Parky at the Pictures (DVD 11/7/2013)

Twenty-five years have passed since cellist Christopher Walken and violinist Mark Ivanir formed The Fugue, a New York-based string quartet that is completed by second violinist Philip Seymour Hoffman and his viola-playing wife, Catherine Keener. Plans are afoot for a special performance of Beethoven's String Quartet No.14 in C-sharp Minor, Op. 131 to mark the anniversary. But Walken has just been diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease and is keen to retire immediately rather than soldier on and have his powers diminish in public.

Rather than uniting his colleagues, however, his announcement prompts Hoffman to protest that he is tired of playing second fiddle to Ivanir, whose conservative approach to the repertoire is bereft of the passion that Hoffman feels distinguishes between technical proficiency and great art.  He is hurt, however, when Keener sides with Ivanir and exacts his revenge by sleeping with his jogging partner, Liraz Charhi. But Ivanir proves himself to be every bit as egotistical and libidinous by embarking upon an affair with Hoffman and Keener's rebellious cellist daughter, Imogen Poots, who deeply resents her parents for devoting their time to The Fugue instead of her.

As Walken watches helplessly from the sidelines, he continues to mourn the recent passing of his mezzo-soprano wife Anne Sofie von Otter (who is seen singing in flashback) and consults with doctor Madhur Jaffrey about a course of treatment that could slow the onset of his condition. However, the others have already started trying to lure Nina Lee away from a rival ensemble led by Wallace Shawn and things look set to come to a head when they gather at Walken's apartment for a final rehearsal.

As one would expect, the music is sublime, with excerpts from Bach, Haydn and Strauss complementing the Beethoven, which is rendered with exquisite dexterity by the Brentano String Quartet. But, while this is nowhere near as corny as Dustin Hoffman's directorial bow, Quartet, it is still very much a melodrama masquerading as a work of highbrow significance. Zilberman and co-scenarist Seth Grossman make a great show of focusing on the process of making music and the difference between playing and performing. But they overdo the references to harmony in demonstrating that these refined artistes are just as prone to lust, envy, ambition and bitterness as any mere mortal.

This is not to say, however, that the acting is not extraordinary, with Walken casting off three decades of screen eccentricity to create a character of integrity and sensitivity whose melancholic acceptance of his fate is more inspirational than poignant. Hoffman is also typically superb, while Keener shoots him looks of seething detestation before engaging in a lacerating tête-à-tête with Poots. But the attempts to define existence in terms of music theory for beginners soon become as wearisome as the shots of a snowy Manhattan that are intended to reinforce the frostiness of the once-warm relationships.

Having completed the shorts Headphones (2003), A Picture of Me (2005), In the Dark (2007) and One Happy Moment (2010), the Israeli-born, London-based Tom Shkolnik applies his tried-and-trusted workshopping method to The Comedian, which follows a series of Dogme-like rules that insist upon authentic locations, the regular functioning of space, improvised dialogue, single takes (albeit with two cameras) and an organically developing storyline. Shkolnik is on record as saying he wanted to `make a film about a London that I could recognise; about people who were poor but not starving, living on estates but not in council housing, who were foreign but not asylum seekers, black but not gang members, gay but not camp' and, in this regard, he has succeeded admirably. However, he has also produced a picture that is far too insular to allow for easy audience engagement and has over-indulged actors whose instinct for the pacing and pertinence of a scene is sometimes questionable. Yet, as Shkolnik would say: `Smile. It’s only a movie.'

By day, Edward Hogg sells cancer insurance over the phone. At night, he tries his luck as a stand-up comedian in the pubs and clubs of East London. He isn't particularly funny, but has an abrasive style that ensures the pun-based gags come thick and fast while keeping the audience on edge. His French roommate, Elisa Lasowski, is a musician and he watches her playing guitar and singing a so-so song before a male admirer comes over to flirt with her. As they play basketball in a deserted playground the following morning, Hogg teases Lasowski about the fan and whether she wants to see him again. They jokingly sing `Que Sera Sera' and it seems as though Hogg is nursing a crush he cannot quite summon the courage to act upon.

At work, Hogg is admonished by boss Jamie Baugham for eating at his desk and he pulls faces at Scottish pal Steven Robertson further along the row of desks. That night, he gets a frosty reception from a crowd that bellows with laughter at the next act as Hogg sits backstage trying to work out where he went wrong. His material is mediocre and hardly suited to his strident delivery style and he defends himself when a black stranger offers a critique on the top deck of the bus home. As they chat, Nathan Stewart-Jarrett introduces himself as an artist from Wandsworth and Hogg reveals that he hails from Sheffield, but has been in the capital for several years.

They go back to Stewart-Jarrett's studio and have energetic sex. Next morning, Hogg is home in time to cook lunch with Lasowski and listen to her trying to compose a song. He says nothing to her about Stewart-Jarrett and remains entirely disengaged at work. Having berated him for his disappointing sales figures, Baugham ticks off him for his smart alec attitude during a meeting to refresh the phone scripts, which ends with Hogg being reminded that life can't be all fun and games and that he needs to concentrate on doing the job he is paid for.

Hogg shares a bath with Stewart-Jarrett and notices that he has lots of scars on his body. However, he refuses to talk about them and they hug. Hogg introduces his lover to Lasowski and Robertson and gets jealous as he watches him dancing in a nightclub. This sequence is a self-conscious montage of abruptly cut handheld snippets that are enacted without dialogue to the pounding accompaniment of loud music. Hogg remains snarky as he watches through the window of a fast food joint as Lasowski and Stewart-Jarrett chat and she tries to fend off the unwanted attentions of the tipsy Robertson.

Whipping himself into a right old state, Hogg walks around the corner and smashes something up in the darkness. Leaving Lasowski to deal with Robertson, Stewart-Jarrett goes in search of Hogg and lectures him for wandering off without saying where he was going. Back at the flat, Hogg tries to apologise to Lasowski for abandoning her at 3am on a busy London street and she finds it impossible to remain angry with him. He asks her what is really getting her down and she avoids answering. Not really interested in her problems, Hogg contents himself with making her laugh and they fall asleep after kissing.

The situation at the call centre continues to deteriorate and Baugham asks Hogg why he always sounds so negative on the phone. Initially, Hogg accepts the criticism and promises to try and be more professional. But, within minutes, he is squirting water up Baugham's back and stalking out of the office. He meets up with Stewart-Jarrett and admits that he behaved so badly during their night out because he was jealous. They have make-up sex and Stewart-Jarrett urges Hogg not to be so self-indulgent. The next morning, Hogg stands on the balcony and looks across the city wondering where his life is going and how much of his predicament is down to himself.

Following another night on the tiles, Hogg, Stewart-Jarrett and Lasowski are upstairs on a bus and are jokingly discussing who has first dibs on Hogg. Their conversation is overheard by a group of raucous teenage girls, whose tone changes the moment they realise Hogg and Stewart-Jarrett are a couple. One Jamaican lambastes the latter for being a disgrace to their race and sneeringly remarks that anal intercourse makes AIDS not babies. Hogg loses his temper with Stewart-Jarrett for wasting his time arguing with such bigots and they end up squabbling about the fact that Lasowski obviously adores Hogg and that this will always come between them.

Hogg tries to reassure Stewart-Jarrett that nothing has ever happened with his flatmate, but he is also tired and just wants to go home to bed. Stewart-Jarrett snaps back that their apartment can never feel like home to him, but Hogg refuses to raise to the bait. Frustrated at his failure to provoke, Stewart-Jarrett says he cannot be with such a superficial person and starts to walk away. Any hopes he had that Hogg would come after him are dashed, however, and he is left to wander off into the darkness.

Next morning, Lasowski complains to Hogg that he should not have allowed Stewart-Jarrett to have been so rude to her. He tells her they have split up and that she doesn't have to worry about him anymore  But she has made up her mind that it would be best if Hogg moved out and he fights back the tears as she insists that she wants something real and suggests that he should go as soon as possible. Hogg tried to coddle her, but she refuses to succumb. Yet, she starts weeping the second he leaves the room.

Hogg heads north and endures an uncomfortable stay with parents Gerard Murphy and Kate Rutter and his younger brother, Caolan Byrne. He just about copes with Murphy reading out a story from the local paper over tea, but the banality of the conversation grates on him during supper and he is soon back in the south huddled in the corner of a minicab. Driver Nyasha Hatendi asks if he is okay and they get talking. Hatendi reveals that he used to live in Brookyln, although his parents are now in Zimbabwe. He reckons that New York is a much crazier place than London, but that nobody really listens.

When Hogg shows no sign of picking up the conversation, Hatendi explains how he married an old student acquaintance when his visa was about to expire and now finds it tough trying to find reasons to stay together. Unsmilingly, Hogg admits that his parents are in a similar quandary and Hatendi opines that sometimes it is best to follow your heart and stick to the choice. However, Hogg counters that there is no point slogging it out if one has made a mistake and they fall silent, as the camera picks up blurred circles of light from the passing neon signs and streetlights. Eventually, Hogg sighs that he is sick of everything and is not even sure he wants to be himself any longer. He complains that he feels much older than his 32 years and Hatendi sympathises that life isn't always easy. But he consoles Hogg with the blithe promise that he will be fine.

With Keith Fulton and Louis Pepe's Brothers of the Head (2005), Dominic Murphy's White Lightnin', Paul King's Bunny and the Bull (both 2009) and Viv Fongenie's Ollie Kepler's Expanding Purple World (2010) already to his credit, the RADA-trained Edward Hogg is fast becoming a fixture in the avowedly left-field British picture. However, The Comedian tries far too hard to be distinctive in its ordinariness and the strain is discomfitingly evident in such interminable sequences as the two bus conversations, Hogg's break-ups with Stewart-Jarrett and Lasowski, the Sheffield interlude and the closing encounter with Hatendi's platitude-spouting cabby.

Social realism is relatively easy to achieve. The tricky thing is making it interesting and Shkolnik and his willing cast frequently fall short in this regard. Considering how extensively the dialogue had been mulled over, it's surprising how lifeless it sounds and clearly this cannot be put this down entirely to Shkolnik being continuously unlucky in his sole take being rambling and unfocused. It doesn't help, either, that there isn't a jot of humour in the scenario or that the characters are so sketchily drawn and essentially unsympathetic, with Hogg's persona on and off the stage being both eminently resistible and goadingly equivocal and inert. Given Shkolnik's modus operandi, it's probably asking too much for some psychological insight, but one can hardly expect an audience to become involved in the work-a-day experiences of three self-obsessed nobodies when the director himself is so detached from them.

As one who has banged on for aeons about British indie cinema moving in the direction of Mumblecore, it seems disingenuous to criticise when the end result is imperfect. But this smacks much more of Joanna Hogg and late period Mike Leigh than Andrew Bujalski, Lynn Shelton, the Duplass brothers or Joe Swanberg. But, what is impressive is Shkolnik's commitment to flipping pompous UK issue cinema on its head and showing the other side of the gay, race, class and social malaise coins. Yet it says much that editor Pierre Haberer had to wade through 90 hours of footage captured by cinematographer Benjamin Kracun and sound recordist Howard Peryer to produce the four-hour rough cut from which the final 80-minute release version was hewn. This may well be `the first wildlife documentary about human relations'. It may also have its laudable autobiographical moments. But, while the intentions behind his stylistic purism are beyond reproach, Shkolnik needs to recognise that a narrative can still be engaging without resorting to melodrama or contrivance.

Scott Graham similarly makes few compromises in his debut feature, Shell, which has been expanded from his acclaimed 2007 short of the same name. Slowly unfolding against the backdrop of a forbiddingly beautiful glen in the Scottish Highlands, the drama draws in the audience so that even the climactic contrivance feels credibly authentic. Loweringly photographed around the so-called `Great Wilderness' of Dundonnell and impeccably played by its small cast, this bears comparison with the equally measured films of Bruno Dumont, who also makes evocative use of remote landscapes to reflect the isolation and ennui of his conflicted characters.

Seventeen year-old Chloe Pirrie lives with mechanic father Joseph Mawle in a garage on a winding stretch of road in the remotest West Highlands. Customers are few and far between and Pirrie is well aware that regulars Michael Smiley (a divorcee who passes by each week on the way to visit his kids) and Iain De Caestecker (who is closer to her own age) have enormous crushes on her. She knows where her duty lies, however, as Mawle is prone to epileptic fits and she consoles him when an attack strikes before supper. But Mawle feels guilty for relying so heavily on his daughter and cries quietly to himself when he hears her singing an old folk song in the bath.

As darkness falls, stranger Paul Thomas Hickey knocks on the door to request Mawle's help, as he has hit a deer on the road while on a day trip from Edinburgh with wife Kate Dickie. Pirrie comes with them as they drive to the scene and she notes the tension between the couple, as they chat awkwardly in the cab of Mawle's truck while heading back to spend the night at the garage.  She is awoken in the night and sees a deer standing on the forecourt, as though it knows that its parent or mate is somewhere inside.

Clearly upset, Pirrie sleeps in the next morning with stomach cramps, as Mawle strips the carcass and freezes the meat. When she does get up, Pirrie finds a copy of Carson McCullers's The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter in the dented car and Dickie insists she keeps it on hearing how Mawle built the place for his wife, only for her to run away when Pirrie was four. However, she shows no eagerness to read the book after Mawle goes out and she is left to man the pumps alone. When he finally gets home late, she sniffs his clothes and accuses him of going to the pub (perhaps more in search of companionship than drink). He reassures her that he has been nowhere and is caught off guard when Pirrie comes into the bathroom while he is washing to ask if he loves her. Thus, when the boiler breaks down in the night, he allows her to creep into his bed to keep warm, although he gets up shortly after dawn, as he is still discomfited by their occasional moments of intimacy.

Smiley returns from seeing his sons and is feeling low because he got the weekend wrong. He has bought Pirrie a pair of jeans and she dashes into the washroom to try them on and give him a twirl. She hugs him in gratitude and he clearly wants more. But she eases herself out of his grasp when he pounces on her as she leans over the counter to put his petrol money in the till. She tries to reassure him that she has not taken offence, but he realises something has changed between them and hurries away. Once alone, Pirrie takes the jeans to her room and hides them in a drawer so Mawl can't find them.

Pirrie tells Mawle not to bother fixing the boiler, as it's cosy wearing extra layers. But, when she jokes that it also gives them an excuse to snuggle, he says he will get her a dog and she sourly suggests it had better be lame to stop it from running away. Some time later, De Caestecker drops in and Pirrie offers him coffee. He explains how he has been blamed for a break-in at the sawmill where he works and how he wishes his landlady mother didn't drink so much at her nearby pub. Feeling sorry for him, Pirrie accepts his invitation for a drive and they have perfunctory sex in the car. However, she is clearly angry with herself for letting her lusts get the better of her and she punches a petrol pump in frustration.

Pirrie cooks some of the venison for supper, but cannot bring herself to eat it and resents Mawle for tucking in with a clear conscience. As a consequence, they skirt each other for the rest of the night and only make up in the morning. However, their embrace is interrupted by single mum Morven Christie, who asks if daughter Milla Gibson can use the toilet. Christie avoids conversation and is barely grateful when Pirrie runs after her car to return the rag doll that the little girl had left on the counter.

Looking back at the garage (which suddenly seems a long way away), Pirrie spends the afternoon lying in the long grass by the roadside. However, Mawle gets into a panic thinking she has deserted him and bangs his head on a metal cupboard before starting to fit. Pirrie arrives home in time to help him and, as they lie on the bed together, he tells her how much he needs her to stay. Perhaps because he is confused or because he is simply overcome with loneliness, Mawle seems to mistake Pirrie for her mother and kisses her roughly. He quickly comes to his senses and she accepts his mortified apology. But she feels shocked and hides herself away in her own room.

The deer returns to the garage that night and, this time, it is Mawle who wanders out to investigate. However, once outside, he sees the headlights of an approaching truck and throws himself in front of it. Pirrie jolts awake and immediately senses something is wrong and, on seeing what has happened, collapses in deep distress on the forecourt. De Caestecker comes to console her and she leaves him sleeping as she gets up the next morning. Logging trucker Tam Dean Burn stops for fuel and asks Pirrie if it ever gets lonely in the middle of nowhere. His innocent question hits deep, however, and she clambers into the cab and listens to the radio as she ponders where her journey might take her.  

Revisiting themes explored in the short version of Shell and his 2010 study of necrophilia, Native Son, Scott Graham appears to have been inspired by neo-realist screenwriter Cesare Zavattini's contention that the perfect film depicts 24 hours in the life of a character to whom nothing happens. This measured study of solitude may not be quite so severe, especially as there is such audiovisual poetry in  Douglas MacDougall and Chris Campion's meticulous soundscapes and German cinematographer Yoliswa Gartig's canny contrasts between the cluttered interiors and the wide open spaces. But it takes courage to pare the narrative down to such bare essentials and Graham is rewarded by the superb performances of Joseph Mawle and the debuting Chloe Pirrie (who is actually eight years older than her character), who live their roles rather than enacting them.

The incestuous tension between the pair is just about plausibly sustained, although Mawle's sacrifice and Pirrie's escape come perilously close to melodrama. Some of the symbolism is also a touch cumbersome, most notably the recurring presence of the deer in the night and the carelessly casual reference to a novel about entrapment in 1930s Georgia that takes its title from a poem by the Scot William Sharp, writing under the nom de plume Fiona Macleod. But these are cavils with a film that otherwise demonstrates great psychological and cinematic maturity.

Another interloper proves just as disruptive in Katarzyna Klimkiewicz's feature debut, Flying Blind, as the ordered existence of a Bristol-based aerospace engineer comes under threat when she falls for a handsome Algerian with a mysterious past. Affording Helen McCrory the opportunity to prove there is screen life after Narcissa Malfoy, this is a rarity in so far as it allows a middle-aged British actress to play the kind of intellectually and sexually confident protagonist her continental counterparts (particularly in France) are offered on a much more regular basis. It's only a shame, therefore, that the story should be so formulaic and allow itself to become distracted by a xenophobic Muslim terror subplot instead of sticking to the key theme of how our society expects women of a certain age and background to behave.

Although she disapproves of its intended deployment, fortysomething Helen McCrory is excited to be working on Remotely Piloted Air Vehicle (or drone) for the armed forces. She more than holds her own in discussions with superiors Tristan Gemmill and Lorcan Cranitch and brasshats Tim Wallers and Jonathan Pembroke and relishes the challenge of making refinements to her design to a tight deadline. Father Kenneth Cranham (who worked on Concorde) is hugely proud of her and she is pretty pleased with herself as she wittily dismisses the protestations of a mouthy student after she gives a lecture at the local university.

As she leaves, however, she realises she has locked herself out of her car and laughs when Najib Oudghiri offers to break in for her. She notices that his textbook is out of date, but thinks nothing more of it as he sidles away. However, when he bumps into her at a cashpoint in the city some time later, she insists on getting him an updated edition from her elegant Georgian townhouse and they end up spending the rest of the evening wandering around the Bristol waterfront. McCrory invites Oudghiri home, but he slips away when she nips into the bathroom to compose her thoughts. However, he leaves a note containing a couple of lines of Arabic poetry and she goes to a nearby kebab shop to have them translated and is sufficiently intrigued by their teasing message to track him down.

He shares a house with Sherif Eltayeb, who asks McCrory some loaded questions as they watch Oudghiri play football on a patch of wasteland. She is also put out when they go for a meal and he has a furtive conversation with waitress Razane Jammal, who turns out to be an ex-girlfriend. But, even though she is conscious of the age difference and is aware that a liaison with a Muslim could be considered a risk given her profession, McCrory refuses to see why she should deny herself some fun and embarks upon a passionate affair. She even allows Oudghiri to move in with her after he is beaten up and hires him to redecorate after she discovers that he is not a registered student, but a taxi driver with an expired visa.

A concerned Cranham sees them together and worries that his daughter's reckless decisions will come back to haunt her. But she assures him that everything is fine and confides in Gemmill that she is enjoying her fling. Shortly afterwards, however, factory guard Glyn Grinstead stops McCrory at the security barrier and she is interrogated by Philippa Howard, who warns her that Oudghiri and his friends are under surveillance. Suddenly anxious that she has been duped, McCrory takes a peek at her lover's laptop and throws him out when she discovers that he has been looking at fundamentalist websites.

Unable to get him out of her mind, however, McCrory asks Jammal for details of his background and she reveals that he had been jailed for activities against the repressive Algerian regime and McCrory feels so guilty that she rushes to see Oudghiri and beg his forgiveness for her folly. But, having made up, she stumbles upon a cache of weapons hidden in a secret compartment under the bath and carelessly leaves a mobile phone on the floor as she beats a hasty retreat. Howard and cop Sam Ellis pay her another visit and Cranham tries to convince her she is doing the right thing by following her head rather than her heart. But McCrory can't help feeling she has betrayed Oudghiri and sets out to find him before the security forces do.

Working from an idea by Caroline Harrington, screenwriters Naomi Wallace and Bruce McLeod set out to establish McCrory's credential as a self-assured and fiercely independent woman. She spouts technical jargon with ease and enjoys her banter with Gemmill and Cranham, who had raised her alone after her mother had died when she was child. But, as is so often the case in even the best intentioned movies, McCrory succumbs to the charms of a hunk and starts letting her libido make the most irrational choices on her behalf. In order to excuse her idiocy, however, the script makes her beau a freedom fighter who is only branded a terrorist by paranoid spies incapable of seeing what a fine and noble creature he is. But few will be persuaded by a heroine whose supposed brilliance and professionalism prove no match for her susceptibility to every piece of conflicting information she receives about the 24 year-old stud who makes her feel like a real woman. 

Despite these enervating character flaws, McCrory gives a compelling performance that is complemented by cinematographer Andrzej Wojciechowski's sensitivity to her subtly shifting expressions. However, the spark with Oudghiri never quite ignites, while Cranham struggles to do much with yet another aversive role. Having made her name with the 2007 documentary Wasserschlacht: The Great Border Battle (which she co-directed with Andrew Friedman) and such shorts as Nothing to Lose and Hanoi-Warsaw (both 2009), Klimkiewicz directs steadily enough and generates a decent amount of climactic suspense. But the social and political themes get lost in the increasingly melodramatic narrative which allows the audience off the hook by enabling it to judge McCrory rather than confront its own possible prejudices.

Small Apartments
A similar problem blights Jonas Åkerlund's adaptation of Chris Millis's gonzo novella, Small Apartments, as, for all its manic energy and the enthusiasm of the splendid ensemble, this freewheeling comedy is nowhere near as wacky as its makers think it is. Indeed, in striving so hard to make every dark twist and oddball character seem utterly hilarious, Åkerlund and Millis squeeze the laughter out of a promising premise and push some gleefully outré performances way past caricature and into grotesquerie. Yet, such is the propulsive potency of the plot that it's difficult not to get swept along and crack the odd smile in spite of oneself.

Matt Lucas lives in a single room in a Southern Californian apartment complex. Dressed solely in white y-fronts and coloured knee socks, he spends his days drinking cheap soda, spying on his neighbours with binoculars, listening to the tapes sent to him each day by mentally distressed brother James Marsden and blowing on the alpine horn that epitomises his fixation with Switzerland and drives neighbours James Caan and Johnny Knoxville crazy.

Caan is a widower whose plan to retire in comfort somehow got derailed and he now divides his time between painting angry pictures and despairing of Lucas and his antics. By contrast, Knoxville's thirtysomething slacker is so devoid of purpose that he has to set himself a daily task to prevent himself from being stoned 24/7. Having abandoned his studies, he works at the local convenience store with DJ Qualls and receives periodic visits from punk girlfriend Rebel Wilson and born-again mother Amanda Plummer, whose caring-sharing brand of parenting frequently oversteps the mark.

None of the tenants like landlord Peter Stormare and most would probably be glad to know that he is lying dead in the room that Lucas shares with his scrawny dog, Bernard. However, the worsening smell (and the fact that Bernard has started eating a rotting toe) persuades him the that the time has come to dispose of the body and Lucas dons a coat and one of his many wigs in order to lug the cadaver to his car in the dead of night. Oblivious to the fact that he has been filmed on the CCTV system, Lucas drives across town to dump Stormare in his own garage. But his bid to make his demise look like suicide goes gruesomely wrong and Lucas winds up taping Stormare's hand to a screwdriver plunged into his chest, shooting him with a rifle and setting light to his head. He also manages to fuse his wig on to Stormare's lap and write a pathetically inept farewell note before getting back to the apartments to realise that the victim's truck is still parked out front.

In a hurry, because he has been promised a floor show from the window opposite by wannabe Vegas dancer Juno Temple and her teen friend Tara Holt, Lucas spins off the road and is viciously mugged by knuckleheads Alex Solowitz and Dennis White. Despite being badly bruised, he manages to stagger home and settles into his chair to watch the midnight performance. However, he is deeply hurt when he sees that Temple and Holt have written `Perv' in lipstick on their buttocks and he wishes he was in the Swiss mountain village of his dreams.

Meanwhile, across town, cops David Koechner and David Warshofsky have been called to Stormare's property and they summon fire investigator Billy Crystal to inspect the burns on the body. An alcoholic who has walked out on his wife because she slept with his cousin, Crystal likes to give the impression he is always in control. But even he is baffled by the crime scene and hopes that whoever stole Stormare's truck is behind the bungled mutilation.
Lucas is disturbed to read about the case in the paper next morning. But he is more concerned that he hasn't received a tape from Marsden, who has been living in an asylum ever since he burst into a bookshop and blamed self-help guru Dolph Lundgren for his failure to stop his bouts of confusion and paralysing headaches. Lucas's worst fears are confirmed by nurse Rosie Perez, who informs him that Marsden has died from a brain tumour and he is left with only a key and his memories of the brother who had always tried to take care of him after their mother passed on.

Having spotted Crystal walking Bernard outside his apartment, Lucas realises that he can't go home. But an alternative course of action presents itself after he uses the key to open a locker at Marsden's favourite bowling alley. Meanwhile, Crystal has interviewed Caan and Knoxville and deduced that Stormare used to abuse Lucas (a supposition that is confirmed by a flashback to his accidental death in the middle of an argument over Lucas's unconventional method of paying his rent). But Crystal seizes upon an opportunity to let Lucas get away with the crime when Knoxville is shot at the 7/11 by Solowitz and White and Caan takes an overdose of pills. Adopting Bernard, Crystal heads home to patch things up with his wife, while Lucas gets to fulfil his fantasy with a trio of buxom Swiss maidens and a giant horn.

Fans of Little Britain will already know the extent to which Matt Lucas is prepared go to create a character and he bravely lets it all hang out in fleshing out this pitiable, if not exactly genial outsider. Often left to his own devices, he makes thinking aloud seem eminently normal and tempers any notions that he is a helpless innocent abroad with flashes of lechery and pragmatic brutality. Yet, Lucas is upstaged by Billy Crystal, as he reaches his own epiphany thanks to a neglected pooch (the winning Nugget) and the realisation that justice sometimes only has to be seen to be done.

Saffron Burrows has a blink and miss her cameo, but Temple and Plummer register in minor roles that are as open to accusations of misogyny as the entire picture is to misanthropy. Moreover, while Stormare resorts to caricature and Marsden and the bizarrely accoutred Lundgren seem to have wandered in from another movie altogether, Knoxville and Caan succeed in making their loser loners surprisingly empathetic. Jakub Durkoth's lurid interiors, Pär M. Ekberg's unflinching imagery and Per Gessle's disarmingly melodic score are also effective. But, as Martin McDonagh's Seven Psychopaths recently demonstrated, it's not enough simply to have a stellar cast charge around doing bleakly freakish things. In fact, as the Coen brothers and Todd Solondz have consistently shown over the years, pitch black farce takes subtlety and restraint and neither of these qualities are much in evidence here.

Thirty-three years ago, William Lustig caused a minor stir at the height of the video nasty boom with a sordid slasher entitled Maniac, which starred Joe Spinell as a clammy, obese serial killer who scalped his victims to affix their hair to the mannequins who were his sole companions in a desolate New York backstreet. Following its brief moment of notoriety, the movie settled into its cult niche and, while Santell returned to bit parts, Lustig hit paydirt with the Maniac Cop trilogy (1988-93) before churning out low-budget exploitation titles for his Blue Underground label.

Given the current climate in American cinema, it was almost inevitable that flicks like Maniac would eventually get remade. But, somewhat surprisingly, Lustig's sleazy shocker has been reworked by French director Franck Khalfoun and screenwriters Alexandre Aja and Grégory Levasseur as a slick exercise in subjectivity, whose mix of artistry and barbarity must have convinced Elijah Wood that this would be the perfect way to shake off a little more Middle Earth dust, in his bid to prove there will be life after Frodo Baggins.

As the conceit relies on keeping Wood concealed as much as possible, he is only heard in the opening sequence, as Liane Balaban is left alone on a dark street in a seedy part of Los Angeles after gal pal Steffinnie Phrommany gets the only cab. He cruises at a discreet distance in his car, as Balaban turns down a ride in a stretch limo, and watches her enter her building, having hurried ahead to fuse the lights on her landing. With only his breathing audible, Wood creeps up behind Balaban, as she opens the door to her apartment and, plunges a knife into her throat as she turns around to face him. Bundling her inside, he withdraws the blade and uses it to slice off the top of her skull, as he berates the voices inside his head for driving him to commit another crime.

Back at the shop owned by his recently deceased mother, Wood staples the crown on to a mannequin in his bedroom and hopes that she will get along with the others in his collection. A short while later, he embarks upon a dating site correspondence with redhead Megan Duffy, who meets him for a date in an Indian restaurant. Undeterred by his eccentric behaviour and sudden dash to the washroom, Duffy invites Wood in for a nightcap and starts to seduce him. Yet, even though he throws up in disgust at having slaughtered her, Wood recovers sufficiently to slice off her hair and present it to a waiting doll.

Next morning, Wood sees Nora Arnezeder taking photos of his shop front and invites her inside when she explains she is an artist who shares his enthusiasm for antique mannequins.  She jots down her phone number and disappears into the sunny distance, leaving Wood to endure a frustrating day scouting potential victims downtown. He eventually finds a suitable candidate when he sneaks into a dance school and watches Genevieve Alexandra perform an elegant aerial silk routine. However, his plan to pounce on her in the changing room is frustrated when a couple of friends return unexpectedly and they walk with her to the subway station. Wood tries to blend into the background, but Alexandra spots him staring in the empty carriage and rushes along the platform and through the concourse when he gets off at her stop. She yells abuse at him, but there is no one else around and she plays into his hands by rushing into a deserted car park, where he is able to dispatch and excoriate her without further fuss.

Although flies are now starting to buzz around the rotting flesh in his room and he is becoming increasingly troubled by migraines and flashbacks to his younger self (Steven James Williams) watching prostitute mother America Olivo service her clients, Wood convinces himself that all will be well if he can establish a normal relationship with Arnezeder. She has an exhibition coming up and Wood lends her some of his mannequins to add atmosphere to the gallery. But, as they leave a screening of Robert Wiene's horror classic, The Cabinet of Dr Caligari (1920), Wood is dismayed to learn that Arnezeder has a boyfriend (Sammi Rotibi), who turns out to be an African-American jerk when Wood meets him at the opening of the show.

He also takes exception to Arnezeder's agent, Jan Broberg, after she dismisses his dummies as junk. Thus, he follows her home and pushes her head under water as she takes a relaxing bath. However, he intends making her suffer for her callous remarks about his treasures and trusses her up on the bed before scalping her while she is still alive. No sooner has he returned home, however, than he gets a call from a distressed Arnezeder, who has not only broken up with Rotibi, but who has also heard the dreadful news about Broberg. Wood hurries round to provide a shoulder to cry on. But he is put out by the presence of neighbour Joshua De La Garza and realises that his spell over Arnezeder has been broken when she pulls away from a shoulder rub.

Despite the ingenuity of Khalfoun's staging and the dexterity of Maxime Alexandre's camerawork, this could never be described as a classic. The synth score composed by Rob recalls the disoncerting sounds created by Italian prog rockers Goblin for Dario Argento's classic gialli, but this falls apart so hopelessly in the closing stages that much of the previous good work is undone. Wood is admirably jittery as the psychopath haunted by the degradation he witnessed as a child, but contrivance frequently dogs the point-of-view gambit, while some of the voice-over feels forced. Equally damaging is the fact that the remaining characters, with the possible exception of Duffy and Arnezeder's, are essentially ciphers, while the failure to depict any LAPD investigation robs the action of any suspense. But what is most noticeable is that the murders are gruesome rather than hideous, as such restraint has only rarely been in evidence in previous outings involving Khalfoun and Aja, whose directorial credits include Switchblade Romance (2003), The Hills Have Eyes (2006) and Piranha (2010).

The horror genre became a good deal gorier in the early 1960s, thanks to independents like Herschell Gordon Lewis following the lead set by Hammer and it would be fascinating to know what the 83 year-old Lewis makes of pictures like The ABCs of Death, which exploit cutting-edge CGI and make-up effects to take conceits not entirely dissimilar to the ones he pioneered half a century ago to gleefully gratuitous extremes.

The premise devised by producers Ant Timpson and Tim League couldn't be more straightforward. But, in giving each director a letter and the complete freedom to make any film they wanted providing it riffed on the theme of death, they made themselves hostages to fortune, as the abecedarian structure deprived them of any editorial control and not only prevented them from moderating the tone and pace of the running order, but also from hiding the weaker vignettes. Any portmanteau is going to be inconsistent, especially when it includes contributions from 15 countries with very different notions of the horrific. But, while this one has plenty of ingenious, disconcerting and amusing moments, it also has more than its share of misfires, as well as a couple of out-and-out abominations. Consequently, this is often a film to be endured rather than enjoyed.

Spaniard Nacho Vigalondo (who remains best known for Timecrimes, 2007) gets things underway with `A is for Apocalypse', in which long-suffering wife Eva Llorach stabs, scalds and batters bedridden husband Miguel Insua because Armageddon is imminent and she can longer afford to wait for the poison she has been feeding him for months to take effect. Compatriot Adrián García Bogliano (Penumbra, 2011) also adopts the shaggy dog approach for `B is for Bigfoot', which sees Harold Torres and girlfriend Alejandra Urdiaín get a big surprise from Pablo Guisa Koestinger when they concoct a tale about a child-abducting abominable snowman in a bid to scare Torres's young cousin Greta Martinez into going to sleep at 8 o'clock.

Chilean Ernesto Díaz Espinoza (Kiltro, 2006) presents a tale of the unexpected in `C is for Cycle', as Matías Oviedo makes a bloody discovery near a garden hedge after he being sent to investigate a noise in the night by wife Juanita Ringeling. Coming to hours later, he returns indoors to see his doppelgänger in bed with Ringeling and about to be dispatched on the same fool's errand. Much more troubling, however, is `D is for Dogfight', in which Californian Marcel Sarmiento (Deadgirl, 2007) makes exceptional use of slow motion and oblique cutting to establish the bond between man and beast when boxer Steve Berens recognises that the opponent snarling crook Chris Hampton has put up for a backstreet bout (whose spectators include a small girl) is his long-lost pet.

One trusts that no animals were harmed in the making of this unsettling contribution, which is followed by `E is for Exterminate', a lightweight offering by Texan actor-director Angela Bettis (Roman, 2006) that plays the odd trick with perspective as Brenden McVeigh pays in pseudo-Buñuelian fashion for trying to kill a spider on the loose in his apartment. Much more effective, although undeniably strange, is `F is for Fart' by the prolific Japanese auteur Noboru Iguchi, whose many cult favourites include The Machine Girl (2008), RoboGeisha (2009), Mutant Girl Squad (2010) and Dead Sushi (2012). However, this fleeting tale is closer in tone to Zombie Ass: Toilet of the Dead (2011), as it reveals how model student Arisa Nakamura asks adored teacher Yui Murata to break wind in her face so can perish from something more pleasurable than the toxic gas unleashed by an earthquake.

Ending with the pair naked and kissing inside a yellow cloud, this merrily eccentric item is followed by Andrew Traucki's `G is for Gravity', a predictably nautical follow up to Black Water (2007) and The Reef (2010) that uses point-of-view shots to show how an unseen Aussie drowns off his surfboard while weighed down by bricks. But the wackiness is quickly restored by Thomas Cappelen Malling (Norwegian Ninja, 2010) in `H is for Hydro-Electric Diffusion', which sees a British bulldog in RAF apparel (Johannes Ellertsen) relaxing in a strip club whose foxy performer (Martine Årnes Sørensen) turns out to be a Nazi agent, who connects him to a fiendish contraption and seems set to eliminate him when he receives renewed strength from a locket motto urging him to keep calm and carry on.

Having made an excellent impression with We Are What We Are (2010), Mexican Jorge Michel Grau proves himself again to be thoughtful and provocative with `I is for Ingrown', which centres on a jealous husband (Octavio Michel) giving a lethal injection to the wife (Adriana Paz) restrained in the bathtub. Exposing the fact that, according to Grau, femicide so often goes unpunished in his homeland, this uncompromising depiction of cold-blooded murder contrasts with the more mischievous attitude to brutality adopted by Yûdai Yamaguchi (Deadball, 2011) in `J is for Jidai-geki', which takes its title from the Japanese term for period drama and alternates between the agonised expressions of samurai Daisuke Sasaki and the barely suppressed giggles of Takashi Nishina, who turns out to be the swordsman waiting to behead him at the climax of his act of seppuku.

The mood changes considerably for `K is for Klutz', in which Danish animator Anders Morgenthaler (Princess, 2006) chronicles a young woman's increasingly frantic and occasionally hilarious efforts to flush a recalcitrant poop. However, `L is for Libido' by Indonesian newcomer Timo Tjahjanto (Macabre, 2009) immediately plunges viewers into a much more sinister world, in which Paul Foster finds himself strapped to a chair and forced to compete with rivals in a masturbation contest with the loser being killed by a spike shooting upwards from beneath their seat. What makes the competition watched by a masked audience all the more discomfiting, however, is the fact that the stimulation provided by (Kelly Tandiono) becomes increasingly grotesque and the exhausted Pedrero is almost relieved when he finds himself on the dais being straddled by Putri Sukardi wielding a chainsaw.

Delawarean Ti West (The Innkeepers, 2011) similarly pushes back the boundaries of taste with `M is for Miscarriage', which follows (Tipper Newton) as she charges around her home in distress to find a plunger to unblock her bloody toilet bowl. Mercifully, Thai Banjong Pisanthanakun (Shutter, 2004) relieves the tension with `N is for Nuptials', in which (Wiwat Krongrasri) gets more than he bargained for when he trains a caged bird to propose to girlfriend (Om-Arnin Peerachakajornpatt) and it proceeds to deliver a verbatim account of a tryst with his mistress. By contrast, the mood is much more sensual as Bruno Forzani and Hélène Cattet (Amer, 2009) concentrate on `la petite mort' in `O is for Orgasm', in which they crosscut artily between close-ups of the body parts of Manon Beuchot and Xavier Magot against the sound of cracking whips and her moans.

The scene switches to Surinam for `P is for Pressure', which has been slickly directed by Brit Simon Rumley (Red, White & Blue, 2010) and centres on single mother Yvanna Hilton, who works as a prostitute to feed her three children. She is propositioned by a man in a bar and takes his card, even though she turns him down. Back home, however, one of her male friends terrorises her kids and steals the money she has hidden in their shack. So, she calls the number on the card and shoots a film in which she has to crush the head of a kitten with her high heels. Once again, no animal welfare codes were breached and the same is doubtless true of `Q is for Quack', in which co-directors Adam Wingard (Pop Skull, 2007) and Simon Barrett have writers' block and cannot come up with an idea for their segment of the anthology. Eventually, they decide to shoot a duck in a cage and the boom operator watches nervously as Wingard loses his nerve. But things quickly spiral out of control when Barrett's gun jams.

By all accounts, cinema is the victim in `R is for Removed', a dense allegory by Srdjan Spasojevic (A Serbian Film, 2010) that has Slobodan Bestic hooked up to an intravenous drip so that a doctor can scalpel thin slices of his skin to be used as 35mm film. He is shown to a crowd of women, who cheer hysterically and try to touch him. However, when his nurse leaves the room, Bestic kills the doctor and gathers what he can of what has been stolen from his body and makes his escape. Slaughtering anyone in his path, Bestic reaches a railway line and attempts to push back a small train. He collapses under it, as blood begins falling from the sky.  If this combatively complex isn't to your liking, it's unlikely you will take to `S is for Speed', either, as Brit Jake West (Evil Aliens, 2005) fastens on to an abduction in a Stateside desert. Darenzia pushes handcuffed Lucy Clements in the boot of her car and unleashes a flamethrower at hooded pursuer Peter Pedrero. However, no matter how fast she drives, she cannot shake his car and, when she runs out of petrol, Darenzia pleads with Pedrero to take Clements instead and he insists it is not her time. As he touches Darenzia's hand, the action cuts to a squalid bedsit, where Clements reaches across her dead friend's corpse to remove a small bag of drugs from her bra. As she cooks the contents, she is transported to the desert.

Leeds-based Claymation specialist Lee Hardcastle (Chainsaw Maid 2, 2010) offers a little grim levity in `T is for Toilet', in which Mum (Kim Richardson) and Dad (Hardcastle) struggle to understand why their young son is so afraid of the lavatory. A quick peek into his dreams explains all, as he is convinced it's a monster that will gobble his parents up. But, when the boy gets up in the middle of the night, he becomes the loo's unexpected victim, much to the horror of his watching father. Also keeping the British end up is Ben Wheatley, who follows up the crowd-pleasing Down Terrace (2009), Kill List (2011) and Sightseers (2012) with `U is for Unearthed', the uncomplicated climax to a reign of terror that assumes the viewpoint of a figure lashing out at the angry mob chasing him and captures his agony as he is held down and has his fangs pulled, a stake driven into his heart and his head chopped off with an axe.

Decapitation recurs in `V is for Vagitus', a boldly ambitious sci-fi chiller from Canadian Kaare Andrews (Altitude, 2010), which envisages that most women will be infertile in New Vancouver by 2039. Cop Kyra Zagorsky has just had her application to have a child denied, but she is decidedly conflicted when her robot sidekick kills a young family and she is entrusted with protecting a resilient baby boy whom her superiors call `the prophet'. If this resembles a trailer for a future feature, `W is for WTF' feels like something lifted off YouTube, as director Jon Schnepp (the creator of such TV shows as Metalocalypse and The Venture Bros) ponders potential subjects for his contribution with partner Tommy Blacha and the zombie clowns, giant walruses, warrior women and flesh-eating infants they pitch start tipping news reporter Dink O'Neal to the verge of insanity.
This delirious montage gives way to the standout contribution, `X is for XXL', by French director Xavier Gens (Frontier(s), 2007). Having endured constant taunting because of her weight and unprepossessing looks, middle-aged Sissi Duparc gets home and raids the fridge for comfort food. As she gorges, however, she sees a commercial featuring the bikini-clad Yasmine Meddour, whose image is plastered all over Paris like a hectoring reminder of her own imperfections. So, Duparc vomits into the sink and climbs into the shower with a carving knife to sculpt her torso into a grotesque facsimile of Meddour's.

While Gens judges the balance of content and style to perfection, Canadian Jason Eisener (Hobo With a Shotgun, 2011) overdoes the latter in `Y is for Youngbuck', in which Rylan Logan exacts his revenge on creepy school janitor Tim Dunn by attacking him in the gym after basketball practice with the antlered head of the deer he had forced him to shoot. However, Yoshihiro Nishimura goes over the top in all directions in wrapping things up with `Z is for Zetsumetsu', which takes its title from the Japanese word for `extinction'. Admirers of Tokyo Gore Police (2008), Vampire Girl vs Frankenstein Girl (2009) and Helldriver (2011) would expect nothing less than excess and this abstract analysis of Japanese history between Hiroshima and Fukushima flits frantically between images of bare-breasted Nazis, killer genitalia, rice-spattered lesbians, assassinated salarymen, a demented variation of Dr Strangelove and a mammarian lampoon of 9/11. The intention is clearly to shock. But, like much else in this portmanteau, the disparity between intention and implementation is disappointingly wide. 

What is fascinating, however, is the amount of thematic and stylistic overlap between the film-makers from so many different nations. Yet, for all the scatological references, beheadings, fast cutting and first-person subjectivity, there is no found footage and no hint of the supernatural. But what this exercise demonstrates most intriguingly is how difficult directors who started out making shorts find it to return to the form after moving into features. Admittedly, the slots are much smaller here than in comparable ventures like Dead of Night (1945), Dr Terror's House of Horrors (1964), Necronomicon (1993) and V/H/S (2012). But too few seem to be able to combine brevity with wit and one awaits the announced sequel with a mix of curiosity and trepidation.