Film Review - HALLOWEEN II

Watching Rob Zombie’s 2007 Halloween re-imagining, it was impossible not to detect the pungent odour of frustrated flop-sweat emanating from the disjointed final product. While the first half of the film was a continuation of the gonzo hillbilly exploitation themes of the director’s schlocky-but-promising debut House of 1000 Corpses and its sick-in-the-head brilliant sequel The Devil’s Rejects, the latter portion felt like a reigned-in and creatively bloodless retread of Carpenter’s 1977 original. The result was a movie more laughably bad than scary, with the buck wild-lunacy of the Zombie-influenced early scenes of Michael Myers childhood utterly destroying the suspense of his climactic Haddonfield, IL. home-town murder spree.

Now, with Halloween II, Zombie appears to have been let off the leash, free to explore his own obsessions and eccentricities to the fullest without having to adhere to the mythology of the earlier entries. Indeed, with this film the director seems to seeking, feverishly and gracelessly, to transcend the entire Slasher flick genre and create an unsettling quasi-artistic minded study in post-traumatic suffering, evidenced by the juxtaposed mental decay of Michael Myers (Tyler Mane), now tormented by hallucinations of his deceased mother (Sheri Moon Zombie) and his younger self (Chase Wright Vanek), and his chief victim Laurie Strode (Taylor Scout-Compton), a scarred and emotionally rattled teenager battling schizophrenic visions and night terrors. This is unexplored territory in the franchise and, in theory at least, a fresh and intriguing approach to very creaky material. Sadly, however, Halloween II is an unwatchable slop-bucket of a film, filled to its grimy brim with incoherent editing, grainy, ugly cinematography, wretched performances and tensionless brutality. If there is a worse film looming ahead in 2009, I weep for the future.

Set mere minutes after the first film, wherein Laurie had blown most of Michael’s skull to paste with a revolver, we pick up with the blood-soaked, trembling girl being consoled by Sherriff Lee Brackett (Brad Dourif) and put through gruesome post-attack surgery (one of the film’s oh-so-rare neat touches), while the skull-smashed slasher is taken away in an ambulance driven by an inept pair of medics who ponder the finer points of necrophilia. After the vehicle is destroyed in a car-on-cow calamity, Michael escapes and pulls a Kwai Chang Caine, nomadically wandering the earth on foot (and growing a nifty beard in the process). In his Halloween: H20 review back in 1998, Roger Ebert queried how Michael survived between homicidal rampages. Well, Zombie shows us: he whiles away his time butchering obnoxious rednecks and devouring their dogs raw. Nice. As Myers slowly winds his way back home in time for October 31st, Laurie must confront the cause of her fractured psyche and prepare for another blood-drenched holiday.

Zombie has shown in the past a bitter spitefulness towards his critics and has this time found a mouthpiece for his aggravations in Dr. Loomis (Malcolm McDowell), Myers’ former psychologist who, having survived a vicious assault in the previous film, has become the glory-seeking author of an opportunistic expose of Michael’s eviscerating exploits. As the director’s film spins frantically away from him into a numbing black hole of unintelligible Marilyn Manson video-esque dream sequences - not to mention an aggravating extended cheat which recalls 1981’s own Halloween II - and misplaced 70s nostalgia (a black-and-white live performance of 10cc’s “The Things We Do For Love” apparently gets lots of airplay in Haddonfield), Loomis hurls insulting barbs regarding “journalists” and even resentfully yells that “I don’t think you understand what I’m trying to do here!”. Oh, we get it Rob, but it stinks.

Despite the movie’s lofty aims, all drama is sucked out of Halloween II by its tin-eared dialogue (Do kids really say things like “too coolio for schoolio” and “I’m starvin’ like Marvin”?) and feeble lead performances. While a bored McDowell often seems to be channelling his obnoxious Tank Girl villain, Scout-Compton, perhaps the shrillest Scream Queen ever, wildly overplays every scene, succumbing to endless fits of headache-inducing hysteria by the third act. A scene featuring a fateful revelation has the potential for true disquieting horror, but instead the actress thrashes around like a grounded mackerel and shrieks the F-word in endless succession. By the time we get to the overwrought climactic showdown in a dilapidated shack we yearn desperately for gunfire if only to silence the grinding cacophony of ear-splitting sound-effects and banshee-like screeching.

Sitting through Halloween II is a punishingly dull experience, where even the ferocious kills feel exhausted and mundane. In attempting to mould the series into a pretentious weirdo experiment Zombie has delivered a true fiasco which, fingers crossed, will inspire him to regroup and rediscover the sly wit and stylishness which made him such an electric talent in the first place. For the only mark Halloween II seems destined to leave is a greasy stain on theatre screens across the world.

1 out of 5

*Originally printed in SFU's The Peak: Sept. 7th, 2009.

Epi-Cast: Bonus Episode - "An Inglourious Supplement"

This is the 30-minute bonus spoiler-filled chat which occured after the last episode of the Epi-Cast. Continuing with hosts Cam Smith and Tom Wytrwal, plus special guest Kris McRonney, this supplement is intended solely for those who have seen Inglourious Basterds and would like to hear some deeper analysis into the flick. It's a meandering, occasionally frustrated, but all-around well-intentioned attempt at peeling back of the layers of Tarantino's wonderful film. Enjoy.

Again, if you haven't attended the movie yet, please don't download this mini episode. It can and should wait until after you checked it out.

To download, simply right-click and save on the green episode title above. Then you are free to indulge in the interweb's finest joys.

P.S. We are also available on iTunes! No guff! Simply do a store search for "Epi-Cast" and, RITA-MORENO!, you can subscribe to our feed and receive insta-dl's (Net speak for downloads). Oh, and we are the "Epi-Cast", not the "Epicast". Avoid those nitiwt clowns.

Epi-Cast: Episode 17 - "An Inglourious Discourse"

Voltaire. Locke. Darwin. Kant. All great minds to be sure, but, to be frank, a bunch of dullards. Want a party in your ears? One which will tickle your frontal lobes and perhaps inspire the next evolutional step in mankind? Then download the latest Epi-Cast, which features two virtuoso rants from the very talented Mr. Wytrwal, rants which take human speech to a level of artistic genius never before thought possible. There's also the incisive rapier wit of very special guest star Kris McRonney, who helps the much-beaten-down Epi-Cast hosts crawl out of their post-summer funk and rediscover the magic which can only found in mocking crappy slasher movies and bowing at the altar of Quentin Tarantino.

Epi-Cast: Episode 17 - "An Inglourious Discourse"

Wherein Cam, Tom and Kris hoist up their fanboy flags (or at least 2 out of the 3 of them...) in support of Tarantino's stupendous WWII epic. Yes, I realize how dirty that sounds. Grow up, all of you. Anyhoo, they also review brand-spankin' new films both soul-molestingly wretched (Halloween II, The Final Destination, G.I. Joe) and angel-wings-dazzling wonderful (The Cove, District 9). Not to break the routine too much, Tom once again impresses with his takes on a pair of films no one in their right mind would bother taking the time to watch (Lions For Lambs and, um, Severed Ways). As expected, they also tackle the most glossy and shiny new trailers, providing pithy flash judgments on the new promo spots for Chris Nolan's Inception, Michael Moore's Capitalism: A Love Story, Joe Johnston's The Wolf Man and the Grant Heslov-directed George Clooney comedy The Men Who Stare At Goats. It's one unholy chunk of an episode so big that it also required the recording of a 30-minute spoiler-filled discussion on Basterds which will be posted later in the week. Yowza. Enjoy people.

To download, simply right-click and save on the green episode title above. Then you are free to indulge in the interweb's finest joys.

P.S. We are also available on iTunes! No guff! Simply do a store search for "Epi-Cast" and, OTTO-OCTAVIUS!, you can subscribe to our feed and receive insta-dl's (Net speak for downloads). Oh, and we are the "Epi-Cast", not the "Epicast". Avoid those nitiwt clowns.

Film Review - THE FINAL DESTINATION

Despite being depicted as a doggedly pitiless and unstoppable elemental force, capable of dragging even the most wide-eyed and innocent of souls screaming to their horrifying and unavoidable final ends, Death sure does seem to possess a wicked sense of humour in the Final Destination series. While Jason may stab, Jaws may devour and Leatherface may chainsaw, Death seems forever fixated on crafting an endless series of the most creatively Rube Goldberg-ian fatalities possible. I suppose that, being immortal and all, Death must have an infinite amount of time to sit around, surrounded by pencils, calculators and graph paper, to figure out how a routine trip to the carwash can lead, courtesy of a broken antenna, faulty moon-roof and shorted-out electrical box, to a shrieking young girl facing certain decapitation (or at least brutal, flesh-pulverizing scoring.). Boredom will do that to you, it would seem. Now, are these efforts somewhat pointless? Pretty much. A tad too cruel? Certainly. Kind of amusing? Well, yeah.

Unfortunately, though, Death’s cartoonish machinations are the only thing keeping the fourth film in the franchise, stupidly titled The Final Destination (Does the “The” mean that we have finally reached the definitive final destination?), afloat amidst a sea of indifference and lethargy. Whereas the better series’ entries tapped into a certain interesting, if superficial, universal fear regarding the nature of mortality, and man’s anxieties regarding the uncertainty of what lies beyond the Pearly Gates, this latest entry feels more like a contemptuous pre-packaged compilation of kills than an actual film. Blame it on a non-existent script, which even stoops so low as to utilize a lengthy Next-style dream sequence to pad out its 81-minute run-time (Including credits, kids!) and gore-factor, or the obvious boredom of returning director David R. Ellis – who helmed the superior second entry – but even the added 3-D gimmickry can’t make this Destination feel any less mundane or familiar.

As we’ve already seen the splatter-tastic horrors associated with exploding airliners, fender mutilating traffic accidents and, um, broken-down roller-coasters (They were already running out of ideas with that one), The Final Destination introduces us to the grisly joys of a NASCAR rally race gone awry. Crushings: Check. Impalements: Check. Beheadings: Check. Mopey but fresh-faced protagonist (Bobby Campo) preternaturally envisioning the gruesome event before it actually occurs and then dragging his friends, including a few cute girls (Shantel VanSantern, Haley Webb) and one douchey jock-type (Nick Zano – a poor man’s Travis Van Winkle), plus a few one-note bystanders (Mykelti Williamson, Krista Allen, Andrew Fiscella), away from the impending danger *breath* before all havoc breaks out, thus throwing Death’s fateful plan out of whack and dooming the survivors to even uglier alternative demises: Check. A fresh approach to this timeworn premise: Well, four outta five ain’t bad!

Although sparkling characterizations and transcendent dialogue shouldn’t be expected, nor deemed necessary, to sell this type of material, it’s often confounding how badly The Final Destination falls on its face every time it calls on its actors to actually, you know, talk and express feelings and stuff. They sit around tables and living rooms spewing creaky exposition and having the exact same quarrels and freak-outs that the protagonists of the previous flicks had. You could literally erase the audio from the film and dub in dialogue from Final Destination 2 or 3 and it wouldn’t make a lick of a difference. Even more damaging is that this entry boasts the blandest cast yet, with star Campo blankly and droning on about premonitions, while the while the supporting players, appearing like deer caught amidst of blinding mass of headlights, weakly sob, squeal and vent. The only actor actually capable of delivering of any level of effective pathos, Mykelti Williamson, seems brought over from another film, staring gloomily out at the world through wounded eyes and tearfully reminiscing over his painful past. He also must endure the film’s ugliest scene, where a redneck creep calls him the N-word and attempts to light a burning cross on his front lawn. Now, look guys, I’m all for edginess in my horror flicks, but this addition felt mean-spirited and cheap. Frankly, screenwriter Eric Bress should be ashamed of himself for tossing it in there when an ounce of subtlety would have sufficed (Yes, I recognize the irony in demanding subtlety from a film that features a man being sliced, Julien style, into squishy pieces by a chain-link fence. Humour me.). And where in the name of Sawa is series regular Tony Todd? You know you’re running a dubious production when even Todd, star of the impending Hatchet 2 and Murder for Dummies, won’t sign on the dotted line.

Now, I’m sure that the past 700 words have mostly read like “blah blah decapitation blah blah cute girls blah” to you Final Destination fanatics (Do you guys have a catchy acronym or moniker yet?) and you just want to know how cool the assorted collection of death scenes are. Well, there are a few corkers, such as a nasty variation on the ol’ pool-filter-sucking-out-your-insides urban myth, a squishy trip through an escalator belt along with a number of icky-drippy moments during the opening NASCAR car-tastrophe. But unlike the first two instalments, there’s no sense of tension or dread attached to the CG ghastliness, as it seems Death has read the script and, like us in the audience, knows exactly how the pecking order works and whose jig is up next. A little unpredictability would go a long way, especially since the Real Doll© cast dilutes any feeling of increasing stakes. They, like the filmmakers, are just running through the motions in order to help the enterprise draw in some easy teen summer-movie-going cash. I should probably also add that this is the second film in as many weeks to feature an exploding movie theatre. However, while Tarantino, in Inglourious Basterds, fashioned a nightmarish inferno of cackling damnation, The Final Destination creates... an exploding movie theatre. Like everything else in the flick, it all just feels too little, and far, far too late.

If this franchise is truly determined to continue (and I’m not crossing my fingers for it to do so), significant reinvention is going to be needed to keep drawing the required bloodthirsty packs of dedicated fans necessary to warrant further entries. As a horror film, The Final Destination is toothless, as a 3-D gore-a-thon it’s underwhelming and as a work of suspense it is just plain laughable. The Grim Reaper deserves better and maybe next time, God willing, instead of being forced to dutifully prop up another tired retread, it’d be better for all involved if Death just takes a damn holiday.

2 out of 5

P.S. The Final Destination has the worst recreation of a movie-going audience in the history of cinema. It's akin to the Friends episode where the gang goes to the Hootie And The Blowfish concert. Have any of the people behind these productions ever attended a large-scale entertainment event with the paying public?

Epi-Cast: Episode 16 - "Hooray For Spherical Trigonometry!"

The people have spoken, and yet still it continues: the dandy old Epi-Cast has resurrected its musty corpse from the grave of harsh public opinion with (yet) another fragrant blast of high energy film discussion. Be it reviews for trailers you haven't bothered watching, or movies you wouldn't be caught dead paying for, hosts Cam Smith and Tom Wytrwal run the gamut, bravely and boldly, sacrificing only their dignity in the process.

Epi-Cast: Episode 16 - "Hooray For Spherical Trigonometry!"
To help preserve the sanctity of your hard-earned dollar, Cam and Tom have done the unthinkable and unnecessary; they've watched and contemplated G.I. Joe: The Rise Of Cobra. Now their heads hurt and they're gonna bask in its glorious/wretched (Cam/Tom) idiocy. However, not quite sadistic enough to stoop so low as to make the cinematic return of Destro their big review, they have instead selected the far classier District 9 as the main topic of the episode. Does it meet expectations? Is it the greatest work of science-fiction storytelling in the history of the universe? Listen on and find out, little buddy. Asides from those two main events, Cam gets his french freak on with the francais prison break thriller Anything For Her, while Tom weighs in on whether (500) Days of Summer is 499 days too many. As expected, they also take on the most anticipated of trailers, with commentary on James Cameron's small indie Avatar, Denzel Washington's post-apocalyptic The Book of Eli and the Jamie Foxx/Gerard Butler thriller Law Abiding Citizen. Did I mention they also discuss The Good, the Bad and the Ugly? Well they do, gawrsh darnit! So saddle up! And by that I mean click, save and listen. Yeehaw!

To download, simply right-click and save on the green episode title above. Then you are free to indulge in the interweb's finest delights.

P.S. We are also available on iTunes! No guff! Simply do a store search for "Epi-Cast" and, BARON-MONDO!, you can subscribe to our feed and receive insta-dl's (Net speak for downloads). Oh, and we are the "Epi-Cast", not the "Epicast". Veer well away from those amateurs.

Film Review - DISTRICT 9

The aliens residing in the unkempt slums of Johannesburg’s filthy District 9 compound are curious creatures to behold. Gangly and Insectoid - they sorta resemble a questionable cross-mating of Independence Day’s octopus-men with Davy Jones from the Pirates of the Caribbean series – these foreign beings, referred to as “prawns” by the disapproving human populace around them, have spawned a firestorm of political and social commotion since being discovered, malnourished and exhausted, in their disabled gargantuan space craft over two decades earlier. Forcibly confined to a fenced-in makeshift prison located directly under the ever-looming shadow of their damaged ship, a permanent reminder of their inability to return home and escape their day-to-day earthly torments, the “prawns” while away their pitiful hours scrounging through voluminous trash-piles, visiting Nigerian prostitutes and attempting to scrounge up money to support their nagging fix for cat food – an addiction preyed upon by a vicious local crime-lord who has become convinced that consuming the aliens’ flesh will provide him with great powers.

The plight of these unfortunate creatures informs the early sections of director Neill Blomkamp’s intriguing new science-fiction action film District 9, a meticulously constructed Apartheid allegory. Taking a gritty cinema vérité you-are-here-now approach, the director’s heady mixture of flash, wit and grit does wonders for helping sell the authenticity of his alternate reality universe; where intergalactic visitors are as commonplace as stray dogs, wandering nonchalantly and uninhibited around the corners of the frame. So engrossing is the visual wonder of the first-time feature-film helmer’s alien nation that, even when District 9’s cerebral daring gives way to less-compelling pyrotechnic mayhem, our eyes remain hypnotically locked upon his dusty, desiccated war-torn canvas.

Before all hell breaks out, however, the film follows the somewhat-bumbling government bureaucrat Wikus van der Merwe (newcomer Sharlto Copley), a jovial member of Multi-National United (MNU) who has been promoted up through the ranks by his domineering father-in-law. Tasked with leading a large-scale relocation program, which will transfer the “prawn” population to the inferior new District 10 refuge, Wikus, along with a posse of trigger-happy military escorts, enters District 9 as part of a poorly-planned assignment to collect signatures from the subjugated creatures okaying their own eviction. As fate would have it, though, one of his stops brings him into contact with a “prawn” called Christopher Johnson (voiced by Jason Cope), an alien scientist who has concocted a suspicious chemical substance with dubious properties and purpose. After a clumsy accident leads to Wikus becoming exposed to the mysterious aerosol chemical, he finds himself, much to his anguished dismay, dispossessed and alone, trapped between his own prejudiced society and the frightening and enigmatic world within District 9.

It’s in these early sections that District 9 works best, establishing a recognizable cinematic sci-fi universe through a mixture of fictionalized documentary “talking head” footage and revealing fly-on-the-wall peeks into the MNU team’s journey through the aliens’ pitiful dwellings. Blomkamp shows remarkable restraint in his effects, portraying his often amazingly convincing photo-realistic creatures in a mundane light, free of sensationalistic money-shots and unnecessary focus. Unlike most Hollywood extraterrestrials, the “prawns” actually feel, well, alien, as opposed to thinly disguised humans-in-CG-clothing. By film’s end, they still remain a mystery to us. Where are they from? How does their culture operate? How do they feel about their lowly status and human suppressors? It’s thematically appropriate that these troublesome questions remain lingering in the air after we leave the theatre; for how can a race collectively stripped of its voice properly answer them?

To the film’s credit, it also doesn’t go out of its way to make its human character particularly likable or sympathetic. While Wikus is our guide through the movie, he is portrayed in a number of differing lights: as casually cruel, jokingly describing the sound of torched and exploding “prawn” foetuses as resembling pop-corn, a loving family man, cowardly, friendly, selfish, loyal and, in one particular instance involving an alien ship, irritatingly stupid. Sharlto Copley, in his debut performance, bravely meets the role’s challenges, crafting a fully three-dimensional character whose Cronenburg-ian odyssey often requires multiple emotions portrayed within a single moment. Even when he’s only delivering an endless string of F-bombs, his un-mannered, improvisational style feels genuine and, most admirably, entirely professional.

Copley is so good, and Blomkamp so assured, that it’s difficult to not feel slightly crestfallen when, halfway through, District 9 transitions from thoughtful sci-fi parable into an extra-terrestrial-tinged Bourne actioner. Although the shoot-outs and explosions are skilfully directed and technically impressive, they feel remote and uninvolving. In establishing such a carefully modulated tone of realism early on, it becomes difficult to watch characters stand in the middle of intense warzones having heated arguments whilst bullets wiz around them without striking an extremity (or worse). As well, because Wikus has proven to be a somewhat unsympathetic protagonist, it’s hard to truly root for him during his far-fetched flirtations which action-star heroism, such as during an explosive break-in into a clandestine government facility and a climactic brouhaha featuring almost as many fiery detonations and skull-jangling sound-effects as Transformers 2 and Terminator Salvation (Though admittedly done much better.). In the end, the issues at the heart of District 9 just feel too complex and layered to resolve with gunfire and raining projectiles. Ending the film in this fashion robs viewers of the pleasures which a more honest and challenging finale would have provided.

The film, and Blomkamp by association, is also far too smart to be lazily relying on the sadistic one-note villains it uses to help fuel the drama. While Mandla Gaduka’s vicious Nigerian crime-lord is effective, projecting a terrifying level of frenzied, possessed barbarism, the same can’t be said about some key members of MNU, who seem to act cartoonishly evil for no other reason than to create obstacles for Wikus. Most annoying, it must be said, is the hateful mercenary Koobus Venter (a seething David James) who, like all standard bad-guy heavies, is irredeemably spiteful and, against all odds, survives just long enough to outlive all of his underlings and engage in a one-on-one showdown with the battle-worn protagonist before meeting a comeuppance of violent poetic justice. Venter would be better suited to a James Bond or Die Hard film, not a movie with ambitions towards breaking the mould of blockbuster science-fiction storytelling.

Despite its seeming preference for bombast and spectacle over perceptive social commentary, it’s notable that, walking out of the film, I felt more moved and affected by the film’s quieter, more emotional moments; Christopher’s horrified frozen reaction upon discovering the tortures inflicted upon his race, the small alien child picking through scraps outside his shack, the line of “prawns” lined up for food, an appearance of a small metal flower. It’s these parts of District 9, full of attention to detail and even subtlety, which make it a film worth seeing and remembering. Further, there’s also a tangible thrill to be found in watching Neill Blomkamp, a scrappy new talent on the rise, struggle valiantly and passionately with the material, his sights set, like District 9’s own dejected alien visitors, on the stars and beyond. Though his film falls short of achieving greatness, there are many joys to be found in simply watching him reach.

3.5 out of 5

Film Review - G.I. JOE: THE RISE OF COBRA

Remember those Hasbro G.I. Joe toy commercials from the mid-eighties? The ones with that hyper-active kid laying by a small, perfectly constructed, picture-esque stream, surrounded by a small fortune’s worth of 3¾ inch plastic characters and massive, ungainly, missile-firing vehicles, ecstatically spouting out combat noises (“KCH-POO!” “UH-UH-UH-UH-UHHH!”, “CCCHHHH-KUH!”) and smashing his beloved possessions through piles of small, see-through blocks? I know I do and, based on the evidence at hand in G.I. Joe: The Rise of the Cobra, director Stephen Sommers sure does too, for he has crafted nothing if not the dopiest and most extravagant action-figure advertisement of all time. And I mean that in perhaps the best way possible.

Unlike Michael Bay’s bloated and insincere Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, a tonal mess, which attempted to approximate adolescent giddiness through misogyny, mean-spirited violence and potty humour, Sommers' film is goofily earnest to a fault, illustrating an epic tale of good vs. evil with all the verve and intellect of a 10-year-old male subsisting on an endless nutrition-free diet of video-games, Saturday morning cartoons and James Bond and Star Wars movies. It’s the type of flick where Dennis Quaid can gruffly shout “release the sharks”, free of pesky irony or self-awareness, and clashing opposite-coloured ninjas icily refer to each other as “brother” (All the characters in G.I. Joe share freakishly coincidental interconnecting back stories, covered in countless cornball flashbacks which open and close with characters staring dramatically into space, which seem to imply that the screenwriters are huge fans of Paul Haggis’ Crash). Did I mention there’s also a robotic tracking device disguised as a fish? Or a jet which only responds to voice commands? In Gaelic? Well, there is, dammit, and although the film they’re haphazardly stuffed into isn’t any good by accepted critical standards, there is an almost admirable purity to be found in its aw-shucks, blow-em-all-up idiocy. G.I. Joe may be crappy and campy, but it’s also an almost pitch-perfect translation of the absurd, one-dimensional property which spawned it.

Rise of the Cobra’s story can be summed up in a single sentence: the good guys have to stop experimental metal-consuming nano-tech missiles from falling into the hands of bad guys, who would use them to take over the world. How or why is not important. What is of central concern, though, is that the main good guys are Duke and Ripcord (Every character in this film has apparently eschewed traditional Christian names in favour of bad-ass monikers.), played by a wooden Channing Tatum and, um, Marlon Wayans. They’re a couple of top-shelf army rangers who blunder and worm their way – rather easily, it must be said – into being recruited into the G.I. Joe task-force, an internationally made-up team of super soldiers operating from a secret subterranean base in the deserts of Egypt. Overseen by the crusty old warhorse General Hawk (Dennis Quaid), the team also features the silent ninja warrior Snake-Eyes (Ray Park), the British arms expert Heavy Duty (Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje), communications genius Breaker (Said Taghmaoui) and the impressively pneumatic Scarlett (Rachel Nichols – doing her noble part to help single-handedly launch a new generation of young boys into the throws of puberty).

Despite being the new guys on the team, Duke and Ripcord are almost immediately thrust into leader-ship type roles, tasked with preventing the all-important WMDs from falling into the hands of the seductive, dominatrix-lite Baroness (Sienna Miller – wearing regalia that suggests that Victoria’s Secret may in fact have a separate catalogue for evil mercenaries), master-of-disguise Zartan (Arnold Vosloo) and the evil ninja Storm Shadow (Byung-hun Lee). They, in turn, are working for the slimy Scottish arms merchant McCullen (Christopher Eccleston – acting through an accent which makes Mel Gibson’s Braveheart brogue feel restrained), who is so uncompromisingly evil that he also employs a sinister deformed scientist named, simply, The Doctor (Joseph Gordon-Levitt), who has created an army of nano-injected, brain-washed mega-storm troopers. As these colourful baddies repeatedly clash with the no-nonsense Joes, by land, sea and air, for the fate of the free world, we are treated, in place of a story, to a continuous demonstration of the best computer-generated effects possibly imagined circa 1997 (this includes a cameo by a first-gen Coca-Cola™ polar bear). Certainly CGI Joe: There Will Be Explosions would have been a more apt title.

In spite of the often gaudily unfinished effects work, exemplified best by the expansive exterior shots, such as the sandy landscape outside the Joe’s base and the underwater sprawl of the villains’ headquarters, which resemble the shiny, polygon-rendered environments of a Turok: Dinosaur Hunter game level, the film’s action sequences still manage to build up a suitably enjoyable intensity. There is a chase through the streets of Paris featuring Duke and Ripcord, wearing Halo-like “accelerator suits”, and accompanied by a nimble Snake-Eyes and motorbike-jumping Scarlett, tearing after a multi-weapon-firing truck, that is impressive for both its scale and the stunning amount of collateral damage it accumulates. Later, Sommers’ rips a page from George Lucas’ Return of the Jedi playbook, with a ludicrous three-pronged assault on McCullen’s underwater base - which is seemingly still under construction considering the ever-present blow-torch wielding workman looming in the background of almost every interior shot - that includes two warring fleets of attack-submersibles (I have no idea how the Joe’s transported their forces to the Arctic – where ice sinks, apparently - so speedily), violent gun battles and a sword-slashing ninja mêlée. Heck, there's even a tacked on bit, with Ripcord chasing runaway missiles, that is an almost exact recreation of the climax of Moonraker. It’s goofy and unnecessarily violent stuff to be sure, but it’ll play like gang-busters to youngsters and those able to regress in maturity level for 120 minutes.

To Sommers’ credit, most of his actors are on-board with his cheesy vision, cranking up the lunacy of their performances to 11 and beyond. Quaid winces and frowns with aplomb (possibly reliving the traumatic experience of signing his three-picture contract), Sienna Miller vamps it up like a Hell’s Angels vixen-gone-wild and a gloriously flamboyant Joseph Gordon-Levitt croaks and guffaws through a death-metal growl. Rachel Nichols, whose Scarlett is the latest graduate from the Denise Richards University of Dubious Intelligence, spouts her inane pseudo-scientific dialogue with bubble-headed pep and jogs in a sports bra like nobody’s business. In arguably the film’s ultimate scene of coo-coo for Cocoapuffs logic, Nichols and Said Taghmaoui stick large electrical spikes into a dead bad-guy’s head in order to download his memories and make photographs from them. Yes. They then, utilizing a picture of a shadow as a reference point, pin-point the location of his headquarters by using “spherical trigonometry”. I felt like hugging someone when those precious two words were uttered.

When it’s all said and done, and the titular cobra has indeed risen (though, curiously, neither Nichols or Miller are responsible for this occurrence), and left the door gaping wide-open for the inevitable sequel, it’s hard not to feel a pang of desire for whatever stupid juvenile delights Sommers’ has left up his fromage-scented sleeve. G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra is as synthetic as the butter on your movie theatre popcorn and as dumb as a Dolph Lundgren film festival. However, for sugar-addled kids or those seeking to relive the endearingly bald-faced tackiness of the original cartoon show, or, more likely, derive sardonic amusement from it, G.I. Joe is just the ticket for you. Sometimes, it`s nice to know that, just when blockbuster action movies couldn`t get any sillier, G.I. Joe is there. Yo, Joe!

*snicker*.

3 out of 5

*This review was sponsored by the good folks at Toys "R" Us.

Epi-Cast: Episode 15 - "(500) Days in Madea's Hurt Locker"

Well, summer is quickly closing its hallowed doors for the year, and Cam and Tom have gathered once again to pay homage to its late season movie offerings. Sure they could be at the beach! Or washing cars in minimal clothing while giddily whipping their heads around to Len's "Steal My Sunshine"... But they aren't damnit! They're sacrificing for you, ensuring another eight months of pasty skin, cranking out another 90 minutes of film-related pod-casting content for you to listen to while you're out suntanning and eyeing the chippies/himbos. You're most welcome.

Epi-Cast: Episode 15 - "(500) Days in Madea's Hurt Locker"
In this unintentionally dirty-sounding episode the doofy duo take part in a combustible review of Kathryn Bigelow's excellent Iraq action-flick The Hurt Locker. In addition, Cam critiques the happy-happy-joy-joy wonderful (500) Days of Summer, Judd Apatow's newest "joint" Funny People and, in a later recorded addition, the Olyphant-tastic, but otherwise clunky, A Perfect Getaway. That said, though, the real pyrotechnics go off when Tom, for reasons beyond all reason and comprehension, delivers his thoughts on sitting through Tyler Perry's Madea Goes to Jail. Seriously. The two also, in their "Trailer Park Encounters" segment spew out their thoughts about the hot new trailers for the Wes Anderson-directed Roald Dahl adaptation Fantastic Mr. Fox, the Wachowski Brother's Ninja Assassin, the Coen Brother's A Serious Man and Peter Jackson's probable Oscar-winner The Lovely Bones. Enjoy or die. You can do no less.

To download, simply right-click and save on the green episode title above. Then you are free to cringe/enjoy to your wuverly heart's delight.

P.S. We are also available on iTunes! No guff! Simply do a store search for "Epi-Cast" and, CHASTITY-BONO!, you can subscribe to our feed and receive insta-downloads. It's better than the Nintendo Power Glove! Oh, and we are the film discussion show, not the Christian show.

Cam Returns To The Hype! Cast!

Hey there true believers, you can believe the rumors tantalizingly swirling around the watercooler! The impossible has happened. An event of biblical proportions which shall forever redefine the way we, as the human species, look upon this great spinning blue sphere we call home. I was asked back to superherohype.com's illustrious Hype! Cast, hosted by the too-cool-for-school highscorefilms and the ever-humble "Champion Of The Universe" Immortal Fire! So, listen in as the two venerable hosts, along with special guest Drakon, and myself (blithering mindlessly under the anonymous cloak of my ever-reliable moniker Episode29) discuss all manner of things including G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra, X-Men Origins: Wolverine and Stan Lee's best cinematic cameos. It's fun of the highest, most godly, order.

Download episode 29 (tee hee) to hear this episode, or you can check out my previous appearance reviewing Transformers 2 in episode 24. After that, go nuts and consume all the fellows' previous efforts. Fun for all, it is!

Click here for the Hype! Cast feed!

Click here for the Hype! Cast iTunes page!

And, once again, the biggest of thanks to highscorefilms, Immortal Fire, Drakon and Malice (who unfortunately couldn't make the record) for humouring me.

Film Review - 500 DAYS OF SUMMER

If you can recall back to the far-flung month of last April, I performed some very jubilant calisthenics over Greg Motolla’s incessantly huggable Adventureland, a film I gushingly praised as being “a genuinely funny, heartfelt slice of coming-of-age narrative that sneaks up and lulls you into a blissful state of nostalgic joy”. Faint praise indeed, and my unabashed fondness for the film has only increased since. However, with the slowly expanding release of Marc Webb’s lush and tender pop-smart post-modern dramedy 500 Days of Summer, we’ve once again been lovingly presented with another brilliantly comical, and similarly-themed, exploration into the dizzying highs and soul-crushing lows of twenty-something romance. If 2008 was the year of the reinvented superhero, I hereby dub 2009 as the year of the perceptive young love story.

Ostensibly assembled as an affectionate 21st century tribute to the 1977 Woody Allen classic Annie Hall, which mixed real-world relationship insights with fourth-wall-breaking snark and hilariously indulgent genre-bending absurdities, 500 Days of Summer is like that flick’s hip little brother: still bearing the same timeless American hopes and dreams, but boasting a contemporary ironic voice and an ADD-addled brain . As opposed to the average fluff-stuffed rom-com, which typically traces a dopey-smiley couple of combative alpha personalities from first “Meet-Cute” to “Stupid Misunderstanding” to the inevitable “Climactic Slow-Mo Make-Up Smooch”, Webb’s artfully constructed slice of whimsy bounces wildly around the timeline of its central duo’s romantic cycle, honing in the small intimate moments of truth crammed neatly between the colossal defining events. This is a film more focussed on the emotions of the morning after than the steamy passions of the carnal act itself.

And what an unforgettable post-coital sunrise it is, as greeting card writer Tom Hanson, played by the destined-for-big-things Joseph Gordon-Levitt, bursting with joyful triumph, merrily shakes hands with a throng of complete strangers before breaking into an infectiously winning impromptu-yet-choreographed dance routine to Hall & Oates’ “You Make My Dreams Come True”. Yep, he’s in love, all right. Who’s the lucky girl? That would be the free-spirited Summer Finn (Zooey Deschanel), a spritely bundle of modern-woman philosophies and quirky, odd-ball tastes (Ringo is her fave Beatle! She collects eccentric bric-a-brac! Gadzooks!). How did they meet? I’m so glad you asked. Really. You see, she’s a recent hire at Tom’s company, working for his affable boss Vance (a kindly Clark Gregg). Sure, he thinks she’s out of his league, and tries to avoid her at first, but, after a drunken office karaoke party, things begin to click and sparks ignite.

So what’s the problem, then? Well, Summer isn’t interested in a commitment while Tom has been indoctrinated from childhood to yearn for exactly that. Uh oh. As the film jumps around we begin to see cracks appear in their union: He’s overly determined and needy, while she’s distant and masking deep-rooted unhappiness. Can a solution be found? The film’s poster informs us that “This is not a love story. This is a story about love.”, and certainly a more apt description cannot exist. 500 Days of Summer uncovers the truth behind sweeping romance, and packs it with broadly painted eye-candy and quiet, naked observations, big laughs and contemplative solemnity. Director Webb and screenwriters Scott Neustadter and Michael H. Weber have ingeniously crafted a narrowly focussed character study that is, at the same time, eerily identifiable to almost everyone in the audience.

As fun as the film’s script is, and how much energy Webb brings to the classy affair, all would be nought if, um, not for the lively performances from its two central actors. Gordon-Levitt, an intriguing talent on the rise for some time now (Go rent Brick and The Lookout and see the early warning signs) is an ideal love-sick man-boy, charismatic and charming, but also not afraid to reveal the insecurity within. He’s able to play petulant frustration extremely well, as in an office meeting blow-up where all his romantic aggravation comes to an explosive head, and yet he still has the light touch to grab the film’s witty comic dialogue and situations and run with them.

Zooey Deschanel’s role is trickier. As Summer is, at least in sunnier times, Tom’s idea of flawlessness, she has to essentially play an almost angelic girl whose imperfections are all but ignored in favour of the fantasized ideal. Fortunately, no actress does idiosyncratic adorability better and, having finally found a director capable of harnessing her high-voltage magnetic appeal, she’s so sunny, funny and gorgeous that I’d suggest that any hot-blooded male who walks out the film not in love with her is either a soulless android or a corpse. When her character enters darker territory in the latter half, the actress is restrained and wounded – ixnaying the stereotypical screeching, erratic harpy routine in favour of something more touching and honest. Just as Tom can’t get Summer out of his head, 500 Days of Summer succeeds in making sure we can’t get Deschanel out of ours.

Although not all of the film’s flights of fancy strike gold – there’s a foreign film montage that feels too arch and superfluous and Tom’s wise-behind-her-years Juno-like little sister, who speaks like a brainy 39-year-old screenwriter, is a tad grating and inconsistent with the identifiable humanity of the rest of the cast. Helping to counter-balance these weaknesses are a spell-binding split-screen scene, which details an event from both Tom’s hopeful pre-visualized expectations and the heart-breakingly brutal reality, the aforementioned dance sequence and, quite possibly, the greatest Han Solo reference of all time.

The film’s structure mirrors the emotional freefall of young romance, with the early encounters crackling with the electric excitement of discovery and unspoken desire and the later scenes shadowed by barely-suppressed sorrow and an uncomfortable fear of the unavoidable. Like Adventureland, and Annie Hall of course, it’s a cinematic journey that feels alive and in the moment, a snapshot of a scenario that we almost regret to admit looks vaguely familiar. 500 Days of Summer won’t change the face of cinema, or make Transformers dollars, but it will make you laugh, grin ear-to-ear and maybe, just maybe, even lead you to re-evaluate and come to terms with your own particularly traumatic ill-fated romances. Who ever said that cinematic love couldn’t be grand?

4.5 out of 5

Film Review - SUMMER HOURS

Olivier Assayas’ Summer Hours (L’heure d’été), which recently competed in the Vancouver French Film Festival, is an intelligent and touching study of family dynamics in the face of unexpected change. Just as Jonathan Demme’s great Rachel Getting Married explored the out-of-control drama, dynamics and chaos surrounding impending nuptials, Assayas’ film takes a long, hard glimpse at the complications of death and the effects in which treasured memories colour our long-term life decisions. The journey is captured in a no-frills fly-on-the-wall approach, an economical mode of storytelling which strips the work of artifice and allows us free roaming access into these fascinating people’s lives.

The film opens with the extended relations of lovably eccentric family matriarch Hélène (Edith Scob) gathered at their gorgeous sun-lit summer house in the lush French countryside in celebration of her 75th birthday. Her three children – Adrienne (the always sophisticated Juliette Binoche), a New York-based designer, Frédéric (Charles Berling), an economy professor and Jérémie (Jérémie Renier), a Puma Athletics executive operating out of China – have arrived with their assorted gaggle of significant others and offspring and, between joyful gift-giving and merriment, are playfully regaling each other with nostalgic childhood reminiscences of lazier carefree days. For Hélène though, this is a chance to lower her mask of fashionable radiance and confess a heavy secret to elder sibling Frédéric. However, after he proves reluctant to pay heed to her concerns regarding her own mortality, and the fate of the beloved vacation home, the families retreat back to their own comfortable separate realities.

A short time later, Hélène’s grave concerns prove sadly accurate, and the family, grieving and fatigued, are forced back together, tasked with not only laying their mother to rest, but also deciding the fate of her lavish summer place. For, besides being a monument to their cherished past, it has also, over time, been converted by Hélène into a makeshift tribute to their late artist great uncle. As the trio of now-adult children weave their way through endlessly complicated decisions and questions, alternately supporting one-another and butting heads, they are faced with having to decide whose dreams are more important to hold onto; Hélène’s or their own.

Director Assayas handles Summer Hours’ fragile material with an elegantly gentle hand, carefully coaxing profoundly moving moments from his classy team of top-quality actors. It’s somewhat amazing, after viewing an endless procession of dumbed-down mainstream North American cinema, to encounter a director so intensely focussed on relating adult themes without succumbing to cheap sensationalism. When the three siblings engage in an important discussion over whether to sell the country house, Assayas refuses to simply lay out the scene’s messages and ambiguities, urging us instead to peer beneath the forced pleasantries and grasp the emotions behind the behaviour. Similarly, he ends the film with a scene which seems oddly random but, the more you think about and analyze it, is as poetic and impactful as any possible conclusion.

There is so much beauty in the film that it occasionally even pulls our eyes away from the intriguing complexities of the characters. Despite the naturalistic quasi-documentary feel created by cinematographer Eric Gautier, there is an almost other-worldly beauty to the French countryside, with its ever-stretching yards of flourishing emerald green trees, crystalline blue sea and rustic stone walls. The house is a character unto itself, filled with gleaming wooden antique desks and cabinets, decorated with an evocative collection of ornately framed art-work. If ever there was a film to convince you to pull up stakes and head to France, this is it.

Although Juliette Binoche gets first-billing (The benefit to winning an Oscar, folks!), Charles Berling is the true conflicted heart of the film. The most grounded, emotionally and geographically, of Hélène’s brood, Frédéric nobly carries the majority of the burden, with the longest road to travel towards acceptance and catharsis. Like his beleaguered character, Berling carries the film with quiet dignity, revealing the elder son’s soul in quieter solitary moments, as in a scene where, after clearing the table, he sits alone and contemplative in a darkened room. It’s a wondrously inspired performance. Edith Scob, as Hélène, is also invaluable, casting her vibrant presence over Summer Hours long after she has departed. Her final scene, solemnly climbing a shadowy path towards her sun-drenched abode, is unforgettably heart-rending.

It would have been easy for lesser filmmakers to be overwhelmed by the inherent gloominess of the movie’s subject matter, but instead they have produced one of the most life-affirming cinematic experiences of the year. This is a mature examination of not only the wonders of mortality, but also the importance of memory in shaping who we are. By film’s conclusion, we realize, alongside the characters, that it’s not so much the place and belongings that matter, as much as what we have brought and taken away from them. Summer Hours is truly magnifique.

4 out of 5

*Originally printed in SFU's The Peak: July 27th, 2009.

Epi-Cast: Episode 14 - "Mann Up, Princess!"

Well, the lucky streak was bound to end eventually and, most definitely, this latest Epi-Cast episode, number 14 for those counting, is a spectacular combustion of sorts. Having been recording these lately in the early AM, on little to no sleep, Cam and Tom thought they had discovered a recipe for greatness. Sadly, they were delusional. This resulting effort, while filled with hilarious/offensive jocularity, is a wildly unfocussed journey into the inner regions of the two brave co-hosts surly, disturbed minds. Joseph Conrad would have shuddered to undergo the aural exploration now being offered up to you for download...

Epicast: Episode 14 - "Mann Up, Princess!"

In this momentous episode, Cam and Tom finally come to blows, ranting and railing over Michael Mann's Public Enemies and its inherent greatness/crappiness. However, not all is doom and gloom, as the deranged duo heap out-of-this-world praise on Duncan Jones' sci-fi breakthrough Moon and reminisce over some of The Hangover's better bits. As well, Cam reviews the wonderful Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, the emotionally powerful Summer Hours (L'heure d'ete) and the not so sexy-time Bruno. In regards to trailer reviews, they cheer for the Peter Jackson produced District 9, remain optimistic for the indie flick How To Be A Serial Killer, split on Diablo Cody's Jennifer's Body and, in a podcast first, one host stomps off set and refuses to talk about Drew Barrymore's roller-derby epic Whip It!. It's drama of the highest degree folks, but you'll have to experience it for your own sorry selves...

To download, simply right-click and save on the green episode title above. Then you are free to cringe/enjoy to your blessed heart's delight.

P.S. We are also available on iTunes! No guff! Simply do a store search for "Epi-Cast" and, QUASI-MODO!, you can subscribe to our feed and receive insta-downloads. It's better than hot Marlon Brando butter-lovin'! Oh, and we are the film discussion show, not the Christian chat one.