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Two men's stroll through a Michigan forest as they bicker inconsequentially should not be this intriguing. However, writer-director (and actor) Joel Potrykus strikes precisely at the heart of their human drama in "Vulcanizadora," an off-kilter slow burn about a macabre pact that eventually goes awry.
Low-quality video footage of arson and destruction lures us into the movie's pristine, picturesque, 16mm shots of a rural trail. This is the film's setting and its aesthetic default for much of Potrykus's story, in which he plays a troubled, nervous and often grating character named Derek Skiba. Derek's enthusiasm seems entirely at odds with that of his friend, Martin Jackitansky (Joshua Burge), who has little patience for the former's juvenile antics. Derek wants to stop and shoot silly firework videos with their old DV tape Handycam. Martin, meanwhile, has some other goal in mind, but the movie plays its cards close to the vest.
That this tension exists between them but still doesn't deter them from their mission is enough to create intrigue about where they're headed, why and the reason they refuse to leave each other's side. The answers, though initially hidden, are teased through shots of Derek's adolescent antics, which are framed to capture Martin's despondent expression and posture somewhere in the background, even if he's out of focus (Burge, a Potrykus regular, is supremely dialed-in to both the material and methodology). The necessary information eventually comes to light in straightforward dramatic form: via smartly written exposition that feels less like an info-dump and more like two men un-burdening themselves in the form of religious confession while Derek tries to stall them and derail their plan.
Much of the movie's power is owed to Potrykus' own performance as a cartoonish manchild, in the vein of studio comedies led by Adam Sandler or Will Ferrell, only Potrykus is quick to unearth the nuanced layers to Derek's behavior. The nature of their pact, though they hardly speak it out loud, is gradually clarified through their admissions of guilt and depression. It shouldn't be that hard to figure out beyond a point, what also comes to light in the process is the nature of the film itself.
During their wild wanderings, the duo never seems to encounter anyone else, raising questions about why they may have embarked on this journey to begin with. Has something gone wrong back in their hometown? Has the world ended? Whatever the literal answer, the metaphorical one is an emphatic "yes." These are men at the end of their ropes, who have now forced themselves into a symbolic purgatory. They exist, now, at the precipice of oblivion, but the result is unexpectedly funny despite this probing spiritual lens -- or perhaps because of it.
Contrary to studio comedies, the energy Potrykus and cinematographer Adam J. Minnick bring to "Vulcanizadora" is practically meditative (with a few exceptions, like eccentrically edited roughhousing set to heavy metal). The rounded edges of its frame resemble memories captured in the form of snapshots or post-cards, and the contents of that frame are often unbroken, unflinching close-ups of the two men fighting off a looming despair while searching for answers to spiritual questions they can't fully articulate.
And yet, their middle-aged doom and gloom is constantly undercut by a wry sense of childishness and arrested development. Even the movie's darkest moments feel tongue-in-cheek. The pact in question, while deadly, involves bright red fireworks and a homemade "Saw"-like contraption. Whatever you imagine, the result is sillier than you'd think. The aftermath is just as strange and surprising in the movie's languid final third, given the legal and ethical ramifications involved (though the less revealed beforehand, the better).
By the time its end credits roll, "Vulcanizadora" proves surprisingly moving in its depiction of mid-life crises and of two men who feel so betrayed by the world (and by their own actions) that they see no escape from their malaise. To turn that feeling into coherent drama is hard enough. To turn it into acerbic, introspective comedy is harder still, but somehow, Potrykus succeeds.