Directed by Neil Breen from a script by Neil Breen, Fateful Findings stars Neil Breen as
Given that he has more talent in his bad white guy's Jheri curl combover than is present in the rest of the human race combined, Neil Breen eschews filmmaking conventions like editing scenes such that the audience has any idea how much time has passed, introducing characters by name or ever assigning them last names, having a plot or indeed a connection of any kind between scenes, and not kissing the actresses with all the raw sexual passion of a closeted homosexual trying to dispel tabloid rumors.
The film opens with Neil Breen being hit by a car, which is a wonderful way to open a film no matter how you look at it. We then cut to shots of people's shoes and then to awkward upward-looking shots of people in a completely different location, as we in the audience struggle to figure out where these people came from when in the long shots the street was clearly deserted. These non-actors (chosen by avant-garde director Breen for verisimilitude, no doubt) ask if he's okay approximately 30,000 times while no one bothers to answer the question or attempt to help in any way. My favorite guy emphatically declares that it was the Rolls-Royce that struck Breen down, which he knows because he saw the whole thing. Now, lacking the visionary genius of writer/director/producer/editor/Supreme Overlord of the Milky Way Galaxy Neil Breen, I thought maybe one of the other people there might turn to him and say, "Great Scott! You mean the Rolls-Royce currently idling right in front of us with blood dripping from its grill? I would never have guessed that was our dastardly culprit! It is indeed fortunate, my good sir, that you were somehow able to see the whole thing, despite not actually appearing in the earlier scene, else we might never have solved this conundrum!"
Instead, experimental nonlinear editor Breen intercuts the, er, "action" with shots of Our Breen's vaguely European wife/girlfriend/fuckbuddy/housemaid Emily shouting into her phone, "Dylan? Are you there? Dylan? Dylan, answer! Dylan! Dylan, are you there Dylan? Bueller? Bueller?" Now you might wonder how anyone, even a girl from the same indeterminate Eastern European country that gave us the barely-sentient scientist chick from Werewolf, could possibly still be shouting ineffectually into a cellular phone several minutes after any normal person would assume the connection's been lost. But since Neil Breen has the superpower of never losing his cell phone service, I think we can sympathize with Emily here. We can also sympathize with her because, like every other female character in this movie, visionary filmmaker/creepy pervert Neil Breen refuses to let her wear a bra at any time during the shoot.
So Our Breen is in the hospital, unconscious. His physician, the esteemed Dr. Unnamed, calls in a neurologist, an almost attractive blond who just so happens to be the girl Our Breen fell in love with when they were both eight years old. We know this because she's still wearing the same shitty Lucky Charms bracelet she wore back then, and later her notebook containing the words "It's a Magical Day" falls out of her pocket (open to the exact page with those words on it, no less) for Neil to find. See, she wrote those words in that old notebook (which looks to be in pretty good shape for the 20-odd years she says she's been carrying it with her constantly "for good luck") on the day she and young Neil found a mushroom, which turned into a box, out of which Neil took a magic rock. And then she put, um, something back in the box, and they left, and it turned into a mushroom again. A Magical Day!
Now, if you're thinking Dr. Object of Creepy Pedo Lust is here to use her expertise to save Our Neil, well, that's just what director Neil Breen and screenwriter Neil Breen wanted you to think. Our Neil don't need no stinkin' round-the-clock intensive care to treat what his doctor calls severe neurological damage. Instead, he just gets up and leaves the hospital on his own. Has he been in the hospital for a year? A month? A day? 20 minutes? An artiste cares not for these things. It's fortunate for Neil that he's magically healed himself, since there's apparently no one else in the ICU. No other patients, orderlies, receptionists--it's almost as if producer Breen couldn't raise enough money to hire even a single extra to wander through shot. Sure, he could have slapped a lab coat on a grip and had him walk down the hallway with his back to the camera or something, but it's just that kind of pedestrian "real world" thinking that Neil Breen left behind when he ascended to the plane of existence in the multiverse reserved specifically for Neil Breen. Our Neil goes home and takes a shower, whereupon vaguely European wife-or-whatever Emily gets in with him and stands in the pool of blood collecting at his feet while they turn around in circles and then the scene ends.
Look, if you don't understand the deeper meaning and significance of this scene, I'm certainly not going to explain it to you.
In a manner that would send Tommy Wiseau into either a state of ecstasy or a jealous rage, conversations veer violently from someone confessing her crippling pill addiction to complaints from the same person that she isn't happy in her current career. Being one of exactly two staff in the ICU, Dr. Creepy Pedo Lust discovers Neil's absence and calls the other staff member, Dr. Unnamed, who declares emphatically "I'll check on it", hangs up, and leaves the movie, never to be seen again. After Neil's buddy is murdered by his wife, wifey also elects to no longer appear. Our Neil refuses to believe wifey's claim that buddy committed suicide, but that claim somehow drives Neil's wife-or-whatever Emily to herself commit suicide out of guilt, thus freeing Neil to bang Dr. Creepy Pedo Lust an impossible-to-figure-out amount of time later, since he's been in love with her since they were both eight, need I remind you. By the way, when buddy is murdered, his daughter offscreen teleports to the crime scene despite having been established as lying face down on a bed in a completely different room. This leads to a hilariously awkward scene in which wifey tries to prevent daughter from getting to the body while daughter struggles to get past her in a manner precisely as believable as a pair of angry dudebros being held back from engaging in fisticuffs by their skanky girlfriends in any given dive bar at 1 am on Saturday night in Tulsa, Oklahoma.
Our Neil promises to blow the lid off government and corporate corruption, evidence of which he has obtained throughout the movie using his superior h4xx0r skillz. Are you asking what this has to do with Emily's death? Or Neil's reconnection with Dr. Creepy Pedo Lust? Or the murder of his best buddy? Or the daughter's topless swimming in Neil's pool and bathing in Neil's bathtub in an I-saw-American-Beauty-once attempted jailbait seduction of Neil? Because if you are, then frankly you need to go back to your Kurosawa films and your Christopher Nolan films and your Stanley Kubrick films and other such shallow fluff. You are not prepared for the True Art of a Neil Breen film starring Neil Breen from a screenplay by Neil Breen. The film ends with our hero standing in front of a hilariously bad greenscreen image of the Lincoln Memorial and revealing the incredibly vague but highly damning evidence he has uncovered of the crimes of those dastardly One-Percenters, while various government and corporate fat-cats step up and stand before the same horrendous greenscreen image and confess to crimes that are equally nebulous and ill-defined, followed by a cut to each fat-cat committing suicide somewhere else entirely in his or her own unique way. Then a government/corporate sniper takes aim at our hero, only to be killed...somehow...so Neil can continue a hero-exposes-corruption-through-endless-speechifying scene that would put Steven Seagal to shame. Roll credits.
Neil Breen is the most captivating artist of our time. His artistic creations will be revered and treasured for as long as cinema exists as an art form. Like every film made in France, Fateful Findings is pretentious, purposefully obtuse, and utterly lacking in meaning, coherence, and intelligibility. I shall not look up on its like again.
Wait...there are two moar Neil Breen films? Oh, bliss! Bliss and heaven.....
