Review: The Quiet Ones

The Quiet Ones
Cert: 15 / 98 mins / Dir. John Pogue




The greatest weapon in director John Pogue's arsenal of scare-tactics, is the audience's uneasy fear that they're going to leave the cinema with perforated eardrums. Whereas most standard modern horror films make heavy-handed use of the **quiet… quiet… LOUD** technique, 'The Quiet Ones' opts for **normal-volume… normal-volume… FUCKING EXCRUCIATINGLY LOUD**, with no apparent trace of irony. As the film takes place in 1974, a handheld 8mm camera stands in for the modern-day camcorder, and other than providing an excuse for one of the characters to be there, and making half the film look like it's been Instagrammed, adds little as we never stray into 'found footage' territory.

So, after a brief opening act where the writers (four of them, mind) have got Jared Harris to mechanically explain who everyone is and what the story is going to be, the film slides into an extended second act where LOUD NOISES happen routinely for over an hour with absolutely no plot development. In the last twenty minutes, the same crack-commando-writing-squad notice that there's been no expansion on the central conceit, i.e. the possessed girl herself, and quickly shoehorn in a backstory that's supposed to feel like a twist, but comes off more like an sorry excuse. The screenplay also makes it apparent early on that there is (within the confines of the film itself) an actual supernatural element to the case, so that there's no suspense or doubt in the audience's mind of where things are headed, and by the time that The One With The Camcorder™ starts explaining to The Girl One™ and The Posh One™ that it could be a hoax, it just feels like wasting valuable screentime.

Speaking of the cast, Jared Harris appears to have been brought onboard because the budget wouldn't stretch to John Hurt; Sam Clafin is a budget Jack Davenport; Erin Richards a knockoff Alice Eve; and Olivia Cooke a cut-price Christina Ricci. The only consolation is that if the film had been made in the US with that alternate cast, it would still be every bit as dreadful.

Oh, and fyi, THIS is "the true story" that inspired the film. Which is a bit like saying that Noah was inspired by a rainy day at the zoo*¹.

By trying to invoke the spirit of its heyday, Hammer is closer to demonstrating why it fell on hard times in the first place. Innovate, guys, don't excavate. The Quiet Ones has nothing to say, and it's saying it TOO LOUD. Boring, annoying and laughable in equal measure, this is a Brit-horror for anyone who loved The Conjuring. That should tell you all you need to know. It's not a good ghost-story, and it's not a good film.

I found out after the performance that my local is showing this instead of The Raid 2. The word 'livid' does not come close…

Well, the trailer's not scary either, so yes.



No.



Oh, probably.



Telly. Do not pay to see this.



I will.



I won't.



I wish.

Why? I mean, other than money, WHY?

*¹ Although frankly, it would have been more credible to put the title card "Inspired by actual events" in front of the Noah film, even with the stone-Megatrons.

DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

Review: Get Lucky

Get Lucky
Cert: 15 / 85 mins / Dir. Sacha Bennett



Looks like it's been shot on a hi-res webcam; sounds like it's been ADRd in a toilet; acted like it's an unsolicited showreel handed to Guy Ritchie in a busy pub; scripted like it's a first draft by a 17yr old who watches too many geezer movies and lives in rural Berkshire. Borrows so heavily from it's wannabe-contemporaries that the only idea it remembers to have of its own is to be fucking awful.

On the plus side, they did get a film made, and it's short. That's it.

Loses a point for employing Mark Renton's dad and apparently keeping him pissed for the entire shoot.
Loses a point for having the audacity to use two boot-shots.

Absolute shite.

The trailer looks like a semi-watchable Lock Stock rip-off. The film itself doesn't even reach those lofty heights.



Well, I did crack a smile at the asthmatic prostitute.



Not by a cockney mile.



Never watch this. Ever.



I will.



I fucking hope not.



Thankfully… thankfully, not.

Why, though? Why?

DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• This is a 'catch-up' review. I watched this film at home, not at the cinema. I saw the trailer for this at the cinema, and I would have seen the film there too, but they didn't/couldn't show it. So now iTunes, Amazon, Netflix and Blockbuster get to reap the rewards of my local's advance-advertising, and I'm sure they're delighted. Now you may say "oh come on, they can't show everything down there", and that would be a valid point if they didn't do things like running Taken 2 for six weeks. Was it that successful? No, I don't think so. Twilight? Batman? Les Mes? Sure, go for it; if they're pulling the punters in then keep making that money. But Taken 2? I ask you. Anyway, this is essentially a DVD review, but still of a new(ish) film. There. I'm glad that's sorted.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

Review: This Is The End

This Is The End
Cert: 15 / 106 mins / Dir. Evan Goldberg & Seth Rogen



Maybe it's a trans-Atlantic thing? The 84% user rating over at Rotten Tomatoes does not correlate with the atmosphere in my local cinema at the end of today's performance, or the subsequent rumblings I've heard (although I've yet to read other reviews).

To call 'This Is The End' a vanity-project, would be to suggest that it was made to raise the profile of the cast, and that it'll be proudly listed on any of their CV's. Sadly, it's unlikely that this 100 minute circle-jerk will fulfil either of those criteria. After a shambling, opening fifteen minutes which establishes a location (if not an actual plot) and sees most of Seth Rogen's non-speed-dial buddies fall into a fiery sinkhole, our intrepid gang (Rogen, Baruchel, Franco, Hill, McBride, Robinson) proceeds to sit in the house and do fuck-not-nothing for an hour and a half. This extended 'mid-section' of the film is so monumentally dull, it's almost the funniest thing in there. Once they realise that there's no plot to resolve, they decide to leave the house and see all the CGI demons that the budget has been saving up. And since no-plot requires no-ending, the Backstreet Boys come on and then there's the credits. Not even kidding.

It seems apparent (indeed evident) that the budget was blown at either end of the film, and I only wish they'd had enough cash left over to employ a script editor. Or a script writer. Or a writer. The fact that the cast are playing exaggerated (I hope) versions of themselves only goes to underline how self-indulgent it all is, and at the point where Jonah Hill takes the piss out of Danny McBride for Your Highness, my eyes rolled so hard I could see my brain. The irony also didn't escape me that in the middle of the dull-stretch, the group use a video camera to make an improvised, zero-budget DIY sequel to Pineapple Express; the bitter truth being that the whole movie is only $32m out from being exactly that anyway. What makes the whole affair worse is that I actually like Rogen, Hill and Robinson. *seethes*

I won't even go into the uncomfortable section with Emma Watson. I'm sure other bloggers/writers will dissect that far more capably than I can. For the most part, I spent my time wishing for the actual apocalypse to arrive, if only so that something would happen. The IMDB page for this says that people who liked 'This Is The End' also liked 'Here Comes The Boom'. I rest my case*¹.

TL;DR? 'This Is The End' is shitting awful. Avoid.

I sort of is, yes.



Nope.



Who fucking knows?



Telly. At an absolute push.



Yep.



I will cut my own hands off before I watch this again.



I think I heard one when Jonah Hill was on fire. And even that's nowhere near as interesting as it sounds.

Is this all they have to show for 32 million dollars? No, really? Is this some kind of elaborate tax-loss?

*¹ Yep. Snob. What of it? You know this.

DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

Review: After Earth

After Earth (Spoilers)
Cert: 12A / 100 mins / Dir. M. Night Shyamalan

Here's a spoilery plot synposis: A spaceship crashes on a planet and that planet is The Earth and Little Will Smith needs to get to a thing and become a warrior and fight a creature and then he gets to a thing and becomes a warrior and fights a creature while Big Will Smith watches on the television and attempts to rewire his leg.

This takes over an hour and a half.

So, once the extras have been killed off and sent home for the day, the adventure-proper begins. Big Smith and Little Smith are separated, kept in touch by a temperamental comm-link system. This results in each actor playing intercut solo scenes for the rest of the film. Big Smith can do this. Little Smith can not. Their performances are interspersed with flashbacks, exposition, and a series of Deus Ex Machina gadgets that would make 60's-era Batman's utility belt envious. There's also the pointless addition of some magic Jammie Dodgers which contain liquid air, or something. A voiceover at the start (Little Smith) explains how every plant on Earth somehow stops producing the right kind of oxygen or something, hence the Jammie Dodgers, but a combination of the weird accent*¹ and bunch of pseudo sci-fi terms meant I pretty much skipped over that bit. In fact, it's odd that a film which contains so much downtime and exposition left me wondering what the hell was going on, quite so often.

The biggest problem, for me at least, is that it's all so fucking dull. The only thing actually 'at stake' throughout the whole film is the life of the two inherently unlikeable central characters. And since I honestly didn't care if they lived or died, all dramatic tension went out of the window at the beginning. Big Smith is a cold, distant father, a by-product of years of military service and a technique called 'ghosting' whereby shutting down all emotion prevents the body from emitting pheromones, giving a tactical advantage over the human-hunting Ursa*² beasts. Little Smith, on the other hand, is a fearful snivelling cadet, eager to please his father but not equipped with the prowess or experience to do so. Having these two characters realise that they need to essentially change places in order to connect in the middle should be the backbone of the film; but instead it's like watching someone play a very generic video game with an invincibility cheat on.

Other than some interesting production design (is it any wonder their spaceship crashed, when it looks like the inside has been made out of bamboo, plastic bags and toilet-paper?), there's little to hold the attention, here. Despite the super-evolved leeches, baboons, tigers and eagles, the over-riding feeling is that none of this matters.

Jaden Smith takes 100 minutes to prove that neither charm, charisma nor acting ability are passed on genetically. Stop now, Smiths. Stop.



Not really. The trailer makes it look like something might happen.



I yawned. Does that count?



I shouldn't imagine so.



Honestly? None of these.



Yes.



No.



No.

Why, though? Seriously, why?

*¹ The accent's a sort of half-Texas, half-New-England drawl that seems to get forgotten about half way through the film. Thankfully. Although the damage is done, by then.
*² No, they're not bears. They're more like the flea-creatures from Cloverfield. Yeah, I know that 'Ursa' would suggest bears. Will Smith wrote the story. He called his own character 'Cypher Raige', for fuck's sake, what chance do the Generic Sci-Fi Creatures have?

DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

First Class.

CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.

"Is the package for yourself?", the counter assistant asked. This was the stupidest question I'd heard all day.

Two days earlier, a card had arrived through the front door while I was at work. A package, for Mrs Blackout, was awaiting collection at the Post Office. Now, this was unusual, because normally they hold them at the sorting office, not an actual branch. The more I thought about it, this made more sense as the Post Office itself has opening hours longer than that of the sorting office. 'That's fine', I said, 'I'll pick it up on my way home on Friday'.

Friday arrives, my early-finish arrives shortly after that, and by 1pm I'm walking through town, in the rain, towards the Post Office. Not the nearest one to my house, and not a one which is actually on my way home (ie, I've already walked past a) the sorting office, and b) the nearest Post Office by the time I get there), but the one which is holding the package. I'll say now, by the way, that the item in question is two packs of replacement bags for the vacuum cleaner. Exciting, I know, but it sort of leads into what comes later.

So I arrive at the Post Office. I reach into my bag and pull out the card which has been left at my house, and also a bank statement as proof of my address, as required by that card (because if I'd broken or tricked my way into someone's house to steal this precious delivery-card, there's no way I could also have stolen something else with the same address on it). I inform the counter assistant that I have a package to pick up, and slide the card under the glass partition. She looks at the card (for far too long, in my opinion), looks vaguely around the paper-strewn desks behind her, and reaches for the package. It's about 10"x5"x3", and I can see by the way it moves that it contains two boxes inside a plastic 'courier bag' type thing.

The counter assistant looks at the name and address on the card. She looks at the name and address on the package. She looks at the name and address on the card. "Do you have any ID?" she asks. "Yeah…", I reply, and hold up the bank statement at the glass. She gestures for me to pass it under the partition. Clearly she can't be expected to read a name and address from almost two feet away through a sheet of toughened safety-glass, and there's no way she can lean closer, so I comply and pass her the envelope.

The counter assistant looks at the name and address on the envelope. She looks at the name and address on the package. She looks at the name and address on the envelope. She doesn't look back at the card, which I find odd. Surely a triple-sequential-check is better than a double? Or has she just remembered that the name and address on the card and the one on the package are the same? Let's hope so. Studying the two items with a frown on her face, she almost seems unable to come to terms with the fact that the only common feature they share is the address and postcode. I have no problem at all with the fastidious nature of this transaction. She's doing her job, and she's doing it well, ensuring that the packages which leave her particular counter only go to the correct recipients. I respect that, and appreciate that it takes a little longer to do something properly. It's the next question which tips the balance. She raises her head from her studies to address me…

"Is the package for yourself?", she asks. There are three answers to this question.

1) Yes. Yes, it's for me. That's why the name on the envelope is different to the one on the package, obviously. You see, I'm currently undergoing a course of online-retail-based gender reassignment operations, and the sender of that there box has already begun to use my new name "Ms Collins", while the fuddy-duddy squares at my bank seem hellbent on calling me "Mr Paterson" until the procedure is complete. I know, I know, crazy, isn't it? Yes, I don't look remotely female, in either physicality or dress, but it's early days. Those are my new breasts in the package you're holding, one in each box. No, I'm not kidding, why would I? What's that? Gender reassignment still wouldn't account for the surname being different, even if the prefix to the name was? Fuck, you're right. Erm… right, Yes. Yes, the package is for me. I have a multiple personality disorder, and "Ms Collins" bought some hoover-bags online the other night, but as I can't control when she manifests in my psyche, it's good ol' "Mr Paterson" who's here to collect them. That said, "Mr Paterson" could just be another pseudonym that I've fooled the bank into believing. Of course, the bank weren't as Marple-like as yourself, good lady, and you've seen right to the bottom of my ruse. The truth is, I have no clue who I REALLY am. DAMN YOU, woman. Damn you.

2) Well, as you've studied the two items in your sweaty hands for over a minute now, what the fuck do you think? Notwithstanding answer number one, do I LOOK like "Ms Collins" to you? That's who the package is addressed to, isn't it? So that's who it's FOR, isn't it? So what the fuck kind of question was that? The answer's CLEARLY going to be NO, but since I have access to the mail of the occupants of this address, including the missed-delivery card of one and the bank statement of another, I'd say that me picking up their hoover-bags is pretty much THE FUCKING LEAST OF THEIR WORRIES, wouldn't you?

3) No, it's for my partner.

I answer with number three. It seems easiest, if I'm being honest. She considers my answer for a further 10 seconds before pointing wordlessly at the side window and sliding my package through the hatch, with my bank statement atop. She doesn't say anything more, so neither do I.

Package collected, lesson learned.

---

And while I'm on, I do recommend you use brand/model specific bags for your vacuum cleaner. The generic ones are passable in the short-term, but the difference in pickup with the correct bag is quite remarkable.
So y'know. Every cloud…



DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

Review: Scary Movie 5

Scary Movie 5
Cert: 15 / 86 mins / Dir. Malcolm D. Lee



It's hard to imagine anyone making a comedy film which is outshone by the EE/Kevin Bacon ad*¹ that precedes it, but messrs Lee and Zucker have done it! It's not 'offensive', it's not 'gross-out', it's not 'risky', it's just not funny. I know, I know, that's entirely subjective. There were a handful of people in the audience that found it highly amusing, to the point where they were giggling and guffawing through the parts which aren't meant to have jokes (such as the setups and weak links between the appalling sketches). I didn't find the film funny, but even I could tell where the laughs were supposed to be. Although interestingly, the audience I was with left during the gag-reel which intersperses the credits. After a whopping 75ish minutes, they were already sick of the film and left at the earliest opportunity (not that the gag-reel is any better or worse than the rest of the film).

Cycling haphazardly between the plots of Mama, Black Swan and Rise of the Planet of the Apes*², this is an old joke, badly told. That this has been made doesn't surprise me (sadly), but the fact that this has been distributed to cinemas, in 2013, will baffle me to my dying day. The Weinsteins are old enough to fucking well know better. As is every single person who appears on-screen. A script that might have come across as self-referential on paper seems to be acted out by people who have Saturday Night Live as their high-watermark when it comes to performance comedy.

But at least I wasn't disappointed by it, in that it's exactly as awful as I'd feared from that trailer. Hey, at least they didn't make it in 3D, right?

Oh, yes..



Mainly just crying. Inside.



Not a fucking clue.



Never see this, ever.



That's putting it mildly.



I fucking hope not.



No.





*¹ And not the first one, which had a level of originality at least, but the second one (which the internet doesn't seem to have), which uses the same jokes to massively diminishing returns.
*² That's right, two of those three aren't horror films. I know this is nothing new for the "Scary" Movie franchise, but they could at least pretend they're trying.

DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.