Film Review - SUMMER HOURS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

4 out of 5

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Film Review - HARRY POTTER AND THE HALF-BLOOD PRINCE: Film 6 Casts A Reel Spell.

Any Harry Potter film that opens with a flash strobe-popping nod to Scorsese’s Raging Bull and closes with a poetic homage to The Empire Strikes Back is all-right in my book, and Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince is the best of the series, a work of ornately dazzling fantasy storytelling. After the clunkily competent Order of the Phoenix, which was marred by a dull and poorly staged final act, returning director David Yates has delivered a revelatory work: a dark, Gothic-tinged expedition into a world of omnipresent evil and apprehensive uncertainty, kept alight only by the purest of brave hearts. Hogwarts has never felt more empty and forlorn, with its towering spires reaching achingly towards the glumly overcast sky, but, surprisingly, there are still an abundance of joys and wonders waiting to be discovered within its earthy stone walls, vast corridors and curiously decorated, snug rooms.

The adventure which fuels Half-Blood Prince begins with a shocking act of real-world violence, as a trio of wraithlike Death Eaters, operating under the hateful orders of Lord Voldemort, wreak calamitous havoc upon the Muggle population of London. Spurred into action, Professor Albus Dumbledore (Michael Gambon) recruits Harry Potter (Daniel Radcliffe) for an investigation into both the present-day goings-ons of the loathsome Draco Malfroy (Tom Felton), and the crucial historical events which drove the young, troubled Tom Riddle (played at differing ages by Hero Fiennes-Tiffin and Frank Dillane) to adopt the malevolent mantle of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Enlisting the oft-soused Professor Horace Slughorn, a visibly anguished former Hogwarts potions professor with past connections to both Voldemort and Harry’s parents, as a potential source of essential information, the duo set out to discern the exact nature of the wicked wizard’s world-shattering intentions.

But of course even the most imperative of missions can become complicated by the emotional tilt-a-whirl of teenage romance. While Harry’s best-pals Ron Weasley (Rupert Grint) and Hermione Granger (Emma Watson) become embroiled in a frustrated love triangle with the hormonally-loco Lavender Brown (amusing newcomer Jessie Cave), the Chosen One himself begins to be irresistibly drawn to the all-grown-up-and-suddenly-lookin’-real-good Ginny Weasley (Bonnie Wright). As these mini-dramas swirl out of control, and Voldemort’s forces, led by the batty Bellatrix Lestrange (a sexy/scary Helena Bonham Carter), wreak increasingly unspeakable havoc, young Harry is faced with having to win a seemingly unwinnable battle – with the precarious fate of the universe at risk.

The entire tumultuous journey is communicated gorgeously by Yates and director of photography Bruno Delbonnel, who have employed a desaturated colour palette to communicate the rising bleakness in the Potter-verse. While there are splashes of lustrously warm yellows, scarlet reds and forest greens, the world feels mired in a haze of smoky greys and blacks, and stark whites which reach into oblivion. For the first time we feel the far-reaching effects Voldemort’s sinister influence bleeding through the theatre screen.

There is an enhanced sense of artistic craftsmanship to the special effects this go-around, with nary an example of unnecessary CG tinkering. It all feels vital to the story and there are sights to become lost in, such as a damp subterranean cavern, featuring zombie-like spectres of death and a suffocating watery abyss, which is a sublime vision of apocalyptic beauty, as well as the expansive rolling hills of Hogwarts, glimpsed from the highest parapets. Even the smaller moments, as when a heartbroken Hermione sits on a lonely staircase, watched over by shimmering birds, delight the senses with their honesty and expressive creative invention. When Harry, late in the film, reflectively confesses that “I’m just beginning to realize how beautiful this place is”, we nod in agreement.

Yates stretches his sumptuous marvels over a luxuriously paced story, which isn’t afraid to take the time for witty character-driven comedy (Half-Blood Prince is often very funny) and enlightening dramatic touches aimed at enriching the brilliantly drawn cast of personalities. Michael Gambon reveals new layers of resourcefulness and conflict as Dumbledore, while Jim Broadbent, as Slughorn, captures a sense of dignified pain, masked behind an exterior of eccentric buffoonery, which is the sort of performance worthy of awards recognition. The director even infuses the film`s viscerally thrilling moments, a late-night pursuit through an immense, engulfing field of vegetation, or a brutal lavatory-set wand battle between Harry and Draco, to name a couple, with a sense of character and emotional truth which is sadly all-too-rare in blockbuster entertainment.

For the first time in a long while, Harry Potter’s movie adventures feel fresh and bursting with promise – a good sign for Yates’ two-part Deathly Hallows wrap-up arriving in 2010 – and I find myself uncharacteristically awaiting the next chapter with bated breath. The Half-Blood Prince is a spectacular tribute to J.K. Rowling`s visionary genius, a film to enchant the young and old alike, and a work of pure, uncompromised imagination. Indeed, this is magic of the highest cinematic order.

4.5 out of 5

*Originally printed SFU's The Peak: July 20th, 2009

Film Review - WHATEVER WORKS: Big Laughs In The Big Apple, Woody Style.

Whatever Works is a charming trifle, a return to the magical fantasy-land that is Woody Allen’s New York. Here, even the most cynical of hearts can be vibrantly reawakened by splendorous art, majestic architecture, stimulating conversation, and cosmopolitan culture. Having visited so many memorable times before — this is the director’s 45th film after all — the final results are like cinematic comfort food, lulling us into a warm state of contented delight. As Sam Raimi proved earlier this summer with his return to form, Drag Me to Hell, it is sometimes a joy to simply sit back and watch a master run through the basics with a practiced panache.

If the film feels fresher than it should (the script, as has been heavily reported, was actually written during the ‘70s with The Producers star Zero Mostel in mind), credit has to go to ingenious decision to cast Larry David as the film’s archetypal Woody surrogate. As the pioneering and creative mind behind Seinfeld and HBO’s painfully funny Curb Your Enthusiasm, David is taller and wirier than Allen. Although he occupies a much darker realm of neurotic misanthropy, his rapid-fire bursts of droll malice make Whatever Works feel alive and occasionally risky. Few performers could get away with dropping distastefully bitter bon mots about suicide, the Holocaust, and abortion without forsaking the audience’s sympathy, but David — who possesses no formal acting training — is a naturally charismatic and fiercely intelligent personality. He’s like the outspoken, caustic uncle who enlivens even the dullest family gatherings, but equipped with better writers.

David’s character, Boris Yellnikoff, a once-brilliant physicist who repeatedly claims to have been “considered” for the Nobel Prize, exists in a constant state of existential angst (“I’m dying! I’m dying! Not now, I mean eventually!”) and OCD-type obsessions (compulsively singing “Happy Birthday” twice while washing his hands.) Crippled after a failed suicide attempt, Boris wastes his time mocking the world’s endless population of “cretins,” “microbes,” and “inchworms,” as well as giving confrontational chess lessons to oblivious adolescents.

Returning home one night to his eccentrically ramshackle apartment, Boris fortuitously meets a young Southern runaway who bears the cumbersome moniker of Melodie St. Ann Celestine. Played by the multi-faceted Evan Rachel Wood, Melodie, after much doe-eyed finagling, manages to talk her way into both a temporary home on the old grouch’s couch, and a tutorship of Boris’ own disillusioned brand of worldly education. As time passes, and love blooms — portrayed off-screen, thankfully — the mismatched couple find themselves visited by the girl’s recently-separated and dysfunctional parents: flighty Southern belle mom, Marietta (Patricia Clarkson), and bible-thumping, NRA-member father, John (Ed Begley Jr.), who both demonstrate little approval of their daughter’s pompous beau. However, as the Big Apple begins to weave its tantalizing spell on these sheltered misfits, inspiring transformation and revitalized vigor, Boris, against his obstinate will, becomes progressively more and more compelled to reassess his ‘to-hell-with-humanity’ theories of life.

Although Allen doesn’t explore the curious nature of Boris and Melodie’s May/December romance with a fraction of the perceptive zeal afforded to the mismatched coupling at the centre of 1979’s Manhattan, he still manages to mine great comedy from his two wildly contradictory stars. Evan Rachel Wood has proved herself to be a great dramatic actress on multiple fronts (as witnessed in Thirteen and The Wrestler), but here, she exposes herself to be a gifted comedienne. Her Melodie character hides under a cloak of cheerfully deceptive naivety and is a vivacious source of life as well as an enthusiastic sponge for information.

There is a scene in the film where she sits, deeply contemplative and attempting to analyze the intricacies of Beethoven’s Fifth while someone knocks on the front door, that is a mini-masterwork of slow-burn hilarity, with the actress essentially delivering a flawless silent film-style comedy routine. Likewise, her scenes with the brilliant David — wherein she matches his scornful disdain with bubbly ‘head-above-the-clouds’ optimism — are Whatever Works’ most entertaining selling point.

Unfortunately, the film loses track of itself when the focus shifts away from these two bickering companions and onto the supporting characters. While Patricia Clarkson’s Marietta is a keeper (her character’s bizarre journey into the unbridled wilds of New York bohemia is a riot) Begley’s John feels undeveloped and contrived. His metamorphosis, handled in a single scene, feels perfunctory and hollow. Additionally, Henry Cavill, as a somewhat creepy potential suitor for Melodie, is a bland, uninteresting pretty boy-type who actually manages to make Boris seem like the more appealing option.

If it all wraps up just a little bit too nicely, considering the antagonistic tone of the central character, we reflect that it is sometimes nice to just watch love conquer all and leave the complications of reality behind. Allen argues that we all deserve happiness — even cranky old Boris — and should be thankful for discovering ‘whatever works’ to help us escape the annoyances of modern life. And, for the film’s 92 minutes, we are.

3.5 out of 5

*Originally printed in SFU's The Peak: July 13th, 2009.

Cam on the Hype! Cast!!!

I posted a link below in the latest Epi-Cast show-notes but, having listened to the final product, I feel compelled to shill a little more for my associates over at superherohype.com's official podcast The Hype! Cast. I joined the intrepid trio of Malice, Immortal Fire and highscorefilms last monday and spent an often hilariously entertaining 90 minutes running the critical gamut over Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen. The resulting debate/discussion/gab-session has now been edited, mastered and released on iTunes as well as on their pod feed, and it's really worth checking out, along with some of their past episodes. So, look for me, wielding the esoteric moniker Episode29 (Bet you can't guess where I got it!), in Episode #24: Transformers Review and then feel free to storm their archives for past hidden gems.

Link to the Hype! Cast's iTunes page

Link to the Hype! Cast's Podcast Feed

A big thanks to those guys for the great opportunity, and to you, dear reader, enjoy!

Epi-Cast: Episode 13 - "Transformers and Jack Black and Larry David, Oy Vey!"

Greetings fans and foes, we've returned to help you recover some of the decimated brain cells you withered away watching Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen! Nothing but the smartest, most intellectual and scintillating discussion ahead (Yes, we talk about Transformers...). Plus, we even have a special guest to help boost our already sky-rocketing energy levels. We may not have the Matrix of Leadership or all-mighty Allspark in our possession, but we have what really counts: Voluminous Verbosity! Take that Optimus!

Epicast: Episode 13 - "Transformers and Jack Black and Larry David, Oy vey!"

Wherein Cam and Tom, with special guest Janine Smith, don honourary yarmulkes and rejoice over Woody Allen's hilarious Larry David vehicle Whatever Works. The duo (sans guests) also kicks Jack Black's Year One in the stones, while Cam recounts a few reasons why Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen is an affront to all that is good and holy in our universe. Also stuffed into these 90 mins of film-fun are withering dismissals of Daniel Craig's Defiance and Jim Carrey's Yes Man, along with trailer reviews for the Matt Damon/Steven Soderbergh corporate comedy The Informant, the vampire cliche-pile Daybreakers, Vince Vaughn's Couple Retreat and M. Night Shyamalan's The Last Airbender. Mazel tov!

Show Note: To download Cam's awesome-tastic appearance on superherohype.com's Hype! Cast, in which he and the show's hosts do a full hour-long review of Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, either search for "Hype! Cast" on iTunes or head on over to the Hype! Cast's podcast feed and download Episode 24.

To download, right-click and save on the green episode title above and then listen/suffer to your dear pulsating organ's content. Get your mind out of the gutter.

P.S.: We also available on iTunes! Seriously! They accepted us! Simply do a store search for "Epi-Cast" and RIP-TORN!, there we are! Oh, and we're the movie-talky-talky show, not the holy roller festival.

Film Review - TRANSFORMERS: REVENGE OF THE FALLEN: Autobots Roll Out! ...and Out and Out and Out and Out...

Watching Michael “Blow It All To Hell” Bay’s latest thought-impaired robotic punch ‘em up Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, the sequel to 2007’s lumbering, migraine-inducing Transformers, it occurred to me that the director doesn’t give two stinking spark-plugs about his titular titanium-plated titans. Sure, we’re treated to endless scenes in which they cave in each other’s craniums with ginormous swords and mega-detonating projectiles, but personality-wise they’re empty vessels, characterized solely by their vehicular appearance and distorted booming voices. It takes a certain amount of determination to cut together 150 minutes of mechanized car-nage, Pauly Shore-level comedy and infinite shots of anonymous military people spouting jargon ala “The target is located!”, and not reveal a single interesting idea about the characters, but boy did he succeed. In fact, the flick could be renamed GoBots or Voltron and only a few superficial changes would be required.

The plot? Oy. Oddly, the script by the shallow writing duo Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman (with added “help” from Reindeer Games scribe Ehren Kruger), is both lamely simplistic and torturously convoluted at the same time. Much like the similarly bloated Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End, lots and lots of things happen, but very little matters.

Essentially Revenge of the Fallen can be synopsised as thus: Sam Witwicky (Shia LaBeouf) is departing for Maxim College – where all the women dress like Seymour Street hookers and seem perpetually on the brink of orgasmic ecstasy – when he discovers a fragment of the all-powerful All-Spark, which zaps his head full of alien code. The Decepticons, under the rule of the disgraced warlord The Fallen, need this implanted information to find a potentially world-ending device that will give them unlimited supremacy. Hence, Optimus Prime and the Autobots, along with a few one-note human sidekicks, must assemble to thwart their wicked scheme. Much joyless brawling, screaming and showering scrap metal ensues.

Transformers die-hards (Trans-fans?) will no doubt devour the numerous diesel-injected dust-ups. There’s an impressive forest-set melee where Optimus takes on multiple mechanized assailants at once, along with an impressively staged gargantuan climax in Egypt which, up to the underwhelming final boss battle, is almost pornographic in its obsession with money shots and Megan Fox’s heaving bosom. But what about the Transformers’ personalities and feelings? What do they think about when not clashing? There are some interesting questions raised – probably unintentionally – regarding the alien race’s birthing process. Do these creatures mate? They appear asexual, and almost entirely masculine. How does an Optimus Prime reproduce? Also, we get a glimpse at Robot Heaven, where angelic Auto-bots – I’m guessing that there’s a Robot Hell reserved for Decepticons – stand in front of the pearly gates bathed in light. Is there Transformer theology? Who do they pray to? Do they dream of electric sheep? Fans might as well bellow these questions into the never-ending void, because the film-makers could care less. They’re vehicles for seeking and instigating mayhem, little else.

...Which would be forgivable if there was a single human performance in Revenge of the Fallen that rose above the level of transparent. LaBeouf, the team’s MVP and everyman, is helpless in the face of Bay’s orchestra of idiocy. He sweats fetchingly, shouts insipid terminology with gusto and gamely charges into the numerous bombastic set-pieces head-first. Megan Fox is window dressing, with nothing to do except be willingly molested by Bay’s salacious camera - although newcomer Isabel Lucas is the primary target for the director’s unique brand of creepy misogyny – while Tyrese Gibson and Josh Duhamel’s soldiers are best represented in an art-imiating-life dialogue exchange wherein they are informed that they are paid “to shoot, not talk”. John Turturro, reprising his annoying Sector 7 agent role, feels unnecessary but somewhat pleasant when compared to Ramon Rodriguez, as Sam’s conspiracy theory-fixated roommate, a narcissistic jerk of a character that’s an endurance test to tolerate.

Bay surrounds his human and mechanical nonentities with liberal heapings of masturbatory CG polish, characters TALKING! LIKE! THIS!, racially insensitive caricatures (the “twin” Auto-bots Skids and Mudflap have already provoked much passionate debate) and toilet-bowl sex humour. This is the type of film where mini-bots defile Megan Fox’s leg, dogs graphically hump each other (twice!) and a giant Decepticon named Devastator wields wrecking-ball testicles. I don’t necessarily blame Bay for going juvenile, but there is a cold-hearted cynicism at work that feels condescending toward adults and potentially harmful to impressionable children.

Ultimately, Transformers makes the classic blockbuster mistake of not comprehending the difference between enchanting an audience and numbing it into submission. Despite its massive budget, there’s not a single memorable line or moment of creative inspiration to be found amongst the reckless state-of-the-art computer-born gimmickry. At the conclusion of Revenge of the Fallen little doubt remains that Optimus Prime and his hulking horde of synthetic ciphers will return. Maybe next time they’ll actually let us see the soul beneath the aluminum armor.

2 out of 5

*Originally printed in SFU's The Peak: June 29th, 2009.

Film Review - DEPARTURES: A Life-Affirming Story With Some Deadly Cliches.

A considerable swirl of debate surrounded Departures last February when, to the surprise of many, the Japanese film snatched up the Best Foreign Film prize at the 2009 Academy Awards. Beating out hipper, edgier fare such as France’s The Class and Israel’s Waltz With Bashir, the film’s triumph was viewed with a mix of contrasting opinions. While many saw Departures’ win as further evidence of the committee’s preference for unabashedly sentimental films over bold medium-challenging accomplishments, others championed the picture as being a transfixing work of meditative splendour, subtly poetic and achingly beautiful.

Well, after finally viewing the film – no thanks to an unfortunately sluggish release schedule – I find myself tap-dancing somewhere in the middle. On one hand, acclaimed director Yojiro Takita has crafted an often enchanting and compelling character-driven exploration into mankind’s uneasy relationship with death. However, on the flip side, he has also made an often shamelessly manipulative tear-jerker.

The movie stars Masahiro Motoki as Daigo Kobayashi, a visibly troubled young cellist forced to leave the comfortable urban jungle of Tokyo after his orchestra is dissolved due to lack of interest. Low on finances and suffering an identity crisis, Daigo, along with his loving wife Mika (Ryoko Hirosue), moves back to his small hometown of Yagamata, taking up residence in his deceased mother’s ramshackle house. Eager for employment, and under the mistaken impression that he is applying at a travel agency, the anxious young man unwittingly winds up being hired as an NK Agent, or “encoffineer”, under the tutelage of the weary, laconic Ikuei Sasaki (Tsutomu Yamazaki).

Daigo’s new job consists of retrieving dead bodies from their points of expiration and then performing the traditional funereal ceremony in which bodies are prepared for their entrance into the next phase of life. After a bumpy start involving a much-decayed corpse collection case, Daigo proves himself to be a born natural, presiding over a series of elegant, bittersweet memorial services, and gradually discovering his own sense of inner-peace. But when the truth of his publicly frowned-upon occupation becomes known within the small community, alienating many of his closest friends and relations, the conflicted former-cellist must examine his own feelings towards his new vocation as well as his long-lingering resentments towards the father who abandoned him as a child.

Now, I’m a sucker for any movie that shows me something I’ve never seen before, and Departures’ “encoffineering” scenes are truly astonishing to behold. Graceful and delicate, these moments, which detail the process wherein the deceased are bathed, dressed and made-up, are powerfully captivating and choreographed by director Yojiro Takita like individual dance routines, each one with its own feel, rhythm and emotional undertone.

Fortunately the living actors also provide the journey with its own share of rewards. Motoki, as the conflicted protagonist, is so earnestly heartfelt that we feel personally invested in his own emotional quest. Despite the odd moment of goofy mugging from the actor, he really manages to reveal the buried hurt and conflicting thoughts of his character without making him into an overly melancholy man-child. The father/son dynamic he shares with the quietly commanding Yamazuki - whose low-key style yields the film’s richest, most stunningly layered performance - gives the film a captivatingly vibrant pulse. In one of many particularly remarkable scenes – almost a mini-movie unto itself - the two men share a meal and quiet conversation in a small indoor garden, allowing their characters to breath and simply exist, sincere and unguarded, in the moment.

If only Departures had remained focused on capturing authentically honest human relationships it could have really added up to something extraordinary. Sadly though, in its meandering latter half it too often stoops to relying on musty clichés and groaning implausibilities to reach its insipidly syrupy ending. One of the biggest offences is against Hirosue as Daigo’s wife, one of the film’s most radiant presences who, for the sake of creating conflict, behaves in ways that seem at diametrical odds with her sunny, open-minded personality. Equally damaging is the script’s decision to stage not one, but TWO draggy climactic funerals, packed with “Important Revelation”-revealing peripheral characters and a nonstop barrage of ham-fisted symbolism and teary-eyed close-ups, all set to an absurdly treacly score. It’s as if Takita lost confidence in his otherwise restrained film and felt compelled to pander to the audience when it really wasn’t necessary or appropriate.

Although the film's considerable problems prevent it from being a completely successful endeavour, it still contains enough uniquely touching insights into the human condition – namely our fears of mortality and need for love and acceptance – to humbly warrant a visit. Sometimes it takes a long, hard glimpse into the inevitability of death to make life feel that much more exhilarating. In the end Daigo discovers this truth and, when Departures is working, so do we.

3.5 out of 5

*Originally Printed in SFU's The Peak: June 22nd, 2009.

Epi-Cast: Episode 12 - "Gettin' Down With UP (Yo!)"

You can't keep a good podcast down. You can try but you will fail. Wanna know how I know? Cuz the Epi-Cast is back, droppin' rhymes, takin' names, giving you all the straight film-related poop you require. Despite a one week break from our usual bi-monthly schedule, we're back and ready to serve. NEXT!

Epicast: Episode 12 - "Gettin' Down With UP (Yo!)"

In which Cam and Tom put on their pixie shoes and frolic joyously around Pixar's latest beautiful gift for the senses, Up. Aside from the roughly 25-minute love-in with the film, and the studio's other magi-tastic wonders, they waste time nattering on about Sam Raimi's spook-a-blast odyssey Drag Me to Hell, Will Ferrell's baffling Land of the Lost and the surprise smash The Hangover. New flicks aside, Tom finally reports back from his first encounter with The Terminator while Cam shows some love for the 1981 Jack Nicholson box-office flop The Border. Plus, in a very special Trailer Park Encounters segment the dizzy duo puzzle over Scorsese's Shutter Island, giggle at Roland Emmerich's disaster epic 2012, snore through the preview for the John Travolta/Robin Williams mid-life crisis horror-show Old Dogs and, finally, snicker and scratch their heads over Twilight: New Moon. It's 90+ minutes more fun than a Robert Pattinson jockstrap fitting. Ew.

To download, right-click and save on the green episode title above and then listen/suffer to your dear heart's content.

P.S.: We also available on iTunes too. Simply do a shop search for "Epi-Cast" and PIA-ZADORA!, there we are! Oh, and we're movie-ramble show, not the holy roller one.

Film Review - THE TAKING OF PELHAM 1 2 3: Hyperkinetic Scott Keeps The Train From Derailing.

God bless Tony Scott. At 65 years of age, Ridley’s little brother is still out there, blowing expensive cars to hell and back, over-editing himself into a foaming frenzy, and kicking shallow young upstarts like Michael Bay in the ass and reminding them that, long before they were taking credit for the modern-day ADHD action explode-ation flick, he was making magnificently stupid audience pleasers like Top Gun, Days of Thunder and The Last Boyscout. Call him superficial and ham-fisted if you must, but you gotta give props to arguably the hippest movie-making grandpa out there who, with The Taking of Pelham 1 2 3, continues his cheerful trend of fashioning energetic MTV-esque bursts of empty-calorie amusement.

A quasi-remake of the 1974 Walter Matthau/Robert Shaw caper-thriller The Taking of Pelham One Two Three (The update’s abbreviated single-digit titular numerals is a sign of how much more EXTREME! it is, I suppose), the premise of the flick is refreshing in its simplicity: A violent crook named Ryder (John Travolta), along with his one-dimensional accomplices, takes a New York subway passenger train hostage and demand 10 million dollars within an hour. However, the twist is that the only person Ryder is willing to communicate with is a shlumpy subway dispatcher named Walter Garber (a dependably sturdy and convincing Denzel Washington – Tony Scott’s longtime go-to guy), who is facing his own crisis, having been recently demoted from the big leagues for alleged bribery. As casualties mount, time ticks down, and the Mayor (James Gandolfini) and an NYPD hostage negotiator (John Turturro) get involved, Garber and Ryder find themselves locked in a collision-course battle of the wits where the stakes are... Well, you know. And it doesn’t take Vulcan mind meld skills to deduce how it all wraps up, either.

At any rate, before even attempting to dissect the ludicrous plot of Pelham, it seems vital to acknowledge the film’s villain. Cracklingly portrayed by a flamboyantly garish biker-gear clad Travolta, Ryder – who could easily be the actor’s Wild Hogs character after a nasty prison stint – is a memorable cartoon pop psychopath who shrieks hilariously awkward threats (“Lick my bunghole, [expletive removed]!” - An ill-advised Beavis and Butt-head homage, perhaps?) and seems to occupy an entirely different wacky plane of existence than his reserved co-stars. While I don’t for a second buy the intricacies of his grand plot, which feels too small-scale for the results it achieves, or the psychological reasoning behind his transformation into a metrosexual Marlboro Man, it’s a treat to watch Travolta recapture and revel in the unique brand of ultra cranked-up lunacy he perfected over a decade ago in Face/Off and Broken Arrow.

Likely rushed to meet the WGA strike deadlines, Oscar-winning scribe Brian Helgeland’s script is often as chaotic as Scott’s pyrotechnics, haphazardly introducing numerous elements that go nowhere. A teenage transit-rider has a hidden video-chat connection which his girlfriend which, after the hostage crisis begins, gets picked up by the media. However, instead of using this covert insight to their advantage to uncover the identities of the hijackers, Garber and the NYPD - who are portrayed as being so farcically inept that they should sue for defamation of character - almost completely ignore it. Similarly, in a clumsy 9/11-inspired moment, two passengers decide that they “have to do something!”, and then don’t. And the film’s last act defies all reason; putting Washington into a heroic situation which seems tacked on solely to provide the requisite one-on-one confrontation required by all contemporary action films.

But if logic is truly bedamned, crazy ol’ man director Scott almost succeeds in burying the head-scratching absurdities under a veritable junkpile of rapid-fire editing trickery, pulsating techno-beats and Tasmanian Devil-like camera work. Many critics have taken issue with Pelham’s stylistic tics, however it’s hard to argue that they don’t give the film, which slackens when it doesn’t have Washington and Travolta’s kinetic verbal jousts to propel it, serious momentum. Subtitles counting down to Ryder’s deadline slam onto the screen, accompanied by jolting synth-effects, with the subtlety of an Optimus Prime uppercut, while the camera spins around the actors like a hurricane, giving even the most mundane exchanges at least the illusion of electrical charge. They’re cheap tricks for sure, but employed with a confident professional’s eye and instinct.

The Taking of Pelham 1 2 3 is a slick, unpretentious summer-time star-vehicle that has all the lasting power of a piece of Bazooka Joe bubble-gum. It knows exactly what it is, what it hopes to achieve and why an audience would check it out. While the cynical side of me takes issue with its trivial aims, I must confess that I was entertained by the nonsense of it all. Pelham shows that, twenty plus years after Maverick took flight, Tony Scott is still merrily barrelling down the track.

3 out of 5

Film Review - LAND OF THE LOST: A Prehistoric Oddity...

Brad Silberling’s Land of the Lost is a most curious specimen; a big-bucks bonanza summer movie ostensibly made for almost absolutely no one. It fails as a mainstream comedy, with an unfocussed spattering of gags either too dimly childish for paying adults, or conversely too esoteric and scatological for kids. It also fails at being a successful action-adventure movie, with humungo-bungo special-effects scenes that undercut any potential excitement with ironic silliness and don’t even bother attempting to convince the audience that the actors and creatures are sharing the same geographical space. Some critics have suggested that perhaps it’s aimed at the basement-dwelling stoner demographic who (sadly) made Harold and Kumar into a lucrative franchise. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s intension is solely to please the rapidly withering passionate fan collective (all 106 of them) who worshipped the 1970’s Sid and Marty Krofft Saturday morning TV show of the same name? If you can answer this skull-scratcher, you’re more than a leg up on Universal pictures.

Now, although the above musings may not intimate that this review will wind up being an encouraging recommendation (it won’t.), it isn’t going to be a complete condemnation either. There’s something almost irresistibly weird about this latest Will Ferrell vehicle, so gonzo in fact that more entertainment can often be found in imagining the behind-the-scenes decisions being made at the time than in accepting the doofy on-screen images at face value. I want to know how Silberling et al managed to swindle the studio out of 100 million cocoanuts in order to craft an epic featuring Ferrell joyfully bathing (repeatedly) in dino piss and Danny McBride gaily singing Cher songs into a gigantic vibrating CG crystal monument. Seriously, if the dude ever writes a book about this production I’m sold. My Amazon shopping cart will be one item fuller, yes sir-ee.

I guess when you’re dealing with a ludicrous audience-unfriendly script – written by Chris Henchy & Dennis McNicholas – Will Ferrell is a good fellow to get signed on. He’s genuinely likable and willingly does that out-of-shape-middle-aged-man-in-his-underwear thing which people seem to love. And for sure, his Dr. Rick Marshall, a clueless outcast goofball genius with an eating addiction, does get his chance to strut his ungainly stuff after he, as well as a saucy Cambridge scientist (Anna Friel) and a misogynistic redneck tour-guide/firework salesman (Danny McBride), are transported to the titular location through a space-time vortex created within a sucky forgotten tourist trap attraction.

Arriving in the land, full of gorgeously rendered expansive deserts and impenetrable jungles, the trio are introduced to the smutty Cha-Ka (SNL’s Jorma Taccone – comically deranged), a local missing link-type, whose stunted brainpower puts him on fairly even ground with Dr. Marshall. With their time-travel device misplaced, and under constant attack by a deceptively clever Tyrannosaurus Rex and the campy local lizard army known as the Sleestaks, the insecure man-child Doctor must find the microscopic hero within himself and lead his ill-equipped inter-dimensional team of explorers (Cha-Ka’s rather expendable) back into their own time.

While variations of this plot could (and indeed have) provided bountiful fuel for dozens upon dozens of high concept crowd-pleasers, Land of the Lost begins on an odd note from which it stubbornly refuses to recover, with an on-air scuffle between Marshall and a clearly rigid Matt Lauer wherein the two verbally spar over accusations that the good Doctor’s theories are whack. The scene feels strangely paced – not punchy enough to properly open the film with the necessary bang – and provides a lethargic introduction (and later, end) to the film’s unique universe. As opposed to being a slovenly nimrod, it would have been more fun had Ferrell played his character akin to Michael Richard’s Kramer character; as something of a Rainman-esque idiot savant so far ahead of everyone else around him that his genius can be mistaken for sheer lunacy. Nope, here he eats donuts and acts like a sloth. A Ferrell speciality, but a tired one.

That’s not to suggest that the actor doesn’t get the odd laugh, though. Never one to just idly cash a paycheck, Marshall’s conflict with the film’s dinosaur-star Grumpy, in which their creative ensuing scuffles build to a weirdo crescendo, really works. Similarly, Silberling and Ferrell made a wise decision in refusing to allow Dr. Marshall and Cha-Ka a cheerful union. One of the more hilarious moments comes courtesy of an immature little bit of bitchiness aimed at the dim cave-man by Dr. Marshall with maximum scorn.

McBride, an actor I’ve derided more than once in print and on the Epi-Cast (For download on iTunes right now!), actually managed to worm his ugly little way into my cold, black heart this time around. He’s casually funny, never going too far out there for a joke, but building fun chemistry with his co-stars and even, dare I say, making me laugh out loud once or twice (It’s gonna be a snowy July!). Anna Friel’s input is relegated mostly to acting perky and parading around in really short shorts and a low-cut tank-top. She looks like she’s having a good time, though! Good for her!

Unfortunately though, the cast isn’t the problem. It’s that the film can never find a proper tone, and is as unfocussed as Marshall and crew during a kinda-lame prolonged scene of drug-induced stupor (featuring a giant crab straight out of One Million Years BC!). The laughs are intermittent because most of the lines aren’t particularly sharp, and they’re further weighed down by the effects-driven chaos around them. There’s a raptor attack that is almost savage in its callousness, which seems aimed at horrifying children, shortly followed by an inane gross-out gag featuring a cartoonishly massive mosquito. And just when it couldn’t get any more confused, the Sleestaks show up, looking very much like (read: fake) the Gorn from the original Star Trek series. When the plot kicks into gear involving these scaly beasties it is so off-puttingly bizarre and bewildering that the film stops dead in its tracks. It all just feels too convoluted for a 90-minute comedy featuring prehistoric-poop jokes and caveman boob-grabbing. When all is said and done, movie-goers will likely just shrug their shoulders on the long, silent trudge out of theatre, cursing themselves for not seeing The Hangover instead.

Nevertheless, as I said earlier, it’s impossible to truly despise Land of the Lost simply for the gutsiness of the filmmakers who have birthed its unholy mass, kicking and screaming, into the summer movie market. It’s a disjointed mess, an exercise in idiocy, a tribute to style-over-substance and further proof that dragging up the corpses of long-dead properties may not be the best idea. However, in actually managing to occasionally surprise me in a season where astonishment is a highly deficient commodity, and concocting a veritable f-u to the ticket-buying public, I feel compelled to express an ounce of admiration. All lovers of the offbeat and slightly subversive should check it out this time around because it’s unlikely, and probably for the better, that you’ll ever get Lost again.

2.5 out of 5

Note: Although grading systems are faulty at best, this particular one has been liften slightly to reflect my admiration of the filmmakers' the-hell-with-the-mainstream mentality. It's a 2-star movie, the extra half-point is my bonus mark.