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Romantic Comedy: The BRWC Review.

Romantic comedies have remained as an equally celebrated and criticized staple of mainstream cinema, with the genre offering a plethora of superficial happy endings for its thinly-constructed characters. In Elizabeth Sankey’s bluntly-titled documentary Romantic Comedy, the filmmaker captures the genre’s unique, long-standing complications throughout its existence, crafting an admirable thesis despite its notable limitations in scope. 

With Romantic Comedy, Sankey takes a view at her own relationship with the genre, growing up as an earnest fan of the films before discovering their noticeable blemishes. The doc accomplishes its dissection of the tried and true formula by mixing critical perspectives with footage of the genre’s most noteworthy entries. 

Even in its slim 78-minute running time, Sankey and her well-curated contributors tackle a plethora of the romantic comedies’ problematic tendencies. By taking aim at celebrated offerings like Garden State and Jerry Maguire, Sankey effectively breaks down the systematic disillusionment that has been present in modern mainstream romantic comedies, films that are primary byproducts of white-male figureheads whims and desires. 

Whether it’s criticizing the lack of diversity, constant objectification of women, or superficiality of romantic bonds, Romantic Comedy tackles its social themes with earnest appraisals. Sankey thankfully doesn’t turn this feature into an all-out hit piece on the genre’s noteworthy problems, rather analyzing how these tropes work with audiences in their enjoyment of confectionary movie-going fantasies that promote emotional staples like love and connection. The addition of Summer Camp’s SoCal original music is also a welcomed touch, cleverly breaking down romantic comedies’ hopes and expectations with an effective wistful tone. 

While Sankey can be applauded for her earnestly subjective approach to her experiences with romantic comedies, that singular perspective limits this documentary’s potential. Ripe subject matter like the devolution of female authorship throughout cinema’s history is merely brushed over, with the doc lacking the depth and research to convey why enduring systematic problems still exist today. 

There’s also a major lack of appreciation towards the genre’s substantial independent offerings, which have operated as an authentic counterbalance to superficiality present in mainstream cinema. There isn’t much that Romantic Comedy teaches that isn’t already well-regarded, with its lack of technical flash failing to elevate familiar moments (it’s bizarre to see the speakers, including actor Jessica Barden, not credited for their remarks). 

Sankey’s offering may operate better as an impassioned video-essay rather than an objective expose, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t merit in Romantic Comedy’s well-tuned observation about Hollywood’s fantastical staple. 

The zeitgeist subject matter of police brutality and abuse has created a sizable open-wound for the general populous, a wound that some filmmakers have captured with much-needed catharsis. Whether it’s well-realized true stories like Fruitvale Station or inventively constructed thrillers like Black and Blue, it’s been refreshing to see how directors critically capture this lingering real-world issue. The latest film to join that lineage is Body Cam, a midnight genre thriller with a supernatural bend, that despite its clever conceit, can’t convey the weight of its material. 

Body Cam follows Renee (Mary J. Blige), a veteran cop returning to action while dealing with the lasting pain of her son’s death. Along with her eager rookie partner Danny (Nat Wolff), the two work to uncover the answers behind a fallen officer’s death, but they begin to discover that greater forces may be at work. 

Conceptually-speaking, Body Cam delivers a thoughtfully-designed premise that marries our real-world setting with horror elements. Horror scribes Nicholas McCarthy and Richmond Riedel cleverly design the supernatural entity as a representation of the vengeful anguish and rage held by victims of senseless police abuse. This critical take is well-balanced with earnest depictions of police life, capturing the sizable weight that officers carry as they risk their lives to do what’s right for a community that treats them with dismissive disdain. 

Director Malik Vitthal has operated as an underrated craftsman, with his directorial debut Imperial Dreams offering a well-realized portrait of a reformed gangster trying to make a better life for himself. With his latest effort, Vitthal displays his range as he soundly conducts the film’s blood-soaked thrills. He excels at developing a sense of unease throughout, letting still camerawork hold until revealing imaginative and fittingly brutal kills. I especially enjoyed the mixture of filmmaking styles, transitioning from mannered shots to clever uses of handheld police cams that keep the audience on their toes. 

Considering how much Body Cam does right, it’s exceedingly frustrating seeing where the film falters. The premise is truly inspired, but McCarthy and Riedel’s script fails to follow-through with its conceit. The film rarely digs deeply-enough to capture the nuance of its relevant subject matter, ultimately having little to say aside from surface-level statements about the pain police brutality leaves. The genre hybrid approach is also not well-balanced enough, trying to manage both tonal identities instead of blending them as one. 

Perhaps the offering’s biggest sin lies in its stilted dramatic backbone. Stars Mary J. Blige and Nat Wolff have proven their adept abilities, but their performances come off as stiff as they are stuck in thankless one-dimensional roles. I wish Vitthal had an opportunity to deliver the intimate emotionality of Imperial Dreams to this project, with every personal aspect feeling oddly distant despite its ripe potential. 

Body Cam offers thrills that should please genre-enthusiasts, but the project sadly misses the boat in capturing its grander conceptual design. That being said, I have a lot of faith in Malik Vitthal’s career and am excited to see where the director goes from here. 

When a private detective, Sho (Yûichi Minato) is tasked with find the creators of a snuff film, it leads him spiralling into a world of sex slavery, torture and murder. With nobody to trust, Sho discovers that even his own mind may not be reliable, as his past catches up with him.

Part Noir, part 1960’s Roughie, Atsushi Yamatoya’s mystery takes private detective, Sho into the depths of duplicity and has him question his own past. There’s a touch of Memento’s Leonard Shelby about Sho, as this film plays with memory, often making its echoes abstract and surrealist. The use of shadow, corrupted audio and camera placement to disorient the viewer, only adds to the looming sense of dread.

Sho hunts down one particular bad seed, and you come to wonder if he’s always hunting the same man, or perhaps versions of him. At times it seems that reality itself may not be wholly dependable, what with all the Dutch angles, mannequin heads and assortment of peculiar sights.

While the female form is seen throughout the movie in various states of peril and discomfort, there’s almost a humorous swerve to the way in which the protagonist doggedly pursues his man, over the advances of an obvious femme fatale. His dialogue relating to his gun is quite clearly a mockery of macho Film Noir dialogue.

An extension or substitute for his penis. More alert and ultimately, more trustworthy. The lines are cliched but purposefully so, as if they were stolen from the mouth of Sterling Hayden a decade earlier.

As far as the Roughie/Pinku elements go, Inflatable Sex Doll of the Wastelands is intermittently violent, and the treatment of women is abhorrent but that is ultimately the point. Sho’s descent into a world way over his head feels very much like the precursor to Paul Schrader’s Hardcore, and by extension, Joel Schumacher’s 8mm.

The final act pulls the rug from under Sho (and the viewer) to the extent that the narrative’s reality can be dissected and ruminated on long after the credits end.

Inflatable Sex Doll of the Wastelands is available now through Third Window Films