|Raindance film review: Prevertere|
|Written by Ivan Radford|
|Sunday, 29 September 2013 08:31|
Director: Brian McGuire
"If you're trying to get laid, if you're trying to fall in love, whatever you want to call it," begins Prevertere, "the answer..."
Then the radio cuts off.
It's telling that the film starts by equating love and getting laid: Bryan McGuire's drama spends its runtime trying to separate the two. It never really succeeds.
The film follows Templeton (Wayne), a commitment-shy bloke who's in an on-off fling with Jo-anne (Rossi). They drive to Vegas where they end up at a drunken gathering. "Real party heads, huh? Cool," nods their shallow, wasted host.
Then, just as we get a handle on their relationship, we see Templeton with another woman: Shelly (Ponziana). Sleeping with him behind the back of her boyfriend, the enigmatically named Bobby D, she demands love from our lead. He brushes her off with talk of touring Canada with his non-existent band. "I hate you," she cries. "You said we were soul mates the other day," he retorts. "You hate your soul mate? That's sad."
It's only when Templeton is with Irene (McIntosh) that he doesn't have to lie. Instead, he talks through his conquests as they swap life stories - in between kinky sex games. "You're not even being honest with yourself," she states. Then puts on an animal mask and resumes their role-play.
Brian McGuire's trio paint a fascinating portrait of love: one where it's unappreciated, one where it's unreciprocated and one where it's impossible. The film's title (Latin for pervert) suggests something lurid, but this is more sophisticated than that - for a film full of sex, barely any is shown on screen. Instead, McGuire's vaseline-smeared lens and tasteful cutaways keep the focus on the effects of it, taking three female characters who could've been mere objects and fleshing them out into complex people. Rossi is superb as the free-spirited Jo-anne, while Antonella Ponziana does desperate with believable hysteria. Pollyanna steals the show, though, as Templeton's mirror opposite - his perfect companion, if it weren't for the fact that commitment would ruin their bond completely.
Terry Wayne cruises through his messed up life with all the confidence of a grade A douche, but wins our sympathy in a delicate campfire scene. Just as things with Jo-anne seem to be back in the swing of things, though, up pops an Italian singer - and things get serious. Producer Bret Roberts steals the show as the charismatic cabaret act, practically singing every line with a glowering stare.
It all comes together in a sharply-written whirl of non-linear confrontations: combined with searingly genuine handheld photography, it's an honest and raw dissection of modern relationships. At one point mid-shag, McGuire cuts away to a crudely artistic painting on the wall: a naked man and woman with their bits on show. Prevertere does exactly that. The answer to love? The difference between sex and sincere emotion? Prevertere never really finds out. As Templeton loops round to do the whole thing again, that's the whole point.