Genre films have a strong, fulfilling relationship with revenge, and Drew Barnhardt’s pulp-fueled Rondo is no exception. Superficially, the film has all the trappings of a modern drive-in movie: a murder-revenge plot, pulsating gore, and a sadistic reverence for all things violent. And that’s pretty much it. There’s nothing cataclysmically deep about the attempted art house throwback, but that doesn’t mean it’s not a fun way to spend 90 minutes of your time.
Rondo opens with a bang. Four of them to be precise. We jump into the story the same way Paul (Luke Sorge), our supposed protagonist, does – abruptly and without much warning. It’s a captivating shock, watching him pant on a pale blue striped couch in evening light, hearts already beating a touch faster. Then, in a humorous undermining of expectation, a bold, clean narration begins. It sounds like newsreel voice over from the 1940s, playing in front of features in the cinema, talking about buying war bonds and doing your part to fight the Nazi threat. It’s anempathetic, corny, and yet surprisingly well-prescribed. The film itself is an urban Western, so why not set up the audience like they’re seeing the legend of an old cowboy. Or cowgirl. Fighting for justice.
Paul is a veteran with crosses to bear, and seeks help through the bottle. In an attempt to get him back on his feet, and not end up like their father, his sister, Jill (Brenna Otts), sends him to a psychiatrist. The appointment is blunt, leading to a rabbit hole of a prescription to indulge in fetishism. Desperate, or drunk, Paul finds himself an apartment with three other men – horny men – who are taking part in a tawdry game of Take My Wife, Please orchestrated by well-oiled manager, his client, and two goons. We learn one of the participating men does this semi-regularly, boasting of his achievements before entering the room where the lights go down. Patiently waiting his turn on the balcony, a sneak peek reveals that Paul’s life is about to take a turn: one way alive and on the run, the other dead.
Paul’s following paranoia about the depth of this conspiracy results in a protagonist shift, and 42 minutes in, we see Jill take the mantle of main character with revenge on the mind. She enlists the help of their VA bound father leading to a mildly amusing mix-up and abrupt end of that storyline. This is also right about where things start to drag. Despite coming to a satisfyingly bloody conclusion, after the end of Jill’s father’s story, the film reverts to a snail’s pace right until the climax. We’ve woven through elaborate, lengthy dialogue that is not well-written enough to carry the scenes. We witness an elongated party sequence that attempts dark comedy, but feels more like a pathetic birthday where only five of your twenty guests actually showed. It’s a misguided attempt that flattens any forward momentum the revenge sequence had and makes the subsequent shoot-out less gratifying.
There is a modern grindhouse feel that is no way accidental. Shots are oversaturated, overexposed, full of contrast, but retains the sharp, clear cinematography of a digital cam. It’s an unavoidable disservice to small budget films with large, visual ideas. A carnivalesque cat-and-mouse in the sister’s apartment, helped immensely by an orchestral circus score, is the best evidence of director’s fight between the dark and dirty style he wanted, and the clean and modern look of the digital age. It’s a marvelous sequence, accented with slow-mo tension, usurped expectations, and black humor demonstrated as the predator searches inside a washer and dryer for his hidden prey. This type of moment is repeated multiple times throughout the film: haunting music video sequences that elevate an otherwise blasé, shoestring plot.
With genuine reverence, the film tries very hard to emulate the grit and gallows humor of Tarantino, but continues to fall short in its lack of architecture. It weaves through happenstantial scenes that amount to no greater understanding of character depth or world-building. Lurdell, the manager of these affairs, speaks with over articulate sophistication, yet it is corrupted by clunky, uninspired dialogue. The “underground” nature of sexual deviants feels more like if Bonnie and Clyde were swingers than any conspiratorial network of sex and murder clubs. Two homicidal lunatics playing house with money to spare. In a word, the plot is anorexic: the bones are there, they just need more meat on them.
There are flashes of creative sustenance in Rondo, something shocking and original, but a majority of the film is just a reminder of those who’ve come before and done it better. For all the attempted and actualized moments of revenge-western-grindhouse, the plot is thin and the dialogue is uninspired. The modernity of crisp digital doesn’t help the texture, and we can take the lesson that when it comes to pulp…keep it on the celluloid.
Rondo is out on DVD and VOD on June 4th from Artsploitation Films.
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