feature Lovely Molly
with a deliberate shout out the the film that brung him here, The Blair
Witch Project (co-directed with Daniel Myrick). A crying woman
confesses into a videocamera, capturing herself in a moment of distress
and hoping to leave a clue to be discovered after she inevitably
succumbs to an off-screen terror. Sánchez hasn't returned exactly to
his old stomping ground of first-person documentary horror - Lovely
Molly is for the most part a spooky old fashioned psyche-out horror
film - but it's a nice touch in a film filled with them.
Molly and new husband Tim (Gretchen Lodge and Johnny Lewis) are ripped from sleep in their new inherited home by a squalling alarm. Someone has opened their back door and is thumping around in the kitchen, but police find nothing out of the ordinary and chalk it up to the wind despite Tim's insistence that he locked the door.
He's a truck driver, and is away from home for stretches of time in which Molly is left alone to deal with a growing malignancy, a presence in the house that manifests itself as sung voices, crying children, clomping horse hooves and slamming doors. Molly's afraid to reach out to her sister or husband for help, fearing that they'll assume she's lapsed back into substance abuse. She instead begins to videotape her encounters, and it's this footage, as well as taped footage of someone stalking neighbours and visiting an odd underground shrine of some sort, that forms the frightening backbone of the film.
As Sánchez himself claimed in a post-screening q&a, the film is as much an "indie relationship" film and "actor's piece" as horror film. The entire weight of the film is on newcomer Lodge's back and she pulls the whole thing off dazzlingly well, transforming from a slight, trembling girl into a stalking, haunted and threatening woman crawling through an empty house. It's a performance good enough, combined with Sánchez's legitimate gift for crafting arresting moments of weird, totemic and animalistic horror, to transcend the film's kind of tired "is it a ghost or a hallucination" set-up, and take the whole thing into straight-up spooky, straight-up original territory.
Thanks to Tom Berger for another animated movie review! Toy Story 3
finishes off the franchise that was started 15 years ago by Pixar's
first feature length film, Toy Story. It's an unsurprisingly fitting
end to a great series of films, maintaining all of the charm, humour
and heart of the previous two films while illustrating what 15 years of
evolution can do to CG animation.
The film finds the human star of the series, the not-so-young-anymore Andy, getting ready to pack up for college. Asked to figure what to do with his now long neglected toys Woody and Buzz (voiced by Tom Hanks and Tim Allen, respectively) so his younger sister can inherit his bedroom, Andy decides to take Woody along to college, consigning the rest of the maudlin, worried crew to the attic. A misunderstanding by Andy's mom finds the toys on the curb, waiting for the garbage truck. After a narrow escape, the toys manage to get themselves donated to Sunnyside Daycare, where they can finally be played with and appreciated again. Shortly after arrival, they meet the grizzled toy patriarch of the daycare, Lots-O-Huggin Bear (Lotso, voiced by the very good Ned Beatty), who ensures them that their years of neglect are behind them and they can look forward to a lifetime of joy and attention thanks to an ever changing line-up of toddlers.
It becomes quickly clear, however that life at Sunnyside isn't quite as bright as the picture painted, and the toys are now left to hatch an escape plan from the tyranny of Lotso's reign.
The story is gripping and suspenseful, the action is dynamic and exciting (including an amazing Barrel-O-Monkeys nuclear explosion), and the humour, as always, is top notch. There's a formula here, not a complex one but consistent none the less: a little danger, a little emotion, and a laugh every minute-and-a-half, no matter what. Of particular note is Buzz Lightyear set to the Spanish default, and the sexually ambiguous Ken doll strutting his stuff for Barbie in a wide variety of vintage fashions.
The film plays to its strength: its characters and its witty, moving script, and in doing so boils up an engaging story rich with legitimately bitter-sweet themes of separation, loss and transition. Close to home for anyone that has ever outgrown a childhood toy, the film manages to make what might be a modern retelling of "The Velveteen Rabbit" sweet and funny while, true to Pixar form, striking a heartfelt nerve. It's not just a great piece of animated storytelling, it's a great film, bar no qualifiers what-so-ever.
Noteworthy as well is the opening Pixar short, Night and Day. It's a remarkable innovative piece, and an inspired hybrid of classical 2D with 3D animation that almost defies description. In fact, the short was such an unexpected joy, I encourage you to watch it knowing as little about it as you can. My favourite Pixar short by a landslide.
Cameron Diaz does what she can with what little she's given to work
with in James Mangold's brainless, hyperactive and utterly rote
spy-romance-thriller Knight and Day. Paired with the increasingly
wooden, increasingly off-putting Tom Cruise as half of a pair of
mis-matched adventurers on the run with a valuable MacGuffin fighting
off arms dealers and CIA agents alike, she seems to be the only one in
the flick that's got a half-inch worth of ambition.
Diaz is asked to play one of those uniquely stupid Hollywood-committee takes on a modernized cute-woman-in-peril-who-learns-to-handle-her-own-uzis, a tough-talking Bostonian who raised her younger sister and is totally girly, and cute, and goofy, and likes boys, but wears boots (!!) and fixes up muscle cars (!!). Cruise plays agent Roy Miller, the agent gone rogue who swoops into her life and together, they have a series of absolutely predictable kung-fu & fireball escapades across a series of scenic European rooftops.
Knight and Day attempts to enliven its muddled, characterless story by kicking things off with the zenithal version of one of the tiredest Hollywood tropes - characters "meeting cute" - and it succeeds well enough in its early stages, where Diaz is allowed to stretch her cute-chops talking to herself in an airplane bathroom while Cruise's Miller wreaks havoc outside.
It's all downhill from there, though, as Cruise robotically manufactures a performance that at best is reminiscent of the cocky, aggressive charm he could exude in decades past. The film trades in its early attempts at characterization for repeated slapstick gags and hard to follow plot twists, all of which it then tries to paper over with breathless action and hokey romance.
To be fair, the film doesn't shoot very high. It wears its low-brow goofiness right there on its sleeve, and it mostly achieves its goal of being a light-hearted, dumb as a rock summer action movie, which is more entirely than can be said for, say, Ashton Kutchers' repellent Killers. See it in a good mood with low expectations and you might be well enough convinced that it's light rather than stupid, fun rather than ridiculous, charming and cute rather than manufactured and plastic. That last part is probably a stretch though. 4/10
Another day, another remake. Another safe choice during apparently
rocky times - this wintry economic climate, don't you know - and we're
off and watching Joe Carnahan's big-screen version of the A-Team. In
Well now because any time previous, in the late 80's after the TV series ended in 1986 or in the two decades following, an A-Team movie would have been a sad thing, a pitiable thing, a ridiculous idea, as people in the late 80's or in the two decades following would remember the thing about the A-Team show, the thing being that it was ridiculous, and often terrible, and a pitiable thing itself. Time heals all wounds, and makes bad jokes funny.
Now though it, like G.I. Joe and Marmaduke and Miami Vice and Charlie's Angels and Dukes of Hazzard and Clash of the Titans retains only the rosy glow of nostalgia. We can smilingly sing the brassy theme music - daah dah dah, dun duun dun - and recall B.A.'s catchphrases and fear of flying and mohawk and that Face was something of a scoundrel and the cigar and the van but we've forgotten things like the episode where they accidentally hire Boy George to play at a rough and tumble oil pipeline country and western bar and then have trouble 'n' such. Time carves away those bad bits and leaves a false memory, a goofy ideal, ripe for resurrection.
The good news is Carnahan's remake makes the most of those well-trod, resilient bits of remembered corniness. Face (Bradley Cooper) is a scoundrel non-pareil; B.A. Baracus (Quentin "Rampage" Jackson) is a volatile crusher so unmanned by the thought of flight with the manic Murdock (Sharlto Copley) that he must be repeatedly tricked, drugged and heaved onto the plane, whereafter the smiling, smoking Hannibal (Liam Neeson) must distract and bribe him with food. There's none of it surprising, but that they're there at all, these little character-jokes and quirks, is enough to recommend the film despite its howling macho idiocy. That's how low the bar has been moved. That's how little the money folks think of us action movie fans, as they crank out retread after sequel after prequel after reboot after reimagining after remake. That's how bad things have gotten. I like the A-Team movie because the people in it smile and don't do cool slow-motion stylish gun-shooting. Seriously.
The characters in the A-Team movie seem happy, most of the time. Their jokes are creaky and I've heard them all before (in 1983) but they seem to be having fun blowing things up, which is more than can be said for most of the dour goings-on in comparable action films of late. The second Transformers movie, the fourth Terminator movie, this year's A-Team clone The Losers or even Ridley Scott's (A-Team co-producer) own Robin Hood: they all evince a weird need to be slick, stylish and frowny-faced, to let their characters suck as little joy as possible from their stories. The A-Team might be shallow and loud and old and hackneyed and more than a little misogynist and freighted down with ridiculous "serious" sub-plots, but it at least cracks jokes. Its characters, over-familiar and goofy, are interesting if not compelling, and the story moves and changes according to their choices like a story should (mostly). Some child, somewhere, could see a thing in Face, or in Murdock or B.A. or Hannibal that they might, being a child, want to emulate, to aspire to be, which is a bit of cheap magic that nonetheless lifts this whole creaking TV remake pile a little bit above the tide. 6/10
It's not quite Pixar-like, Judd Apatow's streak of very funny, very
good films, but it's close. As a producer, he's as close as it gets to
Mr. Automatic, going from Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy to The
40-Year-Old Virgin to Talladega Nights to Superbad to Pineapple Express
with only a couple Year One's and Walk Hard's to queer the run.
Apatow's done it the right way, by surrounding himself with a gang of
truly funny people and by recognizing what a lot of timid,
gloss-obsessed Hollywood folks won't: that guys like Jonah Hill,
Michael Cera, Steve Carell and Seth Rogan could carry pictures. They're
all... these are odd-looking dudes, these Apatowian fellas, and it's
hard to make them look good blown up billboard size. But all of them
can write their own jokes, all of them are funny, and as Hill proves in
the new Get Him to the Greek, all of them can carry the weight of a big
film on their back, despite their schlubbiness, despite the films not
being SNL spin-offs. There's just talent and comedy, that's both fresh
and charmingly old-fashioned. With Get Him to the Greek there's a weird
bit of Hollywood story/actor oddness that evaporates as soon as the
picture gets rolling: writer/director Nicholas Stoller is taking
characters from a previous film that he directed (that was written by
and starred Jason Segel), Forgetting Sarah Marshall, keeping one intact
(Russel Brand's rock god Aldous Snow) and slightly tweaking one other
(Jonah Hill's disturbed-fan maître d' becomes a shy music intern), and
sets them loose in a completely unconnected narrative. Snow is the last
true rockstar, recently fallen hard off the wagon post-a disastrous,
career-threatening single about starvation in Africa called "African
Child". Worried about slumping record sales and a label-head (the
surprisingly entertaining Sean "Diddy" Combs) looking for "the next
thing", intern Aaron Green (Hill) suggests the company return to its
rock roots and sponsor a gig at the Greek theatre in L.A., to mark the
10th anniversary of a legendary Aldous Snow show. Green is sent to
London to collect him, packing an adrenaline shot and instructions to
do whatever it takes to get the slippery, deluded, hard-partying rock
god to L.A. in three days. Very funny hijinks ensue.
Brand as Snow is the spectacle, the wild spark that animates the whole film. Snow vacillates wildly from petulant artistic preciousness to aggressive junkie posturing to anarchic drug logic and back. Story-wise, tt's a dangerous thing to chance, as the rock-excess thing has been parodied to near-death. Brand, though, limns the edges of his chaos with occasional moments of human frailty. The film notes late in the going that Snow's self-appointed rock messiah is intelligent, and it's a small ignorable moment that speaks to the subtle bits of originality in the film's script and in Brand's performance: he's a pompous idiotic waster in true rock fashion, but there's a cruel, manipulative intelligence underneath it all that helps the whole film feel fresh and funny, even if it's going over well-trod Spinal Tap ground.
The discovery of the film, though, is Jonah Hill as Aaron Green, the spectacular punching bag at the heart of a film that mercilessly visits every kind of humiliation and degradation on him. He stands square in the furnace blast of Snow's rock-superstar excess and the shrivelling, repeated "mind f__ks" of his conniving, unbalanced boss: he pukes, he's sexually assaulted by more than one person, he's threatened, cursed, party to a stabbing. But what makes Hill's performance truly funny is that while he is in essence a nebbish, a victim, a barf-coated ill-looking cannonball of a man he nonetheless retains a really kind of compelling dignity and oddly endearing self-confidence. There's a depth to Hill's performance in this film (and in Forgetting Sarah Marshall as well) that's actually special. He's not an oversize wild-man, he's not a tiny Michael Cera-esquire mumbler. He's doing something new, and it along with everything else in this film is very very funny. 8/10
The funniest joke in the long-awaited live-action/CGI adaptation of
everyone's second-least favourite comic strip Marmaduke is actually
intentional, which is kind of impressive. Of course, it's not funny in
the way that the filmmakers intended it to be funny so that's too bad I
guess but it is actually a joke that is actually funny. Some connection
had been made, through the layers of awful script and boring staging
and legitimately creepy CGI. They intended to make me laugh, when they
had the mean dog Bosco call out our Owen-Wilson-voiced hero in the
middle of the hero's crowning moment, a big raucous "O.C. rager" of a
party, icing our dog out with a growled, "Marmaduke? More like
Marmafake." And they did.
I laughed, I admit it. Marmapuke, Marmapoop, Marmadreck there's a lot of ways the screenwriters could have gone, and they chose Marmafake, which well dog-gone it, it doesn't even rhyme. Notes: I also laughed when the filmmakers, seeking to set the tone after Marmaduke & family's big cross-country move to the O.C. from Kansas so the dad (Lee Pace) could work for a dog-food company with a mean boss (William H. Macy, for some inexplicable reason) by mixing "California" by Phantom Planet almost directly into "California Love" by 2Pac. I assume they'd spent all the soundtrack licensing money by that point, because they left out "California" by Belinda Carlisle and "California" by John Mayall and "California" by Joni Mitchell and "Going back to Cali(fornia)" by L.L. Cool J and "Hotel California" by the Eagles. Too bad.
Anyway Marmaduke is, we're told, a big, gangly goofy dog played by two or more real dogs in the film, that talks with a creepy CGI animated mouth. I'm pretty sure, at least, that they used more than one dog because sometimes Marmaduke has a big, dangly pair of testicles, and sometimes he doesn't, which is obviously problematic and I started thinking, while on-screen Marmaduke was having another interminable dialogue session with some other dog about something that to so brazenly, as filmmakers, use dogs with varying levels of testicle-havingness is kind of bold, almost as if they're saying "Yeah, sometimes 'duke's got nuts and sometimes he doesn't. We don't care, because nobody will notice, and if they do notice, it's because you're a perverted weirdo who both looks at and notes dog's nuts." Which left me feeling vaguely insulted, and terribly aggrieved.
So Marmaduke has some friends that are dogs and some enemies, and he makes some mistakes and eventually gets sad and runs away from his family and his haughty girlfriend, voiced by Fergie from the Black-Eyed Peas, who is actually a better voice actor than she is a singer. Marmaduke then falls into a sink-hole along with another funny-looking but faithful and nice dog (voice of Emma Stone) and then or perhaps before then there is a dog-surfing championship and everything is fine, even the sub-plots about 'duke's dad's mean boss and his kid that hates soccer.
Kids might like it, but I doubt it, as aside from being creepy and awkward and really poorly plotted it's just dull. One of the first thing they teach you in screen writing school is "show, don't tell", that expository dialogue is a no-no and narrators all the more so. But dogs can't really act, and they don't really do anything except run around and eat sandwiches so for the film to have a narrative structure the dogs have to talk, a lot, explaining everything, and because dogs don't drive or frame houses or fold clothes they talk while just standing there looking around. It's hellaciously boring, but probably unavoidable as Marmaduke is clearly an intellectual property that fans have literally been screeching and rending their clothes to see brought to the big screen and given the ol' Hollywood treatment.
I don't have anything more to say about Marmaduke. 2/10
What to do, what to do. You've made a mint, a fortune. An
incomprehensible pile of dough from your HBO TV show and syndication
and DVD sales and the film version which made half a billion dollars
and you know, you know in your bones because your product is good, that
there is more money sitting there, waiting to be made.
Your fans still love you, and haven't been won away to other shows: your brand is sacred and almost uncontested in its niche. But... well, it's getting to be a stretch. Sexy single women in their 30's struggling to make it in the big city have become married mothers in their 40's with fortunes of their own, fortunes that seem a little tacky maybe in these days of conspicuous economy and restraint.
What you should do is say, "We had our run".
What you definitely shouldn't do is make your coda a two-and-a-half-hour long slapstick romp about rich, dull women that look like ropy hunks of lacquered wood with jewels glued to them having a very expensive vacation in Abu Dhabi. Despite the impulse.
Catching up with the girls two years down the road from the first film, Sex and the City 2 catches Carrie (Sarah Jessica Parker) as she struggles with the boring realities of her marriage to Mr. Big (Chris Noth) and spends her time decorating their new apartment "12 floors down" from their previous penthouse. Charlotte (Kristin Davis) is barely hanging on, dealing with her daughter's terrible twos and the fear that her husband may have a thing for their fetching Irish nanny (Alice Eve). Miranda (Cynthia Nixon) is chafing in her lawyer job, trapped under the glass ceiling while P.R. agent Samantha (Kim Cattrall) struggles with the onset of menopause. Getting the girls together out at the premiere of a film, Samantha is asked by a Sheik to visit his hotel in Abu Dhabi to design for him a P.R. campaign, and she whisks her three friends off to the U.A.E. for a fabulous, each-to-her-own-stretch-Maybach-limo vacation. Some drinks, some shopping, some dishing, a couple of romantic crises that arrive apropos of nothing and fizzle away into meaninglessness almost immediately.
The film also suffers from its mightily weird choice to have the four sexually open imbibers spend their last hour of screen-time among the burqa-ed ladies of Abu Dhabi. That hour is spent pin-balling violently from hilariously simple cultural dismissiveness - the ladies' response to Carrie's observation that veils make it seem like Muslim men "don't want women to have a voice" is to go to a nightclub and sing "I am Woman" to rapturous applause - to facile commentary on the real dirty pool being played in that part of the world - slave labour building 7-star hotels - to borderline offensive exoticism to openly rude flaunting of the cultural mores of the city they've decided to visit. It's uproariously moronic. Samantha, shrieking and haggard and shaking under the stress of her aging vagina, throws handfuls of condoms at men in the Soukh, and then panics when they get mad and shouty, you know, as those Muslims do. Thankfully, the ladies are whisked away into safety by robed women, who doff their robes to reveal, for some reason the spring '10 Versace line. This is supposed, I assume, to mean something.
It's not just pointless, it's also enthusiastically rude: a whole-hearted celebration of the clueless, rich American abroad. Furthermore - and most tragically - it's decidedly not Manhattan, the locale that transcended setting to become a living, breathing character itself in the original series.
Almost all of what made the original TV show so great - its verve, its spark, its keenness of observation and snappiness and willingness to be up-front and unapologetically adult and funny and sexy - is gone. What remains is limp. It's shiny, to be sure, and there are a few short scenes of the girls sitting around the pool trading quips and bawdy barbs, but they're a melancholy pleasure buried under hours of pointless, boring agonizing over the really minor minutiae of grown-up life. A loud baby, a braless nanny, a TV in the bedroom, a mean boss: this is hardly sexy, provocative stuff, and outfits and jewelry and shoes alone can't keep this massive, gaudy thing afloat. 3.5/10
The right combination of an appropriately awkward protagonist, a clever
script with not a single pop culture reference, and truly remarkable
animation (including 3-d flying scenes that trump anything in Avatar),
made this flick a blast from start to finish.
A group of Scottish(??) Vikings live on a small island, stubbornly rebuilding their wooden homes after they are burned to the ground by the islands other inhabitants: dragons of myriad shapes and sizes that steal their sheep and raze their village. Over and over again. Beefcake adults with proved mettle act as dragon slayers, fighting off the scourge. The young, gangly Hiccup (voiced by Jay Baruchel) aspires, in his way, to join their ranks and prove himself to his father and Chief, Stoick the Vast (Gerard Butler). Short of brawn but heavy on brains, Hiccup invents a catapult type device, which he uses to bring down the legendary Night Fury, a dragon so notoriously fast and deadly that they've never even been seen with the naked eye.
When he finds the fallen dragon, injured and helpless in the tangles of his trap, Hiccup cannot bring himself to slay it and instead sets it free, thus starting one of the most endearing "boy and his pet" relationships in movie history. That night, two hearts change - Hiccup decides he doesn't want to become a slayer, while Stoick decides Hiccup deserves a chance. His father's will too strong, Hiccup reluctantly begins slayer training, where he will learn to bring down - and kill - the beasts.
The story is simple and straightforward; a zero-to-hero tale with few surprises (think Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs, Disney's Hercules, or the on-the-nose straight to video sequel Hercules: Zero to Hero). But the strength of the characters, humour of the script, and more importantly the remarkable execution of flying and dragon vs. dragon fight scenes make the film enjoyable throughout. Hiccup is an endearing protagonist, appealing to teen awkwardness and a desire for acceptance from both peers and family. The supporting cast is a good mix of headstrong and suitably jerky-come-friendly teenagers, while Stoick, as his name might suggest, is a strong but distant patriarch, making for one of the funniest "good talk" scenes between father and son.
The dragons are by far the best part of the film, which offers up a half-dozen or so of uniquely characterized beasts, including a two headed menace with one head that spews gas and another that acts as pilot light, and a giant spindly red dragon that tends to set itself on fire. Hiccup's pet dragon, dubbed Toothless (for his retractable razor sharp teeth), is clearly modeled after your dog (and everyone else's) and his puppy-like naiveté trapped in a sleek, pebbled, 30 foot frame will strike a chord with all pet owners. Oh, and he's also a major bad-ass black dragon that you can ride and he has laser-precise blue fireball action and is capable of speeds likely measured in "Mach"s and you want one. The flying scenes in this film are captivating and fun and represent some of the most engaging use of 3D technology I've seen.
How to Train Your Dragon is pure vicarious wish fulfillment, watering a seed planted in older viewers by The Never Ending Story, and likely planting one in younger viewers too young to remember Atreyu and Falkor. Endearing, enchanting, and engaging, a fun movie for anyone who ever wanted to ride a dragon. 8/10
Larpers (more properly L.A.R.P.ers, i.e. Live-Action Role Players, i.e.
folks that dress up like goblins and wizards and engage in foam-sword
combat in the woods) have been one side of a cinematic love affair, of
late. Documentaries like Darkon and Monster Camp try and peel back the
fake fur and face paint to see the real people beneath, while comedies
like Role Models see in the admittedly nerdy hobby a wellspring of both
laughs and weirdly noble self-realization.
In director Alexandre Franchi's debut film The Wild Hunt, larping is something altogether more serious, and much more sinister. Erik Magnusson (Ricky Mabe), a Canadian born to an Icelandic father whom he now reluctantly cares for, is bothered by repeated dreams of a banging door and the sound of his girlfriend Evelyn (Tiio Horn) crying out in fear. Evelyn has left him for the weekend, to role play a princess in Erik's older brother Bjorn's larp-group, a viking and troll setting Bjorn (Mark A. Krupa) has all but disappeared into. To win her back, Erik must navigate the confusing, threatening larp world, where he discovers that some of the players aren't just escaping workaday responsibilities but are instead building a framework to work out some of their darker, more violent fantasies.
It's an enjoyable film, troubled by a difficult script. On the one hand it's enjoyably novel: setting a murder-and-revenge story amongst the assumedly meek, awkward foam-sword and teva-sandals crowd is an entertaining twist, and Franchi, helped enormously by good Gothic set dec and often beautiful cinematography by Claudine Sauvé is able to wring surprisingly high drama out of the whole thing. On the other hand, in building up to the grand guignol finale the film strains and struggles, testing credulity both in terms of character motivation and in terms of basic emotional mathematics: it's hard at points to understand why Erik doesn't just dismiss the whole mess and go home. That said, there's rather more of the former dark beauty than the latter character weirdness, and the film (especially as a Canadian film artifact) is massively enjoyable on its merits, of which there are plenty. Missteps along a very original path are easily excused. 8/10
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