Its innocuous title recalls some perfectly anonymous Steven Seagal flick, sure, but this frenzied French thriller from co-writer-director Fred Cavayé is much more rooted in humanistic impulses and recognizable motivations than most of its skull-cracking brethren on the other side of the Atlantic.

At the center of the film is male nurse Samuel (Gilles Lellouche, above), who unwittingly sets into motion a madcap chain of events when he saves the life of a mysterious thief, Hugo (Roschdy Zem). This then leads to his pregnant Spanish wife Nadia (Elena Anaya) being kidnapped by Hugo’s compatriots… or possibly someone wanting to kill him. Powered by on-the-fly deduction, a harried game of cat-and-mouse ensues, with an on-the-lam Hugo and Samuel being framed for a cop’s murder by rogue elements of the police force, led by Commandant Werner (Gérard Lanvin), for some reason at odds with their own.

The crooked-cop particulars here are in the end not very interesting, and handled with a dismissive air of obligation. And Point Blank‘s ridiculous final act, set amidst the hustle and bustle of a police station, basically cedes any reasonableness in favor of jumbled catharsis, marking the movie (in case there were some doubt) as a pure exercise in genre calisthenics. Still, the acting is invested (Lellouche is fantastic), and Cavayé’s stylish, briskly paced film is refreshingly less about chase-thrill razzmatazz and more about the innate human panic of its characters, especially Samuel. After all, what other recent American action movie can you recall in which an escape sequence ends with the protagonist throwing up? (Magnolia, unrated, 81 minutes)

There are true stories that make good movies and then true stories that are so rife with implausibility that they make terrible movies, and in Tabloid, masterful, Oscar-winning documentarian Errol Morris has taken the latter and made an incredibly entertaining nonfiction film with all the wily narrative surprise of a tawdry B-movie run amok. A jaw-dropping, wonderfully bonkers look back at one of the stranger gossip-rag human interest tales of the 1970s, Tabloid is a streamlined treat that offers up a crafty, academic case-study overview of both romantic obsession and journalistic overreach, all without sacrificing for a moment any of the wonky side-street particulars that make the unlikely story so deliciously engaging.

Morris’ film focuses on Joyce McKinney, a former North Carolina beauty queen who in the 1970s moved to Utah and fell in love with Kirk Anderson. When Anderson, a devout Mormon, left for the United Kingdom on his church-mandated, two-year mission, McKinney became convinced that the man of her dreams had been indoctrinated into a cult. So, in a most peculiar way, she focused her attention on tracking him down and setting him free. Hiring a prop-plane pilot and a personal bodyguard for accompaniment, the lively blonde flew from California (where she was living by that time) to England, determined to pry her would-be husband from the oppressive clutches of the Mormon church. What ensued — decades before Paris Hilton and the Kardashian sisters — was a surreal blooming of celebrity for McKinney, and a tabloid tug-of-war in which two competing papers would paint very different portraits of her innocence, past and motivations. In its third and final act, Tabloid pivots again, jumping forward in time. Those thinking McKinney’s story couldn’t get any weirder have a surprise, involving the attempted cloning of her beloved dog, Booger.

A checklist of the Tabloid‘s ingredients — infatuation! sex! trans-Atlantic intrigue and escape! kidnapping! self-delusion! Mormonism! bondage! pay-to-play journalism! identification by dogs! — comes across as a shopping list for two or three labyrinthine scandals, not merely one, and in their insane, commingled glory they’re almost all as timely today as ever, especially in the wake of the recent phone hacking charges against Rupert Murdoch’s News of the World and the endless, cable news loop reportage of Casey Anthony’s private life during the trial over the death of her two-and-a-half-year-old daughter. A good part of Morris’ film is about the disruptive and transformative power of libidinal surge, yes — how love can make one see what they wish to see. But Tabloid is also very much about journalistic ethics, both past and present, how the media can choose to frame a narrative or cast a character, and then pursue doggedly confirmatory evidence to support that vision.

Those familiar with The Fog of War and Standard Operating Procedure will recognize Morris’ use of his patented off-camera interview machine, which he calls the “Interrotron.” Though he relies only a small, very trimmed and intimate roster of interviewees, the director gives Tabloid a proper dollop of scope via smart use of archive material and re-purposed media. Competing reporters from the Daily Express and the Daily Mirror, the two papers which served as the main conduits of information on the case to a hungry British public, offer up their blow-by-blow reminiscences of the case, which are by turns fascinating, hilarious and slightly unnerving.

The hyper-articulate, decidedly strange McKinney, though, is of course the chief attraction. Somewhere in the gulf between her account of events, crimes with which she was charged, and stories that subsequently came out in the tabloids, there is the real story of what happened in 1978. But Morris delights in this muddy ambiguity, and makes this point besides: what is a definitive and objective truth if one or more parties still never concedes to it? While it is about love, obsession, self-delusion, journalistic ethics, the gulf between sexual need and religious stricture, and many more things, Tabloid is, in the biggest sense, a fascinating story about the sometimes slippery and illusory nature of truth, especially as it relates to matters of interpersonal connection. For the full, original review, from ShockYa, click here. (Sundance Select/Moxie Pictures, R, 88 minutes)

In Salvation Boulevard, repentant Grateful Dead follower Carl Vanderveer (Greg Kinnear) has given up his wild ways, settling down with wife Gwen (Jennifer Connelly, in the throes of some feverish acting exercise) and her teenage daughter Angie (Isabelle Fuhrman, of Orphan), where he’s a lapdog member of the local super-church run by the charismatic if somewhat oily Pastor Dan Day (Pierce Brosnan). Following a debate between Dan and noted atheist author Dr. Paul Blaylock (Ed Harris), there’s a terrible accident, and Dan tries to pin the blame on Carl, leading to all sorts of shenanigans.

Kinnear and Brosnan made for an intriguing pair before, in the 2005 down-tempo black comedy The Matador, but here they connect with less success. Salvation Boulevard has a certain pedigree, being based on a book by Wag the Dog author Larry Beinhart, but so much of this material doesn’t rise to the level of its putative conceit. Two characters seem to initially figure more prominently into the proceedings, but fall out in the middle, only to lamely pop up again later. And when the film loops in a business contractor (Yul Vazquez) with designs on blackmailing Dan, it sags under the weight of a misguided focus.

In both his documentary Hell House and 2007’s Joshua, director George Ratliff has handled religious themes before (though not always well), so it’s somewhat strange that this film feels so toothless and schizophrenic — broad at times, and either unwilling or unable to commit to a darker path. More pointed religious satire would have been good, or even just crisper characterizations across the board. In a small part as a hippie security guard who crosses paths with Carl, meanwhile, Marisa Tomei gives the movie some lift. It’s a source of considerable frustration that viewers can’t pivot, follow her character off on another path, and look for their own salvation. (IFC Films, PG-13, 107 minutes)

A unique slice of Southern Gothic that premiered earlier this year at the Sundance Film Festival, Septien is sort of the embodiment of what more American indie film should be doing and trying — which is to say identifying universal themes or feelings worthwhile of exploration for the creators, and then coming at them in a roundabout or subversive manner. An off-kilter dramatic mystery that trades in low-level mischievousness, and a kind of quietly comedic snapshot of deep-fried familial dysfunction, Septien is the ultimate chameleonic cinematic experience — it is chiefly what one wishes it to be, based on their mood while watching it, and interpretation of its rhythms. Regardless, it’s sure to be unlike almost any film you see this year.

Writer-director Michael Tully stars, along with Onur Tukel and Robert Longstreet (each of whom receive story credit), as a trio of brothers, the Rawlings, who occupy a rundown house somewhere in the rural South. (The movie was filmed in Tennessee.) Septien opens with the return of Cornelius (Tully), the prodigal son who now sports a crazy prospector’s beard that makes him look like a homeless Vincent Gallo or the disaffected stunt double for Joaquin Phoenix in I’m Still Here. In the years-long absence of their brother (which he doesn’t much want to really explain), Amos (Tukel, above center) has taken up outsider art, painting twisted and sexually perverse living hellscapes, while Ezra (Longstreet, above right) has doubled down on henpecking oversight, and (over-)embraced his caretaker’s role by sometimes sporting dresses.

The Rawlings’ friend Wilbur (Jim Cunningham) also hangs around like a stray mutt, eventually sparking the idea for an “art party” when he finds an old, buried video camera and shoots some random footage of nature. Cornelius, meanwhile, just kind of loafs about, sleeping and occasionally hustling unsuspecting dupes in unlikely sports wagers. As the brothers — individually and collectively, but also somewhat implicitly — try to figure out if they can repair their fractured family, a plumbing problem brings an old codger, “Rooster” Rippington (Mark Darby Robinson), to their home, and in tow a young girl, Savannah (Rachel Korine), who might be but probably isn’t his daughter. Eventually, an old connection to Rooster comes bubbling to the surface, forcing the brothers to confront difficult issues and emotions head on.

Septien is, by turns, curious, bemusing, inviting, standoffish, darkly funny, quietly unnerving and pleasantly confounding — but always relaxed, and comfortable in its own skin. It’s not some wildly esoteric waste of time, but neither is Septien comfortable completely and solely in any of the little genre sandboxes in which it dabbles. It moves to and fro, touching on themes of repression, fraternal connection, gender identity, trauma, religion, revenge and redemption.

Shot on Super-16mm, the film feels like an ageless assemblage of time periods every bit as much as genres. With an understated acting ensemble that teases along a viewer’s interest, Septien is, with just a couple exceptions (a self-conscious evocation of Of Mice and Men, for instance) a strikingly original and enchanting work, the type of which we need more of. For the full, original review, from ShockYa, click here. Note: In addition to its theatrical engagements, the film is available
nationwide on VOD via IFC Midnight. To follow its makers on Twitter,
meanwhile, hit up @SEPTIENFilm. (Sundance Selects, unrated, 79 minutes)

Impressing a pretentious story of metaphorical ancestral connection upon an equally rote story of deathbed regret, director Wayne Wang‘s adaptation of Lisa See’s 2005 bestselling novel Snow Flower and the Secret Fan rather gracelessly straddles two time periods. Weighed down by a leaden and ineffective script, the end result is a turgid, generations-spanning melodrama that deifies and fetishizes the idea of feminine companionship’s intense depths without substantively delivering a fully rendered portrait of it. For the full, original review, from Screen International, click here. (Fox Searchlight, PG-13, 102 minutes)

There are movies whose plot twists and turns hinge on the interactions of fully fleshed-out characters, and their fairly believable reactions to various extreme situations, and then there are movies like The Perfect Host, whose actions reveal them to be bullshit head feint exercises designed from the ground up as merely a collection of goosing scenes.

Posing as the friend of an out-of-town friend, career criminal John (Clayne Crawford), having just robbed a bank of $300,000, and needing a place to hide, talks his way into the home of Warwick (David Hyde Pierce), an effete Los Angeles intellectual. When his ruse breaks down, John gets violent with Warwick. Before long, though, the tables are turned, with Warwick proving to be far more demented and dangerous than John. Flashes back in time, meanwhile, indicate that a relationship with ailing bank teller Simone (Megahn Perry) may have factored into John’s robbery. As dawn approaches, could a game of chess really decide the fate of two men?

Helmed by feature debut director Nick Tomnay, The Perfect Host actually cruises along for a while on the relative strength of its two wholly invested lead performances. The first twist, Warwick’s extreme instability, isn’t a spoiler, because it occurs 20-25 minutes in, and is being featured in the film’s marketing. Subsequent pivots, however, are all variously obvious or completely ludicrous. As the movie trips into the next day and tries desperately to find a way to extend its conflict, all manner of logic and reason breaks down, and it becomes clear that Tomnay and Krishna Jones’ script is only a collection of desultory, attention-whoring bits that ape a young film school graduate’s ill-formed idea of dramatic payoff. Of course, if one wants to see Pierce boogie down in surreal fashion to Rose Royce’s “Carwash,” this is probably the only chance you’re going to get. (Magnet, R, 93 minutes)

A major box office player in its native Italy, and the country’s
official 2011 selection for Best Foreign Film Academy Award
consideration, The First Beautiful Thing (also known as La Prima Cosa
Bella) is a movie that’s both heartrending and heartwarming, and never
falsely so. Fabulously staged and rapturously acted, it’s an honest and
perceptive tale of adult reconciliation — of coming to the recognition
that one’s parents are actually people too, and loving them with their
faults and shortcomings, all the same.

The story opens in 1971, at a small town fair, where Anna Michelucci (Micaela Ramazzotti, above left), out with her family, is thrust onto the stage and ends up winning a “Young Mothers” pageant. This enthralls her daughter, embarasses her son and eventually irritates her possessive husband Mario (Sergio Albelli, above right), a drunken lout who keeps her under his thumb. Anna eventually makes the decision to leave Mario. The rest of the film cuts back and forth between the peripatetic life of Anna and her kids (at one point they’re kidnapped back by Mario, and then rescued again in the dark of night by Anna and an accomplice) and them as grown-ups, as Anna lies terminally ill, and likely ready to pass away.

As an adult, Bruno (Valerio Mastandrea) is an irritable, junkie vocational school teacher who long ago gave up on his secret passion, poetry, and can’t appreciate his long-suffering girlfriend, Sandra (Fabrizia Sacchi). His sister Valeria (Claudia Pandolfi) is stuck in an unhappy marriage, and full of barely concealed resentments toward her older brother’s isolation. When she finally succeeds in dragging him to see their mother at the hospital, he pulls aside a doctor to try to hit him up for prescriptions. As Bruno and Valeria each spend some time with Anna, however — and Bruno in particular comes to terms with the difficulty of looking at his mother as a sexual creature — the many shared difficulties of their childhoods take on a greater contextual resonance.

Scripted by director Paolo Virzi, Francesco Bruni and Francesco Piccolo, The First Beautiful Thing captures with striking clarity the pain and trauma of kids caught up in a brutal tug-of-war between two parents. The child actors playing the young Bruno and Valeria are quite good, but more than that Virzi also has a smart sense of how to use them, and delineate small differences in reaction to their mother’s dalliances with new men, or her work as an extra on a Marcello Mastroianni movie. The differences fit together, hand in glove, with the adult personalities of Pandolfi’s Valeria and Mastandrea’s Bruno — their standoffishness and feelings of unease with the world at large, respectively.

The film’s smart and deft dance, its balance of heartbreak and uplift, flags a bit in its final third, with the introduction of a plot point involving a possible third sibling, put up for adoption. Virzi never comes up with a truly convincing way to integrate this strand, and consequently it feels like an element of such underscored, tangible separation and difference as to serve only as a device to foist some emotional finality upon Bruno and Valeria. That it doesn’t entirely work is definite, but doubly so for American audiences, who may find the situational embrace of certain characters head-scratching if not outright whiplash-inducing.

All that said, Virzi’s film is a warm and welcome foreign film treat. The First Beautiful Thing reminds us that our struggles — however weighty and very much our own — are not the first of their sort in all of human history, and they might even amount to much less than we would have had if not for actions of our parents and loved ones, no matter their screw-ups. For the full, original review, from ShockYa, click here. (Palisades Tartan, unrated, 122 minutes)

A hobbled sci-fi thriller that cobbles together various disparate mythologies, the independently produced Fading of the Cries clearly doesn’t have the money to compete with the genre big boys, but it also lacks an imagination in presentation or execution that might enable it to escape the downward pull of its limitations. Writer-director Brian Metcalf utilizes special effects as a sort of tech-age concealer, to try to spackle over various production cracks and shore up narrative deficiencies, but the result is a risible hodge-podge of quarter-baked cliches and jumbled action that is a non-starter for even generally forgiving genre fans. For the full, original review, from ShockYa, click here. (Eammon Films/Ratio Pictures, PG-13, 93 minutes)

A British coming-home-from-war drama that toes the line between pedestrian and interesting, though tilting toward the former, In Our Name connects chiefly as a gender-shift curiosity given its main focus on a female soldier. Joanne Froggatt’s engaging performance, which picked up the Most Promising Newcomer prize at this past year’s British Independent Film Awards, is the chief selling point of writer-director Brian Welsh’s sophomore outing, which otherwise cycles through the expected interpersonal difficulties of trying to readjust to civilian and married life.

In Our Name opens with Suzy Jackson (Froggatt) returning from a tough tour in Afghanistan, and finding her young daughter Cass (Chloe-Jayne Wilkinson) emotionally distant. Racked by nightmares and sensory flashbacks, Suzy finds readjustment to domestic life a bit hard. Suzy’s connection, however real or imagined, with fellow platoon member Paul Reynolds (Andrew Knott, who slightly resembles Edward Norton’s hypothetical younger English brother) only further exacerbates tension between she and her husband Mark (Mel Raido), who is also a soldier. As they try fitfully to reconnect, Mark’s insecurities and fairly nasty temper eventually boil over, leading Suzy to make a discovery that questions whether they have a future together.

Ignoring the fact that In Our Name comes across like that recent Saturday Night Live movie trailer parody of a thickly-accented English crime drama — most pronounced in scenes with Suzy’s sister Marie (Janine Leigh), and between Mark and his drinking buddies — the main problem with Welsh’s film is the rather familiar trajectory of its dramatic plotting, which touches almost all of the expected bases, at a leisurely clip. Flashbacks and other post-traumatic stress indicators? Check. A war-zone victim who reminds the troubled protagonist of his/her own offspring? Check. The covering up of post-traumatic stress problems so as not to damage chances at a military promotion? Check. Sexual frustration between man and wife upon reunion? Check. Paranoia and acting out over (perceived) infidelities or other signs of independence? Check. Lots of alcohol and flared tempers? Check. It’s not particularly that any of this material is terribly rendered, it’s just that it is mostly similar to what audiences have seen before in Stop-Loss, Brothers, American Son, Home of the Brave or any number of other, older return-from-war movies.

Peppered in amidst this rote drama, however, are a few uncommon and therefore quite interesting scenes, including an extended political discussion/argument with an immigrant cabbie (Shah Amin), and some scenes which really dig into Suzy’s attempts to reconnect with her daughter. Excepting a strange dedication (“To the thousands of servicemen and women who have been incarcerated in British prisons after attempting to return to civilian life”) that seems to exculpate its subjects from individual responsibility, Welsh’s movie is a seemingly sincere cinematic tip of the cap to members of the British military for their service, and a recognition of war’s inherent nastiness and emotional toll.

Aiding Welsh in this enterprise is Froggatt, who, as previously mentioned, gives a nice performance. Her turn isn’t showy, just solid across the board; she coaxes an emotional investment out of the audience. Cinematographer Sam Case also delivers some fine work. Unfortunately, they and the rest of the cast labor in service of a story that is — sadly, on several levels — all too recognizable.
For the full, original review, from ShockYa, click here. (BBC Films/Front Row Films, R, 89 minutes)

The son of two doctors, Richard Raskind was a charismatic scholar-athlete and skirt-chaser at Yale who went on to graduate from medical school and continue his training as an ophthalmologist in the Navy. Raskind was also, however, an inveterate cross-dresser who for more than two decades grappled with confusion over issues of sexual identity. Later in life — after a five-year marriage and even the birth of a son — 41-year-old Raskind completed a sex change operation that he’d contemplated for years. Taking up the name Renée Richards and moving to California as part of the transformation, he (now she) went on to enter and win a handful of circuit-level tennis matches, and eventually enter into a protracted legal battle to win the right to play in the 1977 U.S. Open. Director Eric Drath’s Renée, which recently debuted at the Los Angeles Film Festival, tells the story of this transsexual trailblazer, shining a spotlight — whatever ones thinks of its subject — on a remarkable reservoir of personal perseverance.

Renée is fairly gripping, but chiefly just because of its subject matter, and the somewhat discombobulating sight of Richards, who is a weird blend of the skeletal and ethereal. Renée also benefits from its streamlined brevity; at a crisp, cool 78 minutes, the film doesn’t overstay its welcome. Still, one has to wonder about the subconscious motivations of a self-described “private person” who has a sex change operation, leaves behind a family and moves across the country, but then enters a high-profile tennis tournament knowing that any success will likely hoist them into the public arena. Richards’ hard-knock story and life is an amazing one, still laced with pockets of untapped mystery and intrigue. For the full, original review, from ShockYa, click here. (ESPN Films/Live Star Entertainment, unrated, 78 minutes)

A tapestral suspense drama about the intertwined romantic fates of a
quartet of Baton Rouge residents — each wounded in their own way, and
some more freshly than others — The Ledge exhibits a willingness
and desire to let its characters bat back and forth opposing
philosophies of life and faith more frequently found on display in
literature or off-Broadway theater. An interesting character study
only half-successfully masquerading as a kind of specifically plotted
romantic thriller, writer-director Matthew Chapman’s movie resembles
the smart and sensitive but still gangly teenager pushed out of the
door, wearing clothes they really don’t want to wear, to the party they
really don’t wish to attend.

The Ledge unfolds largely in flashback, with hotel manager Gavin Nichols (Charlie Hunnam) perched high atop a building, seemingly ready to plunge to his death. Detective Hollis Lucelli (Terrence Howard) is dispatched to try to talk him down, and Gavin feeds him a hell of a revelation — he has to stand there until noon, and then jump, or someone else will die. The bulk of the movie, then, is comprised of Gavin’s story to Hollis, though complicated by the fact that the latter has just found out that he is sterile, and therefore not the biological father of the two children he shares with his wife.

On the recommendation of an employee, Gavin hires Shana Harris (Liv Tyler, shifting her demure smile into overdrive), who as coincidence would have it has also just moved in down the hall from Gavin with her husband Joe (Patrick Wilson). A friendly get-together between the couple and Gavin and his gay roommate Chris (Chris Gorham) deteriorates when Joe’s religious fundamentalism is revealed. Slowly, Joe’s controlling and contrarian nature begins to chafe at Shana, and erode her gratefulness at saving her from a bad past. Gavin and Shana orbit around one another for a bit, but eventually succumb to physical temptation. This finally escalates into a battle of wills freighted with metaphorical import between believer and non-believer.

Writer-director Matthew Chapman’s ambition and intellectual leanings help drive and push The Ledge in interesting ways. The film’s dialogue is thoughtful throughout with respect to its character’s feelings, if sometimes a tad inorganic in its religious and philosophical debate. It’s rare, the movie that even tries to explore these different belief systems and the sorts of tensions they create, and The Ledge accomplishes this without shortchanging the honesty or emotional integrity of any of its characters. It’s also sincerely (if not primarily) romantic; Hunnam and Tyler have a nice chemistry, and the latter in particular captures how feminine vulnerability can sometimes slowly melt into attraction if met with the warmth of an honest and respectful embrace.

The film’s chief demerit is that the framing device of its conceit is beyond silly; it ignores the fact that the deadline imposed upon Gavin is inarguably better spent explaining his situational ultimatum rather than telling Hollis his story. Also, all of the thematic parallelism with Hollis feels like an overreach, and falls flat. The Ledge would be a leaner, more effective piece of entertainment — and hardly any less intelligent — if it jettisoned its awkward cold opening, in which Hollis learns of his sterility, and instead just reoriented itself as mostly a flashback tale of infidelity gone awry, and its terrible consequences. Narrative strain is hardly the most egregious cinematic sin, however, especially in a world with so much cookie-cutter movie product. For the full, original review, from ShockYa, click here. (IFC Films/Sundance Now, R, 100 minutes)

Amazing things happen every day, all the world over, but the perils of sticking too closely to chronological fact in the cinematic adaptation of what by most accounts is an interesting true story are amply demonstrated in The Chameleon, an emotionally opaque drama about a wayward European youngster who — with the help of a deeply dysfunctional family, each of whom perhaps has different reasons for wanting to believe — passes himself off as a missing Louisiana teen before finally being outed by federal investigators. A solidly sketched sense of place can’t elevate this torpid tale, which lurches awkwardly to and fro, seemingly most hamstrung by a case of protagonist hot potato.

Nicholas Randall went missing when he was 12 years old. Four years later, his fractured family receives word that he’s been located in France, suffering from localized amnesia but telling a most extraordinary and terrible story, of being kidnapped, raped and tortured for years on end. Sister Kathy (Lost‘s Emilie de Ravin, above right) physically identifies him and brings this young man (Marc-Andre Grondin, above left) home to his small Louisiana hometown. Nicholas’ mother, Kimberly Miller (Ellen Barkin, in a gritty performance), however, barely speaks to him, and his older, ex-junkie brother, Brendan (Nick Stahl), can scarcely seem to contain his violent impulses around him.

While “Nicholas” tries to fit in, FBI agents Jennifer Johnson (Famke Janssen) and Dan Price (Tory Kittles, doing a cut-rate Denzel Washington impression) sense something fishy about this news story, and pump their boss (Nick Chinlund) to let them dig further. When they figure out the young man is indeed an impostor, it sets off a chain reaction of assorted bizarre behavior by the aforementioned family members, raising questions about whether this Frenchman’s crimes and head games are the worst of this messy situation.

Taken from a French journalist’s nonfiction book of the same name, The Chameleon‘s screenplay, by director Jean-Paul Salome and Natalie Carter, is seemingly hewed to conform to as exact of a chronological replication of events as possible. The problem is that this robs the movie of any sense of audience identification, or a greater momentum. We know definitively by the 30-minute mark that Grondin’s character is not Nicholas, yet we crucially do not get into the impostor’s head, rendering later passages — an abortive cat-and-mouse sequence where he summons Jennifer to a dive bar, seemingly to establish the publicly verifiable impression of her stalking him — lame and impotent.

Repeatedly, The Chameleon‘s plotting works against its better interests. A straight investigatory approach would work fine, yet the full middle third of the movie unfolds after the FBI has established this Nicholas to be a fraud, but also after (in a laughably brief scene) he is taken back in by Kathy, “because he’s still a minor.” (Are minors perpetrating crimes not subject to detention?) Instead of plumbing deeper into the divisions within the family, however, Salome and his charges try to tease along a sense of ambiguity — which means none of the townspeople can say anything about or approach Nicholas, while other characters like Kathy’s husband (Brian Geraghty) are required to act with a thunderously stupid incuriousity, saying things like, “Nicholas, or not Nicholas — I don’t know anymore, and I don’t care!”

The Chameleon earns minor points for not devolving into empty, skulking menace, but then again I gather that was never part of the original story. The film’s strength, undeniably, is its rooted sense of place, and authentic location. Shooting in Baton Rouge, Salome, production designer Martina Buckley and the rest of his crew achieve an engaging sense of grimy, swampland authenticity on a budget that had to be fairly lean. Unfortunately, it’s in the service of a grifter’s tale that’s emotionally crippled, no matter how emotionally motivated its confused central figure supposed to be. Note: In addition to opening in theaters, The Chameleon is currently available on VOD. For the full, original review, from ShockYa, click here. (LLeju Productions, R, 93 minutes)

A fanciful teen travelogue with the requisite number of tall dark strangers, Monte Carlo charts a small town girl’s travels through Europe after high school graduation, where she ironically finds herself by assuming another person’s identity. More than a bit silly and contrived, but so agreeably cast and well executed as to certainly mitigate these shortcomings for its core audience, the film is a pleasant slice of re-worked, tween-targeted entertainment — diverging wildly from its source material, a novel by Jules
Bass, and starring Selena Gomez, Katie Cassidy (above) and Leighton Meester — that should find embrace from fans of The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, as well as their younger siblings. Gorgeous production design and superb costuming and girlie accoutrements help float this improbably romantic adventure and lend it an airy grace, as does a score from composer Michael Giacchino that classily evokes swirling romance without hitting antecedent influences directly on the nose. (20th Century Fox, PG, 109 minutes)

A dramatic competition title at the Los Angeles Film Festival, writer-director Amber Sealey’s How To Cheat is a seriocomic depiction of the messiness of modern marriage, and the temptation of infidelity. On the surface, a minor sort of thematic companion piece might be something like Kate Aselton’s The Freebie, in which she starred with Dax Shepard as a married couple who, trying to liven up their stagnant sex life, agree to mutual one-night-only, no-strings-attached hall passes, only to find discord and regret in their decision. Sealey’s movie, however, is a bit more subjectively focused and channeled through the male perspective, while also glancingly recalling the sort of Silverlake “diorama-dramas” of multimedia artist Miranda July, though quite without the same precious handmade qualities found therein.

In short, How To Cheat is the story of a married Los Angeles couple, Mark (Kent Osborne) and Beth (Sealey), who seem stuck in a rut, even as they continue trying, unsuccessfully, to conceive a child. The invasive prying and cooing of some friends who are themselves newbie parents certainly doesn’t help matters, and Mark, a towncar driver driven to distraction by the stories of sexual conquest of his friend (Gabriel Diamond), turns to online dating. Upfront about his marriage, and desire for a strings-free extracurricular sexual relationship, Mark is met with mostly sneers and slaps. He finally finds a willing receptacle… err, partner, but after his fling with Louise (Amanda Street), Mark finds himself having to tend to that relationship in slightly unexpected fashion — which is in a manner reminiscent, though in far less of a madcap fashion, of the Rachel Boston-Noah Bean comedy The Pill, which recently debuted at the Dances With Films festival. The truth eventually outs, leading to tough choices for all those involved.

Sealey’s low-budget movie is shot in an engagingly raw style, and its performances — rewarded with a Best Ensemble Performance award at the Los Angeles Film Festival — are admirably free of vanity. As an actress, Sealey has a pinch of that same vulnerable charm of Catherine Keener, and a kind of atypical sexiness. Osborne, meanwhile, emanates an oddball sympathetic quality, even when he’s not doing much; he looks like Mark Duplass crossed with Ray Romano, and kind of acts like the same, with perhaps a pinch of Garry Shandling.

So why, then, does How To Cheat never really take sail? Part of the reason is that Sealey is caught up in indie posing. The film opens, with some floppy male nudity, in a manner that says this is fundamentally a comedy, so there’s no need to really take seriously any of its feelings or thematic underpinnings, or certainly Mark’s quasi-articulated fears of becoming invisible to Beth, just needed for fertilization to “complete” their family snapshot. Other cutesy touches unfurl, such as a woman presented to seem like a therapist (Paulette Osborne, Kent’s real-life mother) but that in short order turns out to be Mark’s mom. This bit is never particularly paid off, and when the movie pivots into more serious terrain, then, it just comes across as kind of off-key and false.

On a technical level, How To Cheat is a solidly enough realized indie film that one need not bear any lasting animosity toward. But it doesn’t possess any of the dark or snappish fun one might think its title augers, and neither does it connect or linger in an emotional way. It imparts no particular lessons, it just is. For the full, original review, from ShockYa, click here. (Part Participation/Buffalo Moon Films, R, 87 minutes)