Considering how perceptibly poignant his first two features are, it was hard to picture a John Michael McDonagh movie quite like the unapologetic and misanthropic War On Everyone. But hey, you know what they say: everything is bigger in America. With War, McDonagh turns away from the finesse we witnessed in The Guard and Cavalry, perhaps as a way to satirize the version of the US everyone else sees. It’s tonally erratic, loud, and rude, and a hundred times funnier than his previous works. Unhinged, like a rabid dog running around that you still have the urge to pet, this anti-hero buddy cop movie has cult status written all over it, giving us a good hard look at the funny side of Alexander Skarsgard and reminding us that Michael Pena is a comedic national treasure.

Terry (Skarsgard) and Bob (Pena) are close friends and partners on the force, a job they use as a springboard and get-out-of-jail free card to do shady, corrupt business. Never starting their sentences with “You have the right to remain silent,” Terry and Bob abuse lowlifes to score drugs and money while trying to keep their private lives in some kind of order (but not really giving a shit about it). Bob is married to Delores (Stephanie Sigman), with whom he has two overweight sons; Terry is the loner alcoholic with the vibe of private eye in the 1940s from a parallel universe with a country twist, one that plays Glenn Campbell 24/7 on the jukebox. When a major deal goes bad, a British criminal (Theo James) gets on Terry and Bob’s radar, and the shitstorm starts brewing.

If you start looking at War On Everyone as anything other than a hilarious journey with entertainment as the only destination, you’ll be left with a pretty shallow outer shell. It’s all about setting up scenes, throwing punchlines, working off of McDonagh’s zing-tastic screenplay, and the unlikely dynamic that builds between Skarsgard and Pena (oh, and Caleb Landry Jones looking he stepped out of a post-modern stage play of A Clockwork Orange is not to be missed). Underneath the garish surface, there’s philosophy a-brewing; but too many swerves to random dead-end scenes stopped me from wanting to explore further. Luckily, it keeps getting back on the main road with a mean streak of anti-PC humor that’s ballsy, vibrant and refreshing.

Rating:
7/10

Like their previous film Lenny Cooke, sibling directors Benny and Joshua Safdie focus on a true story in Heaven Knows What, only this time they shoot it as a feature narrative instead of a documentary. The story behind it is unbelievable. While researching another project, Joshua ran into a young woman named Arielle Holmes and soon discovered her heartbreaking story of being a former homeless heroin addict who nearly died from a suicide attempt. So the Safide’s convinced Holmes to write a book about her life and then decided to have her play herself in the film. The result is an honest portrait of the heroin subculture found within the streets of New York City.

Heaven Knows What opens with a haunting exchange between Harley (Arielle Holmes) and her abusive boyfriend Ilya (Caleb Landry Jones), who is screaming that if she really loved him, she’d have killed herself by now. Neither of them are in a right state of mind, both being gaunt heroin junkies living on the streets of New York City. Harley eventually takes Ilya up on his wishes and slits her wrist, nearly killing herself right in front of him. After miraculously surviving her suicide attempt, Harley ends up in a psych ward at the Bellevue hospital.

The film doesn’t spend much time showing her stay at the hospital, lasting only as long as the opening credits, but cinematographer Sean Price Williams (The Color Wheel, Somebody Up There Likes Me) makes the most of it. This visually stunning scene involves frequent camera movement and focusing to mimic the disorienting state of a heroin addict’s mind. On top of that, a dizzying synth score completely drowns out all other noises, making these moments feel more fragmented than cohesive. It’s a spectacular montage all aspiring filmmakers should watch.

Sadly, Harley ends up right where she left off after being released from the hospital. Even though Ilya isn’t around to manipulate her anymore, Harley continuously makes poor decisions. She trades a physically dangerous boyfriend for a slightly more stable yet equally addicted one named Mike (Buddy Duress). But because Mike is a drug dealer, Harley remains on her path of self-destruction.

The Safdie brothers paint a hopelessly depressing picture by focusing on her dangerous urge to receive the next rush of heroin. Furthermore, just when opportunities of escape begin to surface–such as Ilya finally finding a way off the street for a trip to Florida–they’re crushed as fast as they can develop.

Caleb Landry Jones is the most recognizable name in the cast and one of the few professional actors, but that doesn’t mean he puts on the best performance. Two of the best performers are non-actors off the street, Holmes and Duress. Both use their real life experiences to provide a level of authenticity that transcends basic acting. Not being able to distinguish real actors between non-actors is a testament to everyone involved.

Heaven Knows What tends to wander exactly like its characters do, without a predefined destination or sense of urgency. Showing that life is only worth living until the next high makes it all the more discomforting to watch. Their relentless determination for the next heroin fix–even resorting to such dismal means as stealing mail in hopes of finding a gift card to sell–is what keeps us transfixed to the screen. Like the wayward lives of its characters, it’s never knowing what’s going to happen next that makes for a fixating film.

Originally published on 9/7/14 as part of our TIFF coverage

Following the recent loss of one of the best (if not the best) performers of our generation, it feels like a gift to be able to watch Philip Seymour Hoffman grace a movie screen in any capacity. It’s something to be savored, but in God’s Pocket, one of his last ever roles, his talents, along with the talents of the rest of the uniformly brilliant cast, are done little justice. Everyone struggles here, including first time director John Slattery (Mad Men), who grasps and grasps but can’t manage to find a singular vision for the jumbled, lifeless tiny-town crime flick.

Hoffman plays Mickey Scarpato, an exhausted-looking fellow who lives in the titular South Philly neighborhood with his bored wife Jeanie (Christina Hendricks) and rotten stepson Leon (Caleb Landry Jones, who maximizes the few minutes he’s given). Leon is a terror of a shit-talker, infuriating his co-workers at his factory job to no end. Or rather, to his end: After pushing one of the boys to the brink with awful racist insults, he’s clobbered on the head and…well…so begins Mickey’s landslide of problems. He must bury the boy to appease the unappeasable Jeanie, which leads to him racking up major debt and getting mixed up with dirty mafia types.

The tone, writing, and performances in God’s Pocket are all incredibly awkward, which is a surprise considering the artists at work. Hoffman just can’t get his hands on the character of Mickey, with a fluctuating accent and emotionally ambiguous reactions to just about every situation. He clicks best with John Turturro, who plays his Sopranos-esque best friend and confidant Arthur, but even their chemistry doesn’t feel completely natural.

The characters are written too loosely, oscillating between working class clichés and unreadable moralism. Jeanie begins to take a liking to Philly celebrity journalist Richard Shellburn (Richard Jenkins), an old scumbag who makes a pass at her while sitting on Leon’s twin bed. The infidelity seems to be born out of her resentment toward Mickey, but her inner struggle is conveyed with the depth and subtlety of a pea-brained bimbo by Hendricks, who is capable of so much more.

There’s something off about the script (written by Slattery and Alex Metcalf), which tries very hard to mix quirky small-town humor with flashes of shocking violence. Both the comedic and dramatic elements are woefully uncalibrated and unbalanced, canceling each other out at every turn. When Arthur’s elderly mother shoots a goon in the chest at the family store, the man bleeding out on the floor, it’s hard to figure out the scene’s intended effect. The tired “old lady turns out to be a badass” gag is clearly comedic, but as Turturro kicks the dying man in the stomach screaming “This is my family!”, it all just feels very, very uncomfortable.

The neighborhood of God’s Pocket is well-crafted by Slattery and his crew, and well shot by cinematographer Lance Acord. The costumes and sets are rightly gritty, conveying the perpetual hard-drinking slump of similar salt-of-the-earth communities. The visual presentation is convincing–it’s just too bad that it’s the only thing convincing about this mediocre production. The stakes are unclear, the story is aimless, the performances are half-hearted, and those thirsting for another shining showcase of Hoffman’s gift will be sorely disappointed.

God’s Pocket trailer

Since the advent of color in film, gushing red stuff has been one of cinema’s most enduring images—the sight of blood seldom fails to trigger something in us. Blood can be spectacular (Kill Bill), repulsive (Evil Dead), or erotic (pretty much every vampire movie ever). In Byzantium, Neil Jordan’s latest, particularly sullen take on the vamp-flick, blood represents the penance, anguish, shame, and suffering inherent in the immortal curse, much like the great Let the Right One In (though much flashier and sans the snow). Stylish, beautifully shot, violent, gothic, romantic—Byzantium is vampire lore done right, though it has its hiccups. It gets too caught up in its own mythology at times and the storytelling gets a little cluttered near the end, but ultimately it’s an engrossing modern vampire tale that’s elevated by a killer cast and stunning visuals.

The film notably resembles Jordan’s biggest feather in his directorial cap, Interview with the Vampire, though it exchanges super-hunks Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt for a pair of equally (if not more) fascinating lady-vamps, a mother and daughter duo. Gemma Arterton plays the viciously protective and predatory mother of teenager Saoirse Ronan, a gentler, more conscientious soul. Arterton hunts her mortal prey with cunning and frightening precision, while Ronan chooses to only feed on the willing, an apologetic death-bringer of sorts. Forced to live as vagabonds, darting from city to city to protect their immortal identity (much to the frustration of ever-teen Ronan), their newest stop-off is a tranquil coastal town where Arterton seduces her way into securing them a place to stay—an out-of-service hotel called Byzantium (which she converts into a brothel, an environment we later learn she’s all too familiar with.)

Ronan meets Caleb Landry Jones, a sweet, endearingly shy yet persistent admirer, who’s determined to break Ronan’s shell. Jones is captivating, a scraggly and unkempt fellow with long, tangled red locks that tumble where they may (he’s the polar opposite of the super-symmetrical sex-bros of Twilight.) Jones and Ronan play off one another so well it’s impossible not to get caught up in their every glance, every subtle gesture. We yearn for them to be together just as they yearn. The youngsters’ tug-o-war courtship is the film’s everything—without it, the Byzantium would amount to nothing more than a good looking plot machine.

There are no fangs to be found here—instead, Byzantium’s vampires have thumbnails that extend into razor-sharp talons. This major alteration to the vampire anatomy, while potentially offensive to purists, actually works for me, as it allows the actors to convey their characters’ personalities physically, and quite articulately. While Ronan gently pops open her volunteers’ wrists like a soda can and sips, Arterton gives her victims repeated, brutal “thumbs-ups” to the jugular and guzzles. Speaking of Mrs. Arterton, I’ve not seen her any better—she oozes with so much carnality and sexual dominance it’s intimidating. Ronan is equally riveting, doing the same existential brooding Kristen Stewart is endlessly criticized for, but making it look utterly mesmerizing (her arctic blue eyes speak her sorrow.)

At about the film’s halfway mark, we begin fleshing out the mother/daughter backstory with intrusive flashbacks. These scenes feel more like pesky interruptions than anything, halting the momentum of the wonderful Ronan/Jones romance incessantly. What’s worse, the mythology detailed is of no interest whatsoever, a generic gothic fairy tale with an uninspired feminist twist. The anti-climactic final “action” sequence is rudimentary and predictable (it thinks it’s pulling a swerve while we’re easily three steps ahead), and upon reflection, the film feels more like an episode than a self-contained movie (sequels are inevitable.) Despite all this, what resonates most about Byzantium aren’t its flaws, but its truly remarkable strengths—the themes of identity and trust; the richly textured, alluring imagery; the brilliantly acted relationships. Most interestingly, it’s what’s absent from this vampire tale—fangs, stakes, garlic, crosses, coffins, holy water—that afford Jordan and company enough breathing room to weave such an intoxicating and (ironically) humanistic yarn.

Antiviral is a high-concept sci-fi film debut from Brandon Cronenberg, son of legendary director David Cronenberg. It is not completely far-fetched to imagine a future celebrity obsessed society where fans receive a virus that their idol has in order to feel closer to them, which is why the film is so creepy. Unfortunately, the signs of a first-time director are present when several of the same shots are repetitively used and by the time the third act rolls around, most of the enthusiasm wears off. Antiviral has enough of style and dazzling imagery that it could possibly win over certain fans of the genre, despite its various setbacks.

From the very opening shot of a man sitting behind a giant billboard of a female model, Antiviral makes it abundantly clear what the film is about; society’s obsession with celebrities. The man in the opening shot is Syd March (Caleb Landry Jones), a technician at the Lucas Clinic who specializes in injecting viruses from celebrities into clients who wish to come closer to their idol. Inside the clinic is a lobby full of clients who hide behind the latest gossip magazine while the latest celebrity chatter airs on the television. And if that was not enough, one can literally get a taste of their obsession at a meat market, where cuts of steak are made up from cultivated cells of celebrities.

With each passing day Syd’s physical condition seems to worsen and everyone around him starts to notice his apparent sickness. But what they do not know is that he is smuggling viruses from the clinic using his own body as the host. After stealing some lab equipment from work, he is able to then remove the copy-protection of the virus which allows him to sell the virus on the black market. Because the market is so fierce, he is in real danger when the wrong people find out his secrets.

Even though Antiviral takes place in a slightly futuristic time period, the truly terrifying part is that it could actually happen someday, especially considering the rise in social media which provides us with constant updates on the celebrities we follow. A rumor started on Twitter can quickly spread to a room full of gossip in the matter of seconds. Rumor spreading is touched on in the film when colleagues discuss rumors they hear from the media but then add their own wild spin on the topic they hear from unreliable sources.

Much of the weight of the film rests on the shoulders of Caleb Landry Jones as he is in almost every frame. The role was physically demanding as he portrays a man who is violently ill from the beginning and by the end is practically on his death bed. For the most part he does a great job with what is required of him. After all, it is not his fault that the film gets repetitive by having him appear in the same state the entire time.

Antiviral falls flat once the initial concept wears off, which is a shame because there were flashes of brilliance at certain moments. The first two acts fly by while the third drags on, mainly because we have to watch the lead stumble around with overwhelming sickness a few too many times. Still, Antiviral is a commendable first outing for the young Cronenberg, even if it is far from flawless. We currently live in a society where we figuratively feed off our celebrities, so Cronenberg’s portrayal of a society that literally feeds off them is frightening yet not unimaginable.

David Cronenberg’s son Brandon is set to release his debut feature Antiviral and now, after announcing it will play at the Toronto International Film Festival, a trailer has been put online. The film, which clearly shows David Cronenberg’s love for body horror running through the family, revolves around a man (Caleb Landry-Jones) working for a company who inject paying customers with the same viruses as famous celebrities. Once Jones injects himself with a virus that turns out to be lethal, it looks like all hell breaks loose.

The trailer definitely makes a big impression. Using the film’s sound mix to create an abrasive soundtrack (similar to the trailer for A Serious Man), the trailer takes full advantage of the squirm-inducing aspects of its premise. The word from Cannes was mixed, but the trailer makes this look like one to watch. Antiviral will have its North American premiere at TIFF in September before its theatrical release.

Watch the official trailer for Antiviral: