My Awkward Sexual Adventure

Dear The Government of Canada, Financial Supporter,

Pierre Elliot Trudeau once famously proclaimed: “There’s no room for the state in the bedrooms of the nation.” Typical Liberal, eh? Always missing the chance to make a buck.

Today, you (or we, the Canadian people) are investing in the nation’s naughty business, then selling it back to the public (or ourselves, the Canadian people).Federal tax credits keep the film industry afloat and taxpayers agree to fund cultural agencies such as Telefilm, who, in turn, invest in movies like My Awkward Sexual Adventure. It’s a funny system to be sure, one which has raised more than a few voices in the House of Commons (Bubbles Galore and Young People Fucking spring to mind).  But the policy continues, panning for cinematic cultural gold that will enrich our lives.

Well, this film might not be it, but it’s certainly not a complete write-off either.

Winnipeg director Sean Garrity trades in his typically quiet and introspective filmmaking style in order to bring this out-and-out comedy to the screen. He has, however re-teamed with his usual collaborator Jonas Chernick, who wrote, produced, and stars in the film. Safe to assume this type of creative consistency won their funding application a few points, but the bankable, formulaic script (and provocative title) probably helped, too.

Chernick plays Jordan Abrams as the quintessential Canadian loser-hero: a louse in the sack who can’t satisfy his sex-starved girlfriend. Proposing to her only makes things worse, until a trip to Toronto gives him an opportunity to discover his mojo. After some occasionally amusing hijinks, Jordan meets your classic stripper-with-a-heart-of-gold, Julia (Emily Hampshire), and the two make a deal to exchange accounting tips for sex tricks. Boy will proceed to get girl/lose girl a few more times before the whole thing arrives to a predictable, but delayed, climax.

But like I said earlier, my goal is not to add to the moaning and groaning of culture-cutters complaining that the government is propping up Hollywood North. I actually found the film well done and a worthy investment of my time. And my money.

Chernick and Hampshire manage a distinct chemistry, which keeps the rom-com antics grounded. The few outrageous moments are also pretty successful (none more so than the fruit-focused lesson in cunnilingus). Awkward, yes, but also rather hilarious. And hey, it’s not often the Government can make me laugh.

On purpose, anyway.

A satisfied citizen,

Christopher

Status: Standard Delivery (3/5)

Pain & Gain

Dear Ashley Metzel, Set Dresser,

There’s no such thing as small in a Michael Bay film. And I have a feeling that this truth is relevant even to the less glamorous jobs on set. Though I suspect that set dressing occupies a place of importance when Bay is in the director’s chair; his films are primarily interested in trying to show the world in the coolest, sexiest, most epic way possible. In a sense, everything in a Michael Bay film is set dressing: cars, helicopters, Megan Fox.

Pain & Gain is shot with the same low-angle, high-saturation awe with which Bay seeks to give every character a god-like glow. It still loses its focus in scenes that fetishize luxury (placing more importance on your set dressings than the story), and it’s still guided by the same homophobic, misogynistic, bro-centric vision that made films like Bad Boys, Armageddon, and The Rock so risible.

However, because Pain & Gain is the story of incompetent kidnapping and accidental murder set in Miami’s bodybuilding subculture, Bay has found the perfect place to indulge in these aesthetics. It’s a place where his particular brand of objectification makes complete sense. Sure, as in his previous films these characters are treated and photographed as objects of desire; but the thing is, these characters would love that.

Mark Wahlberg, playing personal trainer Daniel Lugo, often speaks of the American Dream he thinks he’s owed, even quoting a tenet of the I-deserve-it-all ethos of The Secret: “If you deserve it, the universe will serve it.” He’s talking, really, about all the ostentation with which you populate Bay’s sets. In Lugo’s all-or-nothing view, everything and everyone who impedes his march is disposable, objects to be tossed aside in pursuit of his dream. He wants the oceanside house, the Miami Vice-style cigar boat, the Porsche and the Lamborghini. He wants to live in a Michael Bay film.

Could Michael Bay possess this much  self-awareness? Did you detect a master plan when dressing sets that are almost a parody of the American consumer ideal? More importantly, does it matter? Even if this self-criticism is unintentional, it’s there on the screen. The three main characters are physical embodiments of Bay’s bigger-is-better approach to…well, everything. This physicality also reflects the high costs of such a lifestyle: the mutation of self-image; literal impotence. That this all comes through in sly, affecting performances by Wahlberg, Anthony Mackie, and especially Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, just added to my disorientation.

Not that everything works on this meta level. Pain & Gain is still overstuffed. It  runs a bloated 130 minutes, padded out by overindulgent slow motion, freeze frames, and other Bayian (I’m trademarking that adjective) flourishes. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe the filmmaking is a criticism of itself. In Pain & Gain’s world, you either go all in or you go home. And the film itself – the style, the length, the overindulgence, and, yes, even the set dressing – follow suit in order to maintain some sense of thematic integrity.

And, at this point in his career, a little honesty from Michael bay feels like progress.

Dreaming of the simple life,

Casey

Status: Air Mail (3.5/5)

To The Wonder

Dear Tyler Savage, Artistic Collaborator

When you collaborate with Terrence Malick, you do so at your own risk. He’s a notorious recluse who spends years shooting each project, refuses to commit to a script, and disposes of entire star performances—all as a matter of standard practice. And yet, people clamor for the opportunity to work with him (even if a few are left bitter about the experience). Maybe it’s because Malick is less obsessed with perfection than he is with process. What other filmmaker would require three “humanity unit” consultants, an “ambassador of goodwill,” and 51 undefined interns?

No wonder critics find it so hard to separate the making of the film from the final cut. But with you’re help, Tyler, I’m going to try.

To The Wonder features Olga Kurylenko, prominently and proudly, as its voice, heart, and soul. Her character lives in France with a young daughter and struggles to find her place in the world while hoping her American boyfriend (Ben Affleck) will make a serious commitment. They eventually move to a suburb in the U.S., and cross paths with a Spanish priest (Javier Bardem) who is having his own existential crisis.  That’s a top-level narrative synopsis; Rachel McAdams also appears for about ten minutes as an ex-girlfriend, and Rachel Weisz, Amanda Peet, Barry Pepper, Jessica Chastain and Michael Sheen can apparently be found on the cutting room floor.

But, wait, sorry. Let’s not go there. Let’s focus on art.

Malick is a naturalist filmmaker whose passion for the planet is a deep part of all of his work. More and more, his camera seems to lose interest with human characters in favor of shimmering bodies of water, majestic trees, beautiful sunsets, etc. In that sense, To The Wonder might be the most Malickian film he’s ever made — times ten.

A lot of his decisions feel like clichéd artistic indulgences: soft foreign language voiceovers waxing poetic about love, constant shots of grass blowing in the wind (a Malick favorite), or a beautiful woman twirling through wheat fields, empty homes and Parisian streets. The film is radically close to being emotional porn. But for those who buy in – and I did – it all adds up to a richly rewarding experience. It’s not as expansive as The Tree of Life, or as evocative as A New World, or accessible as Badlands—yet To The Wonder is the purest example of Malick’s love affair with free-form filmmaking. If we don’t worry about what he removed (be it potential actors, plot or meaning), there’s still a lot left here to love.

For that reason, I have no idea which aspects of the film you contributed to. In fact, you and the other collaborators might feel the same way. But for artists and audience members who are willing to be lost at the service of something beautiful, that’s okay.

Sincerely,

Christopher

Status: Air Mail (4/5)

Oblivion

Dear David Dungan, Set Decoration Upholsterer,

The premise of Oblivion, the movie for which you applied your considerable upholstery skills (more on that soon), feels like the first chapter of an unfinished sci-fi novel written by a sexually frustrated high school recluse: cool pop music plays while a square-jawed hero roams the post-apocalyptic wasteland in his cool bubble-spaceship with a cool rifle, cool goggles and extra cool fold-out dirt bike, hunting down alien scavengers that look like the creatures from Predator dressed in hobo rags.

In fact, the opening fifteen minutes, which features a lot of expository voice-over, beautiful vistas, and flawlessly upholstered midcentury modern furniture, is reminiscent of the first few minutes of Strange Brew, in which Bob and Doug McKenzie describe, in expository voice-over, how mutants have taken over the planet in 2051 A.D. 

This isn’t to say Oblivion is uninteresting. There’s something pleasing about the nakedness of its world-building aspirations—and about the strangely antiquated approach to the sci-fi genre (it feels like a very pretentious and expensive episode of the Twilight Zone). But even though it boasts breathtaking photography, peerless production design, and an enjoyable Vangelis-y score by French electro band M83, there’s something frustrating about just how lacking in self-awareness the film is.

Tom Cruise plays the aforementioned square-jawed hero (with the square-jawed, heroic name Jack Harper), who, after his long days cruising the radioactive wastelands, comes home to a sleek condo apartment in the sky where his sexy British secretary swims around naked and makes him coffee (wrote the teenage boy one lonely Friday night). These living quarters are perched at the top of a space needle, and are an interior design enthusiast’s wet dream. Here Oblivion proves itself less an heir to the works of Ray Bradbury and Philip K. Dick and more an entirely new genre of speculative fiction: survival fantasy for devotees of Charles and Ray Eames, a summer blockbuster for aficionados of Mies van der Rohe. 

The attention paid to the prop, costume, and set design is really something to behold (and IMAX really is the way to behold it). If only the events that occurred within that world were so elegant and meticulously calculated. 

This flick belongs entirely to the art department. Particularly to the craftsman like you, who clearly put considerable effort into giving depth, texture, and meaning to the space. It certainly doesn’t belong to Joseph Kosinski and his team of screenwriters. While you obviously took great care to give the chairs and divans of the future some sense of shared history and evolutionary logic, the story falls back, time and time again, on tired tropes and action movie clichés. I was constantly waiting for a wink to the camera, an acknowledgement that it was all a joke.

Oblivion is the sum of its details. While the noise and bluster and relentless musical score press forward, the real joy of this movie is to watch what’s happening in the background—to admire the clever conceit of Tom Cruise’s bubbleship, which is so much more interesting sitting immobile on a launch pad than it is chasing probe droids through caves and canyons. 

Later in the film, Jack Harper meets up with a svelte, full-lipped Eastern European castaway (scribbled the teenage boy later that lonely night), and brings her home to his sky-pad. One almost wishes Kosinksi had chosen to linger more on that domestic drama just so we could spend more time in the lovely minimalist living room with the dreamy, comfortable-looking couch. 

Because the couch is really the star of the film. 

Sincerely, 

Jared Young

Status: Standard Delivery (2.5/5) 

Still Mine

Dear Richard Pryce, Genny Operator

This “genny” you were operating – it was a generator, and not the lovable 71-year-old Geneviève Bujold, right? Or maybe it was both. After all, getting enough power to a film set is a major challenge when shooting in remote locations. Especially when you need to keep your septuagenarian stars energized and comfortable. But some projects are worth the extra effort, and Still Mine, the true story about a stubborn rural farmer in New Brunswick, certainly qualifies. Your team went off the grid and outside the studio system to create something small and intimate, but which is also solid and beautiful. Like this story proves, sometimes that’s the only way to realize a labour of love.

Still Mine could be considered the third installment of writer and director Michael McGowan’s unofficial “end of life” trilogy. In both Saint Ralph (2004) and One Week (2008), his characters set single-minded goals to rediscover hope in the face of fragile mortality. Here we follow Craig Morrison (James Cromwell) as he attempts to build a small house for his ailing wife Irene (Geneviève Bujold) on their expansive property. It’s a simple and noble quest, needlessly complicated by a constant wall of bureaucratic red tape and legal nitpicking – the most unwelcome and unnecessary kinds of power.

The film opens with a court proceeding threatening Mr. Morrison with jail-time for violating 26 building codes. I was more than a little curious what kind of dilapidated shack this old coot must have thrown together. Surely there wouldn’t be any electricity and the walls must be caving in on the joint. But my curiosity would have to wait, as the film cuts back to two years earlier in the couple’s original quaint country home. It’s actually here where heat and power are in short supply, as the toilets freeze in the winter and a refrigerated truck for their strawberry crop in the summer is a luxury that’s out of the question. Still, they enjoy a nice life and passionate romance until Irene starts to lose her memory. After suffering a few falls, Craig vows to build them a single-storey home with a proper view of the bay.

As an old-fashion handy man, he insists on doing the majority work himself and on the fly (blueprints are for sissies… ie, government inspectors). So when the work stoppage orders start getting serious, it’s not only threatening the couple’s future but Craig’s personal identity. This is all handled with a restrained dignity that never gets played for cheap laughs or overwrought drama. Everything from the performances to the direction is handled much like the design of the house itself – modest but honourable, and genuinely well-made.

It’s surprisingly powerful stuff. Congrats.

Sincerely,

Christopher

Status: Air Mail (4/5)

The Incredible Burt Wonderstone

Dear Victoria Wood, Wig Maker

Comedy rarely feels more desperate than when it revolves around a bad wig. This elementary sight gag might be able to sustain a sketch, but can quickly fall apart when stretched over a feature. It all depends on how far your actors are willing to go to sell a look. The Incredible Burt Wonderstone makes that point abundantly clear. You were covering two of the top comedic minds of the decade, but only one of them was remotely the right fit. The other felt so out of place, I’m embarrassed he ever stepped out of his dressing room.

Don’t feel too bad, though. The actual wig itself was the least offensive thing about Steve Carell’s performance.

As the (undeservingly) titular star of a film, Burt Wonderstone (Carell) plays a kid who grows up wanting to learn the art of illusion to magically find friends. He does  in Anton Marvelton (Steve Buscemi), and together they become Vegas sensations à la Siegfried and Roy. But for reasons never truly explained, Burt distains his partner and feels like he should be a one-man show. His incredible narcissism allows for some amusing bits (like a dispassionate sex encounter with Community’s Gillian Jacobs), and has the potential to be mined for a black comedy. Instead, Carrel is all over the map, and his ridiculously grandiose way of speaking and talking down to others just came across as a bad Will Ferrell impression.

Refreshingly, Jim Carrey appears in the film as a Criss Angel-style extreme street performer named Steve Gray. His brand of magic is putting Burt out of business, making Burt and Anton’s show feel shallow and gimmicky. It’s a perfect parallel of the actors themselves.  Carrey comes across as the confident comedian, able to live in (and mutilate) the skin of a performance without ever breaking character. Carell, on the other hand, does a complete 180 with his performance and expects the audience to simply be fooled into thinking he’s worth redeeming. His voice changes, his attitude changes, even his hair changes – but only to expose the film’s own weaknesses as opposed to Burt’s inner vulnerability. In terms of showmanship, it’s like turning a Penn and Teller show into a stage reading of The Magician’s Handbook.

Are you noticing how dated all these references are? I can’t help but feel this script has been sitting on a shelf somewhere since the 90s. The style of humour is as out-of-touch as your hair pieces, but without the knowing nod. I realized the film was in trouble once Olivia Wilde, as an interchangeable stage assistant, earned the most genuine laughs just while being tossed around backstage. If the filmmakers would have stuck with that basic magic principle of loud distractions up front (like your hair) being at the service of subtle but impressive workmanship behind-the-scenes, this movie would have stood a fighting chance. Instead, one loud and distracting performance (without any help at the screenplay level) just turns the whole production into amateur hour.

Wanting to dye,

Christopher Redmond

Status: Return to Sender (2/5)

The Place Beyond the Pines

Dear Brian Smyj, Stunt Coordinator, 

It doesn’t take long for you and your stunt team to make an impression in the crime drama The Place Beyond the Pines. The very first sequence of the film is a single tracking shot that follows a tattooed Ryan Gosling through a small-town carnival, into a tent, onto a motorcycle, and eventually into a metal globe where he spins in loops alongside (and through and between) two other motorcyclists. The way you managed to set up and execute the stunt in an unbroken take is rather extraordinary—though there must have been some computer trickery involved; I can’t imagine that the insurance guys would have let Baby Goose surrender himself to the whims of centrifugal force like that. 

But even more impressive than that? The structure of the stunt is no accident. What follows in Derek Cianfrance’s sprawling, ambitious, flawed (but kind of endearing) follow-up to Blue Valentine is the narrative equivalent of that stunt: the film is composed of three distinct chapters, each with three distinct protagonists, distinct arcs, each with common tensions and consequences that spin in loops alongside, through, and between each other. The whole movie feels like a complex, well-crafted stunt. But, as you surely know, a stunt is only as thrilling as the stakes that hang in the balance (ie. the death it’s defying). And that’s what The Place Beyond the Pines – a movie ostensibly about the far-reaching ramifications of a single decision – lacks thematically: ramification.

Let me tell you, Brian: it’s going to be a disappointment for Gosling fangirls hoping to spend a couple of hours with their favorite monosyllabic doe-eyed mousketeer. Gosling is the star, but only for the first third of the film. The stylish rural crime flick bears striking thematic similarities to Drive (loner with a penchant for high-speed chases commits crimes to support an unavailable woman and her adorable child) abruptly gives way to a thriller about police corruption. Gosling, as protagonist, gives way to Bradley Cooper, and this, too, feels like a stunt. One of those old-school Hollywood stunts, like something from a Bond film, where at the penultimate moment (before the hero is hurled off a cliff, falls of his horse, jumps onto the hood of a moving car, etc.) we cut away from a close-up of the star and see instead, from afar, a stuntman with a passing resemblance enact the dangerous bit of athleticism. Sometimes it works. Sometimes you feel cheated; pulled out, even if for an unconscious half-second, of the immersive mood. 

In this case, Cooper suffers from the sudden switcheroo. Whatever you might think of him, Ryan Gosling has a certain magnetism (particular in this type of role: the sexy and troubled man-child) and the entire second act feels ghostly by comparison. Cooper is able to muster only a small fraction of his predecessor’s likability (poor guy: he’s overshadowed, too, by a pair of spectacular supporting performances from Bruce Greenwood and a Ray Liotta). It’s like seeing a stunt driver behind the wheel during a chase scene; you try to play along, try to pretend, but you’ve lost a little faith in the steadiness of the world the filmmakers have invited us to occupy. 

But, so, the sluggish second act eventually gives way to a surprising third: an angsty teen drama that begins with a revelation so rife with possibility that it almost makes up for all that glancing at your watch. But we linger with the kids a little too long (could have used a stunt or two, don’t you think: BMX jump over a swimming pool, skateboard chase?) and their precocious bouts of violence feel flimsy after the bank-robberies and chases and sinister drug-dealing cops.  

For all the clever plot mechanics (it really is quite impressive how Cianfrance and co-writers Ben Coccio and Darius Marder are able to get characters into the same room with each other without stretching motivation and coincidence too far), the themes that drive them feel confused, unconsidered. Is this a movie about fatherhood? About choosing between good and evil? About atoning for your sins? Sure, it’s an incredible feat to jump a motorcycle from one ramp to another. But what matters most is what’s at stake. What’s between the ramps? A pile of mattresses or a pool full of piranhas?

In this case, mattresses full of piranhas.  

Sincerely, 

Jared Young 

Status: Standard Delivery (3/5)

42

Dear Michael A. Heath, Prop Paperwork,

On paper, everything about 42 is great. I mean that literally. The main plot points all revolve around recreated newspaper articles, player profiles, team contracts, hand-written petitions, and hate-mail death threats. In other words, your work is really what strings together this long-overdue biopic on baseball legend Jackie Robinson. But when it comes to the film itself, the choice of textures looks a little too clean and the selected material feels a little too light. Not always, mind you, as some moments do cut unexpectedly deep.

Through a series of newsreel montages, sports writer and Robinson biographer Wendell Smith (Andre Holland) explains how the returning WWII soldiers has resulted in not only a baby boom, but also a regression to pre-war segregation. Cut to Brooklyn Dodgers executive Branch Rickey (Harrison Ford) who smells a business opportunity to break the colour barrier in baseball. He just needs to find the right talented player who can take the inevitable abuse. From a pile of your carefully created player sheets, he selects Jack Robinson (Chadwick Boseman) – a former soldier court-martialed for refusing to sit at the back of a bus. The rest is history, right? Basically, yeah.

Starting his career with the Montreal Royals, Robinson slowly earns the respect of his teammates by refusing to succumb to the ubiquitous taunts. More importantly, he gets under the competition’s skin by stealing bases and keeping them flustered. These sequences, along with a couple scenes when Robinson is at bat, are the film’s most effective ways of creating tension. It’s refreshing that none of these moments revolve around a big game being on the line, but are simply about exposing character’s inner hatred, whether that comes in the form of throwing racial slurs or fastballs to the head. But like many biopics in which the hero doesn’t die tragically, 42 struggles in its third act, trying to create closure – and greater meaning – out of an arguably minor milestone (qualifying for the World Series). For all the things written in Jackie Robinson’s biography, this is a strange place to end the story, even if the film mainly focuses on his rookie season.

Even stranger has to be seeing Harrison Ford outside his comfort zone. Until this film, I never appreciated how much he simply leveraged personal charisma in the place of actual acting. Ford seems to be channeling John Goodman, but his Southern affectations are mannered and clunky. In the film’s quiet but serious moments, as he reacts to player petitions and written threats, your hand scribbled pages carry more weight than the actual performances.

Luckily, Oscar-winning writer and director Brian Helgeland has a few visual tricks to elevate the overall film beyond being a movie-of-the-week, but the overall sum of these pieces is not greater than a few strong parts.

Signing off,

Christopher

Status: Standard Deliver (3/5)

Room 237

Dear Juli Kearns, Map Designer/Herself,

No offense, but you’re a little crazy. Maybe there’s a gentler word. Geeky? Fanatical? Bored? One thing’s for sure—your geeky, fanatical boredom is continued proof that spending too much time in the Overlook Hotel is bad for the brain. As a contributing (conspiracy) theorist on Room 237, you’ve gone to the obsessive lengths of mapping out the set for The Shining in an attempt to piece together Stanley Kubrick’s puzzling horror picture. For some reason, you’re trying to prove the impossibility of certain spatial relations within the film (I’ll assume you’ve never seen a sitcom). But here’s the even crazier thing: you’re one of the more levelheaded contributors to this deep-down-the-rabbit-hole documentary.

Before I begin, a couple of caveats.

Even prior to getting my ornamental Bachelor’s degree in Film Studies, Stanley Kubrick has been one of my favourite directors. I‘ve always enjoyed finding deep social/political/cultural meaning in a film, and also believe that Kubrick is the worthiest of candidates for understanding the auteur theory in cinema. A movie like Room 237, dedicated entirely to both these things, sounded like a wet dream to me.  Yet there I was – for large sections of the film, anyway – truly understanding how all work and no play makes this a dull film.

 Director Rodney Ascher forgoes any talking heads in favour of the disembodied voices of Shining-enthusiasts, like you. This allows the audience to spend an enormous amount of time with The Shinning, and other Kubrick films (which must account for over 95% of the footage in this documentary). The confinement to a Kubrickian diegesis (film studies!) has a hypnotic effect, allowing us to appreciate patterns and symmetry that may simply wash over the audience on casual viewings. But just as often, these narrations can be irksomely tedious when it feels like our guides are more lost in Kubrick’s labyrinth than Jack Torrance.

Some readings are more convincing than others. Viewing the film as an analogy for the decimation of Native Americans or the Holocaust seems perfectly reasonable. The textual evidence may be trivial at best, but the overall conclusion is not irrational. Kubrick’s mis-en-scene was certainly not happenstance, so picking up on visual clues (Calumet Indian head cans, traditional paintings, etc.) is a worthwhile exercise. But when attention to detail becomes a wildly subjective fishing expedition (like claiming a skiing poster “sort of looks like a Minotaur”, ergo… whatever), the film starts to give film studies a bad name.

The documentary’s biggest stretch, however, is also by far the most intriguing. The suggestion that Stanley Kubrick was recruited by the U.S. government to fake the original moon landing footage and subsequently coded that secret into The Shining is simply fan fiction fantasy. Sure, Danny wears an Apollo 11 sweater in the film, but everything beyond that is complete conjecture. Even the 9/11 “truther” doc Loose Change managed to make more convincing arguments.

Room 237 depends on half-baked theories that literally require watching the film forwards and backwards – at the same time – to overlay meanings. The Shining certainly earns the right to be closely examined and understood, but there’s only about 45 minutes worth of proper content in this 90-minute documentary. The rest belongs locked away in chat rooms.

An axe sure would have been handy for cutting things down.

Studied out,

Christopher

Status: Standard Delivery (2.5/5)

Evil Dead

Dear Patrick Baxter, Prosthetics Supervisor

The only thing that scares a horror director must be worrying they might not scare the audience. Try adding some humour to the mix, and most filmmakers end up making a joke of the whole film. Not Sam Raimi. His seminal indie horror picture The Evil Dead from 1981 (along with its two two sequels) set the standard for creepy comedy. Now comes the inevitable remake, which in many ways takes the safe route back to the famed cabin in the woods. The strategy? Double down on the gore and kill all the comedy.  In other words, hope the bloody oozing prosthetics you created steal the show. And they did. Boy, did they ever.

 I won’t name names, but a friend of mine turned to me halfway through the movie saying he couldn’t take it any more. He up and left me, alone, while I recoiled in fear and disgust as the film drove forward.  Someone had to survive to tell the tale. I’m glad I did.

As a big fan of Face Off, the make-up special effects series on SyFy, I’ve acquired a new appreciation for your craft. When it’s done right, practical special effects are spectacularly effective. Your work on the new Evil Dead certainly qualifies, never letting editing or camera tricks insinuate the horror. We have to watch the whole bloody mess unfold – or should I say, dismember. My biceps hurt just thinking about it (damn you).

The story, re-written by director Fede Alvarez and Rodo Sayagues (with uncredited polishes by Diablo Cody) uses a smart hook to isolate the five actors in their haunted house. Mia (Jane Levy) is a recovering drug addict who has recruited her friends (Lou Taylor Pucci, Elizabeth Blackmore and Jesscia Lucas) and brother (Shiloh Fernandez) to help her kick the habit cold turkey. They self-impose reasons for being cut off from others, and also attribute Mia’s early misbehaviour as part of the uncomfortable recovery process. Of course, the theme of fighting your “inner demons” turns out to be more literal than they think, after a book of spells unleashes ungodly terror.  Plot wise, that’s it. What the film lacks in breaking new ground, it compensates for with crushing onscreen agony.

From splitting tongues in half, to tearing off faces, to boiling live flesh, everything you’ve done in the film is textbook terrifying. The pacing is initially even-handed, even if the scares become a bit relentless in the second half. Levy’s possessed performance also creates a lot of genuine tensions and discomfort before her complete transformation (much like Jennifer Carpenter managed in The Exorcism of Emily Rose). I’m not a horror guy, but I can appreciate when a film is effective. And your work was, above all.

So I’m glad I didn’t walk out, but you won’t find me walking back in to see it again.

Sincerely,

Christopher

Status: Air Mail (3.5/5)