A tale of grim teen hegemony, murder, secret societies and historical fervor: Like Minds is a sort of emo-kid utopia inhabiting a Da Vinci Code world. The film might also be the most un-Australian of Australian films showing at this year’s World Cinema Showcase. The esoteric plot of this physiological-thriller, a debut feature from writer-director Gregory J. Read, hinges on the investigation of 17-year-old Alex Forbes, who has been charged with the death of schoolmate Nigel. Detective McKenzine (Richard Roxburgh) appoints forensic physiologist Sally Rowe (Toni Collette) to determine whether sufficient evidence exists to find Alex guilty. Building on this intriguing prelude, the film flashes back to examine the troubled relationship between boarding school roommates Alex and Nigel, and their unhealthy obsession with dissecting animals, incest, the 13th-century Cathars, Knights Templar and gestalt philosophy. That these outlandish factors don’t come off as entirely-farcical is testament to Read’s taught screenplay, and the compelling performances of Eddie Redmayne (as Alex) and Tom Sturridge (Nigel). Meanwhile, Richard Roxburgh and Toni Collette – both Australian acting mainstays – are at ease, if somewhat unspectacular, in their roles as British cops. Shot primarily on gothic locations in Yorkshire, northeast England, the film’s atmosphere and stylised cinematography is suitably sinister. A terrific score from Carlo Giacco compounds the sense of menace, suggesting truly dark deeds on the horizon. Like Minds’ final sequence – a gathering of its many threads – does descend into clichéd thriller territory, however the film’s conclusion is agreeably haunting. A fascinating and refreshingly unique alternative to the current crop of Australian films.—Caleb Starrenburg

Emily Barclay comes of age in the slimy and scandalous Suburban Mayhem, a new Australian take on the god-awful ’burbs so successfuly portrayed in the likes of Chopper and The Boys. Destined for the World Cinema Showcase in March and April, JACOB POWELL reviews.

In We Feed The World, our daily bread literally goes down the tube, just a fraction of the excess and waste created by multinational corporations with a foothold on the global production of food. CALEB STARRENBURG uncovers some of this documentary’s sobering truths, screening at this year’s World Cinema Showcase in March and April.

A juicy entrant in this country's ever-burgeoning film festival season, the French Film Festival forwards eleven features heralding from that most European of film industries. If its modest offerings seem beside the point in the face of bigger international programmes (namely, the NZIFF), one only need to look at the list of recent French films that never made it to our screens, crawling their way onto DVD several years later if we're lucky. Among those: previous films by Claude Chabrol and Alain Resnais, two masters represented aptly here with Private Fears in Public Places and A Comedy of Power respectively. Their latest works, along with the sleek and taut thriller The Page Turner, headline a programme balanced elsewhere with lighter fare: comedy (Hey Good Looking!), romance (Twice upon a time), and more comedy (The Story of My Life). Punctuating proceedings are two harder-edged offerings from Xavier Beauvois (The Young Lieutenant) and Lucas Belvaux (The Right of the Weakest). The festival makes its way to Rialto screens in Auckland (Feb 28-March 6) and Wellington (March 2-6) later this month. Full details by way of the festival's official website, frenchfilmfestival.co.nz.

Polished, forthright, and very moving, Ham Tran’s Journey From the Fall ought to stand on its own two feet despite offhanded comparisons to Schindler’s List. It is by turns a tough and tender survival story of Vietnamese boat people that’s more intimate, less remorseful, and not in slightest bit self-righteous. It concerns the plight of the Nguyen family post-Vietnam war: husband Long is imprisoned in a series of grueling re-education camps, forced into hard labour and the regularly fatal practice of clearing landmines; meanwhile his wife, mother and son defect via an overcrowded vessel headed anywhere but ‘Nam. Initially harrowing and without hope, the film relocates at its mid-point to California in the eighties, where the family have immigrated successfully, albeit uneasily, with the undertow of those left behind a heavy burden to bear. Crucially, Tran narrows the focus from the outset, allaying the broad chaos and resentment of a war-ravaged country in favour of the closeness of his four affected family members – the universality of their flight bound to resonate with most Vietnamese (9 out of 10 in the US, for instance, either were or knew boat people), as well as anyone who’s sought refuge from their tarnished homeland. With a generous budget, this is impressively fielded in scale, yet maintains a modesty that’s humbling. It may be financed by producers Stateside, but the American influence is otherwise non-existent: there are no marines or platoons; no embittered war veterans in wheelchairs; nor is there the overbearing presence of an Oliver Stone. He may not admit to it, but Journey From the Fall is also Tran’s backlash against imperialism: just as Americans are compelled to impose themselves on every conflict overseas, so to are they insistent on making them into movies from their own perspective. A film about Vietnamese, by Vietnamese, this is an imprint of war that’s thirty years overdue, yet fresh off the boat.—Tim Wong

With calculated cool, Dominik Moll’s Lemming reveals itself as a hall of mirrors haunted by the spectre of Charlotte Rampling; her glacial presence anticipated by an anomalous Scandinavian rodent. Having discovered a lemming in the S-bend of their kitchen sink, the Gettys, Alain (Laurent Lucus) and Benedicte (Charlotte Gainsbourg), soon find themselves stalked by the boss’ wife, played with stereotypical shrill by the predatory Rampling. An unwelcome houseguest, by turns seductive and abrasive, she imitates the titular creature right down to throwing herself off the proverbial ‘cliff’. In the tradition of David Lynch, that’s only the half of it. Typecast once again as an icicle bitch, the real twist of the film is watching the Gainsbourg – such a delicate, blithe spirit in The Science of Sleep – become slowly possessed by Rampling’s lingering feral soul, while Moll’s clinical visuals manage to unnerve at key moments, an eerie tension exasperated by dueling technological and supernatural forces. All things considered, this comes across as more sub-Chabrol than neo-Lynch – not quite screwed up enough, yet too aloof for its own good. Its symbolic critters, however, are bound to get right under your skin.—Tim Wong