7/15/15 (Part Two): We All Fall Down

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Adriana Barraza, Alma Martinez, anger issues, Anna Kendrick, Cake, Chris Messina, Christophe Beck, chronic pain, cinema, Daniel Barnz, divorced couple, dramas, Evan O'Toole, ex-husband, Felicity Huffman, film reviews, films, grieving mother, House M.D., Jennifer Aniston, letting go, Mamie Gummer, Movies, Patrick Tobin, Pepe Serna, pill addiction, Rachel Morrison, Rose Abdoo, Sam Worthington, single father, suicide, William H. Macy

With her world-weary cynicism, barbed sarcasm, constant physical pain and pill addiction, Claire Bennett doesn’t really look like any role Jennifer Aniston has taken on in her 20+ year career but that doesn’t mean that the character isn’t a little familiar. Change Claire’s gender, give her a lab coat, an even bigger chip on her shoulder and voila: paging Dr. Gregory House to the front lobby.

Reductive? Perhaps, although it’s certainly not meant as any kind of slight on Aniston’s abilities. The former Friends star underplays her part nobly, allowing the inherent anger, depression and hopelessness of her situation to bob to the surface, breaking the chilly serenity like so many jagged ice floes. The problem, as it turns out, is that Daniel Barnz’s Cake (2014) really doesn’t give her a whole lot to do. As Claire frowns, mopes, drops dry repartee and lashes out at the world around her, it becomes increasingly difficult not to think of the surrounding film as a kind of prison, a distressingly familiar, middle-of-the-road salvation story that hits every expected beat, yet constantly feels lesser than the sum of its parts.

We first meet Claire in a chronic-pain support group, where she displays her uncanny ability to be simultaneously charming, obnoxious, combative and exceptionally glum. One of Claire’s fellow group members, Nina (Anna Kendrick), has just committed suicide by jumping from a busy freeway overpass and, in lieu of focusing on her own issues, Claire has decided to figure out just what makes another person decide to kill themselves. Her interest, of course, is purely academic: Claire couldn’t really give two shits about anyone but focusing on her amateur “investigation” is as good as any a way to try to stay occupied.

What, exactly, is Claire’s problem? The film, itself, is pretty cagey about the whole thing, drawing out the revelation as if it were some sort of twist but we get the main elements early enough to draw our own conclusions: with all of her scars and healed injuries, chronic pain, constant mourning and divorce from her husband, Jason (Chris Messina), we know that Claire has been in an accident of some sort, an accident that’s claimed the life of her child and left her bitter, broken and impossibly angry at the world. We get a nice reminder of this when we listen in on a message that Jason leaves for Claire in which he expresses his desire to come claim the rest of his things when she’s not around: nothing in her life is easy, pleasant or positive.

As is wont in this kinds of films, however, a change is a brewin’: once Claire and her put-upon housekeeper/caretaker Silvana (Adriana Barraza) start to dig deep into the details of Nina’s life (and death), Claire begins to regain a tiny bit of her joie de vivre. Things pick up even further when she happens to meet Nina’s husband, Roy (Sam Worthington) and young son, Casey (Evan O’Toole). Like Claire, Roy has plenty of anger issues, most of which he reserves for his dead wife: Nina “abandoned” Roy and Casey and her husband hates her abjectly for it.

Birds of a feather do, indeed, flock together and soon, Claire and Roy are striking up a strictly platonic relationship (they both want “intimacy” but have no interest in “sex”) as they each try to lean on the other for support. There’s an awful lot of anger resting below the surface of Claire’s wit and sarcasm, however, the kind of anger that makes it impossible for anyone to just live their lives. As Claire (and the audience) get ever closer to learning all of the details of Nina’s passing (did I mention that Nina also “appears” to Claire, alternating between berating her, cajoling her and trying to steer her away from Roy? Well, she does.) and the accident that destroyed Claire’s life, as Claire gets ever closer to her own oblivion and Silvana seems helpless to affect any change, we’ll all learn a very important lesson: sometimes, life is just a series of small victories and that’s the best we can ever hope for.

As mentioned earlier, Aniston’s portrayal of Claire is rock-solid (she was even nominated for a Best Actress Golden Globe) but the rest of the film exists on much shakier ground. While the movie has a reliably sturdy, understated look that’s pretty much the definition of “indie drama” (cinematographer Rachel Morrison also shot Sound of My Voice (2011), Fruitvale Station (2013), Little Accidents (2014) and Dope (2015)), Patrick Tobin’s script ends up short-sheeting too many of the characters, giving the film a malnourished, under-developed feel.

We briefly meet Silvana’s daughter and out-of-work husband (the whole scene lasts maybe 2-3 minutes, tops) but that’s the extent of any character building with that character, unless one counts the even briefer scene where Claire and Silvana run into a couple of Silvana’s old “friends” in Tijuana. Despite being in a fair amount of the film, Worthington’s Roy never really amounts to anything more than a plot contrivance (he gives Claire more info on Nina, sort of like a gamer running around and talking to NPCs in a role-playing-game) and any romance between him and Claire seems pretty dead on arrival. Kendrick pops up constantly, as the “ghost” of Nina (I guess), but we never get much better sense of her character than “suicide victim.” There’s even an extremely odd, unexplained scene where Claire seems to have sex with some guy that climbs in through her window. Is he a friend? A prostitute? She seems to pay him with a box of toys so, if he’s a professional, I’m guessing that he’s not a particularly astute one.

And don’t even get me started on poor William H. Macy, who gets exactly one scene (essentially a cameo) as the guy who was, apparently, responsible for the death of Claire’s child. We never get any more explanation than that: he shows up at her door, begs forgiveness, gets yelled at, thrown out and then exits stage left, never to be seen (or heard from) again. Any opportunity to milk honest emotional resonance from the scene is rendered moot by the fact that it all happens so quickly and, seemingly, arbitrarily.

In the end, this lack of fleshing out becomes the film’s biggest Achilles’ heel. Even the title, Cake, is based on something that seems to be as disposable and insubstantial as possible: when Nina and Claire were discussing what they would do if they were pain-free, Nina responded that she would bake her kid a birthday cake, from scratch (Claire’s wish was to screw an entire soccer team, for what it’s worth). All well and good. This whole notion culminates in a thoroughly head-scratching bit, however, where Claire and Silvana pick up a young hitchhiker and pay her to make a cake from scratch. The girl bakes the cake, steals Claire’s purse and takes off. As with the aforementioned scenes, the whole incident is over so quickly and so under-developed that it really has no impact: cut the hitchhiker scenes (along with the explanation of the cake) and the film is no worse for the wear.

There’s also a decided lack of danger to the film, a feeling that the stakes are too low to really make any of us break a sweat. There’s never a sense of urgency to anything Claire does, never the notion that she’s ever in any real danger, even when her and Silvana get stopped at the border with their load of illegal scrips. Even the scene where Claire comes perilously close to following Nina into the great beyond is quickly set up and then hurried along to the next scene, almost as if the filmmakers were checking points off a list. I had a similar issue with another film about addiction issues, Why Stop Now? (2012): in both cases, it felt as if the filmmakers were taking a purely surface view of a much darker, deeper issue, pushing everything towards the kind of “it all works out” ending that, in reality, rarely happens.

Ultimately, the one thing that consistently works, as far as Cake is concerned, is Aniston’s performance. Despite the very obvious comparisons to Hugh Laurie’s cantankerous sawbones, Claire is a thoroughly multi-dimensional character and definitely marks a new high-water line in the actress’ career. While I didn’t think the performance was the best of its year (or even one of the best of the past several years), Aniston brings an understated, completely welcome sense of honesty and genuine pain that manages to shine over the rest of the film like a beacon.

In a better film (I’m thinking of something like the surprisingly great Life of Crime (2013)), Aniston has shown that she’s no slouch when it comes to the more dramatic side of the silver screen: despite being predominately cast in comedies, romances and rom-coms, I’d like to think that filmmakers will begin to realize that she’s a lot more versatile than she’s been given credit for. As it stands, though, Cake is a very serious, very well-meaning but, ultimately, rather shallow film. Everybody might love cake but this particular treat, unfortunately, falls a little flat.

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2/14/15 (Part Two): Blame the Cat

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Adi Shankar, Anna Kendrick, auteur theory, Bosco, childhood trauma, cinema, colorful films, dark comedies, disturbing films, Ella Smith, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, flashbacks, Gemma Arterton, hallucinations, horror, horror film, horror movies, insanity, Jacki Weaver, Marjane Satrapi, Maxime Alexandre, mental breakdown, mental illness, Michael R. Perry, mother-son relationships, Movies, Mr. Whiskers, Oliver Bernet, Paul Chahidi, Persepolis, psychopaths, Ryan Reynolds, Sam Spruell, serial killers, Stanley Townsend, talking animal, talking animals, talking cat, talking dog, The Voices, Udo Kramer, vibrant films

For the most part, live-action “talking animal” movies are awful. Sure, you get the occasional Babe (1995) or Homeward Bound (1993) in the batch but most films in this particular sub-genre are rather abysmal: pitched at the lowest-common denominator, full of bad CGI, “peanut butter mouth” and dumb humor, most live-action talking animal flicks are only good for torturing doting parents unlucky enough to be caught in their orbit. Even the “good” talking animal films tend to be family-focused or comedies: to the best of my knowledge, the only “serious” talking animal film out there is Baxter (1989), Jérôme Boivin’s disturbing fable about a philosophical, if psychotic, dog who kills indiscriminately while we “hear” his thoughts. One is, indeed, the loneliest number.

To this incredibly exclusive group, let’s add the newest film by Marjane Satrapi, the Iranian auteur behind the superb animated film Persepolis (2007): The Voices (2015) is not only the best talking animal film to come out in decades, it’s also one of the most intriguing, disturbing and colorful films I’ve ever seen. In many ways, The Voices is what you would get if you threw Repulsion (1965) and Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer (1986) into a blender and had Wes Anderson serve up the smoothies. If that sounds like your drink, belly up to the bar for one wild and wooly good time.

Meet Jerry (Ryan Reynolds), our cheerful, sweet and slightly naive protagonist. Jerry works at a bathroom fixtures wholesaler, never has an unkind word for anyone and lives above an abandoned bowling alley with his faithful dog, Bosco, and his aloof cat, Mr. Whiskers. Jerry’s a happy, friendly kind of guy but he’s also go a few problems. He’s lonely, for one, since he’s so painfully shy that he can never get the nerve up to talk to any girls, including Fiona (Gemma Arterton), his office crush. He’s also regularly seeing a court-appointed psychiatrist, Dr. Warren (Jacki Weaver), for some sort of unspecified childhood trauma. And then, of course, there’s the little issue about Bosco and Mr. Whiskers: while many folks talk to their pets, Jerry’s got to be one of the only ones who actually holds back-and-forth conversations with them. That’s right, folks: Jerry’s got himself a couple of talking animals.

Jerry’s talking animals are a little different from most, however. For one thing, they’re not quite benevolent: while Bosco seems like a nice enough, if slightly dopey, kinda guy, Mr. Whiskers is a real sociopath. Snarky, foul-mouthed and a firm advocate of violence as conflict resolution, Mr. Whiskers is like a feline version of Trainspotting’s (1996) psychotic Begbie. The other way in which Jerry’s animals are different from the ones in most talking animal films is…well, it’s because they aren’t actually talking. You see, sweet little Jerry is also completely, totally insane, a character trait that he does a remarkably good job of hiding from the outside world. Driven over the deep-end by a patently terrible childhood involving his equally demented mother and abusive father, Jerry has a tenuous relationship with reality, at best.

Disaster strikes when Jerry finally gets up the nerve to ask out Fiona, only for her to stand him up on their resulting date. The pair end up running into each other after Fiona’s car breaks down and Jerry offers her a lift: a bizarre accident on an isolated, country road leads to Fiona’s shocking death and sends a panicked Jerry straight back to the wise counsel of his pets. Bosco tells Jerry that he needs to do the right thing and report the incident to the police. Mr. Whiskers, however, has a slightly different take on the situation: if Jerry comes clean, his future is going to include an awful lot of non-consensual prison sex…his only recourse, according to the cat, is to dispose of the body.

As Jerry tries to figure out what to do, even more disaster looms over the horizon: Lisa (Anna Kendrick), another of Jerry’s co-workers, is smitten with him and coming dangerously close to figuring out his secret. Will Jerry be able to suppress his darker instincts, take his meds and rejoin the land of the lucid or has Fiona’s death opened up a Pandora’s Box that will go on to consume everyone around them? Regardless of the outcome, you know one thing: Bosco and Mr. Whiskers are always ready with an encouraging word.

When press first came out regarding Satrapi’s film, I was struck by her desire to throw herself headfirst into a horror film: after all, her previous films, Persepolis, Chicken With Plums (2011) and The Gang of the Jotas (2012) were the furthest things possible from genre films. In certain ways, it seemed like Satrapi was interested in making a horror movie strictly for the novelty factor, which is always a dangerous route to take (I’m looking at you, Kevin Smith). When someone “dabbles” in something, there’s always a chance that the results are going to be half-assed or, at the very best, significantly flawed. After watching the results, however, I really only have one thing to say: All hail Marjane Satrapi, one of the boldest, freshest and most ingenious “new” faces in the world of horror.

In every way, The Voices is a revelation. The film looks astounding, for one thing, with a visual flair that’s the equal of Wes Anderson’s most candy-coated moments. Indeed, the film looks so eye-popping, colorful and gorgeous that it’s tempting to just stare at the images as if one were watching a particularly lovely slideshow. All of the colors in the film are unbelievably vibrant and genuinely beautiful: one of the neatest motifs in the film is the repeated use of pink and pastel colors, something which gives the whole demented masterpiece something of the feel of a Herschell Gordon Lewis-directed Easter special. Veteran cinematographer Maxime Alexandre (Alexandre Aja’s resident camera guy, as well as the man behind the lens of Franck Khalfoun’s equally colorful Maniac (2012) remake) paints such a lovely picture with his images that it’s easy to forget we’re watching a film about an insane killer. One of Satrapi’s greatest coups is that she has such respect for the material and the film: the quality, literally, shines through the whole production.

The script, by longtime TV scribe Michael R. Perry, is rock-solid, full of smart twists and turns, as well as some truly great dialogue. One of the greatest joys in The Voices is listening to the way that Bosco and Mr. Whiskers (both voiced by Reynolds) feint, maneuver and verbally spar with each other throughout the course of the film. They, obviously, represent the proverbial angel and devil on his shoulders but nothing about the film is ever that obvious. Just when it seems as if things are starting to fall into predictable patterns, the film throws us another curve-ball, such as the instantly classic bit where Jerry starts to take his meds and we finally see the true “reality” of his living situation. In a genre that can often have one or the other but doesn’t always have both, The Voices is that rarest of things: a smart, witty, hard-core horror film that also looks and sounds amazing.

And make no bones about it: The Voices rolls its sleeves up and gets dirty with the best of ’em. For a filmmaker with no previous experience in horror, Satrapi displays an uncannily deft touch with the gore elements: while the film never wallows in its bloodshed (certain key scenes are staged in ways that deliberately minimize what we see), it can also be brutal and shocking. More importantly, the film can also be genuinely frightening: when things really go off the rails, in the final act, the tone shifts from playful to outright horrifying in the blink of an eye. If this is Satrapi’s first shot at a horror film, I’ll spend an eternity of birthday wishes on a follow-up: she’s an absolute natural and, in a genre with a depressingly small pool of female voices, an absolute necessity.

One of the things that really puts The Voices over the top (and another testament to Satrapi’s skill behind the camera) is the stellar quality of the acting. The film has a killer cast, no two ways about it: Ryan Reynolds, Anna Kendrick, Gemma Arterton, Jacki Weaver, Ella Smith…any and all of these folks have turned in more than their fair share of great performances. A great cast doesn’t always indicate a great film, however: plenty of notable names have been attached to absolute dogs. In this case, however, each member of the ensemble compliments each other perfectly, allowing for a completely immersive experience.

Say what you will about Ryan Reynolds but his performance in Buried (2010) was absolutely masterful: his work in The Voices is even better. Reynolds is an actor who lives or dies by the dichotomy between his boyish good looks and slightly unhinged demeanor, ala Bradley Cooper, and his performance as Jerry takes it all to another level. Alternately sympathetic, likable, pathetic and terrifying, this is the kind of performance that should get people talking: at the very least, I find it impossible to believe that he won’t end up on at least a few “year-end” lists. It’s always a dicey proposition when an actor needs to portray someone who’s mentally unstable: Elijah Wood found the perfect balance in Maniac and Reynolds does the same here.

The rest of the cast is equally great: Anna Kendrick brings enough of an edge to her typically bubbly persona to keep us wondering about her actual mental state, while Jacki Weaver, who was so good as Aunt Gwen in Stoker (2013), makes her psychiatrist the perfect combination of quirky and caring. Arterton, meanwhile, manages to make the potentially clichéd, unlikable character of Fiona duly sympathetic: she’s not a “mean girl” looking down her nose at a social misfit…she a real person who doesn’t appreciate unwanted advances. As with everything else in the film, it’s the kind of characterization we don’t get enough of in horror films.

Ultimately, my praise of Marjane Satrapi’s The Voices can be summed up thusly: it’s a ridiculously self-assured, stylish and unique film that manages to constantly surprise, while finding myriad ways to upend the “psycho killer” sub-genre. While I thought Persepolis was an amazing film, The Voices practically comes with my name on it: it’s like handing a carnivore a slab of prime Kobe beef. Visually stunning, smart, packed with great performances and featuring two of the best animal performances in years (Bosco and Mr. Whiskers deserve their own franchises), The Voices is a truly singular experience.

As a lifelong horror fan who watches more than his fair share of horror films, let me close with my highest possible recommendation: The Voices is an absolute must-see and Marjane Satrapi is one of the most exciting, fascinating new voices in the field. I absolutely loved this film and I’m willing to wager that you will, too. I’m also willing to wager that if you have pets, you might never look at them the same way again.

5/2/14: You Horny Little Devil, You

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Ana Gasteyer, Anna Kendrick, Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, Bjorn Yearwood, black comedies, Calum Worthy, Chris Matheson, cinema, comedies, Craig Robinson, Earl Gundy, end of the world, fantasy, film reviews, films, giant lasers, God vs the Devil, Jesse Camacho, John Francis Daley, Ken Jeong, Lil' Beast, Movies, Paul Middleditch, Paul Scheer, plague of locusts, Rapture-Palooza, Rob Corddry, Robert C. New, the Antichrist, the Beast, The Greatest American Hero, the Rapture, Thomas Lennon, Tyler Labine, voice-over narration, wraiths

If you think about it, nothing happens without some kind of bureaucracy. What to change your name? Fill out a form in triplicate. Shoot an armed robber during a bank heist? Make sure your commander gets the paperwork by the end of the day. Need a loan? Sign here, here and initial here. Hell, even selling your soul requires a contract: you can be damn sure the Devil had his lawyers look at it, so you probably should, too. After all, who could possibly be more well-qualified to be the “patron saint” of paperwork and bureaucracy than ol’ Scratch, himself? Paul Middleditch’s newest film, Rapture-Palooza (2013), takes this idea one step further, positing a post-Rapture world where the plague of locusts may be a bummer but it’s the middle managers that really get ya down.

Lindsey (Anna Kendrick) and Ben (John Francis Daley) are a couple of kids who happen to be in love. They also happen to have been left behind by the Rapture, an event which we first see during an intense bowling game (natch). Lindsey and Ben may have been damned to spend the remainder of their lives in a fiery wasteland populated by dope-smoking wraith security guards (Tyler Labine and Paul Scheer), haranguing human-faced locusts (Suffer! Suffer!) and raining blood (more of an irritation than a horror, since the damn blood gets everywhere and windshield wipers just smear that shit around) but they’ve got each other and that’s good enough for them. Complications arise, however when the Antichrist, one Earl Gundy (Craig Robinson) takes a lascivious interest in the virginal Lindsey. Since this is, after all, his world now, Gundy swipes Lindsey, determined to break through her demure protests and make her his infernal queen. Ben, for his part, just wishes his Gundy-employed dad, Mr. House (Rob Corddry), would quit trying to set up Lindsey with the Devil, in order to curry favor.

Eventually, all hell breaks loose (even more than usual, let’s say) and Ben takes on the Antichrist’s minions, with the help of Lindsey’s drug-dealing brother, Clark Lewis (yes, his name really is Clark Lewis) and his best buddy, Fry (Jesse Camacho). The Devil won’t go down without a fight and a quip (or three), however, and things get even messier when Jesus (Mark Wynn) and God (Ken Jeong) show up. Spoiler alert: God’s just as big a dick as the Devil, at least when you’re one of the “little” people. Through it all, however, Lindsey and Ben never lose sight of one thing: if you’ve got true love, you don’t need eternal salvation…just a little sandwich cart and a piece of Apocalypse to call your own.

Similar to the way in which 1997 featured the dueling volcano films Volcano and Dante’s Peak (which, I think, were basically the same film), 2013 featured dueling post-Rapture films: James Franco’s in-joke This is the End and Rapture-Palooza. While I genuinely enjoyed This is the End (which, ironically, also featured Robinson), there was a lot of the film that was too meta and self-concerned to be much use for the average viewer (read: anyone who wasn’t actually in the movie). I found myself smiling quite a bit and appreciated how smart the whole thing was (and it really was a smart film, despite my natural desire to slam Franco for simply existing) but I didn’t find it uproariously funny, bar a few moments (Michael Cera, for the win). Rapture-Palooza, on the other hand, is extremely funny, packed with so many righteously hilarious bits that picking favorites was a little hard.

I absolutely adored the locusts and wraiths (I’ll watch Tyler Labine do anything, including reading a grocery list) but there were dozens of other bits that caught my eye/tickled my funny-bone: Gundy’s son, Lil’ Beast; the surface-to-air anti-Jesus laser; Jeong’s wonderful slant on God as an irritable jerk; that damn sandwich cart; Ana Gasteyer getting sent back to Earth, post-Rapture, for being “too annoying”…these and many more provided a near constant source of amusement throughout the film. My rules for comedy are generally pretty open: just make me laugh and I’m a happy guy. Rapture-Palooza made me laugh more often than not, so that’s a big check mark in the “Positive” category.

The biggest check mark in the “Negative” category? That would have to be Robinson’s endless and increasingly obnoxious sexual innuendos and come-ons. The whole plot of the film is precipitated on the Antichrist desiring Lindsey: we get that. When every third thing out of Robinson’s mouth is another tired variation on “hide the salami,” however, things get old awfully quick. Even more iffy is the notion that 99% of his “jokes” and innuendo involve raping Lindsey, something which never makes for good humor. Since Lindsey has made her feelings plainly clear and repeatedly (and clearly) said “no” in any given situation, it’s hard not to see the Devil’s continued attempts as anything short of an attempt to take her by force. At one point, the Antichrist even makes it plainly clear, telling Lindsey that she’s going to “get it,” whether she wants it or not. While I get what the filmmakers were going for and fully acknowledge that Robinson is known for a bit o’ the dirty talk, I always found this aspect of the film to be in bad taste. Truthfully, without the excessively “rapey” jokes, I would have found Rapture-Palooza to be a nearly perfect film, at least for my sensibilities.

This reliance on aggressively bad taste is a shame, really, because the 1% of Robinson’s dialogue that isn’t given over to imaginative euphemisms for intercourse is pretty spectacular. Robinson is an incredibly gifted comedian, a performer who has a way with a withering line (and glance) that’s almost peerless: his work on The Office is a master-class in the “friendly asshole.” When Gundy isn’t obsessed with Lindsey’s lady parts, he’s spot-on fantastic, no more so than his interactions with his son, Lil’ Beast (Bjorn Yearwood). The Antichrist shows such disdain for his son that it becomes a running joke and a marvelously cruel one, at that. Perhaps it speaks more to my sense of humor but Robinson’s delivery of the line, “Don’t be a dud, little fucker,” made me laugh so hard that I cried. Really. I just wish there were more moments like that in  Robinson’s performance and fewer bits that made me cringe.

The rest of the cast ranges from good to pretty great, with only Gasteyer’s shrill, over-the-top performance as being a bit of a wet blanket. Corddry is fantastic as Ben’s practical, if spectacularly untrustworthy father and Calum Worthy brings just the right touch of “douchbaggery” to his portrayal of Lindsey’s brother. I wish Labine and Scheer (so wonderful as the idiotic Andre on The League) had bigger roles, since either one of them could have carried a lead or supporting performance on their own. What’s here is excellent, however, and I’ll never get tired of Scheer’s pot-smoking wraith, especially when he’s berating Corddry: the whole ensemble has great chemistry together.

While there are plenty of big names/faces in front of the camera, two of the behind-the-scenes folk are just as interesting. The sharp, witty screenplay was written by Chris Matheson, better known as the scribe behind Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure (1989). Matheson’s script is full of great lines and scenes…when it isn’t overly focused on Robinson’s potty-mouth, that is. Nonetheless, there were enough genuinely great moments to make me wish Matheson would write more. He appears to be working on an adaptation of The Greatest American Hero which could be pretty great (remake notwithstanding) if he brought a tenth of the energy and nerve from this script. Cinematography duties on Rapture-Palooza, meanwhile, were handled by another ’80s-’90s-era vet, Robert C. New. While he might not be a household name, genre fans should be more than familiar with his work, since he served as director of photography on films like Prom Night (1980), Night of the Creeps (1986), Big Bad Mama II (1987) and John McNaughton’s classic, The Borrower (1991). Thanks to New, Rapture-Palooza always looks great, with vibrant colors and plenty of nicely composed shots: it looks like the furthest thing from a cheaply made, direct-to-video offering possible, even if it never received much (if any) theatrical love.

Ultimately, Rapture-Palooza, like Kevin Smith’s Dogma (1999) is one of those films that’s designed to split an audience in half. If you have any reverence for religion, particularly Christianity, this might not be the film for you. While the movie frequently takes easy potshots at its targets (to be honest, the last secular film that dealt with the Rapture in any way other than humorously was the odd Mini Driver-starrer The Rapture (1991) ), its final revelation may be a bit much for some people: to find true peace, humans need to give up their reliance on religion. While it’s not a surprising revelation (I would have been more surprised had this ended with a truly religious message, to be honest), it’s definitely something that might tune a few people out. If you have an open-mind, however, and are in the mood for some rude laughs, Rapture-Palooza could just be a little slice of Heaven on Earth. It’s the end of the world, as we know it…and it feels good.