The Voices

The Voices (15)

USA 2014  101 mins  Dir: Marjane Satrapi  Starring: Ryan Reynolds, Gemma Arterton, Anna Kendrick, Jacki Weaver

Iranian director Marjane Satrapi ticked every Guardian reader box with her lauded debut, Persepolis: a largely monochrome, autobiographical, patriarchy-bashing animation based on her experiences of repression under the Shah and during the subsequent Islamic revolution. She courts an entirely different audience with The Voices: a grisly, surreal, grand guignol horror comedy starring that shameless veteran of dozens of terrible mainstream movies, Ryan Reynolds, as a socially awkward simpleton-cum-deranged serial killer. One disapproving British critic has already described it as a “hateful, repellent, empty film”, which should alert gorehounds to the fact that this is something they might enjoy.

The casting of Reynolds proves to be a masterstroke, as his bland, sunny persona is a perfect fit for an unassuming all-American psycho. He plays shy, ingratiating Jerry, who works in the packing and shipping department of a stylised midwest toilet factory, where employees sport garishly pink uniforms that seem to have sprung from the imagination of Wes Anderson. Jerry’s in love with Fiona (Arterton) the exotic English ‘office hottie’ who appears to him as an angel from heaven. Suitably alarmed, Fiona points out that she’s actually from Reading, which is “closer to Hell”. But we already know that Jerry’s problems run deep. He’s stopped taking his meds, much to the dismay of his therapist (Weaver), and is now caught between his bickering pets. Potty-mouthed pussy Mr. Whiskers eggs him on to kill, kill and kill again, while Bosco the mutt urges calm and appeals to his sense of decency. They’re rather like those angels and devils that whisper into cartoon characters’ ears, except that the Scottish-accented tomcat sounds more like an Irvine Welsh creation. These voices become a cacophony when Jerry’s fridge starts to fill up with severed heads, each of which is eager to offer an opinion on what he should do next.

As you might expect of a film with talking animals, a dancing Jesus, choreographed forklift trucks and neatly stacked tupperware boxes filled with human giblets, this bizarre black comedy makes a determined bid for cult status. We’re alerted fairly early on to the fact that we’re seeing everything from Jerry’s increasingly unhinged viewpoint, permitting Reynolds scope to give his best performance in years (which isn’t saying much, admittedly), while also voicing Mr Whiskers and Bosco. Gemma Arterton gets to exercise her well-developed comedy chops too, in a role that requires her to act without a torso for much of the film. The tone wavers occasionally, there’s a rather laboured Norman Bates-style backstory, and the laughs dry up towards the end. But at its best, this is a funny, eccentric, taste-free treat for those who don’t suffer the misfortune of being easily offended. It also demonstrates an impressive grasp of feline psychology. Anyone who shares their home with a cat will know the expression that says: “Where the fuck’s my food, fuckface?”