Reviews

To give credit where it's due, "The Lifeguard" is a nicely shot, leisurely paced indie movie about growing older, growing up, and dealing with the changing pressures of "finding yourself" in a world that may often seem hollow and unsympathetic. The performances are mostly solid, with particularly decent efforts from Kristen Bell as 29-year-old disillusioned reporter Leigh, who moves from New York back to her childhood home in Connecticut, where she bunks with her parents, picks up her high school job as a lifeguard at the local pool, and generally attempts to revisit her adolescence, and Alex Schaffer as Matt, one of the trio of equally disillusioned teens Leigh and her friends fall in with over the course of the summer.

I caught this movie on Netflix, so wasn't aware it had been billed as a comedy on release; a weird choice that may have hampered the film, as it contains almost zero comedic elements. It's more in the vein of "American Honey" or other movies that attempt to portray realistically flawed characters making dubious choices in an effort to reaffirm their own identities... and, at least for me, that's where "The Lifeguard" falls flat.

My problems with this movie are chiefly to do with its horrendous double standards, its failure to engage with any of the issues it raises, and its stubborn refusal to have any of the characters show even an ounce of true self-awareness or growth. Each of the adult characters - Leigh, her high school friends Mel (Mamie Gummer) and Todd (Martin Starr), and Mel's husband John (Joshua Harto) - are painfully self-absorbed and seem to only parse the world in terms of how it affects them, perhaps best typified in the scene where Mel wails and frets over needing to be "free" and also nurses her anxiety about whether or not she could be a mother (note: not a good mother, just a mother). These might well be real and vivid concerns for a married 30-something with her own home, car, and career, but the script entirely deprives Mel of any subtlety whatsoever and she, like Leigh, merely comes over as a spoiled and self-obsessed brat; the feminine equivalent of a so-called manchild, who would be more at home poring over quotes about self-actualization on Instagram than living as a functional adult.

Of course, there are many movies that focus on the emotional growth of a manchild, and many movies that attempt to make unlikeable characters interesting. "The Lifeguard" does neither, and it strays into somewhat disturbing territory with the depiction of Leigh's affair with 16-year-old Little Jason (David Lambert). For some reason, Leigh's sexual relationship with a minor almost exactly half her age is portrayed as equal, consenting, and harmless. The sex scenes are shot with focus on Leigh's enjoyment and also her romanticization of the relationship, even though at several points the movie goes out of its way to show us how young and vulnerable Jason is, particularly during the third act, with his raw emotional reaction to the loss of his friend Matt.

As with every single event that occurs in this movie, Jason's breakdown serves only to further something Leigh perceives about herself, and she leaves him being comforted by his father while she does the only bit of vague adulting we ever see her do. The final scene she shares with him involves her giving him money and literally leaving him crying by the poolside. It's a sickening display of self-absorption that plays out while the audience is presumably supposed to be impressed at how Leigh (dressed for the first time in "grown-up" clothes, complete with high heels, in contrast to the swimsuits, tank tops and shorts Bell wears for most of the movie) has matured.

In a movie - and there have been many - depicting an adult man's affair or infatuation with a teenage girl, either as a taboo attraction or a way to recapture his youth, the implicit imbalance of power in such a relationship is always apparent. Think of the scene in "American Beauty" where Lester, on the edge of an encounter with his teenage daughter's friend, backs away and ends up giving her fatherly advice: in that moment, the disturbing reality of the fantasy is brought home to him, and he recoils. Put bluntly, when men in movies pursue teenagers, they are portrayed - and seen by audiences - as predatory, sleazy dirtbags, or pathetic has-beens. By contrast, "The Lifeguard" portrays Leigh as a whimsical girl having a hot summer fling, and at no point assesses or questions her behaviour except in the most minimal way, placing the emphasis on Mel's concern that she should report the affair, or that she may lose her job at the school if it becomes public knowledge.

To cap it off, the movie completely sidesteps any form of repercussion. Leigh leaves Connecticut to pick up her old life, and the relationship with Jason is swept under the rug, with he and his father both refusing to name names. During a scene between Mel and Jason's father at the school, he outright states that "getting laid" is sure to have no effect on his sixteen-year-old son, and he'll be fine. Perhaps this is the movie's way of questioning the endemic minimization of sexual abuse on boys when perpetrated by adult women; perhaps it's just another way for the main character to continue prancing through her charmed life without a single thing to worry about except the fact that she isn't a teenager any more.

It's hard for me to list everything I hated about this movie and its characters. I disliked everything about Leigh from her selfishness to her poor cat ownership, and I hated the fact that the movie seems to condone her self-absorption, never forcing her out of her own introspection to deal with a wider world. The closest it came to this was in the relationship with her mother, where Leigh is apparently surprised that her parents have their own personalities, preferences, and lives. How she made it to nearly thirty while being so oblivious to the fact other humans are people too is mind-bending.

There might be a thoughtful, relatable movie buried somewhere in "The Lifeguard" and, perhaps if the supporting characters had been fleshed out more, or Leigh had been given more of a challenging character arc, it would have been brought to the surface. Unfortunately, for me, this is one piece of self-indulgent rubbish that sinks like a stone.

"We make our own ghosts by looking, but pretending not to see... and then forgetting ourselves altogether. It is a terrible thing to look at oneself and all the while see nothing. Surely this is how we make our own ghosts. We make them out of ourselves."

For me, that quote basically sums up this disappointing and annoying movie: mildly pretentious, redundant, and not especially clever. It's a real shame, because the elements are all here for an enjoyably psychological slow-burn Gothic ghost story. There's a period house with beautiful but creaky wooden floors, very good performances from Paula Prentiss as decaying schlock author Iris Blum and Ruth Wilson as Lily Saylor, Iris' in-home hospice nurse, and a leisurely atmosphere of creepy indulgence as real life and the horror from one of Iris' books blend together for an increasingly disturbed Lily.

This movie's slow pace and artistic presentation have turned off a lot of people, and it's tempting to sneer and say poor reviews are a result of viewers being too conditioned to glossy CGI, predictable gore, loud noises and jump scares, but I don't feel that's fair.

"I Am the Pretty Thing That Lives in the House" looks great. The lighting and design is very theatrical, and the abundant narration is poetic, but it is also ultimately very repetitive (literally) and self-indulgent, lacking either a compelling message or strong development. There's a lot of focus on introspection, identity, and creep factor - and the score is not above the kind of dissonant jump scare cues you'd find in movies with less lofty ambitions - and the premise never hangs together or deepens into what it promises.

A flabby script and the central logical problem of a main character who is patently very ill-suited for her job - being way too easily spooked to stay alone in a strange house, not to mention unusually timid, squeamish, and apparently unused to dealing with dementia for a hospice nurse - combine to cripple the movie's impact, and what should be an involving Gothic story simply becomes an agonisingly slow and laboured non-story with no pay-off.

The two leads, whose performances are among the only good points on offer, deserved much better.

There's a lot to like about this movie: good performances, with a standout from Sasha Lane, some beautiful shots and direction, a relatable cast of disenfranchised characters that will remind you of at least three people you've known (probably), and a tidy though very sanitised evocation of life on the road.

Unfortunately, there's also a lot to really dislike. A bloated run time, self-indulgent pacing, incessant shaky cam and jump cuts that are jarring, irritating, and totally unnecessary, plus holes in the premise and plot (or lack of one; this isn't really a linear movie) that you could drive a white minivan through.

The characters are likable enough as an ensemble - their easy rapport and the games they play to have fun on the road will, depending on the viewer, make you feel nostalgic, wishful, or possibly just confused - but sadly the movie wants to spend more time on Jake (Shia LaBeouf), the romantic interest of unbelievably naive and mushy- willed protagonist Star (Sasha Lane). Not only is he very dull and unlikeable as a character, but his introduction as a master salesman just is blatantly false, and LaBeouf shambles and mumbles his way through the dialogue without a trace of charisma, doing nothing to suggest Jake has any kind of hidden depth.

Of course, part of the point of the movie is (presumably) its cyclical repetitiveness and lack of forward momentum - this is a world and an environment where there is no real change or prospect of improvement - but for all its messages about the fracturing of the American Dream, there's a strange dearth of realism in American Honey when it comes to poverty, abuse, or crime. The whole movie feels more like a sun- kissed daydream of what it is to let go of responsibilities and still not find freedom, and the promise of any satisfying conclusion to the narrative remains frustratingly out of reach.

Ultimately, this is an unsatisfying mess of a movie that falls short of making any real statement or analysis, and left me with the uncomfortable sensation that the characters, their struggles, and their ignorance of the world they're not really part of were all there for the audience to gawk at instead of identify with.

I wanted to like this, although not as much as I want to see a day where there isn't a need to make a point of something being "directed by a woman!!!". Unfortunately, probably the most inspired thing here is the Gothic stop-motion-esque filler between the segments.

"The Box," from a short story by Jack Ketchum, is the strongest narrative on offer. It's traditional horror fare and, as such, very predictable, but it's well put together and there's nothing egregiously wrong with it... but all that's really memorable is how flat and dull the characters are. The most in-depth thing the film seemed to be trying to express was perhaps - given all the birds-eye close-ups of massive plates of food - something about the nature of greed and consumption in modern America, but honestly it was hard to care.

"The Birthday Party" offers the best set of characters, and is a quirky segment that stands out from the rest, but not necessarily in a good way. Augmented with a dissonant, loud score (the scoring throughout is like being hit over the head with a timpani), the emphasis here is on character, and Melanie Lynskey gives a good performance as tight- wound Mary, struggling with a dead body in an out-size panda suit. The crux of the film is anxiety and social pressure, and it's competently directed and presented in candy colours by Annie "St. Vincent" Clark, but it feels too much like some sort of Woody Allen rip-off congratulating itself on its New York-style neuroses to really go anywhere, and would probably have been much better served as a stand-alone piece instead of being sandwiched between more conventional horror stories.

"Don't Fall", a segment involving probably some kind of riff on a bastardised concept of skinwalker legends (maybe?) is wholly unmemorable, despite its obvious efforts with special effects. Body horror aside, the most frightening thing is once again the flatness and dullness of the characters, and the predictable grind of a horror formula followed without much panache or spirit.

The final segment I'm afraid to say I can't even comment on, because I gave up. Four stars for the obvious efforts and especially for the stronger first two films, and because it is good to see more portmanteau horror, but I wouldn't really recommend this unless a) you want something on in the background, b) you're especially interested in cinema/directing and want to pick everything apart shot-by-shot. There's more meat on the bones here from a technical standpoint than story-wise, so that might prove more satisfying.

This is an extremely beautiful film and, like much of Villeneuve's work, focuses on ideas to do with humanity, the nature and extent of human experience, and how we can become something bigger than we are.

I loved the idea of humans trying to communicate with a non-linear species that experiences time, thought, and language differently to us, but the explorations of how that really works and would impact both species felt underdeveloped, and I would have liked to see less focus on Louise's motherhood as an illustration and more on the actual mechanics of the plot.

Jeremy Renner is underused as physicist Ian Donnelly, who doesn't seem to do any actual theoretical physics, and several opportunities to engage with global political, military, and governmental tensions feel glossed over, allowing the movie to become reliant on 'alien invasion sci-fi' tropes such as TV news footage of cranks and outbreaks of panic.

The crux of the aliens' gift also feels like a letdown, too redolent of a million instances of "the real treasure was knowledge all along!", though the script does try to underscore the importance of Louise's adjusted thinking and to fully convey its effects.

Great ideas and mostly very good performances from a finely tuned and sensitive cast, but Arrival feels like much more of an appetiser than a main course; an ultimately frustrating movie that promises much but delivers unevenly and with a number of plot holes and inconsistencies. They *are* very good ideas, however.

If you're considering watching this movie, you probably already know what you're in for, but it's worth saying that Bride of Re-Animator is a very rare thing: a great horror sequel.

Yes, this isn't a perfect movie. The pace is uneven, there are some plot holes and unexplained crutches, but it's a note-perfect continuation of all the gory, schlocky, ridiculously camp beauty of Re-Animator, and then some. Jeffrey Combs is, as always, on top form as archetypal mad scientist Dr. Herbert West, bringing a degree of sneering psychopathic narcissism to the role that could almost convince the viewer he's a misunderstood genius instead of a crazy man (or perhaps both?).

This is a truly ridiculous movie, but in all the best possible ways. No matter how much it owes to Bride of Frankenstein - and there are so many homage shots (often featuring gratuitous boobs) that it's hard to ignore the loving resemblance - this movie is firmly located in the kitschy schlock of the 1980s, up to and including the body horror gore of the denouement.

Bruce Abbott (as Dan Cain) and Fabiana Udenio (as Francesca Danelli) are the slightly weaker links in a cast of scenery-chewing greatness, but when a film's primary antagonist (David Gale as Dr. Carl Hill) is an angry disembodied head, you have an idea of the kind of hilarity to expect, and Bride of Re-Animator does not disappoint.

I watched this on a friend's recommendation, expecting a fluffy romance dangling from an enjoyably contrived premise (hey, it worked for decades of MGM movies, right?), but no. This is, without doubt, one of the worst movies I've ever seen.

Writer/director J.C. Calciano tries hard to make a movie that looks good and capitalises on the eye candy potential of its two leads, but both Jack Turner (as hopeless romantic Myles) and Michael Adam Hamilton (as Grindr superuser Brody) deliver performances that are respectively horribly lacklustre and toe-curlingly bad. It doesn't help that they're both so bland, mannered, and manicured that it's hard to tell them apart after a while.

Performance issues aside, the writing is either weaker than wet tissue paper or just doesn't make sense. Myles' coworker Diane (Teri Reeves) is a caricature strung together from obnoxious sexual puns and jokes about booze and women's biological clocks, allowing the move to espouse some sexist attitudes that leave a misandric taste in the mouth, but even the wisp-thin plot isn't safe from Calciano's wavering logic.

The event supposed to bring Myles and Brody's relationship to the climactic point of realising they wanted each other all along is when Brody hooks up with Myles' new boyfriend "Hunter" (Adam Bucci) via Grindr, causing the jealousy and emotional baggage between them to flare into misunderstanding. Except... "Hunter" used a different name, and Brody left the minute he realised the guy was Myles' boyfriend, so there is literally no conflict here beyond Myles taking the fact he misjudged yet another relationship out on his friend, which is not really how the confrontation seems to go down.

The whole thing is just terrible, neither character has the emotional range or depth that would have made the story worthwhile, and the actual story mechanics don't work. Possibly the only redeeming quality this movie has is that it showcases Brody being happily out at work with a straight friend/partner (Moronai Kanekoa) who - excepting one predictable moment of discomfort in a gay bar - is wholly supportive and comfortable embroiling himself in Brody's relationship drama.

That is definitely evidence of social progress, but it's not enough to warrant watching this hot mess.

It's possible I'm biased, but I've never managed to make it all the way through this movie in one sitting. I just get so bored.

Ginger Snaps is often feted as a smart, slick, witty teen drama/horror/comedy hybrid, using werewolf movie tropes as a metaphor for puberty, loss of innocence, and a character study of two sisters growing apart. It does have some snappy lines and genuinely funny moments, such as Brigitte (Emily Perkins) and Ginger (Katharine Isabelle) consulting the supermarket's 'feminine hygiene' aisle as Ginger's lycanthropic changes blur with the clunky plot point of her first period, but for me those are also the scenes that highlight the movie's weakness.

For my taste, the preoccupation with Ginger's burgeoning womanhood - her menstruation, her 'wolfishness' portrayed through aggressive sexuality (including flipping the roles on a pushy boy who has the nerve to ask her "who's the guy here?" shortly before she pins him down and bites through his chest), pleasure- seeking, and short-tempered moodiness - are a set of clichés that never feel as clever or deep as they seem to think they are. The scene in which Ginger compares blood lust to the joy of masturbation never fails to make me cringe. It doesn't help that writer/co-story writer Karen Fawcett's dialogue sounds less like genuine teen-speak than the esprit d'escalier of a 35 year old remembering high school.

Maybe it's because Brigitte and Ginger are so hard to identify with, being cast so firmly as outsiders from the start, with their shared obsession with death, a la Harold and Maude. Emily Perkins' performance - swaddled in baggy clothes, and hiding behind a forest of uncombed hair - is whole- heartedly committed to a vision of teen awkwardness, but the excessive wild-eyed staring overwhelms any sense of nuance or character development which could have brought the story some genuine depth in its first two thirds, and adds to the feeling of playing scenes for laughs instead of balancing dark humour with real emotion.

The movie's practical effects are unusual, and I don't have a problem with that, though it seems to put off a lot of horror fans, and the lycanthropy is not the conventional kind. Most of the liberally splattered gore scenes are effected with high speed cuts and crunchy sound effects rather than a more psychological approach, which feels like an odd choice given the movie's attempts at locating itself so firmly inside the sisters' shared bond.

Ultimately, Ginger Snaps may be many people's idea of a sharply comic modern(ish) take on horror movies - and particularly the role of women in horror - and if it speaks to you like that then great; such is the power of representation in movies. Unfortunately, for me it feels severely dated, clunky, and unrelatable, and it's easy to see the excitement about the movie as chronic over-hyping. If you go in expecting a teen drama with naked-molerat-werewolves and a somewhat second-wave feminist message, you might be pleasantly surprised, but if you remember the 90s trope of being too cool to take anything seriously and found it annoying then, you may want to give this movie a wide berth.

Maybe there'll be a reboot one of these days to smooth off the rough edges from a potentially promising idea?

As gay dramas with characters of Chinese heritage go, there are better structured, better written, and better filmed choices out there (the beautifully shot and sensitively written "Lilting" comes to mind), and although "Eat With Me" does a solid job of engaging with contemporary Asian-American identity - something sorely under-represented in Hollywood - there's little here that doesn't feel touched by stereotype or familiar tropes.

However, this is a movie with its heart in the right place, and it's at its best when giving screen time to the wonderful Sharon Omi as Emma, a mother struggling to rebuild her relationship with her son (Teddy Chen Culver).

Mostly, this is a fluffy, by-the-numbers piece, good-natured but lacking in any real depth or imagination. It's really memorable only for showing genuine empathy to Emma's character instead of focusing exclusively on her son's point of view, and it's that sensitivity that saves the movie from flopping entirely.

Teddy Chen Culver, as Elliot, comes over as stilted and distant - which initially seems to be intentional, to convey the emotional repression shared by mother and son - but he never quite seems to open up, and the rest of the cast seem by turns equally ill at ease. Even a heavy- handed cameo from George Takei (was he promised his weight in dumplings to show up?) does little to lift the pace, though for anyone familiar with the struggle of balancing identity, family, pride, and vulnerability - or anyone who wants a crash course in cookery - this movie does have several moments recognizable enough to make you smile.

Soft Lad is a (very) low-budget indie movie that dreams big and sadly falls short, mostly due to an over-reliance on melodrama and an unwillingness to let its characters breathe and grow.

The story follows David (Jonny Labey), a young man about to start a promising career in dance, and the fallout of his doomed affair with Jules, his sister's husband (Daniel Brocklebank), culminating in news that will devastate an entire family.

Labey gives a committed performance as the naive David, but there just isn't a lot of depth to it, and the often atrociously weak and clunky script limits things still further, displaying writer/director/producer Leon Lopez's tendency to restrict his characters to very well worn territory. The backstory of David's two-year "drunken mistake" with his brother-in-law is revealed via a massive and rather unbelievable info dump delivered to Stacey the Convenient Friend (Laura Ainsworth), whose friendship with David - strained by unresolved feelings - is a small glimpse of a more multi-faceted story, but still ends up as a predictable and tired detail.

The other characters fare little better, with Daniel Brocklebank's Jules coming across more as a smarmy classist caricature than a villain anyone could sympathise with or truly care about, and the movie jangles with missed opportunities. There are moments where it almost seems like it will turn into a neat psychological drama, but be prepared to wave at those moments as they pass by, because sadly the story never embraces its dark side, neither fully exploring Jules' capacity for callousness or manipulation, or the selfishness that can motivate people in the name of love.

There is a brave performance from Suzanne Collins as Jane, David's sister, though again she's let down by a poor script and very little support in the movie's climactic scenes, which descend into awkward melodrama. Craig Stein as Sam, David's new boyfriend, also makes a valiant effort, and choreographed the one dance scene we get to see: another symptom of the movie's disconnection with itself. Dance is presented as David's dream, but there's a massive missed opportunity in actually using it to convey the enormity of his struggle, or anything of his passion and individuality. The supposedly positive ending (pun totally intended) feels like a tacked on afterthought, and the whole movie feels unbalanced in the time devoted to aspects of different characters' struggles.

Structurally and technically, Soft Lad is trying to be an indie movie punching above its weight, but its reliance on two dimensional characters and tired "gay issue" themes - closeted married men, HIV, poppers and hookups - that feel neither fresh nor original just results in a dull, clichéd experience... and I say that as someone who will generally overlook poor direction, writing, performances, or camera work in a low budget movie that honestly has something to say.

Probably what I dislike most about this movie, though, is its erasure of bisexuality. Jules is presented as a married MSM, and for a few moments it almost looks like the movie will dedicate a little time to exploring his emotional conflict over his sexuality and identity (he claims to develop feelings for David; the first time he's fallen for a man), perhaps showing something of the delicate balance - and differences - between sexual and emotional attraction.

Unfortunately, the only labels that ever get mentioned by any character are "gay" and "straight", and I was left with the feeling that, if the word "bi" had been whispered at all, it would have been in yet another cliché about predatory promiscuity. It's sad to see yet another opportunity wasted in this film, but it appears to be part of a pattern, and that's disappointing.

Bottom line: if you're a soap fan who enjoys emotional drama and can overlook technical limitations, this might be up your street. It's certainly nice to see more British drama from the North that doesn't focus on a fetishistic view of "northern-ness", and a lot was certainly made of the tiny budget. Ultimately, though, there are so many more gay dramas out there that are just better in every way.