SARAH WARD REVIEWS

BORN TO DANCE

The dance movie travels to New Zealand in Born to Dance, giving an otherwise generic offering a much-needed dose of enthusiasm in the process. The majority of the film adheres to tried-and-tested elements, as seen in a narrative peppered with underdogs trying to succeed against the odds, rivalries between dance crews, a coming-of-age journey and a wrong-side-of-the-tracks romance. Thankfully, the energy of the cast and the spectacular choreography enliven what could have remained a blandly formulaic, feel-good showcase of moving and grooving.

Parris Goebel can’t be underestimated in lifting Born to Dance beyond its standard story and message

Indeed, the efforts of Step Up All In performer and Jennifer Lopez, Nicki Minaj and Janet Jackson collaborator Parris Goebel can’t be underestimated in lifting Born to Dancebeyond its standard story, and in venturing past its just-as-standard message about pursuing a passion and believing in oneself as well. In a film concerned with characters who dance because that’s who they are — as the screenplay is at pains to make plain — her distinctive numbers ensure their zeal transcends the often clumsy dialogue and always typical scenario. After premiering in Toronto and releasing in its homeland as well as Australia in 2015, expect the Tammy Davis-directed feature to receive a warm response to its feverish hip-hop routines when it brings its brand of strutting and swagger to Berlinale’s Generation 14plus lineup in February.

Teenager Tu (Tia-Taharoa Maipi) is chief among the film’s flurry of frenzied and fleet feet, his dancing prowess both an escape from the doldrums of his summer holiday job at a South Auckland recycling centre, and his preferred career path. Training with a group of pals who call themselves 2PK, he has his sights set on winning the national championships. Alas, his army sergeant father (John Tui) espouses other ideas about his future, giving Tu a six-week deadline to come up with a sensible plan for his life, or be forced to enlist in military service.

Enter a YouTube video of Tu’s smooth moves that goes viral, attracting the attention of the country’s reigning hip-hop stars. Led by the determined and ruthless Kane (Jordan Vaha’akolo) and seeking their fourth consecutive title, K-Crew invites Tu to audition for a coveted spot with the troupe. He follows his fondness for Kane’s girlfriend, American dancer Sasha (Kherington Payne), as much as his fancy footsteps, hoping several of his dreams will come true; however making the lengthy trek to the North Shore for tryouts while keeping his antics from his dad and friends proves problematic.

Writers Steve Barr, Hone Kouka and Casey Whelan show few signs of trying to challenge the dance movie status quo, their embrace of convenience and convention as overt as the film’s thumping P-Money-produced soundtrack. And yet, the movie’s charms adhere to similar clichés in an amiable way, for what the mash-up of Step Up, Dirty Dancing and Billy Elliott lacks in originality, it makes up for in style and spirit.

In his feature helming debut, Black Sheep andOutrageous Fortune actor turned filmmaker Davis sensibly devotes as much of the movie’s running time to its main drawcard of writhing, rhythmic displays as possible. The tight camerawork and close framing of cinematographer Duncan Cole, speedy pace enforced by editor Jeff Hurrell (Deathgasm), and keen eye of dance unit director Chris Graham (Sione’s Wedding) are also crucial.

In fact, Davis’ approach suits the cast perfectly, as most are performers rather than actors, and each sells their role through their dance floor skills more than their theatricality. Of the varied and clearly eager bunch, Maipi anchors the feature with a mix of charisma and awkwardness, though he’s done few favours by the script’s frequent wallowing in melodrama.

Real-life So You Think You Can Dance contestant Payne and Australian Idol winner Stan Walker meet comparable fates, the former’s love interest a pleasant but thinly-sketched presence, and the latter playing Tu’s drug-dealing buddy Benjy. Luckily, their shared dynamic still feels genuine, with their sincerity and zest — and the diversity of the film’s characters — Born to Dance’s other welcome addition to the well-worn genre.

THE FIFTH WAVE

A series of attacks against humanity fuels The Fifth Wave, with the earth’s populace struggling to survive an electronic pulse, natural disasters, avian flu, and, finally, the systematic picking off of all the stragglers left behind. In adapting Rick Yancy’s young adult novel of the same name, the film also rides another wave. Retracing the footsteps of Twilight, The Hunger Games, Divergent, and The Maze Runnerseries, it joins the ever-growing list of efforts keen to jump on the teen-focused franchise bandwagon.

Shades of those four features colour this J Blakeson-directed feature, his second after 2009 thriller The Disappearance of Alice Creed. A dystopian premise, plucky heroine, and potential love triangle combine in a movie that’s as generic as it sounds, complete with a just-as-standard alien invasion plotline thrown in. Should the target market warm to it — and given the recent trend, that’s certainly possible, albeit with more modest success than its predecessors — a spate of sequels is likely. In print, The Fifth Wave is the first book in a trilogy, with the final installment set to be published in mid 2016. Sony has snapped up the rights to all three.

When we first meet protagonist Cassie Sullivan (Chloë Grace Moretz), she’s running through the forest, then making her way cautiously through an empty convenience store. There, she finds a man holding a gun but begging her not to fire her own weapon. She might be compelled to shoot in what she thinks is a kill-or-be-killed scenario, but she’s also troubled by her actions. In its opening scene, The Fifth Wave establishes its fascination with the impact of extreme circumstances upon the mindset of ordinary people. That’s the feature’s most interesting element, though any thoughtfulness quickly gives way to cliché.

Indeed, the earnest narration that follows sets the standard, as Cassie informs the audience in trite teen soundbites that her life is now far from normal. Via journal entries rendered on screen as flashbacks, she describes the day a giant floating spacecraft appeared over the planet, then fleshes out the subsequent waves of destruction. After surviving the chaos thus far, she settles into a refugee camp with her father (Ron Livingston) and younger brother, Sam (Zackary Arthur). Enter the army, overseen by Colonel Vosch (Liev Schreiber), who is eager to ship the kids off to another site - although Cassie gets left behind.

Trying to make her way to Sam proves difficult, resulting in a tentative alliance with a farm-dwelling college student, Evan Walker (Alex Roe), who could be a friend or a foe. Simultaneously, Sam is stationed in a squad of child soldiers led by Cassie’s high school crush, Ben Parish (Nick Robinson). Told by the no-nonsense Sergeant Reznik (Maria Bello) that the extra-terrestrial invaders have burrowed into the brains of human hosts, these children are trained to hunt and kill, with the group also including requisite smart kid Dumbo (Tony Revolori) and the tough-talking Ringer (Maika Monroe).

The contemplation of lost humanity in times of war again rears its head in these military-set segments, courtesy of a twist few won’t see coming; however The Fifth Wavenever makes a genuine attempt to transcend its youthful sci-fi melodrama confines. Instead, the script by Susannah Grant (The Soloist), Akiva Goldsman (Insurgent) and Jeff Pinkner (The Amazing Spider-Man 2) patches together sequences of devastation, combat and rebellion which could have come from any similar offering, as well as a romance so cheesily written that it incites laughs.

And, like many films designed to double as opening chapters in ongoing screen sagas, The Fifth Wave always feels padded, its focus on establishing a springboard for future sequels rather than satisfactorily exploring its own narrative.

At least it looks the part, with technical efforts polished across the board. The routine images of spectacle — brief, bleak sights of planes falling out of the air and tidal waves enveloping cities — never brandish their special effects too blatantly, while Maze Runner cinematographer Enrique Chediak and Seventh Son editor Paul Rubell invest the film with a sense of energy that the screenplay lacks.

Less convincing is Moretz, saddled with another leading role that doesn’t quite suit, like the maudlin If I Stay and horror remake Carrie before. Indeed, the appearance ofIt Follows breakout star Monroe doesn’t help; where Monroe stands out, Moretz could be playing the same character from many of her past efforts. Much of the rest of the cast is wasted, particularly Livingston and Maggie Siff in thankless, blink-and-you’ll-miss-them turns, though other supporting players will likely benefit from increased screen time should subsequent features get the green light.

KURT KOBAIN

A haunting, heartbreaking cinematic poem about a lost icon, and perhaps the finest music documentary you'll see.

Maybe you’re old enough that you can remember where you were when you heard the news of his death 21 years ago. Maybe you grew up only ever knowing of his loss and his legend. Either way, Nirvana fan or not, Kurt Cobain: Montage of Heckis essential viewing.

This isn’t your usual music documentary, or the standard package of talking heads, childhood photos and backstage pics — though they’re all there in some shape and form. As the name suggests, this is a mosaic of his tumultuous life as it happened, drawn from the most intimate resources and largely spoken in his voice.

Filmmaker Brett Morgen uses art, music, journals, home videos and audio montages provided by Cobain’s family to journey, step by step, from the birth to the death of the rock icon. First he’s a bright child, then a disaffected teen, a creative genius, a reluctant star, a drug-addicted celebrity and a doting father. What he rarely seems, though, is happy.

Indeed, think of Montage of Heck less like a portrait of Cobain and more like his thoughts and emotions being allowed to roam free. Biographical information is included, but this is about who he really was, rather than interesting trivia. Things get dark, clearly; however, the fleshed-out image the film composes of the troubled musician is probably the most complex audiences have ever seen. Examinations of tortured artists rarely come across as quite so honest, or so genuine in peeking behind the veil of their public personas, or so willing to embrace the complications of their subjects.

Morgen’s style has much to do with the movie’s air of authenticity, the writer, director and co-editor piecing everything together with a lived-in mood and a stitched-together look unlike the bulk of similar offerings. From animation that brings Cobain’s drawings to life and scrawls his handwritten lyrics, lists and love letters onto the screen, to footage of his brand of wedded bliss with Courtney Love, to revealing chats with those who knew him best (Love, Cobain’s parents and sister, his ex-girlfriend Tracey Marander and Nirvana bassist Krist Novoselic), it never feels anything less than hand- and home-made.

The wealth of content the feature has at its disposal is certainly astonishing, both in providing much more than a glimpse Cobain’s most personal moments, and in allowing fans a few opportunities to really geek-out — such as spying his sketches forNevermind‘s album cover and his suggestions for ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit”s music video. ThatMontage of Heck is the first effort made with the support of his loved ones shows, though this is as far from a glossy tribute as you can get.

It might be light on performances, but the film also has an amazing soundtrack, obviously — and the way Morgen weaves Nirvana’s music into the mix is so well done, it causes goosebumps. That’s the kind of reaction Montage of Heck inspires. By the time it makes it to the MTV Unplugged clips from what turned out to be one of the band’s last major performances, expect your eyes to get misty.

With so much said about Cobain for the past two decades, it feels fitting that a compilation of his own words actually says the most. Never basking in the cult of his fame, nor wallowing in his demise, this is Cobain being Cobain. It’s not just a montage: it’s a haunting, heartbreaking cinematic poem about a lost icon — and perhaps the finest music documentary of its generation.

DADDY IS HOME

Leather versus khakis. Motorcycle versus family car. Rock versus smooth jazz. In Daddy’s Home, the list of contrasting character preferences only continues, as the film incessantly tries to establish a binary dynamic. Two men, constantly painted as opposites, wage a war for the hearts and minds of children biologically fathered by one but step-parented by another. Relying so heavily upon the shorthand of easy juxtaposition is a simple and overt approach — and, as it happily conveys a tale of competitive paternal posturing through an accumulation of clichés, it’s as complicated as the movie gets.

So unravels the story of Dusty Mayron (Mark Wahlberg, Ted 2) and Brad Whitaker (Will Ferrell, Get Hard), the former described as “Billy the Kid meets Mick Jagger”, the latter a mashup of every uncool father ever committed to the screen. They clash when Dusty decides to reconnect with his ex-wife Sara (Linda Cardellini, TV’s Bloodline) and kids Megan (Scarlett Estevez, Someone to Love) and Dylan (Owen Vaccaro, A Product of Me), only to find a new husband in the mix rather than a family eagerly awaiting his return. Cue a battle for supremacy that plays up Dusty’s machismo and preys upon Brad’s suburban nice guy tendencies. Cue attempts to buy affection, tests of strength and skill, and a hands-on weighing up of their respective manhoods — plus a dance battle and the learning of life lessons, aka shoehorning in a few standard feel-good antics as well as a reminder that the movie is aimed at an all-ages audience.

Literal appendage measuring — predicated upon Dusty’s virility, Brad’s x-ray induced firing of blanks and the reductive use of Sara’s stereotypical desire for a baby as yet another arena for one-upmanship — may be the film’s low point; however little that surrounds it could be considered to scale even modest heights. Never daring to do more than the obvious in both its tale and aesthetics, Daddy’s Home sticks with the banalities and bland execution its sitcom-like premise inspires. That not only spans the parade of supposedly comic emasculation that provides the feature’s main thrust, but the insertion of one-note supports. While Thomas Haden Church (Lucky Them), Hannibal Buress (Broad City) and Bobby Cannavale (Ant-Man) are all welcome inclusions talent-wise, they’re given few opportunities to improve their roles as an anecdote-telling radio executive, a contractor who Dusty uses to label Brad as a racist, and the doctor who starts the aforementioned act of physical comparison.

That’s Daddy’s Home‘s modus operandi, though: endeavouring to enliven patchy material through the efforts of likeable performers. Like the broad strokes employed to reiterate Dusty and Brad’s dissimilarities and reinforce their conflict, it’s a basic and blatant tactic that only highlights the film’s abundance of formula and absence of personality. Wahlberg and Ferrell comprised a fun odd couple pairing in their last shared screen outing, 2010′sThe Other Guys, but here, forced into such restrictive parts and appearing rather bored as a result, they can’t repeat the same feat twice. Instead, the movie’s best use of one of its actors and its most memorable gag arrives via a brief but savvy stroke of casting mere moments before the end credits roll. At least writer/director Sean Anders (Horrible Bosses 2) and his frequent co-scribe John Morris (Dumb and Dumber To)  — tinkering with Brian Burns’ (Blue Bloods) story and screenplay — could manage that, although they also emphasise the visual monotony and narrative tedium of the preceding 96 minutes in the process.

99 HOMES

When Lynn Nash (Laura Dern, Wild) and her son Dennis (Andrew Garfield, The Amazing Spider-Man 2: Rise of Electro) are evicted from their home, they’re given two minutes to collect all the belongings that they can carry. As quickly as they can, they gather important items from the house where both Dennis and his son Connor (Noah Lomax, The SpongeBob Movie: Sponge Out of Water) were born and raised, their pleas to the supervising sheriffs falling upon unsympathetic ears. Dennis asks if such a brief window of time is mandated, with the bank’s real estate broker, Rick Carver (Michael Shannon, Freeheld), replying that it is merely a courtesy. The aftermath of the foreclosure of their property might seem sudden, but Lynn and Dennis have already been branded not only as the former owners, but as trespassers.

Their emotional reaction to losing the object society covets and tries to acquire above almost all others isn’t unique, nor is the unsympathetic manner in which their situation is handled. Dennis will soon learn this reality, as the struggling contractor follows the only path he can to attempt to regain his home: assisting Carver to put others through the same ordeal. And while it may appear that diverging sides of the economic divide converge in their working relationship, the two residents of Florida circa 2010 navigate the same middle ground. Both progressed from putting people into houses — Dennis in building them, Carver in selling them — to throwing people out of them; what separates the duo isn’t their starting points, bank balances or eventual aims, but how long they can live with the actions the fiscal environment dictates they carry out.

In 99 Homes, writer/director Ramin Bahrani (At Any Price) and co-scribe Amir Naderi (Cut) uses their intersection to chart the awkward, unfeeling space the global financial crisis cast an entire nation into, whether desperately scrambling to save inhabited structures or finding a way to make money through the misfortunes of the market. The film may be fiction, but it trades in the truth of tough times and just as difficult choices. Some lose everything, others profit, and a rare few turn the former into the latter; however, each outcome has its costs and consequences.

Indeed, ambiguity reigns in the filmmaker’s gripping offering, with little rendered in black and white within its frames. Shade of grey taint everything the pair does, as their dialogue and exchanges illustrate: rather than helping those who hindered him, Dennis spies a route to a better future; instead of thrusting families out of their homes, Carver sees opportunities. Shades of beige tint the properties they’re reclaiming, stripping and flipping, the only brightness coming not from green suburban lawns but from the cold, hard light of day. Neutral colours are the only tones that can exist in a world lurking between the haves and the have nots — and yet, there’s never any doubt that nothing here is neutral.

Of course, a dramatic film that plays within such a loaded milieu, and follows two seemingly opposing characters that form two sides of the same coin, is only as potent as the way it traverses the chasm it presents. Though it is evident where his loyalties reside, Bahrani never simplifies either figure or their scenario; his leads provide dynamic performances that present the surface of their parts before peeling back the layers, both for better and for worse. Garfield is vulnerable but never naïve, oozing sincerity that helps the feature weather its more contrived turns. Shannon appears more clearly constrained within his hardened role, but is also given more room to toy with the extremities of survival in corrupt circumstances.

Accordingly, 99 Homes gathers its tension from their complexities, from the clash of noble and selfish intentions, and from wondering where Dennis’ journey into Carver’s territory will come to a conclusion. That the film is scored like a thriller by composers Antony Partos (Tanna) and Matteo Zingales (The Lost Aviator) imparts further feelings of suspense, though the narrative largely takes care of that itself. That cinematographer Bobby Bukowski (Rosewater) shoots the bulk of the movie’s content — the parade of repossessions — hand-held and in the same manner as a heist enhances both starkness and moodiness, as also added by Bahrani’s own fast-paced editing. The only picture it can all paint is one of devastation; 99 Homes isn’t just about chasing the American dream its titular dwellings represent, after all, but about its destruction.

 PAN

The boy who never grows up once again graces a tale that studios seem to think never gets old, althoughPan searches for a different spin on J.M. Barrie’s creation. Given that Peter’s adult years have been covered, plus the author’s crafting of the beloved work that brought him to life, director Joe Wright and screenwriter Jason Fuchs dive into his introduction to Neverland. Bright production design and a keen sense of movement make the movie a pleasant-enough watch, but can’t mask the obvious: this is an origin story to a familiar narrative, with all the world-building and nods and winks that follow.

With the evolution of comic book figures begetting big screen visions of the genesis of their characters, it was only a matter of time before literary classics such as Peter Panstarted receiving the same treatment. That this version is squarely aimed at children and families, featuring first-time lead Levi Miller holding his own against the high-profile likes of Hugh Jackman, Rooney Mara and Garrett Hedlund, helps differentiate it from the bleak approach seen in superhero films and the darker retellings of Disney fairytales, but may restrict it commercially.

Pan starts with some scene-setting narration which justifies the movie’s existence by advising that to understand the end of the story you have to go back to the beginning. The titular boy is then introduced, first as a baby abandoned on the steps of a London boys’ home with a pan flute necklace as his only possession, and then as an twelve-year-old (Miller) residing in the same establishment and certain that his mother will return. Alas, smugglers in cahoots with the orphanage’s head nun (Kathy Burke) prove to be the only people who want Peter, whisking him and many of his fellow urchins away in flying boats. Their destination isn’t difficult to guess.

Upon Peter’s arrival in the magical realm of Neverland, more hardship is in store under the reign of fearsome, flamboyant pirate Blackbeard (Jackman), who burdens the populace with the arduous task of mining fairy dust. This earns him the ire of local tribes, their princess, Tiger Lily (Mara), the most vocal among them. When Peter stumbles into their midst after escaping his imprisoner with fellow captive James Hook (Hedlund) his necklace awakens hope about a prophecy to defeat Blackbeard; however the ruthless pirate will do whatever it takes to stop that destiny from taking place.

As well as trying to reignite big-screen interest in character last seen in live-action form in 2003’s Peter Pan, Pan aims to match a century-old story with modern sensibilities, as a chorus of kids slaving away while singing Nirvana’s Smells Like Teen Spirit makes clear. The film also seeks to include knowing references to the original text, witnessed in snapping crocodiles and heard in snippets of dialogue about lost boys. Beyond the contemporary music and continual acknowledgements, this is a standard youth-centric, self-empowerment-focused fantasy-adventure.

Thankfully, Wright may be saddled with an overused narrative — in revisiting the central character and inventing a broader background — but he doesn’t let that lessen the feature’s verve. He displays all the colour, choreography and kinetics as demonstrated in Anna Karenina and Hanna. Much of his Neverland bursts with vitality, captured by Johan Mathieson and Seamus McGarvey’s swooping and gliding cameras. Indeed, even when the movie feels stretched at 111 minutes, it is never wearying to look at.

Miller and his better-known fellow players mimic the film’s spirit rather than its story, and the young thespian proves up to the task of shouldering the lead and offering up a more nuanced turn than his co-stars. That Jackman and Hedlund come across as theatrical and cartoonish fits the prevailing mood, the former conveyed with sly menace and the latter with wry glee. And despite the controversy surrounding her casting, Mara acquits herself well as the fiercely determined Tiger Lily, though the character has a mixed impact. There, she reflects the fate of Pan itself: deftly made and diverting for young audiences but unlikely to linger, with any vibrancy tempered by the familiarity of the tune.

LIFE

Control director Anton Corbijn is back with another beautiful, tragic biopic.

Sixty years after his death in a car accident at the age of 24, James Dean remains both an icon and an enigma. Much about him, including his hair and stare, have become instantly recognisable and commonly copied. Just as much about him, such as the contrast between his rebellious attitude and his evident shyness, still defies proper description.

In Life, writer Luke Davies and director Anton Corbijn attempt to replicate what was seen on the outside and unpack what lurked on the inside of James Dean. That Davies wrote the novel and co-wrote the script of Australian drug drama Candygives an indication of the intimacy of the storytelling. That Corbijn made his leap from photographs to music videos to movies withControl, a portrait of Joy Division’s Ian Curtis, shows the style, patience and perceptiveness so keenly needed in such a biopic.

Their approach to the smouldering Dean (as played by Dane DeHaan) is to show rather than tell the essence of the moody star, as seen in a snapshot spanning the lead up to the world premiere of his first film, East of Eden, plus his attempt to secure a role in his second, Rebel Without a Cause. Their entryway into his tragic narrative comes via 26-year-old Dennis Stock (Robert Pattinson), then an aspiring but struggling photographer looking to turn paparazzi gigs into acclaim, art and ongoing work.

History already dictates that one of Stock’s big breaks came courtesy of the series of candid images he snapped of Dean; however, they only eventuated after much convincing. From first meeting at a Hollywood party to exploits across Los Angeles, New York and Indiana, Life tracks Stock’s efforts, Dean’s reactions, their problems and personalities, and their blossoming friendship.

The film bears the name of the magazine that would ultimately publish the photos, though that it doubles as an expression of a pivotal chapter in both its subjects’ existences is always clear. Forget on-set antics and other markers of glitz and glamour, though, with the movie determined to stress that Dean didn’t ever want to subscribe to the usual star behaviour. “I don’t want to play their stupid games,” he complains — and that he’s often earning the ire of studio head Jack Warner (Ben Kingsley) by avoiding his publicity tasks also makes that evident.

Indeed, Dean is painted as a picture of complexity above all else, and afforded a portrayal to match. DeHaan may be following in James Franco’s footsteps again — after playing Spider-Man‘s Harry Osborn, too — but his efforts here do more than impersonate either figure. His mannerisms conjure the famous actor’s mix of awkwardness and panache, so much so that taking your eyes off of him is impossible. That’s not to discount Pattinson’s latest impressive post-Twilight performance, nor the rapport that springs from the two circling around each other — it’s just to highlight DeHaan’s intensity.

A similar level of concentration and attention to detail emanates in the graceful helming of Corbijn — and the visual precision of cinematographer Charlotte Bruus Christensen. The end result doesn’t just step beyond the facade of a cinema treasure or tell the tale behind iconic images, it helps to create the same itself. Indeed, there’s ample life in this film, which succeeds in capturing something and someone elusive.

THE DRESSMAKER

Light comedy, romantic drama, small-town secrets and revenge schemes might not seem an easy or winning mix; however in The Dressmaker, the combination fits. Making her first film since 1997’s A Thousand Acres, director/co-writer Jocelyn Moorhouse adapts Rosalie Ham’s 2000 novel of the same name into a handsome crowd-pleaser. After premiering at the Toronto International Film Festival, expect a warm reception upon release, particularly in the feature’s home territory of Australia.

The performance of star Kate Winslet as Myrtle “Tilly” Dunnage has much to do with the film’s charm, though The Dressmaker is more than just a vehicle for its leading lady. A cast of recognisable local actors include Judy Davis and Hugo Weaving as fleshed-out comic relief, plus Liam Hemsworth as the requisite loveable, while the behind-the-camera skills of veteran cinematographer Don McAlpine and experienced editor Jill Bilcock enhance an period offering that hits both stylistic and storytelling marks.

Perfecting an antipodean accent again (after 1999’s Holy Smoke), Winslet’s Tilly arrives in town under the darkness of night, lights a cigarette after stepping off a bus, and exhales the film’s first words with a cloud of smoke: “I’m back, you bastards.” After two decades away from Dungatar, including studying haute couture in Paris, her impeccably dressed homecoming is far from happy or welcome. Her ailing mother, “Mad” Molly (Davis), ostensibly provides the inspiration for her return, but revealing the true reason behind her banishment — involving the death of a classmate when she was ten years old, and the closing of the one-street community’s tight-knit, gossip-hungry ranks in response — is her true motivation.

Determined to discover the truth of the past, Tilly commences reconciling with Molly, reluctantly falling for kindly local lad Teddy McSwiney (Hemsworth) in the process while endearing herself to the populace with her sewing skills. Making over the likes of shopkeeper’s daughter Gertrude Pratt (Sarah Snook) with image-changing outfits helps her find a sliver of favour, and the secretly fashion-obsessed police sergeant (Weaving) is also a fan. Unable to shake the feeling she has been wronged and is cursed, however, and adamant about exposing the involvement of the town’s many acid tongues in her downfall, her sartorial flair comes with stitches of vengeance.

Set in 1951 and always looking the period part, The Dressmaker provides many a ravishing sight — including Tilly’s football match-stopping appearance in a figure-hugging, eye-catching red dress — with the intricate work of costume designers Marion Boyce and Margot Wilson clearly pivotal. And yet, the narrative is as engaging as the custom-built, dust-laced setting, as co-translated to the screen by the director and her filmmaker husband P.J. Hogan (best known for Muriel’s Wedding, My Best Friend’s Wedding and Confessions of a Shopaholic), who took on second unit directing duties as he did on Moorhouse’s Proof and How to Make an American Quilt. Flitting from mystery to tragedy to laughs with graceful changes in tone provide some of the film’s highlights.

A veritable who’s who of Australian performers (Snook, Barry Otto, Gyton Grantley, Rebecca Gibney, Shane Jacobson, Alison Whyte, Shane Bourne and Sacha Horler, plus New Zealander Kerry Fox), provide ballast. In their efforts and in Moorhouse’s gentle yet spirited direction, local quirkiness and universal themes of retribution and redemption make for a film that’s sincere and witty as it tells of clothing, clandestine affairs and comeuppance.

HOLDING THE MAN

Making his return to filmmaking after 2006’s Candy, Neil Armfield shows delicacy and depth in adapting Timothy Conigrave’s best-selling, award-winning memoir for the screen. Premiering at the Sydney Film Festival, and featuring Guy Pearce, Anthony LaPaglia, Kerry Fox and Geoffrey Rush alongside Australian up-and-comers Ryan Corr and Craig Stott, Holding the Man chronicles a 15-year romance blighted by the AIDS epidemic. Traction with festival audiences is likely.

Although it might be heavy-handed in its sense of foreboding, it feels fitting that one of the film’s earliest scenes involves Conigrave (Corr) re-enacting Romeo and Julietas a high school student.Holding The Man follows a similar path of forbidden passion and fateful consequences, based on the heartbreaking reality that played out in the gay community between the 1970s and the 1990s.

In 1976, Conigrave is attending a private all-boys school in Melbourne when he spies John Caleo (Stott) on the football field. The aspiring actor and the emerging Australian Rules star may appear to have little in common, but their attraction is overwhelming.  Soon, they’re making waves among their classmates, arousing their teachers’ concern, and disappointing their traditional families. Nothing can separate them, until the 1980s, when they are both diagnosed with HIV.

Favouring emotional beats over a linear chronology, Armfield flits between Conigrave and Caleo’s teen and adult years, the feverish first flourishes of courtship intertwined with lust-driven sexual experimentation and contrasted with ailing later days.  Armed with the bittersweet knowledge of the inevitable outcome, he eschews the structure of the memoirs and their stage adaption, first mounted in 2006. The play’s author Tommy Murphy, returns to do the honours again – and to succeed where others, including Conigrave’s close friend and Walking on Water director Tony Ayres, have stumbled in previous attempts to adapt the text for film.

Indeed, Holding the Man owes much to the stage rather than the page, as the majority of its interactions and exchanges make clear. Whether uttered by Corr and Caleo as expressions of tenderness, by Pearce, Fox and LaPaglia in their supporting roles as uncertain parents, or by Rush in a brief appearance as Conigrave’s drama teacher, the film’s dialogue resounds with theatricality. Making his fourth film (with Twelfth Night and The Castanet Club also on his resume), Armfield’s low-key direction reinforces the emphasis on conversation, offering little in the way of big-screen flair. Cinematographer Germain McMicking gives the movie a warm glow, and editor Dany Cooper imparts a sense of rhythm, but what shines is the story rather than its telling.

Armfeld and Murphy show strength in their cultivation of intimacy, honesty and authenticity. The affection they depict is never less than moving, as conveyed through dexterous lead performances. Corr, best known internationally for his role in the Russell Crowe-directedThe Water Diviner, may look too old for Conigrave’s younger years, but he sells the character’s energy as well as his eventual growth. In contrast, Stott is as disarmingly understated as his on-screen partner is passionate, their chemistry not just evident, but immersive.

Together, they impart a striking, stirring account of a real-life romance cut short. More than a personal expression of one man’s love, however, Holding the Manalso evokes another classic, the Pulitzer Prize-winningAngels in America. That Conigrave’s book, finished in 1994 and published in 1995, won the United Nations Human Rights Award for Non-Fiction is telling – and that it comes to the cinema in the midst of Australia’s current debate over marriage equality.

Conigrave’s story presents a devastating portrait of the plight of gay men and of coping with AIDS, and while the film may be a clear period piece with the rock soundtrack to prove it, the timeless tale it relates remains rousing, relatable and relevant.

THE DAUGHTER

Making his feature debut, Sydney theatre’s enfant terrible Simon Stone corrals stars Geoffrey Rush, Paul Schneider, Sam Neill and Miranda Otto into a family tragedy which plumbs the usual depths of secrets and lies. Two layers of adaptations converge in the writer/director’s The Daughter, a version of his own award-winning staging of Ibsen’s The Wild Duck. The weighty effort, which premiered at the Sydney Film Festival, succeeds in conveying intimacy and conjuring tension courtesy of strong performances, and will appeal to audiences fond of textured emotional dramas, even though its narrative wallows in familiar territory.

When prodigal son Christian (Schneider) returns to the quiet logging town which generations of his family have called home, his arrival reopens old wounds and exposes new worries. His visit is sparked by the impending marriage of his timber mill owner father, Henry (Rush), to Anna (Anna Torv), the much-younger woman who was formerly the family housekeeper; however resentment still lingers over the death of Christian’s mother years earlier.

Further trouble emerges when Christian reconnects with old childhood friend and mill worker, Oliver (Ewen Leslie), meets Oliver’s wife Charlotte (Otto) and teenage daughter Hedvig (Odessa Young), and starts to piece together a scandal involving both families.

Escalating theatrics which emanate from the unearthing of hidden deeds are far from original, particularly within an Australian cinema landscape that boasts Lantana andBeautiful Kate in its recent history. Even those unacquainted with Ibsen’s 1884 work, or with Stone’s 2011 play and its subsequent seasons in Oslo, Vienna and London, should be able to predict where the narrative is headed.

In fact, the verbose dialogue references the age-old nature of the central conflict, and The Daughter’s affection for obviousness doesn’t stop there. The feature’s title, though more marketable than The Wild Duck, strongly foreshadows its eventual focus, leaving viewers to wait for the inevitable rather than immersing them in mystery. The original moniker rears its head in a heavy-handed display of symbolism with an injured animal cruelly shot down and struggling to fly again.

What The Daughter lacks in narrative surprises, however, it works hard to make up for in its confident approach. Stone takes to the cinema with assurance and a flair beyond his limited filmmaking experience (a segment in Australian anthology The Turning is his only other film credit). In its theatre iteration, his interpretation of the tale was a stripped-back affair in both story and staging; here, he embraces the full potential of his new medium.

When cinematographer Andrew Commis isn’t taking the time to roam around the feature’s woodland setting, he’s using the camera’s handheld movements to impart perspective and subjectivity. Editing by Veronika Jenet delicately weaves the conversation-heavy histrionics together. The score, composed by Mark Bradshaw, lays the emotion on thick, but also proves suitably moody and haunting.

Amidst such an enthusiastic yet overt display, Stone relies upon his cast to impart the nuance the film desperately needs, and though he is surrounded by higher-profile names, it is Australian actor Leslie – best known to international audiences from The Railway Manand TV’s Top of the Lake – who shines brightest. Playing off of Schneider, who is gifted his best role in years while remaining tasked with conveying exposition, Leslie embodies the simmering pain always lurking within the storyline.

Rush, Otto and Sam Neill receive less screen time yet leave an impression, particularly the latter as Oliver’s father, another figure with a complex, interconnected backstory. Their presence doesn’t just add marquee names to the bill, but further fleshes out The Daughter’s core: multiple parties bickering over blood ties, both brutally and broodingly, in a blatant heart-wrencher likely to resound with empathetic viewers.

SHERPA

Veteran high altitude director Jennifer Peedom climbs Mount Everest to champion mountaineering’s overlooked figures: the Sherpas who do the dangerous work which keeps Nepal’s climbing trade running. The only factual effort competing for the Sydney Film Festival’s prestigious $60,000 prize, this stunning documentary initially sticks to familiar beats of endurance and adversity. When nature unexpectedly intervenes, however, Sherpa swiftly proves as grippingly human and political as it does visually spectacular.

Sherpa is certain to appeal to international audiences on multiple levels, a fact underlined by its Universal pick-up for all territories excluding Australia and NZ (where Footprint Films will launch in 2016). The film’s subject is topical and its timing is opportune, given fresh memories of the deadly avalanches which have blighted the Everest season for two years running.

When Peedom started shooting, Phurba Tashi Sherpa’s 2014 trek was her primary focus. A successful trip to the summit would mark his 22^nd ascent, a world record feat pursued not for glory, but to make a living. Like many inhabitants of the area, transporting the equipment essential to wealthy Westerners’ attempts to scale the world’s highest peak is his most lucrative line of work. Phurba oversees a team of 25 who work for commercial tour operator Russell Brice, though he does so with the disapproval of his wife and family, who contend that no amount of money is worth the ever-present risk of death.

Their fears are given frightening context when tragedy strikes, a cruel stroke of fate changing the course of the film. April 18, 2014 remains the blackest day in Everest’s history, with 16 Sherpas killed at Khumbu Icefall. The documentary dives into the impact, implications and aftermath, and while it presents perspectives on either side, those who profit from local labour and lives aren’t afforded much sympathy, the Nepalese government included.

Dissecting the historical situation, the current-day circumstances and the hopes for a better future, the film favours the workers who strike for their rights to better compensation and insurance – but Sherpa is not a standard crusade for a cause. British journalist Ed Douglas voices the film’s historical narrative, which traces the image inspired by Tenzing Norgay six decades ago when he scaled Everest with Edmund Hillary and the stereotype of the smiling, helpful Sherpa was born. Now, aware of their marginalisation and mobilised by social media, those who follow in his footsteps strive to shake this reputation.

Initially motivated by another news-grabbing incident – a brawl between climbers and Sherpas in 2013 – Peedom’s aim was to call attention to the mountain’s unsung heroes, and she achieves her goal in breathtaking fashion. She knows the area – she shot Miracle on Everest there in 2008, and was the high altitude director on Everest: Beyond The Limits, while her most recent credit was co-directing Solo with David Michod. The camerawork on display here from Hugh Miller, Renan Ozturk and Ken Sauls, whittled down from 400 hours of footage, is jaw-dropping, even as the human rights issues at Sherpa’s centre will inspire exasperation. The canny combination of the two elements, with editor Christian Gazal seamlessly switching between time-lapse, snow-capped vistas and the faces of those affected, never lets viewers forget the perilous surroundings or the human cost.

In fact, scaling such heights has rarely felt so intimate and personal, both in the handheld footage and in the plight of the people that, in most other films, are left on the cutting room floor. Later in 2015, the fictional Everestwill take an all-star cast to the mountain’s perilous peak; however when it comes to high altitude hijinks, Sherpa is the real deal.

MADAME BOVARY

As Gustave Flaubert’s 1856 debut novel makes its return to cinema screens under the guidance of writer/director Sophie Barthes (Cold Souls) and co-scribe Rose Barreneche (aka producer Felipe Marino), it does so under the weight of a label squared at many a tome of classic literature: unfilmable. No fewer than eight movie attempts have endeavoured to prove otherwise thus far, including efforts by master filmmakers Jean Renoir, Vincente Minnelli and Claude Chabrol, as well as the recent comic updating Gemma Bovery; however the persistence of the charge stems from the source material of Madame Bovary as much as the mixed fortunes of consecutive adaptations.

On the page, Emma Bovary is a complex character, trying to transcend her status in 19th century France by trudging through circumstances brought about by the intersection of her own expectations and decisions with social mores. The daughter of a widowed farmer with aspirations of grandeur and city living, she pegs her hopes and dreams to the change she thinks married life will bring. Swiftly, she finds the spoils of wedded bliss to a village doctor prove anything but idyllic, seeking solace in material possessions and seductive pleasures. The former, she locates in luxury goods paraded before her by a canny merchant, while the latter springs from dalliances with a keen young law student and a wealthy aristocrat.

On the screen, Emma (Mia Wasikowska, Maps to the Stars) remains shaded by complications, yet her plight is too easily robbed of sympathy and subtlety when condensed from several hundreds of pages to a two-hour movie running time. That certainly proves the case in Barthes’ patient but distancing and emotionally emphatic yet narratively erratic offering, which tries to express the existential despair that motivates the protagonist’s choices, but wallows in obviousness. Alas, in cutting between a haughty home life caused by Emma’s unhappiness and her ill thought-out escape mechanisms, the film never satisfyingly fleshes out her boredom and destructiveness.

That’s not a criticism of the film’s performances, with Wasikowska among its best elements; rather, it’s an acknowledgement of how difficult a feat the script is tasked with, and where it is left wanting. Even with a struggling screenplay, the leading actress is as adept at portraying Emma’s listlessness as she is her surrender to decadence and passion, and all in a look and a sigh rather than words. Of her co-stars, Ezra Miller (The Perks of Being a Wallflower) as student Leon Dupuis and Rhys Ifans (Serena) as wily purveyor of fine goods Monsieur Lheureux add scene-stealing earnestness and panache in turn. Playing Charles Bovary and The Marquis respectively, Henry Lloyd-Hughes (Man Up) and Logan Marshall-Green (The Invitation) are given fewer opportunities to shine, though leave more of an impact than Paul Giamatti (Love & Mercy) as a legal advisor.

The film’s inability to offer anything more than a fitfully involving account of a woman trying to break free from marriage, class and the society that has prescribed her role isn’t a reflection of its look either. Cinematographer Andrij Parekh (another Cold Souls veteran) lenses Madame Bovary in both splendid naturalistic tones and with claustrophobic close-ups, his imagery conveying both the blandness and oppression Emma rallies against. And yet, the movie still feels lacking, as nicely acted and well shot as it is. Perhaps what this version demonstrates is that Flaubert’s text can make for a perfectly cinematic effort, but continues to attract the unfilmable label when features miss the spark so crucial to its story: connection with the doomed, despairing titular character and her troubles.

LAST CAB TO DARWIN

The topic of euthanasia guides Last Cab to Darwin’s road trip across Australia, as a terminally ill taxi driver seeks to end his life. Adapting the play of the same name, actor-turned-writer/director Jeremy Sims balances sentiment, wry comedy and debate as he immerses audiences in a sensitive story. Jacki Weaver is the film’s biggest name outside its country of origin, where it premiered at the Sydney Film Festival; however a tender turn could see veteran performer Michael Caton follow her into the broader spotlight.

Caton plays the world weary Rex, a country cabbie content in his hometown of Broken Hill, and happiest bickering with his neighbour and lover, Polly (Ningali Lawford), or sharing a drink with his mates. He’s the kind of guy who answers “can’t complain” when he’s asked how he is, though he does have considerable concerns, namely a diagnosis of stomach cancer which has left him with three months to live, at best.

Adamant about avoiding hospitalisation, Rex determines to keep working as the clock counts down, or to try to expedite the process. When he finds out about Darwin doctor Nicole Farmer (Weaver), a right-to-die campaigner in a city that has recently legalised assisted suicide who has a computerised machine that simplifies death down to pressing a button, he drives 3,000 kilometres to secure her help. (The film is set in the 1990s, when euthanasia was briefly legal in the Northern Territory.)

After  2006’s Last Train to Freo and Beneath Hill 60 in 2010, Sims opts for more intimate material for his third stint behind the camera. Re-teaming with playwright Reg Cribb, he combines humour and emotion to hone in on Rex’s journey, both through the centre of the continent, and in accepting the life he has lived as he approaches his end.

Sims and Cribb litter several encounters along Rex’s path, including with Tilly (Mark Coles Smith), a garrulous aspiring footballer struggling with alcohol and responsibility, and Julie (Emma Hamilton), a British nurse moonlighting as a small-town barmaid. Their life-lesson-fuelled subplots highlight the script’s reliance upon clichés and convenience, even if Cribb initially took inspiration from a true tale, yet Last Cab to Darwin earns its heartfelt arc. The film’s destination might be apparent, but the trek through past regrets, race relations and the central subject itself never feels drawn out.

That voyage, as shot in sequence and lit with warmth by cinematographer Steve Arnold, and moodily scored by musician Ed Kuepper of The Saints fame, encompasses a whirlwind tour of Australian pubs and outback sights certain to entice potential travellers. Broken Hill, the film’s initial location, has doubled as a dystopian setting in features such as Wake in Fright and Mad Max 2, and it is the arid landscape that monopolises much of Last Cab to Darwin’s frames, though the focus firmly remains on character over aesthetics.

It is easy to see why Sims favours local legend Michael Caton in every scene, and why viewers will as well. His involvement in 1997 comedy The Castle remains his global claim to fame, but here he weaves self-deprecation and resolution into a quietly commanding view on mortality, while the rapport he cultivates with Lawford and Coles Smith gives the film its best scenes.

In contrast, Weaver’s character lacks complication, but she does impart a subtle reminder about the complexity of the life and death matters at the feature’s core. Last Cab to Darwin may heighten personal drama over the intricacies of euthanasia; however it proves universally relevant as a topical tearjerker.

GEMMA BOVERY

Modernising literary classics, whether updating William Shakespeare, Jane Austin, folklore or fairy tales to contemporary times, is a trend unlikely to go out of fashion. When the right balance between the original text’s themes and stories and current-day sentiments and situations is found, the new work can cast a spell on par with its source material. Of course, when the opposite eventuates, new interpretations can be left wanting. Transporting a tried-and-tested tale to present surroundings without mastering the details can see refreshed versions lacking the spark of their inspiration.

Gemma Bovery, a play on Gustave Flaubert‘s debut tome Madame Bovary, takes the page to graphic novel to screen approach to bringing its stimulus to modern times – and what may have worked in Posy Simmonds‘ 1999 book, a compilation of a serial first published in The Guardian, may not translate to filmic form. As directed by Anne Fontaine (Adoration), and co-written by the filmmaker with Pascal Bonitzer (Looking for Hortense), the latest fashioning of the almost 160-year-old narrative is lighthearted, as befitting its comic take on the tragic story, but also light on depth.

As conveyed through flashbacks, when the titular Gemma (Gemma Arterton, Runner Runner) moves into Martin Joubert’s (Fabrice Luchini, In the House) neighbourhood, he’s immediately enamoured with her name – and, specifically, its link to Flaubert. Soon, the former Parisian high-flyer turned small-town baker is finding any chance he can to knock on the door of the rustic Normandy home she shares with her husband, Charlie (Jason Flemyng, Sunshine on Leith), while ignoring his own nagging wife (Isabelle Candelier, Get Well Soon) and errant teenaged son (Kacey Mottet Klein, Sister). Gemma strikes up a more than a friendship with aristocratic law student Hervé de Bressigny (Niels Schneider, Métamorphoses), and Martin’s fascination is further piqued. Her life is imitating art, he can’t help but notice – plus, he can’t help himself from meddling in her affairs, either.

Here, Arterton stars in her second adaptation of a classic work then given the drawn treatment, and by the same author, too. Alas, like Tamara Drewe‘s update of Thomas Hardy’s Far From the Madding Crowd before it, Gemma Bovery showers its concept with more adoration than it does attention; it’s a work of broad strokes, rather than minutiae. The film’s star might be its liveliest part; however she’s asked to play her character as little more than a symbol. Marital unhappiness and general existential malaise may be evident in her performance, but it seethes through a figure that never feels real. In the script, Gemma is an interpretation of an update of a 19th century creation, and on screen, she never transcends her status as an impersonation of a replication. It certainly doesn’t help that she also remains trapped in Joubert’s hapless perception, never allowed to break the bounds of his ever-present gaze, nor his desire for her life to resemble the book he favours.

That renders Gemma Bovery a sketched cartoon on account of its original nature, and sketchy and cartoonish elsewhere. Fontaine and cinematographer Christophe Beaucarne (A Royal Night Out) know how to make the most of their soft-lit, picturesque location, and the seasoned filmmaker – and veteran of Nathalie… and Coco avant Chanel – also makes broad use of Luchini, yet she doesn’t fare as well when it comes to tone. In fact, though crafting a scenic, sprightly farce may appear to be her intention, with relaying awkwardness actually where the mishap and misunderstanding-laden feature fares best, she also stumbles into Madame Bovary‘s darker topics. Or crashes, to better describe the jarring impact the final act leaves, the last unfulfilling gift in the film’s clash of 19^thcentury problems with contemporary circumstances.

POLTERGAIST

“They’re here,” six-year-old Madison Bowen (Kennedi Clements, TV’sRogue) exclaims as Poltergeist, circa 2015, unleashes its first emphatic display of flickering lights and static-filled television screens. She’s talking about the unsettling presence that clearly lingers in the house her downsizing family – unemployed father Eric (Sam Rockwell, Laggies), wannabe writer mother Amy (Rosemarie DeWitt, Men, Women & Children), phone-obsessed teenage sister Kendra (Saxon Sharbino,Touch) and jumpy pre-teen brother Griffin (Kyle Catlett, The Young and Prodigious T.S. Spivet) – have just moved in to. Her words could also easily refer to the ghosts of the past that haunt the film, a remake of theTobe Hooper-directed, Steven Spielberg-written 1982 horror movie of the same name.

In what has become standard operating procedure for increasingly nostalgia-fuelled Hollywood studios, another scary favourite of childhoods from three decades ago has been resurrected. This isn’t the first continuation of the brand, with the original spawning two sequels (1986′s Poltergeist II: The Other Side and 1988′s Poltergeist III) and a spin-off TV series (Poltergeist: The Legacy, which ran from 1996 to 1999 and was linked by title only), nor is it the worst to bear its name. What it is, instead, is a routine attempt to relive past glories. Modernisations have been made, the set-up shortened and a few striking setpieces added, but today’s Poltergeist is happy with its rampant visual and narrative nods, and just adhering to the formula.

It is hardly surprising, then, that the script sticks to the beats of its predecessor, installing its characters in a new home, taunting them with strange occurrences, and enlisting help when it becomes obvious that something supernatural is afoot. The Bowens have barely unpacked when Madison starts talking to someone who can’t be seen, and Griffin reacts badly to clown dolls found in his attic room; however there’s more spooky stuff to come. The day after their electronic devices seem to get a mind of their own, the three children are plunged further into the house’s otherworldly happenings. Madison is spirited away, so a despairing Amy turns to a paranormal academic (Jane Adams, All the Light in the Sky) for assistance, who then calls in the expertise of a TV ghostbuster and medium (Jared Harris, The Devil’s Violinist).

Favouring a template set 33 years ago doesn’t make the latest Poltergeist, as written by David Lindsay-Abaire(Oz the Great and Powerful) and directed by Gil Kenan (City of Ember), a bad film – it just makes it struggle to maintain interest, let alone conjure much in the way excitement. The moments that do work show that there is talent behind the film (including producer Sam Raimi); they’re just given little leeway to do what they do best. The Pulitzer Prize-winning Lindsay-Abaire came to fame through the play-turned-feature Rabbit Hole, and his script feels freshest when it lets its characters delve into both their domesticity and their economic hardship early in the piece. Kenan’s previous work on features built upon elaborate worlds, such as Monster House, is evident in the manifestation of the frightening place that claims Maddie, even if his showing rather than suggesting approach lessens the movie’s scares.

Of course, these aren’t what the franchise is known for, though Poltergeist doesn’t fare as well when it repeats segments of its forebear and peddles the usual haunted house thrills, nor when it unfurls its ill-paced finale. Suburbia can be a sinister place, particularly in a development built on a cemetery; however the standard shock tactics – sudden jumps, slamming doors and creeping camerawork included – lose their impact when they’re wrapped up in a grey-tinted, CGI-heavy, more-is-more perspective. What stands out instead, in another less than astonishing turn of events, is the cast. Rockwell, DeWitt and Adams will hopefully find the forthcoming, unrelated Digging for Fire a better showcase for their on-screen presence, but here, with Harris and young Catlett, they add personality otherwise lacking to a generic paranormal effort. There’s also wry amusement to be found in the fact that a remake of an influential ghost film that spawned a spate of imitators now feels like little more than a competently made copy of those copies, though that’s not the intended outcome.

 TRASH

Jumping and climbing through the rubbish heap they work by day, and dashing and diving through the Rio de Janeiro streets they traverse by night, street-dwelling teens Raphael (Rickson Tevez), Gardo (Eduardo Luis) and Rat (Gabriel Weinstein) are chasing a fantasy. They’re searching for answers to the clues Raphael has found in a wallet in the trash, while trying to avoid the crooked police officers and shady politician on their trail. They’re also looking for a world where their poor status isn’t a barrier to a better life, and where doing the right thing sees them rewarded rather than pursued.

Tracking their antics through underground tunnels and crowded slums, director Stephen Daldry and screenwriter Richard Curtis are similarly following a dream and indulging in a flight of fancy. The filmmaker behind Billy Elliot and Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close and the scribe responsible for Love Actually and About Time, among others, the duo aren’t just giving Andy Mulligan‘s 2010 novel of the same name filmic form, but attempting to achieve the difficult task of combining an upbeat children’s adventure with a gritty look at Brazilian society.

In the story and in its translation to the screen, it sounds like an awkward combination – and it is. The contrasting parts that see Trash both steeped in its grimy surroundings and desperate to transcend them push and pull at the film, fighting for supremacy. Sometimes the spirited, non-professional leads win the battle through sheer authenticity and enthusiasm; sometimes they’re stretched too far by clumsier turns in the material, particularly whenever they’re interacting with the two Americans in their midst (a whiskey-drinking priest enlivened by Selma‘s Martin Sheen, and a kindly aid worker played by Her‘s Rooney Mara). Often, the kinetic choreography, both of the restless actors and of the roaming camera, creates a sense of rhythm that ensures the viewer keeps up with the feature’s beats; just as often, the frenetic pace simply patches over the unnecessarily over-plotted narrative

And yet, there’s more to Trash than the charisma of the real street kids at its centre, and the effusive energy in the way that Daldry and his technical team – including the bright lensing of cinematographer Adriano Goldman(August: Osage County), and the swift editing of Elliot Graham (Restless) – bring the tale to the screen. Perhaps it’s the obvious channelling of Danny Boyle’s Millions and Slumdog Millionaire that maintains an endearing mood, the filmmaker clearly mimicking the style and tone of his compatriot. Perhaps, even as ill-fitting as it sometimes seems in the many juxtapositions at the heart of the movie, Trash‘s charms stem from its pervading sense of optimism.

Indeed, though it endeavours to speak of a specific time, place and set of social issues, Trash is best seen as a fairytale unravelling in life-like, modern-day surroundings. Many of the characters the boys meet are cartoonish, as is their exaggerated quest – and the heightened aesthetic choices always present both, as well as the entire movie, as such. Darkness seeps in, resulting in scenes offering a more violent and harrowing illustration of the themes in play, yet the lightness of film’s touch never fades. Maintaining a buoyant outlook might be a double-edged sword, sometimes wielded inelegantly and carving away the gravity of the poverty and corruption underscoring Trash‘s premise; however it also cuts a path for the hope that always remains.

INFINI

For every film that explores the chaos that eventuates in space, in a confined place, or both, there’s a screenplay drawing from the familiar. Writer/director Shane Abbess (Gabriel) and writer/composer Brian Cachia may venture to the furthest reaches of their futuristic, dystopian, economically dire society, yet their combined script isn’t really journeying very far. Similar science fiction features gone by have already furnished a world of claustrophobic creepiness, lurking predators and feuding captives, and Infini is content to stay within such already-prescribed, well-defined borders.

The titular locale, a mining outpost with a history of disaster, beckons for Whit Carmichael (Daniel MacPherson, TV’s Wild Boys) on his first day on the slipstreaming, globe-hopping job. Centuries from now, teleporting is the preferred method of travel between planets, though fatalities are rife, as is the corruption of human data in transit. Carmichael turns to the dangerous line of work in a desperate attempt to keep his wife and soon-to-be-born child above the poverty line; however when he witnesses the unwanted side effects of another team’s mission, the newcomer is forced to materialise to Infini to escape lethal quarantine. Rescuers (including Charlie’s Country‘sLuke Ford and The Reckoning‘s Luke Hemsworth) are sent to bring him back and neutralise the threat thought to have started the whole mess, but they soon discover that their destination holds more than a few deathly secrets.

Whether watching the inexperienced Carmichael tremble in the face of the bloodbath that sends him scrambling far from home, or swiftly stalking the crew that follows him through the labyrinthine halls of the space station the movie spends most of its time within, or witnessing the protagonist’s survival instinct kick in against both friends and foes, Infini always acts and looks the part of a conventional, closed-in, sci-fi thriller, and that’s both the basis for its appeal and its primary problem. Abbess, Cachia and cinematographer Carl Robertson (Manny Lewis) demonstrate their clear passion for the genre, and for the wealth of earlier fare they obviously covet; what they don’t display is anything exceeding that fondness and fidelity.

Such derivation sees the feature’s handling of its shadowy setting ooze atmosphere yet never do anything unexpected with it, its action scenes explode with energy that dissipates as soon as clumsy dialogue rears its head, and its accompanying performances boast determination but rarely offer more than sketches of characters, MacPherson’s lead turn the exception, in mounting evidence of the by-the-numbers approach. That the supposed source of all the mania is wielded as a narrative tool to render the humans as in-fighting, stir-crazy rats in a maze certainly doesn’t assuage the been-there, seen-that feeling that emanates, nor does many of the movie’s disconcerting structural choices.

Accordingly, what should be a moody science fiction mystery, even one littered with standard twists and turns, is swiftly tempered by too much striving to create a throwback to the feature’s inspirations and too little desire to shape its sources into something new. Abbess and Cachia’s technical competence ensures the film is a well paced, patiently shot and scored, and aesthetically polished effort, though its shine only reflects its many, many influences. Indeed, audiences acquainted with everything from Aliens to The Thing, Event Horizon to Sunshine, and even The Invasion of the Body Snatchers and Prometheus, will find few surprises in Infini‘s depths beyond its unwavering genre devotion.

PITCH PERFECT 2

Sequels are a fait accompli in the modern screen era, and it’s hard to believe that they were ever taboo. Each year audiences are presented with multiple reiterations of familiar properties, many of which make more money than their first incarnations – albeit at a higher budgetary cost. It seemed natural that 2012′s Pitch Perfect would eventually receive a follow-up, but it seemed less likely that it would come out as dreary and uninspired as this one.

After the Barden Bellas, the a cappella national champions, accidentally flash the President on his birthday, they are stripped of their performing rights. To reclaim their place in the United States hierarchy, they sign up for the A cappella Worlds. Meanwhile, Beca (Anna Kendrick, Into the Woods) is distracted by her internship at a music production company, Fat Amy (Rebel Wilson, Night at the Museum: Secret of the Tomb) struggles with her feelings for Bumper (Adam DeVine, TV’s Workaholics), Chloe (Brittany Snow, Full Circle) is trying to learn how to let go of Barden, and newcomer Emily (Hailee Steinfeld, The Homesman) finds her own place and voice in the group.

Pitch Perfect 2 is even busier and more crowded than that summary makes it sound, and it doesn’t juggle any of its elements well. Screenwriter Kay Cannon, reprising the role from the first film, does not have a schedule of events to hang the plot around, and so the movie lacks much of the structure that would have covered its many deficiencies. Every side story goes through the motions, and any parts that show promise, such as Das Sound Machine leader Kommissar (Birgitte Hjort Sørensen, Autómata), are either pushed to the side or treated nonsensically.

This approach is understandable from the perspective that sometimes you have to go bigger and harder for a sequel, but what Cannon and first-time feature director Elizabeth Banks (who last had directorial experience as part of Movie 43), who also plays commentator Gail, don’t seem to grasp is that they aren’t making a Fast & Furious movie – and even that franchise manages to keep its characters grounded as the action escalates. Most scenes are flabby, the camera is never quite certain what it wants to make it to the screen for longer than a few seconds, the performances never highlight the featured singers or dancers at the time they should, and many of the jokes feel like afterthoughts.

It’s likely not a coincidence that the freshest material comes from Wilson, inexplicably attired in a series of uncomfortable looking outfits that lead to her constantly adjusting her breasts on camera, who still manages to fit in a few lines of apparent improv that would mostly be meaningless to American audiences. The rest of the cast largely phones it in, and they don’t even have well chosen or choreographed songs to cover for it.

Pitch Perfect 2 is a disappointment from start to finish, lazily put together and with few jokes to support its nearly non-existent plot. It has been established in the intervening three years that most of the cast and crew are above slumming it like this, but that doesn’t matter: Pitch Perfect 2 will make money regardless, and no one will have learned anything.

 HOME

With every animated film that reaches theatres, the corresponding weight of expectation only increases. That burden doesn’t necessarily fall on any one movie at any one time, but on the format as a whole, each feature asked to be many things in the clamour for screen space, eager eyeballs and box office revenue. Entering a new world, offering distinctive visuals, and entertaining audiences of all ages head the list of sought-after traits – and that’s only the beginning. Spreading a worthy message that will simultaneously tickle funny bones and tug at heartstrings is also courted, as is showcasing whichever stars happen to be in favour at the time. Then there are the more obvious commercial aims, such as spruiking a toe-tapping soundtrack and inspiring a wave of post-cinema merchandise purchases.

Home smacks of a movie made to cross all these components off its “mainstream animation 101″ list, and to do little else. It may be based on Adam Rex’s 2007 children’s book The True Meaning of Smekday; however those origins belie the reality of the end product: a carefully constructed feature that wears not only its emotion but also its calculation on its sleeve, in a jack-of-all-trades, master-of-none approach. The resulting issues are many, from a plethora of generic and derivative elements unable and unwilling to find their own niche, to grating stunt casting that extends to an accompanying concept album, to an overt marketing push that sees typical candy bar snacks – slushies, ice cream, pop corn and hotdogs – feature prominently. The resulting malaise the movie inspires is similarly abundant, with excitement hard to muster for an effort driven by ticking all the relevant, supposedly viewer-friendly boxes rather than by genuine enthusiasm.

Within the story, a race of cuddly aliens called Boov and one specific extra-terrestrial critter called Oh (Jim Parsons, TV’s The Big Big Theory) are the cause of the trouble, the former taking over Earth in an attempt to hide from bigger, scarier, intergalactic inhabitants, and the latter desperate to fit in but always left out. After dispatching humanity to their designated area – read: Australia – the Boov make themselves at home under the leadership of Captain Smek (Steve Martin, The Big Year). Alas, Oh’s eager-to-please yet constantly bumbling nature threatens their new-found comfort via a send-to-all email mix-up. Afraid of the punishment for making one-too-many mistakes, he tries to flee, stumbling into the path of a human girl, Gratuity ‘Tip’ Tucci (Rihanna, Annie), left behind without her mother (Jennifer Lopez, Parker).

Faster than you can say odd-couple road-trip buddy comedy, that’s what Home becomes, with all the formula and familiarity that entails. Fish-out-of-water alien meets street-wise city kid, both outsiders looking for a place to belong, misunderstood by those around them, and possessing a heart of gold – and certain to learn a few lessons and impart their own moralistic teachings upon others along the way. One is unnervingly optimistic, the other wryly determined. One chatters away in jumbled phrases that sounds like a mix of auto-correct errors and Star Wars‘ Jar Jar Binks, while the other is sassy and sings, the characters clearly playing to dubious celebrity casting. The film does everything it can to ramp up the cuteness factor within such conventional confines, emphasis landing on swooping visuals and bright imagery of bubbles, tubes, colour-changing creatures and a pet cat; however that’s all just shiny packaging. Underneath, there’s scant little that the feature does to endear itself to audiences young or old, whether heaping up the pop culture references as a substitute for genuine laughs, or awkwardly incorporating the Rihanna-sung soundtrack.

Instead, what director Tim Johnson (Over the Hedge) and writing duo Tom J. Astle and Matt Ember (Epic) have crafted is an exercise in by-the-numbers blandness, adding another uninspiring effort to DreamWorks Animation’s pile. Of course, Home cunningly attempts to achieve that always-expected animated feat of being everything to everyone, but what it really proves – with more authenticity than the content itself can muster – is just how infrequently that can be done.

CHAPPIE

A wealth of influences flows through Chappie, Neill Blomkamp’s third feature. In telling of times of mechanised law and order, the shadow ofRoboCop is inescapable, further flickering over the central dilemma of technology troubled by an emotional framework. In musing over the relationship between a creator and his creation, as well as flirting with the eternal nature versus nurture argument, echoes of Mary Shelley’sFrankenstein and its many screen adaptations can be glimpsed. In depicting a society of violence and domination – specifically South Africa – the writer/director of District 9 and Elysium also returns to his own familiar playground. This mash-up makes for a curious movie, one both beholden to its many sources of inspiration, and uncertain of how to use them to pave its way forward.

Inside a weapons company, engineer Deon Wilson (Dev Patel, The Second Best Exotic Marigold Hotel) has achieved success in spearheading the scouts, a line of people-sized, agile droids now widely used in Johannesburg’s police squad; however enforcement is far from his dream. He spends his days coping with the angst of a colleague, Vincent Moore (Hugh Jackman, X-Men: Days of Future Past), whose cohort of larger machines his bested, and skirting the commercial mindset of his boss, Michelle Bradley (Sigourney Weaver, Exodus: Gods and Kings), who values money over invention. By night, he toils away to create true artificial intelligence that mimics the human mind in feeling and thinking.

A breakthrough leads Deon to test his program on a damaged robot, but his experiments are hijacked by wannabe gangsters. Fighting a rival, needing cash to save their lives, yet unable to pull off a heist thanks to the ever-present cyber-cops, Ninja and Yolandi (Ninja and ¥o-Landi Vi$$er from South African electro-rap group Die Antwoord) are in desperate need of their own mechanical helper. It is into this world that Chappie (played in motion capture and voiced by Sharlto Copley, Maleficent) is born, a child-like electronic brain in an armor-plated body. As viciousness reigns around him alongside genuine affection for his wellbeing, whether the robot will mentally grow to become a friend or a foe, or choose a path of assistance or crime, depends on its competing stimuli and experiences.

Chappie is a film built on battles it can’t always win: of Deon versus Ninja and Yolandi for the titular character’s allegiance, of Vincent’s brawn-against-brains rallying against the professional and personal differences Deon and his work represents, and of the movie itself in attempting to weave together its many ideas. The push and pull of opposing forces gives the feature its narrative as well as its texture, but whereas clashes can be resolved within the content, broader tussles over concepts are much harder to reconcile. It is in making a strong statement rather than telling a slight story that Chappie suffers, as the latest of Blomkamp’s sci-fi allegories. Even with his ambition scaled down after the misfiring Elysium, the filmmaker struggles to juggle the various thematic underpinnings of his plot, to know which familiar tale to focus on, and to decide when comedy or drama should be prevalent.

Consequently, the movie is more a technical feat than anything else, its distinctive aesthetic and impressive rendering of its central figure more potent than its sometimes satirical, sometimes sentimental extrapolation of how current societal, technological issues might filter through imaginings of a not-so-distant future. Indeed, as much as Chappie, the character, remains a pawn in games played not only by those around him but in Blomkamp and Terri Tatchell’s (District 9) contemplative balancing act of a screenplay, it is his – and the excellent Copley’s – mark the film wears. Of the human counterparts, only Patel fares well as flesh and blood rather than as a device to ramp up the conflict. Jackman, Weaver and the duo from Die Antwoord, are given thinly written parts, and can only play them accordingly.

And yet, for all its chaotic contrasts and cobbled-together components over its elongated 120-minute running time,Chappie holds attention. Though striving for a synthesis of inspiration the film cannot attain let alone sustain, and offering clear evidence of diminishing returns for Blomkamp’s dystopian dreaming, the combination of harshness and heart, industry and empathy, and intricacy and outlandishness the movie has cultivated leaves a definite – if not lasting – imprint.

FIFTY SHADES OF GREY

It’s the movie that was always going to eventuate, crawling its way out of two layers of popular fiction to make it to the screen. It’s also one saddled with ample baggage courtesy of such origins, the popular, female-oriented erotic novels that inspired the film hardly considered classy reading even by aficionados, and the supernatural teen romance series that first started the trend similarly poorly received. Quality and popularity don’t always mix, nor is one necessarily indicative of the other; likewise, average source material doesn’t guarantee an equally ordinary movie, just as one awful franchise won’t always beget another. For Fifty Shades of Grey, the first feature based on the books by E.L. James, as initially written as fan fiction for Stephenie Meyer‘s Twilight saga, the situation is complicated. The bad comes with the good, the former in ample proportions to the latter’s modest servings, with one clearly borne of fidelity to its beginnings and the other stemming from striving to find an interesting way to make it into a movie.

So it is that the tale blossoms from the typical beginnings of a boy and girl meeting, a wealthy business tycoon crossing paths with a virginal English literature student doing a favour for her roommate. As the suave, steely-gazed Christian Grey (Jamie Dornan, TV’s The Fall) answers the shy Anastasia Steele’s (Dakota Johnson, Need for Speed) questions for her college newspaper, awkwardness turns into continued encounters and then to courtship – and even more, if she’ll agree to his penchant for control in and out of the bedroom. Paperwork is presented for Anastasia to sign to make their physical connection official; however uncertainty delays her from putting pen to paper. Still, the pair tests the waters of the only kind of relationship he says he is capable of having, one she’s emotionally invested in yet intellectually cautious about courtesy of her years studying prose telling of other types of couplings.

Story-wise, there is little going on in Fifty Shades of Grey that hasn’t already fuelled many a trashy romance novel before it – including Twilight – and what does stoke the fire is certainly problematic. Wish fulfillment motivates a narrative where the man is dominant and fixated, the woman is willingly devoted but also expected to be submissive, and drama surrounds every aspect of their union, the negotiation of those roles and the signs of resistance included. That’s without even considering the fetishised predilection for BDSM that supposedly increases the sensuality of the tale; indeed, plainly-staged sex scenes may litter the film just as lust drives Christian and Anastasia’s bond, but fornication of any type remains wholly secondary to the story. Standard gender stereotypes fuel a fantasy as ordinary, predictable and illusory as every other cookie-cutter love story: he’s dark, brooding and broken; she’s earnest, caring and curious; he opens her eyes to a different kind of indulgent life, and her influence is bound to change his apparently not-so-standard tendencies.

Thankfully sans an interior monologue, screenwriter Kelly Marcel (Saving Mr. Banks) does what she can to turn the first of James’ three books into something befitting a feature-length film, but there’s never any doubt that Fifty Shades of Grey is a drawn-out, teasing and purportedly tantalizing initial act laying the groundwork for two more installments. The thinly-written characters are established, as is their struggle – which is then repeated several times amidst rampant symbolism, minus a resolution. Dialogue that couldn’t sound credible on the page let alone on the screen attempts to maintain the tension, though more often it elicits giggles. This is Marcel’s best feat, understanding the humour – nervous, skeptical and genuine in turn – inherent in the material. Sometimes, it appears as if the screenplay is laughing at how silly and flimsy its contents are, giving the audience approval to see the funny side as well. This is a scenario that seems like a Mills & Boon-consuming teenage girl’s dream of an eventful romance, after all, inelegantly mixed with the most rudimentary questioning of what constitutes a normal relationship and comprises equal footing within one. The shirtless piano tinkling by dusk and two instances of being literally whisked above the ordinariness both play to the ideal and to the amusement.

Yes, Fifty Shades of Grey’s tale is as confused as it sounds, and as opportunistically packaged in a shallow façade of steaminess to try to disguise the soap opera; however it is how artist turned director Sam Taylor-Johnson(Nowhere Boy) brings Marcel’s version of the story to the screen that elicits the most interest, as constricted by the original text as she also remains. Working with cinematographer Seamus McGarvey (Godzilla) in steeping the imagery in a contrasting palette – anchored by the gloomy titular hue and offset by warm, reddish glows – helps indicate the conflict that simmers in Anastasia as she grows to realize that all is not right with the situation, just as the juxtaposition of close-ups and wide shots plays with intimacy and distance. Again, such techniques exist effectively outside of the combined twenty minutes’ worth of sex scenes, which are skillfully, suggestively shot and edited – not to mention much more modestly than perhaps foreseen – to convey Anastasia’s pleasure. Every choice Taylor-Johnson makes, including the overwrought soundtrack, aligns the viewer with the female protagonist and her desires, as well as ultimately whittling down one fantasy archetype (of the strong, seductive prince sweeping a girl off her feet) to be replaced by another (a man desperately in need of a woman’s nurturing).

It is hardly surprising that Johnson then bites her lip to fare best among the cast, imbuing her character with just enough relatable clumsiness and refreshing comic timing to make Anastasia slightly more than one-note. The circumstances may never ring anywhere near true, but Johnson is always believable, and at her best when bristling up against her co-star in a boardroom rather than acquiescing to his demands. She effectively conveys the longing to be noticed and the excitement of a new tryst, as well as the rationale for complicity with Christian’s whims and the battle that springs between chasing something unrealistic and accepting the reality, as framed within the tale’s skewed perception. As her counterpoint, Dornan is cold, selling the luxurious sheen and the superficial attraction but nothing more – maybe intentionally, certainly disarmingly, unsettlingly and uneasily so. The other names peppered throughout the credits – Jennifer Ehle (RoboCop) and Marcia Gay Harden (Magic in the Moonlight) as mothers on either side, Eloise Mumford (Not Safe for Work) and Victor Rasuk (How To Make It In America) as her friends, Luke Grimes (True Blood) and Max Martini (Sabotage) as his offsiders – are given little chance to impress, just as they are given little to do; understandably, because everyone beside the primary pair is largely superfluous to the narrative.

What emerges in Fifty Shades of Grey is perhaps the best finished product that could rise from the depths of a compromised starting point; a film burdened by a ridiculous plot and phrasing, sparse and simplistic characterisations, and contradictory themes on the page, but brought to the screen with as much good will, poise and polish in its direction and pithiness in Johnson’s lead performance as could reasonably be mustered. The feature is both as troubled as expected and as determined to try to make its content more palatable by whatever means necessary – and it will be followed, of course, by two more attempts at the same tricky, possibly impossible task come Valentine’s Day 2016 and 2017.