Bellflower takes place somewhere in California, not a post-apocalyptic wasteland, but its characters might not mind if the former someday became the latter. Woodrow (Evan Glodell) and Aiden (Tyler Dawson) are best friends, and in their ample spare time (neither seems to have a traditional job), they say "dude" a lot while noodling around in garages and vacant lots, attempting to build a flame-thrower and a tricked-out muscle car akin to those seen in the Mad Max movies. When they talk about ruling the end of the world with their gang, it's hard to tell if their childishness is innocent, self-conscious, ironic, or some combination.
Similarly, you could probably describe them with the catch-all semi-meaningless term "hipster," but it would have to encompass a mixture of nerd, hillbilly, poseur, and eternal teenager. Regardless of their intention or state of mind, Woodrow and Aiden are not idle would-be builders: Woodrow's current vehicle boasts a whiskey tap that he built into the dashboard. The engineering is impressive, but it raises questions about Woodrow's priorities, as well as whether Bellflower is aware that its characters are alcoholics.
We first see the whiskey dash when Woodrow is on an extended date with Milly (Jessie Wiseman). They meet at a bar, of course; Aiden is drunkenly drawing attention to himself, which seems to be more or less a substitute for his occupation, but Milly is drawn to the quieter, sweeter Woodrow (Glodell has half-ingratiating, half-grating whiny voice that sounds something like Nick Swardson doing an impression of Paul Schneider). Milly is brash -- she meets the boys by entering a cricket-eating contest -- and seems to share the boys' enthusiastic aimlessness.
When Woodrow offers to take her to a nice restaurant for dinner, Milly counters that she wants to be taken someplace gross and dangerous. Woodrow mentions one in Texas; Milly says let's go. Neither of them blinks, and soon they are on a first date that lasts the better part of a week. Their relationship is built, in the parlance of Arrested Development, on a series of escalating dares.
Through this point, Bellfower's rambling has some ramshackle, offbeat charm; it's like a mumblecore indie with a little more squalor and a lot more style, the kind of movie David Gordon Green used to make. Glodell also wrote and directed the film, and he does his best to make California look like another planet, or at least a Tony Scott movie: he uses tilt-shift and partial-focus to give simple shots a druggy haze, accented by blown-out yellows, greens, and browns in the color palette. As with the boys themselves, it's tricky to figure out whether Glodell the filmmaker operates with unique sensitivity, or striking an elaborate, obnoxious pose, but it's fascinating to puzzle over it; his visuals are arresting and his offhand dudespeak is often funny.
But Bellflower goes on to mimic its heroes in less fortuitous ways. Woodrow and Milly break up, due to an incident that is vaguely foreshadowed yet not at all explained, and the movie sticks so close to Woodrow's previously underdeveloped psyche that it cannot, or will not, parse the disintegration of their relationship. Milly's motivations are not only mysterious, but barely asked after; her betrayal apparently stupefies the likes of Woodrow and Aiden. Are women this much of a riddle to even an immature twentysomething?
Aiden, who seems far more self-impressed and toxic early on, starts to seem like a voice of reason as Woodrow descends into a beardy, sometimes bloody depression (he has some accidental wounds that never seem to heal). Milly's best friend Courtney (Rebekah Brandes) is drawn to him for reasons as inexplicable as Milly's repulsion. Aiden makes progress on the muscle car and the flamethrower. The movie becomes grimmer and hazier, generating a kind of fascination that I'm not sure is the right kind.
I think Bellflower wants to be about a kind of personal apocalypse -- the end of a relationship filtered through its characters' immature sensibilities. I say "I think" because the movie is so in love with itself that it's difficult to say where observation ends and revelry begins. Blodell may have intended to make a movie about regressive, stunted male behavior, but the movie itself is too stunted to make any sense of its central romantic relationship. It's about the idea of heartbreak, the idea of retreating into apocalyptic fantasies, but not the actions, which are rendered meaningless in the movie's hallucinogenic, intense back half.
Wiseman and Brandes, the movie's women, both good early on, are particularly let down by this strategy; their characters must become pawns in the movie's would-be vision, because Glodell seems more interested in state of mind than character, and what began a bracing, unpredictable movie becomes a self-obsessed dirge. Bellflower lingers -- not necessarily in your mind, but on the screen; Glodell seems to be in constant search for the perfect final shot, which may be why the movie sort of continues to run through the credits. After a certain point, though, it no longer matters much. True to its apocalyptic aims, the movie just keeps ending and ending.
Similarly, you could probably describe them with the catch-all semi-meaningless term "hipster," but it would have to encompass a mixture of nerd, hillbilly, poseur, and eternal teenager. Regardless of their intention or state of mind, Woodrow and Aiden are not idle would-be builders: Woodrow's current vehicle boasts a whiskey tap that he built into the dashboard. The engineering is impressive, but it raises questions about Woodrow's priorities, as well as whether Bellflower is aware that its characters are alcoholics.
We first see the whiskey dash when Woodrow is on an extended date with Milly (Jessie Wiseman). They meet at a bar, of course; Aiden is drunkenly drawing attention to himself, which seems to be more or less a substitute for his occupation, but Milly is drawn to the quieter, sweeter Woodrow (Glodell has half-ingratiating, half-grating whiny voice that sounds something like Nick Swardson doing an impression of Paul Schneider). Milly is brash -- she meets the boys by entering a cricket-eating contest -- and seems to share the boys' enthusiastic aimlessness.
When Woodrow offers to take her to a nice restaurant for dinner, Milly counters that she wants to be taken someplace gross and dangerous. Woodrow mentions one in Texas; Milly says let's go. Neither of them blinks, and soon they are on a first date that lasts the better part of a week. Their relationship is built, in the parlance of Arrested Development, on a series of escalating dares.
Through this point, Bellfower's rambling has some ramshackle, offbeat charm; it's like a mumblecore indie with a little more squalor and a lot more style, the kind of movie David Gordon Green used to make. Glodell also wrote and directed the film, and he does his best to make California look like another planet, or at least a Tony Scott movie: he uses tilt-shift and partial-focus to give simple shots a druggy haze, accented by blown-out yellows, greens, and browns in the color palette. As with the boys themselves, it's tricky to figure out whether Glodell the filmmaker operates with unique sensitivity, or striking an elaborate, obnoxious pose, but it's fascinating to puzzle over it; his visuals are arresting and his offhand dudespeak is often funny.
But Bellflower goes on to mimic its heroes in less fortuitous ways. Woodrow and Milly break up, due to an incident that is vaguely foreshadowed yet not at all explained, and the movie sticks so close to Woodrow's previously underdeveloped psyche that it cannot, or will not, parse the disintegration of their relationship. Milly's motivations are not only mysterious, but barely asked after; her betrayal apparently stupefies the likes of Woodrow and Aiden. Are women this much of a riddle to even an immature twentysomething?
Aiden, who seems far more self-impressed and toxic early on, starts to seem like a voice of reason as Woodrow descends into a beardy, sometimes bloody depression (he has some accidental wounds that never seem to heal). Milly's best friend Courtney (Rebekah Brandes) is drawn to him for reasons as inexplicable as Milly's repulsion. Aiden makes progress on the muscle car and the flamethrower. The movie becomes grimmer and hazier, generating a kind of fascination that I'm not sure is the right kind.
I think Bellflower wants to be about a kind of personal apocalypse -- the end of a relationship filtered through its characters' immature sensibilities. I say "I think" because the movie is so in love with itself that it's difficult to say where observation ends and revelry begins. Blodell may have intended to make a movie about regressive, stunted male behavior, but the movie itself is too stunted to make any sense of its central romantic relationship. It's about the idea of heartbreak, the idea of retreating into apocalyptic fantasies, but not the actions, which are rendered meaningless in the movie's hallucinogenic, intense back half.
Wiseman and Brandes, the movie's women, both good early on, are particularly let down by this strategy; their characters must become pawns in the movie's would-be vision, because Glodell seems more interested in state of mind than character, and what began a bracing, unpredictable movie becomes a self-obsessed dirge. Bellflower lingers -- not necessarily in your mind, but on the screen; Glodell seems to be in constant search for the perfect final shot, which may be why the movie sort of continues to run through the credits. After a certain point, though, it no longer matters much. True to its apocalyptic aims, the movie just keeps ending and ending.
