For fans of the contemporary remake of House of Cards, breed fans of Kevin Spacey. Those who already knew of Spacey’s talent, the TV show has only cemented their opinions on his skill. Those mostly unaware of him now praise him endlessly. Still, somewhere in the middle of each audience are those who don’t know of his work outside of film and television. The man is a theatre buff, drawing crowds from behind the curtain (running the Old Vic theatre) to bringing them in their masses to see him on stage. NOW: In the Wings on a World Stage shows us the most recent fruits of Spacey’s stage labour, with his and Sam Mendes’ production and tour of Richard III.

The documentary explores the genesis of the show, largely the brain-child of Spacey and Mendes as they reteamed after American Beauty. The idea of camaraderie becomes the main focus of the documentary and so if you are looking for an investigative spotlight on drama productions, you may not find what you’re looking for with NOW. There is a lot to take from how each actor takes on their respective characters in Richard III, and set and lighting is intermittently discussed. However, what you take from the film by the end is a reflection on work, colleagues and friendship.

It’s difficult to define the film as engaging, though it does stimulate you with its fly-on-the-wall documentation of budding relationships. Most of the cast and crew of Richard III hadn’t worked with each other prior to the staging and so you see people getting to know one another, developing strong bonds. You can see either lots or a select few of incidences that you would have experienced yourself in life and this is always interesting. The Richard III production almost becomes a backdrop the actor profiles we see more and more of. Aadel Nodeh-Farahani’s photography wonderfully captures all of this – seemingly invisible to the crew as he films rehearsals and backstage antics. Then the interviews, that explain the ins and outs of it all (what the main demographic will be pining for), are expertly edited together by Will Znidaric.

At 97 minutes, it is a relatively condensed documentary, which is exactly what it needs to be. Spacey is a great actor, and Mendes a wonderful director, but there is a lot of gushing going on. Keeping it short and sweet is director Jeremy Whelehan’s best directorial objective; you can learn a fair bit about a stage production (especially with one so rare as to tour worldwide) and even more about actors and crew members building up relationships over the course of a staging/shoot.

rsz_boyhood-2014-movieWhen we think about Boyhood, Richard Linklater’s new film, it is interesting to note the maverick auteur Werner Herzog’s idea about the ‘ecstatic truth': the suggestion that film makers will never be able to truly capture life in all its authenticity, that fabrication and imagination is the key to unlocking life’s gilded mysteries. Linklater has proven to be keenly entranced by the idea of authenticity and documenting the passing of time over his career. Slacker, Dazed and Confused and the beloved Before Sunrise trilogy all took place over the space of 24 hours, polaroid pictures of scattered lives and fleeting moments. Boyhood is his most ambitious project yet, tracing one boys blossoming into adulthood over a 12 year period.

Everything that has been written and eulogised about the film essentially comes down to Ellar Coltrane, the young boy plucked as a 7 year old to star in an alternate vision of his own life. His ‘character’ Mason is a thoughtful child living with his precocious sister Samantha (Lorelei Linklater) and single Mom (Patricia Arquette) in suburbia, Linklater’s usual playground. His early years are defined by endless bike rides with friends, delinquent graffiti vandalism and video games. Linklater uses musical cues by Coldplay and other pop punk hits to define the cultural landscape of the early 00’s. We are introduced to his vagrant Dad (Ethan Hawke), arriving back from Alaska to bribe his offspring with daytrips out and presents.

The film then becomes defined by Mom’s choices; a series of hopeful marriages turned sour by alcohol and new schools for the kids to acclimatise to. We begin to see how the adult world is just as messy and confused as the children’s lives, and how a child’s life can be transformed on the parent’s whim. Mason becomes more introverted, his cherubic glow giving way to a sullen teenager. He begins to make contact with girls and finds a passion for photography, all the while trying to come to terms with his mother’s nomadic lifestyle. Dad flits in and out of the film, much like a customer of separation would, and starts his own family. Boyhood is not a film of great invention and drama, but one trying to illuminate the smaller moments.

The ambition shown by Linklater is quite astonishing. There was a recent Michael Winterbottom drama that similarly tried to evoke a stretch of time like this, but other than that Boyhood is something of an anomaly. In interviews the director has stated that they tried to film for a few weeks every year, creating a short film annually. He admits that there was an element of uncertainty running through the production, and if we are being objective, it shows. Casting a couple of young children to play out characters and watch them evolve shows a remarkable degree of trust. Does it work? In my opinion, not quite. As Coltrane ages, the initial charm he has as a kid subsides; his introversion comes to the fore, and he doesn’t have the requisite acting chops to deliver the more dramatic scenes. Neither does Linklater’s daughter Lorelei for that matter.

Yet there is a strange beauty in this flaw, the unpredictability of these human beings and what life will throw at them down the years. Linklater has obviously had to adapt his story and his characters as the two actors develop. Where the film falls down, and in quite a big way, is the broad strokes that Linklater uses to convey the story. In dealing with such an epic timeline, he resorts to numerous cliches and cut out characters. Professor Bill, for example, Mom’s first husband, changes from charismatic saviour to monstrous pig with no warning. There is a lack of character development and nuance here. Elsewhere Linklater hams up his themes a little; the religious right and the war in Iraq are both dealt with in crude slabs.

While Boyhood is not a perfect film, there are moments of poignance running through the film. Particularly Mason’s relationship to his errant Dad, and his attempts to instil some fatherly advice on camping trips. Many viewers will delight in observing the changing cultural landscape, as we see the leaden, clunky iMacs fall to the wayside as iPads and Facetime take over. There is a particularly nostalgic moment for our generation as Mason attends the arrival of the newest Harry Potter books; it hits a personal chord because my sister also attended one of the midnight openings. That’s the thing about this film: for Western audiences there will be something that everybody can identify with at one point or another, whether it being a first shitty job or drinking your first can of beer.

An ambitious yet flawed film, it still feels like an event and for large parts, quite an achievement on Linklater’s part.

If you ever need a change from the humdrum assembly line of Hollywood movies, it is always worth checking out the Academy Award Foreign Language film winners, nominees and submissions. Nearly every year there’s a gem or two to be found in the selection; in this case it’s the Australian submission (sadly not entered for competition), The Rocket. The feature debut from Kim Mordaunt is a sweet, uplifting and often shocking account of a family in Laos. Mordaunt brings his knowledge of the land (after directing documentary Bomb Harvest that looked at the remaining bombs from the US attack on Laos) along with a magic-realism tone and Spielbergian child character to create a truly enchanting film.

With a land destitute, lacking a particular age, Laos has a fascinating beauty. Due to its scarred land, it is also a place of solemnity. These are the two key aspects of Mordaunt’s film – a joyous depiction of splendour combined with heartbreak and toil. It begins with the birth of Ahlo and his still-born twin brother; the former being tagged “little balls” comically before the latter’s bereaved entrance. This juxtaposition continues throughout, making The Rocket an honest and therefore affecting film.

In a nutshell Ahlo’s twin genetics marks him as a figure of bad luck. In his young life he experiences this continually, yet he always strives to overcome it. When his family are moved out of their homes due to planned construction, the trek to a new life leads them to an unfit area of living. Ahlo then hears about a rocket-building competition that offers money to the winner. With his intellect and spirit he plans to win it, keeping his family safe and able to move them to a better property.

The simple storyline expands beyond its perimeters to explore notions of innocence, discrimination and the bonds we find in life. As a family film (with a 12A certificate), The Rocket is affirming and intelligent, worthy of comparison with some of the Capra and Disney greats. Not only does it keep your attention fixated on the determination of one boy, it reminds you of the scarcity in some people’s lives that can be overruled on the strengths of family and virtuousness.

Messages and morals aplenty, The Rocket is never preachy. It has a very clear set of values and an unquestionable elegance. The first 30 minutes are laced with stunning cinematography and a finely tuned score. As the film becomes more of a character study the visuals become less styled, thankfully reintroduced in the finale. It is a work of class, with Mordaunt making a terrific name for himself. He has the wit, humanity and wisdom to make the right sort of film, and The Rocket is already an excellent example of that.

rsz_2014-05-18_135943“It feels like we’re living in another world”, said one of my fellow Nisi Masa peers. This is Cannes, at the height of the film festival, and everything feels very strange. It might have been the time we were drinking in Le Petit Majestique, a watering hole for anybody too degenerate to get into the parties, as a man made up as the Toxic Avenger posed for photos with delighted revellers.

One thing that struck me in Cannes was the disproportionate amount of French people inhabiting the place. I couldn’t turn for a Jacques, a Celine, a Pierre, a Jean Paul or a Francois blocking my way. The festival was rife with fevered discussion, strangers gesticulating wildly across the Croisette. I engaged in numerous illuminating and deep conversations with the locals; what did I think of the promotion of female directors in the competitions? Was it a cynical attempt to quell last years controversy, or a valiant effort to right the wrongs of industry patriarchy? “Je suis Anglais”, I shrugged, “Je ne parle pas français”.

Cannes is at times ugly, vulgar and seedy, but it also has an irresistible charm and buzz to it that draws you in. Beneath all the fake, elitist glitz and glamour there are people working with great passion. Film makers who have toiled for years with their minds and bodies, struggling to externalise their worldview, and perhaps in turn make the viewer feel connected to its creator, and therefore the human race as a whole. Then we have the perverts, the writers and cinephiles, desperate to make sense of the world but scared of living, finding solace and escape in intimate tales from around the world.

Amour Fou by Jessica Hausner

Amour Fou by Jessica Hausner

There is a great disparity in the world of Cannes and the films that are on show there. The films are often focused on impoverished people, struggling through their lives, beset by tragedy. The festival, meanwhile, is saturated with somewhat closeted, comfortable industry people in Raybans and critics wearing chinos, manicured within an inch of their lives. Is this their Hollywood blockbuster, their escapist cinema? Are the emotional outpourings their explosions, their car chases?

Queueing plays a huge part of the festival as well. In this age of ‘now’ the act of queueing feels quaint and refreshing. It feels so strange that in a matter of seconds one could be streaming a film on Netflix, yet in Cannes you are made to wait an hour, maybe more, to watch the film. I had a strange admiration for the soldiers around me, putting aside their frenzied lives, to act out the most noble service they could in the situation: standing still. What were they thinking about? The film? The others in the queue? Ruminating on their lives? There is too much time to reflect in queues, it’s unnerving.

The Nisi Masa workshop I participated in was invigorating and often inspiring, The other participants had a genuine passion for cinema and writing. What struck me most was, even though the majority spoke English as a second language, the intensity of feeling pierced through the broken syntax and phrasing. As a shamefully ignorant student of languages I was impressed with the dramatic use of words, at odds with the somewhat conservative way English speakers often write in.

Run by Phillipe Lacote

Run by Phillipe Lacote

As to the films, it was a mixed bunch. Darker Than Midnight, a queer coming of age tale set in Catania’s underbelly was disappointingly high pitched and hysterical. Girlhood, a Parisian set teen drama directed by Celine Sciamma of Water Lilies fame was sparky yet felt less distinctive than her previous work. Catch Me Daddy, a Brit thriller, started off brightly with shades of Lynne Ramsay’s hallucinatory visuals, yet devolved into another ‘gritty’ chase movie. Run was a solid, nomadic film set in the Ivory Coast, a bit like Forrest Gump if it had been directed by Apichatpong Weerasethakul. Refugiado was a well directed, well acted Mexican film about a mother and son fleeing domestic violence, not always as grim as it sounds.

The two best features I saw were It Follows and Amour Fou. It Follows was an original, dreamy American horror that subverts the slasher genre. Amour Fou saw the return of Austrian Jessica Hausner after her success with Lourdes. Jokingly described as a ‘romantic comedy’, it is a loose biopic of the writer/poet Heinrich Von Kleist and his affair with Henrietta, a dying housewife. Incredibly dry and somewhat alienating to most viewers, I found it to be wryly amusing and in its own way quite touching. Special mention goes to the short film Thunderbirds by Lea Mysius. Set in rural France, the thin plot follows a vaguely incestuous brother and sister as they go hunting for birds. It had a strong, brutal visual style reminiscent of Bruno Dumont and a distinctive atmosphere to boot. Definitely one to look out for.

Until next time….

 

 

If we think about horror films as a medium to explore human fears at their most primitive, then you would think that there was an infinite space for filmmakers to plough through. For the most part, however, it feels like a genre devoid of invention or respect, an easy commercial outlet relying on a raft of cheap tricks. Occasionally you will see a film that seeks to subvert these tropes and try to bring some creativity to the genre, which David Robert Mitchell’s It Follows has.

The film is a subversion of horror films, not something completely new. A teenage girl named Jay (Maika Monroe) living in American suburbia has intimate relations with hunky Hugh (Jake Weary). Things start to go awry when we realise that Hugh has ulterior motives; he is being stalked by a shape shifting monster that will only relent if he passes on the curse through intercourse. Only when Jay has sex with another person will Hugh be safe, and so the chain goes on.

It is a simple but effective premise, familiar enough to slot it alongside other slasher films but with a touch of surrealism that marks it out. What makes It Follows terrifying is the execution of this set up, with the creature taking on a different form each time. It could be a grizzled mother, a demonic schoolkid or a hulking giant. As Hugh warns us, they are always walking towards their prey. The prey can never stand still, they always have to be wary of the figure in the distance.

While the concept is fertile, Mitchell’s overall vision of the film is also striking. Setting out to make an ‘arty horror film’ in his words, It Follows has an eerie, dreamlike quality, almost like Gus Van Sant had decided to swap his Bela Tarr boxset for a John Carpenter collection. Filmed around Detroit, the film has the feel of a ghost town, the teenage characters leading an almost idyllic existence where adults are almost entirely absent. If one was to read anything into the film, you might say that it explores the idea of innocence being corrupted. One fellow viewer described it as a potential miracle for sex education teachers.

Mitchell creates a beguiling mix of innocence and threat through soft, hypnagogic visuals and floaty tracking shots. The pacing of course ramps up a gear as the creature nears, but for the most part it is a languorous film. Music plays a huge part, and in Disasterpiece’s pretty and dangerous Italo Disco score we have a formidable contributor. The minimalist electronica is a throwback to the scores of the Italian giallo horrors of the 70’s, by directors like Dario Argento and Mario Bava.

The film was never meant to be about the actors or their dramas, but they all give solid performances mannered in the horror style. They have a naturalistic, candy floss quality to them, again reminiscent of the characters in Van Sant’s films. Yet  Mitchell invests enough in them to make the audience empathise with their plight; she is an innocent thrown into a situation she doesn’t deserve, and has the moral quandary of inflicting her curse on someone else or submitting to a grisly death.

I saw a few films at Cannes but none of them were as exciting or refreshing as It Follows. A horror film for people who don’t like horrors, It Follows subverts the genre enough to feel new while still retaining the core essential scares. It is an aesthetic delight and its simplicity works wonderfully. We may just have a cult film in the making.

Destin Cretton’s second feature length, Short Term 12, arrives on a wave of positive reviews and indie film award nods from last year, though it does not quite break into the mainstream. While still positive, reviews haven’t been quite as gushing this side of the Atlantic, however this is a film worth one’s time.

Short Term 12 follows a temporary “halfway house” for troubled teenagers who are fighting their personal daemons, just as much as the barely older staff who work there. Central to all this is Grace (Brie Larson) who is tough and steely with the varying issues the kids have, as much as she is compassionate and understanding when she needs to be. Underneath it all, she’s harbouring a dark past of her own which she suppresses through her work, but this equally gives her a crucial advantage in connecting with the home’s residents.

All of these complexities are made possible by a knock-out performance from Larson, who inhabits the fully realised skin of Grace; thanks in no small part to Cretton’s excellent, witty script and clever direction. There’s an authenticity not just to Cretton’s real life past experience working in one of these homes, but in understanding humans, whether they be labelled as “underprivileged” or “crazy” or even just “normal”. Importantly, Cretton never gives in to overt sentimentality, maintaining a compassionate and realistic tone keeping the potentially heavy subject matter light and natural. Whereas many films would attempt to beat the viewer over the head with the cruelty some humans display, here there remains humour and catharsis in amongst unflinchingly uncomfortable scenes.

Those scenes centre around the film’s excellent teenage cast, most notably newcomers Kaitlyn Dever as Jayden and Keith Stanfield as Marcus who manage to convey their deeply traumatic experiences in a truly mature, subtle manner, which keeps the film from overreaching. These are expertly performed, as Jayden and Marcus find their individual ways to communicate their trauma to Grace and her partner and co-worker Mason (John Gallagher Jr.)

Gallagher is also great as the sensitive and loving Mason, who is supportive and understandably increasingly frustrated at Grace’s inability to express herself due to her suppression. However it is Larson who truly shines here, finding the perfect balance between a headstrong young woman who has such a horrific past. The chemistry between both her and Gallagher and especially Dever is palpable as Grace finds her outlet as a mother figure to Jayden.

My only real criticism of Short Term 12 is that a couple characters remain slightly underdeveloped. Nate (Rami Malek) for instance is an excellent fall guy which provides much humour from his “outsider” perspective, as someone who merely is looking to boost his CV. Yet he is also initially our focaliser, joining him on his first day at Short Term 12, only for him to be left by the way side without much progression. While this doesn’t matter too much, the story really belongs to Grace and Mason practising as parents for Jayden and Marcus respectively; it is fairly distracting.

That aside, Short Term 12 is a thoroughly enjoyable view of a troubled Los Angeles, America that would allow these kids get into this position in the first place. Thankfully, due to Cretton’s kind hand, there is still a lot of sun-drenched light in amongst the darkness.

by Adam Turner-Heffer

A Thousand Times Goodnight, a film whose narrative purports to chart the experiences of a female war photographer, can be stamped with the same indictment that the protagonist herself is accused of in her photography: glamorisation.

All visual representations of suffering border on the danger of aestheticizing it, almost by definition; but, glamorisation and, even worse, exploitation are far more problematic matters. While the film does not aim to represent war per se – it’s more about the photographer – it feels as though A Thousand Times Goodnight uses the whole Third World conflict scenario purely as a backdrop to a portrait of very First World family drama: jarring, to say the least.

When the war photographer Rebecca, played by Juliette Binoche, takes her daughter to a Kenyan refugee camp for a school photography project there’s trouble at the camp: we see shootings and rampages – the stuff of daily newsreels fictionalised for your HD viewing pleasure – solely through the lens of Rebecca’s bravery. The director emotionally foregrounds the photographer’s bravado before the suffering of the people she is shooting. Although emotional identification with the protagonist is part of the dramatic conventions of a certain type of narrative cinema, this supposed identification is scrammed by the overwrought performance.

Juliette Binoche, a usually very talented actress capable of registering distress with the barely detectable movement of an eyelash, has become the go-to actress for the image of the damsel in distress. In a Thousand Times Good Night she delivers a hand-wringing, chest-beating performance worthy of Ancient Greek mourning rituals. Potentially very interesting inklings of a complex relationship with her husband, played by Game of Thrones hunk Nikolaj Coster-Waldau, are not explored in any depth. In fact, the actor seems to serve no other purpose than being a bearded Abercrombie model.

Not every film has to deal with the intricacies of its subject matter: it can just set out to tell a simple narrative story of the cheap tear-jerker kind and everyone can go home happy. But with a subject matter as ethically problematic, thematically and emotionally rich as a war photographer’s trials and tribulations, it is problematic that no nuances are explored. This is particularly surprising given that the director himself, Erik Poppe, is an ex-war photographer.

What is the position of the war photographer ethically in relation to the subjects of their photography? How does the main character feel about the disparity between her model-home catalogue life in a cozy Irish town and the conflict-zones she works in? Is she a spectator or an active participant in a conflict? Sometimes the questions a film does not ask say more about it than the questions it does, which in this case are not very many, bar: Why did Juliet Binoche agree to do this film?

by Dasha Lisitsina

Forget about Frank Sidebottom: the comic alter-ego of The Freshies frontman Chris Sievey has no place here. Those old enough or with an inquisitive enough mind (and an internet connection) will remember the fairly chaotic comedian who was intentionally bad as a musician and even, some would argue, as a comedian. This would either lead to being charmed or appalled by his “act” but in essence, it was a piece of performance art, akin to the greatest of punk rock musicians.

Jon Ronson is the co-writer of Frank and was a real-life member of Sidebottom’s touring band in the 80’s. He remembered this time fondly in the memoir which inspired this film. And yet it’s probably best to do as little research as possible going in because crucially, the Frank here (portrayed by Michael Fassbender), despite wearing (almost) the same giant paper-mache head with it’s cartoon baby-blue, Betty Boop eyes, is never referred to as “Sidebottom”.

Frank is an odd film not because it’s as particularly psychedelic or kooky as it pertains to be, but because it’s co-writer has written himself all over the film without much thought for anyone else. While this film is supposed to be a celebration of Frank Sidebottom’s anarchic spirit, it in fact, plays out like an apology from a man one suspects still has his reservations about the real-life story (particularly when within subjugation of a film narrative.) This makes the film feel awkward to watch as while Frank is clearly modelled on Sievey, Ronson’s attempt to re-insert him into the disposable 21st century hipsterdom (by turning him into a Captain Beefheart or Daniel Johnston figure) seems very confused.

For it is the subtlety named main character Jon (Domhnall Gleeson) who takes up most of our time with the film, and this is the biggest problem. While I appreciate the narrative idea of keeping Frank, a possibly non-existent Michael Fassbender, an enigma, because that is largely what he was, Ronson and co-writer Peter Straughan (The Men Who Stare At Goats) can’t seem to make up their own minds about him; this gives the film a mightily unbalanced tone. It’s central relationship is every bit as infuriating as it is supposed to be, except with zero charm, which makes it a tough watch.

Jon is an office drone and aspiring musician, but is dull, hasn’t a creative bone in his body and worst of all, a weird sense of entitlement. Meanwhile Frank and his merry band are the complete antithesis to Jon’s childish and ill-thought aspirations. Consisting of the ridiculous Karen O impersonating Clara (Maggie Gyllenhaal) and an almost entirely absent French rhythm section (Carla Azar & Francois Civil), they make Pink Floyd style prog-rock which is no where near as interesting or as inspiring as the film wants it to be. Later alerting us to this, Jon compares Frank to Pink Floyd’s Syd Barrett as a similarly deranged yet talented performer however this merely highlight’s the band’s music as derivative.

If it wanted to be, Frank could be an interesting satire of the colliding of the worst indulgences of the British middle-class humdrum and true artistic spirit. However it doesn’t really commit to either. Jon is perhaps one of the most charmless leading characters I’ve witnessed for some time, with Gleeson apparently taking being insufferable literally, using the annoying trope of visualised social-media to communicate his misguidedness. While this is largely the point, we are encouraged to laugh at him; the complete lack of empathy destroys any chance of connection.

On the other side, the band are strangely quite boring. This completely undermines the film’s attempt to show that “making music for music’s sake is perfectly OK” because while they seem perfectly committed to making their (not actually that weird) music, the rest of the time all they seem to do is sit around and look a bit mopey. This suggests that Ronson doesn’t really understand the concept of “artists” and mistakes it for being “a bit wacky” or as is revealed to us, “with emotional and mental problems” because, Frank especially, is so easily talked into wanting to find a larger audience. It seems fairly counter-intuitive to blame a musician’s desire to “just make music” on his anxiety issues, as this isn’t what came across from the act that it’s inspired by.

It’s unfortunate, because there is a good film rattling around inside desperate to get out; much like the person contained in that oversized mask. Director Lenny Abrahamson (What Richard Did, Adam & Paul) makes the best of a confused assignment with some nice stylistic choices; particularly in his Paris, Texas inspired cinematography and editing. At times the script isn’t completely without charm too, as the band manager (played by Scoot McNairy) provides some belly-laughs. However Frank’s bizarre tone leaves it feeling hollow; the broad humour, cartoony, one-dimensional characters, distractingly twee soundtrack and frenetic pace leaves no time to really connect with any of these characters. After a while one starts to build up a bit of a resistance to them. Finally it’s climax negates impact, and it’s shoe-horned emotional close feels cheesy.

rsz_1rsz_fossil_image_5Making films is hard. Even the most talented, visionary film makers struggle to transfer their fears, desires, dreams and nightmares onto the silver screen, so imagine the torturous path for us mere mortals. We might have a distinct, vivid image of what we would want to see on screen, but there is a terrible void between our reality and our dreams. We might think we have truthful characters, profound, thoughtful dialogue and visual landscapes that sear the audience’s brains with their beauty. What we are often left with are wooden, faceless mannequins, stodgy non-language and banal mise en scene. Which leads us onto Fossil.

In the blurb for Fossil, it was described as a film harking back to the French thrillers of the 60’s and 70’s, by directors like Claude Chabrol. This suggests a subtle, sophisticated drama exploring domestic tensions and slow building suspense. Well, at least they tried. The set up is awfully familiar; Paul and Camilla are two Brits abroad in a remote villa in the Dordogne, trying to salvage their fragile marriage while Paul finishes his novel (yeah, I know). Their vacation is interrupted by (wait for it) a free spirited couple, Richard and Julie, who trespass into their unoccupied pool.

The uptight vacationers are shaken by the appearance of Richard, an ageing American lothario and Julie, a 20-something European flower child. While Camilla welcomes the interruption and encourages them to stay, Paul stubbornly resents their presence at his own holiday. As tensions begin to rise and secrets begin to…..oh, who fucking cares? Anyone with half a brain can guess which way this film is headed just by watching the opening 20 minutes. Whereas those hallowed French thrillers of the 60’s were filled with mystery and intrigue, Fossil is merely predictable.

Unfortunately the film is beset by a variety of problems. A drama lives and dies on the quality of its actors, and Fossil has four poor ones.  It would be unfair to pin the blame solely on the actors, as they are working with a flat, cliched script, but none of them cover themselves in any glory. Paul (John Sackville) is your stereotypically stoic British male, unwilling to bend to any changes in his lifestyle, while his unhappy wife Camilla (Edith Bukovics) is more open to opportunity. Richard (Grant Masters) is a predictable American caricature, brash and vulgar, while Julie (Carla Juri) is merely playing the seductress. The problem is that none of these characters feel like real people, merely impressions of real people.

The viewer is begging for some kind of inspiration or invention, yet even the direction and photography is lifeless. Director Alex Walker shoots as if making Doctors on holiday, while the banal, sun hued villa evokes as much dread as a Jamie Oliver advert for Sainsburys. In fact there is probably something more nightmarish about a grinning Jamie Oliver wielding tongs in front of a barbecue. Fossil acts as a warning for burgeoning film makers; you can have the most noble intentions in the world but that means little without some talent.

The trailer for Richard Linklater’s Boyhood starring Ellar Coltrane, Ethan Hawke and Patricia Arquette has arrived.

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