The Fellrockers marks noted actor Adam Driver's first attempt at not only screenwriting, but also directing a feature film. Described by Driver in multiple press interviews as "Marxist Oppenheimer," the slow-burn drama follows two members of the aristocratic Fellrocker family as they drift apart as a result of disagreements over the nature of capitalism.
While at times resembling a poignant ode to the working class, Driver's self-indulgence often causes the film to lose focus of its main message, resulting in an end product that is about as coherent as a Pollock painting. This is most apparent in the overbearing romantic subplot between David Fellrocker (played by Driver) and his love interest, with over a third of the runtime dedicated to the couple's sexual inclinations -- one particularly egregious love scene involves the two engaged in "the taxpayer," a moment which must have seemed genius to Driver when writing the script but is nothing but awkward for the viewing audience.
Another example of the film's disjointed nature comes when, following the death of a major character, David looks into the camera and says "Now that's what I call blood money!" a line that feels plucked straight out of a cheesy 80s action film and has no place in a film as serious as Driver wants us to believe his debut is.
In summary, while The Fellrockers shows capable directing chops from the actor, Adam Driver would do good to attend a few more writing workshops, or at least be more open to criticism when it comes to his screenwriting endeavors.
Pliz Help (Given the film's Weimar setting, I can only assume Pliz is a misspelling of the German word for mushroom, Pilz) is a bold foray by Adam Driver into the world of screenplay. It is clear that he has truly embraced the genre of the art film, but having only one character does work better if one does not kill them off only a little over halfway through the film's gargantuan five hour runtime. Driver's script starts off strong, with imagery that calls into question what a mushroom cloud may have meant to someone living before the invention of nuclear weaponry and also begins to explore themes of inner spirituality, but proceeds to throw the small, personal narrative world it has created away with the appearance of the mushroom god and her angels, upset at what will soon be done with her image. Ultimately, the ending manages to leave the viewer unsatisfied but with nothing to think about. I give Pliz Help two stars.
Adam Driver with the recent success of his A Marriage Story has gained enough confidence to write, direct and star in his own film which at best may be called only mildly pretentious. An obvious Oscar bait, his movie attempts to dive into the murky world of genetic ethics and the lengths people would go to win college football. Looking almost 20 years older than an average college athlete, Driver's performance as a star athlete with winning genetic combination is not convincing as he huffs and puffs his way through the screen.
Unblind Side, an obvious spin on Blind Side that it could have passed off as a parody, is about a greedy college coach who is trying to regain his pride after a series of losses 18 years ago. Instead of being a serious critique, the scenes are so nonsensical that it could have passed as a comedy easily but it takes itself too seriously to be anything.
The ending of Driver’s movie is shocking only in that we were never convinced there were any real stakes involved. The revelation that he is a designer baby only provokes a monologue about losing one’s identity. However, he manages to leave his planned life almost immediately and set off on deciding what his destiny is for himself. His suicide is a shocker since he gets to do what he wants (a very rich and successful Digeridoo player. Yes, this movie attempts to convince us that it is a successful venture for anyone) and then decides to jump off his expensive Manhattan high rise because he dreamt about his birth. This movie wants to teach you something about the morality of designer babies but the only lesson learnt here is to not inflate yourself with too much self-importance. Or you will end up making a movie that can only laughed at, not laughed with.
Many auteur film projects could be described as masturbatory by the ungenerous critic, but writer/director/star Adam Driver's latest "Forget It, Adam: It's Hollywood" is one of the few that could best be described as figurative autoerotic asphyxiation.
Hardboiled LA detective Adam Shotgun (Driver) is called out of retirement to investigate the suspicious on-set death of Hollywood actor Adam Driver (also Driver.) His client is the mysterious femme fatale and alleged jilted ex-lover of the victim, Eve Passenger (Driver in a wig.) Shotgun's questioning of witnesses and digging through Ridley Scott's garbage is interrupted perhaps one too many times by traumatic flashbacks of the accidental death of Shotgun's infant son Le Self (Driver, not digitally de-aged at all, wearing a bonnet and diaper.)
What should be a dramatic confrontation with prime murder suspect Ridley Scott (Owen Teale) is somewhat deflated when Shotgun breaks into a non-sequitur series of petty accusations of alleged indignities suffered by the real Adam Driver at the hands of the real Scott on the set of The Last Duel (2021.) A critic who says that a film feels voyeuristic is usually praising it, but it is painfully clear that this film is for one person and one person only, and not in a good way. Not even the bloody and admittedly well-choreographed brawl with a pair of prop swords could let me shake the feeling that by remaining in my seat I was complicit in something deeply unsavory and perhaps borderline illegal. In a subsequent confrontation, when Scott killed and cannibalized Shotgun in a Subway restaurant that was central to one of the aforementioned petty grievances, my feeling of relief that this debacle was nearly over soon turned to dread upon realizing that we were only around the 45-minute mark.
Sure enough, the film rambles on for another 90 minutes, which I only inferred from checking my phone afterward, as the final two acts of the film are an incoherent nightmare that made time seem to lose all meaning. Included in this muddle are a surprisingly derogatory and hard-hitting eulogy for Adam Driver delivered by his mother (Driver in a different wig) and a bizarre but convincing PowerPoint presentation implicating a teenaged Adam Driver as an instrumental accomplice in Bernie Madoff's Ponzi scheme.
I come out of the ordeal (and ordeal it was) with a mix of feelings, none of them to the credit of the film or its maker. I can only hope that Driver receives the caring professional help he needs for his issues with anger management, interpersonal skills, survivor's guilt, and possible lack of a stable sense of self. I certainly do not wish to stigmatize the act of coming forward about any of these, and yet I might dare to gently advise those of you suffering in silence to come forward in a slightly different way.
The experience of Uptown Cathedral is one of a baffling nature. It is only reasonable that the writer of such a screenplay must have been riddled with fever during the creation of such a work. It was advertised as a supposed delve into the lives of criminals in 17th century Basildon, a story full of drama, heartbreak and tragedy. Yet what was experienced was a three hour trip through a plotline that seemed to change with the weather. Take for instance during the first act, usually this would be time to introduce the characters and the setting, allowing the audience to settle into the movie. What Driver chose to do was sit every character in complete silence for forty minutes. One of the characters is even killed off during this part and we never even learnt his name.
Other scenes seemed like they were in a completely different setting. One young boy, an orphan raised on the streets of Basildon, burst into song. It did not even make sense within the context of the scene. He was caught stealing a dog in the second act (a plot line which never returned after this incident) and as he was running down the street he began singing. After this, there is no music for the rest of the movie, a choice which only led to a deeply unsettling atmosphere in the audience as to compensate sound effects were more readily used.
Perhaps this is a lesson from Mr. Driver, However. That the lives of everyday people, the lives of innocent men, are much more complex than what we see on the surface. Perhaps by revealing this deeper side of the story of criminal life in 17th century Basildon, Driver has also revealed a part of himself.
Set in the imaginatively futuristic world of SPACE, Love Bandits attempts to be another saphic film written by someone who has had little interaction with actual lesbians. Most of the effort of the film appears to be put into the admittedly excellently crafted blend of miniatures and CGI.
When our protagonist Speef encounters her ex-girlfriend Skroob, they dedicate a significant amount of their lives to fighting against one of the many corporations that are killing so many planets in the currently fictional Saphrios galaxy. Their relationship, up until the ending scene, is stunning to see that characters this gay can be seen in hollywood, and would be a breath of fresh air, were it not for that ending scene.
The imaginative worlds do little, however, from distracting from the bisare character design choices. The two notable examples are the wizard character and the main antagonist. Merlin appears to be dressed like a wizard from a low-budget classical fantasy world rather than a character who looks like they belong in the world, and whose characterisation appears to be split between “i am an example of transgender representation in a world that doesn’t care about what gender you are” and “i am a wizard man who is written so that the writer, Adam Driver, can act in the film in a way that is comfortable for me, Adam Driver, to play”. The antagonist, equally, doesn’t seem like they belong in a mostly human/robot society, considering they are a CGI weasel.
The chase scene set in the Highway of the main planet appears to be inspired by the works of Michael Bay, what with the exploding mopeds left and right, which is almost bizarrely the scene where Speef professes her love for Skroob. If it were in another film, it would be basically a perfect confession scene, but set in an action scene with very little downtime, it feels like it could have been put somewhere else.
But the biggest scene is the ending, which is without a doubt the worst scene I’ve seen with regards to LGBTQ representation. The actions that took place seem written less out of a desire to end this way and more like it was written to spite people that had suggested changes.
It’s got a little something for everyone, though, and if one ignores the story, it’s an enjoyable hour and a half. I rate this 7 out of 10.
[OOC: played this with some friends. We created a number of different reviews for 3 different films that somehow became a trilogy ala the Cornetto Trilogy. This game is so fun. Thank you]
It is safe to assume that the basic writing advice, “write what you know”, can be somewhat limiting—after all, if we were to do so, then how could Tolkien have written about Orcs and Elves, Agatha Christie written about a Belgian detective, or Stephen King written about someone other than a tortured horror author? But there are, in fact, scenarios where you really ought not write something you are unfamiliar with at all. Adam Driver’s 14th screenplay written during the COVID lockdown, “Murder in the Underground”, is one such scenario.
A sapphic eco-terrorist group has taken on the cause of attacking a Japanese whaling vessel and they are prepared to leave at dawn to intercept the boat, when the murder of their fearless leader brings the would-be sailors’ plans to a grinding halt. Tensions rise as the lack of an intruder in their underground bunker points the finger at someone inside the building as the killer. Sadly, however, this is all the further Mr. Driver seems to have actually planned. The original murder is quickly forgotten in favor of scenes of women just being catty to each other, and the overt exclusion of any male figures in the film itself seems to be less a desire to tell stories from a woman's point of view as it is a cynical effort to pass the Bechdel Test.
One place that a man’s presence is certainly felt, however, is in the writer/director’s chair. The speed at which this diverse group of women breaks down into petty catfighting and cliques betrays the writing of an outsider to leftist activism, intersectional feminism and women’s lives in general, but who feels compelled to say something on those topics anyway...with that 'something' ultimately adding up to not a whole lot. The sloppy attempt at executing a plot twist to tie events up feels more like Mr. Driver realized there were only five minutes left on the film reel, and he was certainly unwilling to sacrifice any of the grindhouse-like ancillary murder that was executed halfway through the film, seemingly just to remind us what the original problem was supposed to be in the first place.
I cannot recommend “Murder in the Underground” to anyone who does not suffer from COVID brainfog because they will unfortunately be able to remember what happened three scenes ago, and will spend the next two scenes asking ‘But what about the murder? You know, the one in the title?’
This is a *fantastic* review. Almost all of these make me wish the movies in question were real but this is one of the few that makes me believe it might be. Thanks!
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The Fellrockers marks noted actor Adam Driver's first attempt at not only screenwriting, but also directing a feature film. Described by Driver in multiple press interviews as "Marxist Oppenheimer," the slow-burn drama follows two members of the aristocratic Fellrocker family as they drift apart as a result of disagreements over the nature of capitalism.
While at times resembling a poignant ode to the working class, Driver's self-indulgence often causes the film to lose focus of its main message, resulting in an end product that is about as coherent as a Pollock painting. This is most apparent in the overbearing romantic subplot between David Fellrocker (played by Driver) and his love interest, with over a third of the runtime dedicated to the couple's sexual inclinations -- one particularly egregious love scene involves the two engaged in "the taxpayer," a moment which must have seemed genius to Driver when writing the script but is nothing but awkward for the viewing audience.
Another example of the film's disjointed nature comes when, following the death of a major character, David looks into the camera and says "Now that's what I call blood money!" a line that feels plucked straight out of a cheesy 80s action film and has no place in a film as serious as Driver wants us to believe his debut is.
In summary, while The Fellrockers shows capable directing chops from the actor, Adam Driver would do good to attend a few more writing workshops, or at least be more open to criticism when it comes to his screenwriting endeavors.
Final rating: 4/10
Pliz Help (Given the film's Weimar setting, I can only assume Pliz is a misspelling of the German word for mushroom, Pilz) is a bold foray by Adam Driver into the world of screenplay. It is clear that he has truly embraced the genre of the art film, but having only one character does work better if one does not kill them off only a little over halfway through the film's gargantuan five hour runtime. Driver's script starts off strong, with imagery that calls into question what a mushroom cloud may have meant to someone living before the invention of nuclear weaponry and also begins to explore themes of inner spirituality, but proceeds to throw the small, personal narrative world it has created away with the appearance of the mushroom god and her angels, upset at what will soon be done with her image. Ultimately, the ending manages to leave the viewer unsatisfied but with nothing to think about. I give Pliz Help two stars.
That detail with the mushroom cloud is so gd good`
Adam Driver with the recent success of his A Marriage Story has gained enough confidence to write, direct and star in his own film which at best may be called only mildly pretentious. An obvious Oscar bait, his movie attempts to dive into the murky world of genetic ethics and the lengths people would go to win college football. Looking almost 20 years older than an average college athlete, Driver's performance as a star athlete with winning genetic combination is not convincing as he huffs and puffs his way through the screen.
Unblind Side, an obvious spin on Blind Side that it could have passed off as a parody, is about a greedy college coach who is trying to regain his pride after a series of losses 18 years ago. Instead of being a serious critique, the scenes are so nonsensical that it could have passed as a comedy easily but it takes itself too seriously to be anything.
The ending of Driver’s movie is shocking only in that we were never convinced there were any real stakes involved. The revelation that he is a designer baby only provokes a monologue about losing one’s identity. However, he manages to leave his planned life almost immediately and set off on deciding what his destiny is for himself. His suicide is a shocker since he gets to do what he wants (a very rich and successful Digeridoo player. Yes, this movie attempts to convince us that it is a successful venture for anyone) and then decides to jump off his expensive Manhattan high rise because he dreamt about his birth. This movie wants to teach you something about the morality of designer babies but the only lesson learnt here is to not inflate yourself with too much self-importance. Or you will end up making a movie that can only laughed at, not laughed with.
Many auteur film projects could be described as masturbatory by the ungenerous critic, but writer/director/star Adam Driver's latest "Forget It, Adam: It's Hollywood" is one of the few that could best be described as figurative autoerotic asphyxiation.
Hardboiled LA detective Adam Shotgun (Driver) is called out of retirement to investigate the suspicious on-set death of Hollywood actor Adam Driver (also Driver.) His client is the mysterious femme fatale and alleged jilted ex-lover of the victim, Eve Passenger (Driver in a wig.) Shotgun's questioning of witnesses and digging through Ridley Scott's garbage is interrupted perhaps one too many times by traumatic flashbacks of the accidental death of Shotgun's infant son Le Self (Driver, not digitally de-aged at all, wearing a bonnet and diaper.)
What should be a dramatic confrontation with prime murder suspect Ridley Scott (Owen Teale) is somewhat deflated when Shotgun breaks into a non-sequitur series of petty accusations of alleged indignities suffered by the real Adam Driver at the hands of the real Scott on the set of The Last Duel (2021.) A critic who says that a film feels voyeuristic is usually praising it, but it is painfully clear that this film is for one person and one person only, and not in a good way. Not even the bloody and admittedly well-choreographed brawl with a pair of prop swords could let me shake the feeling that by remaining in my seat I was complicit in something deeply unsavory and perhaps borderline illegal. In a subsequent confrontation, when Scott killed and cannibalized Shotgun in a Subway restaurant that was central to one of the aforementioned petty grievances, my feeling of relief that this debacle was nearly over soon turned to dread upon realizing that we were only around the 45-minute mark.
Sure enough, the film rambles on for another 90 minutes, which I only inferred from checking my phone afterward, as the final two acts of the film are an incoherent nightmare that made time seem to lose all meaning. Included in this muddle are a surprisingly derogatory and hard-hitting eulogy for Adam Driver delivered by his mother (Driver in a different wig) and a bizarre but convincing PowerPoint presentation implicating a teenaged Adam Driver as an instrumental accomplice in Bernie Madoff's Ponzi scheme.
I come out of the ordeal (and ordeal it was) with a mix of feelings, none of them to the credit of the film or its maker. I can only hope that Driver receives the caring professional help he needs for his issues with anger management, interpersonal skills, survivor's guilt, and possible lack of a stable sense of self. I certainly do not wish to stigmatize the act of coming forward about any of these, and yet I might dare to gently advise those of you suffering in silence to come forward in a slightly different way.
Ce'st Magnifique! Ah! Beautiful!
The experience of Uptown Cathedral is one of a baffling nature. It is only reasonable that the writer of such a screenplay must have been riddled with fever during the creation of such a work. It was advertised as a supposed delve into the lives of criminals in 17th century Basildon, a story full of drama, heartbreak and tragedy. Yet what was experienced was a three hour trip through a plotline that seemed to change with the weather. Take for instance during the first act, usually this would be time to introduce the characters and the setting, allowing the audience to settle into the movie. What Driver chose to do was sit every character in complete silence for forty minutes. One of the characters is even killed off during this part and we never even learnt his name.
Other scenes seemed like they were in a completely different setting. One young boy, an orphan raised on the streets of Basildon, burst into song. It did not even make sense within the context of the scene. He was caught stealing a dog in the second act (a plot line which never returned after this incident) and as he was running down the street he began singing. After this, there is no music for the rest of the movie, a choice which only led to a deeply unsettling atmosphere in the audience as to compensate sound effects were more readily used.
Perhaps this is a lesson from Mr. Driver, However. That the lives of everyday people, the lives of innocent men, are much more complex than what we see on the surface. Perhaps by revealing this deeper side of the story of criminal life in 17th century Basildon, Driver has also revealed a part of himself.
Stars Blasto from The Shift Review
⅗ stars
Set in the imaginatively futuristic world of SPACE, Love Bandits attempts to be another saphic film written by someone who has had little interaction with actual lesbians. Most of the effort of the film appears to be put into the admittedly excellently crafted blend of miniatures and CGI.
When our protagonist Speef encounters her ex-girlfriend Skroob, they dedicate a significant amount of their lives to fighting against one of the many corporations that are killing so many planets in the currently fictional Saphrios galaxy. Their relationship, up until the ending scene, is stunning to see that characters this gay can be seen in hollywood, and would be a breath of fresh air, were it not for that ending scene.
The imaginative worlds do little, however, from distracting from the bisare character design choices. The two notable examples are the wizard character and the main antagonist. Merlin appears to be dressed like a wizard from a low-budget classical fantasy world rather than a character who looks like they belong in the world, and whose characterisation appears to be split between “i am an example of transgender representation in a world that doesn’t care about what gender you are” and “i am a wizard man who is written so that the writer, Adam Driver, can act in the film in a way that is comfortable for me, Adam Driver, to play”. The antagonist, equally, doesn’t seem like they belong in a mostly human/robot society, considering they are a CGI weasel.
The chase scene set in the Highway of the main planet appears to be inspired by the works of Michael Bay, what with the exploding mopeds left and right, which is almost bizarrely the scene where Speef professes her love for Skroob. If it were in another film, it would be basically a perfect confession scene, but set in an action scene with very little downtime, it feels like it could have been put somewhere else.
But the biggest scene is the ending, which is without a doubt the worst scene I’ve seen with regards to LGBTQ representation. The actions that took place seem written less out of a desire to end this way and more like it was written to spite people that had suggested changes.
It’s got a little something for everyone, though, and if one ignores the story, it’s an enjoyable hour and a half. I rate this 7 out of 10.
[OOC: played this with some friends. We created a number of different reviews for 3 different films that somehow became a trilogy ala the Cornetto Trilogy. This game is so fun. Thank you]
It is safe to assume that the basic writing advice, “write what you know”, can be somewhat limiting—after all, if we were to do so, then how could Tolkien have written about Orcs and Elves, Agatha Christie written about a Belgian detective, or Stephen King written about someone other than a tortured horror author? But there are, in fact, scenarios where you really ought not write something you are unfamiliar with at all. Adam Driver’s 14th screenplay written during the COVID lockdown, “Murder in the Underground”, is one such scenario.
A sapphic eco-terrorist group has taken on the cause of attacking a Japanese whaling vessel and they are prepared to leave at dawn to intercept the boat, when the murder of their fearless leader brings the would-be sailors’ plans to a grinding halt. Tensions rise as the lack of an intruder in their underground bunker points the finger at someone inside the building as the killer. Sadly, however, this is all the further Mr. Driver seems to have actually planned. The original murder is quickly forgotten in favor of scenes of women just being catty to each other, and the overt exclusion of any male figures in the film itself seems to be less a desire to tell stories from a woman's point of view as it is a cynical effort to pass the Bechdel Test.
One place that a man’s presence is certainly felt, however, is in the writer/director’s chair. The speed at which this diverse group of women breaks down into petty catfighting and cliques betrays the writing of an outsider to leftist activism, intersectional feminism and women’s lives in general, but who feels compelled to say something on those topics anyway...with that 'something' ultimately adding up to not a whole lot. The sloppy attempt at executing a plot twist to tie events up feels more like Mr. Driver realized there were only five minutes left on the film reel, and he was certainly unwilling to sacrifice any of the grindhouse-like ancillary murder that was executed halfway through the film, seemingly just to remind us what the original problem was supposed to be in the first place.
I cannot recommend “Murder in the Underground” to anyone who does not suffer from COVID brainfog because they will unfortunately be able to remember what happened three scenes ago, and will spend the next two scenes asking ‘But what about the murder? You know, the one in the title?’
This is a *fantastic* review. Almost all of these make me wish the movies in question were real but this is one of the few that makes me believe it might be. Thanks!