Nearly perfect debut films are so hard to come by that it's easy to embrace a first-time effort like Bellflower (2011, Evan Glodell), which treads upon some awfully problematic territory but is so viscerally effective as a wild, gratifyingly unpredictable cinematic ride that it's impossible not to applaud the size of writer-director-star Glodell's cojones.
At this point, I feel the need to emphasize that both the vehicular and testicular metaphors in the sentence above are entirely apropos considering the film under study. Glodell's character, Woodrow, happens to possess two admittedly sweet cars--one that boasts a built-in whiskey dispenser near the passenger seat, and another flame-spewing black beast, dubbed Medusa, that Woodrow and best friend Aiden (Tyler Dawson), both Mad Max fanatics, fantasize will guide them through an inevitable-to-them apocalypse--which gearhead Glodell actually tooled and polished specifically for the film. Glodell's automotive fetish is not the most aggressively masculine element of Bellflower--far from it, actually--which is practically drenched in testosterone. The machismo is so overwhelming that viewers who don't support a conventional, exclusionary definition of manhood as being all about physical strength, action over thought, and culturally acceptable "dude" hobbies like pimping rides will likely have little interest in seeing the film more than once.
However, while the movie's brute-force assaultiveness may keep it from being rewatchable, that quality is also what makes it so bracing and audacious upon first viewing, especially for those entering the theatre with little foreknowledge of what they're in for. Glodell's mumblecore-by-way-of-Spike TV approach, which favors inarticulate, manly men, really shouldn't work, but his careful structuring of the near-Neanderthal-level dialogue, inventive visual design (the images look scuffed and super-saturated in a grindhouse-influenced style that really pops), and, most importantly, gift for shocking narrative curveballs turn what could've been just an empty cinematic grunt into a luridly involving work of art.
As an actor, Glodell is nothing special, but he does have a nice, low-key chemistry with Jessie Wiseman, who plays Milly, a blonde that Woodrow falls for after competing with her in a bar's cricket-eating contest (a fresh variation on the Meet Cute). It's spoiling little to say that Woodrow and Milly's romance isn't destined for a "happily ever after" conclusion, and once the relationship goes south, both Woodrow and the movie itself become crazily unhinged.
It wouldn't be fair to describe the movie's intentional plunge into derangement in any more detail than that, but it's worth noting that certain narrative directions it heads in have raised charges of misogyny from detractors. I can think of one grueling third-act scene in particular that finds Glodell perilously walking a tightrope above a pit of dehumanizing exploitation, but thankfully he doesn't falter. He's so clearly interested in exposing the hetero-male mind's reaction to a painful break-up that the film's rage-fueled excesses feel entirely justified.
And the movie's increasingly violent second half is so propulsive and compellingly nuts that it's difficult to call it unpleasant even when it risks being just that. Bellflower serves as a reminder that moviegoing is an inherently masochistic pastime. It's a film that slaps you around quite a bit and leaves you thankful for the rough sensation. Grade: B+
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