30 Minutes or Less (2011)

Zombieland was an entertaining enough romp, which suffered from a flabby middle (Bill Murray, really?) and well, in all honesty, a general lack of zombies. EBFS is a bit old fashioned when it comes wanting zombies in zombie films and we make no apologies for it. However, it did show that Ruben Fleischer was capable of more than just directing MIA in her latest ‘keeping it down with the kids, I haven’t sold out’ music vid. There’s also no denying it was a big hit, so it should be no surprise that Fleischer and Zombieland lead, Jesse Eisenberg, have got back together for 30 Minutes or Less.

Eisenberg is a no-hoper pizza delivery boy who spends his time sponging off his teacher flatmate (Aziz Asnari), wining and dining his flatmate’s sister and generally being an arse. During one of his deliveries, he is drugged and kidnapped by spoilt rich kid, Danny McBride. McBride has a plan. He needs $100,000 so he can hire a hitman to kill his father, allowing him to inherit his pater’s $10 million fortune. To achieve this, McBride straps a bomb to Eisenburg’s chest and gives him 10 hours to rob a bank for the aforementioned murderous fee. Is this all sounding a bit heavy going? It does to me when you say it out loud. But I swear, it’s a comedy.

Blending comedy and action, despite what Tango and Cash may lead you to believe, is not always successful. Pineapple Express and Hot Fuzz are examples of mixing guffaws with car chases that have polarised opinions. So, at least 30 Minutes isn’t going to be lonely. There are certainly laughs to be found, but like a lot of Apatow-esque movies of late, there is something to be said for the Director actually guiding his cast and not letting them run riot with their own amendments and ad-libs. If you do watch 30 Minutes, why not play a fun game of guessing what the original line was before McBride replaced it with a series of interconnecting fucks, shits and pussies.

Eisenberg is another problem. There is no difference between his portrayal of slacker pizza boy, his Mark Zuckerberg impression and his attempt at a zombie killer. The same speedy delivery, the same twitches… Like McBride’s equation of swearing=funny, he’s beginning to grate a bit. However, his delivery of the line ‘Your twins! Did you feel me when I fucked her?’ did raise a few giggles.

30 Minutes feels a tad disjointed, as if we’re missing a reel. Scenes and dialogue happen for no apparent reason and do nothing to move the plot along. And in some cases, the tone is completely uneven. A father vs would-be assassin scene ends on such a bummer, an attempt to make it all okay in a post-credit sting just simply doesn’t work. An attempt to crowbar in a bit of romance leaves the film with unsightly stretchmarks.

Like the aforementioned Zombieland, 30 Minutes‘s heart is in the right place, but it just doesn’t justify the sum of its parts. A lackluster finale compounds the fact that there could have a been a really good buddy movie in here, but unfortunately it’ll just be ‘that film Eisenberg did after the Facebook, the naff one’. Let us be thankful it finishes in 90 minutes or less.

 

Tyrannosaur (2011)

Within minutes of Tyrannosaur beginning, Joseph (Peter Mullen) has assaulted a teenager from behind in a dingy drinking hole, whispered racist obscenities in a post office, withered pathetically under a retort from the cashier, smashed the window, drunkenly hurled insults at the sky and blindly kicked his own dog to death in an alley. Paddy Considine is asking a lot  to demand sympathy for this lost soul of a protagonist in his directorial debut. Going down the same route as his fellow thespians, Tim Roth and Gary Oldman, took when they stepped behind the camera for the first time (The War Room and Nil by Mouth, respectively) Considine’s film is a sinkhole estate nightmare of a piece, a dystopian vision of Britain that makes the future in Clockwork Orange a more appealing option. Unlike Roth and Oldman however, Considine hasn’t hired Ray Winstone to beat up the wives and rape the daughters. Winstone has always had a cartoonish, albeit terrifying, larger than life nature about him, possiby because he is loudly amicable in real life. His huge frame and broad shoulders are menacing, his accent  full of violence. Considine here opts for Peter Mullen, an average sized, balding scotsman of an actor. His relatively diminutive stature and unremarkable  appearance make Joseph more shocking during his drunken outbursts and his weakness more plausable and painful as he shrinks from confrontations weighted against him.

Olivia Coleman has been quietly impressive in television dramas and comedies for a few years now, so her quivering, repressed performance as Hannah here comes not as a revelation but certainly a progression. Hannah is a Christian, possibly out of desperation, running a charity shop on Joseph’s estate. Hannah lives up town in a more plush neighbourhood with her husband James. James (Eddie Marsan) is a problem. First seen urinating on his sleeping wife, he progresses to beating and rape, all hidden behind a facade of Christianity and good standing in the community. So we have our dynamic. Alcoholic Joseph must save abused Hannah from her husband and Hannah must save Joseph from himself. These goals are achieved with varying degrees of success.

Considine, a fine actor himself, seems to understand Mullen, Coleman and Marsan, allowing them plenty of camera time and close ups to establish themselves. He resists trying any flashy shots or techniques (top down, or whooshing the camera through things should rarely be attempted in these kind of films and anyway scream “Look at me! Look at me! I’m directing!”) that would bring the audience out of the drama. Considine, a regular collaborator with Shane Meadows, plainly tells the story and allows empathy to build rather than forcing it, making it untrue. The soundtrack is mournful and heartfelt and the title thumpingly evocative, although that’s ruined when it’s meaning is revealed. Some cliches die hard. A funeral sequence where Hannah is allowed to see these down in the dirt losers at their lovable and caring best comes close to stinking up the show and the ending is a flurry of tying up loose ends with a voiceover but by that point the story has been sold and more importantly bought so forgiveness is easy to find.

There is always a risk of a kind of  aquarium like, middle class snobbery when portraying the darkest, most poverty stricken reaches of broken Britain (thanks Mr.Cameron). A risk of patronising a situation rarely experienced. It’s hard to know what a person living on a sink estate would make of Tyrannosaur, maybe it is assumed that those kind of people (add a snort of derision if you like) don’t watch films like this (What would a terrorirst say about an episode of 24? Although that’s seriously over egging the pudding). Considine has fortunately avoided such traps with his obvious love for his characters and an open sympathy for their plight. His actor friendly directing rounds out Joseph and Hannah and even James into living, breathing examples of the rights and wrongs that exist uneasily beside each other at every level of modern, British society.

 

The Rum Diary (2011)

In Withnail and I, Bruce Robinson gave us one of the most iconic characters ever to spring forth from a gin bottle in the form of Richard E. Grant’s Withnail. Alchoholic, intelligent and somewhat pathetic, Withnail was the archetypes for students in the 80s. So, it seemed like a no-brainer that Robinson became involved in the film adaptation of Hunter S. Thompson’s The Rum Diary; Thompson’s ‘long lost’ novel. (EBFS takes some issue with the term ‘long lost’ as it was never lost. It just went from publisher to publisher for 30 years until someone chose to publish it on the back of the popularity of Terry Gilliam’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. We digress….)

Johnny Depp previously played Thompson alter-ego, Raoul Duke, in the aforementioned Fear and Loathing. Like Withnail, his performance became equally iconic and allowed everyone to forget Where the Buffalo Roam ever existed. When he took over from Josh Harnett as the lead of The Rum Diary, the world produced a ‘Hurrah’ that could be heard from space.

So, with Robinson on the script/directing duties and Depp unleashing his special brand of kooky acting chops onto Puerto Rico, The Rum Diary was destined to be a new cult favourite. Right?

Then why does it all feel so flat?

Well, the main issue is the plot. It’s very pedestrian. Journalist, Paul Kemp (Johnny Depp) takes a job at The San Juan Star, hoping to write the great American novel. Along the way, he gets caught up with businessman, Hal Sanderson (Aaron Eckhart), and falls in love with the enticing Chenault (Amber Heard), Sanderson’s girlfriend. You see, despite Thompson’s usual motifs of corrupt businesses and the American dream, this is really the story of a love triangle. And not a very interesting one. Depp and Heard have next to no chemistry and feel like they’re in two separate films spliced together. Which leads us onto problem number two…

Johnny Depp. EBFS doesn’t like having to criticise Depp. We love his floppy haired ‘tude and have a tiny man crush on him. However, he is just not suited for this role. Yes, yes, he’s 20 years older than the literary version of Paul Kemp, but whilst Andrew Garfield is allowed to play a 17 year old Peter Parker, we will let that one slide. The problem is that Depp plays Kemp as Hunter S. Thompson. Albeit, a mostly sober, dashingly handsome version. So, whilst you should be engaged in Robinson’s film, you find yourself wishing the film would do a flashforward to Thompson waking up in the Colorado mountains and screaming about the pig-fucker Nixon.

Eckhart is dependable as shady Sanderson, but he teeters of on the precipice of ham. His character performs such a handbrake turn into EVIL BUSINESSMAN, it’ll make your head spin. The only actor who came across as doing anything remotely interesting is, surprisingly, Giovanni Ribisi, who plays Moberg, San Juan Star’s black sheep. Stumbling around in an alcoholic daze brought on by homemade rum, and listening to records of Hitler’s greatest speeches, Ribisi is thoroughly entertaining it’s a shame that he’s not on the screen more.

With an ending that feels like everyone ran out of money/interest, The Rum Diary is an easy way to spend 2 hours, but you’ll struggle to shake the feeling that this could have been so much more.

 

Carnage (2011)

A vicious, little knife fight of a play by Yasmina Reza becomes a claustrophobic, biting satire of middle class values via serial agoraphobe Roman Polanski. The American version (the original is, like Reza, French) of The God Of Carnage has been adapted for the screen by Reza herself with a helping hand from Polanski. The parents of two children involved in an altercation, one hit the other with a stick, in Brooklyn Bridge Park meet to discuss apologies, punishments and a possible resolution. Their differing ideals cause immediate, verbal conflict and the meeting descends into anarchy.

Bookended by scenes in the park set to the films only music the rest of the action takes place within Penelope (Foster) and Michael’s (Reilly) New York apartment. Nancy (Winslet) and Alan (Waltz) actually manage to make it to the lift in the hall twice but are pulled back, once out of politeness and the second time in anger. Polanski uses the cramped conditions and busy furnishings, all the espresso machines, coffee table books and ethnic art anyone could need, to heighten the discomfort between the couples. The camera emerges from around corners or from low angles causing the walls to move in closer and closer. Polanski has been in this situation before and the idea of confinement is one he has returned to again and again.

The scenario is expertly balanced by Reza. Nancy and Alan are comfortably the more affluent couple, Nancy makes no mention of work, Alan is a corporate lawyer, whereas Penelope is a writer and Michael a salesman. However, it is Nancy and Alan’s child thought to be at fault and they are in Michael and Penelope’s territory. All of this is expressed between the lines. Every sentence has an undercurrent and a hidden meaning often implicitly implied through tone or an arched eyebrow. The dialogue feels real as each actor gets involved, skillfully portraying their thoroughly unhappy characters without a hint of ego. Each character has their moment in the sun, a showpiece of emotion or a particularly nasty monologue and the script must have appealed in a cathartic way much like Glengarry Glen Ross. 

Foster’s Penelope is the only truly liberal member of the foursome, the only one with a morality that suits the situation. As such, she gets annihilated in cross examination by the other three. Their more nihilistic, dog eat dog view of the world and their constant willingness to take the moral low ground leave Penelope sobbing and impotent. In the end money and self involvement triumph, no one learns and nothing has been solved. Indeed, their may not even have been a problem in the first place.

Watching the couples slyly insult each other, make fun of their tastes, pet names, jobs and opinions whilst pretending to be resolving the issue between their offspring is tremendously entertaining, their polite facades being knocked down then rebuilt before our very eyes. When (spoiler alert!!) Winslet’s Nancy vomits across the coffee table to the disgust of her husband and the horror of Penelope as her designer books are ruined, the shock translates across to the audience giving us a sort of mini Alien moment. Eventually, Michael gets so wound up by his own attempts to be an understanding, friendly host that he reaches for the scotch.

When the alcohol, a lovely 18 year old whiskey, starts to flow, the battle lines are redrawn and the film lurches uncomfortably into a war of the sexes. The whiskey takes effect far too fast and the foursome become far less interesting as a result, dissolving from acerbic, hidden barbs in the conversation to outraged rudeness and stubborn stupidity. The device of drunkeness is a forced and unlikely conceit, finding four fortyish year old parents all willing to drink strong liquor in the middle of the afternoon has the ring of untruth to it and finally Carnage comes off the rails, stumbling down a dark alley totally of it’s own making. Fortunately, the film realises this and comes to a sudden, totally appropriate end, salvaged partially by a skilled comic moment, some lovely pounding drums and a hamster. Carnage is three quarters (sixty minutes) of a good film and for some that will be enough.

 

The Descendants (2011)

Alexander Payne’s continuing attempts to pick apart the minutae of middle aged men coping with crisis shows no sign of abating with his (and Nat Faxon’s) adaptation of Kaui Hart Hemming’s book The Descendants. Hemming’s Hawaiian set novel concerns Matt King, a lawyer on Oahu, whose wife has a jetski accident and falls into a coma, Matt then finds out his wife was conducting an affair behind his back and was planning to leave him. Matt then tries to confront his wife’s lover’s whilst discovering he knows very little about either of his daughters.

Trouble in paradise and using death as a solid ground for comedy are nothing new but in the hands of a storyteller as skillful and careful as Payne their usefulnesss is plain to see. Gags (mainly with swear words) are underlined with sadness and each uncomfortable situation that is mined for laughs has death and loss palpably present. The balmy backgrounds, endless beaches and floral shirts offset the grim conversation matter, reminding us again and again that happiness is neither given out freely nor guaranteed forever.

George Clooney plays Matt King well and plays him straight. No O Brother mugging comedy or slapstick, just careful delivery and quiet exasperation. Clooney is the closest thing we have to a real, say it in lights, movie star these days. Ultra famous but not too well known. His villa in Italy keeps us from knowing everything and maintains a relative air of mystery about him. Compared to the things we know about a Cruise or a Gibson, Clooney is a modern enigma. He operates on a one for them, one for him deal with the studios (this may be both) that lends him a certain integrity, coffee adverts aside. His easy charm, warm smile and seemingly affable nature means he’s able to flit from Cary Grant (lite) to James Stewart (lite) whilst remaining very much his own actor, both cunningly retro and perfect for his time. Clooney deserves his Academy nomination, his two scenes alone with his unconcious wife are particularly well crafted performance wise, but he’s been this good before and will be again.

Among an adroitly assembled supporting cast, Shailene Woodley stands out. Her role as King’s troubled, older daughter is a familiar stock character  but Woodley puts all the necessary legwork in to produce a performance that’s pitched perfectly between immaturity and maturity. Street smart yet vulnerable, outspoken without the self confidence to back it up, the turmoil of both growing up and coping with her mother’s coma are plainly visible behind a tough, laddish facade.

This is business as usual for Payne, a fine director who’s completed his fourth film and given us very little to complain about in any of them. His pictures are littered with moments that are so familiar  they become funny, so real that they sit on the edges of our own lives. Hubris and man’s inability to improve himself come to the fore, well rounded characters and a wistful sense of nostalgia are a must. Payne’s lilting dramas suffuse themselves in a soft focus, almost dreamlike atmosphere that push story to the front, like a (slightly) more modern Hal Ashby. Payne will be doing this for years and that is a very, very good thing.

Perhaps because of the intensity of emotion running throughout The Descendants, the ending feels less punchy than the majority of the film. A pleasing, almost mundane conclusion to an uncomfortably funny, acutely aware family drama that maybe lacks the hug yourself warmth of say, the premier cru, vintage red in a Wendy’s cup ending of Sideways. Sorry, that was churlish.

 

The Expendables (2010)

Sly Stallone (Sly Stallone) leads a merry band of mercenaries taking out various rebellious forces across the globe. Amongst the ranks are Jason Statham (Jason Statham), Dolph Lundgrum (Dolph Lundgrum) and Mickey Rourke (Mickey Rourke). Stallone is asked by the mysterious Bruce WIllis (Bruce WIllis) to overthrow a brutal dictator, who is being sponsored by Eric Roberts (Eric Roberts) the ex-CIA agent. Then everything  either blows up or loses a limb for the next hour.

You know if you’re going to enjoy this film. No amount of reviews by this little blog, or any other media outlets, will persuade you otherwise. It’s full of brash camera angles, lots of posturing and homo-erotic man hugs that you remember 80′s movies having.

There’s a temptation to say that this is a nostalgia film. Not in the same way as The Artist; where Michel Hazanavicius emulated the look and feel of a bygone era and said ‘look! Remember how wonderful those days were!’. No, despite the cock rock and country soundtrack, the snappy oneliners and the distinct lack of plot, there’s no indication to suggest that Stallone and company are doing anything other than their day jobs. In fact, EBFS imagines a look of confusion would attempt to penetrate Stallone’s plastic surgery, if you commended him on his ironic nostalgia trip back to 1985. Then he’d snap your neck. Probably.

There are a couple weak spots. The first is minor and easily ignored; a horrific dialogue between Stallone and rival mercenary, Arnold Schwarzenegger (The man who abolished gay marriage in California), is merely auto-eroticism before the unsatisfactory ejaculation of a presidential joke. The second weak spot is harder to ignore as it’s streak of piss runs through the film from beginning to end. It’s name is Jason Statham. Having Statham in The Expendables makes you realise how much the 21st century needs its own action hero, and how much a man most famous for being in Kelly Brook will never be that hero.

The Expendables is less than two hours of guilty pleasures. From the first punch thrown to the last head rolling across the ground, EBFS had a massive grin on its face the size of one of Stallone’s bicep. It’s shame that for all it’s bravado, the sequel to The Expendables appears to be being neutered by the machinations of Chuck Norris and the desire to get more bums on seats. Still, we’ll always have the lacerations and dubious racial stereotypes of this, the original.

 

The Haunted World of El Superbeasto (2009)

The Haunted World of El Superbeasto is Rob Zombie’s love letter to the exploitation movies of the 50s and 60s, whilst embracing the video nasties of the 80s. The films of Russ Meyer mingle with She Wolf of the SS animated in the style of Fritz the Cat. Sound like an absolute mess? You’re absolutely right.

El Superbeasto is a one joke affair that probably started with Zombie thinking ‘wouldn’t it be funny if a porn star/ex-luchador took on a man pretending to be the Devil?’. He then sat down with a 13 year, gave him rough summary and let the kid get to work on a script with crayons and a copy of Zoo.

It’s like the cinematic equivalent of a Slurpee. The animation is bright and vibrant enough to entice you, but after you’ve finished you realise that there is no nutritional value to be taken from it at all. The first scene is a porn movie which ends abruptly when the female leads are turned into demons and El Superbeasto has to mince them up and you’d think it couldn’t get any more up in your face. You’d be wrong. What follows next is a sea of gore, meta-references, breasts, breasts, breasts, nazis, breasts, horny robots, talking gorillas, Manchester United references and breasts. And despite all this, it’s extremely boring. After the 14th decapitation, I found myself looking at my watch and wondering if the pubs were still open. I don’t think the film wants to deliberately shock you, but it most certainly wants to recognised as being edgy. Look at me, it cries, I have Hitler’s head in a jar! Please like me! Please!

After the shock of ennui has passed (and it’ll take a while), the second biggest shock is the cast they’ve roped in. Paul Giamatti and Rosario Dawson must have either received an unexpected gas bill or their agent lied, because without the Ralph Bakshi-esque animation this must have looked like a miserable piece of work written down. Giamatti is entertaining enough as Dr Satan; the typical school nerd turned supervillan, but Dawson as his bride, Velvet von Black, is horrific from beginning to end. Spouting numerous cliches from blaxpoltation movies, she is the worst minor-character since Fat Bastard.

The bottom line is that El Superbeasto wants to be inappropriately funny, but in reality, it’s just inappropriate.

 

 

Anonymous (2011)

Anonymous was always going to controversial to a certain type of person. If it’s not the fact that the film subscribes to the Oxfordian theory of Shakespeare’s authorship (translation: he probably didn’t write anything), then it’s the fact it’s fronted by Derek Jacobi, who you would think would be one of those people who’d be against that kind of thinking, and it’s all been directed by Roland Emmerich. Roland Emmerich; The man who gave us Godzilla, Independence Day and Shit Blowing Up in Slow Motion Part 5.

 If you’re a firm believer that ol’ Will did exist and you can quite happily reel off a two lecture, with PowerPoint, of reasons why, then this is the kind of film you should probably ignore and carry on with the rest of your day. Cook a paella, go for a run, stick your fingers in your ears and go lalalalalalala. Even if you’re in the camp that believes Shakespeare was nothing but an actor, then the loose and fast usage of facts may still disappoint. Anonymous doesn’t so much take liberties with history, it has sex with history’s wife and daughter when he is at work.

Taken as a work of alternative history, like Fatherland, then Anonymous can easily be enjoyed. A life being suppressed by his wife, his father-in- law and the stigma of print, has led Edward de Vere, 17th Earl of Oxford (Rhys Ifans) to lock his talent for writing plays away from the world. A chance visit to the theater leads de Vere to rediscover the power of the written word. He takes playwright Ben Johnson (Sebastian Armesto) under his wing and encourages him to put on his plays, all of which are propaganda for Queen Elizabeth I (Vanessa Redgrave). On the first night of Henry V, Johnson’s sudden nerves leads to famed actor, William Shakespeare (Rafe Spall), claiming the play as his… And so it begins. The rest of the film is set against the backdrop of an attempt to dethrone Lizzy the First, with people whispering in corridors and shouting in the streets.

Ifans gives a sterling performance. Dark and brooding, his tragic de Vere is comparable, maybe deliberately so, to Hamlet. On the other end of the spectrum, Spall’s Shakespeare is a comic character who stops the whole thing becoming too po-faced.

Not surprisingly for a film based around Shakespeare, the dialogue is at times completely impenetrable and it’s easy to become lost. However, that doesn’t stop it being utterly engrossing. It’s all such a ripping yarn with fantastic set pieces. Hell, even the Globe doesn’t escape the Emmerich treatment, being blown up in the first five minutes.

If you’re willing to suspend your disbelief, Anonymous will certainly test that will. However, if given a chance you’ll be happy to be carried away, historical accuracy be damned!

 

Warrior (2011)

Two brothers (Tom Hardy and Joel Edgerton), separated years previously by spousal abuse and a messy divorce, are thrown back into each other’s live when they both apply to partake in the same MMA tournament. You don’t need to have seen this to have a stab at some of the things that are going to happen in this two hour advert of the UFC disguised as a family/sports drama. There will be punches and frowning and those long silences between two men that only happen in films of this ilk.

Warrior can hold up its Academy Award nomination as much as it wants, but, whilst this is an entertaining  movie, it drowns under the weight of its own clichés. Take a shot every time one turns up and you’ll be sprawled on the floor like one of Hardy’s opponents in the ring. Angry brother with a heart of gold? Shot! Erstwhile brother trying to escape his past? SHOT! Nick Nolte grumbling every line like a woodchipper chewing an elephant? Hell, I don’t have an Oscar nomination, who am I to judge… Did I mention he’s a recovering alcoholic trying to do right by his sons? Double shot and good night.

Obviously this is not the fault of our leads, who are all dependable (maybe not Nolte). Hardy, in particular, broods so hard he becomes a black hole, sucking in the scenery with each line he utters. Unfortunately, the material they have to work with, well… It could do with packing a bit more punch. The temptation did cross EBFS’s mind to simply reprint our Real Steal review and do a copy and paste job on it. It’s all so lightweight, the fight scenes are only thing that adds any ooomph. Skilfully shot, you feel every kick and sweat drenched punch. However, when the big finale fight comes, the only real surprise is the resolution.

Warrior is a confident film with lots of bark and bite. It just doesn’t know what it wants to say. It does want you to play XBOX and watch UFC though as can be seen through the horrendous product placement. Like Drive, Warrior wants to be serious and it wants you take it seriously. Don’t. Watch it like you would watch Rocky and you’ll have more fun.

Good Luck Nolte, you’re going to need it.

 

Paranormal Activity 3 (2011)

Paranormal Activity 3 acts as a prequel, giving us an insight into how the events of the first two came into fruition. To do this, we go back in time to the mystical age of the 80′s; a time where everyone had five o’clock shadow, rolled up sleeves and recorded every single second of their waking day. Yes, the timezone may have changed but nothing else has. This is the same shakey, oh my god! what was that!, argh twist ending we’ve now come to expect from this film series. Hell, from this very genre.

Paranormal Activity was, like Blair Witch and REC, a revolutionary experience. It took what little budget it had, ran with it and never looked back. Okay, you can sniff at it and say it’s pretty easy to put a film like this together and make money off it. However, EBFS suggests you put down this review down and go and prove it. Let’s be honest, most of you will fail or produce Grave Encounters. Either way, yeesh.

It’s sequel wasn’t wholly different from it’s predecessor, but with it’s little surprise of SPOILER being set at the same time of the original END SPOILER, it worked to a degree and it was easy to sit back and enjoy the ride.

Paranormal Activity 3 is, unsurprisingly, not different from either of the first two, but unfortunately it doesn’t have anything else to back it up. Okay, it’s a prequel, so it could be interesting, but it’s all just answers to questions no one even asked. There are plenty of nods to the other films in the series, but these are as pretty close to fanwank as you can get. Yes, it’s got some scares. The game of Bloody Mary that goes wrong in the childrens’ bedroom is particulalry jumpy, but after a while it all just begins to feel like a series of YouTube clips off someone’s playlist.

About halfway through, I became very aware that this was a lot like BBC’s Ghostwatch and once that comparison entered my head I couldn’t stop hoping Sarah Greene was going to jump out of the dark with her giant shoulder pads.

The ending adds more weight than necessary to the plot of the first two. Demons, grandmas and secret cults make you pine for the simpler times of footprints appearing in flour and Kate Featherstone frolicking in the pool. With the fourth chapter in the series already green-lit, there’s no point me discouraging anyone not to see this. So, let’s just open up a betting pool on what’s coming up next? EBFS says demon aliens.