justintannerpw1

The hardest film genre to nail is probably the faux-documentary-comedy. There's basically "This is Spinal Tap," "Best in Show," the "Borat" movies, and to a lesser degree "Waiting for Guffman" and its follow ups. The rest are stuck in that grey area in between 'fighting for naturalism' and "lousy slapstick." If you want to see an example of how badly it can go when the director (and most of the actors) don't have a clue, try watching "Honk for Jesus, Save Your Soul," a dismally unfunny attempt to make comedy from the Mega-Church Scandal phenomenon, a subject that is already overripe with self-parody: No matter how hard this movie tries, it can't compete with the truth. ("The Real Housewives of..." franchise already creates the funniest faux-documentaries out there. If you're going to try and lambaste the manipulative rich, at least know your competition).

I love Regina Hall. "Master," her creepy horror film (about the first Black head of house at a mostly white East Coast University) is one of my favorite films of the year. She is a real chameleon and absolutely the only actor in "Honk" that seems to know what she's doing. Every glance, gesture and half-spoken aside is right on point.

But the rest of the cast (especially Sterling K. Brown and Nicole Beharie) are simply incapable of finding that sweet spot where naturalistic comedy thrives. They're all pushing too hard. And the sudden non-specific camera zooms that (clearly) first-time director Adamma Ebo uses to ham-fistedly remind us that we're watching a 'mockumentary' are just lame. After thirty minutes I got so tired of groaning that I actually had to shut the thing off.

Maybe the movie found its feet in the final hour. If that's the case...my bad. I was intending to review this thing for Art Report Today but there's no way I could 1.) finish watching it and 2.) write a published takedown of a movie that casts so many talented (but sadly misdirected) POC.

Another example of a perfectly lovely movie that is utterly destroyed by the non stop chattering of its busy, busy musical soundtrack. There are about five minutes of film where the chugging, scampering and whining music stops and the relief is overwhelming. Otherwise not a moment goes by where we aren't being told exactly how to feel from second to second. Loudly. I wanted to pull my ears off my head.

I'll be writing a review for Art Report Today so I just wanted to say: this is the best film of the year so far and Davies' finest achievement. Bring the tissues, it's a weeper. And the acting is sublime.