Film Review - THE AMAZING SPIDERMAN 2

Where has the heart gone? When Sam Raimi delivered his original trio of Spider-Man epics it was impossible not to be won over by the boundless joy and earnest respect beaming brightly from behind every colorful, bubbly frame. No surprise really, given the widely reported biographical detail that the gleefully wacky helmer grew up with a mural of the Wall-Crawler painted over his childhood bed. And that enthusiasm, that adoring youthful hero worship, poured organically into the work, fuelling a wonderful series that produced two defining genre classics and a problematic, polarizing third chapter that at least screamed ambition. There was always a tangible sense that those films were motivated by a deep-rooted passion for the beloved Marvel Comics mascot.

Flash-forward a few years and now we’re in the midst of Marc Webb’s reboot franchise, a series seemingly inspired less by appreciation for the Web-slinger than for the box-office grosses he’s capable of roping in. The first entry, 2012’s The Amazing Spider-Man, while not totally charmless, was nonetheless crippled by a terribly messy screenplay filled with dangling plot threads and visible studio meddling. One would have hoped lessons would have been learned from that clunky – albeit profitable – initial swing and steps taken to redeem Sony Pictures’ high-flying golden goose.

Sadly, the ol’ Parker bad luck streak continues with The Amazing Spider-Man 2, a confused, tone-deaf and cheerless jumble of motivation-deficient characters, hacky writing and blatant, uninspired sequel bait. The result plays simultaneously like a cartoony tribute to the campy 90s Schumacher Batman efforts, as well as a hyper-convoluted, tedious homage to the cynical and clueless superhero debacles - such as X-Men Origins: Wolverine and Fantastic Four - 20th Century Fox coughed out in the mid-00s. The genre has evolved too far, thanks to The Dark Knight, Spider-Man 2 and the best Marvel Studios productions, for slovenly storytelling and naked cash-grab opportunism like this to skate by. Frankly, this film should be utterly mortified to be booked next door to the thrilling Captain America: The Winter Soldier.

Following a busy pair of re-introductory opening action sequences of varying quality – a silly brawl involving Peter Parker’s parents (!) and an Oscorp hitman on a pilotless aircraft, and a decently shot Spidey scuffle with a screaming big rig-driving Russian mobster (Paul Giamatti) - The Amazing Spider-Man 2 quickly scatters in roughly a half dozen different directions. First and foremost, I guess, is the troublesome romantic relationship between Peter Parker (Andrew Garfield) and Gwen Stacy (Emma Stone). Still heavily burdened by the death of Captain Stacy (Denis Leary) at the hands of the Lizard in the previous film, he’s now haunted by his ghost and scared to closely involve the man’s brainy blonde daughter in his crime-fighter life. She, on the other hand, is about fed up with Peter’s indecisiveness and ready to leave New York behind in order to continue her scientific studies at Oxford.

Of course, complicating Peter’s life further are his search to uncover the secret behind his parents’ (Campbell Scott and Embeth Davidz) tragic vanishing act and the reappearance of old friend Harry Osborn (Dane DeHaan), a sniveling rich creep with a terminal disease who requires Spider-blood to ward off the grim fate that befell his genius father, Norman (a lamely underutilized Chris Cooper). Meanwhile, off in an isolated Oscorp lab, nerdy scientist and Spidey fanboy Max Dillon (Jamie Foxx) falls into a vat of electric eels and is reborn as Electro, a high voltage villain determined to destroy his former idol and be noticed by the society that ignores him.

Scripted by producers Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman (along with Fringe’s Jeff Pinkner), the successful duo who previously penned the first two Transformers pictures, both J.J. Abrams Star Trek films and Cowboys and Aliens, Amazing Spider-Man 2 is an often shocking display of amateur hour screenwriting. Ineptly handled exposition hides around every corner - the pay-off to Papa Parker’s mystery file is groan-inducingly creaky, for example - and there is no clear narrative throughline or recognizable thematic arc, only a crude assembly of scenes that too often bash up against one another awkwardly. None of these stories have any flow; they spastically unfold at a clumsy staccato rhythm that does the bloated, yet weirdly rushed, 142 minute runtime no favors. The central romance, one of The Amazing Spider-Man's few strengths, has been downgraded to a handful of bullet point clichés strewn about willy nilly. Instead of a sweeping love story, we get two charismatic performers forced to conjure magic from dusty artifice.

Inexplicably, the other characters fare even worse. Say what you will about James Franco’s turn as Harry in the Raimi movies, his transformation into the second Green Goblin felt natural and properly developed. DeHaan gets a couple scenes before going all squirrelly, and his descent into full-blown evil is hurried, unconvincing and entirely unearned. It doesn’t help matters that, once he hops on the Goblin Glider, he has little to do beyond making gargling sounds and putting on his Plot Device hat. However, he does have a purpose, which is something that can’t be said for Electro. It’s unclear why this antagonist is even in the film – he serves next to no function – and his early pre-accident scenes, highly reminiscent of Jim Carrey’s Batman Forever Edward Nygma performance, are jarringly goofy and undercooked (and accompanied by a cheesy comic score). As well, similar to the last entry, Sally Field’s Aunt May is almost totally wasted, although she does get her obligatory couple minutes to shine.

When Marc Webb was brought onto the series many hoped he’d bring some the energy and vibrancy evident in his winning breakthrough, (500) Days of Summer. Certainly, The Amazing Spider-Man 2 every now and again gets things right - a montage of Spidey’s daily rounds is picture-perfect - and the director shows an improved eye for web-slinging visuals (his action chops remain unremarkable, sadly), but aside from these sporadic bright spots he has crafted a leaden, schizophrenic mess that bungles one of the Arachnid Avenger’s most compelling comic-book tales as badly as Fox botched “The Dark Phoenix Saga” in X-Men: The Last Stand and “The Coming of Galactus” in Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer. Two sloppy films in, it’s become clear his primary duty is to bend over backwards to accommodate all of Sony’s dopey demands (future unpromising follow-ups are witlessly established at this movie’s expense). Whereas Raimi had vision, Webb has corporate-issued directions.

The cast, astonishing on paper, is a mixed bag. Garfield continues to be a spectacular Spider-Man and an agreeable enough Peter Parker (his cocky hipster take bears little resemblance to the classic comic-book version), while Stone makes for a radiant Gwen. Though she doesn’t have a whole lot to work with – even her big “Save the day!” moment is an obvious recycling of Gwyneth Paltrow’s climactic Iron Man beat – her presence is welcome and, occasionally, fun. None of the antagonist actors seem to have a handle on their vaguely sketched roles. Foxx, who would have been perfect as the flashy Electro of the page, is instead totally sunk by this silly, ill-conceived take on the beloved lightning bolt-tossing thug. The always dependable Giamatti’s much publicized Rhino ultimately amounts to an unexceptional cameo with barely a single line of decipherable dialogue (the foes here often devolve into hollering nonsensical jibberish). As for DeHaan, it’s tough to know who to blame. He’s uniformly bad, sure, and yet was so fantastic giving a similar performance in 2012’s entertaining found footage superhero adventure Chronicle. We may just need to give him the benefit of the doubt on this one.

It’s frankly criminal how devoid of imagination and wonder this travesty is. No expense was spared on this project, with many of Hollywood’s highest paid talents churning out lazy, unimaginative work for the sole focus of expanding the brand in order to compete with Marvel’s shared universe. Considering the rich fifty year legacy they had to mine from, this film is an embarrassing insult to Spider-Man and his sincere enduring message. At this point, the prospect of any further sequels and spinoffs from this creative team is infinitely more threatening than anything Green Goblin and his malicious minions are capable of dreaming up.

1.5 out of 5

SUBSPACE TRANSMISSIONS Meets Some Aliens!

After a refreshing week off, the Trek'n trio of Benjamin Yong, Tyler Orton and I return to talk a whole lot about aliens! After journeying to countless galaxies, the hosts name the races they're the most eager to revisit, as well as the ones they'd be just as happy seeing considerably less of. This just might be the geekiest episode to date! Make of that what you will...

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SUBSPACE TRANSMISSIONS Gets Its Hate On!

In the third magical episode of Vancouver's very best Star Trek podcast, Subspace Transmissions, we bicker over which recurring guest character is the biggest annoyance in all the land! And we don't play it safe, so don't expect a whole lot of lame Alexander bashing (we do, however, thoughtfully debate Wesley Crusher's strengths and weaknesses). So strap yourself in for an unpredictable and often hilarious ride!

Join Benjamin Yong, Tyler Orton and I as we slip on our Section 31 attire and commit some character assassination!

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SUBSPACE TRANSMISSIONS Enters the Holodeck!

In the latest episode of Subspace Transmissions my two valiant co-hosts and I meet in the podcast arena to argue over the best and worst Trek holodeck programs. The results are insightful, silly and more than a little nerdy. But, then, would you expect anything less?!

Join Benjamin Yong, Tyler Orton and I as we don our Three Musketeers outfits and celebrate the very best and very worst the holodeck has to offer!

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Exploring the Final Frontier with SUBSPACE TRANSMISSIONS!

While you wouldn't necessarily realize it  perusing this blog, I unabashedly, absolutely love all things Star Trek. Thus, when the opportunity presented itself to join an away crew and embark on an intrepid journey into the (not so) undiscovered country of Trek podcasting, how could I ever turn it down? Frankly, I just couldn't (a very human weakness, Spock would say), and Subspace Transmissions has been gloriously born!

Join hosts Tyler Orton, Benjamin Yong and myself for our debut episode in which each of us tries our hand at attempting to make a case for what we feel is the Best Star Trek Series.

Click here to boldly go to the Subspace Transmissions blog. I promise it's gonna be a fun ride!

Film Review - ROBOCOP

When it comes to franchise reboots, RoboCop ain’t exactly a sacred cow. Don’t get me wrong, Paul Verhoeven’s 1987 breakthrough is one of that decade’s most ambitious, and important, action cinema landmarks – a boldly gory and clever sci-fi shoot-em-up that unloads just as many incisive satirical jabs at Reagan-era U.S. culture as flesh-pulverizing bullets – and deserving of most of the praise awarded it. Yet, while the gloriously weird Dutch director went on to apply his surprise hit’s winning blend of social commentary and gut-churning violence to greater effect in 1990’s Total Recall and 1997’s Starship Troopers (his best American film), the titular character quickly, and pitifully, went to rust. The Frank Miller-penned RoboCop 2 upped its predecessor’s extreme blast-o-rama ugliness at the expense of innovation and wit, and the less said about the series’ pathetic threequel, short-lived TV incarnation or dud 2000 mini-series, Prime Directives, the better.

So it’s hard to fault MGM and director Jose Padilha (of Elite Squad fame) for wanting to jump-start the long-dormant property back into cultural relevance. And you know something? Their efforts aren’t without merit. This update certainly lacks the edge and sniper-scope focus of Verhoeven’s original, but it also doesn’t wuss out from taking the character in some new and intriguing directions. Frankly, what prevents this flashier version 2.0 from hitting higher marks is its makers’ timid reluctance to completely un-cuff themselves from the established story elements of the adored source material. There’s a sling-shot effect akin to Rob Zombie’s infinitely worse Halloween redo; just when we think we’re heading somewhere fresh we get yanked back onto sacred, well-trod terrain. Still, at least in this case the journey is mostly worth taking, despite the underwhelming reality of the final destination.

We’re (awkwardly) introduced into this Robocop's universe by a Bill O’Reilly-esque pundit buffoon played by Samuel L. Jackson, who feverishly explains that in the year 2028 America employs an endless array of drone soldiers in establishing order across the globe. Flush with success, Detroit robot manufacturer Omni Consumer Products, headed by the forward-thinking Raymond Sellars (a wonderfully twitchy Michael Keaton), are desperately hoping to topple a bill forbidding their mechanical creations from patrolling native soil. Their goal? To win over public support and change legislation by constructing an artificially intelligent law enforcer that appears more man than machine.

Lucky for OCP, they wind up with the perfect candidate for transformation in Alex Murphy (bland Peter Weller replacement Joel Kinnaman), a by-the-books local cop and family man who winds up in pieces after falling victim to a vicious crime lord’s car bomb. Reassembled into a flashy stainless steel abomination of flesh, wires and tubes by brilliant, well-meaning scientist Dr. Dennett Norton (Gary Oldman), Murphy fast becomes a thoroughly effective one-man weapon of justice and propaganda tool. However, while OCP ruthlessly strips away Murphy’s pesky lingering humanity in order to craft the ideal mechanism, glimmers of it continue to resurface; reawakening feelings for the officer’s widowed wife (Abbie Cornish) and son (John Paul Ruttan), and threatening to unmask a vast criminal conspiracy.

RoboCop is at its best in its first half; establishing the rule of OCP - an early sequence depicting an American military occupation of Iran is, dare I say, positively Verhoevenian - and charting the progress of Murphy’s transition into the tragic icon. This version dances more in the grey than the prior movie's black-and-white representation of maniacal corporate psychopaths gone wild, and we can understand the logic behind Keaton and Oldman’s decisions even if we don’t agree with them. There's a logical method to their madness. Similarly, this RoboCop doesn’t just emerge as a blank slate that slowly flickers back to consciousness. He’s now a frightened, grief-stricken human being who is horrified by his technological upgrade (the reveal of his existing mortal body parts is nightmarishly haunting, PG-13 rating be damned!) and must learn and adapt.

Too often in reboots the expanded origin stuff is clumsy and unnecessary (Amazing Spider-Man, anyone?), pointlessly over-complicating for the sake of justifying its own existence. Padilha and writer Joshua Zetumer are, thankfully, smarter than that. It’s compelling to watch Murphy not only react to his own dehumanization, but also endure OCP’s relentless training and tinkering, butting heads with Oldman and aggressive combat coach Jackie Earle Haley along the way. Sure, the increased emphasis on our hero's family is a bit too Movieland artificial – and, if you’ve ever seen an 80s action movie, you know exactly where his wife and son will be for the climax – but it allows a nice alternate perspective to our protagonist’s emotional arc.

The heart does sink, though, once the grinding wheels of inevitability start up in the second hour, and the film begins slavishly marching to the plot beat of its ancestor. Alas, this time around there’s a sense of bloodlessness – both literally and figuratively – to the action and big crowd-pleasing set pieces that drains the film of much interest. An epic clash with hulking ED 209 attack bots criminally underwhelms due to its unfathomable editing and staging, and the extended shootouts, layered with intentional videogame overtones, are too sanitized and controlled to exhilarate. Robocop also lacks a truly despicable villain to actively root against, with Haley being the only worthy successor to the Kurtwood Smith throne. The rest are mostly forgettable nonentities (Jay Baruchel’s snarky OCP lackey is one manic coke-sniffing scene away from working) who come across more like target practice than worthwhile antagonists.

Despite being conceived as a springboard for an ongoing series (the ending noticeably follows the template of most superhero movie franchise starters), this remake just doesn’t feel like it warrants any further chapters by the time credits roll. Rather, it’s a reasonably diverting, standard-issue spectacle with some cool ideas and fun performances that, thanks to Padilha’s efforts, entertains more often than not, in spite of a noticeable lack of fire and true purpose. Slickly engineered, test-marketed and costly in construction, this Robocop performs its duties sufficiently, but not efficiently.

3 out of 5

Film Review - I, FRANKENSTEIN

If there is an afterlife, and its residents possess free reign to watch over the living, dearly departed author Mary Shelley must have been screaming bloody murder for her name to be removed from the credits of I, Frankenstein. For here we have one of the dourest, dumbest examples of imagination-deficient cinematic sludge in quite some time; a mopey fan-wank sequel to the literary classic in which the misunderstood, but dreaded, monster emerges - after centuries in miserable exile - as a sexy demon-battering vigilante with the disposition of an emo rocker. Sure, it’s feasible that decent B-movie fun could be generated from a hacky premise that requires our jigsaw puzzle-pieced antihero to mumble “descend in pain, demon!” while surrounded by bad CG fire swirls, but this motion picture IQ dropper is as incompetent as Igor on ice-skates. Blindfolded.

Set in the murky, desolate Gothic streets of a crumbling, unnamed four-block metropolis, the continuing adventures of the famed abomination, now played by Aaron Eckhart, pick up with him becoming embroiled in the centuries-old war between the divine Gargoyles and the sinister demons. Seems the evil forces, led by seething big daddy bad-guy Naberius (Bill Nighy), are hoping to attain Dr. Frankenstein’s miraculous scientific formulas and use them for their own nefarious ends. In a bid to thwart this apocalyptic plot, Gargoyle Queen Leonore (Miranda Otto) offers the newly rechristened Adam steel baton weapons and a cause to fight for, despite the objections of her hot-headed second-in-command, Gideon (Jai Courtney). Of course, ever the loner, the zipper-stitch-faced ass-kicker instead strikes out on his own, recruiting the aid of hottie scientist Yvonne Strahovski in a quest to uncover both the truth behind his mortality and a means of stopping Naberius’s mankind-decimating master plan.

Ostensibly based on co-star/co-writer Kevin Grevioux’s Darkstorm Studios graphic novel of the same name – which, to the best of my research, does not actually exist in any published form – I, Frankenstein is, more accurately, a craven attempt by producers Gary Lucchesi, Tom Rosenberg and Richard S. Write to replicate the success of their cruddy-yet-popular Underworld franchise. Again we have two long-opposing factions of phony-looking supernatural beasts, a tormented protagonist trapped in the middle of the conflict, and Nighy as the acidic villain (it’s debatable whether the actor is even aware he’s playing a different character here). However, whereas that franchise occasionally managed – in its first two installments – to just barely scrape by on the energetic bargain basement vision of Len Wiseman, this project’s helmer, Stuart Beattie (co-scribe of G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra, 30 Days of Night and Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl) is a barely adequate point-and-shoot kinda guy. His doom ‘n gloom visuals aren’t egregiously terrible, so much as utterly and completely generic and uninspired. More The Crow: City of Angels than The Crow, if you will.

Where the shoddiness really shines through is in the construction. We can look past the distractingly empty sets – I, Frankenstein’s extras budget must have been roughly on par with that of a 1987 episode of "The Bold and the Beautiful" – and joyless videogame-like action in which everything and nothing happens simultaneously. What can’t be forgiven, though, is the jarring, ramshackle editing that randomly transports Adam wherever he needs to be at all times – marvel as he falls off a building onto a subterranean train, sits and reads a book, and then astonishingly appears back on top of the previously mentioned building at a key moment mere minutes later – and loosely staples the directionless shambles of a story together. There’s no flow or arcs, only perfunctory plot beats tossed sluggishly into a swirling chaos of monotonous mythological nonsense and sub-Blade fisticuffs. The stakes feel pitifully low, and, since writers Beattie and Grevioux fail to gift even a single character with a personality trait, it’s impossible to give a rat’s ass what the dickens is going on.

Honestly, you just wind up feeling bad for the actors. Did the elegant Miranda Otto spend much time reminiscing about her career-launching stint in Middle Earth during this sorry shoot? Was Jai Courtney, fresh off the sting of A Good Day to Die Hard, aware that his near future wasn’t going to get any brighter? Did Bill Nighy buy a nice boat with his paycheck? And how about Aaron Eckhart, who was so fantastic in films like In the Company of Men, Thank You for Smoking and The Dark Knight? Clad in a black hoodie, eyes smeared with mascara, the actor glumly continues the frankly embarrassing trend of dressing middle-aged manly men like 18-year-old Goth brats. Remember the days when kids aspired to grow up to look like their favorite movie stars and not the other way around? Yeesh. What would Bogie or the Duke say?!

Dreary, derivative and insultingly lazy, the only faint benefit of this vile January dump is that it may potentially point a viewer or two in the direction of Shelley’s haunting work or some of the character’s iconic Universal efforts (allow me a precious glimmer of hope. Please.) Beyond that…well, to waste any more thought on this grim chore would be to exceed the consideration that went into its unholy conception. A stinking, unresponsive corpse of a movie that no one involved could be bothered jolting to life, I, Frankenstein deserves to be kicked into an unmarked grave and unceremoniously buried. 

1 out of 5

The Top 5 Most Underrated Supervillain Performances

Heath Ledger, Tom Hiddleston, Alfred Molina, Terrence Stamp, Michelle Pfeiffer, Jack Nicholson…

Let’s not kid ourselves: ticking off the best superhero movie villains is, at this point, a somewhat pointless endeavor. We all know who’s snatching up the top slot (“Why so serious?!”), and more often than not the ensuing list – of which there are no shortage on the oh-so wondrous interwebs – tend to fall predictably in line with the Greatest Superhero Movies consensus. Boooring!

So, instead, let’s take a moment and highlight those less fortunate scenery-chewing thespians; the tremendous talents that really went for it, delivering sensational bad guy performances in pictures that didn’t deserve their energy and were generally dismissed as mediocre or downright wretched. After all, there are some fantastic spot-on characterizations and moments of madcap malevolence that deserve their devilish due here! So join me in quaking in their magnificently fiendish presence!

5) Liev Schreiber (Victor Creed/Sabretooth) in X-Men Origins: Wolverine (2009)

Pyew! Hands down the worst film included on this list, Hugh Jackman’s first solo X-flick is a truly embarrassing, hacky assemblage of hoary clichés, appalling effects and hyper-dopey creative decisions. However, Schreiber’s teeth-gnashing turn as the animalistic hero’s adamantium-laced half-brother is this disaster’s lone saving grace. While lacking his X-Men predecessor Tyler Mane’s more comic book-appropriate blonde locks and hulking physique, the actor sinisterly taps into the role’s darkly funny, blood-curdling charisma, playfully rebounding between soft-spoken statuesque menace and full-blown psychopathic savagery. Had Origins understood how to effectively weave him into the narrative, and given him something interesting to do, he’d likely be remembered for a lot more than his goofy (and never-ending) CG-aided pouncing and clawing sequences.

4) (Tie) Mickey Rourke (Ivan Vanko/Whiplash) & Sam Rockwell (Justin Hammer) in Iron Man 2 (2010)

These two both showed up ready to play and were instead sidelined by an overly-complicated and bloated (albeit still modestly engaging) story that ignored them for vast chunks of time. Rourke – whose numbed Russian Peter-Stormare-in-Fargo-like heavy is a fun amalgamation of Iron Man foes Whiplash and Crimson Dynamo – gamely disappears Method-style into the greasy, hulking hide of his mumbling vengeance-minded genius. Alas, despite his very cool dreadlocked visage, ugly menace and tech gimmickry, the movie fails to establish him as a fearsome threat. Following a spectacular attack on the Monaco Grand Prix, he mostly just sits around waiting to do something, and when he finally goes back into action it’s underwhelming to the max. Rockwell’s hilarious anti-Stark arms dealer buffoon – a de-aged, doofed-up version of his comic book counterpart – gets the juicier scenes and funny lines, yet ranks even lower on the danger-scale. Thus, we find ourselves watching Downey’s tin-plated titan facing off against two genuinely memorable, eccentric opponents who are, unfortunately, obviously inferior to him in every conceivable way. Not exactly a stellar way to set the stakes particularly high.

3) Kevin Spacey (Lex Luthor) in Superman Returns (2006)

While I consider myself a staunch defender of this Bryan Singer-helmed tribute to the Richard Donner Superman era - and honestly prefer it to the recent overkill-happy Man of Steel reboot – there’s little question that movie-goers felt quite differently. That said, criticisms of stars Brandon Routh and Kate Bosworth, and the moody, reflective story they occupy, aside, it’s mighty tough to discount the dripping-with-relish efforts of Spacey as pop-culture’s most infamous iconic bald megalomaniac! Sure, Lex’s plan doesn’t make a whole lotta sense here, but the actor is having so much fun it’s infectious, blending Gene Hackman’s mischievous twinkle and bluster with cold reptilian intellectualism and the odd spike of truly shocking sadism (Kryptonite shank!). Anticlimactically abandoned on a desert isle, it would have been fascinating to see where Spacey would have taken this renowned arch-foe in ensuing sequels had he been given the chance. Oh well, at least we’ll always have this legendary line delivery:

2) Thomas Haden Church (Flint Marko/Sandman) in Spider-Man 3 (2007)

There’s no good reason Haden Church couldn’t have joined the lofty ranks occupied by all-timer Spidey nemeses Willem Dafoe and Alfred Molina. Perfectly cast, and aided by state of the art effects (Sandman’s beautiful and haunting Universal Monsters-inspired origin scene remains a genre stand-out), he and director Sam Raimi display a flawless understanding of the perpetually-unsuccessful working class spirit of Stan Lee’s immoral granular creation. Alas, too many studio intervention-induced subplots and villains (New Goblin! Symbiote!! Venom!!!) result in an uphill battle for the ingenious actor, who nonetheless valiantly tries his damnedest to convey the wounded humanity and redemptive journey of his antagonist in scant screentime. Worse, when the storytelling really jumps the track in the second hour, the concrete-fisted criminal’s motivation and relatable mortal form go entirely out the window, leaving us with a giant groaning monster that lacks an iota of soulfulness or pathos. Perhaps it’s fitting that it was Sandman, of all of Spider-Man’s rogues, who wound up having the worst luck storming the big screen. It sure doesn’t make the end result sting any less though.

1) Colin Farrell (Bullseye) in Daredevil (2003)

Rarely has any actor in a superhero movie gone as gleefully over the top silly as Farrell does in Mark Steven Johnson’s so-so comic book adaptation without crashing and burning (take notes Tommy Lee Jones, Uma Thurman, John Leguizamo and Dominic West). Introduced to the brash party time rhymes of House of Pain, the actor flamboyantly steals every single one of his scenes, pushing his thick Irish accent, hyperactive eyebrows and bizarre mannerisms masterfully right to the edge of Cartoonsville. And yet it all works so wonderfully! Whether hissing crazily at a rat or slyly murdering an old woman with airline peanuts, Bullseye is a hysterical figure of giddy lunatic mischief, scoring huge laughs by playing up both his cocky deadliness and cape-swishing campiness simultaneously. It’s weird, in retrospect, that 20th Century Fox viewed Jennifer Garner’s vanilla Elektra as the breakout character, given Farrell’s broad crowd-pleasing antics and spotlight appearance in the movie’s sequel-teasing credits stinger. Borrowing a line from Frank Miller’s classic “Man Without Fear” Daredevil story arc, Farrell declares mid-film: “You’re good, baby. I’ll give you that. But me? I’m magic!” Pretty hard to disagree with him there.

The Bottom 5 Worst Films of 2013

1) GROWN UPS 2 – Yeah, yeah, obviously no one (sane) expected value from a sequel to Adam Sandler’s blandly half-assed 2010 Great Outdoors rip-off. Nevertheless, experiencing this insultingly wretched laughter black hole in a theatre felt like a cinematic prison sentence, made infuriating by the sight of several bored formerly-great comedy stars (and Kevin James) flipping off ticket buyers in cynical shoulder-shrugging indifference. You would swear on the basis of this ramshackle, scriptless, punchline-free horror that none of the culprits involved had ever seen a funny movie, much less made one. In a year that saw Seth Rogen and crew assembling for the anarchic, creatively inspired team-up effort This is the End, Grown Ups 2 felt like Sandler and his nitwit road company clumsily waving the flag of pathetic irrelevance.

 2) R.I.P.D. – Being shamelessly derivative is bad enough, but if you’re going to crank out a blatant Ghost Busters/Men in Black clone at least put an ounce of effort into it! With its vintage year 2000-quality CG and barely stretched-to-feature-length runtime, this creaky, DTV-quality franchise non-starter wound up looked like an utter joke playing in cineplexes next to highly confident summer fare like Iron Man 3, Fast and Furious 6 and the underrated White House Down. Despite dying a suitably quiet death at the box office, R.I.P.D. did manage two major achievements: it likely put a nail in Ryan Reynolds’ flagging bid for A-list stardom, and spawned easily the worst Jeff Bridges performance of all time.

3) PARKER – This should have worked. After all, tough taking, no-nonsense Brit action god Jason Statham seemed like a good choice to take over the reigns of author Donald E. Westlake’s revenge-seeking antihero, previously brought to life by Lee Marvin (Point Blank) and Mel Gibson (Payback). The Taylor Hackford-directed results, however, were more mind-numbingly dull than dynamite, as Statham awkwardly adopted a hammy Texas accent in order to explore the Florida real estate market with Jennifer’s Lopez’s perpetual sad sack realtor. You know a movie is in terrible shape when the most memorable thing about it is that its leading man wore a stupid hat a lot.

 4) PAIN AND GAIN – Can we all just give up on the prospect of Michael Bay redeeming himself already? Coming on the heels of his noxious Transformers trifecta, this Coen brothers-inspired (in a Britney-Spears-covering-Joan-Jett-kinda-way) black comedy dirge took a fantastic true life premise and cast (Mark Wahlberg, Anthony Mackie, Ed Harris, Tony Shalhoub and a beyond-game Dwayne Johnson, among the victims) and submerged them in yet another of his patented acidic melting pots of tediously shallow, sociopathic high–def brutality, misogyny, homophobia and bathroom humor. Lacking even a splinter of actual satirical wit, Pain and Gain once more revealed the technically-adept Bay to be a woefully flabby, unfit storyteller.

5) A GOOD DAY TO DIE HARD – We should have known this was a walking disaster the second it received the greenlight. A fifth series installment helmed by visionless Max Payne hack John Moore and written by Skip Woods, the dubious scribe of X-Men Origins: Wolverine and Hitman? Did we need a bigger freaking warning sign? Still, though, we had faith that Bruce had one more great bullet-torn adventure left in him. Alas, we were wrong to hold out hope (so very wrong…), as A Good Day to Die Hard proved to be an embarrassingly inept, dumb and lazy paycheck effort that did more damage to good ol’ John McClane than even Hans Gruber could dream of. Die Hard? More like Die Pitifully.

 Dishonorable Mentions: BULLET TO THE HEAD, G.I. JOE: RETALIATION, GANGSTER SQUAD, THE INTERNSHIP, TEXAS CHAINSAW 3D

The Top 10 Best Films of 2013

1) 12 YEARS A SLAVE – In his first two remarkable efforts Steve McQueen displayed a fearless, unflinching proficiency for gazing into the darkest depths of human suffering, and finding spiritual hope (in Hunger) and, alternately, all-consuming despair (Shame). 12 Years a Slave, his staggering dramatic recreation of Solomon Northup’s tragic true story, elegantly portrays each end of the spectrum, and the sea of turbulence in between. Diving headlong into the degrading horrors of slavery, McQueen mines every ounce of humiliation, pain and torment from this horrendous period of American history, exposing the profoundly destructive effect it had on every single soul involved. Extraordinary elevated by a trio of transcendent performances from Chiwetel Ejiofor, Michael Fassbender and Lupita Nyong’o, this unforgettably haunting picture isn’t just the crowning cinematic achievement of the year; it’s destined for prominence as one of the defining works of our era.  

2) MUD – Following up his unshakeable 2011 gothic drama Take Shelter, writer/director Jeff Nichols’ fashioned this wonderfully personal and atmospheric noir-tinged tribute to lost innocence that rightfully warrants comparison with masterworks such as E.T., The Last Picture Show and The 400 Blows. Centered around an unlikely friendship between Tye Sheridan’s confused, sensitive adolescent and Matthew McConaughey’s mysterious island-dwelling escaped convict, this enchanting gem lovingly fills its layered, lived in canvas with countless colorful characters (Reese Witherspoon, Sam Shepard, Michael Shannon and Joe Don Baker, to name a few) and evocative passages of youthful discovery, frustration and idealistic naiveté. Mud spins an engrossing, beautiful yarn that fulfills our desire for delightful stories that energize the soul along the way. 

3) SHORT TERM 12 – Although top-ranking directorial masters dominated  2013, there were also a handful of hungry new kids on the block demanding to be heard. Chief among them was Destin Cretton, who expanded his 2008 short into this powerfully raw, clever and poignant fly-on-the-wall look at the daily realities faced by an underfunded foster care facility. Dodging every possible saccharine cliché in the book, Cretton delivers a movie that is original, affecting and hugely uplifting. He also gives the ever-brilliant Brie Larson a much-deserved plum role as the weary chief supervisor attempting to resolve her own issues in a tornado of mentally-draining dysfunction. Short Term 12 is a sensational film and a genuinely thrilling glimpse of things to come from an audacious rising talent. 

4) GRAVITY – If Children of Men definitively established Alfonso Cuaron as one of the principal cinematic storytellers of his generation, this astonishing white knuckle spectacle was eye-popping proof that’s he’s also the coolest technical boundary-pusher working today (sorry James Cameron). A small, gripping survival tale blown up to exhilarating big screen splendor, awesomely populated by seamless effects and one very frightened Sandra Bullock, Gravity was an intensely rewarding game-changer with vision and pure wonder. In a marketplace increasingly bogged down by manufactured blockbuster “thrill rides” this was the only one worth lining up for multiple times.  

5) BEFORE MIDNIGHT – The final (?) chapter in the most authentic romance in motion picture history (yup, I said it!), Richard Linklater’s third captivating Before entry observes now long-time lovers Jesse and Celine (co-writers Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy) as they grapple with middle-age and the threat of stagnation in their relationship. Insightful, funny and often uncomfortably frank, this magnificent series continues to be a triumph like no other; an intimate, thoughtful portrait of real world love, with all of its dizzying highs and wounding lows laid utterly, recognizably bare. Midnight puts us through the emotional ringer with these two once-crazy kids, however there’s an abundance of warmth, understanding and truth waiting patiently on the other side.

6) THE WOLF OF WALL STREET – There were a lot of crazy parties thrown on the silver screen in 2013, but none more strikingly unhinged and fiendishly decadent than legendary director Martin Scorsese’s balls-to-the-wall adaptation of reformed Wall Street conman Jordan Belfort’s autobiography. With a frothing, sleaze-soaked Leonardo DiCaprio – in an all-time great performance exploding with sociopathic subtlety and Jim Carrey-esque physicality - unloading every potent weapon in his arsenal, and an enormous crackerjack supporting cast including Jonah Hill, Margot Robbie, Matthew McConaughey and Kyle Chandler, this sprawling epic comedy delivers scene after scene of edgy livewire genius. Orchestrating the chaos, Scorsese doesn’t just demolish the American dream, he makes us howl with amusement at the absurdity, and injustice, of it all.

7) INSIDE LLEWYN DAVIS – Boy, those Coen boys are sure on one helluva roll. Another rich addition to their already incomparable filmography, Inside Llewyn Davis is a poetic, bittersweet meditation on the lonely struggles of pursuing grand artistic ambition. Chronicling a week in the life of Oscar Isaac’s water-treading 1960s folk singer, the Coens’ latest is a perfect hang out movie, allowing us the simple pleasure of spending time with a fascinating, flawed, gifted man whose only solace can be found in the freedom of musical expression. The boundlessly talented Isaac is a revelation here – both as an actor and a singer – and his weary, droll journey, scored to an array of foot-tapping tunes, is a leisurely joy to watch unfold.

8) MONSTERS UNIVERSITY – Let’s be honest: no one was chomping at the bit for a prequel to the 2001 classic Monsters, Inc. Yet Pixar, the once unassailable animation juggernaut, pulled out another minor miracle with this hilarious, big-hearted second chapter that actually manages to top the endearing original. Returning Billy Crystal and John Goodman to their iconic roles, and surrounding them with a host of memorable new additions, this zippy send up of college comedies boasts huge laughs, several exciting and inventive action set-pieces and a handful of surprisingly touching character revelations. In a year brimming with worthy, exquisitely rendered family entertainment, Monsters University stood confidently, head and beastly shoulders, at the head of the class.

9) SPRING BREAKERS – Gaudy. Ludicrous. Campy. Shameless. All of those descriptors cheerfully apply to this mesmerizing (and polarizing) Harmony Korine cult hit, a Guns, Girls and Gangstas flash bomb of satirical irreverence and synthetic style lobbed straight at Generation Y. A hilarious hyperkinetic fever reverie, Spring Breakers is positively alive and of the moment, gleefully reveling in the raucous excesses of modern youth culture while simultaneously throwing up its hands in irritated exasperation. Backed by an unforgettably insane James Franco turn, this provocative cinematic statement sure ain’t for everyone. Nonetheless, those able to surrender to its pulsing provocative beat are in for one relentlessly trippy time.

10) ONLY GOD FORGIVES – Similar to slot number nine, helmer Nicolas Winding Refn and star Ryan Gosling’s gonzo hallucinogenic Bangkok revenge thriller had no shortage of vocal detractors. This David Lynchian follow-up to 2011’s fantastic Drive is the ultimate anti-crowd pleaser; a moody, head-scratchingly enigmatic exercise in futility, dream logic, oedipal weirdness and brutal emasculation. Cloaked in brooding surreal symbolism and shot in vivid, suffocating primary colors, Only God Forgives is an addictively revolting and sadistic puzzle that unlocks dazzling new secrets with every revisit. 

Honorable Mentions: FRANCES HA, IRON MAN 3, NEBRASKA, ROOM 237, THIS IS THE END

Film Review - THOR: THE DARK WORLD

A few billion dollars in box-office sure does buy a lot of confidence! When Marvel released Kenneth Branagh’s 2011 hit Thor, you could sense the awkward strain of growing pains working against it, as the studio attempted to replicate the surprise success of Iron Man and lay precious groundwork for their shared cinematic universe. Thus, ‘ol Goldilocks’s first motion picture foray often felt restrained and safe, closely following the winning formula set forth by his repulsor-propelled big brother. The result was a witty and endearingly goofy slice of poppy superhero silliness, somewhat short on splashy spectacle and fantastical vision, but rousingly big on character, charm and franchise potential.

Then The Avengers happened and changed everything.

Thankfully, Thor: The Dark World sees Marvel at last casting aside their past trepidations and diving headlong into the geeky, wonderfully weird mythology of the titular towering titan’s comic-book roots. This sequel is gloriously brimming with multi-syllabled alien locales, hordes of combating creatures straight out of a delirious Lord of the Rings/Star Wars mash-up and enough dimension-hopping to leave even the most ardent Stargate fan dizzy. It’s a film in which a gold-armored badass downs an enormous villain spacecraft with a dagger, for goodness sake! I say, that is one mighty dagger!

Alas, despite its admirable go-for-broke otherworldliness and bravado, this second Norse-tinged exploit often comes across as rushed and chaotic, sacrificing much of the bubbly, genial personality and engaging character work that won us over the first time around. All of the required elements are in place, with a heavy heaping of extravagant CG wizardry, yet the heart isn’t quite there. The Dark World feels like a perfectly serviceable one-shot tale planted between two sensational epic arcs; offering just enough to hype you up for the next issue, even if it doesn’t fully satisfy on its own.

Set shortly after the incredible events of The Avengers, The Dark World picks up with the muscle-bound Asgardian champion (Chris Hemsworth) reinstating peace among the Nine Realms, much to the pleasure of his wise father, King Odin (Anthony Hopkins). Nevertheless, a long-dormant ancient evil is brewing in the form of Malekith the Accursed (Christopher Eccleston), a sinister Dark Elf who yearns to attain the powerful Aether, a mystical force that would allow him, once the Realms are lined up during a period of time called Convergence, to spread darkness across, well, everything (them Dark Elves take their names very seriously). The antagonist’s diabolical plan hits a snag, though, when the Aether, via portal, winds up residing within the earthly form of Jane Foster (Natalie Portman), Thor’s scientist love interest. Relocated to Asgard for protection, the possessed astrophysicist soon becomes a much sought after player in the vicious conflict, targeted by Malekith’s army of masked, implosion-grenade-tossing soldiers. In the meantime, sitting idly in his eternal subterranean prison cell, the scheming Loki (Tom Hiddleston) waits patiently for his opportunity for escape and revenge.

Impersonally directed by HBO vet Alan Taylor, and hammered together by a team of five screenwriters, this new Thor entry isn’t exactly a model of elegant storytelling prowess. Unlike this summer’s ingenious Iron Man 3, there isn’t much going on beneath the superficial thrills and funny jokes, and little in the way of compelling character arcs. More often than not the story is dictated by slapdash convenience (a handy interdimensional portal is rarely far away), rather than logic. No doubt aware of these issues, Taylor – who has acknowledged the script was “fluid” during production – barrels through, injecting as much energy and humor as he can to distract from the deficiencies. Occasionally he stages a genuinely beautiful moment - such as a fiery Asgardian funeral or a brief bit where Bifrost guard Heimdell (Idris Elba) thoughtfully gazes into the heavens – or cool action beat, but he lacks the dynamism (and likely clout) to fashion anything truly special.

Taylor also has to contend with the Loki problem. The fan-favorite bad guy has become a huge blessing and curse on the series. Given that the brilliant Hiddleston is so utterly ideal in the role it’s become unthinkable to make a Thor film without him, despite the fact he has a nasty habit of running away with the show every time out. Certainly, the trickster god has a fair deal to do here, and he magically mines every last ounce of wicked fun from each and every scene. Unfortunately, his presence critically subtracts from Malekith’s already anemic presence – the dull Elfish evildoer is easily the weakest of the Marvel cinematic rogues gallery – and robs precious screentime from all of those around him (The Warriors Three, we hardly know thee!). Make no mistake, The Dark World provides a damn great Loki fix, however, going forward, one wonders if it may prove difficult to create compelling adversaries with the gold standard always devilishly peeking in from stage left.

 Although Hiddleston solidifies his reign as this series’ MVP, he’s surrounded by what has to be the best ensemble in the Marvel movie-verse. Hemsworth again brings the valiant movie star goods with imposing physical weight and a twinkle of the eye. He swings Mjolnir (“Mew-mew!”) like a champ, and scores huge laughs with slight, earnest turns of phrase and slightly-stilted courtly behavior, such as nobly conversing with Foster’s quippy intern Darcy (ever-droll Kat Dennings) or boarding a crowded underground train. He also has really cute chemistry with the cheerfully bright Portman. Portraying Asgard’s finest, Elba continues to command the screen with minimal movement, while Jaimie Alexander compellingly blends toughness with tenderness as the sadly underutilized Sif. And, of the legendary Anthony Hopkins, it must be said he bellows and commands with (barely) restrained majesty.

Because it’s so heavily stocked with winning performances, and so modest in its artistic aims, The Dark World manages to squeak by as passably entertaining blockbuster nonsense; an acceptable tide me over until Marvel launches their next juggernaut, Captain America: Winter Soldier, in March. That said, hopefully next time we’re treated to a trip to Asgard – which, judging from the cliffhanger, will be sooner rather than later - we'll finally get a rousing, fist-pumping adventure worth celebrating. After all, it’s high time Thor really brought the thunder, instead of merely amusing us with the odd flash and bang.  

3 out of 5

Film Review - THE HEAT and FRANCES HA

Traditionally, the summer movie season isn’t overly generous to female-oriented films. Although hits like The Devil Wears Prada and Bridesmaids sent multi-hundred-million-dollar wake up calls to the industry, change has taken its damn time. However, standing out amongst this season’s rampant run of testosterone-fuelled blockbusters are two surprising new releases of very different pedigrees; the Sandra Bullock/Melissa McCarthy joint The Heat and Noah Baumbach’s indie return-to-form Frances Ha. Each offers plenty of value to both the fairer sex and anyone looking for smart, funny, well-crafted entertainment.

Fresh from the uproariously brilliant triumph of Bridesmaids, director Paul Feig’s XX-chromosome buddy cop comedy The Heat is a refreshingly breezy blast of free-wheeling comic energy that manages to make a tired routine shine. Featuring Bullock as a prissy, career-oriented FBI agent who’s reluctantly paired with McCarthy’s foul-mouthed Boston police officer while hunting a mysterious drug kingpin, the film blows dust off its reliable genre tropes by exploiting the off-beat chemistry of its headliners. Beginning as insufferable misfits, the characters’ unlikely friendship and professional bond - like the picture itself - starts off kinda rough before gradually finds its footing and confidence.

Working from Katie Dippold’s (Parks and Recreation, MADtv) quirky screenplay, Feig knows the central plot isn’t that interesting or important and instead, like his last film, focusses on staging hilariously bizarre diversions for his actresses to run wild with. Chief among these highlights are extended sequences including a drunken night at a dive bar populated by senior citizens, a run-in with a restaurant choking victim and multiple volatile encounters with McCarthy’s heavily-accented white trash family. It’s these masterfully-exploited sidesplitting scenarios that really energize The Heat, and bring out the cast’s best.

It also never hurts to boast two of Hollywood’s most endearing comediennes at their most nutty and committed. Channeling her Miss Congeniality protagonist, Bullock exudes rigid crazy cat lady intensity. It’s fun to watch her torn from her comfort zone, fighting to control a cyclone of chaotic lunacy. McCarthy takes some getting used to – her early scenes are a little too gratingly obnoxious – yet once she has a partner to play off of, she hits her stride. Unequivocally courageous in her willingness to sell a gag at any cost, she’s brash and unexpectedly sweet, charming Bullock and the audience in equal measure. They’re such a winning team that, frankly, the idea of watching them solve more cases in the future isn’t an entirely unwelcome prospect.

If Bullock and McCarthy skillfully deliver the broad laughs, Greta Gerwig, in Baumbach’s remarkable Frances Ha, does something even more difficult: she makes us chuckle knowingly (and occasionally uncomfortably) at our own very human inadequacies and fears. Her Frances, an aimless down-on-her-luck New York dancer, flits through her existence with all of the direction of a Ping-Pong ball in the wind. Growing apart from her best friend/personal rock (Mickey Sumner), she leapfrogs haphazardly from one eccentric roommate to another, abandoning her lackadaisically-pursued dreams of success and devolving into an “undateable” lost cause.

Beautifully capturing the aimless frustrations of the current late-20s/early-30s generational experience, Gerwig and Baumbach’s script walks a genuinely fine line with the title character. As hopelessly loveable as she is maddening in her apathy, Frances is a character we can’t help but root for because we’ve all felt, at some point, exactly as she does. Wearing a mask of cheery, insecure fragility, the actress has never been more mesmerizing. It’s a very special performance in a very special film.

Visibly influenced by vintage Woody Allen (predominantly Manhattan) and the French new wave, Baumbach thankfully tones down the snark that overwhelmed his last two efforts, Greenberg and Margot at the Wedding. And in doing so, he allows us to relate to the unconventional characters, achieving, in the process, something richer and more truthful. Frances Ha isn’t just witty and perceptive, it’s leaves you absolutely beaming.

The Heat: 3.5 out of 5
Frances Ha: 4.5 out of 5

*Originally published in BeatRoute Magazine.

Film Review - LORE and THE FLAT (VIFF 2012)

Arguably, no historical moment in time has proven more influential in cinema than the Nazi occupation of Europe during World War II. Horrifically unfolding during the early days of Hollywood’s game-changing Golden Age, this dark era has inspired several of the medium’s most intensely profound achievements, such as Shoah, Schindler’s List and Das Boot. It also continues to attract the attention of today’s artists who continue to both explore the human experience of living under the Third Reich and valiantly attempt to make sense of the utterly senseless.

Among the most exciting entries at last year’s 31st annual Vancouver Film Festival were two extremely personal works that sought to examine the lingering wounds felt by descendants grappling with complex ancestral ties to Nazism. While both films – Cate Shortland’s coming of age drama Lore and Arnon Goldfinger’s intimate family documentary The Flat – tackle the issue from very different perspectives, each provides a compelling and moving portrait of the struggle to make peace with the sins committed by loved ones. Neither picture provides easy answers. Rather, they leave us with tough, intriguing questions to chew on as we emerge from the theatre.

Lore, named after the resourceful teenage protagonist played by commanding newcomer Saskia Rosendahl, is the more stylish of the two; a haunting narrative of discovery cloaked in ominous, vaguely mystical Herzogian atmosphere, leisurely delivered through seemingly distant flickers of long ago memories. Charged with escorting her three siblings to distant Hamburg after her Nazi parents vanish in the wake of the Fuhrer’s defeat, the tough-edged Hitler Youth soon finds herself having to brave not just the chaos of the country – where violence, hysteria and rape are widespread – but her own internal struggle with her indoctrinated teachings as well. This exhausting trip is complicated by the appearance of a slightly threatening, mysterious traveller (Kai Malina – a little too male model-ish for the role), with tightly held secrets of his own.

Working from her own adaptation of Rachel Seiffert’s novel "The Dark Room," Australian director Shortland adds an impressionistic Malick-like touch to the proceedings, capturing the serene beauty and suffocating danger of the natural world. Almost post-apocalyptic in tone – appropriate, given that Lore and her charge’s secure world has completely disintegrated around them – there’s an omnipresent sense of dread to the picture’s defeated Germany, punctuated by the occasional suicide victim corpse or encounter with a imposing stranger. It’s an uncomfortable environment, damp, suffocating and gloomy, that subtly mirrors our heroine’s journey as she slowly crawls out from underneath the manipulative fog of Nazi ideology towards a new life at her grandmother’s cozy country farm some 500 miles away.

The movie often feels as aloof and matter of fact as its lead, drained of the sentimentality and melodrama one might expect from the material. Ultimately, Lore is s a quiet film of transformation; mapping a girl’s maturation into womanhood and a brainwashed puppet of the state’s slow development towards free-thinking independence. And when the wonderful final image comes, a small angry act of defiant destruction, it explodes with symbolism and hope for a better tomorrow.

By contrast, Israeli documentary The Flat may be more modest in construction and intent, yet it is nonetheless an engrossingly funny, touching and powerful chronicle of one man’s investigation into his own intentionally buried familial history - not to mention, one of the very best pictures of 2012. The film opens with Goldfinger and his extended relations preparing his grandmother’s Tel Aviv flat for sale shortly after her passing, cheerfully reminiscing as they go about navigating the mundanities of dismantling the physical space she so lovingly created. Things take a turn for the unexpected, however, when our narrator discovers a Nazi propaganda newspaper featuring photos of his grandparents with the article’s author Baron Leopold von Mildenstein, a pro-Zionist Nazi, and his wife. Following the disconcerting trail of crumbs, Goldfinger travels to Germany to meet with von Mildenstein’s accommodating daughter Edda, who isn’t quite as interested in the potential implications of their two relatives’ relationship.

 To reveal any more of The Flat would be a disservice, as the real pleasure of the picture is watching the pieces of the puzzle gradually come together, and how each of the participants in the documentary (Goldfinger’s mother and Edda’s husband also feature prominently) deals with the information. One of the most admirable strengths of the film is how even-handed it is in portraying its participants; it likes them, regardless of their personal stance, and wholeheartedly respects their emotional stakes in the matter. And in Goldfinger’s interactions with them, there’s so much warmth, intelligence and good humour that it’s a joy merely to spend time in Edda’s comfy, cluttered suburban house or Grandma Tuchler’s refined former apartment.

Of course, there is indeed a bombshell to be dropped, and Goldfinger, to his credit, seems more troubled to be doing the deed than gleeful. He’s not a showman or a condemning judge. His sole concern is wrapping his head around why his loved one made the choices in life she did. And he raises fascinating points regarding the generational disparity in how WWII is acknowledged, with older Germans programmed to not ask questions while their modern offspring thirst for answers. Perhaps The Flat’s most resonant message, though, is that the responsibility of the individual is not necessarily to understand or forgive their ancestor’s transgressions, but rather to accept that they indeed happened.

Lore: 4 out of 5
The Flat: 5 out of 5

*Originally published in Converge Magazine.