Humanist Vampire Seeking Consenting Suicidal Person: Ariane Louis-Seize’s feature debut contains lots of blood, and even more heart #TIFF23

Although not wholly original, the horror-comedy presents some unique ideas and follows through with a solid execution full of humanity (and vampiranity)

Humanist Vampire Seeking Consenting Suicidal Person delights audiences with its use of humour and compassionate handling of sensitive subjects (Courtesy of TIFF)

By Caelan Monkman

Would you compromise your morals, even at the expense of alienating yourself from your family — or worse — your own death?

That is the question that Canadian director Ariane Louis-Seize attempts to answer in her debut feature film, the horror-comedy Humanist Vampire Seeking Consenting Suicidal Person.

The film follows Sasha (Sara Montpetit), a “teenage” vampire (she’s 68, which is like 17 in vampire years) who, according to a vampire pediatrician — yes, you read that correctly — possesses a neurological condition which makes her feel compassion towards her human victims, rather than hunger. As a result, Sasha can’t bring herself to kill humans for food, electing instead to drink blood from IV bags as though they were hemoglobin-filled Kool-Aid Jammers.

Out of frustration and a desire to cure her condition, Sasha’s family elects to send her away to live with her cousin Denise (Noémie O’Farrell), hoping that some time away from home will set Sasha straight.

Feeling isolated from her family and unable to express her extremely-vampire-specific dilemma with others, Sasha struggles with how to move forward, ultimately electing to attend a depression support group. There, she meets Paul (Félix-Antoine Bénard), a suicidal teenager who — after putting two and two together about Sasha’s bloodthirsty predicament — offers his life to her as a guilt-free blood sacrifice.

What follows is an unlikely friendship between the two misunderstood minors, who, through each other, discover there’s perhaps more to life than just survival.

The film wears its influences on its sleeve, sharing similarities with black comedies like The End of the F***ing World and The Addams Family while still creating a distinctly original end product. It also doesn’t take itself too seriously, being aware of the absurdities that can arise from the modern-day lives of vampires, à la What We Do In The Shadows.

Additionally, the film has a distinctly Canadian feel to it — and not just because of the multiple utterances of tabarnak and a creative and humorous scene involving poutine. The unique, independent spirit of the film is reminiscent of the (admittedly more abstract) absurdist films of Guy Maddin, or of Jason Reitman’s TIFF-premiering classic, Juno.

Billed as a horror-comedy, the film leans into horror tropes primarily as aesthetic choices, often subverting them for comedic effect. Much of the film is presented matter-of-factly and with a deadpan delivery, allowing the absurdity of the situation to carry the humour.

Despite the film’s humorous subject matter, it also contains its fair share of surprisingly profound moments. Dealing with topics such as depression and suicide, the film approaches these themes head-on, facing them with equal parts compassion and humour, without ever trivializing them.

At times the film could do to sit on these emotional beats a bit longer, but regardless, they still work well and provide some lovely tender moments amongst the deadpan of the rest of the film.

The end result is a film that leans heavily on common horror and coming-of-age tropes but still gives audiences an original end result and has them feeling good as the credits roll.

Humanist Vampire Seeking Consenting Suicidal Person is now available for digital rental and is playing at the TIFF Bell Lightbox on January 27.

Redefining the Vietnamese diaspora in Ru #TIFF23

The anticipated film adaptation of Canadian author Kim Thuy’s novel portrays a nuanced take on the Vietnam War

By John Vo

Tinh (Chloé Djandji) in a promotional still for Ru (Courtesy of TIFF)

To a large population of the world, the sound and sight of rushing waters have connotations of tranquillity and zen. The continuous ebbs and flow of water in lakes and rivers is a metaphor for overcoming the turbulent changes faced in our lives. It is when we look at the Vietnamese diaspora that the perception of large bodies of water drastically transforms into something ambiguous. This unique experience is embodied in the film adaptation of Kim Thuy’s debut novel Ru.

Directed by Charles-Oliver Michaud, the film premiered at the 48th annual Toronto International Film Festival (TIFF) on September 13th, a number Thuy said is lucky in the preamble before the screening. (We’ll get back to the theme of luck later.) Thuy is an award-winning and celebrated Vietnamese-Canadian author and graduate of the Université de Montréal. She has written works such as Man (2013), Em (2020) and Ru (2009), the latter having won the Governor General's Award for French-language fiction in 2010.

Looking through Thuy’s bibliography, it becomes clear how deeply ingrained her Vietnamese identity is in her works. When discussing the film with director Michaud, Thuy said she asked him to capture the heart and thematic line of her novel while allowing him to utilize his own vision for the on-screen adaptation. This collaborative effort would create a film that weaves the core parts of Thuy’s narrative and themes with Michaud’s detailed filmmaking.

Opening with the house of our protagonist Tinh (Chloé Djandji) in Vietnam with her family, the quaint and emanating warmth is a representation of a middle-class Vietnamese home in the 1970s. It is in this brief but fleeting moment that Tinh, her family and the audience will feel truly safe.

During the Vietnam War, Saigon, the capital of South Vietnam, fell to the communist party of the North. Fearing for their lives under the new communist regime, over 140,000 people fled the country by various treacherous methods. Soon after, Canada announced the country would welcome South Vietnamese refugees and provide them an opportunity to start anew. 

On the way to Quebec, where the story will take place, the characters see the glistening snow for the first time. As they do, the camera work and actors’ expressions convey the bewilderment of the mysterious white flakes falling from the sky. Even though most Canadians in the audience have seen snow first-hand, the intricate filmmaking techniques allow us to see through the curious lens of the family. Throughout the film, Michaud chooses to take a subtler approach, straying away from flashy cuts or special effects. In moments where the camera lingers on the subjects, the characters' nuanced reactions to the world around them become prominent. The subdued use of a background score and filmmaking techniques fit the understated tone the film is going for.

At the heart of Ru is the story that we’ve seen told and retold: a family’s journey of uprooting their entire livelihoods to move to a new country. This version opts to depict the Vietnamese refugee experience during and after The Vietnam War.

A main aspect of this experience is the internal conflict the family faces of choosing to reminisce on the country that was once home versus attempting to keep persevering in life without being stuck in the past. The film's usage of both Vietnamese and French languages exemplifies the thematic relevance as the characters try to assimilate into Quebec. The title of the novel and film itself alludes to this core struggle. “Ru” in French can mean a stream or a flow of money, tears or blood while in Vietnamese, the word means “cradle” or “lullaby.” Thuy’s novel and film try to create an intersection between the language of her native homeland and the language she has adopted in Canada.

Based on her family's and her own experiences immigrating to Canada as refugees, Thuy’s characters are all provided moments where their deep-seated fears and motivations become prevalent. Dinh’s father’s (Jean Bui) determination to find work and her mother’s (Chantal Thuy) stern and harsh critiques of her daughter’s attentiveness to school stem from the burdening weight of losing financial and emotional stability. For the family and the many other Vietnamese expats, life has been riddled with tumultuous obstacles.

The journey of coming to Canada is revealed in a select amount of scenes that show the harrowing reality. Described as “boat people,” Vietnamese refugees were crammed into boats on their way to salvation. With no room to move, lack of proper food and the looming threat of sinking or being murdered by pirates, on many of these boat people feared for their lives. Arriving at an Indonesian refugee camp, conditions were not better. These scenes provide much-needed context for the stakes and sacrifices her parents make for the safety of their children. Dinh’s parents' actions would not be considered traditional “perfect parenting” but many immigrant audiences can resonate with the sacrifices and trauma their parents endured. Dinh being perceptive about the suppressed pain her parents try so desperately to hide from her shows how rapidly she’s had to mature at such a young age.

The film is anchored by Chloé Djandji’s remarkable performance as Dinh. Rather than having tons of dialogue or a moment of grandiose emotions (imagine Daniel Day-Lewis's performance from There Will Be Blood), her role as the eldest daughter and a girl trying to find her place in—what is to her—a strange world requires a subtlety realistic to how most young kids act. She doesn’t understand the Quebecois French she’s hearing, everything around her is unfamiliar to Vietnam and she’s endured things no child should ever experience. For her first credited on-screen role, Djandji’s performance captures the complex emotions needed to solidify the overarching themes.

Through all of the people they meet in Quebec and their strong familial bond, the story of Dinh and her family is, at its core, a shining coming-of-age story. Throughout this review, the concept of layered characters and their backstories has been brought up frequently. A quick scan of all existing films in the West will make one realize that Vietnamese representation in film, especially ones set during the Vietnam War, has been relegated to solely one thing: “the enemy.”

Films like The Deer Hunter and Full Metal Jacket are framed around the point-of-view of white Americans, which consequently leads to the “opposing enemy” of Vietnamese people being portrayed as blood-thirsty antagonists. It isn’t that these films are not allowed to portray soldiers in this light, but the consistent pattern of reducing the Vietnamese diaspora to nothing but obstacles distracts from the brutality real refugees faced during the war. In the slew of films about the Vietnam War, Ru’s willingness to illustrate the struggles and dreams of a Vietnamese Canadian family learning to adapt is monumental.

Instead of antagonizing a certain side of the war, the film opts to highlight the ever-changing emotional states the family faces. The best way to describe the film’s approach to its characters is compassionate. From the French-Canadian family who looks out for Dinh’s family to the elderly Vietnamese man who provides words of wisdom for our lead character, we’re shown the importance of how building community can heal trauma.

At the premiere of the film, Thuy talked about her connection to the idea of luck. The idea that it was luck that allowed her to write a book about her experiences. The idea that it was lucky to bring a film adaptation of that book to life. Most importantly, Thuy believes that luck brought her family safely to Canada and allowed them to re-establish the stability they feared was long gone. A story about a young girl and her family overcoming hardship has become one of the most heart-warming and timely films of the year.

Ru is slated to release in cinemas later this year. For more information on the novel and Kim Thuy, click the link to her website.

Bringing Brazil to Toronto: An interview with the writer-director and star of Toll #TIFF23

Carolina Marcowicz shines at TIFF once again. Now in her sixth run in the festival, the up-and-coming Brazilian director premieres her second feature film, Toll. 

By: Mariana Schuetze

In Carolina Markowicz's latest feature film, Toll ('Pedágio'), audiences take a peak into the life of a toll booth worker in Cubatão, an industrial city near São Paulo, Brazil. Suellen (Maeve Jenkins) raises her son, Tiquinho (Kauan Alvarenga), alone and finds herself in a complicated situation as she tries to deal with the fact that her son is gay. 

Both Jenkins and Alvarenga have worked with Markowicz before. Jenkins in her debut feature, Charcoal ('Carvão'), which premiered at TIFF in 2022, and Alvarenga in one of her shorts, The Orphan ('O Órfão') (2018). 

The pair playing mother and son give award-worthy performances in Toll, doing justice to the stories of many in similar situations. Their performances assist in Markowicz's brilliant telling of the story of a mother who loves her son so much and yet doesn't understand his experience. In the film, she goes to previously unthinkable lengths to protect him in the best way she can, even if it hurts him. 

Toll, at times flirting with the absurd and satirical, brings to the big screen the lived experience of many in conservative countries such as Brazil. At one point in the story, and without giving too much away, Tiquinho is sent to conversation therapy. In those scenes, Toll establishes itself as a dramedy, with moments that will make you laugh at just how absurd it is but at the same time may disturb you to the core. 

Markowicz and the entire Toll cast and crew masterfully weave together this beautiful, yet at times, comical story without losing sight of where it's set. Brazil is an incredibly unequal country, and this absurdity is not too far away from reality. CanCulture had the opportunity to interview writer and director Carolina Markowicz and leading star Maeve Jenkins. In the interview, they discuss how the rhetoric of Brazil's last president, Jair Bolsonaro, against the queer community influenced Suellen and Tiquinho's story. 

Our Editor-in-Chief, Mariana Schuetze, is Brazilian and conducted the interview in Brazilian Portuguese and translated it into English for the CanCulture audience. You can read the Portuguese transcription here. 

Mariana Schuetze: And how is it going? This is your second time here at TIFF, right?

Maeve Jenkins: Second time at TIFF, yeah. We had our first time here with Charcoal last year. And now with Toll.

Mariana: How cool. I was thrilled to be able to talk to you. It's really cool to see Brazil out there, putting on a show. You may have already answered this several times, but as a Brazilian, I have to ask: what is it like to be here again, bringing Brazil to Toronto and the world once again?

Carolina Marcowicz: Well, I love it here. I love this festival. This festival is incredible; besides being a festival of great importance, it also has an incredible audience. That it is wonderful, that reacts, that accompanies us. So, the Toronto festival, it's amazing here… in every way. Sometimes it's just in a professional sense, there's the importance of the festival's prestige and things like that. But beyond that, also having this [response] from the people who are watching the film here, it is very incredible. Just yesterday, at the premiere, in the Q&A, there were people asking about Charcoal. They had come to see the film last year! So this is very interesting, the force of the Canadian audience here in Toronto.

I'm here for the sixth time, I've already been here a few times. I love it here, the festival has always supported me a lot. Starting with my second short film, which was shown here. I was doing an interview for TIFF just now, and I said that was the first year they opened for International Shorts, in 2014, which was the year my animated short was shown here. After that year, I had two more short films, Long Distance Relationship (2017) and The Orphan (2018), and then Charcoal and Toll. And I was a part of the Filmmakers' Lab in 2015. So, I've been here a few times, and each time has been very incredible. 

Mariana: That's amazing! I think that for us Brazilians, this interacting audience makes all the difference. It must be really incredible.

Maeve: I feel like the festival has this audience-building thing too. Many years of the festival, and I imagine that the volunteers and the integration of audiovisual students and young directors are forming a generation of cinephiles. And you feel it in the audience, in those who attend the films, in how they respond to film, how they follow the directors, the actors. There is a passion for cinema that you can feel at the festival. It's really cool.

Mariana: What is it like bringing this specific story here? I feel like a lot of times when we talk about queer stories in cinema, most of what we see is North American. So, for me, it's really very special to see and hear these stories in Brazil and in Portuguese. What was it like for you to tell this story? What do you hope people here, in particular, take away from the film? Is it different from what you hope audiences in Brazil will take away from the film?

Carolina: What I would like people to take away from the film converges everywhere. But [in] Brazil, being a more conservative country, I think it's important for people to see this. Perhaps it portrays a more Brazilian reality. But here, in this case, it is supposed to be a window into that reality. Without wanting to spoil anything, but what happens in the [conversion therapy] program may seem absurd, there is this dramatic part of the film, which is, well, bizarre and at times comical and seems surreal. But it is not. In Brazil, it is not. But here, being a much less conservative country, with politicians who speak much less nonsense than we hear there, it might be more absurd. There are two sides to this, showing what happens there [in Brazil], portraying these people and making them see themselves in this satirical criticism that we see in the film. But I think the film's message is one of acceptance and tolerance without romanticization. It's showing who these people are and that they won't change and that everyone will have to live together and understand each other.

Maeve: I think that this degree of approximation of the absurd is different for Brazil and Canada, considering the reality of the countries. Canada has a more progressive tradition in this sense, right? But at the end of the day, I think prejudice exists to different degrees all over the world, including here. Yesterday, at the end of the film, a couple of Canadian psychoanalysts, who looked to be in their 70s, came over very excited to greet us and said: "I have to say that I found the approach and development of these characters super intelligent and realistic." Look, we're talking about a language that flirts with the absurd but he said, "Super intelligent and realistic." The woman, it was a couple, and they were both psychoanalysts, she said: "This mother and this son are constantly in my office." They were very emotional. It was really incredible talking to them.

What I mean by all of this is that, to different degrees, this conflict exists worldwide. Unfortunately, it is worldwide. But in Brazil, it is evident. I'm very excited to show it in Brazil. Well, we filmed Toll during the Bolsonaro government, a guy who said he would rather have a dead son than a gay son, among various other offences and violence. Even today, in Brazil, this conflict is very present. Right now, last week, they are trying to foot a bill to annul same-sex marriage. So, we are still under attack. The super-conservative government was defeated at the polls, but we still live the echo of that ultra-conversational period. This is very alive. So obviously, this makes me very excited to share this story with the audience. And about expectations, I confess that whenever I make a film, I internalize themes, like we're talking about this, this and this. But many layers, this intuition, will only appear; you can only take ownership of it when you watch it collectively. When you discuss the film. When you debate the film. This only happens when the film is born, when it comes into conflict with the audience. And that's completely out of our control and that fascinates me. There are things, layers, that we will only discover by putting the film out into the world.

Kauan Alvarenga plays Tiquinho in Toll, directed by Carolina Marcowicz. (Courtesy of TIFF)

Mariana: And in relation to showing this film to different audiences, what care is needed to make a film like this? Did you take a certain amount of care when creating this film and wanting to show it to a foreign audience? As a Brazilian who lives here, I know the idea that people tend to have about Brazil, so I wanted to know if there is any idea behind the image that your film can give of our country when watched abroad.

Carolina: I think we don't want to stereotype or romanticize. There's a rawness to the film that I think is important to show. The important thing is to show things without exoticizing them. Without making people see this as if it were something from afar, as if there was some judgment here. The people are there, they live there. They live in this city, they have this financial situation. Some better, some worse. They figure things out. They live in a totally unequal society, which is Brazil. And you can't pretend that it isn't, and this generates a thousand other forms of violence. So, I think the important thing is that you treat your characters with respect and without exoticizing them. And without placing yourself in a place above, or in short, on the far side. As if you weren't part of it in that way. It's not about wanting to show it as if it were a case study. There has to be that care. It's a question of respect, a question of principle. It's a question of the film itself.

Maeve: Perfect. I agree with every word of what Carol said. And as an actress, what I try, which is always very risky, is to try to have a genuine interest in those people. In the worst and best of them. But having a genuine interest in understanding that and putting yourself in that place.

Mariana: Thank you so much for taking the time to talk to me. I don't want to keep you much longer. I was really very happy to have talked to you. I absolutely enjoyed the film, and I'm super excited to watch it again tonight in the audience.

Maeve: We'll be there tonight too! There will be a Q&A after the session!

Mariana: Oh! That's cool, I'm even more excited now. I've already invited my friend [John, one of CanCulture's Managing Editor]. I saw the film last night and told him he had to come with me again today to watch the film.

Caroline: Amazing!

Mariana: Well, thank you very much, and I hope you two have a great day!

Maeve: Thank you and see you later!

Carolina: Thank you!

CanCulture had a great time talking to Carolina Marcowicz and Maeve Jenkins about their experiences at TIFF and the creation of Toll. As a Brazilian, I can't wait for the film to come out in theatres so I can show it to my family there. 

TIFF 2019 Review: Jordan River Anderson, The Messenger

By Bree Duwyn

Alanis Obomsawin’s latest documentary is an eloquently produced film that shines a light on Jordan’s Principle, a law that states Canada must provide necessary and vital services to Indigenous children who require it.

“Everything is important to me that I’ve worked on,” said Obomsawin in an interview with CanCulture. She hopes that people take from her films the realization that an injustice of Indigenous people has been going on for many generations. 

A compassionate and raw production, Obomsawin beautifully strives to share stories of multiple Indigenous families in their journey towards receiving equal care for their youth. On her quest to tell pressing Indigenous stories, for her 53rd film, Obomsawin opens eyes with the story of Jordan River Anderson.

“When it comes to children, I have a very important place for children in my heart and this is what I’m most interested in,” Obomsawin explained as to why she chose a story like Jordan’s.

Jordan River Anderson, The Messenger delves deep into Indigenous families who are left behind when federal and provincial governments fail to come to a decision over health care bills. The documentary is entitled Jordan River Anderson as a namesake; Jordan River Anderson, a deceased six-year-old boy from Norway House Cree First Nation. The film shows his journey — a life spent entirely in a hospital.

“There is a lot of — in some cases — a lot of danger or difficulties to be able to do these stories. They’re very important because at the end of it, they can make people think differently,” said Obomsawin on why she feels her films are an integral part of revealing to an audience a variety of Indigenous issues.

There is sentiment and moments of empathy throughout, as well as a definitive strong drive present in the threads of this film. It establishes hope and a voice for Indigenous children through the meaningful contributions of advocates like Cindy Blackstock, executive director of First Nations Child and Family Caring Society of Canada.

Obomsawin claims the main importance when it comes to watching her documentaries is to listen with an open ear and ready perspective. Very invested in the production of her documentary, Obomsawin explains she did a lot of research, as well as sitting in on courtroom discussions. 

Not only is Jordan’s story shared, with compelling home video footage that gives you a sense of how wonderful Jordan was, but other Indigenous youth and their families are represented, sharing their unique and individual stories of their personal journeys all while elaborating on how Jordan’s Principle helped them to receive the care and support they needed. One instance that captures a moment of injustice is the plight of one family who are denied medical care solely for living on a reservation.

Working on this film since 2011, she notes that the story had to be put together in a way that the audience can understand and see what the story truly is in order to learn from what she has to say.

In a mere 65 minutes, Obomsawin is able to engage the audience with joyous videos of Jordan strumming a guitar synthesizer that imitates sounds he is able to feel and connect with. She is able to warm the hearts of viewers while also barring her own. There is strength in this piece, the film speaks truth and grit all while asking why these issues are taking place, but also determining how to move forward.

“To see the result and finally to see all those families received help, to better their lives, it is very important. It is very profound and encouraging to know that it is possible to get justice,” said Obomsawin.

The trailer for Jordan River Anderson, The Messenger via TIFF Trailers on YouTube

TIFF Review: Clara – Manic Pixie Dream Girls IN SPACE

By: Ben Cohen

Grade: C

The typical penultimate chapter – right before the reboot – in many franchises and genres is the port over to outer space. It’s a desperate move, taken by someone working on a worn-out, assembly line plot structure. Think Jason X, Dracula 3000, Moonraker, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull and Angry Birds Space. Clara is to the manic pixie dream girl genre what all those aforementioned creations are to their respective canons: one last piddling set change before the curtain falls for good.   

The titular character is a globe trotting, rock collecting, spiritualist and painter who decides to take up astrophysics, despite not having any post-secondary education whatsoever, believing strongly that being a quick-learning, hard worker is all it takes.

Ostensibly homeless, she responds to a wanted ad for an unpaid research assistant position with Dr. Isaac Bruno, astronomer, divorcé and disgraced professor, by showing up at his home unannounced.

Bruno rebukes her, but she still makes it into his apartment, with reluctant permission, to get her dog a bowl of water. There, the ex-professor tells Clara, once again, that she is unqualified for the job. She responds by picking up a record from his vinyl collection and asking to play it just once before she goes. The duo then discovers their shared love for the work of Bob Dylan, specifically The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan, his second studio album, and that somehow gives them enough common ground for Bruno to not only hire Clara as his assistant, but also let her and her dog move in with him.

From then on, Bruno and Clara spend the film having multiple, nearly identical, sophomoric conversations orbiting the spirituality vs science debate. The team prattle on about it in a manner only slightly more sophisticate than two teenagers in a state of blunt-induced philosophical rambling.

“People are scared of the unknown,” said science-man Bruno. “We basically know nothing, so we make things up, these bedtime stories.”

Clara counters deftly by remarking that Sir Isaac Newton was religious. This fact somehow pierces Bruno’s hull of skepticism and ends the scene.    

The film’s second act drags on in this manner, with Clara acing the pixie muse’s standard programming. She teaches her assigned brilliant broken man, Bruno, social and artistic skills and helps him get over the loss of his son, all the while searching for alien life with him through satellite imaging.

“Finding some other life form isn’t going to bring (our dead son) back,” said Bruno’s ex-wife, Rebecca.

“I know, but it’s all I have,” he responds.

Clara then mutilates the astronomer’s grief with a nice screed about how quantum entanglement and recycled atoms mean that his late son will always be with him.

The third act abandons the alien hunting plot until the climax. This forces us to spend time with our two watered-down cliché composite leads butting heads over intelligent design for the umpteenth time.

Clara finally coaxes Bruno into having some sort of cosmological vision with the help of one of her magic rocks. This ends up leading to the discovery of alien life right at the very end of the film, but not before the audience is treated to the line of the night:

“You spend all this time looking at stars, you’re going to miss what’s right in front of you.”

Goodness gracious.

Clara isn’t all awful. The score features exciting orchestral tunes and some classic Dylan yowls. The cinematography is at times breathtaking, specifically the views of the cosmos the audience is treated to during scene transitions. Shots around Toronto and in TTC are a warm reminder of the staunch Canadianity of film’s cast and crew. The ending is surprisingly satisfying, with first contact being made and Clara’s devout spiritualism being ratified. It’s just a shame this pleasing payoff took so long to arrive and was so brief.

TIFF 2018 Review: Firecrackers

By: Andrea Josic

Grade: A-

At surface level, Firecrackers seems to explore everything that young adults in quiet, rural Ontario towns dream about: a way out. Far from a simple, coming-of-age story about two best friends, Firecrackers is a film that explores the challenges young women face while navigating a patriarchal world.

Director Jasmin Mozaffari, a graduate from Ryerson University’s film studies program, takes a look at society’s expectations of women and how these standards are overcome. Developed from the short film of the same name Mozaffari made as a student, her feature film debut Firecrackers overwhelms the audience with authentic characters, intricate plotlines and well-executed cinematography.

The movie opens with the protagonist Lou, TIFF’s Rising Star Michaela Kurimsky, fighting another girl in a parking lot. Immediately introduced as crude, dominant and fiery, Lou embodies all the traits of a woman living outside of traditional definitions of femininity. As the movie progresses and her character faces challenges that test her independence and womanhood, Kurimsky’s acting never falters.

Chantal (Karena Evans) represents society’s current expectations of women. Outside of acting, Evans is a trailblazing filmmaker who has helped produce videos for Drake and Grammy-nominated R&B singer SZA. As Firecrackers reaches its climax, Chantal breaks out of her shell and embodies the same powerful qualities Evans possesses in her own personality.

After she’s assaulted by her ex-boyfriend, Chantal’s desperation to leave town escalates. Brimming with character development, she delivers satisfying growth and decision-making as she embarks on this chaotic journey with her best friend.

Although the pair share the dream of leaving their stuffy, one-dimensional town, Chantal and Lou’s characters serve to juxtapose one another. As different as their behaviours are, their acting feels natural as they attempt to break out of society’s standards together

There are several plotlines woven into the film at once, adding just enough detail to keep the complexities of the film subtle yet impactful. Mozaffari continues to explore the definitions of gender and conformity through Lou’s younger brother Jesse (Callum Thompson), who likes to dress in Lou’s clothing and wear makeup. The lack of support Jesse receives from their mother Leanne (Tamara LeClair) is Mozaffari’s way of providing social commentary on toxic masculinity and the oppression of femininity.

Mozaffari took an interesting approach to the cinematography, but it proves to be worth the bold move. Comprised mainly of shaky, hand-held shots, a filmmaking risk that could have otherwise appeared careless and flawed, only contributed to the movie’s electric, raw atmosphere. The loud, eerie music, with amplified sound effects, added yet another layer of the same dark edge that comes with every other aspect of this movie.

In her feature film debut, Mozaffari delivers an intense female-driven narrative with two leads who are unapologetically rough around the edges. Lou and Chantal’s journeys to pursue their dreams in a male-dominated world is executed with skill and edge. In an age where women are deconstructing systemic sexism and demanding their freedom of expression, Firecrackers has debuted at the perfect time.

TIFF 2018 Review: Edge of the Knife

By: Isabelle Kirkwood

Grade: A

Edge of the Knife is a 2018 Canadian drama film co-directed by Gwaai Edenshaw and Helen Haig-Brown. It is the first feature film spoken only in dialects of the Haida language. Set in 19th-century Haida Gwaii, it tells the classic Haida story of the traumatized and stranded man transformed to Gaagiixiid, the wildman.

Gwaii Edenshaw and Helen Haig-Brown’s Edge of the Knife (Haida: SG̲aawaay Ḵ'uuna) forges a new method of storytelling from a long since unheard corner of Canadian cinema. Set in the 19th century Haida Gwaii archipelago in the vividly rugged Pacific Northwest, the film centres around a small 19th century Haida community.

More pointedly, the film follows a narrative that draws parallels from a moral era akin to Crime and Punishment. The death of a local child drives our implicated protagonist, Adiits’ii, into torment and grief, as he absconds his people into the unforgiving wilderness. We follow his descent into madness as he is, in a sense, ‘swallowed whole’ by the wilderness that soon becomes his own hell.

The dramatic coastal landscape sits on what seems like the edge of the Earth. Vast temperate rainforest and rugged, inhospitable shoreline epitomize the brutal and violent forces of nature and guilt that possess the protagonist, transforming him into a feral pariah. 

Adiits'ii’s character begins as incredulously charming, but as he descends into insanity, his character becomes more convincing. After the death of Adiitsi’ii’s young nephew, the film’s pace changes dramatically – the rather measured pacing of the community’s scenes breaths a sense of calm into the film. But the film abruptly kicks into action, as we see our now untamed protagonist tearing through harsh wilderness, covered in his own blood.

The film’s rather lurid imagery was able to effectively shock and disgust. By the time Adiits’ii returns to his community, every inch of his body is etched by dirt and blood trails. Urchin needles are protruding from his lips. The wilderness has turned the initially charming nobleman into a beast.

The acting throughout this film is rather strained, with many communal scenes opening with forced and prolonged laughter. The dialogue, too, is hard to relish – tone is lost in the actors’ ostensibly modest grasp of the challenging Haida language. 

The film is the first to be scripted entirely in Haida. For this reason, it only seems to fair to cut the actors some slack for a seemingly rudimentary grasp of the dialect. Often times, tone is difficult to read, and dialogue is spoken with a trace of vacillation. I wish I could say this didn’t take away from the film, but it did.

 The sound design is overbearing and often hyperbolic – Foley which should be ambient resonates more obnoxiously than it does evocatively. However, the sound design’s true victory is in its use of score. The rich percussive beat is an unfortunate dramatic trope in modern cinema, but works impeccably in Edge of the Knife. The unnerving turtle rattles, the haunting water drum and the rich vocal hums and whirrs seem to conduct Adiits’ii through his decline into a dark and otherworldly possession, and his community into a spell of grief and despair, without taking audience from its setting. Despite some of the paranormal elements of the film, many of its elements allow the story to maintain its realism.

This is an Indigenous film with an Indigenous cast and crew. It masterfully revives tradition and lore that remains culturally and historically relevant to Indigenous peoples in Canada. The fundamental clash between man and nature are omnipresent, themes of the turmoil of grief and one’s delivery from it are central. In this film, we are offered a dark and unnerving chronicle, where Indigeneity is not offered as a prop, trope or sideshow. Indigeneity is the main act.

TIFF 2018 Review: Giant Little Ones

Grade: B-

By Julianna Perkins

Giant Little Ones, a new film from Canadian director Keith Behrman, successfully completed its world premiere at this year’s Toronto International Film Festival. 

Giant Little Ones is the latest from Behrman, who’s previous film Flower & Garnet won the 2002 Canadian Screen Award for Best First Feature. It’s clear the Saskatchewan native intends to keep strong performances coming. 

Right from the start, the film invites us to get lost in a close up of protagonist Franky’s soft and boyish face. We’re drawn in to observe his subtle freckles and cheeky smile – we watch as his hair tousles in the wind. There’s very little doubt about what you’re going to see; this is a coming-of-age movie. 

The next thing to hit you is the music. The entire film is excellently scored and incorporates upbeat, electronic compositions with deep bass into the most unlikely scenes. The sound alone is one of the biggest factors that keep Giant Little Ones from collapsing into melancholic mush.

The movie, filmed in Sault Ste. Marie, centres on Franky (Josh Wiggins), a 17-year-old boy whose family life becomes exceptionally complicated after his father (Kyle MacLachlan) comes out as gay and his parents separate. Franky is resentful and channels his frustration into swimming and by falling deeper into the arms of old friends and new girlfriends.

In true coming-of-age film fashion, on the night of his 17th birthday, Franky has a sexual encounter that immediately jeopardizes every close relationship he has. He’s thrown into the bowels of bullying, social isolation and tough conversations. But going against the stereotypical grain of most other coming-of-age films, Giant Little Ones delves deeper into the nuances of sexuality in the millennial age, toxic masculinity and the idea that sometimes being okay is the best you can hope for.

Wiggins’ performance, and indeed the performances of the entire cast, are truly the legs on which the film stands. Thanks to the depth and sincerity of the actor’s performances, Giant Little Ones avoids becoming a cheeseball teenage pity-fest and instead creates beautiful little moments in even the saddest circumstances. Genuine emotion is allowed to come through because the actors don’t over-act; their subtlety is their greatest strength.

The film would have been stronger, however, if the admirable acting hadn’t been cut down by subpar writing. Much of the dialogue, probably intended to provide comedic relief, ended up instead garnering a collective audience eye-roll. Such gems included the teenage classics “no, I’m totally into you,” “it never would’ve happened if we weren’t wasted” and my personal favourite, “my mom is ruining my life!” 

The messy writing translates further into a messy plot, as the movie somehow feels both fast-paced and slow burning, ultimately lacking focus. You’re never sure if the main theme was Franky’s bullying, Franky coming to terms with his identity, Franky learning he’s not the only person facing tough situations, or a combination of all three.

Throw in a queer-best-friend character that materializes out of nowhere and disappears just as quickly, and an irrelevant, completely comedically-gratuitous scene about three-quarters of the way in and you’re left wanting to take a red pen to the script to preserve its sensitivity.

Writing aside, Behrman’s directorial hand paints the screen in a constant palette of blues, which complement the film’s clean cinematography and soft focus. Our eyes are never bored and intention is translated repeatedly through visual action, sparing unnecessary dialogue. Visually, Giant Little Ones is an underrated success.

Even if the film is a mixed bag in the mechanical sense, Giant Little Ones’ intentions and acting put it a notch above any stereotypical coming-of-age movie. The characters are genuine, the storyline is complex and at its core, there is a complicated takeaway for everyone. You might just see a little bit of yourself in Franky’s matured gaze as the film fades out of one final close-up.