The ‘estranged family’ trope is a tale as old as time: what happens when you force a family together after they haven’t spoken for years? It is one of those questions that I never mind seeing again, regardless of how formulaic it may be and who may be answering it.
Julian Galea’s response is a short feature, only an hour long – Brothers from Malta – which follows two antagonistic brothers forced to road trip across California to save their sick sister, adding another trope into the mix as the pair of Maltese fish try to swim through the alienating American waters.
Well, that would be true, if they were Maltese… But they aren’t, which is the first of many worrying problems.
Joe (played by writer and director Galea) and Charlie (James Galea) are neighbours, brothers and enemies, and have not uttered a single word to each other in seven years.
That might be for the best as the moment either of them opens their mouth, the Maltese façade crumbles under a weight of bad accents and a lack of cultural consistencies.
Nearly every line is punctuated with an Australian tinge which, at first, doesn’t ruin any of the pacing nor relatability, but once it is coupled with forced, inaccurate and unnuanced cultural mannerisms, it begins to pump the brakes.
Charlie, the calmer of the two, calls everyone ħija regardless of their gender, which reminds me of the days I used to Google translate my way through Maltese essays, the internet unable to understand that ‘bro’ is not a universal term and can’t conjugate.
Or, when talking about their parents, they call their mother “Mummy” and their father “Pop”, both sounding queer coming from their supposedly Maltese mouths and worse when seen in contrast.
Ironically, later in the film, Joe shouts at a waitress when she doesn’t know what Malta is, Galea digging his heels in and his grave deeper.
I felt the same way about Joe (and Charlie) as he did for the waitress; partly offended but incredulously shocked at their audacity to blunder ahead confidently.
What works against their so-called brotherly bond is the cinematography, the camera capturing scenes as if it is just another day in the office
To make matters worse, Joe and Charlie never feel, act or speak like brothers. When they begin their journey, they are seen wearing the same shirt with different colour schemes and the exact same leather sandals (the kind your nannu has had since you were born).
The image works as it draws them together but is also one of the only times the pair share any form of connection, visual or emotional. Where are the minute idiosyncrasies that only brothers would share? Where is their deep and turbulent past?
I’m surprised at how little chemistry they are able to muster considering that they are actually brothers, but unsurprised as they rigidly read each line with little character or, in Joe’s case, shout ‘bloody’ several times and awkwardly bite his fist in anger.
What works against their so-called brotherly bond is the cinematography, the camera capturing scenes as if it is just another day in the office. It doesn’t experiment, it doesn’t amplify, it doesn’t narrate; it simply shows pretty but safe shots and lets the cast blunder through the empty dialogue.
The laziest example is the California montage: a series of landmarks shown in succession that don’t add character nor life to the warm-toned backdrop, instead informing that we are indeed in California, a fact I already knew. It would be much easier to ignore the missteps, the coarse lack of relatability had there been an aim, something waiting at the end of the yellow brick road, but there isn’t.
And one may argue that it is about the journey and not the destination, but the lack of energy in the script and on screen make the hour-long road trip feel laboriously longer.
Even the home-run hits turn into foul balls as the portrayal of Maltese religious fanaticism falls flat – the duo making a quick and thoughtless slapstick prayer once all else has failed.
It never escapes the shackles of its promising premise: a heart-warming (crude) and hilarious (isolating) tale about Maltese (which they clearly aren’t) siblings (a strenuous descriptor at best) reconnecting (on a surface level) across the pond. Such a shame; I was excited for a laugh and only reached a single muted snigger.