Parky at the Pictures (In Cinemas 30/8/2012)

Having made such an excellent impression in the wide open spaces of Transylvania in his debut feature, Katalin Varga (2009), Peter Strickland cannily confines the equally disconcerting action to a cramped recording facility in Berberian Sound Studio, a homage to 1970s Italian gialli that is less a horror movie than a study in psychological capitulation.

Apparently inspired by a pair of noisy trousers and owing debts to Michael Powell, David Lynch and Abbas Kiarostami, as well as such usual suspects as Mario Bavio, Lucio Fulci and Dario Argento, this is a masterclass in suggestion that makes magnificently manipulative use of Jennifer Kernke's production design, Nic Knowland's roving camera, Chris Dickens's editing and a sound design by Steve Haywood and Joakim Sundström that perfectly combines with the score by electro outfit Broadcast to capture not just a time and a place, but also the spirit of a genre and the fragmenting emotions of a stranger trapped in its midst.

Mild-mannered Toby Jones has made his name producing sound effects for children's programmes and nature documentaries. Thus, when he arrives in Italy from Dorking some time in 1976, he suspects he has mistakenly been hired by producer Cosimo Fusco to work on a giallo by acclaimed director Antonio Mancino. Indeed, half-convinced that his stay might be a short one, Jones pesters secretary Tonia Sotiropoulou to ensure he is reimbursed for his flight.

Despite a cool reception from recording engineer Guido Adorni and foley artists Josef Cseres and Pál Tóth, Jones is welcomed by actresses Fatma Mohamed and Eugenia Caruso, who are dubbing lines for The Equestrian Vortex, a harrowing tale of witchcraft in a girls' school that causes Jones to joke nervously to Fusco that this is hardly the kind of fare he is used to. But he clearly knows what he is doing and is soon supervising Cseres and Tóth in the production of gruesome noises using a range of fruits and vegetables, while also coaxing Mohamed and Caruso into timing their lines and delivering blood-curdling screams.

Somewhat relieved to retreat to the sanctuary of his room adjoining the studio, Jones reads a letter from his mother at home and plays some comfortingly familiar sounds on a tape designed to conquer his homesickness. But he is soon back at his mixing desk, where he finds Fusco's brusque professionalism as disconcerting as the breeziness of Mancino, who pops in with his playboy nephew Salvatore Li Causi to remind Jones that he is not working on a generic horror, but a signature piece by an auteur.

Still ostracised by the language barrier and increasingly frustrated by Sotiropoulou in his bid to claim his expenses, Jones is so distressed by a letter from his mother about some magpies causing trouble around a nest near his garden shed studio that he ceases to dress with his customary fastidiousness and even bawls down the phone at a clerk in accounts who proves unhelpful. Yet he manages to maintain the intricate design diagram he uses to keep on top of his task and charms his new colleagues by showing how to use a light bulb and a radiator to duplicate the sound of a UFO and copes well enough when diva Lara Parmiani comes in to record a sinister series of susurrations and Jean-Michel Van Schouberg takes to the booth to produce the howls and growls needed to give voice to a malevolent goblin.

However, a third missive from Surrey and the growing tension between Fusco and Mohamed push Jones closer to the edge. His dreams seem to start merging with the movie plot and he is distraught when Mohamed is sacked and takes her revenge by trashing the studio and ruining his tapes. Consequently, Jones is less courteous towards her replacement, Ciaria D'Anna, and plays deafening noises into her headphones to bully her into producing the requisite scream for somebody being penetrated by a red-hot poker. As he stands in the studio with the soundtrack completed, he stares ahead like a man traumatised and transformed by his unexpected experiences.

Following in the wake of Francis Ford Coppola's The Conversation (1974) and Brian De Palma's Blow Out (1981), this provides a fascinating reminder of the importance of sound to a motion picture. It also plays on the eccentric obsessiveness of the sound recordist and Jones more than matches Gene Hackman and John Travolta as he becomes so immersed in his assignment that he starts to lose touch with reality. However, Strickland is much more playful both in his exploitation of the audio effects and in his use of close-ups of whirring analogue machinery, butchered vegetables, multi-coloured flow charts and a flickering red `Silenzio' sign to convey not only the pressure that Jones is under to satisfy a lira-pinching producer and an indolently arrogant director, but also the impact that the toll is taking on the sheltered milquetoast's already delicate psyche.

Twisting logic to prevent a definitive reading of action that has either addled Jones or taken place solely in his own imagination, Strickland cleverly subverts the conventions of the horror genre in which he is so determined to avoid being pigeon-holed. Indeed, he almost relegates narrative to a subordinate role as he concentrates on establishing audiovisual moods whose import he can modulate with the flick of a switch or the slide of a fader. But such is picture's near-fetishistic authenticity and its delight in both in-jokes and obfuscation that it occasionally runs the risk of being self-consciously ingenious, while the over-calculating ambiguity of the conclusion feels more anti-climactic than chilling. Nevertheless, this is essential viewing for all fans of Italian cult cinema and it leaves one awaiting Strickland's next venture with baited breath.

Five years after Spaniards Jaume Balagueró and Paco Plaza pushed the boundaries of the `found footage' chiller with [•REC] and three after they refined their technique in [•REC]², Plaza strikes out on his own with [•REC]³: Genesis, a prequel that breaks away from the residents of the quarantined apartment building at the heart of the first two films to parody that pioneering staple of jerky handheld footage - the wedding video. However, Plaza and cinematographer Quim Vives also dispense with the subjective exclusivity that characterised the initial outings, as they resort to using a classically detached camera to link the imagery captured by a guest and a videographer at the nuptials of Diego Martín and Leticia Dolera.

While Martín's cousin Àlex Monner wields his camcorder as the guests assemble outside the church, he picks up tips from professional Mr B, who urges him to follow the example of Dziga Vertov and the adherents of cinéma vérité in bringing authenticity to his footage. As Dolera makes last-minute preparations at home and takes a moment to gather herself in the kitchen, Monner records uncle Emilio Mencheta complaining about being bitten on the hand by a dog he thought was dead. Before he can go into any detail, however, Martín welcomes best man Ismael Martínez and ushers everyone inside because Dolera is on her way.

Complete with a love song from the groom after the exchange of vows, the ceremony goes smoothly and people are soon drinking and dancing at the reception. As the ailing Mencheta ventures outside for a breath of air, Monner catches sight of some figures in hazmat suits on the perimeter of the mansion grounds. However, he thinks nothing more of it until he captures Mencheta sitting on the railing of the ballroom balcony and plunging to the floor below. His wife approaches to check he is all right, but Mencheta bites her and vomits a mix of bile and blood that distracts onlookers from the fact that the room has been invaded by zombified individuals who appear to have succumbed to the same (unexplained) virus that Mencheta picked up from the dead dog. 

In the melee, Dolera and Martín become separated and he finds himself in the kitchen with sister-in-law Jana Soler, Monner and Mr B. Distraught at losing sight of his beloved, Martín smashes Mr B's camera for filming in a crisis (which gives Plaza his excuse to switch to an objective perspective, although he also incorporates the odd CCTV view) and they head outside on realising that Mr B is too fat to escape through the air conditioning vents. A woman is killed in attempting to attack them, while a man trying to call for help on a police car radio is mauled by a stalking cop. Martín, Soler and Monner hide in the chapel, where they discover that the malevolents are deterred by holy water and they hear Dolera announcing over the tannoy system that not only is she safe, but she is also pregnant and she urges her new spouse to survive because they have so much to live for.

Buoyed by the sound of her voice, Martín takes some armour from a display in the chapel and tries to organise the evacuation of the women and children on a bus. However, while this enterprise goes hideously wrong, Dolera and priest Xavier Ruano hide out in the mansion's security room and discuss the biblical nature of demons before she slaps his face to keep him calm. They escape through a window and bump into Martínez and Dolera's best friend Claire Baschet. But only Ruano's discovery that he can slow the mutations down with prayer enables them to retreat to the CCTV room, where a news broadcast covers an outbreak in an apartment block in central Barcelona.

Dolera finds an unlikely ally in children's entertainer Miguel Angel González (who calls himself Johnny Sponge to avoid copyright issues with Spongebob Squate Pants), who pulls her away as Baschet is attacked by a rapid bridesmaid and then kills Dolera's mother as she hesitates as she lurches towards her. However, González himself is bitten as Dolera and Martínez rush into the maze of corridors beneath the mansion and Dolera arms herself with a chainsaw when she hears Martín play their song (`Eloise') loud on the speaker system. Decapitating the infected Martínez, Dolera clambers up a ladder into the kitchen after Martín spots her through a grille

Their reunion seems destined to be short-lived, as dozens of ravenous guests shamble into sight. But they all freeze as Ruano begins praying over the tannoy and Dolera and Martín take the opportunity to slip into the garden. However, his deaf grandfather José de la Cruz cannot hear the orisons and he nips Dolera on the hand. She urges Martín to cut off her arm and he does so with anguished regret before staunching the bleeding with a tourniquet. But, as he carries her to the gates, they are warned to stop by a waiting SWAT team. They kiss and Dolera bites through Martín's tongue, which she spits out disdainfully before the armed officers open fire as the doomed lovers reach out to hold each other's hand.

Doubtless Plaza and co-scribe Luis Berdejo will bring proceedings to a satisfactory conclusion in the forthcoming [•REC]4: Apocalypse. But this is a rousing departure from the original conceit, with Plaza placing as much emphasis on grizzly deadpan as on genuine gore. The slayings are still staged with innovative brio, however, and comparisons with such gleefully manic Àlex de la Iglesia outings as The Day of the Beast (1995) are entirely merited.

Dolero and Martín make winning heroes at the head of a spirited ensemble and there is genuine sweetness about their desire to live or die together. But, even here, Plaza is prepared to lampoon, as Mikel Salas's gushing score proves every bit as extravagant as Gemma Fauria's production design and David Ambit's effects make-up. Some may quibble about Plaza and Berdejo's reluctance to explain the actual `genesis' of the plague or why it has the capacity to turn the afflicted into voracious cannibals. But this omission makes what has been slated as the concluding part of the tetralogy all the more keenly anticipated.

While Spanish genre cinema is going through something of a purple patch, Eastern European film-makers continue to mine the incidents and attitudes that have shaped their countries in the two decades since the fall of the Berlin Wall. In Yuma, Polish debutant Piotr Mularuk strives to draw comparisons between Delmer Daves's 3:10 to Yuma (1957) and the practice of `juma' that saw his compatriots smuggling stolen goods from the reunified Germany  in supposed reparation for unpaid war debts. However, while the concept has potential, Mularuk seems uncertain whether he is making a thriller, a social satire, a romantic melodrama or a mob movie. Consequently, the references to the cult Western often seem strained and it becomes difficult to tell the actual events on which the action is based from the contrivances of an increasingly formulaic plot.

Sometime in 1987, in the border town of Brzegi on the Oder River, Jakub Gierszal spies on soldiers getting drunk in the bottom of an empty missile silo. Intrigued by the readiness of the military to indulge in the vices that make life bearable for everybody else, he rallies with buddy Kazimierz Mazur and gal pal Helena Sujecka to help East German refugee Tomasz Schuchardt escape a pursuing patrol and arranges for him to hide out with red-headed hooker Karolina Chapko. Next morning, Gierszal drives the fugitive to the West German embassy and refuses the cash he offers in gratitude. Mazur snatches the money, however, and then withholds it from a prostitute in the woods and is forced to pay a humiliating price when they are caught by her thuggish pimp, Tomasz Kot.

A few years later, Poland is a nascent democracy and Gierszal accepts a job offer from blowsy aunt Katarzyna Figura to stop parents Jerzy Schejbal and Aldona Struzik from nagging about what he is going to do with his life. Now the boss of a bar-cum-brothel on the edge of town, Figura asks her nephew to smuggle some cigarettes into Germany and he is so taken by the goods on sale in the well-stocked shops that he not only purchases a pair of flashy cowboy boots, but also goes on a shoplifting spree that enables him to revamp his wardrobe and bring back gifts for Sujecka and his new mates Krzysztof Skonieczny and Jakub Kamienski.

Figura is so pleased with Gierszal's efforts that she sends him back across the frontier with contraband hidden under the seat of a car. Waved on by a compliant customs official, Gierszal and his crew stuff with the boot with merchandise after thieving their way through a shopping mall and their safe passage at the frontier is secured by a bottle of cologne. Soon, they are taking orders for white goods and designer clothing from their families and neighbours and, when Gierszal falls foul of Mazur (who has now become a cop), his summons is dismissed by mayor Przemyslaw Bluszcz, who is one of Figura's best customers.

On one trip to Germany, Gierszal bumps into Schuchardt, who has opened a small bookshop. However, when he pays a visit to Brzegi, he re-encounters Chapko and promptly falls in love. Much to the devoted Sujecka's frustration, Gierszal also has a crush on Chapko and he becomes increasingly reckless when she relocates to Germany and he finds himself facing the dual threat of the vengeful Mazur and the ever-dangerous Kot, who has been demobbed by the army and is prepared to use everything he learned fighting in Afghanistan to reclaim his patch from Gierszal and Figura.

Having made such an impressive start, Mularuk and co-scenarist Wojciech Gajewicz slightly lose control of their various story threads at this juncture. Determined to prove himself top dog, Gierszal stages a ram-raid on a German jewellery store. But, while he gets away with a lavish haul, he infuriates his adversaries on either sides of the law. Moreover, his actions also prompt German retailers to fit CCTV and security systems that result in Skonieczny and Kamienski being arrested and savagely beaten in a cell. Their demise at the hands of a have-a-go jeweller is quickly followed by fiery Kot ruining the grand opening of Gierszal and Figura's El Dorado saloon. Thus, when a gauche attempt to seduce Chapko fails, Gierszal recognises that his day is done and the film ends with him wheeling a pushchair into a shop with Sujecka serving behind the counter.

Stylistically the picture is a bit haphazard, while too much of the secondary characterisation is thin. Mularuk also struggles to make much of the connection to 3:10 to Yuma after it is the last film shown at the decrepit local cinema. It certainly influences Gierszal's choice of footwear and he later rescues the cowboy mannequin he had seen on his first German sojourn from a Polish flea market. But, apart from a corking bar-room brawl that harks back to the heyday of the Hollywood oater, the allusion seems strained and reinforces the impression of tonal imprecision.

The performances, however, are much more accomplished, with Gierszal and Figura sparking teasingly before they become a splendidly sordid item, whose avarice, arrogance and inexperience dooms them in a romantically anti-heroic manner. Tomasz Dobrowolski's cinematography, Barbara Komosinska's production design and Magdalena Rutkiewicz and Emilia Skalska's costumes also notably help capture the look and amoral mood of the times. Indeed, apart from a slight waywardness in plotting, this is a rousing tale that offers a fascinating insight into the mindset of the newly liberated Poles and also provides a timely reminder of the price that has to be be paid for both success and excess.

Lastly, the mood changes completely with David Robert Mitchell's debut feature, The Myth of the American Sleepover. Clearly indebted to the teenpix of John Hughes and the slacker movies of Richard Linklater, the action is set in a Detroit neighbourhood that appears to be entirely bereft of grown-ups and, even more curiously, also seems to have been by-passed by modern communication devices, the latest musical trends and the most up-to-date yoof slang. Indeed, this could easily have been set in the 1980s when Molly Ringwald was struggling to find her niche in Sixteen Candles (1984) and Pretty in Pink (1986). There are hints that Mitchell is familiar with more dubious studies of adolescent antics like Larry Clark's Kids (1995) and Harmony Korine's Gummo (1997), as well as the more recent laddish outings of Judd Apatow. But this is so resolutely a summation of the writer-director's preoccupations and not a reflection of contemporary teenage life that it is difficult to know quite what it is trying to say and who it is seeking to address.

During a long hot summer, the talk all seems to be about the slumber party that Shayla Curran is going to throw while her folks are out of town. Christopher Simon is surprised to discover that sporty girlfriend Amanda Bauer plans to attend, but fellow freshers Claire Sloma and Annette DeNoyer plan on skipping what looks set to be a tame affair to gatecrash a house party being hosted by some older kids nearby.

Meanwhile, as Mary Wardell gets ready to leave, she is surprised by the interest of her college finalist brother Brett Jacobsen in Nikita and Jade Ramsay, a pair of twins from her year who have just left for a welcome weekend on their new campus in Ann Arbor. Jacobsen has just been dumped by his long-term girlfriend and he is reminded from a photograph in the school trophy cabinet how the twins used to fuss over him when he was a senior. But, if his decision to drive across Michigan to find them seems a little creepy, his ill-intentions are more than matched by Marlon Morton, who drags buddy Wyatt McCallum across town in the faint hope he can bump into Madi Ortiz, a striking blonde he had been stalking that afternoon in the local supermarket.

At the sleepover, the bored Bauer drifts away from the party and slips into Curran's bedroom. She beings flicking through her diary and is horrified to discover that Curran has slept with Simon. Determined to get her revenge, she coaxes Wardell into playing with a Ouija board and she engineers it so that she is left alone in the basement to look for signs of an intrusive spirit with Curran's boyfriend, Drew Machak. Just as she planned, he is putty in her hands and she dupes him into kissing her just as her hostess ventures down the steps. She takes a beating for her pains, but considers the pain well worthwhile, as she wanders through the empty streets to tell Simon they are through.

By contrast, Morton has no luck in tracking down Ortiz, although he is flirted with by a girl who seems not to have been invited to the sleepover. Sloma, on the other hand, has no problem attracting admirers and she leaves the bespectacled DeNoyer to go for a swim with Douglas Diedrich, an older boy who is taken by her pierced lip and boyishly short blonde hair. He even talks her into participating in a talent contest, in which she performs the dance routine she has been rehearsing for an upcoming street parade. But, while they sit on the decking at the side of the lake with the bottle of vodka she wins as first prize, Sloma suddenly becomes concerned about DeNoyer being in a boat with a boy she doesn't know and she swims over to check up on her, only to get caught in a downpour.

Across the state, meanwhile, Jacobsen has tip-toed into the gymnasium where the new students are sleeping under the unwatchful eye of a dozing chaperone. He finds the Ramseys and not only convinces them that he has bumped into them by chance while visiting pals on campus, but he also talks them into sneaking out with him for a beer. Although they are initially suspicious, the twins warm to Jacobsen's charm and confess that one of them had a huge crush on him when he was at high school. Typically watching the other's back, they refuse to reveal who fancied him until he admits which of them he prefers. Unfortunately, he guesses the wrong one, but he leaves with his ego bolstered and a reassurance that he is far too good for the girl who jilted him.

Back in Detroit, Morton has persuaded McCallum (who may or may not be gay) to come to the infamous make-out maze in the hope of finally finding Ortiz. Much to his amazement, he sees her sitting along on a staircase and sidles up to her. She recognises him from the store and is amused by his doggedness. However, he is disappointed to discover that her forearm is already covered with phone numbers and he hooks up with McCallum (who has just turned down a shy girl's request for a snog) to head home. A few blocks away, Sloma leaves the vodka bottle and a note on Diedrich's doorstep and is delighted when he knocks at her door shortly afterwards.

Nicely photographed by James Laxton and with Jeanine A. Nicholas's production line capturing the contrasting homes and hangouts, this is a carefully staged picture whose dreamy mood and insight into yearning naiveté have not overly exaggeratedly earned it comparisons with Sofia Coppola's The Virgin Suicides (1999). But this has no one comparable to Kirsten Dunst or Josh Harnett in its cast and only the coquettish Sloma and the scheming Bauer make more than a fleeting impression. Indeed, the actors and characters are so indistinguishable that it is difficult to invest much emotion in them, although Jacobsen and Morton are required to be so sleazily chauvinist that it is quite easy to find them eminently resistible.

Lacking the wit of Dazed or Confused (1993) or the empathy and affinity that John Hughes had with his juvenile milieu, Mitchell often seems to be trying too hard either to be down with the kids or show off his knowledge of the nouvelle vague (a couple of Godardian musical interludes, for example, feel like self-conscious intrusions in a feature more attuned to Truffaut and Rivette). However, the film's biggest flaw is its failure to establish the geographical setting and the social context, as school buildings, public pools, housing estates and make-out hot spots seem to exist within a couple of streetlit strides away from each other, while everyone seems to hail from a classless haute bourgeoisie, in which nobody has a track to come from the wrong side of or has a chip on their shoulder.

Making mistakes is part of growing up and the 36 year-old Mitchell is shrewd enough to recognise the need for his protagonists to be assured, curious, maladroit and vulnerable in equal measure. But his own inexperience ultimately undermines the wistfulness and wonderment of an occasionally poignant recreation of that transient moment in almost every teenager's life when everything seems possible and worth the consequences.