bobhartshorn

Possum is a (very) slight yarn about shamed puppeteer Richie (Sean Harris) returning to the decaying home of his childhood. Richie spends his days wandering an undisclosed part of Norfolk ( population 10?) to the accompaniment of a Radiophonic Workshop soundtrack. There's a child abduction case lurking in the shadows too. Could Richie be involved, and what is that ghastly apparition nesting in the bowels of his bag? Yeah, on paper, this one sounded like it'd be right up my street. So its with heavy heart I regret to inform you that Holness' debut in the writer/director chair is a major disappointment.

Based on a self-penned short story (and showing every inch of it) Holness' painfully derivative Lynchian pseudo art-horror would have been rightly rejected before a frame had been shot had his name not been attached to it. However, it's less Eraserhead and more Frank Henenlotter's Basketcase gatecrashing David Cronenberg's Spider without the wit & intrigue of any of them. Surprise & suspense evaporate within the first 20 minutes and it spends the rest of its time hitting the same dull beat until the non-too-shocking anti-climactic reveal.

I do appreciate the repetitive nature of the narrative is intentional and is absolutely fundamental to the vivid picture it attempts to paint of a nightmare in a damaged brain. But the lack of variation in tone and design (not to mention locations) make for a very ugly and oppressive viewing experience, and not in the way it's creator would hope.

The performances are unconvincing too: Alun Armstrong as Richie's seedy Uncle Maurice, devours the scenery amateur-dramatics Bill Sykes style, whilst Harris (an actor I've irrationally had it in for since his rancid space-crusty turn in Prometheus) goes full method with one-note, misery-guts mug and mannered mannequin body contortions. And true to Lynch-clone fashion, he does it decked out in a gormless-looking, buttoned to the neck grey shirt.

Its ironic then that, the only positive thing to say about him (and Possum as a whole) is the major contribution he makes to the creepy-crawly thing you can see on the poster. The arachnid is sublime, and the only thing you'll remember long after you've forgotten the film.

A Hell spawned psychedelic horror cartoon made flesh from the Son of Rambo featuring a Nicholas Cage vodka-cleansing meltdown in a Clockwork Orange décor bathroom?!? No, don't pinch me, this isn't a dream/nightmare, this is a living breathing reality - and if you're quick enough, you can catch it on the big screen where it deserves to be seen.

On paper, Mandy is nothing more than a standard nuts & bolts revenger: Lumberjack Red Miller (Cage) hunts down wrong-uns who've seriously mistreated his other half (a supernaturally unrecognisable Andrea Riseborough in the title role). Cue bloody eye-for-an-eye retribution and you-know-the-drill etc.

In the hands of director and co-writer Panos Cosmatos however, the visual aesthetic is content and king: performances, dialogue, composition ad infinitum, are stylised to within an inch of their beautiful lives in a slow-burning, virtue-in-vices action-horror that shamelessly worships at the altar of John Norman book covers and the fanboy soiled, dog-eared pages of Metal Hurlant magazine. It explicitly bows before unfashionable fantasy icons Boris Vallejo and Frank Frazetta, boldly wearing cosmetic homages to their work like a barbarians' shield of honour on its claret soaked sleeve, often to brilliant effect.

Cosmatos finds room too for acid-casualty Cenobites on wheels, ghoulish anime' interludes, dueling chainsaws and Linus Roache's religious cult leader lunatic (the wickedly christened Jerimiah Sand) paying unapologetic tribute to Dennis Hopper in Blue Velvet...and - is that a Friday The 13th reference I can hear? Toss in Don Dohler, anal sex, chuck-up cheese goblins and some well timed humour, and voila! - we.have.Mandy (think Mastodon: The Movie directed by David Lynch and you're half way there).

My only complaint is, it doesn't take things quite as far as it should have done. Mandy is left a little bit wanting at times, almost as if Cosmatos held back on the accelerator for fear of landing his Heavy Metal meditation on life, the universe and broadsword thingamajigs the wrong side of 'tasteful', thereby disqualifying it from the almost unanimous cheers of goodwill its warmly received from the critical elite (the 95% rating at Rotten Tomatoes is richly deserved, but one can't help feel that the exact same voices of praise would have spat on Mandy if it had been directed by Rob Zombie).

Cage should have been madder, the bad guys badder, the blood bloodier and the drug-stuff druggier to take it from plain ole' OTT, to the orbit of Jupiter (or Saturn) where it truly belongs. If Mr Panos had pushed it just that little bit further, then I'd be able to push it to full marks and (possibly) my movie of the year spot.

But don't let that (smallish) gripe put you off. Mandy is still a stunningly shot, cinematic blast from start-to-finish with the best soundtrack of the year courtesy of the late Johann Johannsson (RIP). And there's not a Barry Manilow song in sight.