After the incredible success of Michael Bay’s unlikely Transformers [review] film adaptation, Paramount were duty bound to give it a sequel, but who would have thought that a project so impossibly complex could have arrived on our screens so quickly?  Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen lands just two short years after its predecessor, and seems to have passed though the sequel-wash on its way here.  More action, more characters, more plot, more running time; all the usual facets of a summer blockbusting follow-up are there.  But so are all the negatives: less adherence to sense, less comprehensibility, less reason to care why you’re watching robots pound each other’s faces in all over again.

This time around our unlikely hero Sam Witwicky is off to college, leaving his boisterous parents, gorgeous girlfriend, and transforming robot-car at home.  Of course, he barely gets two classes into the semester before he is once again whisked off to prevent a war between metal factions that, as a by-product, also spells certain doom for mankind.  It turns out that a shard of the Allspark - the first movie’s all-powerful energy source - has imprinted ancient symbols into Sam’s brain, that manifest themselves in bouts of bizarre subconscious scrawling on any available surface.  These symbols reveal the location of the Matrix of Leadership, an ancient piece of robot gadgetry that would allow Earth to be drained of energy.  The deadly Decepticons come after Sam for this knowledge, but once again he has the righteous Autobots on side to even the fight.  And there are certainly plenty of those.

Make no mistake, this movie is huge even by Bay standards.  It’s also a film that cleverly dodges smart criticism by being so resolutely mindless that you can’t even start an intelligent dissection of it lest your mind immediately turn to mush.  Even its star Megan Fox knows her place: “People are well aware that this is not a movie about acting” she now famously said during the stateside release.  And yet Bay still leapt to the film’s defence.  I dread to think that he believes this franchise is anything more than a collection of explosions, effects, and exploding effects, but the sheer joy he seems to take in doing it after all these years suggests that there’s something more to it for him than just churning out these two-hour headache initiators.

Speaking of which, Revenge of the Fallen is loud.  Or, more accurately, noisy - a statement which applies to both sound and picture, as heavily detailed robotics and swathes of army merchandise fly across the screen, filling all corners with larger-than-life action sequences every ten minutes or so.  When there’s not a giant robot to be crushed, or a large deserted area to destroy, the film uses its time-outs to throw plot at you.  Most of the time, this is pithy momentum material, serving to push us on to the next battle, but about half way through the film we stop for a belated history lesson, taking the story off in a new, convoluted direction that is way too sci-fi even for this franchise.  Merging ancient history with the present day isn’t the most original of ideas to begin with, but attempt to mould this history with that of giant robots from beyond the stars, and watch your interest drop off the charts.

So guess what? Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen is pretty stupid.  Yet, despite horrible reviews and a general drubbing even from fans, the film still pulled in huge audiences around the globe.  There is almost no reason for trying to make the point that it is incredibly lazy, stupefyingly moronic, or downright lecherous in nature; it’s summer, so all these points fall on deaf ears.  What has made it such a success?  How about incredible special effects, never-ending action sequences, and some seat gripping fights (when you can make out what’s happening) - all the things that apply to more base-level instincts and emotions.  All in all it’s quite a head-spinner, and you do come out a little dazed.

The delirium effect isn’t helped by a running length that stretches itself to a downright unnecessary two and a half hours.  They may have blown the doors off the Star Trek universe this summer with their action-packed reboot [review], but here, writing team Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman (along with The Ring [review] writer Ehren Kruger), feel substantially more hindered.  The time pressure has clearly had an effect, and the script has little of the wit or fun of their first Transformers outing.  It all gets so bogged down in its own mythology and high-impact thrills that you’ll barely have time to notice what the characters are actually saying or doing.

These characters, incidentally, are played by a host of familiar faces from the first movie.  Shia LaBeouf returns as the irrepressible Sam Witwicky, Megan Fox runs around a lot as girlfriend Mikaela, while Josh Duhamel, Tyrese Gibson, John Turturro, Kevin Dunn, and Julie White, all reprise their previous roles.  Ramon Rodriguez is the new guy, playing Shia LaBeouf’s conveniently conspiracy-obsessed college room-mate Leo Spitz, and unpredictably sticks around for the entire movie.  He is merely another product of sequel-itis though, and his contributions add nothing meaningful.

There’s little doubt this is Michael Bay movie - or should that be ‘product’.  Marketed to the extreme and executed with that perfect summer formula which has turned him into one of the most financially successful directors of all time, Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen is a film that embraces its compromises and disregards its failings.  A perfect example of Bay’s brashness comes early on when Sam turns up to college and nobody comments that they’ve just arrived at the only educational establishment in Strippersville, USA.  Then, as if to force the point, when Sam’s parents later take a holiday, it turns out there’s a Strippersville in France too!  His focus is unashamedly about aesthetics above all else, but like his world of human perfection, the beauty is only skin deep.  Inside is a film wrought with a mess of story points, superficial characters, and only occasionally distracting visuals.

Anyone who caught Doug Jones’ inconspicuous, low-budget sci-fi feature Moon [review] during its limited release will know that hope for this ailing genre has already been recaptured once this year in a thoughtful film by a first-time feature director.  If you missed it though, here’s your second chance.  As yet another debut feature, District 9 tells a provocative human story through the medium of alien occupancy, providing a film with a little more meat on its bones, and plenty to digest after the credits roll.

Set in an alternate 2010, the film captures life in Johannesburg, South Africa, twenty years after an alien spaceship came to a rest over the city and dumped its intergalactic passengers down on the surface.  Any goodwill shown towards these new residents was short-lived, however, and it wasn’t long before the aliens - nicknamed ‘Prawns’ for their odd looks - were being herded into a cordoned-off area referred to as District 9.  Now, having ravaged the slum where they currently live, the Government wants the aliens moved again, this time to a newly built but equally poor facility called District 10.  In charge of this important assignment is Wikus van der Merwe, a recently promoted office worker who’s about to get his first taste of field work.  All, of course, does not go to plan - as tensions flare in District 9, overly aggressive soldiers turn to violence, while Wikus himself makes a mistake that fuses alien DNA with his own. Exiled from humanity, Wikus takes refuge in the heart of the dangerous slums he is supposed to be clearing.

In order to keep up with this rather bizarre story, the film employs an inventive shooting style that differs from the norm.  Much of the film is presented as a documentary, or through the lens of a camera which is actually supposed to be on the scene, rather than some omnipresent angle on reality.  While it makes for a common opening or pre-title sequence, it soon turns out that director Neill Blomkamp is not just using the documentary as an expositional gimmick, instead utilising the uniquely grounded perspective as a method to draw the audience into his alternate reality.  Admirably, the film manages to keep this up for most of the first act, before it is forced to add scenes set outside the realm of real cameras, in order to further the film’s central story.  At first this transition between reality and fantasy view points can be a little jarring, but it is never confusing, and as the film continues the mix of footage becomes increasingly natural.

Meanwhile, the production design of the film is simply extraordinary.  From District 9’s dilapidated slums, to the alien inhabitants themselves, plus their gigantic mothership and all their advanced weaponry, everything is brought to life in stunning detail.  Some of the credit here can be handed to the digital teams at numerous production houses, including Weta - a side-effect of having superstar director Peter Jackson on board (the film is notably “Presented by…” so as to trade off the association).  The ‘Prawns’ - entirely digital creations painstakingly brought to life by computer artists - are a particular triumph, blending with the scenes around them perfectly.  But this should not take away from the non-CG elements, which on a surprisingly sparse budget of $30 million, still manage to create an incredibly believable world.  An important factor in any feature that stylises itself half the time as a documentary.

Interestingly for a sci-fi movie, we can at least recognise the locations as having a basis in reality.  Inspired by Blomkamp’s childhood in South Africa, and based on his six-minute short film Alive in Joberg, District 9 makes use of real life experiences and areas, to find the truth in its surroundings.  Creating a full-length feature has allowed Blomkamp and fellow first-time writer Terri Tatchell, to expand their themes and delve deeper into the discrimination motif explored by the short film.  In doing so, they have created a movie with action and sci-fi overtones, but a distinctly dramatic core.  And in its central character of Wikus Van De Merwe, it finds the resonance to tackle both.

So while the criticism that you can piece together the arguments and events of District 9 from a collection of other movies may be true, it is this central performance by Sharlto Copley that provides the film’s real revelation.  Like Christoph Waltz in Quentin Tarantino’s recent historical fantasy Inglourious Basterds [review], he is unlikely to remain an unknown for long, but here his anonymity works wonders for believability.  Starting the film as a bit of an office-bound geek, his good (or possibly bad) fortune forces him into a position of authority, where Copley pitches the character’s revelry in this sudden power perfectly.  Then there is the twist, and Wikus’s life descends into turmoil as he slowly becomes an unlikely subject for our sympathy.  It is not an easy line to tread, especially as our protagonist’s personal battles cause him to cross the moral boundary line once or twice.  But throughout the entire range of these complex emotions, Copley is never less than excellent.

All this in comparison to the generic masses, which in this case refers to the migrant ‘Prawns’.  Lawless and without direction, they descend into mindless savagery, much like humans are seen to do in every movie that throws an apocalypse their way.  This human connection is not to be underestimated, as District 9 is essentially a human story, told through extra-terrestrial beings, and packed with issues that plague our planet.  The most obvious parallel, given the setting, is with apartheid, as the Prawns become racially separated by the human world and eventually segregated into a fenced off slum.  Their apocalypse, it seems, was coming to Earth in the first place.  This issue is the film’s central and most laboured one, unsubtle and entirely intentional, but there are smaller and equally interesting ideas to note here, like the abuse of all possible technological advancements for militaristic purposes, and the increasingly hostile attitude towards immigration.

Maybe the most surprising aspect of District 9 is that it’s a low-budget film which is smart enough to know that roundtable issues and metaphors will only carry a mainstream audience so far.  With that, it picks up the pace for an all-action finale, playing like The Fugitive meets Aliens during the last half hour, as Wikus finally asserts himself to a cause that is not self-serving.  It certainly provides plenty of ‘cool’ moments, but whether its slightly tacked-on inclusion does the film any good as a whole is more debatable.  The dramatic high point comes well before all the high octane showboating, with a squirm-inducing sequence set inside a Government research lab that is both seat pinning and, at times, truly harrowing.  These scenes, along with many others in the first hour, show human beings up as the real devils in this tale of intergalactic intolerance.  The film’s tagline: “You are not welcome here”, a biting reminder that nothing in this alien story is too far from human truth.

District 9 is currently on UK general release.

Leaving behind the period pieces for a modern day tale of chance and hope, director Joe Wright (Pride & Prejudice, Atonement) puts his mark on this real-life story set on the mean streets of Los Angeles.

The film is told from the perspective of Steve Lopez, a columnist for the Los Angeles Times, who is desperately searching for his next story idea when he bumps into a talented but homeless violin player in a downtown park.  The musician’s name is Nathaniel Ayres and with a little research Steve discovers that he was formerly a cellist, and a drop-out from the famous music and arts school, Juilliard.  Steve has his story.  But the tale doesn’t stop there - overwhelmed by the columns, one elderly reader sends her old cello for Nathaniel to play.  Meanwhile, Steve sets about trying to help his new-found friend, believing that he may be able to convince Nathaniel to treat his debilitating mental illness problems and become a great musician again.  After spending more time and writing a series of stories on Nathaniel, though, this proves to be a more difficult task than he had anticipated.  As Steve comes to learn, his good intentions might be mistaking Nathaniel’s real needs.

Playing Steve Lopez, Robert Downey Jr. remains a very watchable screen presence, picking up where he left off as a newspaper journalist in David Fincher’s Zodiac [review] and updating the character for the modern day.  He is the right amount of obsessive and compassionate to make us care in the story, even if all the real work seems to go to Jamie Foxx, as desolate cellist Nathaniel Ayers.  His performance is overstated and could appear a little forced to those unaware of how the real Mr. Ayres conducts his conversations.  Like Meryl Streep’s impersonation of Julia Child in the recent Julie & Julia, it may be a role that only becomes whole if you know what to expect going in.  Still, Foxx handles the emotional ups and downs of Nathaniel with his usual skill, and manages to create a character who, despite a generally non-confrontational demeanour, still appears quite frightening during the one scene where he breaks down.

Joe Wright throws in his own directorial flourishes to fill out the movie.  Any scene where Nathaniel plays his cello takes on a dream-like atmosphere, allowing you to feel the music and drown out any noise of the world around.  Some of the visual choices, such as the birds that swoop around and then rise up above the busy intersection, are a little heavy-handed, but there is one rather brave move towards the middle of the film that does seems to work, albeit in an odd way.  When Steve takes Nathaniel to the Disney Concert Hall for the first time, they listen to an orchestra rehearsal, and we get to witness a visual representation of Nathaniel experiencing the music.  For a couple of minutes the screen is overtaken by nothing but flashes of colour set to the orchestra, pulsating and reacting to the ebb and flow of the sound.  It is both fascinating and a little distracting, as you realise that you are sat with a motionless audience staring at just the simplest of colour changes.  Even if it pulls you out of the film for a moment, it is not there to be interpreted like an art installation, instead holding a set purpose in the movie to let you experience the music rather than focus on the visuals.

With the real Steve Lopez’s book - The Soloist: A Lost Dream, an Unlikely Friendship, and the Redemptive Power of Music - as a guide, screenwriter Susannah Grant adapts the story and brings it to the screen efficiently and effectively.  The dialogue is sometimes snappy, but more meaning can be taken from what isn’t said in The Soloist, which provides thoughtful and poignant moments, but also lets the pace drag during certain sections of the movie.  The story itself is a little unnatural on screen, darting back and forth between similar locations, often with the same goal in mind.  Besides interesting sequences like those that flash back to Nathaniel’s youth, or the voice-over quotations from Steve’s actual LA Times columns, the film’s ongoing theme of futility starts to bare down on the narrative during the last half hour.

In fact, the biggest problem the film runs into is the way in which it becomes limited by its own moral.  As Steve Lopez attempts to help Nathaniel in any way he can, it becomes clear that help is not what Nathaniel really wants or requires.  What it adds up to is a conclusion that is open-ended and a little narratively unfulfilling.  In order to subdue this effect, writer Susannah Grant has fabricated a marital issue in Steve’s life that is not part of the real story.  It is supposed to alleviate the flat ending with some kind of point, but as it was never part of the actual tale it feels tacked onto this version, and ultimately adds little to the film’s real central relationship, between Steve and Nathaniel.

The Soloist is an effective drama, and for at least the first two acts plays unpredictably as Steve feels his way through the odd relationship he forms with this gifted, but troubled street musician.  It is fortunate to have the true story to lean on, and this stops it from becoming another by-the-numbers tale of uplifting human spirit, keeping its feet more firmly on the ground when it comes to morals.  In fact, the script and direction do a great job of not elevating the character of Nathaniel out of his squalid conditions, but rather pulling Steve, and the audience, right down into it.  The scenes shot on LA’s skid row and around the LAMP Community centre show a troubled world very different from the LA we are used to seeing on screen.  This may well be the film’s strongest asset - a deep-rooted sense of reality brought on by using the actual locations.  A final title card announces that there are 90,000 homeless people on the streets of Los Angeles, a disturbing thought for those leaving the theatre to return to their home comforts, and an especially poignant ending to this slow paced but otherwise rhythmic drama, let down only by its discordant ending.

The Soloist is on UK general release from Friday September 25th.

As one of my favourite working directors, Sam Mendes has produced a series of films in the past decade that seem to celebrate a certain turmoil in life.  Two in particular stand out as similar variations on this theme, namely the Oscar winning American Beauty and his recent adaptation of Revolutionary Road [review], which both took a downbeat attitude towards marriage and turned it into a biting modern family breakdown and gripping period suburban drama, respectively.  With that out of his system, maybe it’s no surprise to see that this latest movie is a celebration of love and life - both the living and creating.  It appears like a ray of sunshine in the darkness; a beautifully pitched alkaline to his better-known acidic screen relationships.

Finding themselves in their mid-thirties and pregnant, Burt and Verona decide that it’s time to sort their lives out.  When Burt’s parents suddenly announce that they are moving to Belgium, the couple take the opportunity to free themselves of Denver and their house with the cardboard window, and move where they can raise their child properly.  In order to make an informed choice, they stay with old friends and relatives who help them to understand that parenting isn’t a by-the-book procedure.  Fearful of their own abilities, Burt and Verona look for a model family to base their own on, but it seems that no matter how many states they visit, there is no such thing as the perfect family.

The film has distinct, independent values at heart, and, complete with a couple of quirky lead characters and their collection of equally eccentric friends, lends itself perfectly to the low-key comedy drama category.  It’s also a road trip film at heart, but instead of bustling its scenes around in a yellow VW van Little Miss Sunshine [review] style, the story focuses more on the destinations than the travelling itself.  As such, we capture only short glimpses of its central couple on the road, and spend more time with the people they meet along the way, which in turn helps to establish the film’s abundant views on family.  One of the oddest twists to the story is that Burt and Verona aren’t so much picking a place to live - sizing up the climate, location and such - as much as choosing the type of family they could raise.  From dysfunctional desert-dwellers in Arizona, to an adopted menagerie in Montreal, their options are very much defined by the people, not the places.

It is this kind of wide-eyed innocence you come to expect from the film’s central couple, however.  Burt and Verona are the story’s anchor and have the kind of non-standard relationship that you rarely see in film, which is to say, a perfectly happy one.  They appear relentlessly in love, something that proves to be the movie’s one consistent thread.  As the story bounces them around the different states, the couple remain almost hopelessly upbeat and unwavering in the strength of their bond.  What it does not resort to, though, is turning this innocence into naivety or weakness - something that would have destroyed any investment in them.  As it stands, they are wonderfully crafted creations, and, if not entirely believable, still make for enjoyable company on this whistle-stop tour of family archetypes.

So while the script, by first-time screenwriters Vendela Vida and Dave Eggers, works to give our guides the necessary human quirks, it is with the periphery couples where they really get to cut loose and have fun.  From Allison Janney’s slightly bonkers suburban mum, to Maggie Gyllenhaal’s hippie family unit, most of the laughs are centred around finding the fun in dysfunctional, and highlighting the cracks in these so-called responsible adults.  The script also finds moments to be more serious too, including a scene while in Canada that turns into the film’s most poignant stop-off, and an honest diatribe from a recently single dad in Miami that neatly strikes to the core of parental anxiety.  Luckily, the story never loses its grasp on hope, which plays a big part in the eventual conclusion.

In order to convey the wide range of characters on display, director Sam Mendes has gathered a fantastic cast, of which those already mentioned all put in great work, as do Jeff Daniels and Catherine O’Hara who, as Burt’s parents, give laugh-out-loud performances.  It is with the two leads, though, where things get interesting.  John Krasinski and Maya Rudolph are maybe not the most obvious choices for these quietly romantic oddballs, yet they mix the comic and human elements of their characters to make them marvellously charming rather than moribundly irritating.  As perfect as their relationship is, they restrain the instinct to overplay it, or give you room to doubt the characters’ good intentions.  They are undoubtedly the basis on which this film is built, and provide a solid foundation for the laughs that follow.

There is one more twist in the tale, however.  For all its obvious overtones as the thematic antithesis of previous Sam Mendes movies, Away We Go remains similar in its pessimism towards marriage.  Verona spurns Burt’s proposals as she “doesn’t see the point”, and while a deeper reason is revealed later in the film, what it really highlights is that it’s not a change in subject matter that makes this film different, but rather the way it is presented - an assessment that could apply to the whole movie.  Gone is the sarcastic, downbeat attitude and in its place, something bright, honest, and hopeful.  Accompanied by Alexi Murdoch’s melancholic acoustic soundtrack, the film whisks you off on a 98-minute journey and keeps you smiling all the way.  A humanist holiday that’s well worth packing your bags for.

Away We Go is on UK general release from Friday September 18th.

Casting us back to the late 80’s, Adventureland is the second story of reckless teenage abandon from director Greg Mottola.  His previous feature, the foul-mouthed Superbad [review], was a huge success and cashed in vigorously on the frat-pack goodwill brought by writers Seth Rogen and Evan Goldberg.  This time around the script is penned by Mottola himself, who, left to his own devices, has turned in a substantially more understated affair.  For all the thematic similarities, it is a film that clearly marks itself from its predecessor, with sweetness instead of sex-talk, and despondency in place of desperation.

It’s the summer of 1987 and James Brennan is expecting it to be a great one.  With a blow-out European tour planned before he starts at an Ivy League New York school in the Autumn, his life is really looking up.  That is, until his parents undergo some money troubles, and James’s trip – as well as possible educational future – falls under jeopardy.  Now, the only way he can afford the school and life he has worked so hard for is, apparently, to work some more.  James takes a job at the crummy local theme park, questionably named ‘Adventureland’, where he is put on ‘games’ and sent off to while away the hours while his friends are in Europe.  Initially downbeat about what he is missing, James soon starts to realise that it is not the job, but the oddball characters and friends that he makes who will decide the fate of his summer.  And one, a girl named Em, might just make it a great summer, after all.

It’s the classic setup for a coming-of-age film, only with a period setting that seems to be focussed on musical preference rather than anything in the story, which is the relatively timeless tale of that awkward transition from adolescence to adulthood.  It may also be a nod to the fact that some of the best teen movies were made during the 80’s, and Adventureland sometimes evokes a little John Hughes charm in its character archetypes.  Everyone is a little bit emotionally broken, especially its central female character of Em, played by Kristin Stewart, who puts her standard low-key performance to good use while constantly adjusting her hair to the point of OCD.  It works, but only because she is supposed to be confused, emotionally torn and a little morally bankrupted due to her broken home upbringing.

Our hero, on the other hand, is more a classic underdog.  With his slightly floundering mannerisms and bumbling disposition, Jesse Eisenberg plays James as the good-hearted outsider who is truly open to love, but not great at acting on it.  The same is true of Martin Starr, who takes the role of outright nerd Joel, and gives him a quiet, unappreciated reality.  In fact, very few people get a chance to stand out in Adventureland, as even the usually quip-heavy Ryan Reynolds, last seen bantering with Sandra Bullock in The Proposal [review], is relegated to a non-comedic position as the mechanic who puts a spanner in the works of James’s plan.  Only Bill Hader gets to play anything approaching energetic, as the park’s quirky manager and keeper of the peace.

It is this reverence to a depressed low-fi mood that makes Adventureland somewhat of a left turn for fans arriving in theatres based on the knowledge that this film is, as its poster describes it, “from the director of Superbad”.  There’s no denying the truth of that claim, but if you’re expecting the kind of brash, outrageous comedy that it implies, you’re bound to be disappointed.  The title sequence immediately gives off an indie vibe, pitching itself like a slightly less verbose Juno [review], and that same mood, one of quiet teenage suffering and small emotional connections, is what carries the film through to its hopeful conclusion.  There’s still a fair bit of profanity as well as some teenage drinking and mild drug use, but the coarseness and madcap pace of Mottola’s last film has been cast aside in favour of something more honest, and more real.

Does it pay off?  Well, yes and no.  The script is neat and tidy, hitting all the points you expect it to as a burgeoning relationship emerges between James and Em, only to be threatened by the manipulating character of Mike (the mechanic – an intentional pop music gag?)  It can be slow, and never feels in a rush to get wherever it is going, which may add to the lazy summer vibe, but doesn’t exactly demand your constant attention.  Secondly, and maybe more importantly, as a comedy it isn’t filled with as many laughs as one might like.  There are chuckles, wry smiles, and the occasional smirk, but very few proper laughs - often you’ll find yourself mentally acknowledging the jokes, but not getting any physical reaction from them.  It’s a difficult thing to balance comedy and reality, but I’d say that Mottola has fallen on just the wrong side of the line this time around.

With solid direction and a decent ensemble cast, Adventureland is a likeable entry into the coming of age genre.  Given a few more moments of comic exuberance, and a few less angsty, self-reflective conversations, Mottola may well have been on to a winner, especially given the current embracing of indie-flavoured teen pictures and the so-called ‘mumblecore’.  The mood of the film is spot on, but the standard teen comedy crowd might see things differently when they pay their entrance fees and try to go along for the ride.  Because much like the Adventureland park itself, this film may advertise copious fun and thrills from the outside, but inside it delivers a significantly tempered experience.

Adventureland is on UK general release from Friday September 11th.

“This is a story of boy meets girl” asserts the unnamed narrator at the beginning of this offbeat romantic tale, “but you should know up front, it is not a love story.”  As openings go, it is far from the typical starting point for a romantic comedy, but as we come to discover, (500) Days of Summer is anything but typical.  With it’s pop song inspired title, a dash of genuine inventiveness and some fantastic lead performances, this enthusiastically non-linear story hits all the turning points in one couple’s rocky romance.  And you can ignore the disclaimer, as it is insurmountably a love story - not necessarily one that takes place between its characters, as much as with the concept of love itself; its highs, its lows, and the confusing unpredictability in-between.

Tom Hansen is a bored greetings card writer who aspires to only two things: being an architect, and finding ‘the one’.  Both dreams have so far evaded him, until he meets new office assistant and girl-of-his-dreams, Summer Finn.  Their only problem is human nature itself: Tom is a hopeless romantic, while Summer is decidedly more pragmatic.  Still, the two are brought together by fate (and The Smiths), and so begins a 500-day story that finds them in their most vulnerable moments - the burgeoning stages of a relationship, their unlabelled period of ‘dating’, and their inevitable break-up.  Not satisfied with failure, Tom resigns himself to getting Summer back, but can already feel his sentimental dreams of true love and lasting happiness being washed away by the harsh tide of reality.

Featuring a beautifully written screenplay by Scott Neustadter and Michael Weber, (500) Days of Summer tells its tale by jumping around within the defined 500-day time period.  A title-card counter keeps track as we bounce back and forth, following the couple from their nervous beginnings, dipping into their tumultuous middle period, and occasionally glimpsing at the conclusion.  Besides keeping you on your toes, this bizarre narrative structure also makes for a great device, and is used expertly to create moments of comedy and poignancy.  The real skill employed here is in keeping the overall story as understandable as possible, yet up against such a fragmented timeline it’s surprising how easy it becomes to pick up your relative position.

Also deserving of credit is director Marc Webb, who has stepped out of a music video background to create this stunning first feature.  He shoots a gorgeous looking LA that could easily be confused for its more aesthetically interesting cousin, New York.  But more than this, he fills the movie with memorable shots, interesting visual concepts, and weird imaginary moments of whimsy.  The romantic comedy is not a genre that typically demands high art from its film-makers yet Webb’s talent seems to lie in making everything look a breeze, never begging for attention with even the quirkiest manifestations – which here includes a musical ‘morning after’ sequence that would crumble in most films, but which (500) Days of Summer turns into just one of its many highlights.

Where it all truly comes together, though, is in the casting.  It’s always satisfying to see someone who entirely deserves the attention finally getting their dues, and Joseph Gordon Levitt is perfectly equipped for this role, playing Tom with the appropriate mix of sentimental and neurotic charm.  After stellar work in Mysterious Skin [review], The Lookout [review] and the fantastic Brick [review], this should finally be the movie that - if he wants it to - will propel him into the mainstream.  And about time too.  Zooey Deschanel is equally good as Summer, and despite some thinner previous roles, is the perfect match for Tom, playing believably as the unsure but never outright manipulative dream girl.  The film can often feel like a simple two-hander, but it would be wrong not to mention Geoffrey Arend and Matthew Gray Gubler as Tom’s best friends McKenzie and Paul.  They are often relegated to comic relief, but still make a fantastic job of it.

Then there’s the soundtrack, an element not to be underestimated in the creation of a truly enveloping movie experience.  Writer Scott Neustadter, whose personal experiences make up most of the story, is clearly following in the Cameron Crowe tradition of storytelling - a tradition that uses music as a driver rather than a passenger.  It can be dangerous: pick the wrong track and your scenes will come screeching to a halt.  But get it right and the film flourishes around you, working its way into your subconscious and bedding itself there for later rumination.  This film underpins its key moments with songs by Regina Spektor, The Smiths, some classic Hall & Oates, a stomping Wolfmother track and one rather elegant Carla Bruni ballad.  It’s a typical indie/folksy mix, but so well selected that it puts the 95-minute running time on air.

It is also worth mentioning that the film’s two writers have just one previous film credit to their name, but you won’t guess what it is.  It’s The Pink Panther 2 – a film which shows not a fraction of the ingenuity displayed here, nor gives them a chance to show their true talent.  Case in point, among (500) Days of Summer’s ample share of unique moments, none shows the writers’ ability to capture the human condition more beautifully than the scene in which Tom attends a rooftop party which Summer is hosting.  As he ascends the stairs, his expectations of the night are pared against the reality, and in perfectly timed split-screen we witness the manner in which we optimise our thoughts toward some unattainable perfect scenario, set against the more awkward imperfections of actuality.  Webb pulls off this difficult visual representation tremendously, capping the scene with yet another postcard freeze-frame.  As real life gets the better of  Tom, he exits to a world that has forsaken him; an increasingly blurred hand-drawn sketch of what it was.  A brilliant moment and a true tour de force for everyone involved.

For all its creativity, however, this is still a good old fashioned tale of romantic endeavour.  There are moments in the first ten minutes when it’s hard to tell what the film wants to be, and it throws a little bit of everything at you from scene-setting narration to childhood flashbacks to character profiling set outside the rest of the narrative.  Give it time to settle down, though, and you’ll discover a true gem.  (500) Days of Summer sets its aspirations high, with a risky gender switch that casts its male role as the insecure romantic, and its female as the non-committal object of affection.  But you’ll barely even notice the trick, as the story rides a roller-coaster of emotional states, pulling its audience along for the ride.  And if indeed it is “not a love story” as it so intently assures us, you can’t deny the thread of hope that’s woven into every frame.  Hope for the characters and hope for the future of the romantic comedy.  A lasting message that, even as the cold September nights draw in, there’s still a little bit of Summer left.

(500) Days of Summer is on UK general release from Friday September 4th.

Taking a role only available to independent films, Mysterious Skin pushes the appropriateness of its narrative to near breaking point, dealing in so many awkward issues and difficult themes that it becomes a struggle just to watch, not least review.  Still, with an affective atmospheric approach, and fantastic casting, the film offers you an opportunity to just grit your teeth and dive on in.

Set in the small town of Hutchinson, Kansas, quiet local boy Brian Lackey has grown up troubled, after losing five hours in his youth to what he believes was an alien abduction.  Meanwhile, similarly troubled but infinitely more confident Neil McCormick has discovered his sexuality at an early age after falling for his little league baseball coach.  As both boys reach their late teens, each find themselves searching for answers.  Neil, fed up with prostituting himself out to the local crowd, goes looking for meaning in New York City; while Brian’s search leads him to find Neil, and the buried truth about his childhood.

If the dangerous set-up to David Slade’s dark role-reversal picture Hard Candy [review] had you checking your moral barometer, then expect this film to raise your mercury levels to new heights.  It’s an extremely uncomfortable watch, brought on by a self-imposed obligation to be raw, real, and sometimes downright explicit.  This heavy-impact story style, along with its sombre themes and impulsive characterisation, makes the film difficult to appreciate in any traditional sense.  But just because it reaches into dark places does not mean we have the right to dismiss it.  Maybe more so than usual, it allows you to question what you’ve seen, and exactly how it made you feel.

Reactionary, then, are the first opinions a viewer has on finishing the film.  It’s certainly the case that immediacy is not it’s strong point, and it is unlikely that the slow-burning plot does anything to help this.  Only on reflection can one come to terms with how they really feel about Mysterious Skin - not that the elapsed time will necessarily change your overall opinion, but because it’s hard to see the film for what it is, as you emerge gasping for air after 99 minutes in it dank, dark underworld.  Even the lighter scenes are tainted by an atmosphere that coats the whole film in a semi-transparent oily awkwardness; a constantly uncomfortable mood in a purposefully uncomfortable story.

Luckily, the cast really help elevate this film above its potential classification as a tawdry, low-rent shocker.  Joseph Gordon-Levitt stands out a mile as the disturbed and emotionally broken Neil, his quiet but confident temperament hiding a wealth of pain displayed through self-destructive actions.  Both here and in Rian Johnson’s Brick [review], Gordon-Levitt proves himself to be one of the finest young actors working today.  Meanwhile, Brady Corbet plays the more reserved lead, his half of the story a less explicit parallel to Neil’s.  He too does solid work, playing the slightly bumbling teen with nervous energy that shows most prominently in his scenes with Mary Lynn Rajskub.  There are also appearances by Elizabeth Shue as Neil’s Mother, Chris Mulkey as Brian’s father, and a difficult but well handled role for Bill Sage as the little league baseball coach of the characters’ youth.

While based on a novel by Scott Heim, the film seems to have lost little of the shock factor in its adaptation by director Gregg Araki.  There are scenes that will disturb and discomfort, although this has become part of Araki’s M.O. if his previous features The Doom Generation and Nowhere are anything to go by.  It takes the themes that have more quietly disconcerted in films like Running Scared [review] and Todd Solondz’s Happiness, but flips the focus back on the children instead of the more obvious plight of the adults.  The narrative plays nicely with a ‘two sides of the coin’ structure, displaying extreme reactions to the horrors of child abuse through characters who are defined, knowingly or unknowingly, by their early life.  As a result of the consistent subject matter, however, the film falls foul of a certain obviousness.  You’ll probably know exactly where the story is going after a few short minutes, especially in the case of Brian and his blackouts.

For a movie as thematically difficult as Mysterious Skin, the value is not necessarily in what you see, but how you feel seeing it.  Here, Araki has made a solid low budget feature (reportedly edited on a consumer-level Apple Mac) that wraps its depressed mood around you with surprising effectiveness.  But while there are moments that shine, there are others - like the decidedly empty ending - that turn the movie into a rather hollow experience.  It’s an interesting watch, and a challenging one at that, but like the implications of its title it’s also ponderous, carnal, and difficult to fully interpret.

Self-indulgent. That dreaded phrase has become close to a slogan for Quentin Tarantino’s latter career.  After fantastic early work in Reservoir Dogs, Pulp Fiction and his lesser appreciated but arguably greatest piece, Jackie Brown, everything else has been a disappointing slide down the film geek’s reference list.  His love of Asian cinema - especially that of the 70’s - came flooding to the fore in Kill Bill (released as two movies, but essentially one).  This, in turn, heralded his meticulous tribute to American grunge cinema - especially that of the 70’s - in the double-header, Grindhouse (released as one movie, but essentially two).  Inglourious Basterds, with its A-list star and no degree in film history required, may well be the most commercial Tarantino picture of the last decade.  But if you were expecting any less indulgence, prepare to be disappointed.

Opening at a remote farm house in 1940’s rural France, Nazi Colonel Hans Landa (AKA The Jew Hunter) is out to uncover Jewish families hiding from the German regime.  One young Jewish girl named Shosanna makes a slim getaway, and retreats to Paris where she begins working at a French cinema.  Years later she is romantically pursued by a German soldier; a war hero who has recent finished shooting a movie based on his experiences.  In order to get closer to her, he convinces the director to hold the premiere at her cinema - a premiere which will have the entire Nazi high command in attendance, including Hitler himself.  Shosanna, working under a false French alias, sees her opportunity for revenge.  Meanwhile a tough group of mainly American Jews named ‘The Inglourious Basterds’ are continuing their own reign of terror, bringing pain and suffering to any Nazi soldiers they come across.  They too have heard about the illustrious film premiere, and hatch a plan to try and end the war with one act of extreme violence.  The only thing standing in their way?  The premiere’s German head of security: Hans Landa, The Jew Hunter.

Looking back at the Tarantino half of Grindhouse (the stylised throw-back entitled Death Proof) it cemented the idea that this ageing hipster director remembers exactly how to play to his strengths, but not an audience’s patience.  His ever elongated discoursive style meant that the film wouldn’t cater to the curious casual cinema-goer - so full of long conversational diatribes that it read like out-takes from a Quentin Tarantino round-table discussion; with Quentin in every chair.  But Tarantino has always enjoyed spectacular success with his dialogue, and it is arguably what makes his films so watchable, even when they are at their most impenetrable in a genre or story sense.  Bound by some reverence for WWII period, he has wisely toned down the jive-talking banter for Inglourious Basterds, but has kept hold of the long scene structure, placing the whole 153-minute spectacle in just a handful of main locations.

As such, we don’t always get the full story, but rather a few small and very detailed sections of it.  It is here where the Tarantino dichotomy begins.  When a scene is in full flow, the movie really works and you find yourself wrapped up in the dialogue, the situation, the tension, the humour; whatever is being attempted probably has your full attention.  Only when the scene finally cuts to a new location, or we transition to a new ‘chapter’ (the movie has five title-carded chapters), does the realisation of awkwardness set in.  It feels disjointed, slow-moving, and at times a little boring; that is, until the next scene starts weaving its magic.  Such a wavering hold on your attention eventually takes its toll, and leaves the inevitable feeling that Inglourious Basterds is kind of a mixed bag - neither supremely great, nor tragically awful.

The film does feature some fantastic performances, most prominently from Christoph Waltz who completely steals the show as the Jew Hunter, Hans Landa.  It helps that he is also the most interesting character, and much more appealing to watch than Brad Pitt’s non-too-bright Basterd Lieutenant, Aldo Raine.  The scenes with Waltz are some of the darkest, most tense, even funniest in the movie, and he creates an introduction in Chapter 1 that the film almost fails to better for the following two hours.  Also worthy of special note are Hunger’s [review] Michael Fassbender as the British operative sent to work with the Basterds, Daniel Brühl as the war hero turned movie star Fredrick Zoller, and Mélanie Laurent playing Jewish refugee Shosanna.  The other Basterds, including fellow director Eli Roth, B.J. Novak, Omar Doom, Til Schweiger and Samm Levine, are mostly window dressing.

In fact, there’s a bigger issue at hand than just the Basterds’ lack of prominent moments.  It points to a larger story problem, and one that partially breaks the tension that mounts as the film leads you on its slow build up to the main event; its film premiere showdown.  Tarantino’s script, maybe rightly, lets the heart of the story lie in the tale of Shosanna; her escape from the Nazis, her new life in Pairs, and her ultimate revenge.  Where people will come out talking about Fassbender’s gripping bar sequence or the ultra-violent climax, the film’s juiciest morsel is a short scene that sees Shosanna come face-to-face with her unwitting family’s murderer, desperately trying to contain her fear, all while sharing a polite dessert.  It is truly marvellous, but leads into a second revenge plot that then runs parallel with that of the Basterds.  Tarantino has since explained in interviews how he enjoys the idea that the story defies your expectations, but with no links between the two plotlines, this doesn’t just become a film that de-emphasises the importance of its titular gang, as much as one where they could almost be removed entirely.

In its final form, Tarantino’s self-named Dirty Dozen may not be the film either he nor we were expecting it to be, but there’s little doubting the unique flair it possesses.  Once again, the trademark extended dialogue sequences prove to be both his gift and his curse, with the notable feeling that story and speech were never so at odds with each other in his earliest work.  What played so beautifully in Reservoir Dogs, failed to ignite the same spark in Death Proof, where the story - much like in Inglorious Basterds - was delivered with a haphazard consideration for pace.  There’s certainly a stronger tale to cling on to this time though, and infinitely more interesting characters have been moulded by ten years on Tarantino’s back-burner.  In short bursts, it is classic Tarantino of the best kind; but dare to indulge it two and a half hours of your time, and you may find a less than glorious experience awaits.

Inglourious Basterds is on UK general release from tomorrow.

If the weather is getting you down this summer, maybe you’d be forgiven for wanting to spend your hard earned cash on 97 minutes of sun, sea, sand and murder, in this Hawaiian-set thriller from the writer/director of Pitch Black.  Take heed though, neither the beautiful vistas nor the beautiful people on display can do justice to such inept plotting.

Arriving on their honeymoon in paradise, Cliff and Cydney are out for exploration  during their short stay on the Hawaiian islands.  Determined to take an expedition through the dense foliage to a secluded beach, they pack up their gear and start hiking the trail.  Along the way they meet up with two other couples; firstly, an odd pair by the names of Cleo and Kale, whose threatening demeanour makes the decision to stay with curious holidaymakers Nick and Gina all the more appealing.  News soon spreads that there a two people committing murders in Hawaii - killing couples who stray too far from the beaten track.  Cliff and Cydney decide to press on, but it isn’t long before they’re forced to question whether one of the other couples is hiding something from them

Shot on location in both Hawaii and Puerto Rico, there’s no denying the appeal of such an adventure.  Plus, the cinematography by Mark Plummer does glorious work of capturing the crisp white beaches, cascading waterfalls, and jungle-laden walking trails in-between.  The opening of the movie contains only sly references for what is to come, instead playing up the good-time, everything’s fine, honeymoon perfection that is supposed to lead us into a false sense of security.  Of course, like all contemporary holiday horror stories such as The Beach or Turistas, there’s the nagging wish that they will get to that inevitable downturn point before your interest wanes.  In A Perfect Getaway, this seems to take an awfully long time, and it’s a tepid pace that extends into the rest of the movie.

For the most part, we are supposed to be wrapped up by intriguing speculation over who might be committing the Hawaii murders, as Cliff and Cydney fear for their own safety on the islands.  There are very limited options available, however, and even when the script goes to great lengths to confuse the issue (succeeding, in spite of itself), the actual mystery is rather less mysterious than it might first appear.  You’ll probably be second-guessing the plot from the offset, but it’s better not to worry yourself on this occasion.  In fact, your passiveness may even be rewarded come the muddled conclusion.

You see, the biggest problem in A Perfect Getaway is whether the end of story fits the preceding start and middle.  The topic is left up for debate by David Twohy’s script, which thinks it is covering itself well, but actually requires you to force a point to prove its legitimacy in any resulting post-film arguments.  Whether you agree with it or not, there’s little doubt that you have to be willing to accept some pretty spurious conversational ambiguity for it to make complete sense.  It’s a shame too, because just when things start to get interesting, the film has you asking too many questions to really enjoy the sudden increase in tension.

And it’s here where director David Twohy hits the hardest, especially given his history with the superbly executed sci-fi thriller, Pitch Black.  That film had Vin Diesel’s troubling presence, alien-infested planets, and a persistent flirtation with darkness to its advantage in creating a seat-gripping, tense atmosphere.  Those same attributes don’t translate over to A Perfect Getaway, with neither Timothy Olyphant, Chris Helmsworth, or the slightly against-type Steve Zahn conveying anything like Vin Diesel levels of threat.  They all do a fine job though, and props to Zahn who really needed to switch up his genres after the dire comic depths of Strange Wilderness.

The female cast are often little more than eye candy, especially Kiele Sanchez who hasn’t much more to do than to remind Timothy Olyphant that he is “a man, in full” on numerous occasions.  Milla Jovovich has a bigger role to play, but always seems to get stuck as second fiddle to the male centrepieces.  Only during one scene when left alone with Sanchez does she get a chance to own a piece of the movie - luckily, she grabs the opportunity and runs further with it than all three Resident Evil films [review] have let her.  One notable point about the characters is that Twohy has made one of them a screenwriter, which naturally brings with it the rather cliché opportunity to talk movie conventions and narrative structure as part of the dialogue.  It’s not particularly clever, and way too knowing for a modern audience to take it as anything but foreshadowing - thankfully, they don’t spoil too much.

With such a questionable final turn, by the time the credits role it’s not so much a matter of whether this jigsaw fits together, as whether you even care.  I didn’t - not about who was going to survive, or about who was behind the murders.  Nothing in the slow lead-up to that point allows an audience to really get involved in these people, and so in a similar manner to last year’s Donkey Punch [review], the final act was rather boring, despite the sudden amped-up tension and action quota.  If you really want to experience an idyllic holiday destination, and can switch your brain off even in the face of a plot that begs you to second-guess it, then this movie could have something to offer.  It’s certainly a getaway, but far from a perfect one.

A Perfect Getaway in on UK general release from tomorrow.

There’s little to indicate that this latest independent sleeper hit wasn’t a huge gamble for all involved.  With a first-time feature director, a first-time writer, and a sci-fi narrative that’s more exacting than exciting, the film drains every cent out of its ambitious $5 million budget and shoots for the stars.  Or, in this case, just beyond.  Released in timely conjunction with the NASA Apollo landing’s 40th anniversary, Moon, with its subtle combination of low-fi human introspection and upscale science fiction setting, acts to remind us just how lost this once fine genre had become.

Set some time in the future, we find ourselves in the main hub of the Lunar Industries mining operation, located on the far side of the moon.  With a crew of just one, this off-world outfit is extracting Helium-3, a clean and efficient energy source that is periodically sent back to Earth.  Sam Bell’s three-year contract working on the station is almost up, and he looks forward to returning home and talking to someone other than his central intelligence computer, named GURTY.  With just two weeks left, a fault on one of the Helium-3 harvesters forces Sam out onto the surface for repairs, whereupon he crashes his lunar rover.  Waking up back inside the base, Sam finds himself confined indoors with no explanation as to why.  Only on sneaking back to the accident site does he discover what he was being protected from.  Sam is forced to confront his wavering sanity, his lost sense of identity with the world, and, most frighteningly, himself.

Armed with the intent of harking back to a long since forgotten era of science fiction, director Duncan Jones has wilfully created a movie with its roots in both the past and the future; a thirty-five-year-old outlook on a reality now possibly only the same distance ahead of us.  It seems that modern sci-fi has typically been dissolved into other genres, be it the action flick (such as the recent Star Trek reboot [review]), or possibly horror (Event Horizon, Starship Troopers et al.).  The Alien franchise can be traced back to both of these side-avenues, and Jones makes clear nods towards this, although his film is naturally closer to Ridley Scott’s original vision, than the sequels by Cameron and Fincher.

As a self-confessed fan of the whitewashed sci-fi style crafted during the 1970’s, there are references galore in Jones’ film; with the lonely themes of Silent Running, a robotic companion straight out of 2001: A Space Odyssey, and a general disquieting emptiness that reeks of Solaris.  But the period authenticity doesn’t stop there.  Commonplace digital effects are swapped for practical ones, character motives are ambiguous without excuse, and an airy atmosphere seeps into the gaps left by the lack of pervasive action sequences.  Moon isn’t a film so much influenced by its lineage, as one crafted in its very image.

Which all adds up to a very odd filmgoing experience in the 2009 summer schedule.  While every other movie is grabbing a concept and sticking to a formula, suddenly here’s a film that doesn’t show its calculations.  As such, it can be a tricky watch, using the first half to set up a number of narrative possibilities - is it a mystery thriller, or maybe a ponderous metaphor for life?  Sam’s hallucinations suggest a hint of claustrophobic horror may rear its head.  Then add to this some fantastic scoring by Clint Mansell that only further mystifies the film’s intentions.  His piano-led theme wavers around the high notes in a enigmatic manner, while the lower melody adds a haunting air, before percussion turns it into the film’s driving force.

Despite this multi-threaded approach to narrative direction, it’s maybe Moon’s biggest flaw that it follows through on none of them.  This ambiguity may well be purposeful, and as genre-defying counter-programming it certainly works, but it also results in a long lead up to a rather lacklustre conclusion.  Even as the final minutes approach, there are hints at some sort of character turn, or possibly a devious twist by either Sam or GURTY, which ultimately never arrives.  The characters are simply without ill will, and while it is undeniably a film about human emotion rather than plot, it could have been so much more.  With such a flat-lining story and a tendency to offer up information without provocation, Moon isn’t quite the character study it sets out to be.  Themes of loneliness, loss and identity are abound, but never entirely dissected during the film’s tight 97 minutes.

Duncan Jones has done fine work in the director’s chair, recreating the feeling of a space walk with slow, purposeful shots and editing.  The special effects, while not up to regular Hollywood standards, are good for the shoestring budget.  Model miniature implementation on the moon’s surface does not go unnoticed, but the backgrounds and general design aesthetic more than makes up for it.  Inside the station where we spend the majority of the film there is a notable scarceness.  Whether this is attributed to money, or a deliberate stylistic choice, it becomes the job of the smaller details to add realism and familiarity - the post-it notes on GURTY, the humanising of the harvesting machines, and Sam’s classic hermit hobbies: meticulous model-making and tending to plants.

And it is as this reclusive spaceman that actor Sam Rockwell really shines.  It helps that the film is almost a one-man show, yet with naught but the vocal performance of Kevin Spacey as GURTY to play off, he also has the responsibility of holding the film together.  Needless to say he is wonderful, bringing a range of emotive states to the role and make them play as a continuous whole.  The film itself further complicates the job by throwing him a performance curve ball that’s too fun to divulge here.  Infrequent appearences by other actors are merely background; the broken communications of people far, far away.  Just like Sam, the audience is constantly isolated from the rest of the world.

It isn’t often that your expectations about where a story will turn are shattered.  For Moon, however, there’s always the feeling that it doesn’t so much take a different path, as take no path at all.  The story (by Duncan Jones himself) and subsequent screenplay by Nathan Parker, deserves merit for its attention to old sci-fi maxims; not least its ideas, something seen increasingly less in modern day interpretations.  The film’s nicest moments are also its least explicit, including the lingering question of programming as a part of human nature.  Although mentioned only briefly at the end, Sam immediately denies it; but is he considering his own man-made existence?  Humans can transcend computational behaviour - but if, like a computer, you confine an entity and deliver consistent input, can you not expect a predictable output?  As a debut film this is an incredibly accomplished piece of work, and, if we’re lucky, one small step - if not giant leap - towards the return of intelligent sci-fi.

Moon is currently on UK limited release.