I confess, dear readers, I am at a crossroads in my professed vocation and after only a single previous entry. It is my utmost desire to impart my feelings about Pontypool and yet it seems a trifle unbiased to approach a written review for a film in which I have had some warm occasions to profess my admiration to the film’s creator (*). Granted, by the time my paths crossed with McDonald’s, I had already become a great admirer. And yet still, my personal encounters leads me to fear that presenting these laudatory sentiments will unveil a rift in the stony objectivity required of my craft. Nevertheless, on this, the eve of my sixth viewing, I have chosen to risk accusations of partiality and publish my freshest impressions. 

Grant Mazzy (Stephen McHattie), a spindly huckster of ire and unrest, has been fired due to his tendency to be a spindly huckster of ire and unrest. Grant seeks to persuade his audience that danger lurks in unexpected, perhaps even implausible corners and that paranoia divorced from hard evidence is by no means a dubious perspective. Though this is typically the reason he is employed in the fine art of radio broadcasting, he has apparently gone too far with his divisive antics and as such, he has been banished to the furthest reaches of snow-swept Canada. His humbling tenure is soon interrupted by a zombie-like infection that has latched itself onto an unlikely host…the English language. Certain words have become contaminated and uttering them reduces their user to a stage of considerable confusion. Though the insidious ways in which our language and our media can be turned against us is nothing new, it seems a particularly topical theme in our jolting political climate of today. Mazzy’s agitating on-air tactics and the linguistic horrors he encounters feel frightfully relevant at a time when many people seem to suspect the presence of “false news” among trusted outlets of reportage.

Excepting one brief scene at the film’s outset, Pontypool is a contained affair, taking place entirely within the confines of the radio station. Horror movies that resemble “bottle episodes” of popular televised programs have become all the more regular, no doubt a challenge on the part of filmmakers akin to Lars Von Trier’s Dogme 95 doctrine (though in my lesser moments I suspect some of these films are made for purely financial reasons). Yet few of these “contained” horror films conjure the effects of Pontypool. Much credit is due to Mr. McHattie’s performance, which leaves the viewer wondering how he has managed to avoid the kind of household-name fame to which many thespians aspire. His rendition of Grant Mazzy is simply inspired. Add to this an equally talented supporting cast, a clever script, the confident direction of Bruce McDonald and an absolute dynamo of an ending and you have, dare I say, a flawless horror outing. If I were a man of more demonstrative passions, I imagine I would have cheered aloud at the film’s thrilling cut to black. 

I can think of no fitter way to conclude this review than with a snippet from the film. It is a message translated from French that Grant and his team hear on their own airwaves:

“Restrain from the following: all terms of endearment…and rhetorical discourse. For greater safety, please avoid the English language. Please do not translate this message.”

Pontypool runs 93 minutes and does not possess a certified rating in the United States.

(*) He accosted director Bruce McDonald in an alleyway and claimed they had “some shared ancestry.” They do not - Penny Dee, Ed.