Film review: The Wolfman

The Wolfman. 102 minutes. Rated MA15+. Directed by Joe Johnston; Written by Andrew Kevin Walker and David Self.

In the vast and celebrated horror genre, there are essentially two kinds of films: those that play craftily (and confidently) on our worst fears in the very worst of circumstances, and those that default to cheap shocks, blood and guts.

This blustering adaptation of the 1941 Claude Raines and Bela Lugosi horror classic trips over itself and into the second category — which is a shame, because it could have been an absolute stunner. Instead, it is a tawdry mish-mash of wonderfully atmospheric production values, a thunderingly good score by Danny Elfman (who wrote The Simpsons’ theme song), pedestrian dialogue, distracting and disconnected performances, and an abundance of gore. Ultimately, it all ends up being slightly less thrilling than receiving a postcard, and infinitely less horrifying than opening your bank statement. Or your phone bill.

Following the disappearance of his brother Ben, Lawrence Talbot (Benicio Del Toro, pictured) is summoned home to the family estate by his brother’s grieving girlfriend Gwen (a breathy Emily Blunt) in the hope that he will help her solve the mystery of Ben’s disappearance. Upon his return, the untold horrors of his childhood and the unresolved conflict with his father Sir John (Anthony Hopkins), combine to reveal the true extent of the family’s ghoulish secrets.

The usually incomparable Mr Hopkins wanders aimlessly through every scene — reciting the awful dialogue as though he can’t actually believe he’s saying it, while Mr Del Toro’s angst-ridden performance contributes nothing more than a myriad of soulful stares, snarls and grimaces. Only Ms Blunt, and Hugo Weaving (as Inspector Frederick Abberline), admirably manage to extract every possible sense of foreboding dramatic potential from the material with their thoroughly competent performances.

Mr Johnston (who replaced the troubled project’s original director Mark Romanek) unleashes a fast-paced, blood-soaked, silly splatter fest in place of what might have been an artful, considered and relevant contemporary re-telling of the Werewolf fable.

The Wolfman is certainly not helped, either, by its clunky, snigger-inducing computer-generated 'Wolfman running' or 'Wolfman transforming' sequences or its complete failure to generate genuine tension, suspense, meaning or interest.

What is a relief, however, is that it all ends quickly and effortlessly — even if that is at the expense of the masterpiece it might have been.

This review was commissioned by the Geraldton Newspapers Group and was published in the print edition of the Midwest Times.

Film review: Shutter Island

Shutter Island. 138 minutes. Rated MA15+. Directed by Martin Scorsese; Written by Laeta Kalogridis; Based on the novel by Dennis Lehane.

Psychological thrillers (exemplified by masters of the genre such as Alfred Hitchcock and Stanley Kubrick) don’t come much better than this screen-scorching mind-bender from Mr Scorsese.

It is 1954, and US Marshal Teddy Daniels (Leonardo DiCaprio) and his partner Chuck Aule (Mark Ruffalo) are sent to investigate the disappearance of a patient from a remote maximum-security prison hospital for the criminally insane. As a devastating hurricane closes in on the island, communication with the mainland is severed and the young investigators find themselves at the mercy, not only of nature's full fury, but also the sinister and singularly uncooperative hospital staff.

Mr Scorsese’s fierce, passionate and wildly-involving film could only ever have been possible when the talent involved is at the very top of their game. Robert Richardson’s (The Aviator) cinematography is positively searing, Sandy Powell’s (The Departed, The Aviator) 1950s costuming is beautifully realised, and Dante Ferretti’s (The Aviator, Gangs of New York) production design is flawless. But the virtuosity of the film’s final sequence (and the all-important pay-off where psychological thrillers are concerned), would not have been possible without the editing skills of Thelma Schoonmaker, who has edited every one of the director’s films since 1980’s Raging Bull.

With a performance of astonishing emotional depth and intellectual muscle, Mr DiCaprio proves, once and for all, that he is one of the most extraordinary actors of his generation. And he is in spectacular company. Mr Ruffalo’s is a career-defining performance of incredible range, while veterans Ben Kingsley (Ghandi) and Max von Sydow (the Exorcist in The Exorcist) are simply superb. Michelle Williams (unforgettable opposite Heath Ledger in Brokeback Mountain), here, again, uses every one of her chameleon qualities to devastating effect, while Emily Mortimer and Patricia Clarkson excel in their cameos as one of the patients.

And while it’s only February, Shutter Island could well be the most exciting and rewarding couple of hours we’ll spend in the cinema this year.

This review was commissioned by the Geraldton Newspapers Group and was published in the print edition of the Geraldton Guardian.

Theatre review: The Merchants of Bollywood

The Merchants of Bollywood. Writer/Director Toby Gough; Choreographer Vaibhavi Merchant; Composers Salim and Sulaiman Merchant; Costume Designer Bipin Tanna; Lighting Design Benedick Miller. The State Theatre, Victorian Arts Centre, Melbourne until 28 February, then touring nationally.

India's Bollywood film industry, we are told at least twice during The Merchants of Bollywood, is responsible for over 800 films a year and 15 million tickets sold in a day … which is all very well and good. Astonishing, in fact, as statistics go. Unfortunately, even with these overwhelming data behind it, this quintessentially cinematic phenomenon doesn't necessarily make for great theatre.

A curious mixture of spectacle, acrobatics, rock eisteddfod, Mardi Gras, Mamma Mia!, Grease and theatre, The Merchants of Bollywood suffers enormously from being shoe-horned into the Queen of Proscenium Arch venues – Melbourne's State Theatre – where we are robbed, at point-blank range, of every possibility to engage. Instead, like lemmings, we just squirm in our seats as the high-octane cast make increasingly desperate and, sadly, ultimately pointless efforts to get us on to our feet and into the spirit. If I had stood up to dance, I would have kneed the person in front of me in the back of the head – not to mention the damage I would have done to my knees, shins and the pairs of feet either side of me. And as for those side aisles? They're barely wide enough to walk along, let alone dance in. There is no centre aisle either (unlike Sydney's State Theatre where the show will land in March), into which those audience members who felt compelled, could deliriously spill.

While the large, exuberant cast exude enormous amounts of energy and skill, the choreographic style just doesn't have enough variation early on to match either the skillful dancers' passion for it, or reward us for our attention to it. Yes, the costumes are lovely (and there are lots and lots and lots of them), but the first act becomes incredibly repetitive, as one Bollywood-inspired dance extravaganza after another fills the stage with colour and movement. The exception is the marvellous split-stage (screen) sequence in which the ambitious Ayesha (the fabulous Carol Furtado) recalls the initial, portentous confrontation with her traditionalist father Shantilal (Chander Khanna). In this compelling sequence, the young Ayesha is acted and danced by her remembered younger self, but voiced downstage in a spotlight by the, now, adult Ayehsa. But even with this glimpse of pure theatrical instinct and potential, by interval the show had amassed all the theatrical torque of a seemingly never-ending episode of India's Got Talent.

The second act, relievedly, is a different matter altogether; as the story of a dance dynasty collapsing under the weight of conflict between the ageing, alcoholic Shantilal and Ayesha's dreams of creative independence, takes centre stage. It is the second act, too, that delivers the cultural highlight of the night: a beautiful wedding scene (faintly reminiscent of Mira Nair's sensational 2001 film Monsoon Wedding). Here, the production finally comes resplendently into its own, courtesy of some beautifully observed traditional dancing and costuming, colourful kites, masks and ornate, prancing 'horses'. It also heralds the welcome arrival of the Spinning Drummers of Serendip, who provide a rare and exquisite glimpse into the true cultural significance with which the production may have resonated.

At the end of the night, only one dilemma remains. Indian dance, we are informed, is based on the rhythms of nature. But in the final number, when the traditional dance styles and costumes have merged with Ayesha's MTV-inspired disco/techno grooves, not only does it seem an incredibly uncomfortable fit, but it also suggests that in her effort to embrace her destiny as a modern choreographer, she has actually embraced typically Western, empty-hearted, empty-headed and soulless, showbiz pizazz. And in doing so, she appears to have lost sight of the value of true creative purpose and meaning – which supports, a little too precisely, the depth and passion of her father's clearly articulated fears for her.

Somehow, I don't think that's what was intended.

This review was commissioned and published by Stage Whispers @
www.stagewhispers.com.au

DVD Review: Ponyo

Ponyo. 100 minutes. Rated G. Written and directed by Hayao Miyazaki.

In 2002, Japanese writer and director Hayao Miyazaki captivated audiences around the world (and won the Academy Award® for Best Animated Film) with the stunning Spirited Away – the highest-grossing film in Japanese cinema history. Enter Pixar supremo John Lasseter (A Bug's Life, Toy Story, Cars, WALL-E). Lasseter, a huge Miyazaki fan, encouraged Walt Disney Pictures to acquire the rights to the film, and an English language version of the film ensured it reached a significantly larger, world-wide audience. And with Ponyo, he's done it again.

Five-year-old Sosuke (perfectly voiced by the youngest Jonas Brother, Frankie) lives in a house, high on a cliff near a small town by the sea. His mother Lisa (30 Rock's brilliant Tina Fey), works at the elderly citizens' home while his father Koichi (Matt Damon), spends days away from home working on a cargo ship. One morning, while Sosuke is playing on the rocky beach below his home, he rescues a goldfish who has become trapped in a jar. He names her Ponyo (divinely voiced by Miley's younger sister Noah Cyrus), and dutifully cares for her in a little green bucket. But Ponyo's guardian, the wicked sorcerer Fujimoto (Liam Neeson), wants her back – and what ensues is an epic battle of the elements, as Sosuke must prove his ability to love and care for the little goldfish/girl.

This visually dazzling animation adventure (with an English-language script guided by ET: The Extra-Terrestrial writer Melissa Mathison) will delight audiences of all ages. As he did with Spirited Away, Miyazaki proves again that he is one of the masters of writing mesmerising stories for children that are never condescending or patronising, and which don't dare to shy away from compelling themes – which in this case include pollution, the environment, mythology and family responsibilities.

The DVD includes the original Japanese language version (with English subtitles) and the English-language version, which also includes the voices of Cate Blanchett, Cloris Leachman, Lily Tomlin and Betty White (Rose in The Golden Girls). And while it's very poor on the additional special features front, you need not be concerned – because if ever there was a film guaranteed to have the young ones rushing to find their coloured pencils, then this is it.

This review was commissioned by the Geraldton Newspapers Group and was published in the print edition of the Midwest Times.

Film review: Up in the air

Up in the air. 109 minutes. Rated M. Directed by Jason Reitman; Written by Jason Reitman and Sheldon Turner; Based on a novel by Walter Kim.

Depending entirely on how secure your own job is and how devoted you are to the charismatic charms of one Mr George Clooney, there is every possible chance you'll chuckle along with one or two engaging, albeit fleeting, moments throughout this lithe, mercilessly fatuous, one-note romantic comedy. What is more likely, however, is that by the time you wake up in the morning, you'll have forgotten you even saw it. If ever there was a film that fails to translate its insular, celebrity-inspired Hollywood take on the meaning of family and relevance of employment and job satisfaction to our way of life – this is it.

Inexplicably nominated for three of this year's Academy Awards® (including Best Picture) and the winner of last month's Golden Globe Award for Best Screenplay, Up in the air is one of those well-made, precise Hollywood flicks that bathes in the excesses of its own conceit and leaves you, well, up in the air about what to make of it all.

Ryan Bingham (our effervescent Mr Clooney) is employed to fly around the United States of America telling people they no longer have a job. When super-sacker Natalie Keener (a straight-jacketed Anna Kendrick) joins the team to implement an online (webcam-based) version of this process, Mr Bingham's penchant for frequent flyer points (and his prized membership of any number of other loyalty programs) is severely compromised.

Up in the Air's cursory nod to the full extent of the underlying drama of what is at stake here is approached with a startling nonchalance, but no more than you might expect from a script that determinedly denies any dramatic context. It chooses, instead, to remain dedicated to its very-pleased-with-ourselves polish and intellectual bankruptcy. The lowpoint (from which the film fails to recover) comes when one of the poor souls who threatens to commit suicide if she's sacked, actually does. The inconvenience of this whole unfortunate episode is glossed over in barely a minute or two of screen time. Now, while that plot-point obviously fails to mean something to the filmmakers, it's an astonishing error of judgment on their part to think it will mean nothing to us – despite how cleverly 'romantic' and 'comedic' they think they're being.

Mr Reitman (the far more entertaining Thank you for smoking and Juno) delivers a polished product that fails, at every turn, to speak to us on any meaningful level. The script takes a cautious and incredibly self-concsious side-step into oh-so-familiar family drama territory, but sensing that it's all becoming a bit risky and meaningful, departs again – without revealing to us anything we haven't already seen before countless times, and to much greater (and memorable) effect.

This review was commissioned by the Geraldton Newspapers Group and was published in the print edition of the Geraldton Guardian.

Film review: Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock Holmes. 128 minutes. Rated M. Directed by Guy Ritchie; Written by Michael Robert Johnson, Anthony Peckham and Simon Kinberg; Released by Warner Bros in association with Village Roadshow Pictures; Cast includes Robert Downey Jnr, Jude Law, Rachel McAdams and Mark Strong.

At a glance: Robert Downey Jnr can do anything.

Beginning with A Study in Scarlet (1887), Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote four novels and fifty-six short stories featuring his 'Consulting Detective' Sherlock Holmes, who would be most famously portrayed (in 14 films) by South African born, English actor Basil Rathbone. Throughout Conan Doyle's 'Sherlock Holmes' canon (and the more than 200 dramatisations for film and television to follow), the pipe-smoking detective of 221B Baker Street, London, was renowned for his focus on logical thought, quaint philosophising and his unequalled powers of observation and deduction – not to forget his instantly recognisable cap, cape and cane.

Not any more. From the first frame, Mr Ritchie (who burst over the horizon in 1998 with Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels) dispenses with the mannered elegance and mild eccentricities of Sherlocks past and delivers, instead, a thrilling, white-knuckled ride through a post-modern Sherlock Holmes adventure so entirely of our time that it risks casting a museum-like pall over all that has gone before.

It is late in the 19th century and London's now iconic Tower Bridge is under construction. Master of the Occult, Lord Blackwood (a superbly malevolent Mr Strong), is sentenced to a date with the hangman for the death of a number women; but no sooner is he pronounced dead by none other than Dr Watson (Mr Law, who is finally back in form), he resurrects himself to resume his evil plan to lead his cult-like organisation to political domination.

More 007 than Hercule Poirot, Sherlock Holmes' forensically researched screenplay (two writers are credited with the story and three with the screenplay) is melded to the screen with absolute relish and conviction, and features a blisteringly good performance from Mr Downey Jnr in the title role. Referred to in Doyle's stories as a formidable 'bare-knuckle fighter' and someone who has used martial arts on more than one occasion to dispense with his foes, Mr Ritchie and his collaborators introduce their Sherlock to us from deep within the underbelly of a heavy-duty, industrialised Victorian England; where Holmes' peculiar eccentricities are first revealed through the methodology he uses to dispatch of his much stronger and physically capable opponents in a boxing match.

While it is unarguable that Mr Ritchie really needed a high-impact, box office triumph to re-ignite our faith (and Hollywood's investment) in him (Swept Away, anyone? Revolver?), he has fortuitously found himself in incredibly accomplished company, and in the meantime, has managed to rediscover his sense of humour which has been sadly missing from much of his recent ouput. Much of the credit for this revolutionary imagining belongs to Philippe Rousselot's (Oscar-winner for A river runs through it) fiercely stylised, monochromatically-inspired cinematography, the deliciously rendered detail of Sarah Greenwood's (Atonement) glorious production design, and Hans Zimmer's (Gladiator) ravishing score that appears, at times, to forge the high-octane pace Mr Ritchie has set for the film.

James Herbert's editing keeps the film moving swiftly with hardly a dull moment, and while audiences will be more than familiar with both the slow- and fast-motion devices used to accentuate pivotal plot points and reveals, here they are used with great efficiency and expert timing – particularly as Holmes solves the intricate web of crimes and their association to each other. Ms McAdams (the ill-fated Regina in Mean Girls) is a worthy adversary for our recalcitrant hero, and Kelly Reilly turns in a beautifully affecting performance as Dr Watson's long-suffering fiancée Mary Morstan. But it is Mr Downey Jnr whose performance is worth the price of admission alone. And yes, the heavily sign-posted sequel is already in pre-production.

This review was commissioned by the Geraldton Newspapers Group and was published in the print edition of the Geraldton Guardian.

Review: The Lovely Bones

The Lovely Bones. 135 minutes. Rated M. Directed by Peter Jackson; Written by Fran Walsh, Philippa Boyens and Peter Jackson; Released by Paramount Pictures; Cast includes Saoirse Ronan, Stanley Tucci, Mark Wahlberg and Susan Sarandon.

At a glance: A compelling ode to life after death.

One night during her first semester at college, Alice Sebold (the author of the best-selling novel The Lovely Bones) was brutally raped in a tunnel leading to a local ampitheatre. In the same tunnel, another young woman had been murdered and dismembered by the same man.

It comes as no surprise, then, to learn that The Lovely Bones is considered a tribute to the young girl who did not survive; now 'fictionalised' as 14-year-old Susie Salmon (a rivetting Ms Ronan), who is raped, murdered and dismembered on her way home from school. Susie narrates the story from the afterlife as she observes her dysfunctional family attempting to come to terms with her disappearance, while her killer (infuriatingly) continually evades arrest.

In the years since his absorbing Heavenly Creatures (1994), in which a young Kate Winslet made her feature film debut, Mr Jackson has brought us the epic Lord of The Rings trilogy (2001-2003) and King Kong (2005). The question was whether he and his regular collaborators (Ms Walsh, to whom he is also married, Ms Boyens and Australian Cinematographer Andrew Lesnie) could return to harvest the rich soil of intimate family drama that didn't rely on computer-generated, over-sized razzle dazzle. The answer is a most definitive 'yes'.

Confronting, powerful, beautiful and moving, The Lovely Bones is an extraordinarily potent snapshot of how the disappearance of a young girl can tear a family apart. In a magnificent sequence of time and space shifting, Susie leaves our physical plane and finds herself in the "in-between" – a place from where she and those close to her, can resolve the horrors of an unexpected death, before she continues on her journey to heaven.

The superb cast are equal the demands of the challenging, fluid script, with Ms Sarandon (Grandma Lynn), in particular, relishing her heart-breakingly funny sequence when everything she does to try and return peace and order to the fractured household goes terribly wrong. Lovers of great drama will delight in the luxury of riches on show here; the unquestionable highpoint being an unbearably tense, almost wordless confrontation between Susie's father, Jack (an impressively vulnerable Mr Wahlberg) and their neighbour George Harvey (an eery Mr Tucci), as he begins to suspect that Harvey is responsible for the disappearance of his beloved Susie.

The hugely rewarding ending is entirely cathartic: a visually stunning, poetic ode to the absent victims of torture, abuse and murder; who, while they may have been taken from us in unbearable circumstances, will never been forgotten.

This review was commissioned by The Geraldton Guardian and published in the print edition.

Review: Law Abiding Citizen

Law Abiding Citizen. 108 minutes. Rated MA15+. Directed by F. Gary Gray; Written by Kurt Wimmer.

If you're still sitting in the cinema at the conclusion of the first five minutes of this nasty, pretentious little offering, you'll only have yourself to blame. The opening sequence ends with one of the most grotesque lines of dialogue ever uttered by an actor on film in any circumstance, and I battled the immediate instinct to walk out simply because I had to stay so I could tell you all about it. And, perhaps even more astonishingly, it all goes rapidly downhill from there.

Clyde Shelton (Gerard Butler) witnesses the brutal assault (and later, we learn, murder) of his wife and young daughter by two home invaders. When super-lawyer, Nick Rice (Jamie Foxx), cuts a deal with one of the perpetrators in order to secure the death penalty for the other, Shelton decides to take matters into his own hands. Yes, 'yawn'.

Law Abiding Citizen is an unapologetic mess of a film that tries too hard to mean (and achieve) anything and ends up meaning (and achieving) nothing – all underpinned by Brian Tyler's instantly forgettable score. Mr Gray mistakes film directing for pointing the camera at the actors (when it's not floating around the air for no particular reason), and Jonathan Sela's bland, artless Cinematography mistakes grey for emotion, which only serves to contribute to the visual blandness of this perverse, cinematic-flatline of a film.

Mr Foxx acts throughout the entire thing as though he is hoping that it's all going to end much sooner than it is (and that his pay cheque won't bounce), and the charisma-less Mr Butler (who also shares an additional guilt burden as one of the Producers) delivers one of the most tediously self-indulgent performances in recent memory. Only Leslie Bibb (as Rice's assistant Sarah Lowell) manages to redeem herself with a beautifully machiavellian performance of innocence and great integrity as she begins to question the extent to which everyone else is enamoured with with their own 'star power' (not only as far as what passes for a 'plot' is concerned, but also, I suspect, in the 'acting' stakes).

How Law Abiding Citizen ever got a theatrical release (instead of going straight to DVD for people who have 108 minutes of their lives to spare), remains an unqualifiable mystery. Most unusually, every single member of the audience at the screening I attended fled the cinema the second it was over. If revenge thrillers are your thing, then rent the vastly superior Die Hard 1, 2, 3 or 4 instead.

This review was commissioned by The Geraldton Guardian and published in the print edition.

DVD Review: G-Force

G-Force. 88 minutes. Rated PG. Directed by Hoyt Yeatman; Written by Cormac and Marianne Wibberley.

When a young Hoyt Yeatman Jnr (the Director's son) used to dress his pet guinea pig up in combat gear borrowed from his GI Joe doll, little did he know that this simple distraction would become the nucleus of an idea pitched to live-action uber-Producer Jerry Bruckheimer (Armageddon, Pearl Harbor, Pirates of the Carribean).

The result is a dazzling tour de force of flawlessly combined live-action and computer-generated animation so entirely captivating that adults will adore it as much as the children do! Mr Bruckheimer (whose trademarks are excessively high stakes and cinematic wonderment), obviously threw everything he could at this fantastic idea about a special squad of highly-trained guinea pigs who are intent on preventing billionaire Leonard Saber (a perfect Bill Nighy) from realising his diabolical plan to rule the world by creating a global regime of networked electrical appliances. And yes, the "killer cappuccino" line is one of many peppered throughout the hilariously witty script that will be guaranteed to delight audiences of all ages.

From the spectacular opening sequence, when Darwin (perfectly voiced by Sam Rockwell) leads his crack team of special agents Blaster (Tracy Morgan), Juarez (Penelope Cruz) and computer expert mole Speckles (Nicholas Cage) on a mission to infiltrate Mr Saber's enviable mansion (there's always one of those!) to the explosive finale, the miniature world of high-tech gadgets and gizmos is both magnificently imagined and superbly realised.

While the storyline and characterisations might contribute to Hollywood's seemingly never-ending love affair with stereotypical characters in stereotypical situations, you can't take anything away from the spirited performances of the stellar cast and the extraordinary production values – resulting a film of great escapist entertainment value; complete with a punchy (and at times quite affecting) through-line about belonging, individuality and a modern notion of 'family'. And I guarantee you won't ever be able to look at a guinea pig in quite the same way again!

This review was commissioned by The Geraldton Guardian and published in the print edition.

Review: Fantastic Mr Fox

Fantastic Mr Fox. 87 minutes. Rated PG. Directed by Wes Anderson; Written by Wes Anderson and Noah Baumbach; Based on the novel by Roald Dahl.

Lead by the ground-breaking Pixar Films, the development of computer-generated imagery (CGI) animation techniques has arguably been most influential in the genre of films made ostensibly for children. With their first film, Toy Story (1995), Pixar single-handedly raised the bar and catapulted their young audiences' demandingly boundless imaginations into photo-realistic environments of captivating brilliance.

By comparison, Wes Anderson's (The Darjeeling Limited, The Royal Tenenbaums) subversive and quirky stop-motion Fantastic Mr Fox – based on a novel by the incomparable Roald Dahl (Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, James and the Giant Peach) – at first presents as some kind of idle, farm-bound curiousity; a bewildering artifact from a bygone 'hard drive and gigabyte-free' age.

Mr Fox (over-bearingly voiced by George Clooney) is suffering a severe bout of affluenza. Tired of being poor and having to live underground, Mr Fox shops well beyond his means and buys a beautiful big tree where he, Mrs Fox (Meryl Streep) and cub Ash (Jason Schwartzman, a Wes Anderson regular) can live in picturesque tranquility. Mr Fox has also promised to stop his marauding, chicken-murdering ways, but his new proximity to three mega-farms brings his family (and a delightful collection of animal neighbours) into direct confrontation with the farmers – triggering a chain of events which threatens to destroy their world.

While Fantastic Mr Fox suffers from an uncomfortable collision of style over substance and a cloying, 'seen-it-all-before' subplot about the need for parental approval, it becomes increasingly difficult to deny the joyful effects of the lovingly-crafted puppets as they battle to save their world from destruction. Beautifully filmed by Wallace & Gromit Cinematographer Tristan Oliver and helped enormously by Nelson Lowry's (Corpse Bride) visually rich production design, the film's quintessential theme of the merits of a peaceful co-existence – even if you have nothing whatsoever in common with your neighbours – is a timely, and in fact, timeless, one.

This review was commissioned by The Geraldton Guardian and published in the print edition.

Review: Bran Nue Dae

Bran Nue Dae. 85 minutes. Rated PG. Directed by Rachel Perkins; Written by Rachel Perkins, Reg Cribb and Jimmy Chi.

While it's possible to fault, it is equally as impossible not to like Bran Nue Dae; Ms Perkins' (One Night The Moon, Radiance and the Logie Award-winning documentary First Australians) fearless and irreverent adaptation of Jimmy Chi's ground-breaking 1990 stage musical.

It is 1965, and 'Willie' (an engaging Rocky McKenzie) is an Aboriginal boy on the cusp of manhood who is juggling his carefree life in Broome, his burgeoning romance with 'Rosie' (a delightful Jessica Mauboy) with his mother Theresa's (the wonderful Ningala Lawford) dream that he become a Catholic Priest. Reluctantly, Willie returns to boarding school and the tutelage of the fearsome Father Benedictus (a robust Geoffrey Rush). Following an altercation, Willie runs away to return to his beloved Broome (and Rosie) – helped along by 'Uncle Tadpole' (Ernie Dingo), and hippy, combivan-driving backpackers 'Annie' (a charming Missy Higgins) and her German boyfriend 'Slippery' (an hysterical Tom Budge) … with Father Benedictus in hot pursuit.

Beautifully filmed by Cinematographer Andrew Lesnie (The Lovely Bones, The Lord of The Rings), Bran Nue Dae belts along with never a dull moment, helped enormously by the immediacy of its fantastic score, its complete lack of pretentiousness and the spirited performances by an outstanding cast. There are wonderful cameos from Magda Szubanksi (as the gun-toting 'Roadhouse Betty') and Deborah Mailman (as the insatiable 'Roxanne') – but the film belongs to Ernie Dingo (who created the role on stage), and whose performance reaches entirely unexpected depths. Dingo's is a marvellously authoritative presence, and one that is critical to the film's cultural resonance – particularly in a startlingly haunting 'dream' sequence when our adventurers find themselves locked up for the night and an hilarious 'bone-pointing' scene.

Critically, Bran Nue Dae also contributes to the increasing wealth of Australian films made by Indigenous Australians. But while it flirts with the harsh realities of alcoholism and sexual promiscuity, Bran Nue Dae is ultimately far more concerned with the grand theme of freedom: freedom to find your own particular joy amongst the mess of humanity and all its wonderful inconsistencies. The sea-side denoument is a celebration of the crucial role mutual understanding and forgiveness play in resolving life's conflicts, and it is the resolution of this big-hearted theme that makes Bran Nue Dae supremely entertaining.

This review was commissioned by The Geraldton Guardian and published in the print edition.