By Sandra Hall and reviewer
- VIDEO: Trailer - Suburban Mayhem
- VIDEO: Video review - Suburban Mayhem
We first meet Katrina, the heroine - or rather, perpetrator - of Suburban Mayhem as she's being interviewed. Her father has been murdered, her brother is in jail and a documentary-maker is shooting a film about the case.
Things look grim. Nevertheless, Katrina has no difficulty in locating her personal patch of silver lining: if none of this had happened, she wouldn't be sitting in front ofa camera having a film madeabout her.
Katrina is a creature of the tabloids. As inspiration, her creator, Suburban Mayhem's writer, Alice Bell, drew on a diversity of court hearings and newspaper crime stories - origins that could easily have produced an animated cardboard cut-out, mouthing the kind of dialogue that usually comes enclosed by a cartoon balloon. And maybe that's the way she was on paper. A characterisation, like a suit of clothes, is given life only by the right body.
But now she's hit the screen and there's no doubt about the suitability of young New Zealand actress Emily Barclay for this particular tailoring job. Her Katrina hums with such predatory vitality that no one around her can be considered safe.
At the age of 19, she's a fully fledged femme fatale, favouring as battle dress thigh-high boots, moulded mini-skirts, leopard prints and black leather. The beauty salon, where she regularly has her hair, nails and make-up redone, is her version of an armoury and her mobile phone, which she wears tucked into her cleavage, is an indispensable weapon. She's mistress of the SMS and the local boys are her Praetorian Guard.
"Wanna f---?" is their call to arms and, since she usually obliges, they'll do anything for her - from scoring bottles of Jack Daniel's to terrorising an innocent householder who somehow got under her skin.
Her story unfolds in flashback, punctuated by interviews with those who have been unlucky to cross her path, starting with her father's former girlfriend, Dianne, who has known her and her hell-raising brother, Danny (Laurence Breuls), since they were infants. Played with just the right degree of satirical spin by Genevieve Lemon, Dianne is well-versed in neighbourhood folklore and views both Danny and Katrina with the detachment of someone who has long since had her worst fears confirmed and can now luxuriate in being right.
Katrina's ex-friend Lilya (Mia Wasikowska) is not nearly as sanguine. The shy and previously naive daughter of a Polish immigrant family, she's still reeling from the damage done by Katrina's incursion into her life.
I was often reminded of The Boys, Rowan Woods's evocation of anarchy suburban style, but it's as if the two films occupy parallel worlds - one dark, menacing and macho, the other black, farcical and feline. And rather than rippling beneath the surface of everyday life, the violence here quickly spills over the top. Danny makes sure of that. A man who shares his sister's robust taste for drama, he takes a samurai sword to a convenience store robbery and, when the assistant not only recognises him but can't resist admitting it, he relieves him of his head.
Katrina loves Danny, possibly because he's the only person in her life who's as implacable as she is, and once he's in jail, all her efforts are concentrated on finding the money for his appeal. In refusing to help, her father, John, makes his gravest mistake.
In essence, it's Greek tragedy brought to a backyard near you. The director, Paul Goldman, achieves a deft balance between the operatic and the ruggedly naturalistic, and it's far from being a one-woman show. The people in her life, while they all revolve around Katrina, are more than victims.
As the ill-fated John, Robert Morgan vacillates between indulgence and exasperation in doing his best to deal with a daughter he has no hope of understanding. And Katrina's boyfriend, Rusty (Michael Dorman), is even more bamboozled because of the infinitely exploitable fact that as well as loving and desiring her, he's amused by her.
In no sense is it a morality tale. Good is never going to triumph because it's clear from the start that its champions aren't up to the job. Steve Bastoni's police detective, the film's main representative of law and order, is as corruptible as everyone else, and well-meaning Lilya is floundering way out of her depth. As for Dianne, her wry fatalism is potently laced with malice. For her, everything flows from the fact that the mother of Katrina and Danny was a drug addict.
The film itself doesn't buy into that argument, wisely eschewing pop psychology to let you make up your own mind on the nature-versus-nurture debate. It also raises the distinct possibility that Katrina, as with many of life's mysteries, simply defies explanation.