Assassin Club, Co-Starring Sam Neill

Hitman guilds are never very collegial. Just ask Mike Fallon from the Accident Man films. Sure, they will throw a lot of work your way, but sooner or later, they contract all their members to kill each other. Morgan Gaines is about to go through one of those phases. Technically, he really isn’t part of any “club,” title notwithstanding, but shares a common handler with at least one hired guns out to kill him in Camille Delamarre’s Assassin Club, which releases tomorrow on digital.

Gaines always insisted on killing parasitic monsters, like the Slovenian human trafficker he has a bead on, in the opening scene. Unfortunately, Alec Drakos also has a bead on him. Gaines just barely escapes with his life, but Drakos takes out his contract. When he gets home, Gaines is quite put-out by the whole business, but his self-consciously sleazy handler Caldwell only wants to talk about this new super-contract: six targets at one million dollars a pop.

Initially, Caldwell neglects to mention the contract out on Gaines as well. Contemplating retirement, Gaines declines, until he saves his innocent civilian girlfriend Sophie from an assassination attempt (mostly targeting himself). As he starts to get the ugly truth out of Caldwell, he realizes it will more-or-less be a case of kill or be killed. However, the mysterious, faceless assassin Falk proposes a temporary working truce, to her benefit, of course.

There is nothing wrong with a film about a pack of assassins trying to kill one another, but the Accident Man duology did it so much better. Delamarre (who previously helmed The Transporter: Refueled) helms some serviceable action sequences, but Thomas Dunn’s screenplay is dumber than a duffle full of doornails. There are moments when you have to ask the screen: “seriously dude, you’re going to buy that?”

The Portable Door, on MGM+

Paul Carpenter and Sophie Pettingel are too old for Hogwarts. At this point, they are mostly kind of adults. Fortunately, the J.W. Wells & Co offers a sort of magical management training program. The tweedy firm administers fateful coincidences and serendipity, for a fee, but it takes Carpenter a few beats to figure that out. He was only hired thanks to providential happenstance and dumb luck. Nevertheless, he must navigate the company’s magical intrigues in Jeffrey Walker’s The Portable Door, based on Tom Holt’s YA novel, which premieres Saturday on MGM+.

Carpenter needs a job, any job, so when an odd chain of events leads him away from a barista interview to the mysterious Wells Company, he goes ahead and applies for the open position they have posted. The new CEO, Humphrey Wells seems to give Carpenter’s explanation more credence than the rest of the board interviewing him, but sure enough, he lands the paid internship.

Initially, he gets the cold shoulder from his officemate, Pettingel. She is on the management training fast track, because she is an actual seer. Carpenter isn’t sure what his place in the fantastical company could be, but Wells (who just succeeded his missing father) is convinced he has divination powers that can find the Portable Door, a magical portal device that theoretically takes users anywhere they want to go. However, in practice, the door can be a bit unpredictable.

Co-produced by the Jim Henson Company, Portable Door is an upbeat fantasy with a lot of visually distinctive world-building. The creature creations are as charming as you would expect from the Henson team (including goblins and baby dragons), but the target audience definitely skews young. The energy is high throughout the film, but not so much the intensity level.

Warwick Thornton’s Sweet Country

He is an outlaw named Kelly from Australia, but his circumstances are entirely different from those of old Ned. Based on the historical figure of Wilaberta Jack, Sam Kelly will kill a white man in self-defense. It is entirely justifiable, but this is Central Australia in 1920, so Kelly immediately takes flight. His fictionalized treatment becomes the stuff of a revisionist Australian Western in Warwick Thornton’s Sweet Country (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

When Fred Smith talks about God and his Christian faith, he really means it. That is why Sam and Lizzie Kelly really are fortunate to work for him. Regrettably, Smith’s new neighbor, Harry March, a WWI veteran suffering from PTSD, is not so enlightened. He cynically exploits Smith’s Christian charity, guilting him into loaning Sam and Lizzie to help whip his station into working order. Unbeknownst to Sam, March will act in a predatory manner towards Lizzie and then dismiss them from his property. The next time they encounter each other, March is shooting up the absent Smith’s farmhouse, accusing the Kellys of harboring a young runaway aboriginal station hand, loaned to him by the exploitative Mick Kennedy.

Old Sam has little choice but to blast a load of buckshot into March. Having no faith in the white Crown’s justice, Sam and Lizzie head out into the wild country. Inevitably, the hard-charging Sergeant Fletcher forms a posse with Kennedy and the reluctant Smith to give chase. However, many of the town’s poor white rabble will be surprised by the professionalism of circuit court Judge Taylor.

Sweet Country would be something like an Australian fusion of Chato’s Land and To Kill a Mockingbird, if it were not so conscious of its own social significance. Thornton lays it on heavy and never passes up an opportunity for a teaching moment. Yet, response to the film will likely be particularly divisive because of his idiosyncratic practice of flashing forward to briefly depict a character’s most significant moment, either when they are first introduced or at times of extreme stress. Although it is initially disorienting, it gives the film a really distinctive vibe over the long run.

It is also intriguing to watch how Thornton observes and subverts Western cinema conventions. He certainly addresses the film’s moral issues in stark black-and-white terms, but it should be noted Smith is an entirely sympathetic and empathetic character and the grizzled Sgt. Fletcher evolves in intriguingly ambiguous ways.

The fact that Smith and Fletcher are played by two of Oceania’s most recognizable thesps, Sam Neil and Bryan Brown, certainly will not hurt the film’s prospects. Neil is particularly engaging and ultimately quite poignant as the decent Smith. Indeed, it is quite refreshing to see a devout Christian treated with such respect in a film. Likewise, Matt Day’s portrayal of the judge is intriguingly messy. He has his moments, both good and bad. Yet, it is the nonprofessional Aboriginal actors Hamilton Morris and Gibson John, who really power the film, as the taciturn Kelly and the more ingratiating Archie (just Archie, he says), Kennedy’s foreman, who serves as the posse’s tracker.

Both Thornton’s style and his conspicuous manipulations can be distracting, but his boldness earns the viewer’s respect. It is uneven, but it successfully differentiates itself from the scores of international Western riffs. Recommended on balance for fans of socially conscious revisionist Westerns, Sweet Country opens this Friday (4/6) in New York, at the IFC Center.

And Then There Were None: U.N. Owen Throws a Dinner Party

The nursery rhyme that inspired Dame Agatha Christie’s greatest bestseller has gone through several politically correct facelifts. Currently, it is ten little soldiers who expire one by one. For years, those soldiers were Indians and we never speak of what they were before that. The story also evolved when Dame Agatha wrote a more upbeat ending for her equally successful theatrical adaptation. Most film versions have followed the stage play, but screenwriter Sarah Phelps went back to the original novel for a new television miniseries commissioned to commemorate the 125^th anniversary of Christie’s birth. In any event, ten stranded house guests will be bumped off in an orderly fashion unless they can figure out who among them is the killer in And Then There Were None (promo here), which premieres this Sunday on Lifetime.

A lot of you already know who the killer is, yet you will watch anyway. Even knowing the big twists, And Then There Were None (a.k.a. Ten Little Indians) continues to fascinate us. It has often been dramatized in film and on-stage and it has been ripped off even more regularly. It is back again and just as welcome, thanks to an ensemble of first-class character actors.

The premise remains unchanged. Ten strangers are lured to “Soldier Island,” an isolated isle with spotty ferry service, under a variety of false pretenses. It turns out their mystery host, “U.N. Owen” (as in unknown) has concluded they have all unjustly escaped punishment for their own capital crimes, so he intends to execute them one by one. His judgment also applies to the servants, who had unknowingly play his prerecorded accusations and thereby launch the murders that will roughly correspond to the nursey rhyme.

Former governess Vera Claythorne still does not seem to belong in the company of killers, such as the unrepentant mercenary, Philip Lombard. At least he readily cops to the crimes attributed to him. Everyone else maintains their innocence, at least until panic and cabin fever start to jog loose the truth.

It all still works. In fact, the Lifetime/BBC version might just surprise a few viewers who only know the Hollywood ending. To be completely honest, the two-part, three-hour running time feels a tad bit padded (the great 1945 and 1965 movies were both just a smidge over ninety minutes). Most of the flashbacks to the ten houseguests’ crimes are wholly unnecessary, but they do build dramatic tension rather effectively in the case of Claythorne.

In any case, the cast pulls viewers through those slow patches and really digs into the meat of Christie’s iconic thriller. Toby Stephens falls to pieces pretty spectacularly as the unnerved Dr. Edward Armstrong. Noah Taylor and Anna Maxwell Martin are suitably twitchy as the butler and cook. Aidan Turner broods and glowers like a champ as Lombard, while Charles Dance portrays Justice Lawrence Wargrave with elegant gravitas and a withering stare. Sam Neill certainly looks the part of Gen. John McArthur, but he gets somewhat shortchanged on screen-time. Maeve Dermody (from Serangoon Road) is relatively okay as Claythorne, but there are times she seems to problematically fade into the background.

There is a reason Christie’s story has been so enduringly popular. In some ways, it taps into some of our unspoken frustrations (especially this one). After The Most Dangerous Game, it established the other great template of the presumably psychotic madman scrupulously following his own set of rules. Well worth seeing, especially for (more or less) incorporating the novel’s arguably superior climax, And Then There Were None begins this Sunday (3/13) and concludes the following Monday (3/14) on Lifetime.

United Passions: FIFA’s Self-Financed Creation Myth

Last year’s Cannes Film Festival was rough for Tim Roth. First Grace of Monaco was roundly booed when it opened the festival and then FIFA’s self-funded film was even more harshly received. The timing for what has been universally described as a “propaganda film” continues to be so awkwardly bad, you have to wonder if a higher power is out to sabotage it. Mere days after fourteen high-ranking FIFA officials were indicted, Frédéric Auburtin’s United Passions (trailer here) opens this Friday in New York.

It all started innocently enough. A group of European football association presidents joined forces, in hopes of codifying standardized rules for international matches. Much to their regret, the mean old English initially refused to join out of elitist snobbery, or so Auburtin suggests. At least for a few years, it was run without controversy by first president Robert Guérin and general secretary Carl Hirschmann, but the fast and loose dealings commenced with the election of Jules Rimet. Uruguay had pledged to spend liberally on the inaugural World Cup, and ever so conveniently the member associations voted accordingly.

To an extent, United Passions (a title that sounds like it was the ill-conceived product of a marketing brainstorming session) throws long time FIFA president João Havelange under the bus. He is constantly apologizing to his long suffering general secretary Sepp Blatter for mistakes that were made and the mysterious emptiness of FIFA’s coffers, but the film never explains what’s, why’s, or how’s. Instead, the altruistic Blatter simply cuts a personal check to cover FIFA’s payroll.

There is a certain degree of irony whenever Russia’s favorite son, Gérard Depardieu appears in a sports film, but that is least of Passions’ problems. In fact, he is perfectly presentable as the reportedly not so athletic Rimet. On the other hand, Sam Neill would probably prefer to forget the baffling, vaguely South African accent he uncorks for the Brazilian Havelange. Looking visibly embarrassed, poor Tim Roth tries to call as little attention to himself as possible as Blatter, the unassuming crusader against corruption. At one point, St. Sepp (who Havelange praises for “being good at finding money”) stands accused of his predecessor’s misdeeds, but defends himself with what must be the dullest, drabbest climatic speech in the history of cinema. It doesn’t matter, the fix was in.

Passions commits enormous sins of omission, but its worst oversight is the lack of dramatic development. We see little more than vignettes illustrating “great” moments in FIFA history, interspersed with World Cup montages and hackneyed scenes of a pick-up game in some racially balanced third world slum designed to clumsily illustrate the game’s unifying global significance. However, there is not a lot in terms of character or plot for viewers to sink their teeth into. Instead, we hear Blatter identify a problem, which he then presumably solves since we hear nothing about it four years later.

As if the weak narrative and conspicuous white-washing of FIFA’s corruption were not bad enough, the film displays an outrageous bias against the English, time and again featuring British characters making ridiculously racist statements. This simply is not a film that deserves to be taken seriously on any level. However, it is precisely the big screen treatment Blatter and FIFA deserve. Hopefully, they are happy with it, since they paid for it. 

Indeed, this is truly a Blatter production. It is a staggeringly arrogant, insular, and tone-deaf work that assumes the rest of the world is stupid. Compared to Passions, See You in Montevideo and Montevideo—Taste of a Dream, the unapologetically sentimental, patriotic, and generally pleasant Serbian films about the first Yugoslavian World Cup teams are like the best of Rocky, Bull Durham, and Chariots of Fire all rolled together. Not recommended, United Passions opens this Friday (6/5) in New York, at the Cinema Village.

Tribeca ’15: Backtrack

There are two things that always worked in Hitchcock movies: trains and psychiatrists. It is therefore a rather shrewd strategy for screenwriter Michael Petroni to combine them in his feature directorial debut. Sometimes it makes sense, sometimes it doesn’t, but it is always stylish when head-shrinker Peter Bower tries to get his head around his traumatic past in Petroni’s Backtrack, which was recently acquired by Saban Films after successfully screening at the 2015 Tribeca Film Festival.

Still devastated by the accidental death of their pre-teen daughter, Bower and his wife Carol have moved back to Melbourne, hoping the change of scenery will do them good. For the time being, Bower’s practice consists of evaluation-cases referred by his former teacher, Dr. Duncan Steward. These patients seem to have a lot of issues, but they can hardly compare to the visibly disturbed teenager Elizabeth Valentine. She has all kinds of problems, starting with the fact her records say she died in 1987.

Evidently, one Elizabeth Valentine was a victim of a tragic train derailment accident that devastated Bowers’ provincial hometown of False Creek years ago. While Bowers investigates the circumstances surrounding the catastrophe, he starts to remember his own unfortunate involvement. As he stirs up a hornet’s nest of local resentment, the pushback of the living and the torments of the ghosts start to jog Bowers’ long suppressed memories.

Frankly, there are a lot of logical holes in Backtrack, but they are mostly concentrated in the first half hour. If you are willing to gloss over them, the film picks up considerable steam in the second and third acts. Throughout it all, Petroni demonstrates a mastery of atmosphere, building suspense through creepy ambiance and the restrained use of Grudge-like supernatural effects.

It is hard to imagine Adrien Brody saying “put another shrimp on the Barbie,” but his sad-eyed, hang-dog screen persona works quite well for Bowers. As usual, Sam Neill’s forceful bearing classes up the joint, even if his character, Dr. Steward, really doesn’t make a lot of sense. George Shevtsov also adds some grizzled seasoning as Bowers’ old man. However, Bruce Spence (whose mind-blowing credits include the Mad Max, Star Wars, Matrix, and Narnia franchises) arguably lands the best scene as Bowers’ jazz musician patient.

Part of the fun of Backtrack is identifying where the pieces fit seamlessly into each other and where they are just sort of jammed together. Cinematographer Stefan Duscio (who lensed the breathtaking Canopy) gives it all the perfect look of noir foreboding. Petroni rewards viewers who can overlook the narrative’s early ragged edges with a lot of clever bits down the stretch. Recommended for psychological thriller fans not inclined towards pedantry, Backtrack will eventually hit theaters following its successful world premiere at this year’s Tribeca Film Festival.

Zulawski’s Possession

East German border guards can see Mark and Anna’s apartment from their posts along the Berlin Wall. It ought to be the perfect setting for the dissolution of their marriage. However, their union will not be merely severed. It will be torn limb from limb in former Andzrej Wajda protégé Andrzej Żuławski’s notorious art-house pseudo-horror film Possession (trailer here), which finally opens theatrically in all its uncut, restored glory at New York’s Film Forum this Friday.

Previously released in a butchered shorter cut, Possession has something of a reputation—and rightly so. Essentially, it is everything Lars von Trier’s The Antichrist was billed as, raised to the power of ten. If that gives you any trepidation whatsoever, than Possession is not for you, but if you are open to it, take a deep breath and let’s get into it.

Mark is some sort of freelance spy returning home after a long assignment. Strangely though, his wife Anna is less than thrilled to see him. In fact, she can hardly stand to be in the same room with him. Indeed, it turns out there is another man she is determined to leave Mark for. This sends her insecure husband into a self-destructive bender, involving violence directed towards her and to a greater extent, himself. Obviously, this is not a great environment for their son Bob, the symbol of innocence throughout the film, whom Mark deliberately uses as a weapon against Anna.

When he finally rouses from his stupor, Mark hires a private detective agency that follows Anna to a creepy unfurnished apartment in a down-market neighborhood. While Anna might want some space from Mark, she seems to be enraptured by a “thing.” Rather intimately, in fact. This is where things start getting weird and even bloodier.

Mark and Anna could probably use a psychiatrist and an exorcist. They certainly should not be around powerized kitchen appliances. What unfolds is absolutely harrowing and completely bizarre. Żuławski’s control of the audience is masterful. He simultaneously cranks the tension up to nosebleed levels, while constantly bombarding viewers with jolt-inducing imagery. You cannot really call it a horror film, but that is probably the closest applicable label.

The combination of Sam Neill and Isabelle Adjani is the kind of intriguing pairing that might convince cautious cineastes to take a chance on Possession. Both leads totally go for broke throughout the film, but it would probably be more accurate to say they develop a convincing anti-chemistry together.

Still, Adjani also has some remarkably delicate scenes with Neill as Helen, Anna’s doppelganger (don’t ask, it would take too long to explain). Indeed, her exquisitely sensitive and vulnerable appearance makes her characters’ transgressive behavior all the more jarring, especially her five minute freak-out in the West Berlin metro. Frankly, it feels more like twenty-five minutes. Just when you think it cannot get any more shocking, she reaches a new level. However, the raw, visceral power of her performance is undeniable, justly recognized at the Cannes Film Festival with the best actress honors.

Adjani’s longtime partner cinematographer Bruno Nuytten gives the film a classy polished look that suggests auterist genre classics from the likes of Polanski and Kubrick. Yet, for all its blood and inhumanity, Possession is not a scarring film for anyone with a fair number of cult films under their belt. Though there is violence, it is never committed out of sadism (just why characters do certain things is another matter entirely). Nor is Possession a nihilistic film. Notions of right and wrong, good and evil, have very real meaning in this world. It is just the case that the latter have the overwhelming upper-hand against the former.

Possession is a true experience. It is draining to watch, but when it is over, you know you have seen a film. Big, bold, and intensely personal, it is a genuine masterwork from Żuławski. Highly but judiciously recommended to those who fully understand what they are getting into, Possession begins its special one week run at Film Forum this Friday (12/2).