Film Review: The Killer Inside Me

The Killer Inside Me. 108 minutes. Rated MA15+. Directed by Michael Winterbottom. Screenplay by John Curran. Based on the novel by Jim Thompson.

If ever there was a film to reignite the debate about sex and violence on film – and particularly violence against women with which this film is pornographically afflicted – then Winterbottom’s nasty, nihilistic, exploitative, dead-end of a movie is it.

It has pretensions to being a stylish, psychological thriller in the classic film noir tradition of the 1940s and ‘50s, where gangsters, thugs, detectives and femme fatales ruled the silver screen in monochromatic splendour and intrigue. The grand noir tradition was almost always powered by a masterful manipulation of light, sound, suspense and suggestion. Winterbottom, instead, has opted for splice and dice – and the result is often repulsive.

Based on Thompson’s 1952 pulp fiction novel about a small town Deputy Sheriff/serial killer ‘Lou Ford’ (a chilling performance from Casey Affleck), Curran’s screenplay is a faithful adaptation of Thompson’s typically bleak novel in which there isn’t a redeeming feature to be found in anyone, anywhere. Winterbottom has been reportedly defending his film against the outrage from people who have been deeply affected by the gruelling, long sequences of violence by saying that all he did was film the book. Ironically, if animals were treated in a film the way Jessica Alba’s big-hearted prostitute ‘Joyce’ is, the filmmakers would probably be facing criminal charges.

As a reviewer, one is always challenged to find the context – the reason and purpose in the films we go to see. Marcel Zyskind’s gorgeous cinematography is stunning and Mark Tildesley’s (28 Weeks Later, Sunshine, The Constant Gardener) production design is incredibly evocative of ‘small-town USA’ in the 1950s (the cars are fantastic!). Mags Arnold’s skilful editing ensures the film’s languid pace matches the increasingly disturbing plot developments to perfection.

But like the time I saw a dog hit by a car, this film is something I wish I had never seen. It will haunt me for a very long time, and entirely for all the wrong reasons.

This review was commissioned by the Geraldton Newspaper Group.

Theatre Review: Outlaw

Outlaw by Michael Healy. Directed by James Adler. Eagle’s Neat Theatre. Northcote Town Hall until September 3.

There’s a really interesting play to be written about the complexities of ‘Green politics’, but this inert, one-dimensional drama by Mr Healy isn’t it. It doesn’t garner any favours, either, from Mr Adler’s almost perfunctory ‘walk-on during the blackout, stand and/or sit around, walk-off during the blackout' staging which appeared determined to disengage with the play’s all too fleeting and momentary moments of imagined intrigue and reduce it to a banal, self-interested and self-reverential soap opera.

In Germany (for some inexplicable reason), there is a tyre-slasher making a real nuisance of themselves within the local community, but the cast seem to treat the whole thing like the rest of us treat a pesky fly at a BBQ. As the play drags on, the head of the environmental activist organisation ‘Greenfriends’ (get it?) Tillman (Will Ward Ambler) is increasingly suspected of being the tyre-slasher. What doesn’t increase, sadly, is our interest in why it matters. What does increase, however, is our frustration with thinly-drawn characters standing and/or sitting around wrapped up in their own self-absorbed, dreary lives while Mr Healy takes to the media with the most unrelenting, tedious and ultimately pointless amount of ‘media bashing’ since the last Joanna Murray-Smith play I saw. The irony is that the indefatigable Phil Zachariah gave the best performance as ‘Ludo’, a journalist. David Loney as ‘Andreas’, Tillman’s “Right Hand Man” literally burst onto the stage with an abundance of energy, characterisation and audibility, which only made him seem more and more out of place – as though he was acting in an entirely different production of an entirely different play. If anyone else had made even the slightest effort to rise to meet him, we might have had a performance on our hands.

The bits of design by Meri Hietala were great, albeit very literal – especially her use of tyres as an ottoman and as parts of the over-used sofa. I especially liked her knife chandelier.

Ultimately, the real dramatic irony of this performance was that only a day later, Australia had its first ‘Green’ MP in our House of Representatives (even if it was with Labor and Liberal preferences) and an increased number of seats in the Australian Senate. Now that’s fascinating. But I’m only a self-serving journalist, so what would I know?

The review was commissioned by Stage Whispers magazine at www.stagewhispers.com.au

Theatre Review: Pin Drop

Pin Drop. Created and performed by Tamara Saulwick. Arts House, North Melbourne Town Hall until Sunday August 29.

Sometimes, but only very occasionally, theatre-makers redefine what’s possible. Sometimes, the often fraught act of ‘collaboration’ evolves to result in a piece of theatre so hypnotic that you can’t actually believe what you are seeing. But rarely, in my experience, does a piece of theatre-making get so entirely under my skin that every single sense is startled into being in ways that I had never imagined possible.

With what can only be described as pure genius, Ms Saulwick and her expert team of artists and eleven additional recorded voices, has created one of the most extraordinarily involving and rewarding theatrical experiences. Every one of my senses was awoken by this intoxicating and hypnotic symphony of sound and light from the exceptional Ms Saulwick – and anyone who has any interest whatsoever in sensory perception or a stunning showcase in breath-taking technical skill should rush to the Arts House at the North Melbourne Town Hall this weekend to experience this supreme example of it.

Even with a grueling review schedule in the punishing Melbourne mid-Winter, I was compelled to walk home from North Melbourne with every one of my senses newly awakened to anything and everything that was going on around me. The sound of a creaking door in a shop across the road, distant voices, my heels on the footpath, screeching tyres and trundling, clanging trams – every familiar sound was highlighted in a totally new and unique way, such is the sensory power harvested and elucidated in this magnificent performance of immense theatrical adventurousness.

Sound Artist Peter Knight (composition, sound design and operation) is a genius. The intricate, other-worldly qualities of Mr Knight’s soundscape are astonishingly good, and in all my theatre-going experiences, I have never experienced technical artistry of such profound sensory invigoration like this. Ever. The design – credited to Bluebottle – Ben Cobham and Frog Peck – is extraordinary, deceptively simple yet masterful and remarkably perceptive. It makes me almost grieve for that way sound and light is so unjustly mis-used in the theatre (where even just turning a couple of lights on and pointing them at the stage seems to be considered ‘design’).

But it doesn’t stop there – such is the determination of Ms Saulwick for her peformance to be one of such alarming originality that even (and one might say especially) the good old theatre term ‘blackout’ takes on an entirely new dimension. Michelle Heaven’s movement is absolute and performed by Ms Saulwick with such a heightened level of skill and awareness that it is almost brutal in its sparsity, constantly surprising in its invention and never less than entirely of service to the soundscape and the almost filmic visions that unfold with pure poetic beauty.

Unforgettable. Go.

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

Film Review: Salt

Salt. 100 minutes. Rated M. Directed by Phillip Noyce. Screenplay by Kurt Wimmer.

No amount of flashy but unexceptional production values can disguise the inordinate amount of silliness going on in this unrelievedly calculated, one-note political/spy thriller from Australia’s Phillip Noyce (Rabbit-Proof Fence, Patriot Games, Dead Calm).

Kurt Wimmer’s (Law Abiding Citizen) inert screenplay seems trapped in the dim, distant past with its terribly dated ‘Russian Spy Cold War Nuclear Political Assassination’ mash-up of convoluted plot-lines – and while there’s one genuine moment of intrigue early on, everything that follows is so obviously sign-posted and strangely predictable that there is hardly a thrill to be had. Great contemporary examples of this genre (Enemy of the State, The Informant, The Recruit) have plots that can turn on the head of a pin. Regrettably, this one doesn’t and ultimately you leave the cinema with the distinct impression that here is a film that believes it is cleverer than it actually is.

CIA Agent Evelyn Salt (Angelina Jolie) is on her way home from the office to celebrate her anniversary with her husband Mike (August Diehl) when her departure is interrupted by the arrival of a ‘walk-in’ – a Russian defector Vassily Orlov (Daniel Olbrychski) who has some important information he wants to share. Salt agrees to a brief interview with Orlov, who promptly declares that Salt is a Russian Spy who is going to assassinate the Russian President when he visits America for the funeral of the Vice-President. Salt must quickly discover how to prove to her CIA colleagues that this is not the case.

Ms Jolie is on auto-pilot throughout and is never as good as she was in Wanted, Mr and Mrs Smith or even her first venture into this action-packed genre – Lara Croft and the Tomb Raiders. Ms Jolie is a much better actress than this (The Changeling is just one example of her outstanding range) and Liev Schreiber’s performance as her partner/defender/foe ‘Ted Winter’ is deadly dull – appearing by the end to be only marginally more interested by the whole thing than we are. Chiwetel Ejiofor (2012) as CIA Mastermind ‘Peadbody’ tries hard to generate some interest in the proceedings, but only Mr Olbrychski and Mr Diehl manage to bring any kind of class to what turns out to be a very long, bloody, noisy, panicked, violent and instantly forgettable 100 minutes.

This review was commissioned by the Geraldton Newspaper Group and appeared in the printed edition of the Geraldton Guardian.

Theatre Review: The Boy From Oz

The Boy From Oz. Music and Lyrics by Peter Allen. Book by Nick Enright. The Production Company, State Theatre, Victorian Arts Centre, Melbourne. Returning 5 to 16 January, 2011.

Before Bette Midler performed the final song of her “Kiss My Brass” concert in Sydney in 2005, she told us that Australia had been responsible for the gift to the world of some of the best songs she had ever sung. Then, as the stage became awash with pink, Ms Midler sang Peter Allen’s Tenterfield Saddler. Ms Midler is always at her best with a thoughtful and considered ballad, and her performance of this iconic Allen tune was perfection.

And on Wednesday night, as we filed out of the State Theatre having witnessed the opening night performance of the Production Company’s The Boy From Oz, I overheard someone say “just perfect” … and how right they were. Great performances of theatre sometimes appear to take place inches above the stage, not on it – such is the unquestionable dynamic certain ensembles of performers bring to the presentation of their craft.

Blessed with an amazing script by the great Nick Enright, Nancye Hayes’s direction is all pure theatrical animal instinct and the tableaus that meld her vision of the show together are stunning. The fluidity and precision with which this enormous undertaking moves across the huge State Theatre stage is seamless, and Ms Hayes fills the stage with immensely beautiful stage pictures, painted with people, that – at times – are just breathtaking. Andrew Hallsworth’s sensational choreography is faultless and delivered with great vigour and passion by the never less than outstanding cast.

And what a cast! Christen O’Leary and Fem Belling have the unenviable task of bringing Judy Garland and Liza Minelli to life, respectively, and both manage to do so with considerable impact. Robyn Arthur was divine as Allen’s mother Marion Woolnough, and her show-stopping, tear-inducing performance of Don’t Cry Out Loud was magic. David Harris, was equally divine as Allen’s lover for 15 years Greg Connell, owning I honestly love you with a show-stopping interpretation that was so good and so beautifully performed, that it was as though the song was existing for the very first time. Fletcher O’Leary (one of the two boys who will play Young Peter throughout the season) gave the performance of a seasoned veteran, and his melding with the older Peter in the recreation of the famous Radio City Music Hall Rockettes kick-line was yet another show-stopper. Wonderful support was provided by the razzle-dazzle trio of Claire George, Samantha Morley and Sun Park who, apart from being very handy with moving the white grand-piano, also conquered the vocal demands with artful precision and flair.

Musical Director John Foreman championed the big, challenging score into one dazzling unit and his band, including members of Orchestra Victoria, was the best it is possible to be. In Music Theatre, there’s an unspoken anxiety in the relationship between the music, the work and the audience. It’s that moment when an instrument slips out of tune or off the beat. It’s that tempo that trips over itself or drags. It’s that startled cringe when the magic and slippery bond that unites great ensembles of musicians falls away. But not here. Mr Foreman and his band were in complete command, and the result was electrifying, particularly much of the tempi which showcased not only Mr Allen’s fantastic tunes, but powered the work of the entire company. From the complete Broadway tuner When I Get My Name In Lights to the intricacy of every heartbeat of Quiet Please, There’s a Lady Onstage, Mr Foreman and his band were pure trust, and more perfect than the greatest expectation.

Shaun Gurton’s impressive and marvelously versatile set design served the work at every turn and Trudy Dalgleish’s lighting of it was brilliant. Kim Bishop’s wonderful costumes brought the showmanship and the pizzazz to life beautifully, but also served to reinforce the era in which Peter Allen lived – a life of such immense passion, dedication and total commitment to the pursuit of his dreams.

Some performers are simply perfect for a particular role – and Todd McKenney brings Peter Allen to life as though they share every piece of one another’s DNA. McKenney’s is a must-see performance of music theatre fire, passion, artistry, flair and great intelligence. Quite apart from the fact that he rarely leaves the stage (and only then to change into another of Mr Allen’s signature outlandish shirts), Mr McKenney reads every beat to perfection and is so alive to every nuance of his character’s journey through this thoughtfully structured show, that at times, it becomes quite overwhelming. When the archival footage of Mr Allen playing the piano and singing Tenterfield Saddler is projected onto a large screen that descends from the fly tower, Mr McKenney sits on a step and watches him with such admiration and understanding that it becomes an incredibly powerful moment of pure pathos – the kind that is only possible in the theatre when ‘theatre people’ are doing what they do best.

And it’s hard to imagine a better example of it than this.

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

Theatre Review: She's Not Performing

She’s Not Performing by Alison Mann. La Mama Theatre, Melbourne until September 5.

There’s an important new voice in Australian Theatre – and it is the voice of young playwright Alison Mann, whose first full-length play She’s Not Performing is an absolute ripper. ‘Issue-based’ theatre always has the potential to be sabotaged by its own worthiness, but not in the hands of this adventurous and marvelously talented young playwright and her dramaturg – Melbourne’s Mistress of psychosexual invention and efficiency, Maude Davey. Stripped away is all the sometimes attendant cloying and wearying victim association, and what we are left with is a script of immense perception, totally lacking in sentimentality and one that not only does complete justice to the stories of the birth mothers of adopted children whom have shared their intimate secrets with Ms Mann – but entirely alters the hackneyed old clichés associated with our condescending and entirely ignorant perceptions of their act of often supreme personal sacrifice.

If Tanya Beer is not one of Melbourne’s hottest and most inventive designers (beautifully illuminated by Darren Kowacki and Lisa Mibus’s captivating lighting design), then I have no idea who is. Ms Beer’s eventual loss to the mainstages of not only this country, but I predict others, will be a great loss to Melbourne’s independent theatre scene. Her signature and singular abilities to substantially alter our perception of spatial relationships within the theatre space is without peer on the independent scene, and her design for this play (like her visionary work for Platform Youth Theatre Company’s One is Warm …) is unerringly brilliant, responsible, evolved and in complete service to the text. Her catwalk structure for She’s Not Performing is possibly representative of the finest use of La Mama’s demanding little space I have ever seen – and to walk into the theatre and suddenly find it not only unrecognisable but appearing to be about twice as big, is no mean feat. Ms Beer never forgets the ceiling and all the wonderful creative possibilities that exist between it and the floor. And like that wonderful piece of advice a seasoned traveler gave me before I left for my first trip to Europe – “Don’t forget to look up” – this is completely involving design for theatre.

Kelly Somes’s direction, it might be argued, could not have failed, but Ms Somes’s wonderfully inventive use of the space and the skillfully guided and riveting rawness of the honesty of the performances she has harvested here mark her as a director to watch. Yes, there are a good too many comings and goings and, as usual, it’s impossible to determine exactly how much of the extraneous fizz was the result of opening night nerves – but there’s nothing to be nervous about, because the piece moves with undeniable force of honesty, skill, understanding and a profound need to be seen and heard.

Andrea Close as ‘Margarite’ gives one of the best performances of the year as the woman who gave away her child. Fearless, shameless and utterly committed to the enormous task at hand (Margarite is only offstage for a costume change), Ms Close’s performance is a must-see. It would be a mistake to discuss it in too much detail here, because the range of emotions you will feel watching Ms Close bring the complex Margarite to life should unfurl for you in the same startling, profound and hypnotic manner in which they unfurled for me. Her precise stillness, her charming and child-like optimism and abandon and her immense sadness and regret, eventually compound into a grand scene between her and 'Hamish', the father of her only child – beautifully realised by Christopher Bunworth.

Interestingly, the weakest character is young ‘Iain’, Margarite’s earnest and erstwhile suitor, played by Mike McEvoy. Whether Mr McEvoy was determined to play the subtext or whether the character really does appear on the page as a bit of a ‘wet-nappy’, is impossible to tell. It was only these scenes that revealed a hint of Ms Mann’s lack of experience and, perhaps, dominant vision that her play would be about the stories of the women, almost at the expense of the emotional needs of the men in their lives and in her play. It was fascinating that the women were beyond ‘victim’ but both the male characters were still very much anchored in their woe and pouty, disempowered misfortune. It is the same gender deficiency that spoiled Jane Campion’s The Piano for me, and quite possibly, Mr Bunworth and Mr McEvoy might need to actually be less-intimidated by Ms Close’s Margarite and more responsible for their place in her life as truths awaken in all of their hideous beauty.

Rachel Purchase is superb as ‘Annie’, and the joy of watching her scenes with Ms Close are as memorable as it gets. Again, it would be remiss of me to say too much about Ms Purchase’s challenges throughout the evening – but she rises to meet them all with star power, divine physical literacy and a genuine and affecting naivety.

I cannot recommend this short season highly enough. Rug up, and go. You’ll be sorry you missed it.

Photo by Talya Chalef.

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

Film Review: Splice

Splice. 104 minutes. Rated MA15+. Directed by Vincenzo Natali. Screenplay by Vincenzo Natali, Antoinette Terry Bryant and Doug Taylor.

If there’s one reason to see this rough and ready little B-Grade shocker, it’s to play that good old ‘spot the movie it’s trying to be’. It’s a great game, and on occasions like this, a far better way of getting bang for your buck than expecting to become involved in what the filmmakers loosely define as plot.

Scientists Clive (Adrien Brody powering along in career sabotage mode) and Elsa (Sarah Polley in perfect “you expect me to do what?!” mode) are fiddling around with genetic engineering experiments. There’s lots of dialogue about isolating protein, cloning, DNA and all sorts of other random scientific waffle that takes place in front of some impressive, heavy-duty scientific equipment. Curiously, it’s actually difficult to imagine these two being able to successfully engineer a mug of Continental Cup-a-Soup between them, but suddenly we have a mutant child/creature who, before you can say “Lots of Noodles”, grows into a mutant young adult called ‘Dren’ (Delphine Chanéac with more than a little help from the special effects department).

Clive and Elsa then spend the rest of the movie educating, nurturing, imprisoning, surgically mutilating, chasing, punishing and generally torturing the poor creature until, as you might expect, she turns against them. And who can blame her? The only real surprise is that it takes her as long as it does to get some pay-back on our peculiar pair of nerdy control freaks.

Ms Chanéac’s mutant gets all the best moments and gives the best performance, which is even more bizarre given that most of her body is computer-generated. The promise shown by occasionally dodgy mutant baby creature quickly evaporates as we find ourselves in ‘abandoned country house and surrounding snow-bound forest territory’ where Natali (Cube), cinematographer Tetsuo Nagata (The Passionate Life of Edith Piaf) and editor Michele Conroy try desperately hard to ramp-up the tension and suspense, but only end up not being able to increase the body count quickly enough to maintain even a nominal amount of interest.

As for our game, I spotted Alien, Jeepers Creepers and Frankenstein – but I won’t say anymore because I don’t want to ruin your fun, especially since it’s the only fun you’ll have.

This review was commissioned by the Geraldton Newspaper Group.