Let’s talk about “Wake Up,” the latest would-be horror satire directed (or, more accurately, jury-rigged) by François Simard, Anouk Whissell, and Yoann-Karl Whissell. This is a picture with ambitions lodged somewhere between eco-activist screed and cut-rate slasher—imagine if “Mall Cop” crashed headfirst into “Saw” while Greenpeace volunteers took selfies in the background. If you sense a peculiar whiff of recycled Swedish particleboard, that’s not your imagination: the whole production is set in a place that could only be described as IKEA after dark, which would be more fun if someone, anyone, knew what to do with it.
And yet, amid the unsteady hullabaloo, we have Turlough Convery—Kevin, the night guard—ferocious, unpredictable, and absolutely watchable. He’s the kind of performer you instantly want to cast, axes and all, in your next big midnight carnage-fest. This role, for him, is what a handsomely carved oak leg is to an otherwise rickety stool: without him, the movie would collapse under its own weight.
The rest? If mediocrity were an art form, “Wake Up” would be a peer-reviewed thesis.
The plot nervously shuffles onto the stage—a group of sprightly young eco-warriors decide the way to save the planet is by spray-painting furniture. Their moral clarity crumbles faster than cheap veneer the minute they’re shut in overnight, trapped with Kevin, a security guard whose idea of conflict resolution lies somewhere between Jason Voorhees and customer service on Black Friday. There’s potential here, somewhere, but it’s as if the filmmakers lost the instruction sheet and started guessing halfway through. This is a movie that wants to say something about consumer culture and ends up saying nothing at all—which, come to think of it, is almost its own sly commentary.
Let’s not mince words. If Turlough Convery is the movie’s lone bolt screwed in tightly, everyone else is the box of mismatched hardware you’re left with at the end—no torque, just the vague hope someone will take charge. Watching the supporting cast flail through their dialogue is like staring at a pile of planks waiting for inspiration, or, at the very least, a splash of paint. Cleverness is not a requirement here, and it is served up accordingly—line readings so wooden you’ll be checking for splinters.
As for the direction, if there’s a unifying vision, it’s been abandoned in aisle five with the unsold coffee tables. “Wake Up” fumbles for a pulse, paddling listlessly between earnest social critique and subpar carnage, then somehow manages to miss both marks. Scenes that might bristle with unease or ferocity erupt into confusion and drudgery. For all the running and screaming, there are few stakes—both figuratively and literally.
Cinematography slouches around like a sleep-deprived store clerk. There are glimmers of tension—fleeting, almost accidental—but little that sticks. The endless rows of lighting fixtures mock the filmmakers’ own lack of inspiration: the scares are tepid, the atmosphere as thin as the pressed wood the set designers surely overused. When “Wake Up” does conjure a jolt, it’s quickly sanded down by a tidal wave of sameness.
Curiously, there’s a soundtrack here that’s sharper, wilder, far more deserving than what it supports. One can’t help but listen and wonder if it was meant for a better, more ambitious film—a thriller with rhythm and wit, maybe, or even a documentary about real activists who do more than vandalize particleboard. The music aches to lift the material, but it’s wasted—like an expensive handle stuck on a hollow door.
Peek under the surface and you’ll spot the residue of some social aspiration—environmental anxieties, moral quandaries, the specter of late-stage capitalism. But “Wake Up” is allergic to follow-through; it glances at its themes, shrugs, and returns to the bloodshed. The result feels like what happens when the sustainability section is tacked on as an afterthought in an already doomed warehouse clearance sale.
In the end, “Wake Up” is as blandly functional as a flat-pack nightstand: technically it holds together, mostly, but you won’t remember it past the next trash day. There’s the odd clang of promise—usually when Turlough Convery is in the frame—but he’s left to flail inside a film too timid and disjointed to let him loose. It’s neither offensively bad nor secretly brilliant; it’s the perpetual shrug of horror cinema, the cinematic equivalent of a generic bookshelf: serviceable, unimpressive, and begging for a return slip.
So go ahead—if you’re feeling generous, grab a snack, sink into your couch, and prepare for muted disappointment. Just don’t blame me when, an hour later, you’re left searching for the missing screws, wondering what could have been assembled from these parts if only there had been a better set of directions.
Bottom line? Watch Turlough, skip the rest, and buy yourself a real bookcase.
