This one gets passed in.

Frank’s a miserable bastard, lost in work, broken marriage, still grieving the loss of his mother. He’s not having a good time. To underscore this, found throughout this essentially immobile Australian dramedy, there are numerous scenes which involve nothing further than Frank entering a room, putting his things on a table and sitting down. And that’s the whole scene.

Front and centre of this Adelaide-set real estate family dramedy is Anthony LaPaglia, drowsy and spent in a role which is meant to have him basically sleepwalking through the proceedings. He’s a sad sack, we get it. John Clarke does what he does best, which is add a bit of bone-dry wit to the proceedings when he’s there, but his is a minor role. The inclusion of Julia Blake as Frank’s would-be mother substitute adds – *something* – but she’s not in it enough, and does not have enough to do to liven things up as much as her presence would usually warrant.

We get no real insight into Frank, or his relationship with his ex; there is a moment with his son where a compliment is rewarded with a large hug – but he vaults this truth about the boy’s acting ability on him, and when we see the kid act… well, he’s fine. You know, fine. Serviceable. About as good as a kid in a high school Shakespeare usually is, but nothing anywhere near worthy of the praise Frank heaps on him. I wondered if we were seeing the same thing.

At the end of the day, the film is simply lifeless. The dour, trudging manner in which Frank moves from one scene to the next becomes contagious with the entire spirit of the film, and when he does come out with the occasional witty line, it underscores the fact that A Month of Sundays is a film that doesn’t have the first clue what it really is.

It’s a film made up of some pretty bad choices, like music cues, shot selection, pace, framing. It was in desperate need of an edit, as it needed some serious tightening up; its pace is meandering and disengaging. A couple left the screening 20 minutes in, and within half an hour I was jealous of them.

The whole film is entirely, depressingly unremarkable. And I know we’re supposed to champion ‘local’ art and artists, film makers, musicians, authors, all that. But there is nothing here to champion. It’s in focus, I’ll give it that. But there’s no heart, no momentum. It plods along, in a torturous manner, dragging its feet in attempt to pull off the impossible: make you feel sorry for a real estate agent.