Speedman, Hampshire and Baruchel.

In dramatic Contrast to the usual vapid monotony that permeates most Canadian  films, Good Neighbors is a toxic thriller with unbearable intensity about an odd group of tenants in a small Montreal apartment house in the dead of a Quebec winter. Shades of Roman Polanski’s The Tenant and Alfred  Hitchcock’s I Confess come to mind as the eerie ambience unfolds around three English-speaking outsiders (called Anglophones) in French-speaking Notre-Dame-de-Grâce in 1995, the year Canada was in the midst of a referendum to decide whether the French province should secede from the  nation. In this divisive political landscape, hostile tensions mount, dangers lurk, and to make matters worse, there’s a rapist-serial killer on the prowl, paralyzing Montreal in a vise of terror.

Spencer, played by impossibly handsome Toronto native and heartthrob Scott Speedman, is a moody cripple, confined to a wheelchair after the car crash that killed his wife and left him bitter and reclusive. His only friend is Louise (Emily Hampshire), a pretty waitress in a seedy Chinese restaurant who brings Spencer occasional remnants of the outside world like bottles of scotch and newspapers, but reserves her only affection for two cats that scamper up and down the fire escape, annoying the neighbors. Victor (Jay Baruchel) is the newcomer, a nervous, lonely Jewish schoolteacher with a cat named Balthazar, who moves in on the fourth floor after spending a year in China. Desperate for human contact, he forces his way into his two neighbors’ lives without invitation, but has no idea what a price he will be forced to pay later on. None of them are exactly normal, but there’s something especially unsettling about the smirking Spencer. The first time we see him, he’s feeding smaller fish to the big fish in his tank. Is there a secret behind his sugary smile? Does he make hostile gestures toward Louise’s cats and rude remarks that come out of nowhere because he’s masking his anger and pain? Or does he have a dark side? And then there’s Valerie, a native French-Canadian alcoholic with a nasty temper who poisons Louise’s cats. All of them set the stage for a very unusual thriller filled with graphic violence, sex, blood and sinister mayhem, but which mostly relies on the kind of psychological suspense that comes on stealthy fingers and hides behind the curtains.

In the snowy shadows, a world comes to life that freezes the breath. Overcome with grief and rage, Louise carefully plots a way to destroy Valerie and make it look like the work of the homicidal maniac, framing Victor at the same time, so she can take possession of his cat. The characters go their wicked ways until the inevitable finally happens. On her way up the fire escape from one of the most brutal murder scenes in recent memory, Louise accidentally runs into Spencer, on his way down in his death mask. This is where the gears shift and the plot thickens. Adding tension, Victor sees them both. The rest of this blood-curdling cat-and-mouse game is about the traps they set for each other with multiple solutions that are nothing less than hair-raising.

This third feature by writer-director Jacob Tierney establishes him as one of Canada’s most original and acerbic young filmmakers. Using only the most basic primary set pieces—three apartments connected by a fire escape and the always empty Chinese café—he creates an atmosphere that seems rich and claustrophobic at the same time. From a shocking scene of necrophilia to a vivid throat slashing in the glow of a Christmas tree, Mr. Tierney shocks and provokes but leaves no trace of ennui—and you’ll be amazed how much curdled drama you can get out of the contents of a can of cat food.  Some of the imagery overreaches and the climax is something of a letdown, but the excellent performances are perfectly focused and the bleak cinematography by Guy Dufaux, with lighted windows in the lavender night, really makes you feel like you  are in the middle of a frozen Montreal winter. Good Neighbors is a hotbed of twisted ideas with a straightforward yet novel approach to the Gothic horror in the hearts of mistakenly everyday people. Stressful and disconcerting but highly recommended, it gave me nightmares.

rreed@observer.com

GOOD NEIGHBORS

Running time 98 minutes

Written and directed by Jacob Tierney

Starring Scott Speedman, Jay Baruchel, Emily Hampshire

3/4

Times booze expert Eric Asimov's campaign for the frivolous -- but tasty! -- warm-time cordial was sparked by a tweet by Lockhart Steele, who explained that one should drink the pink stuff during the cold months only if it's being tested for summertime.

Yet the prejudice — what else can one call it? — endures. In a Twitter post last week, Lockhart Steele, the founder of Eater.com and other Web sites, suggested that few excuses were acceptable for drinking rosé in January. Well, excuse me, Mr. Steele, you’ve obviously never tried a wine like Jean-Paul Brun’s 2009 Rosé d’ Folie, a minerally pink Beaujolais that I would drink any time of the year, especially if I had a plate of chicken roasted with garlic, rosemary and thyme.

Why this insistence to drink rosé when it's freezing out? As a collective we've gone back and forth over when to drink certain wines, kowtowing to convention one year and throwing up our arms in concession others. A bottle of white with my bloody steak, please, because who follows the rules these days right!

Not quite. We clamor for some decency in our lives, and thus we will not touch rosé until the rebirth of Christ allows us to wear white. A bottle of red will do us more than fine.

Click for Scandal Report: Champagne Mania Makes for A Boozy Golden Globes

nfreeman [at] observer.com | @nfreeman1234

We are born falling. We are conceived in the heavens and die in your sewers. In our presence you can never deny that beauty is terrifying. All that glows could soon grow dark. What is pure and white will soon be the filthiest puddle. You watch us fall, watch us glow in the morning sun, watch us be soiled and turn to muck, watch us melt and dribble down the drain. You watch all this and you glimpse the secrets of your own fate. You too will fall, you too will shine, you too will melt.

We are beloved by your children. The innocent know nothing of the world’s rot. Purity is for them a natural state. They fashion us into your image. Yet nothing could be as beastly as a snowman. The only thing they prefer to playing God is to plummet in their sleds, to simulate the ultimate journey--into the abyss. We break their fall, and it’s all a day in the park. But as the little ones pack us into balls and toss us in the air, as they learn the cold art of aggression, are they engaged in anything but a dress rehearsal for a carnival of carnage like the world has never seen?

You call us flakes. We hardly ever arrive on time. And when we do show up, we bring too many of our friends.

Sometimes we make you feel romantic. Walk with your lover down a street stepping a foot deep in our blanket. Fall with her into us. We are cold, but she is warm. Will she still love you when the spring comes, or will her love turn to slush? Is love like a tall tree, sometimes bright with leaves, sometimes glistening in ice, but always stable and strong? Or is love like a snowplow, something crude and blunt and always in short supply? The truth is, love is like the salt they toss on the steps. It’s coarse and unsightly, and it leaves you dirty and dry.

We are a metaphor for death. If we have not yet convinced you of that, it seems time to state it outright. 

When you look out your window upon a landscape covered by our white legions, do you think of cocaine? Do you want to get high? If so, you are a drug addict, and we sincerely advise you to seek professional help.