About That GREEN HORNET Movie...

Being a near-obsessive movie buff, I’m a major sucker for superhero pictures. I love watching respected character actors being plunked into form-fitting rubber suits and engaging in CG-enhanced fisticuffs with absurdly-nicknamed megalomaniacs.
It’s exciting to watch how each newly launched property establishes its own unique rules and mythology, a vaguely recognizable world that envelopes us and allows us free reign to let our 12-year-old geek inhibitions run rampant...

For the rest of this article, visit: http://itsjustmovies.com/about-that-green-hornet-movie/

About That New STAR WARS Rumor...

On Oct. 21, a number of legitimate filmsites ran a tip regarding the strong possibility of a third Star Wars trilogy — an all-3D venture which would see George Lucas ceremoniously perched in the Emperor’s swiveling producer throne, overseeing the directorial efforts of such artistic luminaries as Steven Spielberg and Francis Ford Coppola.

Despite being leaked from a notoriously dubious source, it took precious little time — probably less than 12 par secs — for movie message boards and Twitter to be bombarded with fervent fanboy-driven hoopla...

For the rest of this article, visit: http://itsjustmovies.com/about-that-new-star-wars-rumor/

Epi-Cast: Episode 19 - "A Wild And Serious Podcast"

You dig it. You know it. You be lovin' and respectin' by downloadin' and collectin'. It is tha glorious-o! Epi-Cast...o! And it's back, in black, ridin' down the track, kickin' in your earphones while you drinkin' from a sack! Those "Wild Things", they be MASSIVE, and the Coen Bro's new movie, is about a dude who's passive! But anyway, I better split, cuz these rhymes are gettin' silly, and I best be gettin' to it! HOO-AW!

Epi-Cast: Episode 19 - "A Wild and Serious Podcast"

Wherein Tom and Cam run joyfully with Spike Jonze's Where The Wild Things Are and ponder the meanings of a chaotic universe, thanks to the Coen Brother's latest opus A Serious Man. They also discuss the cheapie shocker Paranormal Activity, the Jamie Foxx/Gerard Butler high-octane-rollercoaster-slam-bang-wham-bam-guts-and-attitude-thrillride Law Abiding Citizen and the spook-tacular Halloween horror anthology Trick 'r Treat. As well, in a typically rambling "Trailer Park Encounters" segment, the two nitwits nitpick the latest promo clips for Toy Story 3, Terry Gilliam's The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus and the Nic Cage period-piece horror flick Season of the Witch. It's all so much fun that'll you'll be consulting a therapist by morning!

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

P.S. We are also available on tha iTunes! No guff! Simply do a store search for "Epi-Cast" and, BIZARRO-METALLO!, 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 pretentious fools like the swine flu.

Film Review - PARANORMAL ACTIVITY

Conventional wisdom dictates that timing is everything, and certainly such is the case for Paranormal Activity. Arriving smack-dab in the midst of the bizarre ghost-hunting craze, this bargain budget supernatural startler has managed, through ultra-enthusiastic word of mouth and clever marketing, to become what the illustrious star of stage and screen LL Cool J once referred to as “something like a phenomenon”. Yet, although the film undeniably meets the necessary scare quotient, there’s a gimmickry artifice about the well-intentioned venture that sometimes cheapens what is intended as an experience in raw, intimate terror.

Shot in Blair Witch Project-style handheld-o-vision, Paranormal Activity is also, like that film, sold on being authentic footage of an ill-fated encounter with otherworldly forces. However, as opposed to twigs and people standing in corners, this film brings an invisible demonic force to the party, which violently disrupts the lives of a semi-flaky “engaged-to-be-engaged” couple occupying a palatial suburban San Francisco residence. Predictably, this unwelcome intruder draws differing reactions from its two hosts, with the tormented Katie (Katie Featherston) forced to confront her shadowy past while cynical day-trader Micah (Micah Sloat) keenly attempts to capture the spooky goings-ons on video.

As the two lovers document the mundanity of their daily lives, and divulge the reasoning behind their surveillance-heavy experiment, early attempts at grabbing uncanny episodes on tape prove fruitless, with an icemaker acting as the initial main source of eerie clatter. Still, concerns are raised considerably upon the discovery of night-time footage of a self-swinging door. Calling in a psychic (the disarmingly paternal Mark Fredrichs), the sleep-deprived duo is informed that an angry demon is at work, one which will only be satisfied by...

...and that’s where I’ll stop, as giving away anything more would risk devaluing the film of its seat-jumping shock tactics. For, like Blair Witch, there is little reason to watch Paranormal Activity once its ghoulish hand has been revealed. The film, unfortunately, clings to its attention-grabbing stunts like a life preserver, forsaking any sense of narrative drive or logic (Why don’t Micah and Katie ever turn on a light or try leaving the house early on? And how do they have the presence of mind to always grab the camera, much less frame their shots, when things get real bloodcurdling?) in favour of episodic chills. Writer/director Oren Peli knows how to keep the audience clutching uncomfortably at the armrest, but seems unsure of how to tell a story.

This handicap is most evident in the daytime scenes, depicted in random cuts of film which feel slightly too arbitrary to be believable – It’s doubtful that an eager-beaver shooter like Micah would keep turning the camera off mid-conversation just to restart it from a different angle – and occasionally kind of dull. A common stumbling block in quasi-documentary horror flicks is that, while true-life conversations are tedious when viewed on film, falsified attempts at true-life conversations are even worse. Look no further for this rule in action than in the awkward psychic scene in which clumsy expository dialogue brings the film’s realistic flow to an awkward standstill.

Leads Featherston and Sloat do bring a nice naturalistic energy to their work though, helping to smooth out Peli’s occasional directorial bumps and blunders. We more or less believe them as a couple, and as their relationship devolves into hysterical bickering we’re in there with them. It can’t be over-stated how refreshing it is to see two genuinely normal-looking individuals on screen, with Sloat’s clean-cut, yet slightly goofy, demeanour nicely complementing the smart-and-sexy girl-next-door appeal of Featherston who, as the film makes a somewhat cheeky effort to show, fills out her endless supply of tank-tops and boxers admirably. These two novices sell each and every on-screen fright with emotional honesty and relatable panic, and Paranormal Activity benefits hugely from it.

Make no mistake, you will undergo moments of intense dread during this film, with Peli dragging each and every moment of teeth-grinding suspense to the max. Rather than rely on gore or CG, the director successfully takes you back to those dark childhood nights where just a shadow or creak would send your heart rocketing into your throat. Applying a suffocating ambient soundtrack of boiler room sounds, and employing the most basic practical effects, the fiendish nocturnal visitor’s presence looms forbiddingly over ever dimly-lit scene. Even the most cynical of movie-goers will likely find themselves having to remember to breathe in the nerve-obliterating latter sections.

The value of Paranormal Activity depends almost solely on the conditions you experience it in, with the preference being either a theatre or suitably darkened TV room. It isn’t a great film by any stretch, or even a consistently good one, but it’s an effective exercise in audience manipulation that plays like an amusement park ride, with all the requisite thrills, spills and surprises you desire. Just try not to be the last person in line.

3 out of 5

*Originally printed in SFU's The Peak: Oct 26th, 2009.

Film Review - WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE

No doubt about it, Where the Wild Things Are is a product of magical madness, the result of a gutsy studio (Warner Brothers) handing an ultra-pricy property to a maverick auteur in the hopes that some sort of movie-making alchemy would take place. With Spike Jonze, the punk-rock wunderkind responsible for the surrealistic head-trip epics Being John Malkovich and Adaptation, vividly reimaging Maurice Sendak’s uniquely illustrated beloved children’s literary staple, the final product was destined to be peculiar and challenging - a reality which incited numerous behind-the-scenes creative fisticuffs. Fortunately, from the turmoil has emerged an oft-flawed beauty of a film whose emotional and visual triumphs outweigh its pesky narrative shortcomings.

From the outset, with its graffiti-covered opening titles – which are curiously reminiscent of the studio’s The Dark Knight viral marketing campaign – and dynamic handheld opening featuring the movie’s little hero Max (Max Records) aggressively wrestling with the family dog, Where the Wild Things Are wears it’s down-and-dirty indie aesthetic on its scruffy, frayed sleeve. Jonze has hardwired the look of the film to the rambunctious psyche of his diminutive protagonist, a thin-skinned, hyperactively imaginative young boy trapped in the gulf between childhood and adolescence, desperate for the attentions of his popular older sister and busy single mom (the invaluable Catherine Keener). After a nasty domestic fight, spurred by the presence of a male suitor (Mark Ruffalo, in a brief part), little Max runs anxiously from the house and into the nearby woods. Or does he?

Max’s distressed entrance into the dim forest transforms into an epic journey across turbulent seas and craggy precipices, drawing him into the ominous island woodlands which the wild things call home. Initially threatened by the gargantuan creatures, the young boy is saved from certain devouring by the hot-blooded Carol (James Gandolfini), the volatile outsider of the group who convinces his monstrous family unit to crown Max as their king. Proving to be an eager ruler, the juvenile monarch initially engages the towering beasts in numerous games and fort-building ventures, before more complicated issues begin to rear their head. While Carol pines for the attentions of the distant KW (Lauren Ambrose), and the smaller, sensitive Alexander (voiced by Paul Dano, and resembling the bipedal cousin of The NeverEnding Story’s luckdragon Falkor) yearns to have his voice heard, Max finds himself having to empathize with and ease the complex painful feelings of his hulking subjects before summoning up the courage to return to his earthly home.

The world created by Jonze and his art department is both wondrously pristine and domesticated, and when we step into it, leaving behind the authentic middle-class suburban reality of Max’s universe, we are entering a new kind of place entirely; a fantastical land which stirs within us a sense of marvel and inquisitiveness. Inhabited by the immense monsters - stunning achievements of CG and practical effects - which bear grubby, matted fur and unclean claws, the island is a setting where the dreams of cinematic enthusiasts come true. Watching Max and his newfound friends standing on a cliff, perilously close to the treacherous surf, howling at the golden horizon, waves of astonished chills flowed down my spine. There are numerous moments in Wild Things that will leave you breathless with appreciation.

Truly, the film’s success hinges on young Max Records, a real find, who plays a refreshingly naturalistic kid; playful and intelligent, but also irrational and difficult. We believe the unfolding extraordinary events because we believe he does, and his relationship with Gandolfini’s lovingly textured Carol is superbly developed. They have a heart-to-heart while journeying across a sandy plain that is intensely moving and a visit to the monster’s secret model room produces one of the film’s most gorgeously memorable scenes.

Yet one has to question who the film was made for. The script, by Jonze and Dave Eggers, is exceptional at conveying the deeper meanings behind the monsters’ personal parallels to Max’s own life, but too formless and oblique to be an easily accessible story. Frankly, it’s often something of a downer, with an omnipresent air of melancholy and an intentionally uncertain ending. As much as kids love ambiguity and rich subtext, Wild Things feels like the work of an eccentric filmmaker completely baffled by the wants or needs of his target audience, more interested in playing to the parents who are capable of performing the necessary heavy-lifting.

Although the movie ultimately falls short of its lofty aims, there is a beguiling purity in its dark, wounded soul that captures a greater truth – one which some may feel slightly uncomfortable acknowledging. Jonze’s Where the Wild Things Are is an entirely new breed of animal altogether, a grown-up children’s fable with passion and bite. There are wonders to be found within its gloomy frames, but what you discover there may not be quite what you were prepared for.

4 out of 5

*Originally printed in SFU's The Peak: Oct. 19th, 2009.

Film Review - ZOMBIELAND

Shouldn’t we all be feeling zombied out by now? Forty-one years since George A. Romero messily birthed the modern shuffling zombie spectacle with the creep-classic, Night Of The Living Dead, and we’re still watching drooling stiffs mindlessly meandering from Day to Dawn. This has inspired cheeky British parodies, sub-moronic Milla Jovovich vehicles, and weirdo Jane Austen literary crossovers. I mean, after the refined Mr. Darcy has started stomping undead ass, where else is there left to go?

The answer, of course, is the devastated, corpsepacked playground Zombieland, home to a truly memorable mixed bag of misfits and director Ruben Fleischer’s colourful send-up of all things flesh-eating and decayed. In the spirit of the film’s survival-rule-obsessed lead character nicknamed Columbus (Jesse Eisenberg — starring in his second great amusement park comedy of the year following April’s Adventureland), it seems fitting that Zombieland be evaluated by the same six crucial criteria that all of its reanimated ilk should be:

Rule #1: The lead characters need not be zombies, too!

Perhaps due to the syrupy-slow saunter of your average human-hungry assailant, it often seems like filmmakers are trying to even the odds by stockpiling entire casts of personality-deficient lobotomy victims. After the infuriatingly hysterical mass media critics of Diary of the Dead and the hordes of generic carcass fodder in the Resident Evil debacles, what a joy to encounter the lovable quartet of weapon wielding eccentrics of Zombieland. We genuinely like Eisenberg’s stammering, fretful teen; Woody Harrelson’s redneck dynamo Tallahassee; and cute con-artist sisters Wichita (Emma Stone) and Little Rock (Abigail Breslin). It’s their playful interactions and bickering, not the voracious villains, which drives the film and provides it with its unexpectedly big heart. Their chemistry is so palpable that we laugh just as much at the big gags as the smaller beats, such as when Breslin patiently educates an intrigued Harrelson on the finer points of Hannah Montana.

Rule #2: With zombies, it’s all about location, location, location!

Look, there’s nothing more boring than watching the living-impaired stumble around underground bunkers and caverns. It’s been done to . . . er . . . death. The same goes for stuffy, darkened buildings and subterranean tunnels: when it comes to cannibalistic cadavers, the more recognizable and imaginative the environment, the better. Remember Dawn of the Dead’s mall complex or 28 Weeks Later’s English countryside? They were bright and wide open, making the possibility of capture all the more horrifying and frustrating. Zombieland plays around with some fun cramped settings, such as a restroom toilet, a college student’s apartment, and a tacky souvenir store, before graduating onto a superlative after dark amusement park shoot-‘em-up finale which, in crowd-stirring style, takes full advantage of every possible prop, obstacle, and attraction in sight.

Rule #3: Zombies like brains! So do we!

Given the proliferation of dimly assembled cheapie efforts, it’s often forgotten that zombie-fests are usually the most intelligent horror sub-genre, allowing a safe venue for incisive political and social commentaries exploring controversial subjects such as race, capitalism, post-9/11 anxiety, and the injustices of the Bush era. Although Zombieland is more interested in drawing laughs, writers Rhett Reese and Paul Wernick work overtime to ensure that every pop-culture reference, witty jibe, and sincere moment says something about the character spouting it. Even Eisenberg’s goofy narration, which occasionally feels a little too on-the-nose in regards to the film’s emotional messages, shrewdly comments not only on the grisly events in progress, but also the aspects of zombielore being referenced and subverted.

Rule #4: The only good zombie is a gloriously demolished one!

Ever since Romero used a helicopter blade to chop the top off of a decomposing aggressor, directors have made it their goal to discover new blackly tongue-in-cheek methods of destroying their monsters and to make said methods as splatteringly bizarre as possible. Zombieland, despite lacking the usual volcanoes of viscera, more than compensates with an escalating series of over-the-top-and-downthe- other-side zombie slaughters: the poor, lurching saps are pulverized with pianos, funhouse hammers, car-doors, pruning shears, and even with a banjo which has just finished playing Deliverance’s “Duelling Banjos” tune.

Rule #5: Zombies like famous people! . . . to eat!

A masterful cameo performance can be the difference between a good film and a great one. While the sidesplitting Shaun of the Dead played it subtle with blink-and-you’ll-miss-‘em turns by Cate Blanchett and Peter Jackson, Zombieland goes the Planet Terror, Quentin Tarantino route, with a destined-for-classic-status extended guest spot (which shall remain unspoiled here) that is so unforgettably wry — and strangely plausible — that it provides the film with a blazing jolt of comic oomph.

Rule #6: Zombies always live to munch another day.

Even though this movie ends optimistically, eschewing a conventional bleak conclusion, it still leaves us hanging on the perfect note: satisfied and beaming, yet curious to know where our heroes will journey next. Despite being overrun with rotten, ravaging man-eaters, you can’t help but want to revisit Zombieland. Dead or alive.

3.5 out of 5

*Originally printed in SFU's The Peak: Oct. 12th, 2009.

Epi-Cast: Episode 18 - "Attack Of The Nebbishy Undead"

The hiatus is over, and the Epi-Cast has risen up from the apparent dead, like a salivating soul-sucker creeping out of a freshly dug grave. However, rather than drain your body of lifeforce, the Epi-Cast only yearns to siphon your frontal lobes of smart-juice, through an ever-reliable mixture of rambing film discussion and general rambunctiousness! Hail we, who podcast from a basement!

Epi-Cast: Episode 18 - "Attack of the Nebbishy Undead"

In this most spanking of episodes, Cam and Tom grab their trusty chainsaws and shotguns and go to work on both the Woody Harrelson splatstick hit Zombieland and the Diablo Cody ghoul-girls-gone-wild dud Jennifer's Body. They also catch up to speed with reviews of Shane Acker's animated film 9, Clive Owen's The Boys Are Back, Matt Damon and Steven Soderbergh's The Informant! (A no-prize awaits whoever can guess which host fell asleep!) and the Paul Gross-starring/directed Canadian war epic Passchendale. It's also a juicy Trailer Park Encounters segment, with coverage of the no-doubt future Oscar nominee Up In The Air, the no-doubt future Scream Award nominee A Nightmare On Elm Street, the no-doubt future Razzie Award nominee The Blind Side and, um, From Paris With Love. Goddamn, this is one tasty episode!

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

P.S. We are also available on iTunes! We kid you not! Simply do a store search for "Epi-Cast" and, ELECTRO-MYSTERIO!, 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 pretentious fools like the flesh-eating plague.

Film Review - THE BOYS ARE BACK

Sometimes it only takes a dash or two of big-time movie star charisma and directorial verve to make the wheeziest of cinematic prospects crackle with authenticity and energy. Such is the case with The Boys Are Back: an amiable, Australia-set family drama involving a recently widowed sports writer’s unconventional journey towards responsible single-fatherhood, which should, theoretically, be almost unbearably gooey and corny, but is instead a genuinely audience-pleasing addition to the already considerable “reluctant parent” genre. Chalk it up to director Scott Hicks, who previously explored the complexities of father/ son relationships to great effect with 1996’s Oscar- scoring Shine, and an atypically warm Clive Owen — subduing his usual on-screen knack for brooding animal magnetism — for putting their collective talents together in the service of something simple, irony-free, and surprisingly endearing.

Owen’s Joe Warr is an undeniably flawed individual when we first come across him, a somewhat distant father and husband, whose jet-setting lifestyle depends heavily on the thankless efforts of his wife Katy (Laura Fraser), who acts as primary care-giver to their challenging six-yearold moppet, Artie (Nicolas McAnulty). However, after Katy succumbs to the ravages of terminal cancer, both of the surviving males find themselves at a grief-stricken loss, unable to truly communicate with each other, and emotionally isolated from those around them. In an effort to coax the boy out of his shell, Joe adopts a “Just Say Yes” policy, dubbing their house “Hog Heaven” and allowing for almost complete liberation from rules and responsibilities.

Although Joe’s novel new parenting strategy is met with apprehensive concern by his worried mother-in-law Barbara ( Julia Blake), who is both his closest confidante and most headstrong adversary, as well as a pretty young local woman named Laura (Emma Booth), who helps teach Artie’s elementary school class, it quickly creates a bond between the two Warr men. It also lures Joe’s London-based teenage son Harry (George Mackay), an oft-ignored product of an earlier marriage, back into his life — an added personality dynamic which threatens to topple the idyllic unruliness of “Hog Heaven” and forces him to become a stronger and more responsible role model and human being.

While this may all sounds like a drippy voyage into the nether-regions of Movie-Of-The-Week Hell, Hicks — a consummate professional finally back on the ball after a hard decade spent dragging musty Awards-bait fodder to the screen — battles the potential pitfalls of the material at every turn. Working with Alan Cubitt’s refreshing script, adapted from Simon Carr’s memoir, the director shows a sharp eye for avoiding the most irritating conventions: consider the relationship between Joe and the adorable Laura — a development that would seem to hint at hoary romantic melodrama — which is allowed to progress naturally and tenderly. These people have too much on their respective plates for a full-bore head-inthe- clouds love story, and the filmmakers respect their characters too much to crassly concoct one in order to sell tickets. They also show admirable restraint in the conversations between Joe and his deceased wife: these are moments which are portrayed in a recognizably grounded reality as opposed to being accompanied by soft lighting and histrionic strings.

Owen has rarely been better or freer, hiding his sorrows behind held-back tears and alcohol, while simultaneously radiating giddy excitement at each of Joe’s new breakthroughs. Upon discovering, early on, that his younger son has converted a hotel hot tub into an indoor water-park, the actor’s eyes run the gamut of emotions, from shock, to disbelief, apprehension, acceptance and, finally, unbridled joy, spelling out all we need to understand Joe’s transition into a champion of domestic disorder. He provides a perfect foundation for his energetic young co-stars to bounce off of, allowing for natural, affectationfree performances. Mackay in particular has one shattering blowout of a scene, stemming from a dispute over an un-emptied garbage bin, which is an emotionally devastating showstopper.

Dramatics aside, The Boys Are Back is also a flat-out wonderful looking feature, filled with sun-kissed Australian scenery captured in all of its awe-inspiring splendour by cinematographer Greig Fraser. In a voiceover, Owen reports that when mapping the human brain, an adult’s mind reveals symmetrical flat lines, while a child’s is all zigzags and unpredictability. This insight not only informs Joe’s yo-yo-like trip between adulthood and childlike abandon, but also the film’s many gorgeous visual motifs, with the stark, flat horizons contrasted against turbulent ocean waves and craggy rock formations. Fraser’s work is a radiant character unto itself and warrants notices in the impending Awards season.

If you’re willing to surrender to the movie’s leisurely pace, which, it must be said, unravels a tad during the continent-hopping third act before wrapping up in cheerily expected fashion, there is much to admire and, indeed, love about it. The Boys Are Back doesn’t aim for flashiness or innovation, but it is honest, heartfelt and, most importantly, it works. And sometimes that’s all that really counts.

3.5 out of 5

*Originally printed in SFU's The Peak: Oct. 5th, 2009.

Film Review - THE INFORMANT!

Almost precisely a decade ago Matt Damon, in The Talented Mr. Ripley, disappeared into the chameleon-like skin of a sociopathic serial killer who was intent on climbing the social ladder to wealth and high esteem, using words and sharp cunning to gain supremacy over his clueless victims. The genius of the performance was how it allowed the hungry young performer, still fresh off of being drafted into the Big Leagues with Good Will Hunting, to portray the most gifted of actors, a virtuoso master of drawing emotional responses from his audience through an intoxicating mixture of calculated subterfuge and inspired manipulation.

One has to wonder if there was a conscious inkling to re-explore that character-type lingering in the back of Damon’s cranium when he chose to tackle the role of Mark Whitacre, the paunchy, goofy-moustachioed corporate executive- turned-whistleblower, in Steven Soderbergh’s frequently too cool-for-school absurdist comedy, The Informant! Like Ripley, Whitacre is a deceptively affable and non-descript blank of a man who attempts to construct his own larger-than-life personal narrative by confusing and misleading those around him. He bases it on the crowd-pleasing novels of Michael Crichton and John Grisham, and that is what gives the film its own unique mad-ball spin.

Based on a true story — which informed the best-selling book by author Kurt Eichenwald — The Informant! doggedly follows the often bewildering exploits of Whitacre, an Ivy League-educated biochemist, who maintains a successful, if mundane, existence as a family man and top-ranking VP of the Archer Daniels Midland group, which specializes in the manufacture of corn-based products. However, as fate would have it, in the midst of a crisis involving a new virus strain depleting the company’s lysine stock, the shlumpy exec casually reveals to his superiors that he has received extortion demands from a rival Japanese corporation, who claim responsibility for the contamination.

Soon the FBI is involved, and the ultra-cooperative Whitacre, drunk with delusions of grandeur, decides to turn informer against his long-time colleagues by cheerfully divulging the details of a Byzantine price-fixing scheme to the special agents working the case, Brian Shephard (Scott Bakula — wonderful as a study in comic aggravation) and Bob Herndon (Joel McHale). Yet, as the scope of Whitacre’s story deepens, and the complexities of the situation mutate and multiply, the players, not to mention the audience, become trapped in an often incomprehensible web of false information and lunacy.

There’s a tangible aura of fidgety anxiety through much of The Informant!, as Soderbergh, a gifted talent unproven in the comedy arena, constantly battles to capture the dry zany tone which the Coen brothers regularly trade in, but is unable to ramp the movie’s energy level up past a casual amble. This is a film that cries out for screwball-level pacing to properly keep up with Whitacre’s intensely escalating tall-tales, but instead it just casually strolls, sometimes agreeably, often lackadaisically, from scene to scene without any sense of rising tension.

Soderbergh’s aesthetic choices are also puzzling and undercut the story with insecure tongue-in-cheek flourishes. Despite being set in the earlier part of the ‘90s, the characters inhabit a world decorated in ‘70s decor, and the cinematography intentionally paints the characters flesh-tones to match the copious amounts of wood-paneled wall units and furniture dominating almost every set. Perhaps it’s the director’s intention to capture the distinct flavour of the period’s paranoid thrillers, but instead of setting an evocative tone it feels distracting and precious. Likewise, bright splashes of neon Exploitation-style graphics and, most gratingly, Marvin Hamlisch’s obnoxious score, which plays wacky circus and spy theme music over moments of “humorous” tedium — a technique which is amusing early on, but grows infuriating as The Informant! meanders into its second act stretch and beyond — do little more than provide unwelcome jokey commentary upon the dense unfolding events. It’s frustrating to attempt to derive any sense of emotional fulfillment or intellectual engagement from a film that goes out of its way to deflate itself every time we become actively involved.

Nonetheless, despite Soderbergh’s hamhanded tactics, The Informant! is not without its gifts thanks to the jittery charms of Damon, whose Whitacre is a brilliant tragicomic creation, spouting a daffy ADD-fuelled stream of bizarre non sequiturs in his wittily unreliable narration. Surrounded by a gifted cast of comedy- trained actors playing it straight, the actor’s contagious relish in hiding inside this frumpy nerd-savant is astonishing to behold. It’s truly a kick to watch this venerable leading man let his go-for-broke character actor freak flag fly.

Damon is the life force of Soderbergh’s flawed effort, a dynamic (if impenetrable) force of nature that consistently pulls the film back from the brink of quirkiness-for-the-sake-ofquirkiness monotony. Indeed, the most curious irony of The Informant! is that, like Mark Whitacre himself, it overestimates its own cleverness in the face of great odds, and to regrettable detriment. Mr. Ripley wouldn’t approve and, unfortunately, I just can’t quite either.

2.5 out of 5

*Originally printed in SFU's The Peak: Sept 28th, 2009.

Film Review - JENNIFER'S BODY and SORORITY ROW

Considering the limited opportunities offered to young actresses working under the current youth-oriented Hollywood paradigm, it’s no wonder so many aspiring starlets wind up screaming for their supper. For where else, beyond romantic comedies, can promising talent find an opportunity to sidestep the Boys’ Club job postings for superhero girlfriends and comedic lust objects and achieve top billing in a boffo weekend-winning release? Strange then, that despite the ever-present supply of female casts and content, criminally few creatively inclined women in directorial or writerly positions, take the ultra-lucrative off-ramp into Terror Town. Due to the current release of duelling blood-spattered buffets, the genre is seeing its first true battle of the sexes in eons, with the hotly anticipated snark-a-thon shrieker Jennifer's Body, overseen by Girlfight helmer Karyn Kasuma and Oscar-winning Juno scribe Diablo Cody, facing off against the fetid Stewart Hendler-directed Slasher Sorority Row.

Although neither film is successful in crossing into the frightfully fruitful ground tilled and harvested by this summer's Drag Me To Hell, Jennifer’s Body comes closest to providing the worthiest BOO! for the audience’s buck. Featuring Cody’s distinctive hip-to-the-max vernacular (my favourite line featured a shock victim being referred to as a “Zombie mannequin robot statue”), the film is a quirky yet under-baked hybrid of horror hijinx, sharp-tongued ironic comedy and John Hughes-ian teen drama which never quite gels into the anarchic giggle-and-jolt fest that it aspires to be. Still, it is interesting to watch the gifted behind-the-scenes pair attempt to mine art from demon vomit and exposed innards.

Megan Fox, no stranger to type-casting, stars as a nubile High School cheerleader transformed into a ravenous succubus after a run-in with a mysterious emo band fronted by a mascara-wearing Adam Brody. Now a vampy, trampy carnivorous force to be reckoned with, making insta-meals of the school’s lusty male population, Jennifer’s lone opposition is her insecure, frequently trod-upon best friend, the appropriately nicknamed Needy (Amanda Seyfried), a saucer-eyed wallflower unprepared for the role of town saviour.

It’s when highlighting this friendship that the movie works best, as it allows Cody – who cameos briefly cameos as a burnt out bar patron – to delve into the cruel and combustible nature of self-serving High School friendships. Even when the disappointing deficiency of scares becomes apparent, and the energy flags, the two central actresses, deftly mastering the scribe’s snap, crackle and pop dialogue, keep the film from flatlining with their charismatic and recognizable, if not relatable, characters (Fox even gets to stretch intermittently beyond her standard porn-doll mode, nicely selling Jennifer’s tragic side). The film also gives Adam Brody and J.K. Simmons, as a hook-handed teacher bearing an unspeakably tormented past, hilariously rich comedic turns.

Unfortunately, while Kasuma has made a good-looking flick, turning Vancouver into a supernatural Gothic wonderland full of portentous forests and glumly desolate suburban sprawls, she can never find a consistently effective tone, with the movie’s final third becoming mired in mucky melodramatics. Ultimately, observing the film’s rickety structure acts as a sage reminder that horror-coms are tough ventures to pull off, and that for every Scream, Evil Dead 2 or Shaun of the Dead, there are a dozen noble failures like Jennifer’s Body lying by the wayside.

Still, Kasuma and Cody’s effort is a masterwork compared to the aggressively stupid and vile Sorority Row, a remake of 1983’s The House of Sorority Row, which features a gaggle of detestable young Theta Pi sisters, headed by Briana Evigan and Leah Pipes, on the run from a hooded tire-iron-wielding killer after a morally bankrupt prank involving roofies, date rape and murder goes wrong (What if it had gone right?!). Whereas Jennifer’s filmmakers attempted to find humanity in their archetypes, Sorority Row’s cast of characters are people you’d chew off your arm to get away from, a batch of hateful harpies and jerks whose only joys are spreading VD and viciously mocking each other’s eating disorders, sluttiness and cosmetic surgery.

Director Hendler captures these obnoxious women through jittery, bleary camera-work , like a drunk pervert’s leer, often cropping off his heavily made-up and grotesquely underlit actresses’ heads in favour of grimy, sweaty close-ups of their chests and behinds. The film also boasts one of the most moronic and nonsensical culprit reveals in recent memory and unimaginative, insipid gore. Only Carrie Fisher’s campy prescence as a shotgun-wielding denmother keeps us from bolting for the exit.

Oddly enough, while Jennifer’s Body knows exactly how to portray the playful pin-up girl sexiness of its fetching stars, Sorority Row stews in its misogynistic tawdry trashiness convinced that mean-spirited nudity equates entertainment. Watching the two back-to-back, it becomes head-slappingly obvious that, as far as trendy teen horror flicks go, there’s an awful lot that Jennifer’s creators and their ilk could teach their male counterparts, as films like Sorority Row make me yearn for a day when the Scream Queens rule Horror-land.

Jennifer's Body: 2.5 out of 5

Sorority Row: 1 out of 5

*Originally printed in SFU's The Peak: Sept 21st, 2009.