film reviews, interviews, features | BRWC

Author: Matt Conway

  • Ghosts Of War: Review

    Ghosts Of War: Review

    Marrying the pains of wartime struggles with a genre-horror approach, The Butterfly Effect writer/director Eric Brees crafts a wholly unique beast with his latest vehicle Ghosts of War. While some of its impact may be lost in translation, Brees’ raw ambition offers a compelling thrill ride that stays one step ahead of its audience.

    Ghosts of War follows a small American battalion (Brenton Thwaites, Theo Rossi, Kyle Gallner, Skylar Astin, and Alan Ritchson) tasked with holding an abandoned mansion on the French countryside. The barren house presents an unknown danger when paranormal entities confront the soldiers, with each meeting face-to-face with their past actions.

    Similar to his debut effort, Eric Brees earns points for unabashedly committing to his genre-hybrid approach. His filmmaking identity is mostly felt through the narrative’s supernatural elements, crafting a sense of ominous dread from the opening frames. Whether it’s the lingering sound of each household creek or the opaque light bleeding through the window panes, Bress’ uses an array of techniques to build atmosphere while pushing his makeshift budget to its limits. Add in an intermixing of well-choreographed battle scenes, the horror and war elements are meshed relatively smoothly, with the script offering a thoughtful substantive throughline to render the concepts together. I really admire the go-for-broke attitude Brees brings to his work, continuing to reach for the stars with inventive ideas and lofty aspirations.

    The Ghosts of War deserves credit for sincerely embracing its oft-kilter set-up. Brees’ screenplay pointedly criticizes the casual cruelty of war, with both sides violently taking their aggression out with a sense of showmanship and lack of empathy. These actions boil over to create a longing sense of regret for the characters, addressing the PTSD inflicted upon soldiers for their deadly actions. The cast does an admirable job of unearthing these pains, with Kyle Gallner standing out for his ability to convey the emotional weight behind his behavior.

    Despite its good intentions, Ghosts of War can’t quite convey the full extent of its thematic agenda. While the film coherently binds its tonalities together, both the horror and war aspects are steeped in B-movie contrivances (the war scenes are accented with a conventionally triumphant score and inauthentically machismo dialogue, while the horror elements have your typical jump scares). It all builds to a third act twist that pulls the rug under the audience, offering a shake-up that will certainly surprise with the out-of-left-field path it takes. While I appreciate the creativity, the showy approach overshadows the quieter pains of its central message, with the narrative ultimately feeling too overstuffed for its own good.

    Ghosts of War falls short of its inspired premise, but credit to writer/director Eric Brees for offering a uniquely brazen adventure that packs a plethora of gratifying moments.

  • I Used To Go Here: Review

    I Used To Go Here: Review

    The indie film scene is over-saturated with stories of arrested development following the coming of age genre’s transforming into a festival staple. Where some films imbue the familiar framework with a fresh spin and a finite point of view (2019’s Blinded by the Light), many fail to strike a genuine chord in their hackneyed execution (2019’s Unicorn Store). The latest iteration I Used to Go Here may not reinvent the genre’s traditional approach, but it still offers a pleasant and emotionally sincere diversion.

    I Used to Go Here follows Kate (Gillian Jacobs) an unfulfilled writer whose first book is released to tepid reviews. After her former professor David (Jemaine Clement) invites her to speak at her alma matter, Kate begins to re-discover the joys of college when she befriends a group of eclectic college students.

    If audiences are to take anything away from I Used to Go Here’s runtime, its the radiant ability of star Gillian Jacobs. Despite displaying a career of well-rounded performances (on the big-screen in Don’t Think Twice and in TV shows like Love), Jacob’s natural talent still rarely gets the spotlight it deserves. As Kate, she effortlessly emanates an instant warmth and vulnerability onscreen, adding some much-needed humanity to the character’s common design while mining some of the film’s funniest bits from her sly delivery. Jemaine Clement is a welcomed addition as Kate’s jaded, cocksure professor, while Zoe Chao, Josh Wiggins, and Brandon Daley infuse some exuberance into their comedic roles.

    Mumblecore stalwart Kris Rey adeptly takes a new step forward in her writer/director career, redefining the subgenera’s low-key appeal with some dynamic traits. Rey’s screenplay operates effectively as an honest examination of our rose-tinted glasses towards days of youth, taking to task the figures we glorify as idealistic role models despite their innate flaws. She also finds a comfortable comedic rhythm from distinctly uncomfortable moments, wisely utilizing specified memories (whether that be an awkward old flame played by Lonely Island’s Jorma Taccone or an over-eager college worker tasked with fulfilling Kate’s whims and desires) to paint a lived-in landscape.

    I Used to Go Here has an innate charm, but its dramatic aspirations feel too slight to register. Rey’s final frames offer a refreshingly honest self-examination for Kate, whose ambitions have gone astray in the pursuit of industry defined success. This clever construct sadly doesn’t get the attention it deserves, with Rey’s script exploring the easy-going splendors of old-school hangout movies rather than digging deeply into its dramatic implications (the barely 80-minute runtime could’ve utilized a more elaborate third act). I also don’t think the film does enough to stand out from its like-minded coming of age peers, with the narrative never finding its own voice to transcend the genre’s formula.

    No one will praise I Used to Go Here for its originality, but writer/director Kris Rey and star Gillian Jacobs make a winning team in their assured portrait of millennial milieu.

  • Fatal Affair: The BRWC Review

    Fatal Affair: The BRWC Review

    Ever since Fatal Attraction became a critical and financial darling in the 1980s, the domestic thriller subgenera has produced its fair share of wildly engaging entries. Some have thrived as so-bad-its-good train wrecks (2017’s Unforgettable), while others have successfully reinvented the framework with a distinctly modern lens (2019’s The Intruder). Netflix’s latest iteration of the genre Fatal Affair isn’t without its shameless appeals, but it begrudgingly settles for a mediocre middle ground.

    Fatal Affair follows Ellie (Nia Long), a successful lawyer who lives a picturesque life with her husband Marcus (Stephon Bishop). Under the surface though, Nia begins to feel unsatisfied with the stale normality of everyday habits, leading to her having a romantic encounter with a former college friend David (Omar Epps). After Ellie writes off the incident, David begins to have a dangerous obsession that puts her family at risk.

    Fatal Affair makes no secret in what it’s trying to achieve, with writer/director Peter Sullivan embracing the genre’s trashy tendencies by playing to its greatest strengths. For fans of the genre like myself, there are several plot beats that will have audiences howling with glee in their over-the-top nature, marrying its soap-opera tone with an irresistible blend of far-fetched twist and turns. The capable leads enhance the material substantially, with Nia Long injecting a natural warmth and vulnerability that highlights Ellie’s confliction in an empathetic light. Omar Epps has a blast portraying David’s unhinged persona, menacingly masking his uncontrollable rage with smooth confidence.

    While self-aware in its approach, Fatal Affair does little to infuse its material with much-needed personality. Similar to his previous project (Secret Obsession, another Netflix release), Sullivan’s direction lacks stylistic grace, dispassionately framing each shot like a stale TV episode. The rigid visuals detract most from its horror-centric thrills, with a timid PG-13 approach and bizarre filmmaking choices (one of the major deaths happens inexplicably offscreen) not deriving much danger from these major plot beats.

    Fatal Affair doesn’t lose points for playing to its strengths, yet the film limits itself with how little it reinvents its conventional formula. Sullivan’s screenplay lacks dimension, repurposing familiar character dynamics without having any unique qualities to imbue them with (Ellie’s husband is a bland, subservient character who rarely feels alive on-screen). The narrative shows you nothing that hasn’t already been crafted with more passion or innovation, playing it safe in a genre that is beloved for its unkempt charms.

    Neither being remarkable or lousy enough to register an impression, Fatal Affair plays it by-the-numbers in a bland revival of the domestic thriller genre.

  • First Cow: The BRWC Review

    First Cow: The BRWC Review

    While never recognized at the box office, writer/director Kelly Reichardt has developed into a beloved auteur through her unique transcendentalism lens. Assured offerings like Wendy and Lucy and Meek’s Cutoff display a refreshingly restrained approach, rendering thoughtful character dynamics while entrenching audiences in a unique environmental setting. Her latest big-screen feature First Cow steeps audiences into Oregon frontier life with winning results, crafting a masterful portrait that ranks as the year’s first noteworthy achievement.

    First Cow follows Cookie (John Margo), a soft-spoken loner who travels out west to achieve his dream of operating a bed and breakfast hotel. One day, he stumbles upon King-Lu (Orion Lee), an immigrant trying to make his way in America. The two form a bond that transforms them into business partners, stealing milk from a wealthy landowner’s cow to bake delectable goods for the locals.

    Few craftsmen are able to envelop their audience into a setting like Reichardt, wisely opting for a 4:3 aspect ratio to portray her grounded narrative. After an opening tracking shot that portrays the enormity of modern technology, Reichardt cleverly contrasts these frames with her low-key period setting, with intimate camerawork steeping itself in the finite details of the natural world. Every shot is immaculate in its delivery (big props to Christopher Blauvelt’s cinematography), conveying the lingering wonderment and danger present in frontier life while intimately portraying the character’s perspective. Whether it’s through William Tyler’s quaint score or first-rate production design, Reichardt establishes an immersive landscape that breathes with life in a way most period pieces can’t equal.

    At the center of First Cow’s uniquely-fitted setting is two of the year’s most accomplished performances. John Magaro has established himself as a beloved character actor (his work in Overlord, Liberal Arts, and Not Fade Away are some of my favorites), but here he elevates to impressive new heights. As Cookie, Magaro unearths a quiet sensitivity that renders the character’s persona with profound depth, displaying a loner with an earnest yearning for connection in a dog-eat-dog world. His introspective dynamic is well-matched by King-Lu’s charming delivery, with Orion Lee bringing the character’s idealistic spirit to life with cunning intelligence and emotional vulnerability. Cookie and King-Lu’s bond is never painted with overly-broad strokes, allowing the kindred spirits to grow naturally onscreen through restrained conversation. It’s poignant to watch these two gradually develop into the sole supportive staple in each other’s lives, with the actor conveying a dynamic that feels uniquely lived-in.

    First Cow seems deceptively simple at first glance, but its distinctly Americana approach unearths the respective allures and dangers of the “American Dream”. It’s a joyous experience to watch Cookie and King-Lu find success in their barren landscape, with Cookie finally being granted the opportunity to convert his aspirations into reality (those oily cakes looked scrumptious). Reichardt’s well-established optimism quickly fades as the narrative enters its third act, with the duo’s business enterprise becoming a hopeless endeavor once rich elites begin to foil their plan. Reichardt’s deft narrative offers a timeless commentary on America’s capitalist system, which restricts those at the bottom of the food chain from escaping their doomed reality while the rich profit off their failures.

    Kelly Reichardt’s First Cow is a masterful achievement, with the writer/director unearthing an enriching experience from Cookie and King-Lu’s complex journey for prosperity.

  • The Truth: The BRWC Review

    The Truth: The BRWC Review

    Beloved Japanese auteur Hirokazu Kore-eda has molded a compelling career crafting intimate portraits of familial bonds, with 2018’s Shoplifters highlighting his immense abilities in one of his best projects to date (won the Palm d’Or at Cannes). Kore-eda’s latest The Truth marks a new page for the writer/director, constructing his first French-English feature to date with an all-star cast. While the film may not rank as one of the visionary’s most assured works, The Truth still highlights Kore-eda’s alluring, easy-going nature.

    The Truth follows Lumir (Juliette Binoche), a screenwriter traveling home to reconnect with her French mother Fabienne Dangeville (Catherine Deneuve), an acclaimed actress in the twilight of her career. Fresh off the release of Fabienne’s personal memoir and in the midst of a new film project, the pair confront their disconnected dynamic in search of common ground in their fragile relationship.

    Kore-eda’s portrait of familial detachment renders finite moments of sheer authenticity, avoiding melodramatic diatribes in the pursuit of lived-in dynamics. His meticulous camerawork enhances each personal frame, with his seamless use of focus and framing highlighting the character’s complex emotional states. The delicacy that the writer/director imbues his subjects with renders the most impact, allowing his characters to vulnerably air grievances while never over-simplifying their personas.

    The Truth’s greatest joy lies in its star-studded cast (Kore-eda cast the three actors he envisioned for the central roles). Catherine Deneuve steals the show throughout, sinking her teeth into Fabienne’s diva status while ringing biting remarks with her acerbic wit. It would have been easy to let the character become a diluted thespian, but Deneuve sympathetically portrays the actress’s ego-driven obsession to her craft with a sense of regret and self-reflection. Juliette Binoche is terrific as always as Lumir, displaying the whirlwind of confronting memories taking hold during her homecoming, while Ethan Hawke and Clementine Grenier present natural charisma as Lumir’s husband and daughter.

    There’s an innate warmth that rings true throughout The Truth’s run time, but its dramatic core feels relatively slight. This is far from the first feature to display an aging actress confronting her personal demons (Binoche played the role perfectly in Clouds of Sils Maria), with Kore-eda’s script offering little nuance on the dissected subject. The inclusion of Fabienne’s acting job as an allusion to her fragile mother-daughter bond with Lumir ends up being too pronounced to have a sizable impact, leaving certain subplots unexplored in the process (the relationship between Lumir and Hawke as Hank, a C-list actor with a damaged past).

    Hirokazu Kore-eda’s keen eye meshes with a well-matched cast in The Truth, an infectiously pleasant venture that brings life to its familiar ruminations on family bonds.