The film stars Garrel’s own son, Louis Garrel, who plays the protagonist of the same name. A struggling actor who wishes to reignite passion and spontaneity in his mundane life, Louis decides to leave his wife, Clothilde, to pursue a relationship with his troublesome mistress, Claudia. Shocked and surprised by her husband’s revelations, Clothilde is left to raise their 8-year-old daughter, Charlotte, on her own. Like Louis, Claudia is an actor, but her career has more downs than ups as she struggles to secure acting roles.

What comes thereafter is a following of their everyday endeavours, and really not much else. Louis finally lands a role in a minor play, while Claudia continues her search for that career defining moment she so longs for. But every attempt fails to come to fruition, and the longevity of unemployment begins to take its toll when she becomes frustrated with how boring her life has become. Eventually, Claudia falls prey to temptation and gives Louis a taste of his own medicine, cheating on him with another man she meets at a bar.

The choppy editing makes the film quite awkward to watch, which in turn makes it rather difficult to understand the complex relationship between Louis and Claudia. The transition from one scene to another is disjointed and, therefore, it becomes a challenge to pinpoint any significant growth in the relationship.

Another filmic technique prevalent is the open-ended structure of the film. The reason why Louis left Clothilde in the first place isn’t properly explained; it’s up to the audience to interpret his reasons through his bubbly behaviour with Claudia as opposed to the monotonous moments he had with Clothilde.

Furthermore, the flat tones of the dialogue also make for uncomfortable viewing, the static in their speech making it seem as if every character is withdrawn from each other. Fragmented conversations filled with awkward silences permeate throughout the film. Again, this is another French New Wave device employed by Garrel – improvised dialogue. This could probably explain the strange pauses throughout, as actors are left to their own accord to build a conversation.

Charlotte was a standout performance in the entire film, and though only a minor character, she provides a decent balance to the film’s overall depressing outlook on infidelity and love. Her mother-daughter bond with Clothilde is very heartfelt, particularly during dinner where we witness Charlotte’s innate childlike curiosity and energetic enthusiasm for life.

The anticlimactic end of the film ties in naturally with the monochrome backdrop, and Philippe Garrel’s decision to name the film ‘Jealousy’ is highlighted through Claudia’s obnoxious adultery and Louis’ infidelity, but the rest of it just feels like random fillers compiled together to make one lengthy feature film. Those who are well versed to French filmmaking might thoroughly enjoy it, but for the rest of us, we are left with a feeling of ‘that’s it?’ The fact that every important character has a name starting with C doesn’t ease the confusion any less.

2/5 stars

The film features Chin Siu-ho as himself; an actor who checks into a room of a ramshackle housing complex with the intention of suicide. Unbeknownst to him is the sinister history of the room he has chosen. The twin spirits who inhabit the room are looking for a body to possess and the anguished actor provides a nice vessel for them. He is fortunate enough to be rescued by Chan Yau (Anthony Chan), an ex-vampire hunter who now runs a food stall inside the complex.The tenants gather around to watch Yau in action as he expels the spirits. After this incident, our protagonist is still reluctant to accept the supernatural occurrences around him and goes into a sort of filmic comatose. The same can be said of Yau, who refuses to interfere with supernatural affairs again.

Rigor Mortis is about the pair and how they come to work together, but as Chin and Yau bottom-trawl the narrative for a while, subplots carry the film. The death of Auntie Mui’s (Nina Paw) husband and her desperate efforts to resurrect him with the help of a deceptive occult specialist Gau (Chung Fat) play a significant part in the plot. There’s also emotionally disturbed mother, Yueng Teng, and her young albino son, Pak, who constantly lurk in Chin’s apartment.

Teng and Pak are part of a larger symbolic reference to the colour white throughout Rigor Mortis. Pak says, “… white is the most beautiful colour in the world”, which is crazy considering violent and disturbing flashbacks of the character’s past are in angelic white; flashbacks that give a glimpse of past psychological wounds, but never truly delve into them enough to enhance narrative understanding.

Exorcists, ghosts and hopping vampires aside, Paw’s performance as Auntie Mui is the highlight of Rigor Mortis. You are constantly unsure about whether or not to sympathise with her or feel anger towards her. Either way, Paw’s portrayal of Auntie Mui is simply outstanding, making her someone you feel moved by. Her character-forming grief, a terrifying reminder of how love and loss can impact a person in the worst of ways.

There are many shots from windows and peepholes, a voyeuristic style of cinematography that works well with Rigor Mortis’ atmosphere and underlying themes. On top of that, the art direction and sound is superb.

The familiarity of all the ghostly croaking and gargling from the long-haired contortionist ghost can be pointed to Takashi Shimizu’s (director of The Grudge) undeniable influence, as he co-produced Rigor Mortis. Asian cult cinema goers and those with prior knowledge of Chinese folklore may pick up on these small things and understand Rigor Mortis a little bit better. It isn’t completely necessary to understand the reason behind recipes for raising the dead or the significance of glutinous rice, though some aspects may get lost on a Western audience.

Rigor Mortis will send chills down your spine with suggestive imagery rather than screamers. Mak’s first feature comes close to being somewhat of a masterpiece, if not for it’s ending. It is tiring and cumbersome to come to the end of the film, with a twist that feels like the result of last minute decision making. It will leave you with more questions than it does answers, but one thing is for sure, Rigor Mortis is definitely worth a watch.

3.8/5 stars

Heaven Adores You is rigidly chronological, beginning with Smith’s move from his family home in Texas to Portland, Oregon at only 14. Through interviews with high school friends and musical collaborators, we’re given a thorough look into the Portland music scene of which Smith became a stalwart. Heaven Adores You essentially steps through Smith’s career, album by album, including a hefty chunk of screen time spent on his early releases with bands Stranger Than Fiction and Heatmiser.

Heaven Adores You hits its stride as it documents Smith’s move to New York and his burgeoning popularity when ‘Miss Misery’ was used in the Good Will Hunting soundtrack. This period of unease in Smith’s life resonates poignantly on screen, with the documentary taking a turn towards how truly unknowable Smith is. In an interview documented in the film, Smith suggests he’s “the wrong kind of person to be big and famous”. This conflict between popularity and musical creativity exists as a shadow over the second half of the film, as we’re given detail about how drug use and depression dampened his life. Heaven Adores You can’t claim to be a particularly uplifting documentary, but like Smith’s music, has tinges of optimism under the seemingly endless cloud of pessimism.

Unsurprisingly, the soundtrack here is a true gem, with Smith’s music threaded throughout the film. Alongside classic tracks are unreleased demos, evidencing his musical breadth and prolific nature. Heaven Adores You also includes various radio and television interviews with Smith himself, creating the impression that he is essentially narrating his own documentary. The inclusion of the unreleased, candid demos, together with Smith’s self-effacing view on his music, gifts Heaven Adores You with a particularly intimate feeling.

This intimacy is only elevated through the scope of interviews used within the film. Indeed, almost everyone central to Smith’s narrative has been used to best effect here, including personal assistants, ex-girlfriends and musical or artistic collaborators. It’s hard to view Heaven Adores You as anything other than the ‘definitive’ Elliot Smith documentary. Rossi has crafted an honest and all-encompassing view into Smith’s creative output and life, considering the unknowable quantity that Elliott Smith ultimately is.

Smith purists will adore the depths that Heaven Adores You reaches, while casual listeners will enjoy the clarity with which his musical history is covered. Heaven Adores You ultimately chrysalises Smith’s sensibilities into a 90-minute film, an impressive feat considering the sensitivity, creativity and mystery of the man himself.

4/5 stars

Skeleton Twins, starring Saturday Night Live alumni Kristen Wiig and Bill Hader, is very much a film in the Mark Duplass camp of naturalistic filmmaking. Scenes of languid (hinting at mumblecore) dialogue are interspersed with gorgeous shots of urban landscapes, bookended by lush pastoral scenery. This is a film about contemplation.

Following a failed suicide attempt, Milo (Hader) accepts his estranged twin sister Maggie’s (Wiig) invitation to live with her and her husband Lance (played by the beautifully understated, yet most definitely appreciated, Luke Wilson). Of course, there are deep-seated personal issues and twisted mentalities which drive the conflict, which seem to run far deeper than what is really fleshed out on screen. Skeleton Twins is a master in the art of subtlety. The film has a ridiculous amount of exposition under its belt, but all the backstories, motivations and sordid histories are addressed in fluid motions. The film never grinds to a halt to cram information down your throat, but by the end, you’ll find yourself fitting together these tidbits of information, like puzzle pieces you’ve unconsciously been collecting over time.

Of course, the film’s main draw is its two leads. Hader and Wiig have spent the good part of a decade under the heat lamp of New York City sketch comedy. The two have developed a rapport so organic and genuine that it’s a legitimate pleasure to watch their chemistry bubble on screen. Not only do they appear convincingly as twins with a complex history behind them, but they also portray siblings who know one another down to their smallest flaws and most endearing ticks. One particular scene, which involves nothing more than the two sharing a hysterical laughing fit, is guaranteed to leave the dopiest grin hanging lopsided from your face. Skeleton Twins is a film that doesn’t try to be funny. It doesn’t need to be. It exudes its warm humour from beneath a cold layer of brutal cynicism.

Another aspect of the film that deserves merit is Hader’s portrayal of Milo, who happens to be gay, but that is not his defining characteristic. Everything about him—his snark, his egotism, his genuine sibling care and worldly naiveté, even his response to typical Hollywood cinematic scenarios – these are elements of his character which successfully avert clichés.

Now, this isn’t a film without its flaws. While Wiig’s chemistry with her fellow actors is almost flawless, it’s evident her strength lies more in comedic acting. There are occasional moments where one may be pulled out of the film by her careful, desperate to please, dramatic intention. Her voice assumes the tone of a soul weathered by too many Wes Anderson films.

However, this is a ridiculously minute nitpick of what is an incredible film. Those expecting a simple, serious vehicle for the former SNL stars will leave feeling a lot more wholesome and a lot less jaded in this wistful world of ours.

4/5 stars

It is hard to deny that the music in this film is great. Murdoch’s brand of sweet, soothing indie pop is intoxicating, and it is well showcased. The cast fit their musical parts remarkably well and, backed by members of Murdoch’s actual band, each number comes together nicely.

The core of the ensemble take to their three level podium graciously. Browning, Alexander and Murray each know how much to give and how much to hold back. They are a strong trio. Flawlessly attractive and charismatic, their chemistry is strong and their connections feel genuine. Browning’s Eve is nuanced, contrary and surprisingly likeable. And her voice is good, even rivalling Catherine Ireton’s on the original album. Honestly, watching everyone skip, whistle and click through Murdoch’s oeuvre is a pleasure. But it isn’t quite enough.

The fact that God Help the Girl is a film feels kind of incidental, as though it’s just another medium to explore this idea in. The plot is a little confused and unfocused at times, and often seems like a vehicle for cuteness and whimsy: ‘Let’s ride a tandem bike!’ or ‘Let’s watch a puppy running!’ or ‘Let’s put some cuties in knee-highs and neck-ties!’ (not complaining about that last one). And all these things are good, or could be. Murdoch has a pleasant aesthetic to his work, and his style is in keeping with his music. However, without a strong plot or a clear goal, our attention wavers between each song and adventure. These intermissions hold back what could be a great film. When a character bursts into song in a film, it should feel as if they have no other way to express themselves. But without adequate emotional build-up beforehand, Murdoch’s songs lack the urgency needed to drive the plot forward.

To be fair, this is Stuart Murdoch’s directorial debut. And he does show promise. In terms of tone and aesthetic, this film is comparable to Richard Ayoade’s debut, Submarine (2010), and its shortcomings are similar. But unlike Submarine, Murdoch’s film doesn’t quite feel complete. Hopefully this isn’t the last we’ve heard from Murdoch on this project because, as it is (and as nice as it looks and sounds), God Help the Girl needs a little help.

3/5 stars

This moment in Whitney Horn and Lev Kalman’s L for Leisure is a good way to link together the episodic pieces of the previous 70 minutes, and prescribe some kind of meaning to them. Filmed over the course of four years and across multiple continents, the art-house piece of amateur filmmaking (funded by Kickstarter) is a dialogue-driven portrait of 1990s young adult life and its limitless possibilities, set in the liminal time between college semesters ending and beginning again.

Regardless of its atypical narrative (or seeming lack of), to suggest that the film isn’t about anything would indicate an ignorance to the very traditions of American independent filmmaking that L for Leisure aspires to. In the vein of Whit Stillman and Noah Baumbach, directors Horn and Kalman let the dry wit of their hyper-intellectual young protagonists drive the film, their meandering existential conversations punctuated by interruptions about seemingly menial topics, like ice cream flavours.

Played almost entirely by non-actors, these characters deliver every line with a completely earnest sincerity, and it’s something about this genuine lack of pretension that gives the film its sense of irony. Equal parts thought-provoking and absurd, L for Leisure demonstrates how simultaneously insightful yet unaware young people can be about the world around them, while the charm of these characters rescues the film from any fate as a complete social satire.

Despite the intense saturation of 1990s visual and narrative elements, L for Leisure’s conscious appeal to a contemporary young audience is made very much evident through John Atkinson’s original score. At times it’s heard simply through the radio as diegetic background noise to the characters’ lives, and at others as blaring rhythms that create scenes reminiscent of MTV. The synth-heavy soundtrack adds an interesting dimension to those moments in the narrative  that would otherwise have had the potential to come across as slow-moving.

Similarly, the impressive landscapes – from the sweeping forests of California to golden fields in France – captured on 35mm film provide a backdrop that perfectly complements the sense of infinite possibilities felt by the protagonists. As one particular pair spend their 1992 Labor Day lounging on a deck in the Sky Forrest, it’s impossible to not feel somewhat envious of these precocious figures and their apparently comfortable lives.

With its dreamy celluloid aesthetic and authentic dialogue, ultimately, L for Leisure watches like an intimate home movie, made with the group of friends you wish you had.

3/5 stars

After a life marred by the specter of a brain aneurysm, Derek and childhood friend Clif decide to break free of routine and travel the world. The pair take a very Gen-Y approach to documenting their adventure, placing reams of Go-Pro footage on a blog called ‘Ends of the Earth’. True to form, nothing is left out of their travel diary, with skydiving in Barcelona and their attempts at pulling women both published for the world to see.

On the Parisian leg of their tour, Derek’s eagerness to get laid is on full display, soon meeting the mysterious Audrey (Baya Rehaz) and taking her back to his hotel. However, on returning to their accommodation, Clif finds Derek bloodied and feverish, with no recollection of the evening’s events. Pushing on through Italy, the evidence that Derek has changed becomes abundantly clear. Half played for laughs, Derek now projectile vomits any human food he ingests, and his skin viscerally blisters when he steps into the sun. Clif and Derek begin running nighttime tests to confirm the unbelievable diagnosis – vampirism.

Once their European travels take a turn for the supernatural, their blog becomes an online chronicle of how it can all go so wrong. Clif keeps the cameras rolling, even as Derek begins to fray at the edges without access to fresh blood. Seeing only one viable option, Derek goes in search of Audrey for both answers and an antidote.

It’s easy to assume that the ‘found footage’ genre has reached the absolute end of its lifespan. But with the clever inclusion of social media, and our obsession with endlessly documenting our lives, Afflicted has attempted something different in a very cut-and-dry category. Prowse and Lee’s focus on modernity is obvious from the quality of the special effects. When Derek’s skin horrifyingly blisters in the sun, it’s impossible not to recoil in terror, because of how authentic it seems.

Prowse and Lee seem to take this realist approach to every aspect of the film, particularly in how the protagonists deal with Derek’s newfound skills. While doing test jumps off buildings may seem fantastical and insane, it’s typical of Gen-Y, pushing the boundaries and living by the YOLO mantra. Afflicted is ultimately a realistic depiction of two 20-somethings who are completely in over their heads, testing the waters as they go along.

However, Prowse and Lee don’t escape the genre’s clichés completely. Their only female character, Audrey, has little substance and is more a plot device than anything else. Further, while the reactions of the characters are often realistic, it’s difficult to sympathize wholly with them. We’re gleeful to see the terror occurring, but less so when listening to Derek and Clif’s lengthy monologues about how and why it’s happening and what they prophesise might happen next.

It’s not a perfectly constructed film script-wise, but Afflicted has enough bite to keep horror fans wondering what’s around the corner. While Afflicted is not particularly complex or thoughtful, it is enjoyable enough for its visual effects and twists on ‘found-footage’ clichés.

3/5 stars

If the Brothers Grimm were ecofeminists, this is the film they would make. Clara and The Secret of the Bears feels like an old story, but its message is decidedly contemporary. With a strong focus on oral traditions and storytelling, this film is about culture and connectedness. Surrounded by people still fearful of the legendary ‘Bären-Frau’, a witch who cursed the village, the 13-year-old Clara (Ricarda Zimmerer) has the insight to investigate and, in turn, she is rewarded. Inquisitiveness, literacy, and cross-generational discourses are all praised in a way that engages a younger audience. Clara is seen as magic, and her powers of empathy and vision transform her from a helpless young girl into a person in touch with her environment and connected to the forces of nature. A warning repeats itself throughout the film and Clara is the only one who listens: “the wrath of nature reigns down on those who harm the bears”.

Women drive this film, with almost all of the major characters being female, and while they are sometimes met with ridicule by their antagonists, their strength brings them triumph. Integrity, empathy and listening bring these women together in solidarity across several generations and several centuries, and together they save themselves and the bears, restoring the balance of their village. At every turn, this film attempts to challenge unhealthy gender roles. Is this legendary woman a witch? Or is she just a social outcast, a woman speaking her mind, voicing an unpopular opinion? Does she deserve our outrage or a moment of our time for us to question ourselves? There are atypical male characters as well. Clara gains the friendship of a boy in her class, but it is only that – a friendship – and Clara never compromises herself for it. And a bear cub raised by its father is something we, like the characters in the film, might not expect to see.

The inclusion of the bears, acting in a non-threatening way, helps a young audience in understanding their fears instead of demonising them. The bears we see are still wild animals, and they are shown to be dangerous. But Clara and The Secret of the Bears teaches us that protecting the bears from a respectful distance is better than hunting them, an important lesson in coexistence. The non-human characters play an important role in this film. The landscape of the Swiss Alps might be easy to miss as a character, but as soon as it starts to be mistreated, it is sure to make its powerful presence known.

Clara and The Secret of the Bears is a touching and well-constructed film that teaches us the importance of learning to walk in other people’s shoes while being mindful of our footprints.

3½/5 stars

Web Junkie is shot unobtrusively, granting the audience a probing and ultimately disheartening glimpse into both the centre and the wider issue at hand. The patient pool is made up almost entirely of isolated teenage boys. With some playing World of Warcraft in internet cafes for upwards of ten hours straight and threatening suicide when their computer is at risk of being taken away, they log on to escape the ‘fake’ reality they exist in. The real issue of Web Junkie is not problematic internet use. Instead, it emerges as a symptom of a massive generational gap between isolated children and their frustrated parents, who deem them disrespectful and ungrateful. The young people, lonely in a single-child-policy country and overwhelmed by parental pressures to get good grades, find themselves disengaged from their depressing realities and turning to the internet.

The inherent ridiculousness of the situation is obvious to any outsider looking in. The dogma and junk science being espoused by the clinicians and facility staff (likening the internet to heroin) and the tears and frustration of the boys are sometimes so alien to the audience that it prompts laughter. Indeed, there was definitely a sense of dark comedy to Web Junkie, stemming from both the situation (one boy sobbing while confessing, “I used the internet!”) and the compensatory sarcastic jibes from the boys. Laughter gives way to sadness, however, in the more tender moments of Web Junkie, such as family therapy scenes between the parents and their children that are a hundred times more engrossing than the rest of the footage.

For a documentary that deals with such unique and perplexing subject matter, Web Junkie seems to represent a missed opportunity to comment more firmly on a ridiculous practice that is so obviously a governmental band-aiding of a wider cultural issue. However, it does instil a sense of puzzlement in its audience, so perhaps the goal here is awareness and not condemnation. Even if it does feel as though Web Junkie falls short in being a fully realised and provocative exploration of an extremely interesting topic, it succeeds in painting a surprisingly comic and heartfelt example of a generational gap left to fester.

3/5 stars

Jens Harant’s work behind the lens is fantastic; the camera is almost constantly at Jack’s eye-level, following him with patient supervision and ramping up the tension with hurried overtones when necessary. We see Berlin in a beautiful summer light that runs opposite to the magnitude of Jack’s predicament. Plentiful long shots capture the beautiful urban playground that we are invited to snake through with the brothers.

Ivo Pietzcker delivers a convincing and sympathetic performance as Jack, though he can appear slightly one-dimensional in his stony exterior, which is broken, for a moment, in a painful expression of doubt upon an anticlimactic reunion with his mother. For the most part, Jack is responsible, but little details betray his youth: taking sugar packets for Manuel and himself to eat, or stealing binoculars from an electronics store to replace a friend’s pair that he was responsible for losing. The smaller details of Jack are all-important; through them we see a fully realised family, in all of their quirks and flaws, and a careless mother that somehow defies our condemnation.

Jack doesn’t take the easy route in vying for our sympathies; no dire harm befalls the boys in their tour of Berlin, and though you do eventually let yourself breathe, it just gives way to a heavier sadness. Jack really drives home the reality of the situation, and forces you to accept the motherly unreliability that will only continue to affect the boys. Although Sanna is selfish and flighty, she does redeem herself somewhat by giving herself wholly to her kids when she is around, and it’s very clear that she loves them dearly, even if she doesn’t know how to be a responsible parent.

On a broader scale, Jack forces us to face the actuality that many boys Jack’s age might come to know; too young for independence and almost too old for the system, these boys are caught in limbo between youth and adulthood. Sometimes the neglect or abuse isn’t as visible, but it still has the same effects, and can leave boys like Jack all alone in a city like Berlin.

3/5 stars