![]() One reason, perhaps, is that behind Breen’s idiosyncrasies lies a man’s honest and steadfast dedication to his craft. And this begs the question: how does Breen elevate near irredeemable trash to cult-classic treasure? This, of course, left many armchair film critics, like myself, perplexed, yet intrigued. ![]() Notably, there’s a strangely extensive sequence focused on a plate of spinach. Somehow, Breen’s trademark style transforms utter ineptness into a masterclass of surrealist, absurd comedy. And yet, it is precisely the technical clumsiness what makes Fateful Findings so wonderfully unpredictable at every turn. Coalesce these elements and the result is, quite frankly, a jarring mess of a movie. A few quirks can quickly be discerned: the laughably wooden acting, the cheap excuses for special effects, and the remarkably low-budget set pieces – just to name a few. If this plot summary hasn’t already won you over, check out the head-scratching theatrical trailer. ![]() “It is precisely the technical clumsiness what makes Fateful Findings so wonderfully unpredictable at every turn.” To add icing on the cake, Dylan also possesses supernatural healing and teleporting abilities, granted to him by a mysterious black stone he discovers in the woods as a child. Meanwhile, he struggles to care for his wife Leah (Jennifer Autry) as she spirals into drug addiction, all while enduring the repeated sexual advances of his best friend Jim’s (David Silva) under-aged stepdaughter Aly (Danielle Andrade). Breen plays protagonist Dylan, a novelist who secretly “hacks into (unspecified) national and international databases” to expose the corruption of the world’s (unnamed) leaders. I had the pleasure of viewing (in full) one of his most renowned works, Fateful Findings: a mishmash of unfinished sub-plots that’s as confounding as it is entertaining. Trawl through the deluge of bad films and you just might find yourself stumbling upon the works of underground filmmaker Neil Breen – the subject of my piece. Rather, I’m referring to the likes of James Nguyen’s Birdemic and Tommy Wiseau’s Room – the kind that illicit twisted reactions of joy and bewilderment. Just to be clear, I’m not talking about B-Movies. Yet, despite the privilege, I find myself longing for the comforts of my guilty pleasure: bad (and I mean atrociously bad) films. From polished blockbusters to intimately crafted character studies, moviegoers today are decidedly spoilt for choice. With Tarantino, Scorsese, Villeneuve and the like, cinema today has never been more riveting.
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