Movie Review: "He Died With A Felafel in His Hand"

Written and Directed by Richard Lowenstein, based on the novel (of same title) by John Birmingham.

Starring: Noah Taylor, Emily Hamilton, Sophie Lee, and a bunch of other Australian unknowns.

This is a film that I'd often skipped over in my Netflix (instant view) perusals. I don't know if it was the title or the kitschy cover photo or what, but for some reason I couldn't will myself into clicking "play." After actually viewing the film, I cannot understand why. Because it's a good-- if somewhat standard-- piece of indie cinema.

The pieces are all there: desultory, quirky characters, youthful malaise, girls kissing (with implied lesbian sex), and of course, a guy dying with a felafel in his hand. The drawback to following or falling into a formula is that it gets predictable (obviously), and even verges on self-parody, but part of what saves this film is that it isn't American. Those cutesy, "hip," exhaustingly mundane portraits of people that require little of actors other than to embody a quirkiness unnatural in even the quirkiest of people are either not there, or are dulled/relegated to background noise.

Lowenstein achieves the latter here. Sophie Lee's portrayal of a fringe paganist/feminist beauty is really the only character that gets to the point of being grating. Less annoying/prevalent stock characters exist: a violent but loyal alpha male (who loves to buy hookers), a heroin addict who moon tans, creative stoners, an intelligent but sexually confused young woman, a closeted homosexual who picks the wrong time to "come out," a conspiracy theorist, an actress/drama queen, etc. etc.

But the film is focused on Noah Taylor's character, Richard. He's a writer. And he is the constant as he shifts from house to house, flatmates to flatmates, avoiding the inevitable: payment. He owes rent. He owes on damages. He owes on credit cards. The guy just fucking owes. Kind of hits home for me as I too, am drowning in debt.

However, Richard has a plan. He's written a story for Penthouse Magazine that is bound to get him 25 grand. So he moves about Australia with the idea that he is, in fact, a writer.

Taylor plays Richard quietly, detached. He's not incendiary or garrulous, funny or amiable. He just is. Deadpan and matter-of-fact. In some scenes he's in the background or foreground, strumming away at his guitar, quietly singing while other characters engage one another. In others he broods in front of a typewriter, a single phrase typed onto a "scroll" not dissimilar from the one Jack Kerouac used for On the Road.

Introspective is a good word for his performance. He's likeable and relatable. He carries the film along because he has to. He plays so distantly from even Emily Hamilton's character, the bookishly attractive would-be-love-interest who he refers to as his "best friend" in one scene. And despite this air of separation between all the characters, Lowenstein manages to make a watchable film of it. A film that has kept me talking about it for the last couple of days.