reelreviewsandrecommendations

Comedian and writer Neal Brennan once remarked "there's nothing worse than trying to be funny and not being funny." Countless supposed comedies have tried too hard and failed even harder, aberrations like the disastrous spy spoof 'Leonard Part 6,' 'Son of the Mask' and the irredeemable 'Movie 43.' Torments to sit through, they stand as monuments to the painful truth that laughter cannot be forced.

Christopher Cain's 1997 effort 'Gone Fishin' is one such disaster; a generic comedy so unfunny it's a wonder it made it past the first table read. It follows bumbling buddies Joe and Gus, fishing enthusiasts who embark on their dream trip to Florida. On the way, they run afoul of a charming conman, befriend two feisty young ladies and leave a trail of chaos in their wake. However, instead of reeling in laughs, the film hooks nothing but groans and awkward silences.

A comedic calamity, the narrative contains no surprises; nothing builds and nothing lands. Instead of crafting humour from character or situation, screenwriters J. J. Abrams and Jill Mazursky rely on tired shtick that was outdated in the 1950's. It's astonishing how much talent is squandered here- Abrams, Academy Award winning cinematographer Dean Semler, producer Roger Birnbaum- yet the finished product is so flat and lifeless it seems like no one involved particularly cared.

Playing like a Three Stooges knock-off, the film has no momentum whatsoever. Lazily edited and burdened with an irritatingly upbeat score from Randy Edelman, it offers only clumsy gags and dead air. You feel every second of its 94-minute runtime. Even Semler's cinematography, which brought such grandeur to 'Dances with Wolves', is utterly uninspired, reducing Florida's landscapes to dull backdrops, as lifeless as a faded postcard.

Limping from one predictable pratfall to the next, the film leaves its talented cast stranded in material that is as uninspired as it is unfunny. One can only wonder what Joe Pesci, Danny Glover, Rosanna Arquette and Willie Nelson were thinking when they signed on. What on earth could possibly have seemed appealing about this trainwreck of a project?

Originally intended as a vehicle for the late, great John Candy and Rick Moranis, one can almost picture the two of them elevating the material with their natural chemistry, superb improvisation and impeccable comic timing. Candy's warmth and chaos, paired with Moranis's neurotic wit, might have given the story some spark, some charm; something that 'Gone Fishin' completely fails to deliver.

Joe Pesci is a dab hand at comedy. From 'My Cousin Vinny' to 'Home Alone', he effortlessly blends manic energy with precise timing, turning even the simplest line into something memorable. However, as Joe, he misfires, overacting wildly like a cartoon character stranded in a live-action world. Danny Glover fares no better in the role of Gus, reduced to reacting to slapstick setups with the kind of forced expressions that make you wince rather than laugh.

Their supporting cast makes little to no impression whatsoever, drifting through the film like ghosts in a sandstorm. As the free-spirited girls the two meet along the way, Rosanna Arquette and Lynn Whitfield barely register, while Nick Brimble's conman is about as menacing as a sleeping duckling. Gary Grubbs tries to inject some energy into proceedings as a slimy boat salesman, as does Maury Chaykin as an over-friendly waiter; but their efforts are in vain.

Bizarrely, Oscar winner Louise Fletcher turns up for all of two seconds as a waitress, getting nothing to do, seeming disappointed and going uncredited. Further, practically defining a "blink-and-you'll-miss-it" cameo, is Willie Nelson, delivering his lines with the dazed detachment of a man who's enjoyed a little too much of Willie's Reserve.

In his review of the Joan Rivers helmed flop 'Rabbit Test', Roger Ebert noted that "before anything else, movie comedy has to feel funny; we should sense from the screen that the filmmakers themselves are laughing. We don't this time." Such is the case with Christopher Cain's 'Gone Fishin'. Every gag feels staged, every pratfall forced. The result is a flat, joyless comedy that not only fails to amuse but also misses the most basic requirement of its genre: to make the viewer laugh. In the end, in trying so hard to be funny, 'Gone Fishin' flounders.

In a July 2025 article for The New York Times, Carlos Aguilar stated that director Kiyoshi Kurosawa "is to psychological fright what David Cronenberg is to body horror." Indeed, over the last 30 years, Kurosawa has become a master at weaving sinister, slow-creeping dread into the everyday- elevating the mundane into something almost imperceptibly menacing. However, he has not been constricted to the realm of the macabre. From dramatic comedies like 'Licence to Live,' to sci-fi and espionage flicks like 'Before We Vanish' and 'Wife of a Spy,' Kurosawa has shown himself to be a stylistic shapeshifter, crafting films that transcend the boundaries of genre.

This versatility finds one of its most poignant expressions in 'Tokyo Sonata', where Kurosawa turns his eye from the supernatural to the everyday disquiet of family life. It follows the Sasaki family after the father, Ryuhei, loses his job, hiding the truth from his wife, Megumi, and children, Kenji and Takashi. As each family member begins concealing their own desires and frustrations, the household's fragile harmony unravels, exposing the subtle unease beneath ordinary life. Here, the spectre is not a ghost or a curse, but the erosion of equilibrium- both economic and emotional.

It is a powerful drama, anchored by believable characters whose struggles feel both intimate and universal. Ryuhei's pride and secrecy, Megumi's quiet yearning for freedom, Kenji's defiance through music and Takashi's impulsive search for purpose, all unfold with understated precision. Kurosawa's dialogue is spare yet piercing, allowing silence and gesture to carry as much weight as words. In this restraint lies the film's strength: the ordinary rhythms of family life become charged with tension, revealing how repression and concealment corrode trust.

Beyond its domestic focus, the film examines broader themes of economic precarity, generational conflict and the fragility of identity in modern Japan. The collapse of Ryuhei's career mirrors a society grappling with instability, while Kenji's piano lessons symbolize the possibility of self-expression amid constraint. It could be said that Kurosawa is suggesting that true horror lies not in supernatural forces but in the unravelling of stability, leaving individuals isolated even within the family unit.

Kurosawa's craft amplifies these themes with quiet precision. Akiko Ashizawa's cinematography favours static, wide frames that emphasize distance and alienation within the family home, turning ordinary interiors into landscapes of unease. Koichi Takahashi's editing is restrained, with long takes allowing silence to stretch into tension, making the inevitable eruptions of conflict therein feel all the more startling.

Further, Masayuki Iwakura's sound design heightens the atmosphere by amplifying everyday noises- doors closing, footsteps, the hum of appliances and crinkling of crisp packets- while dialogue remains spare. Against this muted soundscape, a beautiful sequence of Kenji playing piano stands out as a moment of catharsis, where music becomes a fragile counterpoint to repression and collapse. Additionally, Claude Debussy's 'Clair de Lune' has rarely been used to such effect.

All in the cast deliver powerhouse performances. Teruyuki Kagawa subtly displays Ryuhei's frustration and emotional turmoil, while Kyoko Koizumi's Megumi is a heart-rending masterclass in moderation. As their son Kenji- and in his big-screen debut- Kai Inowaki delivers a remarkably nuanced performance, while supporting players Haruka Igawa, Kanji Tsuda and the great Koji Yakusho contribute brilliantly to the ensemble.

Kiyoshi Kurosawa's 'Tokyo Sonata' is a quietly devastating work. By stripping away the supernatural and focusing instead on the fractures within an ordinary household, he reveals that the most unsettling spectres are those born of everyday pressures- economic uncertainty, emotional repression and the slow erosion of trust. With its composed craft, nuanced performances and thematic resonance, the film demonstrates Kurosawa's ability to transcend genre and speak to universal human anxieties. In short, 'Tokyo Sonata' hits all the right notes.

In an era where cinema often gravitates toward polished narratives and predictable arcs, some filmmakers still try to wield the camera as a weapon of truth- or at least provocation. Like the pioneers of cinéma vérité and the political provocateurs of the 1960's New Wave, they strive to strip away artifice, exposing the raw nerves of human experience. Yet the paradox remains: the moment a lens is trained on reality, reality shifts. True vérité may be unattainable, but the pursuit itself can become a radical act- one that interrogates not just the subject, but the viewer's complicity.

This is the purported aim of underground filmmaker Guerrilla Metropolitana, who claims to be trying to use the medium of film to disturb, ignite debate and fracture the boundaries between observation and intrusion. In his newest work, 'The Benefactress (an Exposure of Cinematic Freedom),' a self-styled philanthropist agrees to finance Metropolitana's next project, on the condition that she be in it. So begins a descent into a labyrinth of voyeurism, manipulation and moral decay that can only end messily.

Currently out on global distribution through Blood Pact Films, and available via streaming services, Metropolitana's film is a caustic exercise in viewer alienation. Its mostly improvised narrative is sparse, repetitive and full of uncomfortable scenes. Like Tamakichi Anaru's infamous (and more accomplished) 'Tumbling Doll of Flesh', it aims not to tell a conventional story, but to unsettle. Generally, there are two ways to approach a film like this. One is to dissect its surface, which in this case generates more fatigue than feeling: the imagery is confrontational, the plot minimal and the dialogue and characterisation practically non-existent.

The other is to consider what these choices reveal about the filmmaker's intent: a rejection of narrative comfort and a desire to provoke reflection rather than deliver resolution or conform to cinematic conventions. If one wishes to take that approach, Metropolitana's film could be positioned as a grand experiment, of sorts, pushing the boundaries of what can be considered cinema.

Stylistically, the film is visceral and confrontational. Abuse and sexual content- much of which is apparently unsimulated- appears throughout, presented with a cold, voyeuristic detachment. However, these sequences lack the grisly, macabre precision of Anaru's work, and feel somewhat amateurish by comparison. Further, although the cast appear committed, their performances ultimately feel as hollow as the parts they play, undermined by Metropolitana's scant characterisation.

Visually, the film is striking, shot partially in high-contrast black and white and partially in the desaturated hues of a 70's porn flick. Reliant on handheld camerawork amidst claustrophobic interiors, Metropolitana rejects aesthetic polish in favour of gritty immediacy. The sound design leans into discomfort, favouring eerie melodies and sharp bursts of dissonance, creating a discordant sonic landscape heightening the film's abrasive tone. While these stylistic choices generate a dark, uneasy mood, they are arguably overused, quickly becoming exhausting.

It may certainly be more rewarding to attempt to contextualize 'The Benefactress (an Exposure of Cinematic Freedom)' as a conceptual provocation rather than a coherent piece of storytelling. Viewed this way, its sexually charged imagery and emotional detachment can be seen as part of a larger statement about the limits of cinematic language. This approach demands a great deal of effort, however.

Much like the aforementioned Anaru effort, or Sade Satô's equally disturbing 'Mai-Chan's Daily Life,' Metropolitana's film purposefully offers very little in the way of character development, resonance or momentum. For many, it will feel like a sick endurance test- challenging not only one's patience, but one's natural desire for meaning. Whether that challenge is worthwhile depends entirely on the viewers' appetite for discomfort.

To frame all this as artistic intent may be giving Metropolitana too much credit- a concern that echoes the controversy surrounding the similarly seedy 'A Serbian Film', whose creators claimed it was an allegory for Serbia's post-war trauma. That justification, for many, rang exceedingly hollow- a retroactive excuse for gratuitous excess rather than a genuine artistic motive. 'The Benefactress (an Exposure of Cinematic Freedom)' invites similar scrutiny.

Are its repetitively pornographic scenes a deliberate challenge to cinematic norms, or merely a convenient shield for incoherence and shock? Is the absence of a conventional storyline really a philosophical stance, or simply self-indulgence masquerading as depth? More broadly, what even constitutes cinema- a coherent narrative, an emotional arc or simply the act of provocation? These questions linger long after the credits roll on Guerrilla Metropolitana's 'The Benefactress (an Exposure of Cinematic Freedom)', and, frankly, are more compelling than the film itself.