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The Second

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Sexy mystery thrillers (if that is a genre) are a hard thing to pull off. This Australian feature from first-time helmer Mairi Cameron (from a script by Stephen Lance) tries hard to keep the well-known elements fresh. In the end, it is the experienced and attractive cast that more or less brings the ship home.

It mostly takes pace in and around a giant isolated mansion somewhere in the semi-outback. A novelist (Rachael Blake) is having difficulty following up her first bestseller. She goes to this house as a sort of writer’s retreat to pen the sequel – the ‘second’ which the title refers to.

Perhaps unwisely she takes along her publisher (the redoubtable Vince Colosimo) with whom she appears to be having a fling. He soon makes himself at home by the pool while she bashes away at the keyboard. Their little tryst is quickly disturbed, however, by the arrival of a brash and brazen childhood friend of the writer (the ageless Susie Porter).

The three protagonists – it is an oddity of the approach that we never learn their actual names – circle around each other as various plot twists and double-crosses pile up. The problem is that the more you pile them up, the more teetering the tower becomes, and our focus is drawn from any actual identification with the characters to the sheer anticipation of it all crashing down. Sure enough, a genre cascade of near-absurdities does eventually occur and in a way that is likely to leave the viewer baffled.

This is all deliberate on behalf of the filmmakers, of course, but whether the audience will go along with it depends a lot on their appetite for this sort of plotting and scripting. The film also wants to get intertextual by lobbing in a load of elements from films that play on the idea of the threatening local psycho terrorising the city slickers.

The Second does have its pleasures – and it is being fast-tracked to streaming platform Stan, who helped produce – so maybe it will fare well on the content-hungry small screen.

 
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GLOW Season 2

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And so we return to the Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling and their ongoing battles within and without the ring. Netflix’s feminist underdog story, which traces the fortunes of a troupe of dreamers, wannabes and cynical veterans at the very fringes of the entertainment world as they try and carve out a place for themselves in the fascinatingly lurid milieu of professional wrestling, is such a vibrant, funny, and defiantly weird piece of television that it’s easy to forget that, under all the spandex and big hair, it’s actually doing serious cultural work.

At base, GLOW is about marginalised women fighting for self determination. The ace up its sleeve, the thing that makes it such a pitch perfect cocktail of comedy and drama, is that failure is built into the narrative model. Hell, most of the characters have already failed, from Alison Brie’s would-be serious actress to Betty Gilpin’s fallen soap star to Marc Maron’s cynical B movie auteur, and they expect to fail again. Moreover, the world expects them to fail. What this means is that every little victory, every incremental win, feels momentous. It means that even when we’re laughing at the excesses of the period and the setting, we’re cheering for our characters – it’s a heady emotional high.

Season 2 does lack the novelty of the previous run, although it still pops with vitality. Whereas the sheer audacious weirdness of the conceit could carry us through the first 10 episodes, now the show – like its characters – has to settle into the production groove. The sprawling ensemble means that there’s always something going on, even when it feels like, overall, we’re not making too much narrative headway. As we said, small victories, incremental steps. The focus remains more or less on Ruth (Brie) and Debbie’s (Gilpin) frenemy-ship, as the latter tries to flex her muscles by taking on a producing role on the show-within-a-show, while the former leans into her position as the wrestling franchise’s chief bad guy, the USSR-themed Zoya the Destroyer.

There’s more interesting stuff happening elsewhere in the ensemble, though, especially when the show grapples with issues of race and representation. Kia Stevens’  Tammé “Welfare Queen” Dawson has to deal with her college student son learning that she’s playing a damaging African American stereotype in the ring, while Sunita Mani’s Arthie struggles to shed her character “Beirut the Mad Bomber”, a role she finds particularly demeaning given that she’s actually Indian.

Meanwhile, Maron’s embittered Sam Sylvia tries – and largely fails, because, hey, he is who he is – to forge a meaningful relationship with his newly discovered daughter, Justine (Britt Baron), although the real meat of his arc is him dealing with his feelings for go-getter Ruth, whose talents he both respects and finds threatening. Men feeling threatened by talented women is a big theme in GLOW, and its embodied by guys we’re also positioned to like – mainly Sam and rich kid producer Bash (Chris Lowell), who spend a lot of time shutting down freshly minted producer Debbie just because they can.

Which sounds heavy, but GLOW‘s charm is that it channels these themes inside a bright, poppy, garishly candy-coloured package, and it never lets its thematic concerns bog down the action of the narrative, which nimbly skips along. For a show that concerns itself with failure and the fragility of dreams, GLOW is almost never not fun. It’s hard to see it lasting for too many more seasons – after all, what’s the end game here? – but while it’s here, it’s a must watch.

 
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Luke Cage Season 2

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Following on from the events of last season and crossover series The Defenders, season two of Luke Cage (or Marvel’s Luke Cage if you prefer) sees the titular Hero for Hire (Mike Colter) settling into the groove of being Harlem’s champion-about-town. Old enemies are still around to make life difficult for him, chiefly politician-turned-crime-boss Mariah Dillard/Stokes (Alfre Woodard) and major-domo Shades (Theo Rossi), and a new threat arises in the form of Jamaican gangster Bushmaster (Mustafa Shakir), who wants to take Harlem for himself and has no qualms about employing horrifying violence to do so.

Which sounds like there should be plenty for our man to deal with this year, but unfortunately Luke Cage Season 2 is a fairly sluggish affair. It’s a show that absolutely shines in the details but fumbles the big picture, filling the screen with fascinating and vibrant elements of African American culture (the soundtrack, again highlighted by live performances at the nightclub Harlem’s Paradise, is all killer), but hampered by leaden pacing and an almost terminal lack of narrative direction. It’s always fun to hang out in Luke Cage’s Harlem, but this season it seems to have a real problem with figuring out what kind of story it’s trying to tell.

That’s weirdly appropriate in a way, as Luke’s main arc is figuring out what kind of hero he’s going to be. He spends a lot of time this season ruminating on his position in the community, and figuring how to get paid (Hero for Hire, remember?) without compromising his ethics – and he’s not always successful. In parallel, we get Mariah trying to negotiate her transition from political player to, ultimately, gangster, which is a rough journey and not as well written as you might hope. The series seems to have a real problem with understanding who Mariah is or who they want her to be, and as a result her characterisation is wildly erratic and inconsistent, lurching from calculating mastermind to drunken mess to aggrieved matriarch and back. Luckily Alfre Woodard is an absolute gun and remains eminently watchable even when the script doesn’t give her the support she deserves.

Season 2 also continues the grand Marvel thematic tradition of Oh No My Dad Was Problematic, bringing in the late, great Reg E. Cathey (this was his final role and the series is dedicated to him) as Cage Senior, a preacher who has been alienated from his son since the latter was jailed, and who blames the stress of that ordeal for putting his wife into an early grave. Mariah is also struggling with her legacy, trying to reconnect with her daughter, Tilda (Gabrielle Dennis) a doctor-turned-naturopath who has turned her back on the family legacy. Between this and season 2 of Jessica Jones that’s two instances of Oh No My Mum Was Problematic we’ve had from Marvel this year, which is some kind of blow for representation, we guess.

Still, themes of family, legacy and community run deep in Luke Cage, with pretty much every character directed by, or struggling to get out from under, generational issues – old debts, bad blood, family shame, cycles of violence and revenge. Even Bushmaster, a charismatic and ruthless villain with a nice line in capoeira kick-fighting, is driven by the desire for vengeance for crimes against his family. This is the good stuff – by grounding the action of the series in this palpable sense of place and history, the whole thing has a greater dramatic weight.

That weight does slow things down though – although perhaps that’s just Netflix’s insistence on sticking to their unwieldy 13 episode season plan, which we have griped about before. Once again, there’s not enough story to stretch over the 13 hour framework comfortably, and we spend a lot of time spinning our wheels or dealing with needless complications that don’t forward either the plot or the themes of the series. This is a problem endemic to the Marvel Netflix stable, and perhaps it’s no more prevalent than in most episodic entertainment, but given we’re encouraged to binge this stuff, it becomes all the more apparent and damaging in this context.

It does allow time for little detours and fun moments, though, and as we pointed out, it’s in these little details that Luke Cage sings. We get a few fun cameos from the broader Marvel Netflixiverse, and we get to spend a lot of time with tough cop and – since the events of The Defenders – amputee Misty Knight (Simone Messick), who refuses to let the loss of a limb slow her down (even if it is eventually dealt with in the most Marvel way possible). One of the most fun interludes involves Knight hanging out with Iron Fist’s Colleen Wing (Jessica Henwick) and kicking an impressive amount of ass in a barroom brawl – this might be the closest we get to a Daughters of the Dragon show, but we’ll take what we can get.

Which is a good attitude to go into this one with. Luke Cage isn’t a bad show, but it definitely falls short of its obvious inherent potential. It’s entertaining enough and sports excellent performance scenes, but the whole thing doesn’t hang together as well as it should. If we’re getting a third season – and S2 leaves us in a place where that seems like a certainty – hopefully it’s a tighter and more focused affair. We’ve hung out enough – it’s time to get moving.

 

 
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Short Distance

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With the internet, social media apps and video calls, technology is certainly making it feel like the world is getting smaller. For those who are in long distance relationships, however, it can feel like the complete opposite. Marking his feature length debut, filmmaker Nic Barker explores the effects of a long distance relationship in this romantic drama.

Over the course of its brisk 60 minutes, Short Distance follows three couples whose relationship DNA has been altered by geography. Sensing his Queensland girlfriend is set to leave him, Max (Christopher Kay) sets up a romantic weekend when she comes to visit Melbourne. Meanwhile, Belinda (Gabrielle Savrone) seeks something hot and heavy when her partner’s constant travelling for work leaves her cold. Finally, and in perhaps one of the strongest tales in this trilogy, a young couple, played by Calista Fooks and Sam Macdonald, count down the hours until one of them must leave for greener pastures of employment in Perth. All of the tales will resonate with someone, but this last scenario manages to capture that bitter sweetness of two people plastering on brave faces when all they want to do is cry. Yeah, it gets emotional, people.

There’s a softness to Barker’s direction which does not mean he isn’t trying. Rather, it gives the film a dreamlike quality that adds to the suggestion that some of our lovers are sleepwalking through the motions in the hopes of maintaining the status quo. Waxing lyrical about trust, honesty and commitment, Barker’s screenplay is strong and shows off his background in short films; his short, Pint, having received a fair amount of praise.

Boiled down to their narrative bones, the three tales perhaps wouldn’t work indivually as features. However, mixed together and connected by a handful of characters, Short Distance successfully captures a snapshot of modern romance.

Watch Short Distance here for free.

 
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Braven

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Take no prisoners thriller Braven is directed by stunt veteran Lin Oeding. More significantly, it stars Jason Momoa, the 6’3″ Hawaiian-American who came to prominence in Stargate: Atlantis and  Game of Thrones before emerging in the DC Universe as Aquaman.

Here, Momoa plays loyal family man, Joe Braven, devoted son and husband forced to defend his home and family, demonstrating that he’s the wrong man to mess around with.

His propensity for violence is waiting to be triggered, so we’re to believe; a fuse not helped by his difficult father (Stephen Lang), suffering from PTSD and a drinking problem.

The old school Road House style violence is illustrated in one singular sequence, where without any talk, Braven steps in and beats four men half to death after they bash Papa Braven to a pulp for mistaking a girl at a bar for his wife.

Following that, Momoa, his daughter Charlotte (Sasha Rossof)  and his now, suddenly mentally stable father find themselves battling a home invasion by a drug cartel, led by top character actor Garrett Dillahunt as Kassen.

The film proceeds as a largely by-the-numbers thriller, as the goons come after Momoa and his father while the two slowly, violently and unbelievably pick them off one by one.

While showcasing Momoa’s well known tough guy skills, logic is often absent in Braven. But if you’re after cheap thrills and arbitrary close-ups of violence such as an arrow shot into a face, then you’ve found your fix.

 
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Cold November

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A coming of age story centered on the traditions of deer hunting, Cold November is an indie drama that centres on Flo (Bijou Abbas), an apple-cheeked 12 year old girl who is keen as mustard to get out into the woods and bag her first buck.

Writer and director Karl Jacobs flips our gender expectations with his tale. Flo’s woodcraft mentors are her mother Amanda (Anna Klemp), aunt Mia (Heidi Fellner), and grandmother Georgia (Mary Kay Fortier-Spalding), with Jacobs himself in the relatively minor role of Flo’s uncle Craig. It’s an interesting spin on the hoary “rite of manhood” narrative, with the central hunting trip – explicitly an almost ritualised family tradition) – this is a strongly matriarchal clan, and the women are as eager for deer season as any man.

Narratively, Cold November is fairly straight forward and doesn’t bother to import needless drama from outside its concerns to spice things up. It doesn’t glorify slaughter, not does it condemn killing for food – these elements are presented as facts of life for Flo and co., and participating in these activities are a given for the tween. There’s a stillness and simplicity to the proceedings; we spend a lot of time sitting quietly in a deer blind, waiting for something to happen, while life goes on.

One of the key strengths of Cold November is that it isn’t gender blind – these aren’t just generic male characters who are gender-lifted – the women here deal with explicitly female issues, whether it be the pressures of being a single mother, or the untimely arrival of a first period (an element of the films overall “cycle of life” motif).

That’s not the only blood we get, either. Jacobs refuses to pull any punches when it comes to the mechanics of hunting, and the film’s key scene concerns Flo killing and field-dressing a deer on her own – a scene that may well disturb some viewers. It’s a commendable bit of verisimilitude.

Contrasting this is the shadow of a family trauma that overshadows the hunt, the effects of which are presented in an almost magical realist manner as Flo dreams of a recently dead relative. It’s an odd fit alongside the film’s predominantly realistic tone – not an unwelcome one, but certainly an unusual choice.

Ultimately, Cold November is a quiet, meditative film that gently but deliberately upends many of the accepted narrative conventions about gender, nature, life and death. There’s probably not a huge audience for it in Australia, but the audience it does find will appreciate it.

 
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The Post

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Steven Spielberg’s none-more-timely real life political drama The Post posits Tom Hanks’ Ben Bradlee as the dogged avatar of a principled free press, the Nixon Administration as, well, the Nixon Administration, and puts Meryl Streep’s Katharine Graham, socialite-turned-publisher of the eponymous Washington Post, in the hot seat as an untested woman who must balance the ethics of journalism against the more pragmatic requirements of running a news organ that is both beholden to risk-adverse stakeholders and liable for legal prosecution if it does what we the audience all know to be The Right Thing.

Of course, Streep and Hanks do end up doing The Right Thing, as history tells us, but in this case it’s the journey, not the destination, plus the resonance with contemporary issues in this current dark age of “fake news”, “bias”, Fox & Friends, military adventurism, and so on. The distance between The Post‘s 1972 setting and the current year does not seem particularly large at times.

Except, perhaps, when you look at the gender politics of the time, which are an eye-opener. The Post takes place at a point when men still withdrew to the drawing room for some post-dinner-party real talk while their wives gossiped and swapped recipes and make up tips. It’s a milieu that Streep’s Washington society matron is effortlessly comfortable in. She’s less confident when it comes to making her mark as the big dog at the newspaper following her husband’s suicide – especially when she and her editor, Hanks’ Bradlee, must decide what to do with The Pentagon Papers, a damning Department of Defence report on the rolling disaster that was the US’s involvement in the Vietnam War. Publishing is clearly in the public interest and could put the Post – then a relatively small paper – in the big leagues. However, a court injunction against the New York Times over their prior publication of the material, and the nervousness of the Post‘s board in the lead-up to a stock market float, make the decision less straight forward.

The Post‘s obvious precedent is Alan J. Pakula’s 1976 film All the President’s Men and, indeed, Spielberg’s effort serves as a kind of prequel thereof (Tom Hanks is playing the same real life character that Jason Robards played, if you’re keeping score). The Berg’s classical, restrained Serious Movie style is even a decent match for Pakula’s, although when All the President’s Men was made it was a contemporary drama, while The Post has the burnished patina of a historical drama (compare Spielberg’s recent Bridge of Spies).

However, what really rings as nostalgic is the film’s faith in a robust and forthright fourth estate. While much is made of how the paper is beholden to its board of directors and their economic concerns, it essentially functions as rousing tribute to clear-eyed, ethical journalism – quite the jarring anomaly in a time when even the most irreproachable reporting is frequently and publicly dismissed as corrupt, biased, and broken. Spielberg’s film is clearly meant to be a paean to the free press, but seen through the cynical lens of the current age, it occasionally feels simplistic, even naive.

Still, The Post remains a rock solid, gripping drama, thanks to Spielberg’s steady hand on the tiller and strong performances both from the principals (although Hanks occasionally drifts towards pantomime) and an excellent supporting cast that includes  Sarah Paulson, Bob Odenkirk, Tracy Letts, Bradley Whitford, David Cross, Bruce Greenwood, Carrie Coon, and Matthew Rhys. When we look back on Spielberg’s career this will probably be considered a minor work, but minor ‘Berg is still worth your time.

Special Features on the Blu-ray release include a number of insightful featurettes:

LAYOUT: Katharine Graham, Ben Bradlee & The Washington Post
EDITORIAL: The Cast and Characters of The Post
THE STYLE SECTION: Recreating an Era
ARTS & ENTERTAINMENT: Music for The Post

 
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Thicker Than Water

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With over 15 years in the music business, singer-songwriter Pete Murray takes his first steps into acting with Thicker Than Water, a grim melodrama from director Dominic Crisci.

Written by Ellie Popov, the film sees Murray playing D, a former drug addict returning home to face up to his family and his past. Whilst the Queensland singer will be the drawcard for many, the centre of the film is Ludmiller (Popov again), D’s sister who has been holding down the fort whilst D has been in rehab. Her other brothers are stoked about D crossing back over the threshold, but for Ludmiller his arrival means reliving some tough memories and having to double down as matriarch of the household.

If it’s possible that you can imagine a slightly less aggressive Animal Kingdom, than you’re pretty close to pitching whereabouts on the spectrum Thicker Than Water sits in terms of drama. Contrasting with the sunny backdrop of Queensland, Crisci and Popov delve into a seedy underworld which resurfaces upon D’s return. In a particularly vicious turn, Brad McMurray brings in the spite as Nic, a former acquaintance of D’s, who appears to have taken a leaf out of Ghost Dog’s book and can be found reciting samurai stories to his foot soldiers.

Where Thicker Than Water lets itself down is its apparent rush to the finish line. The brevity of the film’s runtime robs it of space to allow its characters to breathe. There are so many characters introduced in such short a time that it acts as a barrier to being able to immerse yourself in the plot.

And whilst performances are admittedly a mixed bag, Murray certainly gives it a fair swing; managing to navigate his character away from any of the clichés that tag along with the onscreen junkie. It’s Popov that climbs to the top of the hill stretching Ludmiller’s stress levels till you can almost hear them snap. They say you can’t choose your family, but taking Thicker Than Water as evidence, you might just wish you could.

 
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Happy

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There’s a point later on in Happy where Nick Sax, Christopher Meloni’s substance-addled, self-loathing cop-turned hitman, is using a mob boss’s family as body armour. Literally – he’s got the guy’s wife strapped to his front, he’s got the kid in a papoose kind of arrangement, they’re both alive, and the squad of mafia goombas he’s up against are fearful of firing, lest they accidentally kill one of their boss’s beloveds.

Sax has no such compunctions about firing at them. He slaughters the lot. He slaughters a lot of people over the course of Happy’s eight episode first season, dispatching all and sundry in outrageous, over the top, blood-soaked ways, all the time ruminating on his own apparent inability to be killed in turn. Sax isn’t immortal, per se; it’s just that his life is a complete toilet and he figures the universe can’t be bothered sending him to hell when he’s suffering just fine here. There’s nothing supernatural about him.

Unless you count the tiny, blue winged unicorn he’s been seeing lately, telling him he has to save a little girl from a very, very bad man.

The unicorn’s name is Happy, and he sounds an awful lot like Patton Oswalt. He’s the imaginary friend of a Hailey (Bryce Lorenzo), who’s been kidnapped by a grotesque pervert dressed in a macabre Santa suit (Joseph D. Reitman). Happy went out to find the one guy who can save her – and that’s our man Sax. Sax might be delusional. He might be hallucinating. Or he might have one last shot at redemption – if he can kill his way to Hailey. And we’re off.

Based on the comic series by Grant Morrison (The Invisibles) and Darrick Robertson (Transmetropolitan), Happy draws on a lot of influences, but reconfigures its sources into something wholly new and original. Imagine if Sin City had the good sense not to take itself too seriously. Imagine if Jimmy Stewart shot a bunch of guys in Harvey. Imagine if Law & Order SVU‘s Elliot Stabler went riiiiggghht off the rails and descended into drugs, alcohol, and murder for hire.

The whole thing is gloriously, gleefully, perverse, brutal and ugly – a trademark tone for executive producer and principal director Brian Taylor, whose works include the pretty decent Crank movies and the pretty terrible Gamer and Ghost Rider: Spirit of Vengeance. Everything is gritty and grimy, bathed in multicoloured neon, a nightmare New York populated by criminals, scavengers, hookers, psychopaths – and the odd innocent in need of salvation.

At the centre of it all is Meloni, who just nails it as the all-too-self-aware, all-too-self-destructive, anti-heroic Sax. It’s a bravura turn, with Meloni managing to tun every throwaway tough guy line into one for the ages. It’s an absolutely fearless performance, too; Sax might be an unstoppable killing machine once he gets up a head of steam, but he never looks cool doing it. He’s the universe’s chew toy, the butt of every joke, a loser’s loser, and he knows it.

He’s counterbalanced by Oswalt’s voice work as Happy, who is something right out of a Dsiney cartoon (well, maybe DreamWorks) and is determined to get this hulking hitman to do the right thing. The central joke is, of course, the contrast between this refugee from a Saturday morning kid’s show and the horrible urban milieu he’s forced to navigate, and the series plays with that in a number of fun and clever ways. It also toys with the nature of Happy’s “reality” a lot. The little unicorn is a self-described imaginary friend, but how imaginary is imaginary? As the season progresses the show teases out a background mythology that is more complex than first taste might suggest.

So urban fantasy fans will enjoy getting that box ticked, but they may have trouble shouldering their way through the tsunami of black, bad taste humour that is Happy’s stock in trade. The show is gleefully venal, delighting in presenting almost every single one of its characters at their worst. Happy’s supporting cast is a menagerie of sadistic killers, corrupt cops, vain mafia widows, coke-snorting card sharks, and worse – and why not? When your nominal hero is a suicidal alcoholic who kills for money, the sky – or rather the gutter- is the limit when it comes to the opposition. But don’t worry if you don’t like these people – most of them die. Horribly.

But the point is that Happy is not for everyone, and it doesn’t want to be. Having said that, those of us in its sights are in for a wild ride. It’s a perfect example of its type – deranged, hyper-violent, grotesque, too clever by half, but with a hidden heart that won’t stop beating no matter what the world throws at it. You’ll love it. Unless you don’t.

 
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Cursed

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Dan (Paul Tucker) and Nan (Elora Wilson) live with Cat (Britt Kynde) – the housemate from hell. On Friday the 13th, and after repeated noise complaints, their house is cursed by a local gypsy. Now anybody who leaves the house will die, and all three housemates – plus two of Dan’s friends – are stuck together without hope of escape.

Recently released to Vimeo, Britt Kynde’s independent feature Cursed is not a horror-comedy so much as just a straight comedy that is informed by horror. That is important to know if you are expecting humorous riffs on vampires, werewolves or the undead. The horror elements – a gypsy curses a house, and two dead twenty-somethings come back to life – only exist to give the story a confined premise and some funny jokes. This film is ultimately more Clerks than Shaun of the Dead: character-based gags, a confined setting, and a relatively slight narrative.

The film is a rather episodic affair, with the action split into a string of often self-contained sketches. Many of them seem to end with their own percussive rim-shot in the score, as if to emphasise their nature as cheap gags. Like all comedy of this nature, it uses a scatter-shot approach. Some of the jokes fail to land, but there are always other scenes just around the corner. Some work brilliantly. Due to that segmented structure the film does begin to drag by the midpoint, but Kynde thankfully overcomes that by giving the characters and story an unexpected amount of heart during the second half. It is this emotive back-end that lifts Cursed above the run-of-the-mill standard of self-shot low budget comedies of this type. It is far from perfect, but you can see the potential in the script and the cast.

The film does struggle from the outset with the character of Cat (played by Kynde). She feels like she is supposed to be likeable and is certainly the closest thing the story has to a protagonist, yet her behaviour and antics are too repellent to allow the viewer to engage. By the time the story is giving her greater nuance and depth, it is almost too late. She has been too unsympathetic in the earlier scenes for the viewer to care. The remaining characters are entirely naturalistic, and that makes the caricature-like Cat stand out even more. There is also a sneaking sense that Kynde is one step away from breaking into laughter in many of her scenes. When she hits a joke she nails it, but at the same time it is an uneven performance. Other members of the cast, notably Elora Wilson as Nan and David Beamish as ill-fated friend Glen, are more consistent and impressive.

The film retains an aggressive Australian identity, which was a smart move on Kynde’s part. Ultra-low-budget comedies are plentiful (this one was made for a reported $9,000), but only a few are going to feel this authentically Australian in style of comedy and overall tone. Technically the film works its budget to its favour: the handheld camera work gives everything a sense of immediacy, while a shift from colour photography to black and white when the curse is laid is a stroke of genius. Poor sound – the bane of all low budget films – rears its head from time to time but is by no means a deal breaker.

Cursed is imperfectly made – what indie production like this isn’t? – but at the end of the day the only thing that should matter with a comedy is whether it makes you laugh. I laughed quite a bit. It’s a promising debut, and hopefully not the last we see of Britt Kynde.