In independent filmmaking there’s a comforting near-truth: Good
independent films are more likely to see release than bad independent
films. Indie pictures don’t have gargantuan marketing budgets to cover a
movie’s mediocrity—or outright badness—with advertising blitzes,
marketing campaigns and viral videos.
The one thing worse than a movie that’s so totally rah-rah about its subject is to put the audience in a position to care about its subject and then to, rather ruthlessly, kill its subject. Or in the case of End of Watch, half its subjects.
If there’s one film director who can make audiences flee, it’s David
Cronenberg. Anyone who watched Crash, his graphic tale of car crashes
and sex, or his adaptation of William Burroughs’ Naked Lunch, knows as