MALIGLUTIT/SEARCHERS - Review By Greg Klymkiw - TIFF 2016 - Inuk John Ford Obsessions

MALIGLUTIT: a figure on the landscape of the universe.

Maliglutit/Searchers (2016)
Dir. Zacharias Kunuk, Natar Ungalaaq
Scr. Norman Cohn, Kunuk
Starring: Benjamin Kunuk, Jocelyne Immaroitok,
Johan Qunaq, Karen Ivalu, Lucy Tulugarjuk

Review By Greg Klymkiw




Inspired by John Ford's The Searchers, Zacharias (Atanarjuat: The Fast Runner) Kunuk and co-director Natar Ungalaaq serve up one of the most compelling and exciting action-adventure pictures of the year. Set against the backdrop of the Canadian north, a father and son obsessively chase after a group of men who slaughter much of their family and kidnap their women.

That's it - on the surface.

Below the simple veneer, a tale of family, love and a culture rooted in a land of harsh beauty roils with uncompromising resonance. Kunuk captures the rich tradition of the Inuk people and his visual storytelling acumen reaches a dazzling pinnacle. He paints a portrait of good guys and bad guys, but does so with the kind of deep strokes which reveal humanity on both ends of the spectrum.

Though Ford's great film is clearly about racism and was made to "right" the "wrongs" of previous westerns and their portrayal of indigenous culture, there is one major difference that stands out amongst others - the portrayal of the "kidnappers".

MALIGLUTIT: The humanity of good and evil.

In the Ford, the "villain" (or rather, the traditional "antagonist") is the Commanche Chief Scar. What we're allowed to know about him is what's told to us about him. When we finally see him, Ford reveals one of the most indelible, still chilling, still uber-creepy images of sheer evil.

Scar is less a character than an image, a symbol. Kunuk and co-writer Cohn takes this several steps further. Their antagonists are characters. We get to know them, just as we get to know the protagonists.

The bottom line though, is that both films share a narrative coat hanger and are ultimately two very different films. What's very similar between them is Kunuk and Ford's love of the land as a backdrop to the human drama - that the universe is always watching. The other similarity is how both filmmakers adhere to classical styles of filmmaking. The images in Kunuk's work go head to head with Ford's - one is the Canadian Arctic, the other is Monument Valley - both are beautiful, and so very, very dangerous.

MALIGLUTIT: Monument Valley vs the Canadian Arctic.

Both filmmakers also employ a classical approach to the action scenes, but Kunuk might actually win those sweepstakes with a breathtaking extreme wide shot in which we watch our hero and villain duke it out in a gorgeously choreographed fight as mere figures on the landscape. We've come to know both as human beings and as such, the stakes are so very high as we sit back as spectators, high up in the stands, the ice, snow and mountain ranges, the arena.

Of course in Ford's film, nobody ever forgets the iconic shot from within the cabin at the end of the film. Kunuk beautifully riffs on this with a similar shot from within an igloo. They're both iconic, but what they represent are so very similar, in terms of loss, but so very contradistinctive in terms of hope. They're both great on their own, but Jesus, what a double bill they make.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: ***** 5-stars

Maliglutit/Searchers is in the TIFF 2016 Platform series.

CHRISTINE - Review By Greg Klymkiw - TIFF 2016 - Days of madness, despair, empowerment

Rebecca Hall as reporter Christine Chubbuck

Christine (2016)
Dir. Antonio Campos
Scr. Craig Shilowich
Starring: Rebecca Hall, Michael C. Hall, Tracy Letts,
Maria Dizzia, J. Smith-Cameron, John Cullum, Timothy Simons

Review By Greg Klymkiw

You fill up my senses
Like a night in a forest
Like the mountains in springtime
Like a walk in the rain
Like a storm in the desert
Like a sleepy blue ocean
You fill up my senses
Come fill me again
- John Denver, "Annie's Song"

There's a scene in Christine where the film's title character (Rebecca Hall), a TV news reporter, drives down the highway singing along joyously to John Denver's "Annie's Song" on her car radio. In any other movie it could have been one of those moments of fake transcendence. After all, Christine's latest political human interest item has just successfully aired and she's on her way to deliver a puppet show to a roomful of handicapped kids. (I know, this already sounds sickening, but trust me, it isn't.)

As she launches into her happy croon-along, it is a strangely transcendent moment, but as she passes a car in the next lane, she stops. We all do (and would). Who doesn't fear being caught singing in the car, even if it's by complete strangers? However, in this case, when the car moves ahead she begins singing again, but the gusto and magic seem shattered. Even now, we see something, thanks to Hall's pitch-perfect performance - something that's just not, right - something tremulous and foreboding.

Director Campos also doesn't let the sing-along soar the way most loser directors would. He cuts the scene (beautifully) short, just before Christine can sing: "You fill up my senses, Come fill me again." We are spared far more than Denver's lyrics, we are saved by knowing that we're definitely in the territory of a great film. And yes, as this haunting, harrowing portrait of mental illness progresses, we do indeed wonder who or what will fill up Christine's senses, and most importantly, "fill [her] again."




Christine is a great film. In spite of the annoying opening credit that tells us it's a true story, try to suppress that fact if you don't already know the story of the WXLT-TV news reporter in Sarasota, Florida who practised her craft during the early-to-mid-70s and was acclaimed for her commitment to a variety of social and environmental issues.

You fill up my senses, like a light in the forest.

Once the film was over on my first helping, Christine Chubbuck's story came flooding back to my memory banks, but up until that point, I was cascaded along by this beautifully crafted picture that plunged me into a world of television news dominated by male voices. Against the backdrop of Watergate/Vietnam we follow the life of a woman struggling to maintain voice and authority professionally, while personally being crushed with numbing mental illness.

For me, the ultimate test of a film's greatness is how it resonates upon multiple viewings. After the first screening I was compelled to see it twice more on a big screen and (to date) three more times in the privacy of my home theatre. Not only does the movie continue to yield considerable complexity, but it never fails to dazzle on an aesthetic level and, perhaps most importantly, it sustains the ability to render emotional wallops that inspire shudders, tears and deep reflection.




The meticulous detail with which screenwriter Craig Shilowich captures the ins-and-outs of a TV newsroom (not to mention the period detail) is a thing of beauty. He expertly juggles several balls in the air by charting the trajectory/descent of the late-20-something Christine and never allowing us to feel like anything, structurally or otherwise, is familiar or by rote. At the same time, the writing is clear and unfettered by the kind of indie-cool (or worse, sitcom emptiness disguised as Hecht/MacArthur) that might have veered into style over substance.

Director Campos demonstrates the kind of control and careful virtuosity needed to navigate the waters of Christine's journey as she looks for love, wends through a complex relationship with her mother (with whom she lives), tries to maintain her journalistic principals, generate work that matters, secure a position in a larger TV market and, as if this wan't enough, deal with both psychological and physical maladies.

The events of the film take place in 1974, but sadly, now 40+ years later, we live in a world where mental illness is loaded with stigma and the resources, both public and private, still seem woefully inadequate. Within this context, Christine proves to deliver resonance and importance that so few films manage to achieve. Its properties feel universal.

Reporter and News Director - Battle Lines Drawn

The lovely thing about the movie is that the darkness of the tale doesn't overshadow the many moments of magic, humour and, at times, sheer elation in the life of the title character. One of the more engaging elements of the story is the cat-and-dog antics between Christine and her news director boss Michael (played irascibly and compellingly by the magnificent playwright Tracy Letts).

During a team meeting of the news department, Michael laments the poor ratings and insists that there must be far more emphasis upon sensationalism.

"If it bleeds, it leads," he declares.

Christine won't take any of this guy's shit. She dismisses him with a zinger that hits him like a ton of bricks: "That's just some catchphrase you picked up at a conference in Cleveland last month," she quips. The truth hurts. He knows it and she knows it. The script delivers a cornucopia of gorgeously written jousts between the two of them, but never are they on the level of the kind of fakery churned out by James L. Brooks in the ludicrously overrated Broadcast News. Shilowich delivers one gorgeous Charles Lederer/Clifford Odets-like acid-toss in the face after another, but never at the expense of truth (unlike the nonsense crapped out by the likes of the aforementioned Brooks).

Truth, however, is ultimately what Christine is all about.

It's a terrible truth and that's what makes it so vital.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: ***** 5-Stars

Christine is a TIFF 2016 Special Presentation and released by The Orchard.

NOCTURNAL ANIMALS - Review By Greg Klymkiw - TIFF 2016 - Arty Vehicle Runs On Empty

MICHAEL SHANNON: Great Actor in search
of a Great Movie (or even good one).

Nocturnal Animals (2016)
Dir. Tom Ford
Nvl. Austin Wright
Starring: Amy Adams, Jake Gyllenhaal, Michael Shannon, Aaron Taylor-Johnson,
Isla Fisher, Armie Hammer, Laura Linney, Andrea Riseborough, Karl Glusman

Review By Greg Klymkiw

There's a scene in Tom (A Single Man) Ford's mostly dreadful Nocturnal Animals when Texas cop Sam Andes (Michael Shannon) steps out of his car onto the dusty, lonely flatlands which harbour a grisly crime. As his foot hits the dry earth, he begins to hack so violently that each cough sounds like the burst of gunfire from a .44 Magnum. Every wheeze is a death rattle. We fear for him, as does his companion who inquires into his well being once the horrendously desiccated croup-eruption draws to a close. Andes takes a deep breath and nonchalantly replies, "Yeah, I'm okay." Shannon's delivery is so perfectly timed that we let out a healthy belly laugh.

He's ready for action. The grisly crime scene awaits.




That we care so much for this character's well being is certainly a testament to Michael Shannon (no matter what film he's in). It's impossible to take one's eyes off the guy. Even when he's stuck in a dog's breakfast of a movie, his mere presence is usually enough to keep us watching. The broad strokes of the character he plays, a soon-to-retire homicide dick dying of lung cancer, who takes the law into his own hands with a pair of rapist-killers, certainly provides enough material for Shannon to deliver an astonishing performance.

Alas, he is ultimately a great actor in search of a good movie.

The very ubiquitous and extremely dour Amy Adams.

Nocturnal Animals is based on a novel by Austin Wright called "Tony and Susan". Though I have not read the novel, I'm going to go out on a limb here and suggest that Nocturnal Animals is a better title - at least for the movie. The title, in addition to Michael Shannon, is the only good thing about Tom Ford's picture. It's probably one of the worst indie arthouse movies I've seen in quite some time. It suffers from an accent on preciously composed shots of people looking dour and a screenplay ("written" by Ford) that vomits up a whole whack of on-point dialogue and provides a clunky, almost literary structure (purporting to be cinematic).

In a nutshell, the movie forces us to meander amongst three different through-lines.




First of all, we get the story of a gallery owner (the ubiquitous Amy Adams) and her cheating husband (Armie Hammer), both of whom are facing potential financial ruin. As we suffer through all of this, we learn that wifey was once romantically involved with a penniless academic (Jake Gyllenhaal) who had dreams of being a great novelist.

The second through-line delivers flashbacks to this doomed romance and we learn that Ubiquitous Amy dumped the lad for financial stability, doubting her beau's ability to ever be a novelist. The third, and most problematic through-line is when Amy gets a manuscript of her former love's novel (which is about to be published) and the movie rubs our noses in fictionalized versions of both characters in a tale of rape, murder and revenge.

Now if any of this had been infused with a trashy, pulpy sense of fun, and/or even some Douglas Sirk-like melodrama (to match the movie's visuals), then perhaps it might have been palatable. Unfortunately, director Ford drags us through a dreary, humourless and pretentious mess that simply tries one's patience.

Jake Gyllenhaal looking dour: Regrets, he has a few.

Other than Shannon's character, there really isn't a single entity in this entire movie that feels remotely real, let alone worth spending any time with when the lights go down. Wifey Amy Adams is a total sourball from beginning to end and one can't really blame Hubby Hammer for grabbing a bit on the side.

It's also no wonder her gallery is suffering financially. The film opens with a series of arty-farty slo-mo shots of whorishly dolled-up BBWs, bumping and grinding with dour abandon (of course, they wouldn't be having any fun in a movie like this). Eventually they are turned into living still-lives on a variety of IKEA slabs for the edification of a whole whack o' rich knobs who are guzzling free booze and nibbling upon cheese in Amy's gallery.

Eventually I kept thinking - no wonder she's going broke. Does she have to pay all these porkers to prostrate themselves in her tony whorehouse of capital crimes against fine art - every fucking day?

This, at least, is a pretty good question. God knows we don't really have too many others whilst we suffer through horrendous dialogue like:

"What right do I have to not be happy? I have everything. I feel ungrateful not to be happy." This, followed by this dopey response: "You are just awfully hard on yourself."

"You and your mother both have the same kind of sadness in your eyes."

Or how about this scintillating exchange?

UBIQUITOUS AMY: "We are not right for each other."

DOUR JAKE: "We are perfect for each other."

UBIQUITOUS AMY: "No, we are not perfect for each other, though we might have been perfect for each other if we didn't live in the real world. But I live in the real world and I need a life that is more structured. I want to be the person that you want me to be, but I just can't."

Or, how's about this spitfire?

"I'm not scared, I'm unhappy. I'm just really really unhappy."

Adding to the mix of crappy dialogue, we're also forced to put up with a whole passel of portent during a litany of irony like:

When Ubiquitous Amy gets a paper cut whilst opening Dour Jake's manuscript.

When Dour Jake showers in the "novel" and Ubiquitous Amy showers in "real life".

When Ford delivers a shot of the raped/murdered mother and daughter of the "novel" lying together nude and pathetically juxtaposes it with a "real life" shot Amy's daughter lying nude with her lover.

It never seems to end.

The hits just keep coming.




Worst of all, though, are the final moments in which Ubiquitous Amy dolls up for a meeting with Dour Jake to talk about his novel and catch up on old times. She ends up wearing a hideous green dress which resembles the dress Scarlet O'Hara made out of the curtains of Tara in Gone With the Wind. Rhett Butler certainly saw through Scarlet's ruse. We wonder if Dour Jake will have a similar response. Alas, we never find out. Nocturnal Animals predictably ends with Ubiquitous Amy being stood up.

This all seems thoroughly appropriate. The whole movie deserves to be stood up.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: *½ One-and-a-half-stars
Nocturnal Animals is a TIFF 2016 Special Presentation and is a Focus Features and Universal Pictures Canada release.

PATERSON - Review By Greg Klymkiw - TIFF 2016 - Dullsville meets Poetry in New Jersey.

Impossibly gorgeous Iranian women who marry
bus drivers in Paterson, New Jersey NEVER have to work.

Paterson (2016)
Dir. Jim Jarmusch
Starring: Adam Driver, Golshifteh Farahani, Barry Shabaka Henley,
Cliff Smith, Chasten Harmon, William Jackson Harper, Masatoshi Nagase

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Look, I love Jim Jarmusch as much as the next guy, but the fact remains that he really hasn't made anything worth seeing in a long time. That said, I have no intention of ever giving up on him. After all, the man gave us Stranger Than Paradise, Down By Law and Mystery Train - all terrific pictures. His new film Paterson, is however, so utterly, mind-numbingly mediocre that it's really tempting to never see another one of his movies ever again.

Here's the deal: Paterson (Adam Driver) is a bus driver in Paterson, New Jersey (birthplace of the immortal Lou Costello). He lives in a modest post-war bungalow with his impossibly gorgeous Iranian wife Laura (Golshifteh Farahani) and their super-cute, mega-wrinkly bulldog. Now, maybe it's just me, but do New Jersey bus drivers make enough money to own a bungalow (albeit modest) and support impossibly gorgeous Iranian wives who appear to do nothing for a living? Well, maybe they can. After all, this couple appears to not do much of anything.

Every single day is pretty much the same. (Jarmusch used to be a master of making "sameness" both entertaining and thought-provoking, but in this movie, it's anything but. It is 118 minutes long. That's what it is.)

Bus drivers in Paterson, New Jersey can support impossibly
gorgeous Iranian wives who don't work. They can also be
poets like fellow Patersonians Ginsberg & Williams.

Starting with the title card "Monday" and cycling through an entire week, this is what happens - each day.

Paterson wakes up and engages in his morning ablutions.

Sometimes he talks to his impossibly gorgeous Iranian wife, or at least nuzzles her.

Paterson walks to work.

Paterson sits in his bus, waiting for his shift to begin. He writes (supposedly good) poetry in his notebook. His boss comes by and talks about his personal problems.

On the road, he listens in on one key conversation between a couple of passengers.

At lunch, he eats and writes more (supposedly good) poetry in his notebook. (This makes sense, I suppose, since Paterson, New Jersey was the home and/or birthplace of many notable writers including Allen Ginsberg and William Carlos Williams. Pretty cosmic, if you ask me.)

When he returns home, he discovers his impossibly gorgeous Iranian wife Laura working on some ornate, hand-crafted interior design element for their modest post-war bungalow. They talk and nuzzle. Their conversation usually consists of his impossibly gorgeous Iranian wife Laura reminding him that he absolutely must photocopy his poetry notebook and/or the baked goods she is planning to prepare for a weekend market. The conversations are often punctuated with shots of their super-cute, mega-wrinkly bulldog.

After dinner, Paterson leaves his impossibly gorgeous Iranian wife Laura home alone and takes their super-cute, mega-wrinkly bulldog on a walk. He stops at a local bar, ties the dog outside, goes in, orders a beer, talks to some fellow patrons and always has a conversation with the bartender.

That, folks, is all there is. Day in. Day out. There is no conflict, save for a subplot involving a bar patron and the woman he loves (but who refuses to love him back).

Impossibly gorgeous Iranian nuzzles loving bus driver.

On the weekend, Paterson and his impossibly gorgeous Iranian wife Laura go to a movie. Upon their return they discover that the super-cute, mega-wrinkly bulldog has destroyed the (not-yet-photocopied) notebook of (supposedly good) poetry. His impossibly gorgeous Iranian wife Laura feels badly, but still manages to chide him for not photocopying his notebook.

On Sunday, Paterson is depressed. He sits on a park bench. An older Japanese man sits next to him. For some reason, he knows Paterson is a poet. He gifts him a brand new empty notebook.

Gee, I wonder what Paterson is going to do next? Perhaps he'll write some (supposedly good) poetry. Perhaps we'll find out if Jarmusch ever bothers to make a supposedly good sequel to this supposedly good movie.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: ** (Two Stars)

Paterson is a Special Presentation at TIFF 2016. It is a Mongrel Media release.

THE BIRTH OF A NATION - Review By Greg Klymkiw - TIFF 2016 - Biopic pillories Nat Turner

Nat Turner at the pillory,
though it's director/star Nate Parker
who deserves to be pilloried.

The Birth of a Nation (2016)
Dir. Nate Parker
Starring: Nate Parker, Armie Hammer, Aja Naomi King, Jackie Earle Haley,
Penelope Ann Miller, Gabrielle Union, Esther Scott

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Nate Parker shoehorns two rapes into his abysmal big-screen biopic of the legendary African American freedom fighter Nat Turner. That one of them involves the character of Turner's wife, who appears (by all historical accounts) to have never been raped, manages to offer up a mighty rank fish-smell wafting from Parker's fetid onscreen world.

That the other rape in the film involves a character who doesn't have a single line of dialogue, seems more than enough to charge the picture with bearing a strong streak of sexism, if not downright misogyny. Both rapes are indicative of a myriad of poor storytelling choices on Nate Parker's part in this horrid, poorly written and incompetently directed attempt to render a stirring picture about one of America's greatest heroes.

Nate Parker in diapers. Fetishize THAT!

The Birth of a Nation is so awful, it's disheartening that it exists as the first major feature drama to tell such an important story about the history of African-Americans. Nat Turner (played in the film by director Parker) led a major slave uprising in 1831 Virginia. The rebellion resulted in the deaths of about 60 white people who "benefitted" from being slavers. The aftermath saw many of Turner's followers captured and killed. Turner himself eventually suffered the same fate. In spite of a flurry of official measures by Whitey to place further restraints upon African-Americans, the rebellion is an important event which provided hope to slaves and contributed to the anti-slavery sentiments amongst America's liberal class.

Parker's film places considerable emphasis upon Turner's literacy and abilities to preach the words of God. That his financially-strapped owner (Armie Hammer) sells his slave's services to other plantation owners (who hope to quell sentiments of rebellion), is a story element that certainly offers the potential of a very interesting relationship - a kind of bro-mance miscegenation-style, but Parker is such an incompetent film storyteller, it remains firmly lodged up the smelly butthole of potentiality.

The film also spends inordinately saccharine amounts of time on Turner's relationship with his wife, rooted (so to speak) in the director's considerable exertions to bolster his delusional belief in the yummy sex appeal he seems to think he has. This is about as offensive as the aforementioned rapey stuff, but might actually be more bile-inducing.

And so, the movie plods along, rife with cliches and historical inaccuracies and directed with all the aplomb of a made-for-TV movie. Once the "action" begins, Parker's meagre directorial abilities extend to an inability to offer up coverage commensurate with the sort of flair that could have, at the very least, kept an audience awake and sufficiently charged to have something resembling an emotional response to the pallid proceedings.

"Who stole my diapers?"

Given that Parker has attempted to "reclaim" the film's title from D.W. Griffith's racist, but undeniably groundbreaking 1915 feature, he might have attempted to study the film's astonishing mise-en-scene for a few pointers on how to make a movie.

Aside from his film's overall failure to deliver any goods at all, The Birth of a Nation is plagued with two especially egregious elements. First of all, the entire dichotomy between the Old and New Testaments (the former preaching revenge, the latter extolling the virtues of turning the other cheek) is never adequately addressed within the context of character, theme and drama. Secondly, a running dream-motif exploring Turner's belief in his destiny as a "warrior" is handled with all the subtlety of a jackhammer.

Parker even blows these dream sequences in which he appears as Turner, adorned in what appear to be the swaddling attire of cloth diapers, inspiring a whack of unintentional guffaws amongst audiences desperate for something (ANYTHING!!!). But here's the rub (sans tug). By not even bothering to mine the fetishistic possibilities inherent in the film's star (himself, 'natch), dolled up in this sexy attire, Turner seems to add considerable insult to injury. Then again, given the "primitive" context of the dream sequences, it seems unlikely Nat Turner would have been clothed at all. Perhaps Parker decided he didn't quite have the "equipment" to let it all hang out.

On both counts, ultimately, a real filmmaker might have been needed.




Of course we must not ignore the film's rapey "qualities", which seem somewhat curious given that Parker, in real life, was acquitted of rape several years earlier and that his accuser eventually committed suicide. That said, I don't believe it's ever fair to condemn a film based upon anything its maker may or may not have done in his private life. The movie must live or die by its quality as art. It is here, however, that The Birth of a Nation dies a miserable death, simply and solely by virtue of the fact that it's a dreadful picture.

The Film Corner Rating: * (One-Star)

The Birth of a Nation is a Special Presentation at TIFF 2016. It will be released theatrically by Fox-Searchlight.

LE CIEL FLAMAND - Review By Greg Klymkiw - TIFF 2016 - Flemish Heaven?Heaven? Really?

Le Ciel Flamand (2016)
Dir. Peter Monsaert
Starring: Sara Vertongen, Wim Willaert, Esra Vandenbussche

Review By Greg Klymkiw

I texted the following note to a pal right after seeing Peter Monsaert's Le Ciel Flamand.

"Uh, so I just saw this movie in which a sad sack bus driver attempts to rekindle his relationship with a brothel keeper whose 6-year-old daughter has been molested by the town's Santa Claus."

The response I received was thus:

"OK, that does not even sound like a real movie."

I'll admit my tongue was slightly in cheek with this description of one of the most original and moving experiences I had this year, but the fact remains that it's not an especially improper portraiture.

You see, single Mom Sylvie (Sara Vertongen) runs a tidy little brothel with Monique (Ingrid De Vos), her Mother. Bearing the moniker "Le Ciel Flamand" (the almost hilariously oxymoronic English translation is "Flemish Heaven"), the modest house of ill repute, nestled off a grubby highway under the grey Belgian skies, is adorned in red lights and within, it seems an especially cozy refuge for gentlemen seeking womanly release.

Still, it is a brothel and Sylvie's six-year-old Eline (Esra Vandenbussche, Vertogen's real-life child) is never allowed inside and instead, spends her time in the car or in the company of the kindly Uncle Dirk (Wim Willaert), our aforementioned bus-drivin' man of the hangdog schlemiel persuasion.

Uncle Dirk is, of course, Eline's biological Dad. His paternal love for the child is unmistakeable, but so is the torch he carries for Sylvie. When the sweet child is molested by a pedophile, the status quo casts aspersions upon Sylvie's profession and fitness as a mother - as if prostitution was to blame. God knows Sylvie herself feels guilt about it, but she's a great Mom, a powerhouse businesswoman and a first-rate provider of the world's oldest services.




The cops are pretty much useless (as they so often are) and Dirk finds himself on two odysseys; one, to find the pedophile and two, to pursue the joy of familial bliss with Eline and her mother.

In addition to the film's unique, often kitchen-sink exploration of both motherhood and loneliness, writer-director Monsaert never casts an eye of reproach upon the sex trade. Indeed, he pens the delightfully warm description of Sylvie's work as providing "hugs" to gentlemen in need of said hugs. (Eline accepts this explanation from her Mother with the sensitivity and openness only children can bring and her spirit is infectious throughout both the film itself and within the hearts and minds of the audience.)

This film's positive portrayal of prostitution is refreshing in both its frankness and clear-headedness. It doesn't avoid the ugly side of the business, but frankly, all business is replete with a fair share of monstrousness.

Monsaert's directorial artistry extends to every dramatic beat, but no place is his eye of observation more acute in providing Dirk's POV of the town's local Santa Clause (or, in Flemish/Dutch/Eastern Rite and other customs, St. Nicholas). When we see the sordid Santa dandling kids on his knee, Dirk sees what only someone looking for the tell-tale signs will see. We see them too. Chillingly, it reminded me of the several times I witnessed pedophiliac tendencies in men. Remind me to tell you sometime about one guy I knew at a dog park (a fellow beloved by many children) who sported a hard-on whenever he spoke to my own child. Scumbag!




What Dirk observes and corroborates beyond a shadow of a doubt leads to a virtual explosion of mad intensity which knocks you flat on your ass, precisely because of Monsaert's observational eye throughout and the quiet intensity with which he permeates this gorgeous, love-filled slice of humanity.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: *****

Le Ciel Flamand plays TIFF 2016

HELLO DESTROYER - Review By Greg Klymkiw - TIFF 2016 - Blood on the Ice of Prince George

Hello Destroyer (2016)
Dir. Kevan Funk
Starring: Jared Abrahamson, Kurt Max Runte, Joe Dion Buffalo, Paul McGillion, Ian Tracey, Ben Cotton, Sara Canning, Maxwell Haynes, R.J. Fetherstonhaugh, Darren Mann, Shane Leydon, Phil Prajoux, David Lennon

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Prince George, British Columbia is often considered Canada's most dangerous city, but in Kevan Funk's dazzling feature-length debut Hello Destroyer, it's not the criminal element anyone need fear, but rather, Tyson Burr (Jared Abrahamson), the newest recruit of the city's minor league hockey team The Warriors. He's a goon, you see. His job is to provide muscle and he delivers the goods with a cool viciousness. He does, however, seem like a perfectly nice fellow in all other respects. He's soft-spoken, handsome, a loyal hard-working teammate and damn it all, downright introspective.




Egged on by his coaches and fellow players to deliver the goods, he's clearly a rising star-in-the-making; a burgeoning Tie Domi in the world of enforcers on skates. He does what it takes and accepts the meagre accolades of his leaders like a bruised, abused dog will still accept pats on the head from its abusing master.

Alas, there is something far more brutal and dangerous in the world of hockey than fists and lumber smashed into the teeth - it's politics. When Tyson's enforcing results in a horrifying and tragic incident during a game, our hero meets his biggest adversary of all; shame, shunning and aimlessness.

In addition to the most Canadian movie never made in Canada, Slap Shot, Canada itself has yielded a number of terrific pictures about its National Sport (Face Off, Paperback Hero, Goon), but none with the genuine force and power of Hello Destroyer. Writer-Director Kevan Funk paints a veritable portrait of Hell; a stylized blend of expressionism and neorealism that keeps us on the edge of our seats.

With cinematographer Benjamin Loeb, Funk seldom jumps out of the intensity of claustrophobic and downright chilling closeups - keeping us as intimate with Tyson as we'd ever want to be. This adds intensity, to be sure, but it contributes to both the confusion and humanity our hero represents. The compositions are always masterful and I applaud the almost-pitch-black opaque qualities of the images, forcing us to look deeply into the gloomiest pits of the game itself.

There are no false notes here. The performances range from juicily (appropriately) over-the-top to creepily deadpan. The film captures small-town Canadiana, team spirit and the dregs of its national support with verve and aplomb.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: **** 4-Stars

Hello Destroyer, a Northern Banner release, is playing at TIFF 2016.

ELLE - Review By Greg - TIFF 2016 - Verhoeven manages unimaginable, makes boring film

Elle (2016)
Dir. Paul Verhoeven
Scr. David Birke
Nvl. Philippe Djian
Starring: Isabelle Huppert

Review By Greg Klymkiw

It seems unthinkable that Paul Verhoeven (Robocop, Showgirls, Total Recall) could actually make a boring movie. That he could make a film that's repugnant - in all the wrong ways - is equally shocking. He's done it with Elle, though.

Michèle LeBlanc (Isabelle Huppert) is raped by a ski-masked scumbag in her tony Paris digs, but she doesn't report it to the police. She has other ideas.

Michèle happens to be a dynamo in the world of gaming production. Failure eludes her because she makes her designers, colleagues and programmers suffer her sharp-tongued wrath. She knows what her gameboy customers want and, irony of ironies (ugh), the lads living in front of their gaming consoles want big boobs, blood and rape, especially rape.




Yes, she eventually tracks down her rapist, but not before Verhoeven can provide rape flashbacks and rape dreams. And isn't this all going to be oh-so Francais? She may or may not be out for revenge, but mostly, she seems fuelled by the cat and mouse aspects of the rapist stalking the rape victim and vice versa. Super Ugh!

Working with a ridiculous script, his first in the French language (from what must be a dreadful novel), Verhoeven has made a film that's vagina-stuffed with lame satirical jabs, mostly of the easy-poke variety against gaming and gamers to justify what turn out to be the rape fantasies of his leading lady.

The picture's not funny, nor suspenseful and worst of all, it's a mega-bore. I love Verhoeven, but this is a total misfire. I imagine most psueds and/or film critics will defend the picture and applaud its "bravery" and purported nods to "empowerment", but this is the domain of pinheads, not anyone with taste, compassion and humanity.




THE FILM CORNER RATING: Lowest Rating:
TURD DISCOVERED
BEHIND HARRY'S CHAR BROIL
AND DINING LOUNGE

Elle is a Mongrel Media Release playing TIFF 2016

DOG EAT DOG - Review By Greg Klymkiw - TIFF 2016 - Schrader NailsBunker Book Bigtime

Dog Eat Dog (2016)
Dir. Paul Schrader
Scr. Matthew Wilder
Nvl. Edward Bunker
Starring: Nicolas Cage, Willem Dafoe, Christopher Matthew Cook

Review By Greg Klymkiw

The first few minutes of Paul Schrader's sprightly and downright buoyant film adaptation of Edward Bunker's classic crime novel Dog Eat Dog plunges us into a kaleidoscopic, drug-fueled fantasia via Willem Dafoe (as the appropriately monikered "Mad Dog"). This juicily ramps up to one of the most shocking acts of violence imaginable, at least within the oh-so-tender context of Mad Dog promising his porcine "lady love" some good lovin' and a mess o' delectable short ribs. And then the picture forcibly butt-blasts us raw into an even more appalling "OH-FUCK-NO-REALLY?" salvo of horrifyingly hilarious carnage. At this point, it's obvious how terrific this movie is going to be.

This is no surprise, really. As the screenwriter of Taxi Driver and director of Blue Collar, Hardcore, Light Sleeper, Mishima: A Life in Four Chapters, American Gigolo, Auto Focus and the insanely brilliant and unfairly-drubbed The Canyons, the very idea of Schrader directing a Bunker adaptation makes the mouth water. The execution goes well beyond anticipatory salivation - he pins us to the floor and fiercely has his way with us. And we cum and we cum and we cum.

Troy (Nicolas Cage) is the snaky, charming mastermind behind the Holy Trinity of ex-cons which includes the aforementioned Mad Dog and the burly Diesel (Christopher Matthew Cook). After performing a series of small-money scams, which they pull off by the barely competent skins of their wobbly teeth, Troy decides the time is right for the ultimate crime-fueled payday. The Greek (Schrader himself, in a gruffly funny turn) offers them the job of a lifetime; their lifetime, anyway. A scumbag gangster owes The Greek a whack of dough and the job is to kidnap the thug's baby for a princely ransom.

To say things go smoothly might be an understatement, but the major league fumbles guarantee knee-slappers aplenty and blood-soaked shenanigans of the most lovingly repellent kind.

Screenwriter Matthew Wilder deftly updates Bunker's book (a period piece would clearly have cost a small fortune and might well have been un-financeable given the film's darkly hilarious overtones) and shifting the locale from Los Angeles to Cleveland manages to up the ante on the sleaze factor most succulently. 

Schrader's visual palate is gorgeously achieved by the sturdy, no-holds-barred lensing of Alexander Dynan, and ranges from grimy 70s filthiness to fine-grained monochrome to out-and-out blasts of garishly happy 80s colour - splashing across the screen like Jackson Pollock on crystal meth. The cutting of Ben Rodriguez Jr. appropriately jettisons the action along without resorting to unnecessary wham-bam-thank-you-M'am gymnastics and both the music and design elements add oodles of panache to the proceedings.

Dog Eat Dog is one of the best crime pictures of the year, but most of all, it had me soaring out of the cinema feeling like a helium balloon (especially when Cage delivers a moving Bogart riff).

Oh yeah, and it has plenty of nudity. One can never go wrong with that.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: ****

Dog Eat Dog plays Midnight Madness at TIFF 2016

I, DANIEL BLAKE - Review By Greg Klymkiw - TIFF 2016 - Bureaucrats Who Kill With Joy

I, Daniel Blake (2016)
Dir. Ken Loach
Scr. Paul Laverty
Starring: Dave Johns, Hayley Squires, Dylan McKiernan, Briana Shann

Review By Greg Klymkiw

In a world where it seems that the poor are better off dying than face the indignity of their supposed benefactors, one wonders what's more evil - the government or its vile, petty bureaucrats who coldly implement policies designed to keep people down whilst supporting the greed of the 1%.

Ken Loach, one of cinema's great humanitarians, takes us on a harrowing roller coaster ride of those caught up in the cold-blooded silos of social assistance in contemporary Britain. I, Daniel Blake tells the story of a 59-year-old skilled construction worker (Dave Johns) who suffers a heart-related accident on the job and rightfully applies for benefits. In spite of his serious condition and a desire to get better and return to work, a soulless clerk purporting to be a "medical expert" ticks off a ludicrous series of boxes which deny him basic care.

He is allowed to appeal, of course, but the process to do so is fraught with hurdles clearly designed to keep people like Daniel Blake from getting what's rightfully due to them. He's eventually shuffled into a spurious bandaid program which forces him to look for work even though he is medically prohibited from doing so.




His journey makes for the stuff of great drama, but screenwriter Daniel Laverty and leading man Johns create a character of considerable humour and warmth. Even as we furiously engage in his plight (to the point of wanting to put our fists into the faces of all the fools on the government side of the desk), I, Daniel Blake is almost endlessly laugh-out-loud funny, often downright joyous.

A concurrent subplot involving Daniel's friendship with Katie (Hayley Squires) a struggling single Mom and her two kids caught up in a similarly infuriating bureaucratic is the source of deeply moving humanity. Though Daniel's character slips into an old-fashioned patriarchal disdain for Katie's tough employment choice to help her kids, Loach allows us to be both angered by his response whilst understanding it completely.

The film creates a rich tapestry of supporting characters, a superb sense of place and small victories which take on the force of tidal wave-like power as Loach plunges us into a world that never feels false. Funny, bittersweet and tear-wrenching, I, Daniel Blake will preach to the converted with aplomb, but should be required viewing for every petty bureaucrat in the world.

Those callous shits need to be strapped into chairs like Alex in A Clockwork Orange and forced to see this film. It will provide a searing mirror image, but also an unflinching portrait of the damage they cause to all those who do most of the living and dying in our world.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: ***** 5-Stars

I, Daniel Blake is a Mongrel Media Release at TIFF 2016.

THE HAPPIEST DAY IN THE LIFE OF OLLI MAKI - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Finnish Boxing

The Happiest Day in the Life of Olli Mäki (2016)
Dir. Juho Kuosmanen
Scr. Kuosmanen and Mikko Myllylahti
Starring: Jarkko Lahti, Oona Airola, Eero Milonoff, John Bosco Jr.

Review By Greg Klymkiw




Is it possible for anyone to have a happy day in Finland? Well, amateur boxer and former Olympic champ Olli Mäki (Jarkko Lahti) hopes so. It's 1962 and his friend, manager and former boxer Elis Ask (Eero Milonoff) is not only counting on it, but he comes close to promising that Olli will indeed experience the happiest day in his life - if Olli works for it, harder than ever before. Olli's no slouch in the pugilistic sweepstakes. His record is impressive, but now the stakes are going to be very high because he's been entered into a professional bout in Helsinki against the formidable American fighter Davey Moore (John Bosco Jr.), a lean, mean boxer with over 60 wins behind him.

Can a sweet, young fighter from the sticks really hold his own in a bout touted as Finland's big shot at boxing supremacy on the world stage? For all intents and purposes, Olli is Finland's "Great White Hope" and the pressures placed upon him seem insurmountable.

Worst of all, Olli is severely distracted. He's falling in love.

The love of Olli's life is Raija (Oona Airola), a vivacious, gorgeous, fresh-faced beauty from his hometown. Manager Elis is understandably concerned. The only love Olli should keep in his heart is boxing and the will to win. Olli has other priorities. He's shy, humble and just wants to do his best, but in the world of professional sports, best isn't good enough. He's got to be the best of the best.

The Happiest Day in the Life of Olli Maki is one of the best boxing films ever made. Kuosmanen's direction is infused with attention to the smallest details and results in a picture where the stuff of life provides indelible moments of dramatic and emotional resonance far beyond the cliches which litter so many sports films. The love story itself is wildly, deliriously romantic to the point of instilling the most delightful frissons of loving goooseflesh. It's one of the few movies I've seen which manages to create a feeling of butterflies in the tummy which only mad, passionate love can inspire.




Kuosmanen's cast hits all the right notes while cinematographer J-P Passi’s monochrome images carry us back to a time of simplicity, beauty and the promise the early 60s offered, in spite of the Cold-War, which tried to overshadow basic elements of humanity, but lost out to the decency of the hearts and minds of simple men the world over. The period details in the film are first-rate, but never stand out like glistening sore thumbs. They're inextricably linked to character and drama.

And if you don't know the true story of Olli Mäki, avoid looking it up before seeing the picture. Your experience will be blessed with added profundity and joy.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: **** 4-Stars

The Happiest Day in the Life of Olli Mäki, a Norther Banner release, plays at TIFF 2016

TONI ERDMANN - Review By Greg Klymkiw - TIFF 2016 - Teutonic Father-Daughter Hilarity

Toni Erdmann (2016)
Dir. Maren Ade
Starring: Peter Simonischek, Sandra Hüller

Review By Greg Klymkiw

If you do the wrong math on Toni Erdmann, you might be tempted to assume a 162-minute running time and its country of origin (Germany) will yield an unbearably dreary slog, so whatever you do, don't be a dumkopf in your calculations; Maren Ade's lovely picture yields one of the funniest, most heartwarming and celebratory experiences you'll have at the movies this year.




Winfried Conradi (Peter Simonischek) is a hangdog retired old schlub who perks up his life (and those around him, when they're so willing) with a seemingly endless supply of practical jokes which he pulls off with costumes (including fake buck teeth) and a totally straight face.

His adult daughter Ines (Sandra Hüller), a public relations executive in the field of international relations is less amused. Her poker face in the joy department matches Winfried's in the gag sweepstakes. There's clearly a deep love between father and daughter, but also an estrangement as she's tried to move on and create a life and career for herself.

When Winfried comes to visit Ines in Romania, unannounced no less, he finds her in the midst of an important campaign involving the outsourcing of jobs (and an attempt to lessen the blow of the optics). Daddy Dearest wastes no time insinuating himself upon Ines and her world. Donning a series of ridiculously cheesy sport coats, buck teeth and a moronic wig (a la Peter Sellers in What's New Pussycat), he assumes the fictional role of "Toni Erdmann", proving to be a blessing and curse to his daughter's business dealings.




This movie is so funny, I needed to constantly gasp for air, but when the picture settles into genuine pathos, tears were shed with equal abandon. Father-daughter relationships have their own unique complexities and writer-director Ade captures this dynamic with considerable artistry.

Toni Erdmann is easily the most joyous experience I've had at the movies in a long time. You laugh, you cry, but most importantly, you soar.

Soaring is good. Trust me.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: ***** 5-Stars

Toni Erdmann plays at TIFF 2016. It is a Mongrel Media release.

DEEPWATER HORIZON - Review By Greg Klymkiw - TIFF 2016 - Corporate Evil Spills Oil

Deepwater Horizon (2016)
Dir. Peter Berg
Scr. Matthew Sand, Matthew Michael Carnahan
Starring: Mark Wahlberg, Kurt Russell, John Malkovich, Gina Rodriguez, Kate Hudson

Review By Greg Klymkiw

It's only a matter of time before any disaster, manmade or otherwise, becomes big screen entertainment and certainly the major oil rig disaster off the coast of Louisiana in 2010 offered up plenty of fodder for macho derring do, onscreen death and explosions. In the case of the "Deepwater Horizon" disaster, Hollywood heard the clarion call all too well and secured the services of the muscular helmsman Peter (Battleship) Berg to guide us through the glorious carnage which occurred when the BP company tried to cut corners on safety issues.

Without question, Deepwater Horizon is one of the best disaster movies of the new millennium. Based on the terrifying and sad events of this horrific calamity, we follow the events of that day as engineer Mike Williams (Mark Wahlberg) and rig supervisor Jimmy Harrell (Kurt Russell) board the floating oil rig only to discover that the corporate scumbags, led by a deliciously smarmy John Malkovich (as the main BP filth Donald Vidrine), have by-passed protocol in order to save time and money.

It doesn't take too long before things go awry. Awry, however, is one thing - complete batshit crazy calamity is another and when the explosions begin, the picture's initial slow-burn ramps up into mega-overdrive. Men become men. Even the women become men. Gina Rodriguez as one of the riggers holds her own with the boys - she rebuilds cars as a hobby, so we know she's not your garden variety girlie-girl. (That said, and while this might indeed be true, it's finally Marky Mark who rescues her when she doesn't have the ultimate stuff to save herself.)

Berg handles the action and suspense with aplomb and his cast acquit themselves to the task of rescue, fortitude and sacrifice more-than ably. The early dialogue sequences involving the jousts between the manly men and the corporate hacks are especially stirring - they're rife with the usual cliches of such onscreen conflict, but the pace, coverage and urgency of the proceedings keep us engaged.

Of course, the movie makes us suffer through some insufferable family stuff early on and delivers a few too many scenes of Marky Mark's wifey (Kate Hudson) clenching her jaw and making desperate telephone calls when disaster strikes. Oh well, audiences like to believe how important family and family values are. I guess we can't deny them that.

The film eventually builds to the de rigueur mini-doc conclusion where we get to meet the real-life protagonists and discover that none of them really look or sound like the movie stars we've been spending time with. No matter, after the harrowing deaths, maiming and sheer terror, this section hammers home the genuine bravery of the "real" men before revealing the sad reality that all the corporate fuckwads responsible got off with nary a wrist-slap.

It's the way of the world and even though the only real reason films like these are made is to wallow in the carnage for our edification, one can never deny the power of sticking it to the "man" anytime a picture can.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: *** 3-Stars

Deepwater Horizon is a Gala Presentation at TIFF 2016.