Exile: NZIFF Review

Excruciating, excoriating and excellent, Exile is one of the NZIFF's best.

This German slow cooker film showcases more of a similar vibe as previous fest entrant Toni Erdmann, but with a slightly more uncomfortable feel, and an edge of nastiness.

That mix is a potent concoction though, giving Exil an unshakeable edge in the final wash.

Visar Morina's masterclass in discomfort is the tale of Albanian Xhafer, a chemical engineer from Kosovo, who's moved to Germany for work. Heading home one day to his wife (Erdmann's Sandra Huller) and family, Xhafer discovers a rat tied to his gate.

Whirling round his cul-de-sac in suspicion, Xhafer's at a loss as to who has done this and why. Things only get worse for Xhafer - at work, he appears to have been missed off emails, not told of meeting room changes and can't get the information he needs from a colleague, despite repeated promises it will come.

This "series of oversights" sets off a chain leading to a meltdown within Xhafer as suspicions abound, tensions arise and the pressure cooker begins to boil up.

Where Exile excels is in the slow burn.

As the discrimination and apparent bullying grows, Morina's screenplay dallies with who's right and who's wrong. Revealing gradual flaws within Xhafer is a masterstroke, giving the viewer an uncertainty that he's the victim here - the shades of grey flood the screen and make the experience all the more queasy for it.

There's much to unpack here - from ethnic tensions, racial exclusions and persecutions to frail male ego; Morina throws a lot into the script, bathing many of the more subtle elements in uncertainty and insecurity. A sense of foreboding is greatly exacerbated by Morina's desire to shoot his lead from behind. With a constantly sweaty head and a POV from the protagonist, the tensions rise and the sense of dread never really lets up.

But Xhafer's predicament is also about the reaction of others to his behaviour - and it's here Huller comes into her own. A force of initial restraint and bubbling indignation and resentment delivers more than a verbal blast of character exposition could - and Huller's performance grounds the film in a dose of reality.

Don't expect answers at the end of Exile - perhaps that'll be a source of frustration to many, but it adds to the sense of what's transpired. The deeply flawed protagonist with his life in tatters makes for a queasy bedfellow and delivers one of the festival's most complex and unlikeable characters. Morina deserves plaudits for how allegiances switch as the film plays out.

The orchestrated campaign may target Xhafer on screen, but watching this sustained nightmare unfold, audience members could be forgiven for feeling they've been targeted too, thanks to this immensely uncomfortable and compelling German drama - simply put, it's unmissable.

Ellie & Abbie (& Ellie's Dead Aunt Too): NZIFF Review

Perfectly charming and sweetly told, Ellie & Abbie (& Ellie's Dead Aunt Too) is a high school romance set within the walls of LGBTQI world.

Ellie (Sophie Hawkshaw) is an awkward teen finding her way through high school and trying to find the words to tell her crush Abbie (Zoe Terakes) how she feels about her. When she tells her mother that she's gay, her mother goes into a tailspin, but Ellie's world is changed when the revelation brings back her dead aunt into her life.

Ellie & Abbie (& Ellie's Dead Aunt Too) is a film that's as breezy as they come.

But that's not to damn it with feint praise.

Bursting with life and with a pace that's rewarding to the narrative, Ellie & Abbie (& Ellie's Dead Aunt Too) benefits from its leads, as well as Julia Billington as dead aunt Tara. While the film does veer dangerously close to sentimentality in parts, it's to be forgiven, simply because it avoids the usual bullying tropes in these kind of coming of age films.

It's heartwarming but slight in many ways, enjoyable but largely forgettable - it's the very definition of sweet and cute, but as a festival palate cleanser, it has a heart that's hard to deny.

Dinner in America: NZIFF Review

There is a moment of pure beauty among all the ugliness of Dinner in America - but it doesn't come until 10 minutes before the end.

Holed up in a basement, mismatched losers Simon (a snivelling Kyle Gallner) and Patty (Emily Skeggs) take a few moments to write a song. After Simon's delivered the chords, Patty offers lyrics to the song - and it's truly beautiful, an earworm that sings with joy and stays with you long after the film's done.

It's a shame, because most of the rest of Dinner in America is unfortunately forgettable fare.

After a full on pre-credits opening sequence that delivers energy and a middle finger to the status quo, Dinner in America settles into a format that's more familiar than anything, and less original than it wants to be.

It's the story of punk rocker Simon meeting oddball Patty and their subsequent on the lam adventures.

Natural Born Killers this is not, nor is it Sid and Nancy. Somewhere in the midst of the mid-western anarchy it purports to proffer lies the beating heart of a told too many times story, slathered in trashy and low-rent vibes throughout.

Dubbed as a punk romcom, it's obviously about two losers finding each other, their place in the world etc - these are not new themes.

But thankfully, in Gallner as Simon, the film's found its anti-hero who's all fire and brimstone early on and misplaced anger. However in one scene late in the film, Simon falls to pieces, revealing a much needed emotional edge.

Skeggs is mainly awkward as Patty, all grimaces, pauses and lip-chewing. But there's a feeling of a butterfly emerging from the chrysalis of the writing, as Dinner in America progresses. 

However, the anarchy feels questionable at best, and while scenes of Simon with his peers reek of veracity thanks to the spitting dialogue angrily delivered by some lost in life, the film's overall feeling of nihilism is misplaced.

"Take it down a notch" various family members are told throughout - and in truth, maybe the filmmakers would have been wise to listen to their own bon mot. 

A touch less need for exuberance could have greatly lifted Dinner in America; its warped comedy is nowhere near as fresh as it assumes it is, and were it not for its two leads and their obvious star power, the overly smug and self-righteous Dinner in America would rightly have been dead in the water.

Bloody Nose, Empty Pockets: NZIFF Review

Bloody Nose, Empty Pockets is an exercise in freewheeling filmmaking that will, in all honesty, test the boundaries of your patience.

Give in to its rhythms, and this tale of the final night of the Roaring 20s, a Las Vegas divebar may fully be your jam. 

But in truth, the ramshackle nature of the documentary finds no truck with this reviewer, making most of what "happens" in Turner Ross and Bill Ross IV's piece an exercise in endurance, akin to 2011's Whores Glory.

As the camera captures the bar's patrons at the very start of the day after a heavy night before, leading to its closure, the doors open and close, people come and go, and booze-soaked arguments and opinions are espoused in perpetuity thanks to the close capture of the camera.

While the Ross' camera work does much to capture the triviality of life in a bar, it also does a great deal to showcase the burgeoning camaraderie and the reasons why hangouts still are so vitally important.

The banal conversations largely pepper proceedings, and as the bittersweet end approaches, there's something akin to poignancy as the clientele ponder what's next. But it's such a hard road to even get to that stage, that Bloody Nose, Empty Pockets feels like its loose approach is its own worst enemy.

There's little in the backgrounds of the patrons to make them fully stand out - with the exception of the old timer who's always there and the bartender - and it cripples proceedings greatly. It's not that background exposition is necessary in this, but some framework would have lent a greater emotional heft to proceedings, and granted the film a degree of emotion it desperately needs.

As it stands, Bloody Nose, Empty Pockets feels like the dregs of a drink - sure, what gets consumed before is delicious, but the closer you get to the bottom of the glass, the more you realise just how shallow and pointless it all is.

Rūrangi: NZIFF Review

Director Max Currie's webseries Rūrangi is a sharply-lensed story that in many ways is a very familiar one.

A breakout performance from Elz Carrad as trans-activist Caz anchors the story that in fairness hints at times in what may come in a sequel. 

Caz starts the film/ webseries happy, helping the gender community post activism, and try and take on the walls of bigotry within Auckland. However, Caz is living a lie, dating a sportsman and apparently slightly conflicted over identity.

When tragedy strikes, Caz is forced home to a rural community once left behind and has to deal again with old prejudices anew - as well as trying to reconcile with a father who doesn't want to know.

Rūrangi starts with a blast of energy, and joie de vivre, that it feels obvious to know what's coming - such happiness can't last. However, Carrad carries Caz with such charisma that the central performance lifts the script from beyond its trope trappings, and its all-too-familiar reconciliation narrative.

Scenes with Arlo Green feel real, personal and hint at pasts gone but not forgotten - the characters here are fully drawn and fleshed out within minutes of appearing on screen, and draw audiences in right away. 

Born of a need to tell a story of a community not be about one, Rūrangi has lofty ambitions over its 5 part series. And it rightly deserves plaudits for its use of diversity in front and behind the camera.

Director Max Currie has an eye for the intimate, and the script from Cole Meyers has a penchant for character moments that ring with veracity. And some of the bucolic backgrounds look wondrous, taking in both the beauty and stifling nature of rural lifestyles.

However, in the wider writing, the film/ webseries feels a little light on the heft, shoving in topics that are current concerns but are narratively left wanting, hinting frustratingly at future dalliances on the screen yet to come.

An early suicide is treated heavily in the beginning, but disappears into the background, a catalyst of the return home, but also burdened with hints of what's gone unexplored threatening to bubble up later on; a Māori woman struggles to connect with the language once forgotten, and talk of phosphates within the land simmer in the background.

A final sequence feels more cliched than celebratory, riddled as it is with stereotyped prejudice and awkward exposition (though, while granted this may be the reality of rural life and acceptances, a little more subtlety would have left the end feeling less rushed and ultimately more transcendent.)

There's much to love in Rūrangi, however, one can't help but feel the second series will make a more effective companion piece, picking up some loose ends and tightening the focus more. 

When the film's centred around Caz, thanks to an Aaron Paul-like Elz Carrad, it soars; when it tries to bring in other issues, it flounders and flails.

Rūrangi is a film of a personal nature, and it's this connection that lasts - coupled with the launch of Elz Carrad as a bona fide star, it remains watchable and a welcome sign that New Zealand stories are widening their sights.

King of the Cruise: NZIFF Review

Sophie Dros' short-running documentary about a character on a cruise ship appears to many as a paean to a world we can no longer currently experience thanks to Covid-19.

But set aside the fact this captures the mundanity of life on a cruise vessel thanks to shots that take in cleaning and drone racing for the masses, and King of The Cruise is at its heart, a tragic look at a man trying desperately to achieve a connection.

That man is Scottish baron, Ronald Busch Reisinger, one of the richest men in the world.

However, as the old adage goes money can't buy you happiness, and Dros' documentary sees him cut a lonely figure on a ship filled with couples or with people looking for a good time.

The morbidly obese Reisinger is a tragic figure, a man who will consume vast quantities of food purely because he likes it - but will never seem to share a meal with anyone due to people giving him a wide berth.

Dros' film never mocks Reisinger, nor does it put him in the position of being a target for others, but with grandiose statements falling from his mouth, there gradually becomes a feeling of wanting to know how much is true. Dros never really gets to the nub of the man, nor does she follow up some of his claims - she's more interested in seeing how others react around him.

And it's a sad indictment of human life, and the growing lack of connection human beings have.

Some take selfies with Ronnie on the dance floor, but feign interest in him; others appear to turn the other way in corridors; Dros' eye for the tragedy of humanity is sharp, and weirdly never confrontational or judgemental. Detached she may be initially, but toward the end, the camera's peering eye into Reisinger's life is uncomfortably sad and bittersweet.

That leaves an unpleasant feeling at times - a bittersweet sadness for Reisinger but also an insight into our own failings. From the fripperies of the excesses of the cruise to the banality of some of the conversations, King of the Cruise proffers some poignancies at times (it's hard to not be moved by Reisinger's comments of how people have changed dealing with him over the years) as well as a great deal of empathy for a character you'd be auto-tuned to not want to sympathise with.

It's hard not to feel for Reisinger but it's even harder to feel like cruising is a soulless shallow enterprise - and that this one man is looking for life and even love in the worst possible places.

Some Kind of Heaven: NZIFF Review

Director Lance Oppenheim's peek behind the curtains of The Villages in Florida in the US is a crafty little doco that finds a way of inveigling itself under your skin.

Some Kind of Heaven starts with a series of golf carts being organised in a synchronised pattern as someone barks orders from a loud hailer and from then on, Oppenheim leads you through the lives of some of the residents.

Taking in a widowed woman, a long-married couple and a non-resident who believes he's still got the right to be a player, the doco somehow proffers up the feeling that The Villages is some kind of cult, with quick cut shots showing residents involved in activities, expounding the joys of it all, but never once looking like the emotion is there.

But scratch beneath the surface and Some Kind of Heaven unveils a kind of nagging sadness within its subjects. 

The long-married couple appeal to be unravelling; the widower worries she's never going to find anyone else, and the non-resident believes his way of life is best until it comes crashing down around his ears.

There are bittersweet touches here in Oppenheim's doco, but none of them are manipulated for the viewing pleasure of the audience. Each story plays out with poignancy and disturbing flair.

Part of the joy of Some Kind of Heaven is seeing it unfurl and its poignant surprises - but its look beneath the polished veneer of OAP happiness is as disturbing and as tragic as they come, without ever feeling exploitative.

If anything, Oppenheim's managed to scratch below the surface of the Stepford Wives-esque perfection, and what's laid out is slickly delivered, cut for an eye with the humanity as well as the humour and tragedy, and is really a damning indictment of this Florida utopia.