Category: REVIEWS

Iris Deerborne (Kara Hayward) is a shy, reclusive girl who can’t say she has any real friends. She’s constantly belittled by her mother, Francie (Jordana Spiro) all the other girls at school make fun of her and even the boys at her school see her as a figure of fun rather than the blossoming young woman that she’d hope they’d see instead.

Then one day while walking to school she is harassed by a group of boys – and that’s when Maggie Richmond (Liana Liberato) turns up and her rebellious, outspoken attitude starts to have an effect on Iris as they become close friends. However, it turns out that both girls are hiding sides of themselves that they wish would come bursting out and with each other’s help they soon start to become the people they always wanted to be.

To the Stars is a coming of age drama set in the Sixties that tells the story of two young women looking to find themselves in the world. The hyperreal production values and its generous scattering of clichés all paint a picture of the Sixties, perhaps in a knowing way. Thankfully though, this rose-tinted version of what some people would call ‘a simpler time’ has enough underneath the surface to say more about its characters.

All the cast play their roles very well and despite the feeling that the audience may have seen it all before, To the Stars plays it straight for the most part to lull the audience into a false sense of confidence before its brutal and honest final act.

We think of how things used to be back in a time where we think prejudice and hatred were more prevalent, so having To the Stars be a period piece may suggest that it’s very much of its time.

However, it may just be that the filmmakers are reminding its audience of a time that some either remember fondly or a time that others never experienced, not realising that those days were not as black and white as they have read in books or seen on television. Despite the clichés of the frumpy girl in glasses turning into a beautiful young lady and the reckless jock spiking the punch at a school dance,

To the Stars wants to remind us that however bad we think things may be now, back then there were times where it felt like there was nobody there to support those who felt differently.

To The Stars is available now on iTunes, Amazon, Google Play, Sky, Virgin and Chili.

The Fanatic: The BRWC Review. By Fergus Henderson. – When it was announced last year that Fred Durst, of Limp Bizkit infamy, was about to release a psychological thriller starring John Travolta, it would be an understatement to call the reaction dubious. Not only was it written and directed by Fred Durst, a name that despite his prior forays into filmmaking remains synonymous with the eternally mystifying nu-metal moment – its star is an actor whose career since Battlefield Earth has been in steady, notorious decline. Where the hell would this fit into his body of work?

Then there was the plot, which focuses on an unstable autograph hound who begins stalking his favourite movie star. So, a pulpy thriller addressing celebrity and fandom, guided by a pair who have flailed messily through the flashing lights of fame for decades. It must, at the very least, be something to behold.

Unfortunately, those expecting (perhaps hoping) for the crass and ludicrous genre fare everything about it would suggest will find The Fanatic a disappointment. Durst appears to be re-mounting his bid for a second act as a serious director, his film more King of Comedy than Rob Zombie. Travolta, similarly, has gone full immersion with his character Moose.

Of course, suggesting that the film is trying to make a legitimate point is not the same as saying that it succeeds. Watching this film, one doubts that the film itself has any kind of clear idea about what it’s saying. 

The plot is relatively simple and follows in the vein of the aforementioned King of Comedy wherein an unhinged fantasist becomes dangerously embroiled in the life of their celebrity obsession (who turns out to be an asshole). Eventually someone gets captured and things come to a head.

The similarities end there. The King of Comedy’s leadis delusional, hungry for fame and attention. It is Western culture at large that creates and rewards this kind of behaviour, the film says. The Fanatic’s lead Moose, as portrayed by Travolta, is broadly autistic and ultimately just looking for connection in Hollywood’s world of cold artifice. 

As it turns out, Hollywood was the real bad guy all along. 

This is the grand thesis hitched to the film’s backend, its bid for artistic legitimacy, and it rings hollow. All of the film’s supposed messages are floated half-heartedly over the last ten or so minutes. Everything that comes before scans as a straightforward thriller, a few tonally consistent but poorly done touches of black comedy thrown in for good measure. 

The very fact that Travolta’s character is autistic is supremely problematic, and not just for the obvious reasons. It is first used as a plot device, in place of characterisation, to explain his obsession. It is then deployed patronisingly to keep us on his side as his behaviour escalates and things go from bad to criminal. 

Ultimately the big problem is that the film is hamstrung by its inability to decide whether or not he’s a bad guy or a sacrificial lamb- although of course if they didn’t want to be known as the people that made the insensitive film with an autistic guy as the villain, they should have stopped a whole lot earlier in the writing stage. Travolta’s portrayal is committed, sure, but sensitive (or advisable at all) it is not.

After flip-flopping around for an hour or so, the film finally ripcords the conflict altogether by making his celebrity idol Hunter Dunbar (easily the film’s best character, played with well observed arrogance and subtlety by Devon Sawa) the true bad guy. 

So now we know what a film directed by Fred Durst and starring John Travolta looks like. For the better: it is competently put together, and features a sturdy supporting cast. For the worse: it features an all-time misstep for Travolta. It is po-faced when it should be camp, it is ridiculous when it should be serious, and most disappointingly it is middle of the road when it should have been insane.

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