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Is this study of consciousness between death and burial meant to be taken seriously, or is it a clever tongue-in-cheek send-up of such halfway-mortality films like Peter Jackson's The Lovely Bones and What Dreams May Come? We're not sure, but either way, After.Life makes for a balmy time in the embalming room.
Argumentative and short-fused Anna Taylor (Christina Ricci, Speed Racer) is in a relationship with Paul (Justin Long, Drag Me to Hell), who is about to put their squabbles to rest by proposing marriage. As is her wont, Anna takes issue with something he says, and jumps up from their table at a posh restaurant before the salad arrives. Steaming with rage and indignation, she drives away in a mad lane-changing rush. It's night. It's raining. She starts texting. Stretching credulity (like just about everything else in this movie), her exaggerated emotional state accomplishes its goal of getting her killed in the inevitable accident.
She wakes up to the towering figure of Eliot Deacon (Liam Neeson, Kinsey) hovering over her in the antiseptic coolness of his preparation room. She lies on a porcelain table. As he has done so many times before to so many others, Deacon gives her the horrific news: She's dead, and his function is to "transition" her to full death. Her response is one he's heard many times. "You people are all alike," he complains when she refuses to believe him even after he produces her Death Certificate. "You're in denial."
Well, that's not all she's in. "Oh, I nearly forgot. How tall are you?" he asks. "Why?" "I need to know your height. For your coffin."
This gloomy stranger in her after life proceeds to cover up her fatal head wound with makeup as part of his open coffin presentation but leaves the rip in her blazing red gown for the moment. In the latter stages of prep, he'll carefully cut off the entire garment, leaving her nearly naked and giving Ricci a chance to go through so many poses that you can't avoid suspecting that the actress saw this as an opportunity to make us all sure she's totally hot. Take it as a guarantee that you will know Ms. Ricci better than you ever did after this movie.
Finally, Mr. Mortician returns and re-dresses her in a sequined black gown which, when she's placed on the coffin lining of dark purple satin, makes for a smashing ensemble. This is an undertaker of unimpeachable taste. A corpse is lucky to be in his capable hands.
By the time the shock of the exhibition wears off, the feeling arises that the writers wrote themselves into a corner from which there is no sensible resurrection. Boyfriend Paul is granted the clairvoyance to know that something untoward is happening to his would-be fiance and he provides a rain of distraction for the imperturbable Deacon. Unintended slab humor creeps in, which might have been avoided had writer-director Agnieszka Wojtowicz-Vosloo (with co-writer Paul Vosloo) at least tightened the screen time for their horror escapade.
Much rests on the big shoulders of Liam Neeson to give this an air of legitimacy. And he doesn't utter a single line that isn't unshakably earnest and weighty -- qualities that the film hinges on. Clearly, if you need a guy with the presence to give your movie a funereal demeanor, Neeson's your man.
The picture is served well by the quality of the production, thanks to the skills of cinematographer Anastas N. Michos, production designer Ford Wheeler, costume designer Luca Mosca, and others. But nothing -- not Neeson's formidable performance nor Ricci's enticing exhibitionism -- can overcome a script that runs out of ideas way before the funeral.
Argumentative and short-fused Anna Taylor (Christina Ricci, Speed Racer) is in a relationship with Paul (Justin Long, Drag Me to Hell), who is about to put their squabbles to rest by proposing marriage. As is her wont, Anna takes issue with something he says, and jumps up from their table at a posh restaurant before the salad arrives. Steaming with rage and indignation, she drives away in a mad lane-changing rush. It's night. It's raining. She starts texting. Stretching credulity (like just about everything else in this movie), her exaggerated emotional state accomplishes its goal of getting her killed in the inevitable accident.
She wakes up to the towering figure of Eliot Deacon (Liam Neeson, Kinsey) hovering over her in the antiseptic coolness of his preparation room. She lies on a porcelain table. As he has done so many times before to so many others, Deacon gives her the horrific news: She's dead, and his function is to "transition" her to full death. Her response is one he's heard many times. "You people are all alike," he complains when she refuses to believe him even after he produces her Death Certificate. "You're in denial."
Well, that's not all she's in. "Oh, I nearly forgot. How tall are you?" he asks. "Why?" "I need to know your height. For your coffin."
This gloomy stranger in her after life proceeds to cover up her fatal head wound with makeup as part of his open coffin presentation but leaves the rip in her blazing red gown for the moment. In the latter stages of prep, he'll carefully cut off the entire garment, leaving her nearly naked and giving Ricci a chance to go through so many poses that you can't avoid suspecting that the actress saw this as an opportunity to make us all sure she's totally hot. Take it as a guarantee that you will know Ms. Ricci better than you ever did after this movie.
Finally, Mr. Mortician returns and re-dresses her in a sequined black gown which, when she's placed on the coffin lining of dark purple satin, makes for a smashing ensemble. This is an undertaker of unimpeachable taste. A corpse is lucky to be in his capable hands.
By the time the shock of the exhibition wears off, the feeling arises that the writers wrote themselves into a corner from which there is no sensible resurrection. Boyfriend Paul is granted the clairvoyance to know that something untoward is happening to his would-be fiance and he provides a rain of distraction for the imperturbable Deacon. Unintended slab humor creeps in, which might have been avoided had writer-director Agnieszka Wojtowicz-Vosloo (with co-writer Paul Vosloo) at least tightened the screen time for their horror escapade.
Much rests on the big shoulders of Liam Neeson to give this an air of legitimacy. And he doesn't utter a single line that isn't unshakably earnest and weighty -- qualities that the film hinges on. Clearly, if you need a guy with the presence to give your movie a funereal demeanor, Neeson's your man.
The picture is served well by the quality of the production, thanks to the skills of cinematographer Anastas N. Michos, production designer Ford Wheeler, costume designer Luca Mosca, and others. But nothing -- not Neeson's formidable performance nor Ricci's enticing exhibitionism -- can overcome a script that runs out of ideas way before the funeral.
