6/12/14 (Part Two): Those Darn Ninjas

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'80s action films, 1980's, action films, action star, Art Hindle, bad films, bad movies, Chuck Norris, cinema, Eric Karson, Ernie Hudson, film reviews, films, Good Guys Wear Black, heiress, Karen Carlson, Kurt Grayson, Larry D. Mann, Lee Van Cleef, Leigh Chapman, martial arts, Movies, ninjas, Scott James, secret agents, so-bad-it's-good, Tadashi Yamashita, terrorism, terrorist training schools, terrorists, The Delta Force, The Octagon, Tracey Walter, Truck Turner, voice-over narration

When last we left Chuck Norris, he was bumbling around the jungles of Vietnam, kicking as many people as possible. As our Chuck Norris double-feature concludes, we jump forward a couple of years into the onset of the ’80s and the glorious mess that is The Octagon (1980). In many ways, The Octagon is a great example of the “so-bad-it’s-good” school of filmmaking: featuring scads of anonymous ninjas, lots of kicking, more stereotypes than an old Disney cartoon and one of the worst voice-over narrations in history, The Octagon could never be considered a good film. That being said, it’s quite a bit of fun (providing one can turn their brain off) and is actually a better made film than Good Guys Wear Black (1978)…which, admittedly, is pretty faint praise. For lovers of bad cinema, however, The Octagon may just be a lost diamond in the rough.

Wasting no time, The Octagon kicks off in truly gonzo form with an introduction to a school that trains terrorists: not just any terrorists, mind you, but one seriously clichéd group of terrorists. Let’s see: we get an Irish terrorist whose brogue is slightly more pronounced than the Lucky Charms leprechaun; a “soul-sister” with a huge afro; a cowboy, complete with 10-gallon hat and denim shirt; an Arab sheikh and a Mexican guy with a headband and flannel shirt (only the top button buttoned, natch). That’s right, folks: the film begins with the visual equivalent of one of those “X, Y and Z walk into a bar” jokes. With the bar set this high, astute viewers will realize something: it can only get goofier from here. And it does. Boy, does it ever.

We first meet our dashing hero, Scott James (Chuck Norris), at the ballet. Chuck at the ballet? The mind boggles! Turns out Scott is there to pick up the lead ballerina, a feat which he handily accomplishes thanks to some simply stellar game: “I liked your performance”…”Thanks.”…”You’re welcome.”…long pause as they stare at each other. In case you couldn’t tell, this is what love feels like. Scott and the dancer head back to her place, which leads to the one development that no guy looking for a one-night stand wants: ninjas. Do you mean those silent, deadly assassins swathed in black from head to toe? Did I stutter? Of course I mean the black-clad killers or, as the film reminds us, “those unholy masters of terror.” The dancer’s place is full of ’em, which means ol’ Scott’s kickin’ foot has to work overtime. By the time he’s kicked at least 300 ninjas into submission, the dancer has already been killed. Bummer. When Scott turns on the light, however, he realizes the full breadth of the horror: the dancer’s family is lying dead, as well. This, of course, means that Scott would have had to meet the parents on the night of the first hook-up: yikes! Scott’s voice-over, however, knows what this really means, as it dramatically whispers, “Oh my God…Ninjas!” The “Ninjas” part even has an echo effect on it because…you know…ninjas!

We then get some flashbacks which establish that Scott and the leader of the terrorist training school, Seikura (Tadashi Yamashita), actually grew up together but were forced to become enemies after their master basically told them to hate each other. Brother against brother for a reason? Sad times. Brother against brother for no reason? Let’s just say that Seikura ain’t cool with that (although poor Scott just seems bemused, most of the time). We also get to meet a few of Scott’s friends, including A.J. (Art Hindle), McCarn (Lee Van Cleef) and Quinine (Ernie Hudson). Lee Van Cleef’s very presence in the film should elevate it several miles above similar dopey fare but, alas, he ends up being fairly misused despite his inherent asskickery. Ernie Hudson actually fares much better, despite his lack of screentime. In fact, Hudson’s few minutes of screentime are actually the highlight of the film (give or take a really nifty car chase) and I really found myself wishing this was a buddy picture instead of a ninja-kicking picture. Maybe in an alternate reality. Of the three, we get saddled with A.J. the most, given that he’s also Scott’s best buddy. Unfortunately, he’s also a fairly uninteresting character, which is kind of a downer. Onwards and upwards, however!

Scott stops to help a sassy rich woman who appears to be having car trouble. When Justine (Karen Carlson) purposefully keeps Scott’s keys, he’s forced to go back to her place to retrieve them, which ends up in a car chase (the aforementioned nifty one, which is hands-down the film’s best action sequence). Turns out Justine’s publishing magnate father was the guy we saw get blown away at the beginning of the film and she wants revenge on the person who trained the killers: Seikura. Scott doesn’t seem to mind acting as executioner for his former blood-brother, so he goes about passing himself off as a mercenary in order to infiltrate the school for assassins. To that end, Scott meets his mercenary contact, the ultra-oily Mr. Beedy (veteran character actor Tracey Walter, the third best thing in the film), at a card table set up in a convention center where a square-dance class is simultaneously meeting. I shit you not. Just like that, Scott is now “undercover.”

Lest we forget about the reason for the season, all of the aforementioned action is intercut with scenes from the school for terrorists which include such heartwarming bits as exercises, battle-training, some sparring and a seriously sinister red-clad ninja asskicker. After the training, Seikura tells the terrorists that they will now be watched for the rest of their lives. If, at any point, they attempt to tell others about the school or reveal its secrets in any way, not only will they be killed, but their entire families and all of their friends will be massacred, as well. After delivering this rather harsh dictate, Seikura and the other trainers then wave happily at the terrorists as they leave: no hard feelings guys, see you next summer and stay totally fresh!

If you guessed that Scott would end up infiltrating the school, give yourself a gold star. If you guessed that Scott would have a romantic scene with a young female revolutionary that begins with the two of them in separate beds before the young lady rises to join him, revealing that she was wearing jeans and a turtleneck the whole time, go ahead and give yourself all of the stars. If you can explain why the comely young revolutionary wore a turtleneck and jeans to bed, however, you might be a slightly clearer thinker than script scribe Leigh Chapman (who also wrote the much better Dirty Mary Crazy Larry (1974), which this resembles not at all). Nonetheless, Scott finds romance, a metric ton of ninjas get kicked to absolute death, the red-clad ninja does lots of kinda cool hissing, Seikura displays the sourest puss since the “Bitter Beer Face” commercials and Lee Van Cleef gets a few more opportunities to look slightly confused. Oh yeah: we also get to finally see the Octagon, which ends up being a sort of ninja obstacle course, looks kinda cool and occupies around five minutes of screen time. Better title for the film? “Ninjas: Unholy Masters of Terror or Misunderstand Mimes?”

Honestly, there’s not much more to say about the film than what’s already been said. The Octagon is goofy, full of plot holes, loaded with silly kung fu scenes and ridiculous dialogue, flagrantly un-PC and severely dated. It’s also fast-paced and surprisingly likeable, although the ridiculous whispered voice-over narration spoils any attempt the film makes to take itself seriously. It’s impossible not to burst out laughing when you hear Chuck Norris whisper, “Oh my God…Ninjas!” The voice-over is everywhere in the film and almost makes it seem like poor Scott is schizo and keeps hearing whispery Chuck Norris in his head. Thanks to this handicap, the film is never any better than an enjoyable, silly kung fu film. Gotta dig Ernie Hudson, though!

After my experiences with Good Guys Wear Black and The Octagon, I might need to delve into the mystique of Chuck just a little deeper, cuz I ain’t seeing much cinematic evidence to back it up. Sure, he was a total bruiser in Bruce Lee’s classic The Way of the Dragon (1972), but he’s almost a non-entity (albeit an exceedingly good-natured one) in both GGWB and The Octagon. I know that I enjoyed both Lone Wolf McQuaid (1983) and The Delta Force (1986) quite a bit when I was growing up but I don’t recall ever seeing the others. Since Delta Force also featured Lee Marvin, who could make tissue paper awesome, I’m not sure that I can give the victory to Chuck on that one, either. Perhaps the future will call for a Chuck Norris movie marathon, in order to settle my internal debate vis-a-vis Chuck’s cultural immortality.  Chuck Norris may be able to cut through a hot knife with butter but he couldn’t do a whole helluva lot for either Good Guys Wear Black or The Octagon.

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6/9/14 (Part One): Young’uns and Dragons

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'80s fantasy films, 1980's, baby dragons, Caitlin Clarke, cinema, Conan the Barbarian, debut acting role, Disney films, dragons, Dragonslayer, fantasy, film reviews, films, Galen, Industrial Light and Magic, John Hallam, John Milius, King Casiodorus, Matthew Robbins, Movies, Oscar nominee, Peter MacNicol, Ralph Richardson, romance, special-effects extravaganza, sword and sorcery, the Dark Ages, the Middle Ages, Touchstone Pictures, Tyrian, unlikely hero, Valerian, virgin sacrifice, wizard's apprentice, wizards, writer-director

When I was a wee young’un, I was a bit of a fantasy/sword and sorcery buff. Okay: I was actually more of a fanatic but let’s not split hairs. During those all important formative years, I watched (and re-watched) dozens of knight/wizard/dragon/mysterious land epics, although there were two that I found myself returning to more often than the others: Conan the Barbarian (1982) and Dragonslayer (1981). To this day, Conan the Barbarian still stands as one of my favorite films: I re-watch it on a regular basis and will defend its merits to my dying day. In fact, if you haven’t seen John Milius’ awe-inspiring classic, drop what you’re doing and fix that error, post haste…you’ll thank me later.

Although my lifelong love of Conan the Barbarian has never waned, I must admit that I haven’t actually sat down to watch Dragonslayer in at least a decade, although it may be closer to 15 years. When I was putting together my recent viewings, I had the bright idea to revisit the film and see how it holds up today. Despite my former obsession with the film, I honestly couldn’t recall much more than the hero’s frizzy hair and a scene involving baby dragons. Would this be a case like Clerks (1994), where a formerly beloved movie has turned into vinegar, or had Dragonslayer become a “fine wine” over the years?

It would appear that the people of Urland have a bit of a problem: an ancient, spiteful, fire-breathing dragon has been terrorizing the kingdom for years and the people are held in the icy grip of fear. In order to convince the dragon to quit setting everything on fire, King Casiodorus (Peter Eyre) has been holding a lottery twice a year, a lottery which all female virgins in the kingdom are required to participate in (with the exception of his own daughter, Princess Elspeth (Chloe Salaman), of course). The “winners” of the lottery get to become dragon snacks, while the “losers” get to look forward to the next lottery. As is noted later, the rich denizens of Urland tend to buy their way out of the lottery, so it’s only ever the poor daughters who get sacrificed to the giant lizard.

Seeking some way out of their present situation, a small group of Urlanders, led by the scrappy Valerian (Caitlin Clarke), go to see the all-powerful wizard Ulrich (Ralph Richardson), paying a visit to his creepy, isolated castle. Ulrich may be cantankerous, forgetful and given to rather vague proclamations but he’s also the only wizard left in the land and someone has to be able to take on the dragon. Upon examining one of the dragon’s recovered scales, Ulrich notes that the beast is ancient: it must be decrepit, miserable, in constant pain and spiteful. In other words, Ulrich recognizes a kindred spirit and offers his services, along with those of his loyal apprentice, Galen (Peter MacNicol, of Ally McBeal fame): he’ll take out the dragon, as requested, although his reasons seem to involve ending its pain as much as saving Urland.

As the group is about to set out for Urland, disaster strikes in the form of Tyrian (John Hallam), King Casiodorus’ blood-thirsty man-at-arms. Tyrian and his men have been sent by the King to prevent the citizens from “stirring the pot,” as it were: the King quite likes the delicate balance in the kingdom, particularly since it doesn’t really impact his family and is worried that a pissed-off dragon might mistake unacceptable rich folks as snacks versus the court-approved poor slobs. In the guise of testing Ulrich’s powers, Tyrian ends up killing him, seeming to put an end to the quest before it even leaves the castle’s front yard. Luckily for the Urlanders, Galen is a plucky young lad and, with the assistance of Ulrich’s faithful manservant, Hodge (Sydney Bromley), he eagerly offers to take up the quest himself. He might not be an all-powerful wizard, like Ulrich, or a steel-nerved swordsman like Tyrian but he has something that neither of them had: really frizzy hair. He also has a magic amulet, which will probably prove useful, and a sack full of Ulrich’s ashes but the hair, presumably, is what makes the difference.

Along the way, Galen comes to the shocking realization that Valerian is actually a young lady, after a skinny-dipping incident in which he notices that her hidden parts look different from his. In a rather awesome parallel, this actually seems to tie Dragonslayer in with Just One of the Guys (1985), a stereotypical ’80s comedy in which a young lady impersonates a young man in order to get the scoop on a high school football team: how’s that for synergy? Galen and Valerian banter back and forth and, despite an ever so brief moment where it appears that Elspeth and Galen might hook up, it should be pretty clear that this couple is “meant to be.”

Back at Urland, Galen comes across as a bit of a jackass: in a bid to impress everyone and bring a hasty conclusion to the nasty business, he causes a landslide to bury the dragon’s cave opening. After the dust clears, Galen wipes off his hands, beams and waits for the applause to roll in. The King isn’t quite as overjoyed with this development, however, for reasons already mentioned, and has Galen thrown right into the dungeon. If the young whelp is right and the dragon is dead, the King will release him and throw him a party. If, however, Galen just ended up pissing off the dragon, as the King suspected, Galen will be choosing the prize behind Door Number 2: a swift execution. When the dragon makes an appearance, opting for a real scorched-earth policy, all signs point to Galen being kinda screwed. Fear not, faithful readers: this is a Disney movie, after all, and good must eventually succeed over evil. Freed from his prison, Galen must use all of his training and courage, along with some able support from Valerian and his magic amulet, to finally destroy the dragon and free the kingdom. Sometimes, however, young pluck is not enough to overcome ancient evil. Sometimes, you really do need a hero…or a wizard.

For a time, in the early-mid ’80s, Disney seemed to be trying to break from their squeaky-clean image with a group of films that were decidedly darker, more “mature” and violent than previous films. This trend seemed to begin with the ultra-dark, sci-fi epic The Black Hole (1979) and would continue with The Watcher in the Woods (1980), Dragonslayer, Something Wicked This Way Comes (1983), The Journey of Natty Gann (1985), The Black Cauldron (1985) and Return to Oz (1985). Eventually, Disney would create Touchstone Pictures to handle these “more adult” films, scrubbing a bit of the mire off Disney’s tarnished “innocence.” In certain ways, then, Dragonslayer is a bit of a watershed moment in that it reflected a fundamental change in the Disney ideal, during the early ’80s. It’s also notable for its consistently impressive special effects, effects which earned it an Oscar nomination for Visual Effects, which it lost to some forgotten film named Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981).

Without a doubt, the effects in Dragonslayer are pretty amazing, especially for the time, even if they might seem a bit dated by modern standard. In at least one instance, however, the effects in Dragonslayer seem to be at least the equal of modern films: as the dragon rears up and blasts Galen with a huge stream of fire, we get a truly awe-inspiring wide shot of the action. With the dragon occupying one side of the frame and Galen and his enormous shield occupying the other side, the shot looks just as beautiful and immaculately composed as any illustration or painting, with the added benefit of the cinematic sense of motion and space. Tt’s a heady moment that absolutely thrilled me and was, I’m pretty sure, at least 70% responsible for my previous love of the film. Bottom line: it’s a fantastic shot that could easily compete with the best of Jackson, Cameron, et al.

In general, the effects work (by Industrial Light and Magic) is strictly top-notch, featuring a great use of puppetry (the aforementioned dragon pups), a really neat flaming lake location and the dragon, itself, which ends up looking just as realistic, in close-up, as many of the dinosaurs in Spielberg’s groundbreaking Jurassic Park (1993). While the effects are never less than stupendous, the image, itself, can be a little dark, at times, or given to a “bleary-smeary” filter effect that makes it seem as if the viewer is mildly intoxicated. I didn’t mind the occasionally too dark image, since it really complimented the film’s atmosphere, but the bleary lens got a little tiresome: at times, this felt like one of those old Liz Taylor perfume ads with a Vaseline-smeared camera lens.

As with other films in Disney’s “dark era,” Dragonslayer doesn’t shy away from more graphic material. The bit where Ulrich is killed is a little disturbing, as is the scene where Tyrian murders Hodge, but neither of them really compare to the later scene where the baby dragons end up eating one of the main characters alive. As this was one of the very few aspects of the film that I could (kinda/sorta) recall from my childhood, I’m pretty sure that it made a big impression on me. Whether it’s responsible for any of my current morbidity is an issue up for debate, of course, but I’m sure it at least contributed. The film also features some brief, full nudity, thanks to Valerian’s skinny-dipping scene, which was probably a bit of a concern for parents who took their children to, presumably, the newest Disney family film. By comparison, try to remember the last time you saw full female nudity in a Disney film: I’m betting you can’t come up with anything. While this element adds nothing whatsoever to the story (although it does provide for a nifty visual reveal of Valerian’s true identity), it certainly gives the proceedings a more “mature” quality.

The acting in Dragonslayer is decent, if more than a little hammy, at times (which is perfectly in line with almost every sword and sorcery film of the ’80s, to be honest). Peter Eyre is kind of a fidgety mess as the king (he is one severely weird lookin’ dude, let me tell ya) but John Hallam is pretty great as Tyrian, playing his character as such an unrepentant son of a bitch that his final battle with Galen has some real emotional potency to it: we really, really want to see Galen kick his ass in a most righteous manner. Ralph Richardson is a more than suitable Ulrich and there may even be hints of the Ian McKellen version of Gandalf in his quirky idiosyncrasies. Finally, Peter MacNicol and Caitlin Clarke make a pretty cute couple as Galen and Valerian but I never quite bought MacNicol as a hero: he was always too goofy and self-deprecating, less like someone thrust into a dangerous situation and more like someone goofing around to kill time. Clarke, for her part, makes a suitably spunky heroine but her mid-film transformation into an “actual” young woman is one of those eye-rolling “Ugly Duckling” moments where removing someone’s glasses and letting her hair down transforms said person into Helen of Troy. It’s silly and clichéd but, at the very least, the filmmakers skewer the convention a little by having Galen pull her onto the “dance-floor” as a medieval band strikes up a “tune.” While Valerian’s “transformation” is old hat, this parallel with more conventional teenage romances seemed to be rather subversively clever. At the very least, I got a good chuckle out of it.

While the action occasionally gets a bit silly, writer-director Matthew Robbins tends to keep things fairly straight-faced and a little less bombastic than the competition. Robbins would go on to direct The Legend of Billie Jean (1985) and *batteries not included (1987), although he’ll probably be best known as a writer: he had a hand in the scripts for The Sugarland Express (1974), Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1977), MacArthur (1977) and Mimic (1997) and is currently attached to Guillermo del Toro’s upcoming Crimson Peak horror project. Robbins’ script for Dragonslayer isn’t amazing but it is rather tightly plotted and features several genuinely thrilling beats, moments which are replicated pretty exceptionally in the film, itself. Again, while nothing exceptional, Robbins brings a sure and steady hands to the proceedings which certainly gives the film a little added weight.

To return to my original question, however: did the film hold up for me after all these years? Absolutely. While it wasn’t amazing (with the exception of that wonderful dragon/Galen shot and the mean scene where the dragon pups chow down), Dragonslayer is consistently good, easily the better of other films in that particular subgenre like The Sword and the Sorcerer (1982), The Beastmaster (1982), Krull (1983) and Deathstalker (1983). I was particularly taken by the film’s dark, mysterious look (those damned Vasoline shots notwithstanding) and must admit that the superb final fight did make me feel like a kid again: it’s the best kind of ass-kicking, fantasy-badassery and ends the film on an enthusiastically high note. Throw in some last-minute, but no less timely, observations about the ways in which both religions and governments tend to take credit for the work of others and you have a film that sets a pretty high bar and manages, for the most part, to hit its marks.

Dragonslayer isn’t the best ’80s sword and sorcery film by a long-shot (that is, was and always will be Conan the Barbarian, with honorable mention going to John Boorman’s batshit-nuts Excalibur (1981), a film so insane that it belongs in its own category altogether) but that doesn’t prevent it from being superbly entertaining in its own right. Matthew Robbin’s film is a reminder of the days when fantastical worlds weren’t necessarily a given in the world of film and viewers had to work a little harder to get that suspension of disbelief. It’s a little more work, to be sure, but I think the rewards are a little bigger, too.

 

6/5/14 (Part One): Your Date’s Here!

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1980's, aliens, Allan Kayser, B-movies, black-and-white cinematography, Bradster, Bruce Solomon, Christopher Romero, cinema, Corman University, cult classic, cult films, Cynthia Cronenberg, David Paymer, Det. Ray Cameron, Detective Landis, Dick MIller, drive-in fare, favorite films, film reviews, films, frat boys, fraternities, Fred Dekker, frozen bodies, horror films, horror references, horror-comedies, House, infections, Jason Lively, Jill Whitlow, killer slugs, meteor, Movies, Night of the Creeps, pledge week, pop culture references, Ray Cameron, Robert C. New, Robert Kino, Robert Kurtzman, Roger Corman, sci-fi, science-fiction, set in the 1950's, set in the 1980's, Sgt. Raimi, small town life, Steve Marshall, teenagers, The Monster Squad, Tom Atkins, unibrow, unibrows, wisecracking cops, writer-director, zombie frat boys, zombies

There’s a fine art that goes into making a truly fun, trashy B-horror film. If the film is too lo-fi, charmless and crude, it can be a chore to sit through. If the film is too goofy and self-aware, it can be overly silly and lightweight. Just right, however, like that proverbial porridge, and the mixture can be truly magical. I’ve had a big problem warming to modern-day B-films like Snakes on a Plane (2006) and Sharknado (2013), finding them to be way too self-aware and, quite frankly, overly obnoxious: shrill, unpleasant characters and ridiculously shoddy CGI don’t do much for me. For my money, I’ve always preferred B-movies from the ’80s, finding them to be warmer, more personable and less interested in self-reference than films from later eras. As someone who’s always appreciated practical effects, ’80s B-horror films provided plenty of memorable moments.

Perhaps Scream (1996) was too successful at pointing out the foibles of the horror genre because many horror films that followed it seemed less like individual pieces than attempts at genre critique and re-invention. The true key to making a good B-movie is to set out to make a good film, period: trying to make a good “bad” film is a fool’s errand. As far as I’m concerned, some of the most honest, entertaining, funny and well-made B-horror films have come out of the extraordinarily fertile time-period between 1983-1989. No discussion of this era, as far as I’m concerned, could be complete without giving due props to one of its most interesting filmmakers: Fred Dekker. Dekker may not have the deep and extensive filmography of some of his peers but he bears the distinction of being directly responsible for three of the best B-horror films of the 1980s: he wrote the screenplay for the minor/Miner classic House (1986) and wrote/directed the unmitigated awesomeness that were Night of the Creeps (1986) and The Monster Squad (1987). Although Night of the Creeps may not be quite as well-known as The Monster Squad (Drac, Frank and Wolfie trump alien slugs, apparently), it’s every bit as good: fast-paced, endlessly clever, funny and genuinely creepy, Night of the Creeps is the epitome of classic drive-in fare.

After a spartan credits sequence which recalls the credits for Carpenter’s Halloween (1978) in its simplicity, we’re tossed into outer space for a truly gonzo opening: fleshy, pink aliens that look like combinations of Teletubbies and Xenomorphs run around a space ship, shooting cheesy lasers at each other, on-screen subtitles translating their gibberish-speak. An alien escapes, via pod, leading us straight to Sorority Row, circa 1959, where we get some great black and white cinematography, plenty of clever references to ’50s genre films, an escaped serial killer (with an ax), necking teens on Lovers’ Lane, alien slugs and a jilted ex-boyfriend/cop. A slashing axe smash cuts straight to Pledge Week, circa 1986, complete with vibrant color. The whole opening sequence has taken all of ten minutes of screen-time and the message is clear: we’re in the hands of a master, so kick back and enjoy the ride.

In short order, we meet our heroes: Chris (Jason Lively) is the typical 1980s “nice guy/shy nerd” while his best buddy, J.C. (Steve Marshall) is the typical “quirky, brash, smart-assed, outsider best friend with a heart of gold.” They’re freshmen at Corman University, where Chris pines for the lovely Cynthia (Jill Whitlow). She’s a Kappa Delta, however, and dating the president of the obnoxious Beta fraternity, Brad (Allan Kayser). What’s a nice guy to do besides try to pledge the Betas and win her heart? Since this is an ’80s-genre film, however, it’s never going to be that easy. After the Betas send wannabe-pledges Chris and J.C. to go steal a body from the campus medical lab, things really start to warm up: literally, as the cyrogenically-frozen body they steal (a body that astute viewers should remember from the opening) seems to come to life and wander about the campus. Looks like a job for Det. Ray Cameron (Tom Atkins), the jilted boyfriend from the opening, who’s now a “damaged,” hard-drinking cop with a catch-phrase (“Thrill me”) and enough ennui to choke the aristocracy.

As Det. Cameron tries to figure out how a 27-years-dead corpse just gets up and walks away, Chris and JC begin to notice strange things happening around campus. Soon, Corman University is in the grip of a full-bore alien-brain-slug invasion (another alien-brain-slug invasion? Geez…) and it’s up to our heroes, along with Cynthia and the cynical detective, to make it all right. What happens when the brain-slugs come upon an entire overturned bus full of frat boys, as well as one long-dead axe murderer? Well, let’s just say that all hell breaks loose and leave it at that. Love…duty…pledging…Bullwinkle Moose…brain slugs…alien bounty-hunters…it’s just another day at good ol’ Corman U!

If the opening featuring the Teletubbie-esque aliens was no giveaway, let me be a little more clear: Night of the Creeps has its tongue planted so firmly in its cheek that it pokes through the other side…and that’s a distinctly good thing. Not only is the script and dialogue genuinely funny (Det. Cameron is a hoot and J.C.’s wisecracks land more often than they miss) but the film possesses a level of self-awareness that manages to skip right past “easy, obnoxious references” (although there are plenty of those) and straight to the core of traditional B-horror/sci-fi films. Across the board, Night of the Creeps manages to nail its various targets quite ably: one of the best examples is the exceptionally broad, silly acting that characterizes the opening ’50s-era footage. While the performances would be eye-rolling in any other context, they’re a perfect fit for the kind of cheesy ’50s-sci-fi/drive-in fare that Dekker and crew are trying to reference. Likewise, the “present-day” stuff perfectly references various horror products from the ’80s without losing the cheerful, goofy tone of the earlier material. It’s a delicate balancing act but Night of the Creeps manages to not only reference but subtly comment on these different eras (the black and white cinematography is, of course, just more icing on the cake).

One of the most obvious in-jokes in the film, albeit a joke that’s revealed gradually, involves the names of the various characters. The film takes place at Corman University, which should be a pretty easy “get” for most casual fans. Beyond that, however, it becomes a bit of a free-for-all: James Carpenter “J.C.” Hooper…Chris Romero…Cynthia Cronenberg…Detective Landis…Sgt. Raimi…Det. Ray Cameron…it’s sort of a “greatest-hits” of ’70s-’80s genre greats. We even get the real thing, in a way, when Corman regular Dick Miller makes an appearance as Walter, the cop in charge of weapon lockup at Det. Cameron’s precinct (fans might remember that Miller’s character in the classic A Bucket of Blood (1959) was named Walter Paisley). The fan services bits like this are a nice touch and, although a bit heavy-handed later in the film (the scene where Chris and J.C.’s names are revealed is so on-the-nose that it spoils the gag just a little), give a nice sense of unity to the proceedings.

While many of the jokes in Night of the Creeps are related to the horror/sci-fi genre, there’s still plenty of general hilarity to be found throughout. Whether it’s Cro-Magnon football bro Steve’s amazing unibrow (seriously: this piece of facial fuzz deserves its own end credit), the bathroom graffiti that enthusiastically affirms that “Stryper Rules!” (cuz, you know, they never did), Det. Cameron’s wisecracks (“Thrill me” never gets old and leads to a truly fist-raising finale) or Chris explaining his misidentification of a particular frat house as “It’s all Greek to me,” Night of the Creeps constantly moves from one great, funny moment to another. By the time we get to the iconic scene where Det. Cameron gives the girls of Kappa Delta the good/bad news (“The good news is your dates are here…bad news is, they’re dead”), Dekker’s script has proven itself time and time again.

The key thing to look for in B-movies like this is always going to be the “fun factor” and Night of the Creeps is consistently off-the-charts in this area. This is the kind of film that’s perfect for a rowdy get-together, a weekend trash-movie marathon or a drive-in in the heart of summertime. While the film doesn’t necessarily shy away from gooey special effects, it doesn’t wallow in them, either: the practical effects, which feature future KNB founder Robert Kurtzman, are pretty great (particularly the eye-popping bit where the long-dead axe murderer gets a new lease on life) but they never choke the life out of the film.

As a whole, almost everything in Night of the Creeps works spectacularly well. The acting is uniformly strong (although Jason Lively’s Chris is a bit of a wet blanket), the aforementioned effects work is great and the cinematography, by industry vet Robert. C. New (Prom Night (1980), The Borrower (1991), Rapture-palooza (2013)), is uniformly excellent. Indeed, Night of the Creeps has to be one of the best-looking, most vibrantly colored B-horror films to ever grace the silver screen. Truth be told, there really isn’t much not to like here, although the ridiculously stereotypical Asian janitor, Mr. Miner (Robert Kino), comes perilously close to being in rather poor taste: it’s no worse than many ’80s-era depictions of Asian characters (and quite a bit more gentle, to be honest) but feels completely out-of-place in the film’s good-natured universe. That notwithstanding, however, Night of the Creeps is one of the very best B-horror films to come out of the 1980s. Whether you’re looking for a great way to kill time or a great way to get the party started, Dekker’s Night of the Creeps has you covered. In fact, I’m inclined to call it the “Citizen Kane of alien-brain-slug/zombie frat boy” films. If you can find a better one, I’ll buy and eat a hat.

6/2/14 (Part Two): From the Sublime to the Rocket Launcher

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'80s action films, 1980's, action films, Alex Winter, Assault on Precinct 13, bad cops, Charles Bronson, cinema, crime wave, Death Wish, Death Wish 3, Deborah Raffin, Ed Lauter, film franchise, film reviews, films, Fraker, gang rape, gangs of punks, Gavan O'Herlihy, gun enthusiasts, guns, Jimmy Page, Kirk Taylor, liberals vs conservatives, Mad Max, Marina Sirtis, Martin Balsam, Michael Winner, misogyny, Movies, New York City, over-the-top, Paul Kersey, post-apocalyptic wasteland, revenge, rocket launcher, sequel, sequels, set in the 1980's, the Giggler, The Warriors, Tony Spiridakis, Troma films, vengeance, vigilante, vigilantism

As a youth, many of my favorite films tended to be of the ultra-violent action variety. While I watched a lot of different things, there was a certain group of films that seemed to get rewatched endlessly, as if on a loop: Magnum Force (1973), Pale Rider (1985), The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (1966), Death Wish 3 (1985), RoboCop (1987) and Die Hard (1988). Most of these could probably be chalked up to the fact that Clint Eastwood and Charles Bronson were two of my parents’ favorite actors, thereby gaining plenty of airtime in our household. As for RoboCop and Die Hard: what 11-year-old boy wouldn’t love those? As time passes, I find that my opinion on most of them still holds up: for one reason or another, these are all fundamentally solid films.

Of the group, Death Wish 3 is one of the ones I watched the most, while younger, but have revisited the least as time goes on. As part of my personal film festival, I decided to finally revisit the film, pairing it with the original (if I had access to the second film and hadn’t just watched the fourth a few months back, this would have been the whole quadrilogy). As seen in my previous entry, I found that the original Death Wish (1974) still holds up some forty years later, retaining lots of subtle power among the flying bullets. How, then, would one of my formerly favorite films hold up? Journey behind the curtain and let’s find out.

As far as genre franchises go, the Death Wish series actually tells a continual story, give or take the rather large lapses in time between the first and third entries (8 years). In the first, we were introduced to the character of Paul Kersey (Charles Bronson), a mild-mannered, pacifistic New York City architect who becomes a vigilante after a gang of punks rape his daughter and kill his wife. The second film continues the storyline as Kersey and his daughter, Carol, move to Los Angeles in order to start a new life. After Carol is once again attacked and ends up killing herself, Paul picks up his revolver and hunts down the creeps responsible. By the end of the film, we see Paul all alone, the last of his family gone: the assumption is that he will continue to hunt the streets, cleaning up the criminal element. Since there ended up being a third (and fourth) film, that assumption would be right on the nose.

After some time has passed, “legendary” vigilante Paul Kersey boards a bus and returns to New York City, the place where it all began. He’s on his way to visit an old war buddy, Charley (Francis Drake), but this isn’t the same New York City from a decade before: this is the ’80s, baby, and shit’s bad…real bad. It seems that roving gangs of punks, similar to the creepazoids from Max Max (1979) or Troma’s Class of Nuke ‘Em High (1986), have taken over the city and Paul gets to his friend’s apartment just after the punks have beaten him nearly to death. Charley dies, the cops burst in and Paul is hauled off to the station house for a little good-natured “interrogation.”

Once there, Paul catches the eye of Lt. Shriker (Ed Lauter), who just happened to be a beat cop when Paul went on his initial “cleaning” spree in NYC. Seems that Shriker is fighting a losing battle against the punks on the street and he needs something that his entire police force can’t provide: he needs the “bad guys” to start dying. Shriker knows that Paul used to handle that particular “job” quite handily and offers him a deal: he can return to the streets, killing as many punks, criminals and ’80s metal-heads as he wants, as long as he keeps Shriker in the loop and throws him a few choice busts every so often. When the alternative is a hefty jail sentence, Paul agrees: time to hit the streets, once again.

As Paul wanders the post-Apocalyptic neighborhood outside Charley’s apartment (seriously: the place is like a cross between The Warriors (1979) and Assault on Precinct 13 (1976) on a bad day), he starts to figure out the hierarchy. Seems that Fraker (Gavan O’Herlihy), the platinum-blonde psycho that Paul briefly encountered in lockup, is the ringleader, ruling everything with an iron fist and really sharp knife. With his gang of goons, including The Giggler (Kirk Taylor), The Cuban (Ricco Ross) and Hermosa (Alex Winter), Fraker has the entire neighborhood terrified and paying protection money in order to stay alive. It’s a bad bunch of dudes…but there’s big trouble coming.

Paul also meets the residents of Charley’s apartment building, including Charley’s best friend and fellow war vet, Bennett (Martin Balsam), Manny and Maria Rodriguez (Joseph Gonzalez, Marina Sirtis), Eli and Erica Kaprov (Leo Kharibian, Hana-Maria Pravda) and Mr. and Mrs. Emil (John Gabriel, Mildred Shay). To complete his merry circle of friends, Paul also becomes romantic with Kathryn Davis (Deborah Raffin), the attractive young public defender that he met at the police station. It would all be so lovely, of course, if Fraker wasn’t so dead-set on running Paul out of the neighborhood, one way or the other. In short order, the place becomes an absolute war-zone and death comes to visit them all: it comes for the punks, of course, because Paul is one helluva shot. It also comes for the innocents, of course, because this wouldn’t be Death Wish without a whole lotta revenge. As the body count rises on both sides of the line, one thing remains clear: Kersey ain’t leaving until he’s either outta ammo…or targets.

Right off the bat, there’s absolutely nothing subtle or subtextual about Death Wish 3 whatsoever: this film is all raging id, rampaging from one extreme to the other. Unlike the basically good but ineffectual cops from the first film, every cop in DW3 comes across as a steroid-addled, trigger-happy goon, particularly the incredibly dastardly Lt. Shriker. Hell, he was technically only one twirled mustache away from a Perils of Pauline-era villain. He bashes Paul around, snarls that he could have him killed at any time and punches him square in the face just because it’s “his” jail.

Whereas the punks from the first film weren’t exactly multi-dimensional (Jeff Goldblum’s sneering mug was about as much character development as we got), the gangs in DW3 are completely over-the-top and cartoonish. Many of them do seem to have been lifted wholesale from The Warriors, right down to the odd matching outfits for certain groups within the gang (Gang subgroups? What nightmare of micro-management is this?!) and by the time we get to the finale, where gang members ride around on motorcycles while hurling grenades willy-nilly, it will be pretty impossible to not expect Mad Max to come zooming over the horizon. Fraker is so evil that he easily surpasses Bond villains, winding up somewhere in the neighborhood devoted to Marvel villains.

In many ways, there’s definitely a consistent through-line from the first film to the third: after all, director Michael Winner was on board for the first three films and the overall message (a good man with a gun trumps a bad man with a gun) is unwavering. Where Death Wish was careful to portray both sides of the issue, even if it obviously only gave credence to one side, DW3 dispenses with this facade completely. Paul isn’t on any kind of journey in DW3: he’s already there. While the first film grappled with the disparity between wanting to defend yourself and taking revenge, there’s no question as to what needs to be done by the time the third film opens. If Death Wish and its first sequel could be seen as drama-suspense hybrids, DW3 is almost entirely an action picture. In the first film, Paul has to deal with both the police (polite society) and the criminals: the police didn’t condone his activities, they just ran him out of the city. In the third film, not only do the police condone Kersey’s vigilantism, they actively push him into it. By the time we get to the finale, where Paul and Shriker run down the street, side by side, merrily gunning down anonymous bad guys (the body count in this thing, for the gangs alone, has to be in the mid-hundreds), DW3 is the furthest thing from the original film it could possibly be. The thought-provoking, gut-quaking violence of the first film has been replaced by a Ren and Stimpy-level of carnage that certainly befits most mid-’80s action sequels but makes it impossible to take anything seriously.

Perhaps the biggest issue with the film, however, and one that continually flew over my head as a kid, is the rampant misogyny. Admittedly, the first and second films were precipitated upon the sexual assault of a young woman but they also featured peripheral female characters: in DW3, every single (good) female character is either assaulted or killed. It’s such an obvious part of the film that it’s hard to believe the filmmakers didn’t intend it but it’s unpleasant, nonetheless. ’80s action films were never known for their progressive gender politics, in the best of situations, but the female characters in DW3 all seem doomed from their introductions. When combined with the over-the-top, testosterone-fueled action sequences, the absolute lack of surviving female characters makes this very much a “boys’ club.” To be honest, it’s probably no wonder that this film appealed to me so much as a kid: this movie was pretty much made for boys in their early teens, rating be damned.

And yet, despite its inherent flaws and ham-fisted politics, there something kind of charming about Death Wish 3. The parts that I remembered loving as a kid (blowing away the purse-snatcher, Paul’s ingenious booby traps, Fraker’s delicious villainy) were just as enjoyable this time around. Sure, the film may be full of holes and uses a disturbing amount of fantasy to glide over the rough patches (the cops are nowhere to be found, while everything is blowing up, until they’re needed for the big finale, at which point they all swoop down, en masse: were they all on break or something?) but it also has a gonzo sense of energy and vitality to it. The film looks pretty great, full of rich, vibrant colors and the soundtrack, by Jimmy Page (yep, that Jimmy Page), is pretty awesome: it’s a keyboard-heavy, funky batch of tunes that perfectly evoke the theme songs to various ’80s cop shows…in the best way possible, mind you).

Unlike Death Wish, which operated in shades of gray, Death Wish 3 is very much a black-and-white film: the bad guys are all absolutely bad, the good guys are all absolutely good. Guns are not only good but absolutely necessary. When the law fails you, take measures into your own hands. There’s no room for dialogue or division here: you’re either standing with Paul, shooting at the creeps, or you’re getting shot at…simple as that. When I want to watch something thought-provoking and visceral, I’ll undoubtedly return to the original. When I want to turn my brain off and root for the white hats, however, there’s no doubt that I’ll be returning to Death Wish 3. After all, any film that features a reverse mohawk, giggling purse-snatcher and death by (close-range) rocket launcher can’t be all bad. It was the ’80s, after all.

6/1/14 (Part One): Night of the Bumbling Dead

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1980's, airport, alternate title, Cannibal Ferox, Cannibal Holocaust, City of the Walking Dead, exploitation films, fast zombies, Francisco Rabal, horror, horror films, horror movie, Hugo Stiglitz, Italian cinema, Laura Trotter, Maria Rosaria Omaggio, Mel Ferrer, Nightmare City, nuclear power plant, nuclear radiation, Pierangelo Civera, Ruggero Deodato, so-bad-it's-good, Stefania D'Amario, Stelvio Cipriani, twist ending, Ugo Bologna, Umberto Lenzi, Z-movies, zombie movies, zombies, zombies with weapons

A birds’-eye-view of a city, supplemented by a nicely atmospheric, Goblin-esque slowburner of a song, leads to the revelation that there’s been a spill at the local nuclear power plant. Nothing to worry about, since the spill has supposedly been contained, but TV reporter Dean Miller (Hugo Stiglitz) has been sent to cover the story. As he waits at the airport for his contact, Prof. Hagenbach, to get in, an unidentified military transport plan suddenly lands with no warning or radio contact. As the military, police and airport officials, along with Dean and his cameraman, surround the plane, everyone waits for several long, silent, agonizing minutes. Just as the military is preparing to storm the plane, the hatch door opens and we wait, anxiously, to see who (or what) will stumble out. For its first eight or so minutes, Umberto Lenzi’s Nightmare City (1980) is one tense, restrained live-wire of a film. While the 80 minutes that follow end up being completely laughable and silly, the film manages to succeed as one of those “so-bad-it’s-good” treats, perfect fodder for a drunken party or a lazy weekend of bad films.

Once the plane hatch opens, Dean and company are greeted by some of the shabbiest zombies in memory (I’ve seen more zombie films than are probably healthy for one individual and I can’t recall worse makeup in anything prior to Nightmare City), a shambling horde of fairly normal looking folks with lumpy, gray oatmeal slathered on their faces. Besides being part of a balanced breakfast, the “zombies” are also very fast…and very armed. Yes, folks: this is that notorious zombie film where the flesh-eating creatures spend more time firing machine guns and strangling people than biting them. In fact, as we later learn, the zombies aren’t really “zombies,” at all, but some kind of radiation-mutated, blood-sucking freaks: they’re atomic zompires! As the zompires run riot around the city, Dean tries to find his wife, Anna (Laura Trotter), who’s making a desperate stand at a besieged hospital. Meanwhile, Major Warren Holmes (Francisco Rabal) and Gen. Murchison (Mel Ferrer), two of the most ineffectual military men in the history of cinema, try to contain the zompire threat but only succeed in making everything worse. There are bomber planes on stand-by, however…just in case.

As Dean and Anna try to stave off the zompires, the General’s daughter, Jessica (Stefania D’Amario) and her husband, Bob (Pierangelo Civera) are also running around, trying to stay alive. Eventually, all of these characters will come together in one giant mess of exploding-projectile-television sets, gouged eyeballs, murderous zompire priests and total chaos, culminating in a final showdown in an abandoned amusement park that can best be described as “present and accounted for.” Stay tuned for the “twist” ending, however…or don’t: it really doesn’t change much, in the long run.

Despite how utterly shabby much of Nightmare City ends up being – and we’re talking occasionally Ed Woodian levels of ineptitude here – the film is still consistently enjoyable and quick-paced. I’m still not sold on “fast” zombies (and probably never will be) and feel that arming zombies makes about as much sense as giving The Wolf Man a shotgun but these actually end up being fairly minor quibbles. No one will ever mistake Lenzi’s “opus” has anything more than a Z-grade Italian zombie flick but it’s got energy to burn and is pretty good about not wearing out its welcome. The effects and makeup are consistently awful, although the requisite eye-gouging scene is well-staged and very uncomfortable. The acting is nothing to write home about but Hugo Stiglitz does a decent job as our protagonist and Mel Ferrer gets to act a little agitated as poor, put-upon Gen. Murchison.

Although Umberto Lenzi made a wide-range of films in his career, including various gangster, fantasy and action films, he’ll probably always be best known for his horror films, especially the genuinely disturbing cannibal films The Man From Green River (1972), Eaten Alive (1980) and Cannibal Ferox (1981). Cannibal Ferox, in particular, is a notoriously nasty member of the cannibal subgenre, although it’s slightly eclipsed by Ruggero Deodato’s legendary Cannibal Holocaust (1980). While Lenzi had a fairly wide and deep body of work, he was never the most distinctive director, to be honest, and it’s a bit difficult to differentiate much between his “style” and similar filmmakers like Deodato or Joe D’Amato. He’s practically the definition of “workmanlike,” although his work in Nightmare City definitely ranks in the lower-midrange of his filmography.

If there’s any one aspect of the film that really stands out, it would definitely have to be Stelvio Cipriani’s electronic score. Although it seems to explicitly reference Goblin, at times, the score is always appropriately moody and, frequently, rather thrilling. Cipriani also did the scores for several Mario Bava films, including his classic Bay of Blood (1971), so his roots in Italian exploitation cinema go fairly deep. While nothing here approaches the dizzying heights of Goblin’s work with Dario Argento, it’s all well-done and definitely enhances the overall experience.

Ultimately, your tolerance/enjoyment of Nightmare City will depend almost entirely on your experience with these kind of films. If you go in expecting an actually well-made, well-executed film (or even a well-made B-movie), you’re going to be sorely disappointed. If, however, you go in expecting a silly, gonzo, violent, shabby-as-hell Z-grade exploitation flick, you might be able to navigate these waters with some ease. Nothing can save that awful ending, of course, but what comes before it is just fun enough to make the journey worthwhile…kind of…sort of…

2/22/14: Doing it For Yourself (Oscar Bait, Part 7)

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1980's, 2013 Academy Awards, 86th Annual Academy Awards, Academy Award Nominee, Academy Award Winner, Academy Awards, AIDs, AZT, based on a true story, Best Actor nominee, Best Actor winner, Best of 2013, Best Supporting Actor nominee, Best Supporting Actor Winner, biographical films, bull-riding, character dramas, cinema, clinical trials, Dallas Buyers Club, drama, film reviews, films, gay community, HIV, homophobia, Jared Leto, Jean-Marc Vallee, Jennifer Garner, Matthew McConaughey, Movies, Rayon, rodeo, Ron Woodroof, Steve Zahn

For all intents and purposes, we like to pretend that the world isn’t as cruel and ruthless as it really is. We’d like to think that no one truly falls through the cracks, that there’s always some sort of safety net out there if people are just willing to look. It may not be the most ideal support, we’d like to think, and people may not be able to live in the exact manner of their choosing but beggars can’t be choosers, we reason. At the very least, we’ve always thought, truly sick people should be able to have access to medicine: no one should just be allowed to sicken and die, particularly if there’s something that can be done about it. Right? If we’re being dead serious with ourselves, however, we don’t believe that anymore than we believe in unicorns or the Bermuda Triangle.

In reality, vast expanses of the populace, of every populace since the beginning of time, have been marginalized, pushed to the fringes and forced to rely only on themselves for their well-being. These populaces vary from society to society, country to country, culture to culture and state to state but they’re always painful reminders of one cold, simple fact: whenever anyone needlessly dies, equality is nothing more than a feel-good bedtime story. Anytime an individual is brushed off by the established order and left, essentially, to die, we see the failure of the status quo. In these situations, it becomes necessary for brave individuals (or groups) to fight for their own rights, health and well-being. This need to fight doesn’t necessarily reflect society at its best but it sure does make for some riveting cinema and Dallas Buyers Club is gripping from start to finish.

Based on a true story, Dallas Buyers Club wastes no time in introducing us to our protagonist, rodeo bull-rider and general gadfly Ron Woodroof (Matthew McConaughey). Ron’s the kind of guy who likes to live life to the fullest: threesomes behind the scenes of a bustling rodeo, conning his fellow riders and getting his ass beat in the process, hovering up cocaine by the yard, saying the first thing that comes to his mind. There’s absolutely nothing altruistic about our “hero”: within very short order, we’ve determined that he’s a virulently homophobic, crooked man-child who couldn’t give two shits about anyone else in the world. He’s the kind of good ‘ol boy who sneers when it’s revealed that Rock Hudson is homosexual and dismisses HIV and AIDS as a “gay disease.” He’s also the guy who ends up with HIV, the virus that causes AIDS, thanks to his numerous, unprotected sexual escapades.

Doctors give Ron just thirty days to live but he’s a stubborn cuss and won’t go softly into that good night: “Fuck your 30 days, motherfuckers: ain’t nothing can kill Ron Woodroof in 30 days!” Ron celebrates his “ridiculous” diagnosis by immediately rushing out and having a coke-fueled orgy with his best friend Tucker (Steve Zahn) and a couple “lucky” ladies. Once the seriousness of his situation finally settles in, however, along with the realization that all of his friends and associates have abandoned him, Ron must get to the very serious business of staying alive. Drug trials offer scant hope: kindly doctor Eve (Jennifer Garner) can’t guarantee that Ron will actually get the AZT rather than the placebo. Time and time again, Ron is faced with the terrifying notion that no one really feels they can cure him: everyone seems to be waiting for Ron to die so they can study him.

A chance meeting with an AIDS-infected transexual named Rayon (Jared Leto) sets into motion a chain of events that sees Ron go around the world to pick up experimental, “unauthorized” HIV/AIDS drugs and distribute them to patients through a club of sorts” the Dallas Buyers Club. In short order, Ron and Rayon’s club is doing boomer business and Ron’s health seems to be improving. Dark clouds appear on the horizon, however, when the DEA, IRS and AMA all get wind of what’s going on. Will the Feds work to shut down the only thing that seems to be keeping Ron and Rayon alive? Is Ron an opportunistic con-man or a saint in redneck clothing? If Ron gets shut down, what will become of the rest of the Dallas Buyers Club?

By the time I saw Dallas Buyers Club. I had already seen a handful of other Best Picture nominees for 2013: American Hustle, 12 Years a Slave and Captain Phillips. Of these four films, Dallas Buyers Club was easily my favorite and, in fact, probably one of the best films I’d seen in quite some time.  There’s an awful lot to love in Dallas Buyers Club: the film looks great and has a gritty, earnest eye for period detail; the script is razor-sharp, full of sharply delineated characters and plenty of juicy dialogue (especially some of Ron’s bon mots); the ensemble casts fits together like a jigsaw piece, each actor (both major and minor) working together to paint a complete picture; the film has a big, epic scope yet still brings everything down to a personal, relatable  level; the film is deeply emotional and powerful, yet never maudlin, obvious or hysterical. It’s a beautifully made, powerful work of art that hits on a number of levels yet never loses the inherent dignity and passion of its characters. And then, of course, there are those towering performances by McConaughey and Leto.

Even before he was given the Best Actor statue at the Academy Awards, I already knew that McConaughey had earned it. His performance as Ron Woodroof is nothing short of a revelation: angry, charming, obnoxious, feral, frightened…Woodroof is an open-nerve, the unbearably loud voice of the disenfranchised screaming at maximum volume. There’s absolutely nothing about McConaughey’s performance that ever feels like acting or, to be honest, anything less than completely authentic. At times, it’s impossible to watch, since the pain radiates from the screen in waves. At other times, it’s impossible not to watch, since McConaughey seems to attract all matter and attention to him in the same matter that a black hole might. Ron Woodroof is an amazingly conflicted character and McConaughey brings him to life in all his multi-faceted glory. Bruce Dern was amazing in Nebraska and Chiwetel Ejiofor was heartbreaking in 12 Years a Slave but, for my money, McConaughey gave the single best performance of the year, hands-down.

Leto’s performance as Rayon, although not as multi-faceted as McConaughey’s take on Woodroof, is a pretty spectacular piece of craft. Leto becomes the character so completely that, just as with McConaughey’s performance, I bought it all absolutely. Despite how good Leto was, however, there were still several moments that felt too “actorly” and performed, moments that were more wholly-integrated in McConaughey’s performance. I chalk this up to one fact, plain and simple: Leto just isn’t the actor that McConaughey is, at least not yet. It’s impossible for me not to feel, at least in some small way, that Barkhad Abdi (Captain Phillips) ultimately deserved the trophy more than Leto. While Leto gave a humble, nuanced and tender performance, it still felt like a performance: Abdi, on the other hand, never felt anything less than completely authentic, even if his role didn’t have the emotional beats and arc of Leto’s. Nonetheless, Leto’s performance is extraordinary and, in any other Oscar year, would have been my pick, as well.

In many ways, Dallas Buyers Club strikes me as the anti-American Hustle. Both films are period-pieces about the disintegration of the American dream and both feature characters who must pull off elaborate hustles in order to survive. While American Hustle strikes me as weightless and inconsequential, however, Dallas Buyers Club reminds me more of films like Boogie Nights and Goodfellas. There are certain films that just impact me more than other films and Dallas Buyers Club was one of those films: by the time the end credits rolled, the film felt like a masterpiece and something deserving of the term “classic.” When American Hustle was over, however, I only found myself entertained: truth be told, I’d already forgotten about several key moments days after first watching it. Dallas Buyers Club, however, stuck with me for days and I can still it so clearly that I might as well have watched it days ago, not weeks ago.

Despite being a film about the terrible ravages of AIDS, Dallas Buyers Club is a fiercely vibrant, alive, angry film. There is nothing melancholy or morose about this: like Ron Woodroof, Dallas Buyers Club isn’t interested in feel-good sentiments or gauzy hand-holding. There’s nothing stereotypically “heroic” about Woodroof: he’s a selfish jerk and he knows it. He also, however, refuses to give up, refuses to lie down just because the odds aren’t good. He refuses to listen to “experts” who’ve written him off, friends who’ve turned their back on him and a society that looks down on him. Ultimately, Ron Woodroof couldn’t give two shits whether you like him or not: he’s not asking society’s permission to live. Ultimately, Ron (and Dallas Buyers Club) stand as towering testimony that the spark of life can never be truly extinguished as long as the will to survive is strong. Dallas Buyers Club was a profoundly moving experience and was, without a doubt, one of the very best films of 2013.

2/15/14: Jocks Gone Wild

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1980's, Beavis and Butthead, Boner the Barbarian, celebrities, Charlie Harper, Charlie Sheen, Christopher McDonald, cinema, Film, film reviews, Gregg Araki, high school grads, killing spree, Los Angeles, Martin Sheen, Maxwell Caulfield, mental illness, Movies, Penelope Spheeris, road movie, road trips, serial killers, spree killers, The Boys Next Door, The Decline of Western Civilization, Wayne's World, William Friedkin

To paraphrase the late, great Rick James: celebrity is a helluva drug. The whirlwind of celebrity crash-and-burn has claimed many formerly good actors (Anyone remember the time when Gary Busey wasn’t the punchline to a joke? As hard as it may be to believe, there once was such a time.) and will probably continue to grind up performers until the sun finally winks out of existence. One of the biggest casualties? The current wild-man/former actor known as Charlie Sheen.

Once upon a time, way before “winning,” “warlocks” and “Denise Richards,” Sheen was a promising young actor who seemed poised to follow in his father’s footsteps. Young Sheen appeared in a string of successful films, including Platoon (1986), Wall Street (1987), Young Guns (1988), Eight Men Out (1988), Major League (1989), The Rookie (1990), Hot Shots! (1991) and Hot Shots! Part Deux (1993). David Twohy’s above-average alien-encounter flick The Arrival (1996) would be Sheen’s last “big” role before he made the move to TV, doing two years as Michael J. Fox’s replacement in Spin City before playing the part of Charlie Harper on Two and a Half Men for the next eight years.

Somewhere in that timeline, Sheen made the decision to put his acting on the back burner and focus, instead, on partying, drug use and general debauchery aka “The Robert Downey Jr. Plan.” As such, Sheen had already become something of a public joke before his very public meltdown and removal from his hit TV series made him a complete joke. Since that time, Charlie Sheen has existed as a sort-of meta-celebrity, an actor who only plays himself (A Glimpse Inside the Mind of Charles Swan III) and who seems to only be famous for being famous and saying outrageous (although increasingly less so) things.

Back at the beginning of his career, however, absolutely anything seemed possible. As the son of similarly hard-charging Martin Sheen, Charlie seemed to be a natural fit to follow in his dad’s footsteps (he even had a walk-on in Martin’s Apocalypse Now). The Boys Next Door, only Charlie’s second starring role, isn’t a great film but it is an interesting one and a pretty quaint look back into a time when Sheen was known more for his acting then his antics.

The film opens with sobering talking-head footage about serial killers, the consensus being that they usually end up being people who know and interact with on a regular basis, seemingly normal people who end up being less than human. We then cut to Roy (Maxwell Caulfield) and Bo (Sheen), a couple of knuckle-headed, prank-loving, high-school graduates acting like complete pains in the asses. They irritate their peers, giggle like flesh-and-blood versions of Beavis and Butthead, draw dirty pictures in class and crash pool parties that they’re not invited to. Once they appear to have exhausted their supply of home-town fun, the meat-heads steal a classmate’s dog, re-name it “Boner the Barbarian,” and hit the road for L.A. At this point, the film seems like any number of schlocky, ’80s teen road-movies, albeit with that aforementioned Beavis and Butthead vibe. Soon, however, the film will attempt to pull the rug from underneath our feet and will (to varying degrees) succeed.

As the two friends (and Boner the Barbarian) drive to Los Angeles, Roy quickly reveals himself to be a complete psychopath, a severely damaged individual who wants to join the army just so that he can kill something. As they travel about, Roy’s rage continues to bubble to the surface and, before long, he’s begun to violently lash out at everyone they come across: a gas-station attendant is beaten senseless…an old lady is hit in the head with a bottle. Before you know it, Roy is killing people and Bo (distinctly non-homicidal but so ineffectual as to become an unwitting accomplish) is “helplessly” along for the ride. Once the police get involved, the film becomes a headlong rush to a pretty inevitable fate: if you’ve seen one “fugitives on the run” film, you’ve probably seen at least 50% of them.

In certain ways, The Boys Next Door is an extremely strange film and at least some of the credit for this must be due to director Penelope Spheeris. Fans of transgressive ’80s cinema will recognize Spheeris from both 1981’s The Decline of Western Civilization (still one of the very best documentaries/looks into the burgeoning 1980’s U.S. hardcore scene) and Suburbia (1983), a look into disaffected youth that would seem to directly presage Gregg Araki’s nihilistic ’90s films. On the flip side, more modern sensibilities may recall that Spheeris also directed the original Wayne’s World (1992) before disappearing down the rabbit-hole of increasingly crass comedies and remakes: The Beverly Hillbillies (1993), The Little Rascals (1994), Black Sheep (1996), and Senseless (1998) all seemed to put the fork into a career that started out fairly interesting before sputtering out.

It’s definitely the “pre-PG13” Spheeris that we get in The Boys Next Door, however, which certainly accounts for much of the film’s psuedo-Repo Man look and vibe. At times, especially once Roy goes batshit, the film also reminded me of William Friedkin’s strange spree-killer/courtroom-drama Rampage (1988). Since Spheeris’ film preceded Friedkin’s by several years, it’s rather tempting for me to think that she might have had a little influence on his (decidedly) better film but I’m not sure if he would have been paying attention: Friedkin would have been working on To Live and Die in L.A. (1985) by that time.

One influence that can be seen in The Boys Next Door, however, is a bit of future influence: you can actually see shades of Wayne’s World, as bizarre as that may sound, in much of the film. Whether it’s in scenes like the goofy ones where our two “protagonists” drive around the city and gawk at “punk-rockers” or the real head-scratcher where Roy and Bo are chased by an angry mob of bikini-clad women after pelting an old lady in the head with a bottle, the film definitely recalls (at least in feel, if not tone) the antics of Wayne and Garth…minus all of the killing, of course.

Despite its frantic pace and Looney Tunes-sense of energy, The Boys Next Door still manages to run out of gas before its (inevitable) conclusion. After several scenes that managed to surprise, if not exactly shock, the conclusion is just about as lazy as it gets: a cheesy butt-rock guitar solo wails as Roy and Bo flee, first by car, then on foot, with the police in hot pursuit. The whole footchase essentially consists of anonymous shots of Roy and Bo running down generic hallways inter-cut with other anonymous shots of cops running down equally generic hallways. Between the frenetic noodling and the endlessly repetitive hallways, the finale feels like being stuck in purgatory, which may have been Spheeris’ intent all along.

As far as craft goes, The Boys Next Door holds together fairly well but certainly is nothing to write home about. Sheen is very good, if constantly bemused, as the “saner” of the two friends, while Caulfield pours his all into a role that frequently feels like a bone-headed update of that other Caulfield, the one who sulked through Catcher in the Rye. There’s a pretty hilarious (albeit unintentionally so) performance by a very young Christopher McDonald as a square, weepy cop. Older viewers will probably remember McDonald from any number of character turns over the past 30+ years but younger viewers will almost certainly remember him as Shooter McGavin, Happy Gilmour’s arch-enemy in the eponymous film. It’s a real hoot to see McDonald playing such a simpering, “nice guy” character, even if he doesn’t get much to actually do in the film. While the acting is decent, much of the film’s look and sound is strictly of the era, including a ridiculously clichéd and rather annoying score. As mentioned, the film frequently seems to be trying to mimic the look and feel of Repo Man (1984) but without a tenth of writer/director Alex Cox’s invention or gritty eye for absurdity.

As it stands, The Boys Next Door is a pretty-decent example of the “serial killer road trip” sub-genre but is, ultimately, pretty light-weight and forgettable, bar a few disturbing scenes (the one where Roy kills the girl that Bo is having sex with is a real corker). One big plus? The film has the temerity to introduce a dog but then never bothers to kill it: what were the filmmakers thinking? Any film that lets Boner the Barbarian live to rampage anew is just okay enough to deserve a look, in my book. Plus, you know, that whole Charlie Sheen thing. Winning, indeed!

1/23/14: To Boldly Go…Home

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1980's, action-comedies, Chekov, cinema, Enterprise, films, franchises, Kirk, Leonard Nimoy, McCoy, Movies, San Francisco, sci-fi, Scotty, sequel, space operas, Spock, Star Trek, Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home, Star Wars, Sulu, time travel, Uhura, whales, William Shatner

As a child, I was a huge Star Wars fanatic: I must have had every action figure, vehicle, play-set and pajama-set in the history of the original trilogy. Star Trek, on the other hand, wasn’t quite my thing. I’m not sure if it had more to do with the ration of laser-blasts to philosophical discussions or if I was just more partial to Han Solo than Capt. Kirk. Whatever the reason, I just never felt a big connection to the Enterprise and its crew when I was younger.

As I got older, however, I found my alliances shifting. The Star Wars films lost some of their original luster, particularly once the prequels were tossed into the mix. Star Trek, on the other hand, was finally beginning to appeal to me. I ended up falling in love with the original series (I can still watch those episodes any time: it’s cinematic comfort food like mashed potatoes and meatloaf, as far as I’m concerned) and became a fan of The Next Generation, although I’ve never seen any of the other . I also began to really pay attention to the Trek films: I’d already seen many of them since my family was always big on new releases and action/adventure films but I’d never really paid attention.

Currently, my admiration for the two series still tends to lean towards Star Trek, although I definitely wouldn’t consider myself a hardcore fan of either. I think that Star Trek has tended to stick with me longer because the social problems and philosophical issues raised seem to have more real-world applications than the space operatics of Star Wars. At any rate, I find that some time has passed since I saw either a Star Trek or Star Wars film. When it came time to choose last Thursday’s entertainment, my lovely wife suggested Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home (her personal favorite in the series) and this seemed like a perfect time to get reacquainted with the series.

Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home is certainly an odd Star Trek film but I think that’s actually one of its biggest benefits. Coming right after the triple punch of The Motion Picture, The Wrath of Khan and The Search for Spock, The Voyage Home is a much lighter affair, more comedy and satire than pulse-pounding space shoot-em-up. This also makes it an easy film to mock, particularly when we get to elements like Spock using the Vulcan nerve pinch on a mohawk-bedecked “punk rocker” on a bus or Kirk’s constant swearing (this affectation, however, is one of my favorites in the film, particularly when he responds back to a rude motorist with the classic retort, “Double-dumbass to you!”

Story-wise, The Voyage Home takes place immediately after The Search for Spock ended. Spock is once again alive and with the crew, the crew is on the run from the Federation in a stolen Klingon warbird (dubbed the HMS Bounty, in a particularly nifty touch) and some strange probe is draining the energy from every vessel and planet it comes near. When it begins to drain Earth, the renegade crew put their heads together and realize that the strange signal emanating from the probe is a whale song. Where to find a whale to respond to the probe since they’ve been extinct for hundreds of years by that point? Why, the past of course: San Francisco in 1986, to be exact. The crew heads to the past, endures the typical fish-out-of-water shenanigans that we’d expect (including the aforementioned bus antics and a gloriously goofy sequence where Spock dives into a whale tank to commune with the big lugs) and, of course, ends up saving the day.

Since The Voyage Home isn’t played strictly seriously, it may seem easy to discount it, especially when compared to earlier fare like The Wrath of Khan. Despite a few particularly dodgy effects moments (especially the dated time-travel effects), a few silly moments (Spock’s IQ test scene is really silly, one short step from being eye-rolling) and a distinct lack of action (there’s some minor action sequences at the beginning and a rather quickly resolved one at the end), however, the film actually holds up pretty well. Leonard Nimoy wrote and directed the film and there’s a general sense of amiability that permeates everything: at no point do any of the actors look like they’re having anything less than a great time. Shatner, in particular, is in fine, mischievous form and gets a few choice lines to rattle off.

As a rule, the effects are pretty simple and clean (aside from the ridiculous time travel scene): I bet The Voyage Home must have looked pretty good in theaters on opening weekend. I was initially concerned that the film would lose its footing completely once the crew made it to Earth but Nimoy keeps a pretty consistent visual thread running through the film, making the Earth scenes no less (but certainly no more) visually arresting than what’s happening in space. Add in a pretty rousing finale, with a truly great final scene, and you have one pretty decent film. Certainly nothing ground-breaking (or even something to make people forget the three films that came before) but Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home is consistently entertaining and fun: that’s certainly more than I can say for Attack of the Clones.