The eternalized scene from Fargo [you know the one with the tree shredder] is the perfect image to describe the Coen brothers’ latest dive into cinema; completely shocking, disgusting and hilarious.

Burn After Reading is a surprise enjoyment for me. I have to admit, I am slightly pretentious when it comes to celebrities. The hype building for this movie annoyed me. I prefer for a film to be respected for the directors, writing, cinematography and acting ability. Not how totally awesome the multi-million dollar leading man’s hair looks...oh my gosh and have you heard who he’s dating now? I felt cheated that TIFF premiered the film, causing chaos in the downtown core. The only name I heard for the first two days of the festival was Brad [not even Brad Pitt, as 

if you chat over morning coffee in his local Starbucks about how glowing Angelina looks in her latest pregnancy]. During the entire ten days, I cannot recall hearing the names Joel or Ethan. Not even Tilda, or Francis, or John. And heaven forbid Mr. Pitt should stay in town long enough to acknowledge his second screening. Fly in, jet out. 

But I digress. 

The Coen brothers lived up to the hype entirely. There was a perfect balanced between intrigue, comedic timing and gore. The perfect essence of a Coens’ film is the deliverance of hilarious content in a deadpan, serious tone. Each actor is uncanny in the classic comic Coen execution.

I don’t want to ruin anything for the unsuspecting audience. This is a film that needs to be enjoyed from start to finish without being spoiled. But the obvious Coen connections can be assumed by the intelligent film viewer. Of course, people will die. In a closet with a gun by a man just getting out of the shower. Or by a hatchet in the middle of a street in broad daylight. Bizarre. Beautiful. 

Although I regretfully have no faith in “Brad” as an actor, he happily surprised me in this comedic role, and of course, everyone else in the film is brilliant. Especially an amazing mini-role performance from J.K. Simmons as random C.I.A. head. 

I may have been one of the only two people in the theatre laughing out loud [the other person being my cousin], but it wasn’t for lack of intelligent humour. I think I simply have no shame in public. 

Go see this film.

I don’t usually watch foreign films. Stereotypical pretentious content aside, I never found myself with access to such films. What better place to experience different cultures on screen than at TIFF.

Germany’s Caroline Link displays a determined case of family loss in A Year Ago In Winter. The fortunate asset of Link’s film is it’s subtlety. The heartache of a lost son and brother is attempted to be rectified through a portrait. 

The idea of painting the recently deceased, especially someone who took their own life, is a bit creepy. Link not only discusses the creepiness, but also forms a beautiful piece of artwork, where the sister finds herself through the loss of Alex.

There are two portraits. The first is of Alex and Lilli at the piano. An image that without knowing any history of the siblings, conveys an essence of personality more powerful than hours of dialogue. There is an eerie sense of devotion from the dead sibling, where Lilli looks dismissive, uncaring. I yearned for the dead when seeing the portrait, feeling myself a sense of loss. I didn’t feel right looking upon the image, as though I was intruding on a private moment. 

The second portrait removes Alex from the piano, placing him as only an image behind Lilli. Although satisfying Lilli, I felt too much of a disconnection between the two characters. Through investigating this unknown photograph, Lilli discovers Alex’s image in the final portrait is of devotion for her. He truly loved her despite her dismissiveness. I did not see it in the portrait. 

I understood Link’s efforts in the multiple portraits, but felt the emotion in the second attempt fell short. I was incurious of the connection between the siblings, and left the film without satisfaction because of the portrait. Link branched from artistic grieving into a spiritual connection throughout the film between Alex and Lilli, which she managed to conclude sweetly in the final scene when Lilli dances in the snow. 

The question of why Alex commits suicide is never solved. Each member of the family gave their opinion as to why and mourned because they felt responsible, but a defined reason is never determined. And with reason. Suicide is never understood. To pretend that a single reason can be given for one’s sorrows is pathetic. There can be no sympathetic final scene where all is forgiven and understood so family members can move on with their lives. What can be expected is that people need time to grieve. Then they can move on. Never forgetting, but being able to live.

A man walks in to a bar. 

All stories start somewhere. The Brothers Bloom starts with a girl. And two boys. And a story. 

Rian Johnson’s second adventure [after Brick] manipulates and entertains his audience. A well crafted tale of confidence brings two brothers together, with two girls, to tell one hell of a yarn. 

Inspired after some of cinema’s greatest con-men tales, such as Paper Moon, Johnson brings the camera closer to the heart of the confidence men by splitting the common traits of such into two characters; Stephen, the brains, and Bloom, the heart. In this battle between brothers, we see the battle between the desire to be trusted and the urge to use that trust to gain value. Can the brain ever stop working, stop writing the cons, and let the heart live an unwritten life?

Johnson channels a Wes Anderson emotionality within his words. The dialogue is spiffy and quirky. Johnson lays down the punches minute by minute, layering humanality with humourism. Even a character with two lines [and one karaoke song] is directed flawlessly, with each eyebrow lift and wink conveying paragraphs of script. 

Johnson takes his audience on a drive within a different world. He leads us in to a wilderness, confiding the story until we follow where he’s pointing. We give him our watches. 

The characters are purely lovable and we yearn for an ending where everyone gets what they want; a perfect con. 

Johnson has created an iconic style. Inspiration with originality. Brick gave an unique twist on the crime story for a new generation, providing a challenging role for Levitt, which he played up to brilliantly. Another round of unique characters cons The Brothers Bloom. The brothers, in Brody and Ruffalo, are part of a whole in which each man cannot be successful without his counterpart. Rachel Weisz’s portrayal of the girl who knows everything yet has experienced nothing is fresh, and Bang Bang, Rinko Kikuchi, is bang on as a girl with only two lines, yet speaks volumes through imaginative direction.

Step through the looking glass into Alice’s side of life. Although the quirkiness can be out on a limb, it’s better to climb the branch and become immersed than think ill of Johnson’s fairy tale. Your cradle may fall.

A man walks out of a bar $1.75 million richer.

It is every critics dream to see an absolutely terrible film. 

The moment can finally arise from the ashes left after two hours of unbearable dribble to sharpen the pencils and have the vengeance that every audience member wishes to accost the filmmaker with in the parking lot of the theatre. With a tire iron. 

To witness pitiful acting, coupled with dreary cinematography, and a cameraman better left to shooting sex tapes, a critic can vanquish the dreams of a filmmaker with one simple stroke of the key. And it feels so good. To let out the diabolical and callous phrases that brings tears to the director’s eye on Friday morning can make the weekend a little brighter for movie-goers. It is truly a time to be merciless and remorseless.

This was not a terrible film. 

This was Zack. And Miri. Who together make a porno. 

A timeless tale of two life-long friends who have sex while shooting a pornographic film in order  to pay off the insurmountable debt they somehow accumulate manages to be one of the most touching love stories Kevin Smith has ever made. Yes, even better than Jersey Girl. 

Zack and Miri Make A Porno is reminiscent of the time Smith made films about comic geeks who get laid by lesbians and an uncle with a gerbil problem. For anyone who understands that people like sex (and have it) and can stomach over two hundred phrases uttering the f-word in under two hours, you are obviously a Smith fan and will obviously see this movie. You don’t need a critic telling you to see it. You don’t need four stars. You just need to know this is a film that brings back the Kevin Smith era of filmmaking where you don’t get the feeling he’s selling out. He just being absolutely crude. And I couldn’t stop laughing. 

‘Et tu, Brute?’ 

The question of betrayal is indicative of any relationship gone sour. Especially between that of a loyal supporter and harsh totalitarian. The interesting story is in the nature of the betrayal. Author Robert Kaplaw captured the relationship of admiration and disappointment between two people, one an overbearing egotist in Orson Welles, the other a young teenage actor in Richard Samuels, in Me and Orson Welles.

One year before War of the Worlds premiered on radio, Welles produced and directed Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar in the Mercury Theatre in New York. A photo was taken of Welles with fifteen-year-old Richard during the production, giving Kaplaw the inspiration to imagine the world behind that photograph. Kaplaw surrounds his characters with questions of morals, the true nature of “the business;” a multitude of bullshit, and sex. 

Richard Linklater bravely entered a world he had never travelled to before. He had been to high school in 1976, Vienna, Paris, and even a baseball dugout with misfit kids, but never had Linklater produced such magic as travelling back in time to 1937. Linklater, teamed with a successful costume designer, set designer, and director of photographer, beautifully tells the story of Me and Orson Welles on screen with an impeccable cast of diverse talent and a beautifully recreated Mercury Theatre. The adapted screenplay displays a witty tongue and immersing tone for the film, but nothing is more immersing than the mimic of Orson Welles done by British stage actor Christian McKay.

From the first entrance of egotism (a personal ride in an ambulance because, according to Welles, there is no law saying you need to be sick to ride in an ambulance) to the last cockeyed comment asking “How am I going to top this?” to a standing ovation after opening Julius Caesar, McKay embodies Welles mind, body, and soul. McKay even claims he was “unbearable to work with” when the cameras started rolling. 

To be the ‘me’ of Me and Orson Welles would be a dream of any individual in the late 30s. Welles was a manufacturer of life in the business, who could just as easily take it away. Zac Efron’s debut as a actor outside of the Family Channel, although courageous, was stunted and unconvincing. A little disappointing, considering this could have been his big break into “real” acting. An educational experience, nonetheless, being next to phenomenal actor Ben Chaplin, playing George Coulouris of the Mercury Theatre company. 

The era of budding Broadway is a fitting backdrop to tell the story of Richard’s breakthrough into acting. A business that is displayed through Claire Danes’s character Sonja “spelt with a j but pronounced with a y” Jones. She builds up young Richard’s expectations only to ditch his heart in the middle of the New York streets by sleeping with Welles to get ahead in the business. Sonja mentors Richard about respecting Welles through dedication and servitude, warning the only way to stay in the business is not to have a personality. The criticism Me and Orson Welles has on the business is subtle yet accurate. Richard’s “in” into acting comes simply from crossing the street in New York and getting involved with a crowd outside of an unnamed theatre. Trying anything to get ahead, being a yes-man, knowing who’s boss, are staples of show business. 

Just as fast as Richard got the job as Lucilius, the loyal servant of Brutus (played, of course, by Welles), it is squashed. Welles banishes Richard from work as an actor after Richard defends the honour of his lover, Sonja. After firing Richard, Welles re-hires him to get his perfect opening night. Welles demonstrates his power over “the little people” by brandishing Richard around like a rag doll, discarding him as fast as Sonja. The only emotionally convincing scene from Efron comes after he learns he is being fired from a cowardly Welles, who refuses to tell Richard himself after the opening night curtain falls. Efron displays a powerful reaction of betrayal from a person he grew close to and admired. He was passed down the line, cut and stabbed, only to finish with Brutus, who shows no sympathy or vulnerability when he stabs Richard and leaves him without a hope of survival. 

I suppose a greeting is required.

Hello.

Enjoy.