Drum Media reviews, April: SUCKER PUNCH, SNOWTOWN, SCREAM 4 INCENDIES, BRIGHTON ROCK

As if to (over)compensate for the ‘visionary director’ tag that has been undeservedly bestowed upon him, for his career of mechanically made, embalmed graphic novel adaptations (300, Watchmen) and one remake (Dawn of the Dead; ironically his most striking and distinctive film to date), Zack Snyder has finally made a creation entirely of his own. Say what you will about Sucker Punch, but there’s no doubt that it comes directly ‘from the mind of Zack Snyder’, to borrow another promotional cliché.

The title might refer to the bait-and-switch Snyder plays on his target audience: Those coming for fantasy/action kicks and scantily-clad nubile hotties get what is ostensibly a women’s picture, with the flights of CGI fancy taking place in the imagination of our main character, Baby Doll (Emily Browning). She’s been recently committed to an insane asylum for the accidental murder of her sister, and there meets a host of nicknamed girls (Sweet Pea, Rocket, Blondie) who band together to plan an escape. In the meantime, the asylum doubles as a bordello of some sort, and it’s during her sexy dance routines that Baby Doll reverts to a fantastical reverie state.

This outlandish plot makes the film more interesting than most Hollywood blockbusters, but Sucker Punch is, alas, more fun to read about than to watch – an ass-ugly, narratively inept mishmash. Then there’s the matter of its alleged ‘female empowerment’: well, I guess Snyder does posit that women have every right to fantasise about killing dragons & trolls & Nazi zombies as much as men do. But there’s no mistaking this fetish-fest as anything other than a male fantasy, borne of its creator’s arrested development.

____________

Hands down the most eagerly (and nervously) anticipated Australian film of this year's Adelaide Film Festival was Snowtown, the fictionalised account of the exploits of serial killer John Bunting. Those dreading horror-film exploitation or overt psychological explication will be relieved by this powerful piece, which marks a stunning debut for director Justin Kurzel. In the place of either of the two aforementioned modes is a canny sense of physical and psychological place, and the creation of a plausible atmosphere where apathy turns into violence and back into apathy again.

The key to this sense of place is obviously the location shooting, where everything seems to be shot at night or in haze indistinguishable from dusk or dawn. But it’s also the casting that lends the film its authenticity; non-professionals populate a bulk of the cast, with only Daniel Renshall as Bunting being the sole pro. The dynamic between Renshall and his followers, and especially his protégé and our surrogate protagonist, impassive teen Jamie (Lucas Pittaway) is chillingly believable. And Renshall is simply astonishing as Bunting, rendering one of the most convincing screen psychopaths in quite some time.

Snowtown is confronting stuff, and will probably be too much for some. But it’s not gratuitously ugly, and the film takes dramatic license by eliding a number of the uglier aspects of the real events. By the film’s close, numbness has set in, with the murders taking place off screen, as if they have no visceral impact for the perpetrators any longer. All moral sense has been lost, and the numbness is more disturbing than any of the depicted violence for this reason. The film ends on a similar note to John Cassavetes’ A Woman Under the Influence, with a character simply closing a door that envelops the screen in darkness, shutting us off from the spectacle we’ve been voyeurs to. Kurzel and writer Shaun Grant have rendered the story vivid enough that it should continue in the debates and discussions it demands afterward.

____________

It’s only a few moments into Incendies that you know you’re in good hands. Scored to the plaintive strums of Radiohead’s “You and Whose Army”, we see a group of Arabic child soldiers gathered in a room, having their heads shaved. As the accompanying song reaches its crescendo, we zoom into the quietly enraged face of one of the boys. It’s an haunting overture for this uncommonly thrilling melodrama, which centres on the journey of two siblings who make a journey to war-torn Lebanon, as per their recently deceased mother’s last wish, for them to uncover their true familial identities.

Writer/director Denis Villeneuve has adapted the screenplay from a stage play of the same name, and the film has the distinction of being one of the least stage-y theatrical adaptations in recent memory – there’s strikingly little expository dialogue, and a focus on indelible, tactile imagery to drive the story. The film is blatantly contrived in places – especially its final twist – but the emotions it brings, for characters and viewers alike, are never less than deeply felt and complex. A late-film scene between brother and sister in a swimming pool is astonishing in its vulnerability, and testament to Villenueve’s attention to quiet moments as well as dramatic fireworks (of which there are plenty).

Admittedly, the very real backdrop of war-ravaged Middle East risks becoming a trivialised abstraction amongst the personal story that unfolds. But ultimately, Incendies’ asks you to go with your gut, and is as dramatically juicy as any film in recent memory; as well as a deserving Oscar nominee in a the often-wonky Best Foreign Language Film category.

____________

It’s been 11 years since everyone instantly forgot the 3^rd installment in the largely annoying meta-horror Scream series. But now, Wes Craven and co. are bringing that shit back to you! Yes, you, Generation facebook youtube skype twitter #rebeccablack #charliesheen! You, tech-obsessed, self-obsessed, self-recording, celeb-mongering whores! But mostly, Scream 4 has the self-cannibalising state of recent horror cinema in its crosshairs: a well-deserved target, which the film misses by being as equally feeble and tired.

After a cute film-within-a-film-within-a-film intro, in which stock characters complain about various horror movie clichés – including those of the Scream series, wink wink – we’re introduced to the old players and some newbies. Neve Campbell continues to perpetually squint in disbelief at the news of another series of murders among her small town of Woodsboro, and the ensuing media shitstorm. David Arquette and Courtney Cox also dutifully reprise their roles, as cop and star reporter, respectively. Elsewhere, a fresh new batch of teens await their fates, and keep in step with the shifting conventions of the genre (‘the unexpected is the new cliché’, etc) in an effort to stay alive.

Scream 4, moreso than its predecessors, is a film for those who have discovered the term ‘postmodern’ for the first time and feel a buzz of intellect upon seeing the concept in practice. There are some witty moments, but it is largely self-referential/reflexive/aware in the most thuddingly obvious and dull ways. When Community’s Alison Brie appears to steal her every scene, it invites an unflattering comparison to that brilliant TV series; a reminder that you can be ‘meta’ without being a twat about it.

____________

Full disclosure: I’m unfamiliar with Graham Greene’s 1938 novel Brighton Rock and its well-regarded 1947 film adaptation. Conversely, this perhaps makes me an ideal audience member for its latest incarnation, moved from 1930’s to 60’s Britain, and the directorial debut for The American screenwriter Rowan Joffe. It recovers from a shaky start to become a fairly compelling and stylish portrayal of romantic projection and self-delusion, as gangster Pinkie (Sam Riley) courts innocent waitress Rose (Andrea Riseborough) so she doesn’t testify against him for a recent murder; the latter believing his love is for real.

“I’m bad and you’re good – we’re made for each other!” is the film’s biggest groaner of a line, but there is a grain of truth to it. Neither Pinkie nor Rose are terribly appealing or interesting characters on their own, but as soon as they meet, it’s easy to see why Rose keeps convincing herself (and others) into thinking there’s something beneath his blank exterior. Sam Riley, still carrying the fragile aura of his Ian Curtis rendition from Control, initially seems like an ill-fit as Pinkie, a hard-assed street hoodlum (you half expect him to have a seizure at any moment). But he grows on you, and his stoic demeanour eventually becomes hypnotic in a ‘when’s he gonna break’ way.

Being unfamiliar with the original text, it’s hard to know who to give credit for with the film’s chief virtues – including its haunting final scene. Still, there’s enough good here that it succeeds as both a ‘read the book!’ tribute, and a satisfying piece of cinema in its own right.