CHRIS KNIGHT FILM FALLS FLAT
But Cronenberg shines in thriller that relishes in the neon gaudiness of its setting
David Cronenberg hasn’t directed a movie since 2014’s Maps to the Stars, and I miss him. So what a joyous surprise to see the septuagenarian rising out of the waters of the Niagara River like some kind of swamp monster in Albert Shin’s Disappearance at Clifton Hill.
Sure, he’s just a supporting actor in this swirly tale of family secrets and lies set in the Ontario tourist trap. But his performance as a genial historian, podcaster and muckraker — and scuba diver! — is the best thing about Shin’s movie, which is otherwise long on atmosphere but short on specifics. That also describes Clifton Hill, Niagara Falls’ gaudy tourist promenade and home to more wax museums, haunted houses and miniature golf courses than you can shake a stick at. Though if you wanted to buy a
stick, perhaps emblazoned with I HEART CANADA, this is the place.
Abby (Tuppence Middleton) has just returned to the area from Vancouver, after the death of her mother. The family motel has been put up for sale, and local rich boy Charlie Lake (Eric Johnson) is keen to turn it into a glow-in-the-dark paintball arena, because you can never have too many of those, even in Clifton Hill.
Abby’s sister, Laure (Hannah Gross), never left the Falls and works in the casino. She’s fine with selling the defunct motel to the highest bidder and leaving it at that, but Abby has some personal ghosts she has to deal with first.
As revealed in the film’s super-creepy opening scene, Abby once saw something down by the river while on a family fishing trip — a boy, bloodied and wearing an eye patch, who begged her to be silent before he was grabbed by someone on the road and hauled away in a car. Neither her sister nor their parents noticed anything, and Abby, who was only seven, has puzzled over the event ever since.
Director and co-writer Shin made a splash in 2014 with In Her Place, a tightly wound thriller with a shocking twist. Disappearance at Clifton Hill feels like it’s trying for a similar vibe, as Abby’s investigations into that half-remembered kidnapping lead her into the seedier corners of the border city — fun houses (which, she notes dryly, “aren’t actually fun”) and tacky restaurants and a local magic/tiger act with more than a little Siegfried and Roy in its DNA.
There’s a wonderful analogue ambience to the whole affair, as Abby assembles old photographs, videotapes, photocopied police reports and newspaper clippings on microfilm. And the city can’t help but co-operate: You can’t pan a camera in Clifton Hill without taking in some gaudy expanse of neon lighting.
But in some ways the film doesn’t do enough with its moody setting. We’re primed to suspect Abby as an unreliable narrator — she has a history of telling lies and maybe worse. And the film makes an ominous homage to Cronenberg’s early horror Videodrome, suggesting a psychotic breakdown in the offing. But Clifton Hill doesn’t so much pull the rug from under viewers as tack it tidily down underfoot.
There’s still much to enjoy here. I cannot say enough about Cronenberg ’s perfect performance — somehow, the more mild-mannered his delivery, the nuttier it seems.
But by the final reel, the suspense in Disappearance at Clifton Hill does its own disappearing act. We’re left with smoke, funhouse mirrors and the sense that a better movie got away while our attention was focused elsewhere.