Written by Simon Finch, Gabriel Range
Starring Hend Ayoub, Brian Boland, Becky Ann Baker, Robert Mangiardi, Jay Patterson, Jay Whittaker, Michael Reilly Burke, James Urbaniak, Neko Parham, Seena Jon, Christian Stolte and Chavez Ravine
Genre: Crime / Drama / Mystery / Thriller
Country: UK
Runtime: 90 minutes
MPAA Rating: Rated PG (not recommended for children).

Evaluation: 7.5/10
by Greg Ferguson






The thought has crossed many minds before: Wouldn't the world be a better, safer place if someone just killed President Bush? Given the countless criticisms leveled against him for his hillbilly attitudes toward his presidency and foreign policy (when asked once about his proudest moment in office, his reply was having caught a 7.5lb fish in his own lake); his role in post-9/11 fear mongering and the subsequently devastating and illegal wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, vowing to stay the course without an exit strategy in sight; his half-hearted and haphazard relief efforts in the wake of Hurricane Katrina (after which Kanye West righteously and possibly truthfully declared "George Bush doesn't care about black people"); and, lest we forget, the debacle that raged around accusations of rigging the ballot during both federal elections, it's enough for the sensitive and sensible among us to pine for the days before this imbecile took the reigns of the most powerful country in the world. For many it is tempting to vilify him for all of the trouble that has arisen since his successful campaign six years ago and hold him personally accountable for each and every life that has been affected, as if everything has been singularly his fault. Being the president, he is a convenient target, especially for unilaterally-minded would-be revolutionists and instigators. There is a fundamental and tragic fallacy in this stance, though, which is the motivation behind British filmmaker Gabriel Range's Death Of A President, a fictitious yet eerily convincing documentary-style examination of Bush's assassination and its ensuing fallout which is far less incendiary than its present reputation suggests but much more intriguing than its primary conceit implies.

It likely occurred to Range and his crew that their film would be met with a lot of resistance simply because it used the murder of Bush as a jumping point for a commentary on the social climate in America. Actually, the fact that theatre chains are prematurely, sight unseen, refusing to screen it while others are altogether trying to ban it is indicative of the urgent need for a re-evaluation of priorities and rights which the film ultimately stands for. That a segment of the American population is so ready and willing to deny them the constitutional right to free speech - to actually censor this film - may have been accounted for at the outset. Certainly this is going to rile up people who, despite their political views, believe in any case that the constitution must be honoured and upheld.

For those who are able to see it, they will realize that it is neither anti-Bush nor pro-GOP. Eschewing partisan bias in its portrayal of Bush's demise, Death Of A President is a realistic if not probable assessment of an America that is at once very vulnerable yet seemingly incapable of preventing itself from slipping off a steep precipice. It functions best as a cautionary tale, less interested in presenting graphic exploitation, sick anarchist fantasy (I'm looking at you, V For Vendetta), or startlingly new information, but rather underscoring the contentious elements of American society which are ripping apart its very fabric. Range devotes ample time to a broad sampling of figures directly related to the infamous event: a Muslim couple from Syria who attract intense scrutiny; an African-American soldier recently returned from combat in Iraq and currently grappling with drugs; an environmental/social activist who justifies his outrageous behaviour by invoking Bush's status as a war criminal; Bush's primary speech writer; and various agency officials whose job it was to respond to and investigate the crime. We meet each in alternating interviews and voice-overs as they offer their two cents about what happened the night Bush died and how their lives have been affected since. It is their chronology of events and unique interpretations which provide the main fodder for the film, and as we learn about each development it becomes apparent how little the assassination has done to change anything for the better. The greatest strength of Death Of A President lies not in any grand, sweeping proclamations but instead in the dreadful revelation that removing Bush would be akin to cutting the head off a dragon and having two more grow in its place. He's merely a figurehead and is not, nor has he ever really been the issue. It is one thing to oppose the president; it is another to oppose the system and its machinations which have allowed him to gain power and act. As the wife of Jamal Abu Zikiri, the Syrian man fingered by the feds as the culprit, intones ruefully, did the assassin not realize or care just what he was doing when he carried out his mission? If anything, the country's already xenophobic anti-terrorist resolve would be reinforced and rejuvenated.

Even though Death Of A President gets everything just about right (especially technically; the creative use of real-life footage and CGI to make people appear out of context is as good, if not better, than similar footage in Forrest Gump and Zelig), there will be some who are sure to find its subject matter lackluster or redundant. Anyone reasonably informed about contemporary politics would be able to predict with as much accuracy as the filmmakers the same outcome reached by the film. People, we are reminded, are conditioned to suspect Muslims and brown people, so if a man makes an embarrassing trip to Afghanistan during the '90s (or the "wrong summer camp," as the phony FBI chief puts it), or has a father from Yemen overstay his tourist visa, that makes him more guilty. More damning still, if evidence surfaces which may exonerate such a person and implicate someone else, people will remain wary regardless. Keeping an open mind sincerely interested in seeing how these imaginary dominoes would fall, I was not particularly surprised or compelled by the modest suspense generated by the question over who really killed Bush. Others, naturally, will find this illuminating, depending on their degree of knowledge regarding American affairs. The film can't be faulted for its presentation; however, it must be said that at best it is a reiteration of what many will consider common knowledge, not bringing anything new to the table.

Gabriel Range seems to have an affinity for the hypothetical documentary genre. His previous feature, The Day Britain Stopped, foretold the collapse of the British rail system and the impact it would have on society, and I would argue that Peter Watkins' Oscar-winning The War Game and the equally anti-nuclear Threads were significant inspirations. The possibilities for this underused type of filmmaking are ripe, and I eagerly anticipate Range's next work. However, as far as Death Of A President is concerned, its insights, though valid, risk striking some as stale. What would I have preferred? A hybrid of this film and the recent Man Of The Year. I want to see how the world of adroit comedic media pundits like Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert would handle a presidential assassination and its aftermath; or, maybe Fox News. Either way, I bet they'd each do their part to help us laugh and convalesce.

(Death Of A President opens this Friday at Crystal Palace 8 Cinemas, located at 499 Paul St., Dieppe.)

Written by Mike Clattenburg, Robb Wells
Starring Robb Wells, John Paul Tremblay, Mike Smith, Cory Bowles, Michael Jackson, John Dunsworth, Patrick Roach, Lucy Decoutere, Nichole Hiltz
Genre: Comedy
Country: Canada
Runtime: 95 minutes
MPAA Rating: Rated 14A for coarse language and nudity.

Evaluation: 10/10
by Greg Ferguson







Canadians at times have a tendency to embrace some pretty unusual customs and regional eccentricities, and overpraise works and figures that are by all rights mediocre or inconsequential, in our mostly fruitless bid to forge a unified national identity that belies our interchangably rich and bland heritage. Really - what do beavers, poutine, hockey, curling, beer brands (Molson...Keith's...), Celine Dion, Margaret Atwood, Canadian Idol, or Anne of Green Gables truly mean to you? Just as I imagine whatever aspects of my country I value and cherish are not equally regarded by my fellow paisans, spurious attempts by those of us with the loudest voices and broadest platforms to chisel out the Definitive Canadian rarely say anything relevant about who I am. As of late, one such banner of Canadian pride which has won a devoted following but sparked little interest with me is the enormously popular Trailer Park Boys television show. Without having watched an actual episode, I erroneously dismissed it at first as a low-brow, crass, and cretinous glorification of uneducated petty criminal drug culture, certainly undeserving of my esoteric sensibilities and even bordering on offensive in its purported status as Canada's One True almighty backwater pulse. When confirmation came that a film version was being tailored for cinemas, I expected to be awash in that alienating stench of pot, booze, and ballsweat which seems to typify that chunk of society which, lo and behold, was yet again exalting another embarrassing aspect of popular consciousness. With a tagline proclaiming it to be "Baked on a true story," how was Trailer Park Boys: The Movie ever supposed to appeal to my tastes as a lover of art and philosophy? That was my attitude going in; however, upon leaving last week's crowded downtown screening, that snide disposition turned to big-toothed glee because, I'm happy to say, I'd seen one of the year's best films.

Since this review, I'm aware, is going to seem like a sordid confession, I wanted to open on a critical tone in order to acknowledge those of you who I know felt and still feel the same way I did about Trailer Park Boys - the aesthetes too edified to bother trying to "get it." Indeed, it is a deceptively simple film, although all of its charm and meaningfulness is embedded on the surface in plain sight. Furthermore, its natural depiction of its impoverished segment of life - the sort which has struck a chord with so many already across Canada - risks obfuscating the sheer talent involved in its creation. One person with whom I spoke dared to refer to the acting as "bad," perhaps expecting uncharacteristically "deep" emoting or slick Hollywood comedic brio, and apparently unaware that the realistic performances were a carefully calculated charade - in other words, convincingly "good" acting.

In spirit, Trailer Park Boys: The Movie is faithful to its small-screen origins and happily includes most of its cherished cast of lunkheads and assorted wingnuts. Where it deviates slightly is that it's more of a re-imagining of the show's events rather than strict canon, sculpted to function as a stand-alone film to be taken on its own merits. This decision was likely not made lightly; yes, devotees may have feathers ruffled over inconsistencies, but the bigger picture is a more accessible film for audiences unfamiliar with the show at home and abroad to enjoy. Certainly, the material is both richly hilarious and touching, regardless of continuity; in many ways, it is the sort of warmly sympathetic edification of the underdog class that the scornful and cynical Napoleon Dynamite is often mistaken as.

For me, though, the plot was almost incidental. The most appealing aspect of the film was the camaraderie between boyhood friends and petty criminals Ricky (Robb Wells), Julian (John Paul Tremblay), and Bubbles (Mike Smith), and their personal troubles and triumphs in the bleakness of their trailer park. More specifically, I admired how filmmakers Mike Clattenburg and Ivan Reitman (who, as a fan himself, was instrumental in producing the film and getting it off the ground) don't condescend or demean their subjects but instead imbue every frame of their film with a love and warmth typically denied this brand of comedy. A lesser film would have set up its characters to be whipping posts ripe for the flogging by an audience of superior intellect and societal status, drawn to watching it for an unearned sense of power. Here, our gang is permitted to be sensitive and smart when it's unexpected then succeed when they shouldn't, and in two great scenes a huddled mass of movie theatre patrons at the chain which the boys hope to later rob are grouped around them and gawk, morally judgemental and admonishing. They represent real-life audiences watching the fictitious boys, but to the viewer who understands and cares about the boys they look absolutely smug and clueless - and they are. If only they could see the way Bubbles, such a sweetheart, pokes Ricky's belly when he tries to soften his anger; the honest concern Julian shows for Cory and Trevor's feelings; and, the fiendishly quick wit Ricky demonstrates when his back's against the wall. They have flashes of grandness in them.

Another element of the film I found interesting is its intended resemblance to the documentary brand of hard-knock reality. Employing a series of asides given by various figures and addressed toward the camera as the plot progresses, Trailer Park Boys: The Movie anchors itself on not just their lives and experiences but on their personalities and feelings too. So, while we laugh at the car Ricky takes to the fast-food drive-thru, missing its passenger door, or at the ridiculousness of Julian's perma-grip on his glass of booze, we're never meant to make fun of anyone (no, not even the shirtless keg-gut Randy or the obliviously underpaid Jim Lahey). We laugh at the pain because, well, despairing is the alternative, and who wants to despair? Of course, these are grown men acting like hoodlums to an extent, and it is easy to revile them or jeer because they foolishly refuse to comply with the accepted norms of society, but there is an earnestness to their best-laid plans and a level of caring in their behaviour toward one another that challenges us not to dignify them, which the film's denouement, set to the perfectly-chosen tune of "Bobcaygeon" by The Tragically Hip, does gloriously. For all their faults, Ricky is entitled to having his family with Lucy and Trinity, Julian to falling in love with Wanda, and Bubbles to living in his shack with his kitties.

Who knew that I'd find all of these delights at a film which might very well be just as easily remembered for its creative use of conventional swear words and revelation that stealing change is quite unlikely to get you noticed by the police? Ideally, Trailer Park Boys: The Movie, which deftly and seamlessly handles its expanse between jolly lewd guttermouth and bittersweet compassion, should live on and find an audience among a wide cross-section of the filmgoing public as it has enough to offer people of different tastes. Whether or not it will is another matter altogether; some boors relish the blissfulness of their ignornace. As inclusive as it is, though, I'm apt to uphold its position as one of the things our nation, in part, has correctly embraced. This is a Canadian work of art.

(Trailer Park Boys: The Movie is currently playing at Crystal Palace 8 Cinemas, located at 499 Paul St., Dieppe.)

Written by Kevin VanHook
Starring Eric Mabius, Charisma Carpenter, Rik Young, Jeffrey Combs
Genre: Drama / Horror
Country: Canada / USA
Runtime: 89 minutes
MPAA Rating: Unrated

Evaluation: 1/10
by Greg Ferguson








Kevin VanHook gives me hope for the long and arduous life ahead of me. Just knowing that he is making a career for himself in the film industry despite his utter lack of finesse, talent, skill, imagination and, one must assume, intelligence as well, I feel that my comparably loftier and tangible gifts qualify me, without hint of immodesty, to arguably richer rewards than running my own visual effects studio and being given carte blanche to write, direct, edit, and star in my own films, especially if such films are of the same caliber as his dreadfully banal and tiresome Voodoo Moon. True, some will hasten to remind me that the film industry, as with much of the world, barely qualifies as a meritocracy, but I look to VanHook for hope because I must, since the alternatives would be buying into his ridiculously moribund yet bafflingly profitable vision of cinema, or succumbing to the hopelessness they inspire in the art of film.

Conceived as a religiously-inflected battle between the forces of (Christian) Good and Evil, Voodoo Moon thinks it's much more spiritually opulent and grandiose than it is, revealing VanHook to be a man possessing no more comprehension of his subject matter than a young child in Sunday School would. He's more interested in the puffed-up mythology and "powers" attributed to religion than the actual values or provocative questions which have elevated the most conscientious of us to higher levels of understanding and wisdom. Simply quoting passages from the Bible, showing the cross, and endowing the man you have playing the devil with a Van Dyck does not afford your imagery any amount of power; at best, such things can be overlooked as conceits if the content of your work is worthwhile. Alas, Mr. VanHook, your work is not. What's worse, if that is even plausible at this point, is that his story of a brother and sister who reunite as adults, after their parents are murdered by the devil, to do battle with him while accompanied by a small band of friends, is outright hackneyed and stupid in concept and in its execution. Powers exist for no reason; characters behave with little visible motivation; tangential plots are woven in and go nowhere, dangling like loose threads with frayed ends; and zombies apparently roam the land - in search of a compelling story perhaps, or maybe just "brains," as the old cliche goes. Of course, because this film has none, maybe that's why the film's foremost zombie simply keels over and dies of its own accord. Lucky bastard.

Some films know that they're tacky and even revel in it, but Voodoo Moon has every belief that it is important and no clue that it isn't, which is at times the worst sort of schlock to sit through. The film is like one overlong bad joke - a groaner - that merely inspires pity for the teller because it's so sad to see a person so spectacularly out-of-it. If anything, Kevin VanHook is like the Rupert Pupkin of the D-Grade sci-fi/horror genre; a stale fart of an entertainer with ambition and undeserved success. Though it may be difficult to find the silver lining in this musty brume, I believe it needs to be hope that somewhere in the world there's room for our achievements to match our aspirations and talents - and even that brand of idealism may be too taxing to sustain considering how bad this film is and that VanHook has two more films in the can. However, if there's a silver lining in my negative review, naturally it is that this film can be avoided altogether. Fortunately, that's an easier outcome to reach for those of us who give a damn about film.

(Voodoo Moon was released on DVD on October 6, 2006.)

Directed by Norman Cohn, Zacharias Kunuk
Starring Leah Angutimarik, Pakak Innukshuk, Natar Ungalaq, Samuelie Ammaq, Peter Henry Arnatsiaq, Abraham Ulayuruluk, Jens Jørn Spottag, Kim Bodnia, Jakob Cedergren
Genre: Drama
Country: Canada / Denmark
Runtime: 112 minutes
MPAA Rating: Rated PG for nudity

Evaluation: 9/10
by Greg Ferguson








"It's sad to imagine how many cultures Christianity has actually destroyed." So remarked my sister after we walked out from the theatre on opening night in Moncton, cutting to the core of The Journals Of Knud Rasmussen, an often (and possibly intentionally) scattershot yet warmly effluent essay at preserving the bygone traditions and way of life belonging to the Inuit people of Northern Canada at a time when the influence of the White Man was making its first significant impact on them. Set in 1922 during Greenlandic explorer and scientist Rasmussen's famed travels, it was also a time of pronounced vulnerability and self-doubt for the small smattering of people encountered by him, whose titular journals recorded their lifestyle through a lens that was sympathetic but ultimately limited by a degree of cultural impenetrability that has gone on to hinder and distort much of our popular perception. (You may recall that this was the year Robert J. Flaherty pioneered the documentary film format with his partially fabricated exposé on "Eskimos," Nanook Of The North.) With The Journals Of Knud Rasmussen, though, filmmakers Zacharias Kunuk and Norman Cohn reassemble the Inuit people's history and retell it in their voice with an aspiration toward authenticity. Watching it, there is a sense that at last we have the complementing story to those famous documents, with a richer understanding of what it was really like before their aboriginal innocence was lost to an uneasy union with 20th Century progress.

As the film opens, we see a roomful of men, women, and children bustle about, some moving hurriedly across the floor stopping to sit motionless. They are preparing to pose for a photograph not unlike those glimpsed by people in lands afar, many of whom never had - or cared to have - any other representation. Immediately, it becomes apparent that this is a film about the lives behind the static images and texts; the family bonds, spirituality, elations, tensions, anxieties, and every other shade of humanity they possessed.

A female narrator, Apak (Leah Angutimarik), suddenly begins to reminisce about her past before she and the filmmakers shift us forward ten years where we are hurtled into a surreal state of blinding light, incongruous noises, and the translucent visage of a woman writhing in spiritual coitus combine, conveying a feeling of rapturous pleasure and frightening danger. The overall effect is a disquieting one, and once we learn just what we were seeing, its disturbingly sad nature sets the tone for the rest of the film ahead. Shamanism, spirituality, and the other pleasures of the present are slowly shrinking into memories of the past, and the future seems to bear little hope for joy in its bleak infinitude despite the novelty that the White Man and Christianity bring to the North.

Because of scenes like this, however, I found much of the film at first to be an incomprehensible series of events set adrift in the snow-swept tundra. Apak's status as raconteuse wavers as other characters come into focus - namely, Rasmussen and his men and Apak's father, Avva (Pakak Innuksuk) - and even when it's clear what's going on, it's still difficult to surmise what's propelling the scenes as there is sporadic cohesiveness between them and many times when subtitles are not offered. When it was over I was underwhelmed, struggling to find an element of the film which had compelled me, but as I revisited it in thought afterward I grew fonder its sights, its message, its approach, and the love and care Kunuk, Cohn, and the rest of the crew put into the production. As founders of Isuma, the independent Inuit production company responsible for their wildly successful and deeply effective feature debut, Atanarjuat: The Fast Runner, Kunuk and Cohn have devoted themselves to fixing a place for their culture in today's film and television, employing largely Inuit crews and insisting on the use of their Inuktitut language. Together they represent a new and important aspect of Canadian culture and, with this film, may be poised to strengthen its foothold on the world cinema scene.

While it remains somewhat problematic and diffuse in areas, The Journals Of Knud Rasmussen is still a captivating immersion into a part of history uncommonly discussed. Instead of a straightforward story peppered by Big Dramatic Moments (though there are some, and they weigh heavily), it is a collection of memories without the edges pencilled in, strung together by a sentiment of rueful loss. Happily, Kunuk and Cohn, visual curators that they are, have committed themselves to regaining whatever they can.

(The Journals Of Knud Rasmussen is playing at Crystal Palace 8 Cinemas, located at 499 Paul St., Dieppe.)