We're the Miller (2013)

Have you heard the one about the drug dealer, the stripper, the teenage runaway and the weird kid? No? That’s probably because the joke doesn’t exist because there’s no way it will be any good BECAUSE…even as a joke, it doesn’t fly. The quasi-raucous road romp, We’re the Millers, is a basic RV awning of a setup under which lies a mess of inappropriate gags and cheap shots intended to besmirch political correctness.

Director Rawson Marshall Thurber (Dodgeball) does what he can with this fantastical yet undersold concept about a slovenly pusher (Jason Sudeikis) who enlists the help of some societal misfits to pretend to be his wholesome, white bread family in order to help him smuggle a huge haul of drugs back across the border from Mexico undetected.

Straight away, you may be thinking that middle-aged white men who make a living wage selling pot are in extinction. You’d more than likely be right in reality but this film doesn’t care. Sudekis’ character, David, is like the cinematic equivalent of the Hula painted frog, resurfacing in Denver and rediscovered by a former college buddy played by the always-funny Thomas Lennon who immediately asserts “you’re still dealing weed?!” See! Even the characters themselves don’t buy the characterisations. Worse still, casting the likes of Jennifer Aniston and Emma Roberts in roles with conflictingly disagreeable personas in comparison to their own created nothing more than awkwardness.

Family bonding with Em and Jen

What’s funny about the film – only in increments – are the very things that were meant to be of secondary importance: the marginally offensive social and racial commentaries; the brief cameos; the latent familial instincts coming out of the makeshift crew and the lesser-known Will Poulter, whose conscientious cloddishness as the virginal Kenny is a playful counterblow to his new unethical friends’ proclivities.

We’re the Millers is a watchable film rather than anything vying for top spot with the stronger comedies that have come out this year. It’s much more likeable than it is laughable.

Rating: 3/5

The Call (2013)

The Call is a claustrophobic thriller that simultaneously disbands the tropes of the genre whilst mending together the fragments of Halle Berry’s crumbling credence as a noteworthy actress. Director Brad Anderson knows what it takes to helm a psychological examination into human neuroses and instinct (Session 9, The Machinist), so his latest feature couldn’t be in more capable hands. 

Berry plays Jordan – a seasoned 911 operator for the LA police racked with guilt over the mistake she made that led to the murder of a young girl. Months and a promotion later, Jordan had all but put down the headset for good when she is presented with a chance at redemption in the form of the abducted Casey (Abigail Breslin), who is making the emergency call from the car boot of a serial killer. 

Halle Berry on the job as Jordan

What you see is largely irrelevant; mostly police procedure reminiscent of any number of crime titles. What you hear, however, is more visceral and torturous than anything the image of corn syrup-covered prosthetics can believably convey. Utilising modern telecommunications as a plot device with more mastery than Larry Cohen (Phone Booth, Cellular), writer Richard D’Ovidio intermittently intertwines the measured poignancy of emotional drama with the increasing tension of the situation, building an engaging relationship between the collaborating protagonists. 

It’s only when Jordan ignores protocol, going above and beyond the call of duty that it becomes apparent that, somehow, even without the tight-fitting outfit and superpowers, Berry has managed to end up in yet another trashy superhero movie. Jordan abandons her post, singlehandedly locating the maniac’s lair and freeing Casey. The damsel in distress then becomes Jordan’s sidekick and the pair dish out vigilante-style justice on The Call’s textbook Hollywood psychopath, Michael (Michael Eklund). Clearly, the urge to add a no holds barred stipulation to proceedings was too much to resist for the film’s producers, WWE Studios. 

Rating: 2.75/5

Curse of Chucky (2013)

It’s been nine years since Child's Play writer, Don Mancini, last did to his franchise what his malevolent antagonist has been doing to countless victims for years. Since then, Chucky’s had some facial reconstruction to cover up the scars of the past, utilised new hair serum and, with the help of a smattering of CGI, has gotten a lot less robotic. Curse of Chucky could have easily been a sequel that metaphorically captioned the series through its title, but Mancini – who directed the film himself – seemed determined to make sure his red-headed brainchild isn’t treated like a red-headed stepchild anymore.

Metafictional mayhem ensues when wheelchair-bound Nica (Fiona Dourif) receives a Good Guy doll in the post which just happens to be Chucky (voiced by Brad Dourif – Fiona’s father). Not long after, a number of members from her dysfunctional family are massacred, leading to an investigation that quickly implicates the doll in the crimes.

Like a freckle-faced conduit being FedEx-ed to the front door, Curse of Chucky is a new package with recognisable content. Mancini mindfully reworks his original formula, hoping to recapture the acclaim experienced two decades ago while expanding on the mythology of Charles Lee Ray. Though they bear new character names, Fiona plays Karen Barclay; young Summer H. Howell plays Karen’s son, Andy; and the rest play expendables in re-imaginings of the caricaturish kill scenes from the previous films. 

His name is Chucky and he's your friend till the end

Mancini boycotts the postmodern tongue-in-cheek evolution of the series, opting instead for time-honoured gothic suspense in a H.H. Holmes-esque house of horrors that only serves to assist the doe-eyed serial killer’s proficiency for terror.  By the end of the film, you realise that this is either a swansong that is finally respectful to the iconic image of the Hammer Horror-style monster, or the first phase in the reincarnation of the bloodcurdling chiller’s prior greatness. Ade due damballa!

Rating: 3.75/5

This Is the End (2013)

Superbad and Pineapple Express twosome, Seth Rogen and Evan Goldberg, have returned to their comfort zone, rehashing and honing their stoner comedy shtick with the most incoherent hangover story of all time! The fiery cataclysm of the biblical apocalypse is doused in the ejaculated bodily fluids of off-colour humour, proving that increasingly puerile vulgarity can be funny…to adults…in any situation.

Apatow’s apprentices know there’s a market for the fraternal farce. This Is the End is obviously old ground for the co-writers, except it amps up the misogyny (with singer, Rihanna, a willing enabler) and is incredibly female exclusive; from the mucky wife-beaters, right down to the infantile inability of the male leads to cope responsibly in difficult circumstances.

The gang face the Apocalypse

Rogen personally stars alongside a stellar cast of funny men (Jonah Hill, Craig Robinson, Danny McBride and Jay Baruchel amongst a host of others) whose party night is rudely interrupted by the Revelation. The celebrities play self-aware versions of themselves, attempting to survive the hell on earth in what would have been a near-perfect high-concept comedy, if the script wasn’t as tiddly as the final six selfish actors left standing.  One suspects Rogen and Goldberg must have gone through a bunch of shitty gag suggestions before finally settling on the incongruous blend of arguments about masturbatory etiquette, intertextual time-wasters from previous productions and Michael Cera. Consequently, the finished article is annoyingly patchy, which in turn makes the whole thing only intermittently chuckle-worthy.  

Nevertheless, if you’re looking for a film that is actually very intelligent in the way that it’s completely, gross-out stupid, then This Is the End is, fatefully, where you should start looking – if not just to see McBride at his obnoxious best and an axe-wielding “Hermione” kick some ass.

Rating: 3.5/5

The Bling Ring (2013)

The Bling Ring cinematises the factual story of a clique of amoral upper middle class Californian teens who burglarise the homes of their celebrity idols in order to vicariously become them. Gone are the days of the teen film that examined themes of drugs, sex, and relationships along the implausibly-cool characters’ journey to adulthood. The modern-day coming-of-age romp belies comradeship, denounces integrity and those former themes are now merely exploited as irrelevant sideshows of “chill” – at least, this is what The Bling Ring director, Sofia Coppola, contemptuously prescribes. The previously shabby, languorous subgenre receives a plush makeover of materialism, internet culture and gallows humour.   

If The Bling Ring was moralistic like a Stand by Me or American Graffiti before it, it would have been a lot more hard-hitting. Neither is it really about the interactions of this group between themselves, their families or anyone else. In fact, the crux is self-absorption on a grandiose scale. Ultimately, the gang only provides the impetus each individual needed to commit the felonies, and then manipulate the situation for personal profit.

Boy Bling Ring-er, Marc (Israel Broussard), represents those of us who are outside the glamorous circles and those of us who still believe in the purity of uprightness. He attempts to act as a foil to the vacuous Valley girls, (immaculately performed by Emma Watson and little-known newcomer, Katie Chang, may I add) whose personal growths come in the form of pilfered haute couture that matures their sense of style, and fails dramatically. Soon, he’s taken in by the intoxication of the caper. Who can blame him? After all, if the lifestyle is as golden and quixotic as Coppola visualised it, then I may have to whip out the Google Street View myself!

Emma Watson and her crime-causing sidekicks

Today’s society perpetuates superficiality over substance everywhere you look – The Bling Ring simply admits it outright, flamboyantly and with wicked wit. It’s no wonder adolescence now revolves around dance-pop, celebrity goss and some sense of minor stardom brought about by a perfect picture moment posted onto Facebook. We all have to accept it but that doesn’t mean we can’t laugh about it. 

Rating: 4/5

Insidious: Chapter 2 (2013)

“Switch on the lights, fool!” No, these aren’t the words of B.A. Baracus berating one of Murdock’s deranged decisions – it’s actually a classic Roger Ebert exclamation, referring to the irrationally photophobic behaviour of Sinister’s lead protagonist, Ellison. The late, great American film critic was right to feel aggrieved – clearly, writer, Leigh Whannell, and director, James Wan, were too! Enough of the uninspired plot contrivances already! Any normal person would switch on the lights if they were being plagued by mysterious bumps in the night. The duo who gave us 2011’s surprise paranormal hit, Insidious, set out to prove that instinctive logic still has pride of place amongst horror’s conventions, producing unexpected results.

Everybody from the first film reprises their role, picking up from where we were left hanging precariously off of the filmic cliff face. Lorraine’s (Barbara Hershey) digs form the new unusually agrestic accommodation for the Lamberts and they’ve inadvertently brought the hauntings with them. The sequel lends luminance (pun shamefully intended) to the inexplicable creaks and knocks that had us quavering behind our popcorn two years ago, using a somewhat tangled Back to the Future-esque anomaly where The Further’s flouting of definite spacetime laws allow future events to occur in the past…Make sense? Didn’t think so! Evidently, what we formerly assumed was “ghostly activity”, is actually being perpetrated by an astral projected Josh (Patrick Wilson), sucking the story into an interminable bidimensional, nonlinear oblivion.

Danielle Bisutti is extremely creepy as Mother

There was no saving this once Whannell and Wan made it overly cerebral for the sake of the two films entwining; they just continued, substituting the mystery behind intangible demonic entities with the evil souls of mass murderers along the way – granted, they’re bone-chillingly eerie, but something – both in the scares and the entire film – is lost with the absence of the unknown. 

Rating: 3/5

Sinister (2012)

Blumhouse Productions – of Paranormal Activity notoriety – inadvertently prove that their ethos of low budget, high-concept filmmaking is as challenging to execute coherently as it sounds. Scott Derrickson’s hybrid found-footage haunted house chiller, Sinister, displays no clear train of narrative thought beneath its spook house gag exterior; instead, it attempts to manufacture some semblance of authenticity from an unusual amalgamation of human neuroses, ancient occultism and consumer videography. But it never quite makes you believe, despite Ethan Hawke’s considerable facial acting chops.

The story chronicles a once-prosperous true crime writer, Ellison (Ethan Hawke), probing for his next bestseller in his new family home that just so happens to be filled with super 8 films containing disturbing content. Just who left the reels and who captured the events becomes the focus of his research, with every pallid digit pointing phantasmatically at a Babylonian creeper who resembles the lead vocalist in a shock rock band.

Young Clare Foley and her personal ancient evil

If you’ve failed to sense Sinister’s originality from even a cursory glance at this slightly flippant synopsis, it’s probably because said “originality” is derivative of at least a half dozen films before its time that have explored either celluloid-based found footage or imagery as a medium for navigating parallel dimensions. Allegorically, the realms of Schumacher’s 8MM and some kind of Thomas Harris biographical crossover to do for film stock what The Ring did for VHS cassette.

An admirable ternary mode of plot progression that seamlessly moves from formulaic thriller; to gimmicky shocker before finally settling at its supernatural roost, is the Derrickson capstone. Beyond that, Sinister, from its overbearingly loud jump cues; to its punchy one-word title and grisly cover artwork, has a single objective – and that's to shallowly entertain the audience for 90 minutes, which it does.

Rating: 3.5/5

The Conjuring (2013)

A red carpet interview was conducted at the LA premier for Warner Bros' latest horror jaunt, The Conjuring, with the author whose alleged true account was translated to the big screen, Andrea Perron. In the interview, she claimed that the making of the film was plagued by “a presence” known as “Bathsheba's Curse”. Aficionados of the genre will have heard of similar occurrences happening during filming for The Exorcist; crew supposedly succumbing to mysterious deaths; cast suffering physiological breakdown and, indeed, there was the fire that ravaged the original lot.  Compared to those circumstances, Bathsheba's Curse seems little more than an explainable draught; in fact, that's probably what it was till Perron eloquently sensationalised it – now, it’s “a supernatural wind” that sent the film equipment “flying”. Ironically, such plagiaristic post-production gimmickry signifies the foundation for The Conjuring’s commercial success.

Past the spoilery trailers and priest-on-standby placards of the marketing team’s induced hysteria lurks an actual film, you know! Set in 1971 Rhode Island, Ed (Patrick Wilson) and Lorraine (Vera Farmiga) investigate alleged paranormal activity in the Perron family’s newly inhabited farmhouse. 

Lili Taylor in The Conjuring

As the situation steadily worsens, the assortment of ghoulies hone their appreciation of scare timing…true story! Or maybe that’s just director James Wan’s interpretation of events. Oddly – considering all the effort spent imposing the reference text’s legitimacy – The Conjuring spends most of its duration honouring the supernatural titles of bygone decades, nostalgically reproducing the clichés using inorganic CGI effects. Engaging characterisations notwithstanding, you just don’t know whether to believe this frightening tale that’s all too evocative of a product that circuited the Hollywood horror conveyor belt. 

Clearly, despite Andrea's revelation that the ghosts were pleased that she told their stories, the cinematic adaptation of the experience serves a less moralistic purpose; one in which those so-called pleased spirits encompass a combined 25 seconds of screen time for cheap chills, the film takes over $80million in its opening weekend and Andrea ‘The Shill’ Perron obviously pockets a huge royalty cut. 

Rating: 3/5