Review: Syrup (2013)

Cast: Shiloh Fernandez, Amber Heard, Kellan Lutz
Director: Aram Rappaport
Country: USA
Genre: Comedy | Drama | Romance
Official Trailer: Here

Editor’s Notes: Syrup is now open in limited release, and is also available on VOD

The critical difference between marketing and art, claims Syrup at a crucial narrative juncture, is the latter’s evaluation of idea above commercial value—if any—rather than vice-versa, as in the former. It’s a cute little line to have a character espouse, though one that inevitably draws attention to the movie’s own precarious standing on the art-commerce line: what is this film, and what does it want of us? Directed by Aram Rappaport—a filmmaker with a single prior feature to his name—adapted from a work by a relatively unknown novelist, starring indie performers like Shiloh Fernandez and Amber Heard, it’s an altogether too low-key affair to be trained solely at punters’ pockets, yet all-too uninspired in its central conceit to lay any legitimate claim to artistry.

It’s only in the consistently enjoyable performances of Fernandez and Heard, as Scat and 6 respectively, that the film remains watchable hereafter, its exhaustingly repetitive plot structure and growing dearth of effective gags leaving the young actors a lot of work to carry the movie at all.

That conceit, smothered in satirical intent, arrives from the world of energy drink marketing as layabout slacker Scat loses out on the fiscal rewards of Fukk—his ostensibly ingenious image-in-a-can idea—when he fails to patent the name and has it stolen by conniving roommate Sneaky Pete and ruthless young executive 6. Like the cheekily-titled beverage at its centre, Syrup initially works courtesy of its amusing concept alone, Rappaport—who co-wrote the script with Max Barry, author of the novel—delivering a viscous enough stream of solid gags squarely aimed at the insatiable commercialism of the western world. It’s in the back-and-forth toing-and-froing of the narrative when Scat and 6 are forced to work together, though, that the film rapidly becomes about as satisfying as the actual liquid—an afterthought to the product idea—itself.

It’s only in the consistently enjoyable performances of Fernandez and Heard, as Scat and 6 respectively, that the film remains watchable hereafter, its exhaustingly repetitive plot structure and growing dearth of effective gags leaving the young actors a lot of work to carry the movie at all. They do so primarily alone, supporting players like Kellan Lutz—playing to his strengths in a role that involves no dialogue—and Brittany Snow given neither the depth of character nor the screen time to offer any meaningful aid. That’s not to suggest, by contrast, that Scat and 6 are developed creations in any sense; the film’s stern refusal to commit its protagonists to the satirical streak of the overarching plot robs it of all thematic import, the script’s unyielding desire to paint them as decent people fundamentally at odds with the underlying social commentary it seems desperate to spell out, and desperately unable to do so.

…this is remarkably unremarkable filmmaking, notable only in its irritating excesses, commendable only by virtue of its managing to not make matters too much worse.

Rappaport is neither strong enough as writer or director to make much in the way of amends: his unduly penchant for direct camera address grows as weary as does the tiresome third-person voiceover, both little more than glossy gimmickry poorly employed to mask a subpar product. His reliably uninteresting compositions, meanwhile, offer as little decent material for the eye as does the story for the brain; this is remarkably unremarkable filmmaking, notable only in its irritating excesses, commendable only by virtue of its managing to not make matters too much worse. In fact, it’s perhaps only Peter Bateman and Andrew Holtzman’s score that earns the crew any particular attention, its tones repeated ad infinitum to the point where they—likely innocuous enough on only one listen—become insufferable.

Trading in the bulk of its satirical potential for a cheap cash-in on the rude title of its central product—or rather as many cheap cash-ins as it can manage to stuff in; just try keeping count—Syrup quickly devolves into a hopelessly misguided servant to the very commercial considerations it initially seems set to lampoon. Nowhere near daring enough to try anything interesting with its primarily foul characters, it’s a movie not so much awful as it is, simply, frightfully boring. Faced with characters this mono-dimensional, direction this flat, storytelling this adverse to even the slightest risk, it’s difficult to give a fukk.

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Ronan Doyle

Director of Movies On Demand & Sr. Staff Film Critic at Next Projection

Having spent the vast majority of my life sharing in the all too prevalent belief than cinema is merely dumbed-down weekend escapism for the masses, I was lucky enough to turn on a television at the exact right moment to have my perspectives on the medium completely transformed. Those first two and a half hours marked the beginning of a new life revolving around—maybe even depending upon—the screen and the depth of artistry, intellectual stimulation, and emotional exhilaration it can provide.

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