The suspenseful “The Integrity of Joseph Chambers,” now on VOD, is a dark twist on the “Green Acres” idea of leaving the city behind for a quiet life in the country.
Clayne Crawford plays Joseph Chambers, an insurance salesman tired of the hustle and bustle of big business and big city life. Relocating, with his two kids, to his wife Tess’s (Jordana Brewster) hometown of Pell City in rural Alabama, he embraces country life. The chores. The fresh air. Good bye city life.
When he gets it in his head to go hunting, solo, in the nearby woods, Tess tries to talk him out of it. They have enough money for groceries, she argues, and anyway, he doesn’t know how to shoot and doesn’t own a gun. But old Joe has already trimmed his beard, leaving behind a patch under his nose he dubs his “hunter’s moustache.”
He wants to fit in, prove his manliness, but more importantly, wants to be able to provide for his family if and when the world falls apart. “If things get worse,” he says, “we may need to know how to do this stuff.”
With ideas of doomsday clouding his mind, he borrows a gun and a truck, slips into his hunting gear, including an orange puffer vest, and heads out. Hours later, when he finally spots a deer, he reacts quickly and fires. His bullet finds its target, but it’s not a deer, it’s another hunter.
The story burns slowly, setting up Joseph as a decent but naïve suburbanite desperate to prove his macho bone fides. He brims with bravado—quoting old Westerns like “The Outlaw Josey Wales” and imagining crowds cheering for him on his quest for a ten-point buck—but those affectations are a cover for a deep core of insecurity. The quest here isn’t really for a buck, it’s actually a search for masculinity.
Joseph feels he has much to prove to himself and his family, so “The Integrity of Joseph Chambers” isn’t really the story of the fatal shot, but of his reaction to it. Questions of responsibility vs. consequences flood his mind as the open expanse of the forest envelopes him.
Danish sound designer Peter Albrechtsen embellishes these scenes with unsettling sounds that sonically give life to Joseph’s inner feelings.
Crawford occupies the vast bulk of the movie, and holds focus. His take on Joseph is equal parts ridiculous—he playfully sings “I’m the moustache man!”—and repentant. It’s a raw-edged performance, aided in its grittiness by screenwriter and director Robert Machoian’s refusal to offer easy answers.
“The Integrity of Joseph Chambers” isn’t an easy film to digest. It is very slow and a bit repetitive. It asks more questions than it answers, and will likely frustrate those wanting a pat ending, but it raises interesting questions about the real meaning of masculinity.
On this August 12, 2023 edition of the Richard Crouse Show we get to know American film director, production designer, and screenwriter Catherine Hardwicke. Her directorial work includes “Thirteen,” ”Lords of Dogtown,” the megahit “Twilight,” “Miss Bala” and “mafia Momma” among many others. Today she’s here to talk about her latest film, “Prisoner’s Daughter,” a family drama starring “Succession’s” Brian Cox as a father hoping to reconnect with his estranged daughter and her son.
We’ll also meet author Wayne Ng. Wayne is an an award-winning short story and travel writer who was recently nominated for the Guernica Prize for his latest book, a family drama called THE FAMILY CODE, which was, in part, inspired by his 30 year career as a social worker.
Finally, we meet Phil Dellio. His new book, “Happy for a While: “American Pie,” 1972, and the Awkward, Confusing Now,” is a look at the famous Don McLean song and how to approach great art made by people whose personal transgressions become a matter of public record.
Each week on the nationally syndicated Richard Crouse Show, Canada’s most recognized movie critic brings together some of the most interesting and opinionated people from the movies, television and music to put a fresh spin on news from the world of lifestyle and pop-culture. Tune into this show to hear in-depth interviews with actors and directors, to find out what’s going on behind the scenes of your favourite shows and movies and get a new take on current trends. Recent guests include Chris Pratt, Elvis Costello, Baz Luhrmann, Martin Freeman, David Cronenberg, Mayim Bialik, The Kids in the Hall and many more!
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“North of Normal,” a new coming-of-age movie now playing in theatres, tells the unlikely, but true story of Cea Sunrise Person from her off-the-grid beginnings in the wilderness of Alberta and British Columbia to the runways of the fashion world.
Based on Person’s 2014 memoir, “North of Normal: A Memoir of My Wilderness Childhood, My Counterculture Family, and How I Survived Both,” the movie jumps in time between Cea’s upbringing in the flower power 1970s and her reunion, after a long break, with her free-spirited mother Michelle (Sarah Gadon) in the 1980s.
The story begins in Kootenay Plains, Alberta on a commune run by Micelle’s father “Papa Dick” (Robert Carlyle). Convinced that the “wilderness would solve all their problems,” the older man is a messianic figure firm in his rejection of the outside world. Michelle is 15 years-old- and pregnant with Cea, later played by River Price-Maenpaa as a child.
Cea’s (played as an adolescent and teen by Amanda Fix) life changes when Michelle, after an endless stream of boyfriends, moves them to the city to be with her latest beau. Thrown into a strange new world, Cea relies on Papa Dick’s philosophy—“Never give in to fear.”—and forges a new life, and security, for herself on the high fashion runways of New York and Paris.
“I’m not going to hang around and wait for the world to give me a good life,” she says. “I have a good face, and I’m going to use it.”
The long, strange trip of Person’s unconventional life is brought to life in a heartfelt, yet somewhat conventional film. Gadon embraces her character’s warmth, but also her unpredictability. Michelle isn’t a good mother, but she is Cea’s only support system, and their thorny bond is nicely wrought—warts and all.
“North of Normal” is a simple movie about a complicated relationship. It avoids most of the melodrama that could have flavored the story, although a hair cutting scene comes close, instead, choosing to allow the fine acting to reveal the hidden emotional scars of mother and daughter.
“Prisoner’s Daughter,” a new drama starring Kate Beckinsale and Brian Cox, and now on VOD, is a story of a father, a daughter and second chances.
When we first meet one-time Las Vegas showgirl Maxine (Beckinsale) she is a broke single mom, with a deadbeat ex-husband named Tyler (Tyson Ritter) and Ezra (Christopher Convery), her sweet-natured teenage son. Despite never having paid alimony, Tyler, an abusive addict, wants more control over Ezra’s life. Ezra, meanwhile, is bullied at school, and in need of epilepsy medication Maxine can barely afford.
Maxine’s father Max (Cox) has, by his own admission, been in jail “more times than I care to remember,” but has left his violent ways in the past. “I’m not that guy anymore.”
Max is about to be released from prison on compassionate grounds, after a twelve-year stretch. Diagnosed with terminal pancreatic cancer, he will be discharged if, and only if, he lives with Maxine and Ezra in their small home.
Maxine, still stung by her father’s abandonment years ago, reluctantly agrees but on one condition. “You pay me rent,” she says. “You’re a tenant, that’s it.” She wants nothing to do with her dad. For her, this is a business deal that will help her pay mounting bills.
As Max settles in, he putters around the place, doing some long-needed repairs, teaching Ezra how to handle himself on the playground and calling in favors from his shady friends. With just months left to live, he is searching for reconciliation and redemption. “I know none of this will make up for who I was, or what I did,” he says to Maxine, “but let me be your father for once.”
“Prisoner’s Daughter” has many predictable elements as the ex-con father and his extended family find a new way to be a family, but Hardwicke’s delicate world building, as she presents the stark realities of Maxine’s life, and her efforts to atone for the mistakes of her past and point Ezra on the right track, bring great humanity to the tale.
Audiences expecting Cox to reprise his “Succession” role may be disappointed. Cox does let the old bull run free, bringing an air of menace to Max, but here the performance is tempered by tenderness. He’s a man plagued with regret, trying to unravel the tangled knots in his relationship with Maxine. The connection he builds with Ezra, even when he is teaching the youngster how to fight, is also shrouded in warmth.
Max is tough, but Maxine has a different kind of resolve. Beckinsale gives the character a backstory, a history of abuse that has toughened Maxine, and given her a sense of determination to survive at all costs. She does so with a steely brand of humor, and a great deal of sincerity.
It is the two lead characters, and the attention paid to the little details that form their relationship, that give “Prisoner’s Daughter” its gruff charm. The story is, more or less, predictable, and its anti-violence message is thwarted by a third reel punch-up, but despite the story misfires, it remains a compelling, if somewhat misguided, portrait of redemption.
It’s a movie that wonders if there are best before dates on amends, or if blood is truly thicker than water. Not a game changer story wise, but strong performances and interesting filmmaking earn it a recommend.
“Bones of Crows,” a new period drama now playing in theatres, covers decades of history, but is tied to recent, horrifying events.
Jumping through time, from the 1800s to the 2020s, the story of the intergenerational trauma caused by the Canadian residential school system, focusses on the family of Aline Spears (Grace Dove). A Cree woman born to a large, happy family in 1930s Manitoba, everything changes when Aline and her siblings are forcibly taken from their parents who are told they will be thrown in prison if they don’t sign over their children to the residential school system.
Abused, physically and emotionally—“I could kill you and bury you out back and nobody would care,” a priest snarls at the headstrong Aline.—the priests and nuns systematically attempt to strip the siblings of their Indigenous heritage, religion and identity, forcing them to assimilate them into the dominant Canadian culture. It is, as one character says, “a lesson in unrelenting cruelty.”
During World War II Aline escapes the horrors of the school by enlisting in the Canadian Army.
“The only way we can make sure they don’t send you back to that school is to send you to war.” During her raining to become part of an elite squad of code talkers who used the Cree language to disguise military intelligence, she meets and marries Adam (Phillip Lewitski).
Returning home from war to raise their family, Adam suffers PTSD, while Aline is haunted by the abuse she suffered at the hands of her sadistic teachers.
As the movie skips through time, we learn more about the residential school, Aline’s life after the war, her sister’s legal woes and the next generation, the children that carry the trauma in their DNA.
The process of healing is ever present, however, as Aline remembers the words her mother said to her as she enlisted in the army. “You be everything you are meant to be. Don’t let the darkness win. Don’t let them win.”
Métis-Dene writer and director Marie Clements covers a great deal of ground, much of it hard going. The cruelty and attempts to dehumanize Indigenous youth are brought to horrific life, and the depictions of residential schools; child abuse, sexual and psychological abuse and racism may be very unsettling for many viewers.
But even though the film chronicles a century of generational trauma, it is also a celebration of Cree resilience and tradition. There are eye-opening depictions of atrocities, necessary to tell the story, but as Aline confronts the past, there is also a sense of justice.
It is a story of hard truths, told with skill—despite its sprawling nature, it doesn’t feel bloated—and emotion that gets to the heart of how generational trauma forever altered the lives of the characters.
For better and for worse, “A Good Person,” the new drama, written and directed by Zach Braff, starring Florence Pugh and Morgan Freeman, and now playing in theatres, is a portrait of the messiness of addiction.
Pharmaceutical rep—and part time jazz singer—Allison’s (Pugh) happy, carefree life falls apart when the car she is driving veers off the road, leaving two relatives dead, her future sister-in-law Molly (Nichelle Hines), and Molly’s husband Jesse (Toby Onwumere). Allison survives, but to combat residual pain, is prescribed OxyContin painkillers.
Now, a year later, consumed with guilt, she is unemployed, living at home with her mother Diane (Molly Shannon), estranged from fiancé Nathan (Chinaza Uche) and addicted to the opioids.
Allison’s life shifts when she bumps into Daniel (Morgan), the father of her ex-fiancé and Molly, who perished in the crash, at an AA meeting. The stern, ex-cop—who leans into pronouncements like, “Better to be half-an-hour early, than one minute late.”—blames Allison for the accident, but attempts to find common ground with her and possibly chart a course through their shared grief.
“Neither of us chose this fate,” he says, “but perhaps we can find a way to love it.”
“A Good Person” features fine performances from Pugh and Freeman, but, despite its heavy subject matter, defaults to a feel-good vibe in scene after scene.
Pugh, even with her movie star glow, convinces as a person drained of the will to live and Morgan’s mix of grandpa and Dirty Harry is entertaining and occasionally moving, but they are undone by a script laced with platitudes. Written by Braff, the story brushes up against the edges of the emotionality required to give us all the feels, but every time it begins to feel authentic, it takes a turn to the artificial. Braff never met a manipulative moment he couldn’t exploit, and it blunts the effectiveness of the storytelling.
“A Good Person’s” set-up suggests a deep dive into survivor’s guilt, addiction and, ultimately, forgiveness, but the lack of jagged edges and grit feels more Hallmark than harrowing.
“You Can Live Forever,” a new queer romance set against the backdrop of a Jehovah’s Witness community, is a restrained, poignant look at teenage love.
Set in the early 1990s, the story focusses on transplanted Thunder Bay teenager Jaime (Anwen O’Driscoll). She’s a typical teen of the time, with a taste for getting high, movies, Siouxie and the Banshees T-shirts and playing video games. She’s also gay, but hasn’t told anyone in her family.
Following her father’s sudden heart attack and her distraught mother’s subsequent nervous breakdown, she’s sent to live with her Aunt Beth (Liane Balaban) and Uncle Jean-Francois (Antoine Yared) at a Jehovah’s Witness community in Quebec’s Saguenay region.
Suffering claustrophobia within the tightly-knit community, Jamie feels repressed, like an outsider at the Kingdom Hall meetings she is forced to attend—”What am I supposed to do?” she asks. “Nobody wants me here.”—until she meets Marike (June Laporte).
There are several paths the low-key, deliberately-paced “You Can Live Forever” could have walked, but it chooses warmth and empathy over everything else. Co-directors Sarah Watts—who grew up in a Jehovah’s Witness community—and Mark Slutsky, take pains to paint a portrait of life inside the religious community, but from a thoughtful, not judgemental point of view. Ditto the relationship at the center of the movie. Their bond is taken seriously, not simply a high school fling.
It is not a complicated story but it is a delicate one, handled respectfully by Watts and Slutsky, who also wrote the script. The community’s beliefs are recognised in a story that sees Jamie disagree with her family’s dogmas, but still empathize with them as people. It is a tricky balance, and the way Jamie accepts Marike’s religious background is a tangible sign of the deep affection she has for her.
“You Can Live Forever” pays careful attention to the characters to avoid falling into stereotypes or hitting inauthentic notes. It is a little too methodical in its approach, but the emotional impact of this story of star-crossed lovers is hard to deny.
In “Brother,” a new coming of age story from “The Wire” director Clement Virgo, now playing in theatres, weaves three timelines together to form a vivid portrait of memory, regret and grief.
Based on the novel of the same name by David Chariandy, and adapted by Virgo, “Brother” is the story of Francis (Aaron Pierre) and younger sibling Michael (Lamar Johnson), the sons of Jamaican immigrants, growing up in Scarborough, Ontario. The athletic Francis, who harbors dreams of becoming a music producer, exudes confidence. He is Michael’s surrogate father and, despite quitting school mid-term, is his role model and guardian angel.
But even with Francis on his side, Michael is overwhelmed by police overreach and the gang violence gripping the neighborhood. Random shootings are a regular event and once, a stray bullet even pierces the wall of a nearby apartment, killing an innocent child.
On their way to adulthood, the brothers are bonded by family, but choose different paths.
The parallel stories of “Brother,” told on a broken timeline, are skillfully handled by Virgo. He
interlaces the various timeframes to create a vivid portrait of the lives of these two young men and the pressures that formed and informed their personalities.
As adults the two lead characters are brought to vivid life by British actor Aaron Pierre, who reveals real vulnerability as the formidable Francis, and Lamar Johnson as younger brother Michael, who struggles to live in the long shadow cast by his older brother.
It is the story of their struggle to live up to expectations, but more importantly, it is about the toll of the struggle. Disappointment hangs over Francis’s character, and as he becomes more and more unpredictable, Pierre skillfully displays the ways that his risk taking is the symptom of dashed dreams and it is heartbreaking.
Virgo’s supple, elegant filmmaking reinforces the film’s central themes by creating a richly textured world for the characters to inhabit. The streets that represent a looming danger to Michael are beautifully shot, at once suburban stark and yet poetic. It is that juxtaposition that gives “Brother” its layered, complex thematic feel.
“Brother” features fine performances, a killer soundtrack that ranges from Nina Simone singing Jaques Brel to reggae to hip hop, and combines them to tell an emotionally arresting story that is both thoughtful and tangible.
Despite its dark subject matter, “The Whale,” Oscar nominated director Darren Aronofsky’s latest film, is coloured by a swirl of love, understanding and empathy.
Brendan Fraser, in his first leading role in nearly a decade, plays Charlie, a house-bound, 600-pound online English professor. Agoraphobic and unable to leave his apartment, the only outside contact Charlie has is his nurse and only friend Lis (Hong Chau) and the occasional visit from a pizza delivery guy (Sathya Sridharan). He is large to the point where even simple tasks, like standing up to retrieve a dropped remote from the floor, becomes a Herculean task.
“You will die by the weekend,” Lis says, clocking his blood pressure at 238/134. “Then I have to get to work,” he says optimistically. “I have papers to grade.”
Charlie suffers from a twice broken heart; once by congestive heart failure, the second by the death of his partner Alan. “Someone close to me passed away and it had an effect,” he says with great understatement. “I was always big,” admitting he binge-eats to make himself feel better. “I let it get out of control.”
Now, with just days left to live, he has one wish. He wants to repair the relationship with his estranged daughter Ellie (Sadie Sink), a 17-year-old he hasn’t seen since he left his family after falling in love with Alan, one of his students. “I need to know I did one thing right in my life,” he says.
Ellie, just eight-years-old when he deserted her, wants nothing to do with him—“I’m not spending time with you,” she says. “You’re disgusting. You’d still be disgusting even if you weren’t fat.”—but reluctantly relents when he offers to pay her and tutor her in exchange for spending time together.
As Charlie’s condition worsens, Ellie spends more time at the apartment, uncovering aspects of her father’s life with the help of a new friend, a naïve missionary named Thomas (Ty Simpkins).
Aronofsky brings us into Charlie’s world, a place where grief and forgiveness live side by side to create an intimate and compassionate portrait of a man who allowed his life to spiral out of control.
The specter of death hangs over every frame of “The Whale,” and yet Fraser manages to bring optimism to a character not long for this world. He’s looking to set things straight and make sure Ellie will have the tools to have a decent life after he goes. It is a tremendous performance that soars, transcending the stage-bound nature of the story.
