2/6/15: Scratching the Surface

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Adam Sliwinski, Alain Mayrand, Ava Hughes, body image, Canadian films, cinema, Comforting Skin, Derek Franson, directorial debut, feature-film debut, film reviews, films, foreign films, horror, horror films, isolation, Jane Sowerby, Jenn Griffin, John Tench, loneliness, male-female friendships, mental breakdown, mental illness, Movies, obsession, Paul Jarrett, Phil Granger, psychological horror, Repulsion, self-abuse, self-confidence, set in Canada, tattoo, tattoos, twenty-something angst, Tygh Runyan, Victoria Bidewell, writer-director

If you think about it, it’s been quite the long, strange journey for the art of tattooing. Once denigrated as the mark of the rough-and-tumble, the larcenous and the counter-culture, tattoos used to be one of the fastest ways to earn the disapproving stares and condemnations of “polite” society. Nowadays, however, with everyone from the local barista to the TV meteorologist to the lacrosse team sporting their own skin art, it’s kind of silly to think about how controversial this used to be. In fact, tattoos have become so adopted by the mainstream that not having them has become its own statement of purpose, in the same way that getting them used to be. A brave, new world, indeed!

One of the most fascinating aspects of the current mainstream acceptance of tattoos is the fundamental way in which it repurposes said tattoos. In the past, tattoos were seen as a sign of individuality (we’ll leave out discussions of tribal, gang and organizational markings, lest we’re here all day) and a way for someone to set themselves aside from “normal” society. Nowadays, tattoos have almost the opposite effect, uniting whole masses of people in ways that would have previously been unheard of. For every person who comes to an artist with a detailed layout and design scheme, there are at least a bakers’ dozen behind said person who are probably all going to get variations on the same design. It’s a pretty interesting phenomenon, this transition from the private self to the greater whole: it’s not like we’re seeing the same thing, writ large, all over society and pop culture, right?

First-time writer/director Derek Franson takes this dual nature of tattoos, as both unifier and distancer, and folds it within the framework of a discussion on body image with his debut, Comforting Skin (2011). In a way, it’s a pretty smart observation: we modify our bodies as a way to not only “exert authority” over them, as it were, but also as a way to send a message to the rest of the world. The modifications might be “for us” but they also communicate whatever our intended message is to the masses: even if the message is “Stay away,” we’re still expecting some sort of response. Ah, the modern malaise: the desire to be “connected” vs the inherent need to “know yourself.” As with everything else, we can’t have it all, no matter how much we might want it.

We first meet our erstwhile protagonist, Koffie (Victoria Bidewell), as she awkwardly tries to get a guy’s attention at a crowded dance club. At first glance, she’s kind of a sad sack: shy, plain and self-conscious due to some acne scars, Koffie is the kind of person who’s all but invisible to the “beautiful’ people who always seem to be having so much more fun than the rest of us. Hell, Koffie’s best friend, Synthia (Jane Sowerby), just has to wiggle her finger at a guy and he follows her all the way home like a well-trained puppy: Koffie can’t even get them to maintain eye contact.

More than anything, Koffie is desperately lonely, despite the near constant presence of her other best friend/roommate, Nathan (Tygh Runyan), who also happens to be a sociophobe who relies on Koffie to ease his transition into society. Koffie and Nathan seem to have fun together but a buddy isn’t the same thing as a lover, as we see when she pines around her former beau, Allan (Philip Granger), a shitty gallery owner who left Koffie to “fuck someone sane,” as he cheerfully tells her. Even though Allan seems like the human equivalent of pond scum, Koffie begs to get back together with him: even an abusive relationship is better than none, as far as she’s concerned.

After finding herself in a decidedly low-rent tattoo parlor one night, seemingly by happenstance, Koffie makes a spur-of-the-moment decision to get an “original” design on her shoulder. Despite Nathan’s rather cruel derision, Koffie is over-joyed with her new art and begins to experience the kind of elation and high energy that some folks might experience in…well, in a new relationship. When life continues to beat Koffie down, however, she finds herself despondent and inches away from cutting herself with a box cutter: life has handed Koffie so many lemons that she’s completely buried in sour, yellow fruit.

In a development that might be considered unusual, however, Koffie’s new tattoo appears to move around her body, as if it were some sort of living organism. It also speaks to her in a soothing, convincing tone that sounds suspiciously like her own voice. Although poor Koffie is, at first, suitably horrified, she comes to view the tattoo as a confidant, relying on it for support and advise. In short order, Koffie finds herself much happier and more confident, even as she finds herself increasingly estranged from both Synthia and Nathan. The tattoo seems like a true blue friend, albeit a rather jealous, possessive one. Nothing bad can come from taking life advise from your tattoo, though, right? As the line between reality and insanity blurs, Koffie will either emerge as a bold, new individual or she’ll be completely consumed by something shadowy, seductive…and evil.

Comforting Skin starts strong: there’s something undeniably intriguing about a “living” tattoo and the underlying discussion of body image and abusive relationships seems like a natural fit for this kind of film. For a brief time, the film chugs along impressively, building up a nice melancholy atmosphere and establishing Koffie as an interesting, sympathetic character. As the film goes on, however, it gets gradually more inane, the plot stretching so thin as to spring leaks at every turn. This wouldn’t be such a crucial issue, ultimately, if the characters were stronger but everything sort of collapses in on itself in a slow-motion implosion. As the film gets sillier and the characters become more unpleasant, it becomes harder to stay invested: by the conclusion, I was just about as removed, emotionally, as possible, despite being fairly invested earlier.

Much of the blame, unfortunately, falls on the shoulders of Victoria Bidewell: despite starting strong, with some genuinely powerful, subtle emotional moments, Koffie’s character quickly becomes whiny, melodramatic and almost unbearably tedious. Her one and only function seems to be acquiring a boyfriend, at any cost, and she quickly becomes the female equivalent of TV’s Ted Mosby. Scene after scene revolves around her complaining about her love life, complaining about her family, complaining about Synthia, etc etc…he gets old by about the midpoint and, unfortunately, never gets any better. By the conclusion, I disliked Bidewell’s character so much that I really could have cared less how the situation unfolded: as long as it was eventually over, I was a happy camper.

Bidewell’s co-star, Tygh Runyan, fares just as poorly, coming across as one of the most obnoxious, irritating and self-entitled assholes to co-anchor a film since the glory days of the Farrelly Brothers. The scene where he acts like a complete jerk in the diner is painful to watch and he manages to match Bidewell whine or whine, which is no easy feat. In fact, none of the cast are anything approaching likable or sympathetic, with the possible exception of Ava Hughes’ performance as Koffie’s little sister, Peg: other than that, they all come across as unpleasant, entitled nitwits who relish casual cruelty, “witty” insults and “clever” observations…it all reminded me of The Comedy (2012), in the worst way possible.

The film was also unnecessarily confusing, which seems strange considering how relatively stream-lined the narrative is. Despite that, however, I often find myself a little lost on the specifics: I was 38 minutes into the film before I figured out that Koffie was trying to help Nathan overcome his sociophobia and even longer before I realized that Nathan was a composer…before that, I thought that the pair were some sort of comedy duo or owned some sort of advertising business. There’s also some very confusing business involving the tattoo appearing to “seduce” Synthia, an event which never makes sense, even within the constraints of the film’s (limited) mythology. Everything’s wrapped up in a way that allows for a happy ending, of sorts, yet nothing actually feels resolved. At times, the film threatens to veer into Repulsion (1965) territory but it never quite makes the break from the pulpier aspects of the material.

I really appreciate what Franson and company were trying to do with Comforting Skin, even if I disliked the final product: I still think there’s a helluva film to be made that deals with these exact issues of body image, self-worth and female sexuality, even if this isn’t it. We can always use more films told from a female perspective, especially within the horror genre, which has always been a notorious boys’ club. In many ways, this reminded me of Contracted (2013), although that film was relatively sturdy sailing up until the unfortunate ending. In this case, Franson has a solid starting point but the whole thing unravels well before the final credits have begun to roll. Tattoos may be a “permanent” form of self-expression but this may be one case where laser removal is the only sensible option.

10/24/14 (Part Two): Mommy’s Little Monster

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31 Days of Halloween, Adrien Brody, androgyny, auteur theory, body image, Brandon McGibbon, Bride of Frankenstein, Canadian films, cinema, co-writers, creature feature, Cube, David Hewlett, Delphine Chaneac, experiments, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, Frankenstein, gender roles, gene splicing, genetic research, Henry Frankenstein, intelligence, KNB Effects, Mary Shelley, Movies, near future, new parents, parent-child relationships, research & development, Sarah Polley, sci-fi, sci-fi-horror, Splice, technological advancement, Vincenzo Natali, writer-director

As this “brave new world” that we’re part of throttles ever forward, we find ourselves in an era when groundbreaking scientific discoveries seem to be a dime a dozen: here a medical breakthrough, there a previously undreamed of planet, everywhere some innovation. Hell, researchers even think they’ve discovered how to prevent humans from aging: forget the Jetson’s flying cars…this is what the future really looks like, apparently. As the question of “Can we do this?” becomes more moot, however, we find ourselves in a quandary that’s at least as old as Mary Shelley’s stitched-together creation: “Should we do this?”

Indeed, as our technological prowess and knowledge expands exponentially (seemingly by the minute), humanity finds itself at a bit of a crossroads, similar to that faced by a parent and child: at some point, the child’s knowledge will surpass the parent’s, regardless of how “smart” they are. As our technological abilities lap our current understanding of the larger implications involving issues like artificial intelligence and genetic engineering, however, the bigger, more terrifying problem becomes evident: at some point, humanity will unleash something on itself that it not only doesn’t fully understand but that it’s powerless to resist. Writer-director Vincenzo Natali’s sci-fi/horror Splice (2009) takes a look at this very issue, wrapping the warning in a tale that’s equal parts “new parent blues” and body horror, sort of like Cronenberg tackling Frankenstein. It’s a bracing and, at times, highly unpleasant film. Like all of Natali’s films, however, it’s also thought-provoking, intelligent and has enough twists and turns to separate it from the pack.

Clive (Adrien Brody) and Elsa (Sarah Polley) are maverick scientists involved in cutting-edge gene-splicing research. Their research involves combining various organisms, culminating in their pride and joys, “Fred” and “Ginger,” organic creations that are like nothing that came before. After their research company decides to halt further genetic splicing in favor of focusing on the breakthroughs they already have, however, Clive and Elsa decide to go rogue and continue their splicing experiments on their own. For “pure” scientists, the thrill is always in the chase, not the chase, and the partners won’t stop when they’re so close to a world-changing discovery.

And, of course, they end up getting their wish, albeit in a way that they probably didn’t expect. Thanks to the inclusion of human DNA in their experiment, Clive and Elsa are now the proud “parents” of…well, something, for lack of a better word. The name their creation “Dren” and there’s immediately conflict: Clive is horrified by what they’ve done and wants to kill the “creature” before anything bad happens. Elsa, on the other hand, wants to study Dren: since the creature ages at an accelerated rate, Elsa figures that they have a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to observe the entire life-cycle of a new species…what scientist worth their salt would pass that up?

As Dren grows, she develops into something decidedly alien, humanoid although possessed of a massive tail with a poisonous stinger at the end, similar to a scorpion. As Dren gets older, the relationship between the “parents” and their “child” becomes more complicated, made more so when Dren begins to display some decidedly violent behavior. If Frankenstein taught us anything it’s that first impressions probably aren’t the best judge. For, you see, as Dren grows, she’s changing: becoming something much greater and more terrifying than the scientists could have ever imagined. After “Fred” and “Ginger” tear each other to rags before a mortified crowd of spectators, Clive and Elsa’s “official” research is shut down. Their secret project has now become something potentially lethal, however, something which threatens not only their lives but the very future of the human species. As Clive and Elsa will learn, there are some doors that should never be opened, even if we have the key.

Like Natali’s solid debut, Cube (1997), Splice is elevated by a great central idea and some truly intelligent writing. Unlike Cube, however, Splice benefits from some excellent acting and much greater production values: the creature is always impressive, from the get-go, and only gets more so as it continues to “evolve” and change. Natali is a tricky filmmaker, almost a poker-faced prankster who delights in hiding things in the margins of his films. One of my favorite revelations in Splice comes from the names of Brody and Polley’s characters: Clive and Elsa. Unless I’m reading too much into it, the connection with Universal’s classic monster flicks seems undeniable: Colin Clive played Henry Frankenstein in James Whale’s classic Frankenstein (1931), while Elsa Lancaster played the monster’s “bride” in the followup, The Bride of Frankenstein (1935). Subtle, sure, but just the kind of attention to detail that make Natali’s films so interesting.

More importantly, however, Adrien Brody and Sarah Polley invest the film with some genuine heart and soul: unlike the under-developed characters from Cube, Splice is filled with what feel like real people dealing with some intensely difficult decisions. They don’t always make the right decisions, of course, but what Frankenstein story would be complete without a misguided God complex? Polley, in particular, is fantastic as Elsa: she gets some extremely difficult emotional beats to work through and nails everything with a verve that makes it impossible to take your eyes off of her. It’s to Polley’s great credit that she can share the screen with what amounts to a scorpion-tailed gargoyle and still hold her own: contrast this with something like Pacific Rim (2013), where the human actors are completely upstaged by the monsters and robots.

As previously mentioned, Splice is full of some pretty ingenious twists and turns, none of which I’ll spoil here. Suffice to say that the film manages to work in discussions of body image, gender roles and Oedipal/Elektra complexes before the whole thing culminates in a blood-drenched finale that’s the very epitome of “The end is the beginning.” As with almost all of his films, Natali seems more interested in setting up clichéd tropes in order to detonate them from the inside than he is in playing to audience expectations: just when you think you have Splice figured out, Natali flips the film on its head and tells you to take another look. As someone who constantly bemoans lackluster resolutions in indie horror films, I find Natali to be a breath of fresh air: no matter what happens, I know that he’ll find an interesting way to resolve everything without resorting to obvious “Shyamalanisms.”

As with most of Natali’s films, Splice is far from perfect but none of the minor issues or slight imperfections really impact the overall film: taken as a whole, Splice is a massively entertaining, thought-provoking sci-fi/horror film that combines the chilly sterility of Cronenberg with a blood-and-guts monster flick. There are ideas aplenty here and Natali manages to hit most of what he’s aiming at, making Splice one of the most intriguing of the new wave of “intelligent sci-fi” that’s cropped-up in the last five years or so. It’s rare to find a horror film that has both heart and brains, guts and a soul. Like any good mad scientist, Natali has cobbled his film together out of some pretty cool spare parts and let me tell you: it’s a real monster.