10/23/14 (Part Two): Eat To Live, Don’t Live To Eat

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31 Days of Halloween, Anthony B. Richmond, Antonia Bird, Bill Brochtrup, black comedies, cannibalism, cannibals, cinema, cowardice, Damon Albarn, David Arquette, favorite films, film reviews, films, forts, gallows' humor, gory films, Grand Guignol, Guy Pearce, horror, horror films, isolation, Jeffrey Jones, Jeremy Davies, John Spencer, Joseph Running Fox, Manifest Destiny, Mexican-American War, Michael Nyman, Movies, Neal McDonough, Ravenous, Robert Carlyle, set in the 1840s, Sheila Tousey, Sierra Nevadas, Stephen Spinella, Ted Griffin, U.S. army, wendigo, Westward expansion

For my money, Antonia Bird’s Ravenous (1999) has to be one of the most under-rated films out there: it’s certainly one of the most under-rated horror films, which is a real head-scratcher considering just how good the movie is. Perhaps audiences were thrown off by the subject matter (cannibalism has the virtue of still being one of the few remaining Western taboos) or found the tone confusing (an argument that’s certainly valid, if needlessly reductive). Maybe genre audiences were resistant to a horror film helmed by a female director (Bird replaced the original director a few weeks into filming), a terribly stupid prejudice that’s haunted the genre practically from its inception. Regardless of the reason for its “shunning,” however, the facts remain the same: Ravenous is one hell of a great film and deserves to be mentioned in any list of the best films of the ’90s.

Set in the American West, circa 1847, we’re introduced to the character of Captain John Boyd (Guy Pearce) as he receives a medal for his bravery during the Mexican-American War. The irony, as we see via choice flashbacks and the withering comments of Boyd’s superior officer, General Slauson (John Spencer), is that Boyd is actually a coward: as his men were getting slaughtered left and right, Boyd hid himself under a mountain of bodies and pretended to be dead. Once all of his men were dead and the Mexican soldiers’ attention was elsewhere, Boyd slipped out and, single-handedly, captured the Mexican encampment. A one-man army? Definitely award-worthy! A coward who watches his own troops get butchered? Better get a broom: this is getting swept under the rug, folks.

As “reward,” Boyd is sent to remote Fort Spencer, an isolated and rarely used way-station for travelers in the Sierra Nevadas: the U.S. army loves him so much, they don’t want him anywhere around. At the fort, Boyd meets his new comrades, an exceptionally strange bunch of folks if there ever were any: Col. Hart (Jeffrey Jones), the commanding officer, is a philosophical man who reads books in their original language because the fort “thrives on tedium”; Major Knox (Stephen Spinella), the next in command, is a falling-down drunk who also serves as the fort’s resident doctor (“Don’t get sick,” is Hart’s sage advice to Boyd); Pvt. Toffler (Jeremy Davies), the group’s missionary, is a real nutcase who’s given to talking to himself in hushed tones and writing fervent religious poetry at the drop of a hat; the “over-medicated” Pvt. Cleaves (David Arquette), the perma-stoned cook who spends the majority of his time getting high and giggling; Pvt. Reich (Neal McDonough), the creepily cheerful, gung-ho soldier who’s given to standing in freezing ponds and primal screaming; and the fort’s resident Native Americans, Martha (Sheila Tousey) and her brother George (Joseph Running Fox), who also happens to be Cleaves’ smoking buddy. In other words, you have just about the most interesting group of characters (and actors) that you could possibly get…and it only gets better from there.

One night, the general boredom of the fort’s routine is upset when the group spy a mysterious, haggard mountain-man outside, in the freezing snow. Rushing him inside, the group finds him weak and nearly dead, but still kicking. After administering to him, they learn that the man is F.W. Colqhoun (Robert Carlyle), a Scottish immigrant who was travelling with a wagon train that found disaster in the unforgiving Sierra Nevadas. The train’s leader, Col. Ives, was an incompetent man who led them astray and got them all stranded in an underground cave. As the harsh winter set in around them, the group quickly blew through their food rations before turning to their pack animals and things like their leather belts and shoes. When those ran out, the group began to cannibalize the dead, some with more gusto than others, according to Colqhoun. Ives, in particular, became a monster who gleefully chowed his way through all of the survivors until it was just him, Colqhoun and another woman. Fleeing into the night, Colqhoun left Ives and the woman behind in the cave, a cowardly act that serves as a fitting parallel to Boyd’s own act of self-preservation.

Upon hearing that Ives and the woman may still be alive in the cave, Hart wastes no time in organizing a rescue mission, taking Boyd, George, Toffler, Reich and Colqhoun with him, as Knox stays behind to mind the fort. On the way, Toffler ends up getting injured, which leads to the unsettling incident where Colqhoun is discovered licking the missionary’s wound as they all sleep in their tents. Colqhoun, it would appear, has a bit of an impulse control problem. He’s also quite the liar, as the group discovers when they reach the cave and find a much different, more horrible scenario than the one Colqhoun so helpfully described. With the tables turned, Boyd is soon engaged in a life-or-death struggle with Colqhoun, a struggle that ends with Boyd grievously injured and trapped in a hole in the woods.

After freeing himself, Boyd returns to the fort only to discover that General Slauson and his men are already there: Hart’s party is still missing and Slauson has come down to lead the search. He’s also brought a new commanding officer with him, someone to run Fort Spencer in Hart’s absence…a cheerful, friendly fellow by the name of Col. Ives. From this point on, the film becomes a brilliant cat-and-mouse game as Boyd tries desperately to convince those around him that Ives is not only an imposter but a supernaturally strong, blood-thirsty cannibal, as well. Ives has plenty of tricks up his sleeve, however, and he’s a patient man: he’s more than happy to wait as Boyd becomes more and more entangled in his web. The whole thing builds to a Grand Guignol climax that features one of the most intense, amazing mano-a-mano battles that I’ve ever seen (think Family Guy’s “Chicken vs Peter” fights but with live-action actors and gallons of blood), all before finishing up with one of the most subtle, succinct commentaries on the human condition ever put to screen.

I remember going to see Ravenous in the theaters when it first came out and being so absolutely blown away by it that I promptly went to see it again. As soon as I was able, I bought the DVD and have happily revisited the film at least once a year for over a decade. Obviously, I’m quite fond of the movie: it’s actually one of my favorite films, let alone one of my favorite horror films. What, exactly, appeals to me so much about this marvelous little gem? In a nutshell, Ravenous is one smart film, from beginning to end and if there’s anything I appreciate, laud and worship, it’s a smart film.

One of the biggest complaints levied against Ravenous is that the film is tonally inconsistent, so schizophrenic as to almost be two films jammed into one: a slapstick comedy, complete with “zany” sound effects, and a serious, gore-drenched horror movie about cannibals and Wendigos. This tendency is evident from the very first frame, where Nietzche’s famous quote about fighting monsters is followed by the immediate rejoinder, “Eat Me!,” credited to “Anonymous.” The second comment pops up with one of those aforementioned “zany” sound effects, which creates a completely jarring tone when juxtaposed with composer Michael Nyman and Blur frontman Damon Albarn’s austere bluegrass-y score. All of this is balanced against Anthony B. Richmond’s absolutely stunning cinematography: the snowy mountain setting is truly beautiful.

Rather than being a handicap, I’ve always felt that Ravenous’ split-tone was one of its greatest assets. Despite the occasionally slapstick action, the film is never silly or stupid: instead, it uses the frequent gallows’ humor and moments such as Colqhoun/Ives’ sarcastic asides to keep the audience in a constant state of uneasiness. From one moment to the next, it’s all but impossible to predict the film’s next move: a gleefully insane gore setpiece might sit uncomfortably next to a masterfully executed comedic scene. One of the film’s best moments is the one where Hart asks Boyd about his hobbies, only to be told he enjoys swimming: after a long pause, Hart casts an eye outside, at the frozen landscape, before giving the priceless rejoinder, “Hope you don’t mind hard water.” Classic! Likewise, the excellent, atmospheric score (truly some of Albarn’s best work) helps pull the mood in a million directions at once: the film’s main theme is very catchy and evocative and serves to accentuate several key moments, helping to do a little of the heavy lifting, thematically speaking.

And that cast…oh, boy…that cast…Any film that features Guy Pearce, Robert Carlyle, David Arquette, Jeffrey Jones, Neal McDonough, Stephen Spinella and John Spencer should be guaranteed more than its fair share of eyeballs glued to the screen but, alas, even this star power wasn’t enough to pull in the ticket-buyers. It’s a real shame, too, because Carlyle’s performance as Colqhoun/Ives is not only one of his very best performances (pretty much second only to the marvelous piece of shit that is Begbie) but it’s reason enough to see the film, hands down. Quite simply, Carlyle turns in one of the all-time best villainous performances I’ve ever had the pleasure of witnessing. He’s so good, in fact, that I’ll stack his performance next to any cinematic villain from the dawn of the Nickelodeons right up to yesterday: Colqhoun/Ives is an unforgettable creation and Carlyle should have been praised from here to the moon for the performance, hands down.

For me, one of the saddest aspects to Ravenous’ box-office failure was the way that it effectively cut Antonia Bird’s cinematic career short. Predominantly a television director until her big-screen debut with Priest (1994), Ravenous would only be her fourth (and last) non-TV effort. After the film went the way of the dodo, Bird went back to television where she would remain until her untimely death last year at the age of 62. More than anything, I lament the amazing, lost films that might have followed Ravenous had the movie only been successful…or had Bird just been given another chance. The irony of the fact is that Ravenous is an exceptionally well-made film: it looks gorgeous and has more atmosphere than a bakers’ dozen of lesser movies. In a perfect world, these traits would be rewarded. In the bizarro-world of Hollywood, however, receipts are king and Ravenous never really had a chance.

And there you have it, folks: the best film that hardly anyone’s seen. Why should anyone care about a 15-year-old horror-comedy about cannibals? Well, if you’re a horror fan, the film features amazingly real and gruesome practical effects, along with one of the all-time great cinematic “monsters” and some genuinely shocking scenes. If you’re just a general fan of the cinema, Ravenous is expertly crafted, featuring beautiful cinematography, a truly unique and wonderfully fitting musical score and a superb ensemble cast. For those who like a little something to think about, Ted Griffin’s script finds some truly brilliant ways to equate Manifest Destiny and Westward expansion with the consumption of human flesh: as the settlers chewed up and spit out the remains of those who came before them, so, too, does Colqhoun plan to chew up and spit out the settlers. It’s the circle of life: it might not be pretty, but it sure does look familiar.

As a writer, I feel that one of the greatest, most important things I can possibly do is to make sure that quality films like Ravenous don’t completely fade out into obscurity. Just as I’ve fallen in love with this ramshackle little mutt of a film, so do I feel that anyone else can, with the right push. As someone who’s spent the better part of his life separating the wheat from the chaff, as far as horror films go, let me now throw the fullest recommendation possible behind Ravenous. Give it a chance and I’m pretty sure you’ll agree: there’s absolutely nothing else out there like Ravenous…and we’re all a whole lot poorer for it.

 

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10/23/14 (Part One): Foodie or Food?

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31 Days of Halloween, Angel Acero, cannibalism, cannibals, Carina Bjorne, cinema, clandestine restaurants, Elisa Matilla, father-son relationships, Fernando Albizu, film reviews, films, food critics, foreign films, fugu, gastronomy, horror, horror movies, journalist, Mario de la Rosa, Marta Flich, Movies, Omnivoros, Oscar Rojo, Paco Manzanedo, Sara Gomez, secret societies, set in Spain, Spanish film, Teresa Soria Ruano, vegetarian vs carnivore, writer-director

Marcos Vela (Mario de la Rosa) isn’t a bad person, per se: he’s just a bored food critic bouncing from one “clandestine” eatery to the next, eating Kobe beef prepared by rich people in their luxurious apartment “restaurant” one night, tempting the fates with fugu the next. Problem is, Maros has seen it all before and there isn’t anything that really lights his fire anymore: after all, it’s just food, right? A chance encounter with a former lover (who also happens to be a gastro-journalist), however, sends Marcos on the hunt for a restaurant rumored to be serving a whole different kind of fare: human meat. In a world jaded to the nth degree, will Marcos trade his basic humanity in order to have the next “big experience” or are there some things that will always be off the menu?

These are the basic questions that Spanish writer-director Oscar Rojo works with in his sophomore feature, Omnivoros (2013), although there’s also quite a bit going on beneath the film’s surface, not least of which is the sneaky idea that this might actually be the ultimate statement about “vegetarian vs carnivore”: would you still eat your meat if it had a face? What if it had a face that looked suspiciously like yours? As with most films that delve into the subject of cannibalism, Omnivoros is quite often a very unpleasant experience: the violence is sudden and severe, often drifting dangerously close to torture-porn territory, but the themes are always interesting and there’s never the idea that Rojo is grinding our faces in the muck just for the hell of it. Despite the quality of the filmmaking on hand here, however, this is definitely a tough sell that will probably appeal only to the hardcore, iron-stomach contingent: all others are advised to proceed with extreme caution.

Structurally, Omnivoros alternates between Marcos investigating the mysterious “cannibal” restaurant and the actual cannibals, father Dimas (Fernando Albizu) and son Matarife (Paco Manzanedo), going about their grisly business. Matarife actually procures the “meat,” snatching terrified victims off the streets in shockingly matter-of-fact ways, while Dimas prepares the “food,” injecting his cooking with all the flair of a five-star Michelin chef: this is no Sawyer family BBQ, mind you, but the most highfalutin’ of highfalutin’ cuisine, the very epitome of gastronomy. These two storylines will eventually collide as Marcos finally tracks down the elusive restaurant and gets a first-person peek into the father and son in action.

As far as rationale or backstory goes, Omnivoros begins with a prologue (“Some years ago…,” we’re told) that shows how young Dimas came to find himself elbow-deep in the cannibal lifestyle (like any of the film’s “eating” scenes, it’s incredibly nasty and visceral), a lifestyle that he’s (obviously) passed on to his strange, animalistic son. While Dimas is the very picture of cool urbanity, looking nothing less than the “celebrity chef” that he appears to be, Matarife is a sweaty, goonish, hairy mess of a creature, the kind of individual who might prompt a biker gang to cross warily to the other side of the street. He’s a creep, in other words, the living embodiment of the “hidden” side of the meat industry: meat-eaters would love to think that they’re only dealing with Dimas but, in reality, Matarife is just as much a part of the equation, as slaughterhouse conditions and animal abuse allegations show us.

The film displays an odd, almost detached sense of morality that, at first, would appear to point towards an exceptionally detached, tuned-out society (which, to be honest, probably isn’t far from the truth). A “twist” in the film’s final quarter swings us back towards a more “accepted” view of the world, however, offering up a conclusion that could probably be seen as either victory or failure, depending on which side of the cleaver you’re on. From my perspective, I found the finale a bit too convenient, almost as if Rojo was worried that an extended trip to the dark side of humanity might be too hard to come back from: the “happy” ending here puts the film more in line with Hollywood-type films, although there’s just enough doubt in the final image to leave audiences wondering (which is also a trait of Hollywood horror films, to be honest).

All in all, Omnivoros is another of those films that’s easy to respect: everything about the filmmaking is top-notch, despite my general dislike of the back-and-forth between the two storylines and the fact that the film could, occasionally, get rather heavy-handed. That being said, I would be stretching the truth a bit if I said that I really liked it: the film was always cold and clinical and the gore scenes had a tendency to be both relentless and astoundingly gruesome (even for a cannibal film).

While Omnivoros isn’t necessarily my cup of tea, I still found myself dutifully impressed by Rojo’s abilities, both as writer and director, and found the film to be an easy, if queasy, watch. Even though I’ve been a meat-eater my whole life, I’m always open to an intelligent, well-made and thought-provoking argument from the other side. There’s a particularly sharp point made late in the film when one of the potential purchasers of Dimas’ “special” meat notes that the prices keep going up but that “it’s better to pay a little more than go on a vegetarian diet.” In one fell swoop, Rojo manages to take a bite out of not only the economics of food but the inherent philosophy behind it, an argument that could easily be expanded out to include “real food” vs “fast food.” Whether Rojo intended his film as a critique of carnivores or not, one thing remains clear: Omnivoros might just make you think twice about that steak you’re about to order.

5/30/14 (Part One): Beware the Melty Man

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'70s films, '70s-era, 1970's cinema, Alex Rebar, All Buy Mice Elf Film Festival, astronauts, B-movies, body horror, Burr DeBenning, cannibalism, cinema, drive-in fare, film reviews, films, horror, horror films, horror movie, Jonathan Demme, melting people, Movies, Myron Healey, Rick Baker, sci-fi, science-fiction, special effects, special-effects extravaganza, Steve West, Ted Nelson, The Incredible Melting Man, William Sachs, writer-director

While iconic villains are a vital component to horror films (particularly franchises), they’re also one of the most difficult aspects of a film to nail. Despite the exponential increase in the sheer number of horror films, we haven’t really added many “classic” villains to the roster since the ’80s: while characters like Laid to Rest’s (2009) ChromeSkull and Hatchet’s (2006) Victor Crowley have been in a few films, by this point, they’ve yet to achieve any sort of cultural resonance. One could argue that Leprechaun’s (1993) titular character counts, since he’s now been featured in seven different films (after all, Freddy only had a total of 9 films, including the recent reboot). As with ChromeSkull and Crowley, however, the Leprechaun never really made it to Buzz Bin status: he’s working-class but no hero. There have been many attempts to spawn a new horror icon, over the years, but very few ever end up taking off. One of the strangest of these attempts to craft a bit of zeitgeist came about in 1977 with The Incredible Melting Man, a B-movie with pretensions to immortality.

Despite some pretty impressive makeup effects by a young Rick Baker and a tagline that explicitly announced the filmmakers’ intentions (“The first new horror creature”), The Incredible Melting Man did not go on to spawn a franchise…or even a sequel, as it were. Whether audiences had a hard time associating with the gloopy titular monster or whether the (decidedly rough) production-quality put them off makes little difference. As it stands, The Incredible Melting Man is a complete failure at creating a lasting legacy but pretty successful as a goofy, gory popcorn film.

Astronaut Steve West (Alex Rebar) is part of an expedition to fly through the rings of Saturn when something goes wrong: his nose begins to bleed, things get fuzzy and he wakes up in a hospital. After removing his facial bandages, Steve notices something: he doesn’t look too hot. In fact, he seems to be rotting. This kinda ticks him off (wouldn’t it bother you?) and he pounds the table, apeman-style, before trashing the examination room. A nurse returns in time to get chased by Steve in a scene filmed with the kind of gauzy slo-mo that usually ended ’70s horror films, not began them. She crashes through a glass door (saved a second on opening it, I suppose), Steve’s right there and it’s “Good night, nurse!”

We now meet Dr. Ted Nelson (Burr DeBenning) and Dr. Loring (Lisle Wilson) as they examine the nurse’s body. Ted knows a little about this situation, since he was Steve’s friend and was involved with the Saturn mission. He’s also the most laid-back, unflappable, milquetoast “hero” of all time: the scene where he describes to Dr. Loring how his wife, Judy (Ann Sweeny), is pregnant with their third child, after two previous miscarriages, has all of the emotional impact of a colonoscopy. Any “clues” he turns up along the way will be greeted with the mild distaste that one might express when finding caterpillars on the cabbages: Ted Nelson may be the “hero” in The Incredible Melting Man but the guy would be a zero just about anywhere else.

As poor Steve stomps around the countryside, leaving gloopy handprints here, a bit of his ear there (“Oh God…it’s his ear,” exclaims Ted, in a way that practically screams “Could I possibly have a refill on my glass of water, please, if it’s not too much of a bother?”) and dead bodies everywhere, Ted is forced to get General Perry (Myron Healey) involved. Together, Ted and the General set out to stop Steve’s killing spree, albeit for different reasons: the General wants all traces of this disaster dead and gone, while Ted only wants to help out his soupy buddy. It all comes to a head at some kind of a factory, where Ted’s friendship will be stretched to the limit and Steve will have to try, if only for a moment, to regain his basic humanity.

When The Incredible Melting Man is rough, it’s really rough. The acting is rudimentary, at best, with some performances being so howlingly terrible that they achieve a kind of gonzo spectacle. Alex Rebar, in particular, is awful: were he to stay “normal” throughout the film, the movie would actually be unwatchable, although getting buried in the melting man makeup restricts his performance to strictly physical, which works wonders. While Burr DeBenning is nowhere near as terrible, he manages to possess as much energy and life as a department-store mannequin (and not the ’80s kind, either). In the world of the over-actors, the under-actor is king and DeBenning rules his roost from a godly height. The musical score is also pretty ludicrous: the final pursuit in the factory is scored by some of the cheesiest wah-wah guitar possible, along with a pathetic rip-off of John Williams Jaws theme.

Among the shoddier filmmaking aspects are some genuinely “so-bad-it’s-great” moments. My personal favorite has to be the one where Steve steps on the fisherman’s sandwich. It’s the oddest, most awkward and just plain confounding scene in the entire film (which is saying a lot): for some reason, we get a close-up of a plastic “monster” foot (think Gwar) stomping awkwardly on a sandwich, as if the “actor” accidentally tripped and was immortalized on film. Another forehead-slapper would have to be Judy’s ridiculously horny mother and step-father, who stop for a little hanky-panky and orange picking in the middle of the night and get a nasty Steve-sized surprise: not only are the actors terrible (bested only by their avatar, Alex Rebar) but the situation makes no sense whatsoever.

Far from being a complete waste of film and time, however, The Incredible Melting Man is actually quite charming, believe it or not. It will never be accused of being a good film, mind you, but it’s a pretty great B-movie. The movie is definitely cheesy (and very, very soupy) but it’s also got a surprising amount of pathos wrapped up within the idiocy. Steve West, when he’s not talking, is a tremendously sympathetic creature and not so far removed from Frankenstein’s Monster or The Wolf Man. He’s a normal man, with normal friends and a normal life, who is completely destroyed by forces outside his command. He’s turned into a monster, hunted by the very government who facilitated his transformation and has his waning sense of humanity constantly appealed to by his former best friend. Steve West is no sadistic Freddy or Wishmaster: rather, he’s a pitiable creature who seems to take no joy in his mayhem. There’s one moment that perfectly illustrates the two halves of this character: after he’s turned into a completely horrifying, shambling mess, Steve looks down into a water-filled barrel, right at his reflection. As he stares, a drop of pus, like a tear, falls into the water, rippling the image. Say what you want but it’s a powerful, subtle moment that manages to perfectly blend pathos and ick factor: in other words, it’s a picture-perfect horror movie moment.

Too much can’t be said about Rick Baker’s phenomenal special effects, which really give the film a sense of identity. While the makeup starts off a tad bit rough, we’re in glorious hardcore mode once Steve really gets to rottin’. At first, I was wondering whether the version of the film I recently watched was censored: an early shot of the dead nurse seems surprisingly tame and cut-off and there’s some weird editing going on. Once we get to the shot of the fisherman’s body, however, complete with ripped-open ribcage and a severed head, it’s pretty clear that not much hit the cutting room floor. Truth be told, The Incredible Melting Man, as befits its moniker, gets severely goopy, so much so that it begins to resemble one of those extended Family Guy vomiting scenes. If your stomach isn’t fairly cast-iron, chances are that Steve’s melted-wax look is really going to rumble your guts: make it through enough of the film, however, and it kind of fades into the background, sort of like all the nudity in Showgirls (1995). For my part, some of the most stomach-churning stuff came from scenes like the one where an unsuspecting young girl puts her hand into a nice, sticky bit of Steve slop: the thought, alone, is undeniably gross but the practical effects make it even worse. Ditto for the final melting scene, which would be echoed a decade later in the gross-out classic Street Trash (1987). While Street Trash would plumb it for laughs, The Incredible Melting Man goes straight for the heart-strings, reminding us that the disgusting pile of wet, red something on the ground used to be a pretty average (if terribly hammy) dude.

While The Incredible Melting Man may not have succeeded in adding another indelible villain to the collective conscience, it ended up being a more than worthy B-movie. It’s not hard to imagine couples going to see this at the drive-in, covering their eyes whenever Steve shambles up into the camera-eye. For folks who grew up on this kind of sensational, B-movie fare, The Incredible Melting Man should more than fit the bill for a night of nostalgia. Just be sure to keep this one away from the dinner hour: for once, this is all about truth in advertising.

3/10/14: Once More, with Feeling

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Ambyr Childers, auteur theory, Best of 2013, Bill Sage, cannibalism, cannibals, cinema, family, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, horror films, Jim Mickle, Jorge Michel Grau, Julia Garner, Kelly McGillis, Larry Fessenden, Michael Parks, Movies, Nick Damici, remakes, responsibilities, We Are What We Are

As far as films goes, I have very few hard-and-fast rules although I do have a few: I dislike “MTV-style-editing,” although there’s probably a better way to describe that notion nowadays…I think that character development is a must, even in a Z-grade slasher film…if the subtitled version is available, the dubbed version is persona non grata…gratuitous gore better have a purpose or it better be so over the top that I laugh…and I dislike remakes/re-imaginings/re-dos with a passion. As with anything, these rules were made to be broken but they’ve served me pretty well over the years, nonetheless. Of all of these, however (although the subtitled/dubbed rule is one I rarely violate and then only from necessity), the one that probably sticks with me the most is the one about remakes.

For the most part, I find modern remakes to be pointless, crass money-grabs that are all about the almighty dollar: modern filmmakers don’t remake films because they think they can do them better…they remake films because there’s already a built-in audience, cutting down the need for excessive advertising and (possibly) guaranteeing a big box office take, at least initially. Here’s the funny thing about modern remakes, however: they’re pretty much the ultimate in head-scratching, “who-are-they-trying-to-please?” marketing. In most cases, modern remakes don’t do much more than sub in younger, more attractive casts, polish up the production values and add elements that might appeal to modern viewers (current pop culture references, pop music, nods to current events, etc…). Let’s take the (fairly) recent Platinum Dunes remakes of the slasher chestnut Friday the 13th. If you’re a fan of the gritty, low-budget original film, are you really going to be interested in a big budget, glossy remake? Likewise, if you’re a hip modern kid, are you really going to be interested in a moldy old relic like Friday the 13th when you have everything from The Human Centipede to August Underground to feast your little peepers on? Probably not. These films seem to exist in a no-man’s-land where the only line of reasoning seems to be “This movie once existed and people watched it. If we remake it and release it again, they’ll watch it again.”

That being said…rules are made to be broken. Every great once in a while, a come upon a remake that I actually like. In the rarest of occasions, I can even find myself loving a remake: what horror/genre fan doesn’t absolutely adore John Carpenter’s remake of The Thing? Cronenberg’s The Fly? I found myself really impressed by the recent remake of Maniac and I’ve always preferred the American remake of The Ring to the original Ringu. I even find myself really enjoying Zach Snyder’s remake of Romero’s classic Dawn of the Dead, which is something that approaches heresy in my belief system. Keep in mind, however: this is five films (with another possible five or so to go) out of dozens and dozens of films…possibly more than that. At this point, everything from The Toolbox Murders to Patrick to I Spit on Your Grave and Poltergeist are being remade, often with no more forethought or insight than any other direct-to-video release.

When remakes work (if at all) they work because the filmmakers actually have a vision, rather than a money-making idea. Whether trying to improve on an older, beloved film (Del Toro’s re-imagining of Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark) or taking the original property in a wildly divergent direction (Cronenberg’s The Fly, which resembles the Vincent Price original in name only), successful remakes actually have something to say: they aren’t just empty calories, the cinematic equivalent of Ho-Hos. Jim Mickle’s striking, sobering remake of Jorge Michel Grau’s We Are What We Are manages to take the impressive original to amazing new heights, taking the basic story and twisting and contorting it in fascinating new directions. It’s the best way to approach remaking a film and, in this, Mickle has created one of his best, most enduring works yet.

In a rural America which may be the Ozarks, Oregon, Washington State or right around the corner from the folks in Jug Face, we meet the Parker family: mother Emma (Kassie DePaiva), father Frank (Bill Sage), young son Rory (Jack Gore) and daughters Rose (Julia Garner) and Iris (Ambyr Childers). The Parkers are friendly, if distant, and seem to subsist by renting out their large property to folks in mobile homes (including Larry Fessenden, whose turned these sort of “backwoods” roles into a kind of cottage industry). Times are hard, especially since nearly continuous rain has produced flooding which has forced many of the tenants from their lands. On top of this, Mrs. Parker suddenly grows sick and dies while grocery shopping in town. Aside from cooking, cleaning and tending to the kids, Mrs. Parker was also responsible for acquiring their “meat,” the kind which isn’t available in butcher shops. Now, Rose and Iris must step up and assume their place in a time-honored tradition, a tradition that is necessary for the continued survival of the Parkers but deadly business for anyone around them. As the local doctor (Michael Parks) and Deputy Anders (Wyatt Russell), who’s sweet on Iris, begin to piece everything together, Frank Parker becomes increasingly unstable. Will Rose and Iris be able to hold everything together or will the modern world finally wash them all to oblivion?

From the very first frame of the film, where we watch a leaf fall from a tree before continuing its journey down a river, We Are What We Are exudes a very austere, melancholy atmosphere, giving the film the veneer of a prestige picture that just happens to be about rural cannibals. Imagine a Merchant/Ivory version of The Texas Chain Saw Massacre and you’re in the right ballpark, although the corresponding image is way too flip to do the actual result justice. Plain and simple, We Are What We Are is a beautiful film, gorgeous to look at and filled with the kind of powerful, subtle performances that would draw raves were this any other kind of film. This is a film that deals with big issues (matriarchy vs patriarchy; the loss of traditional ways in the of modernity; the morality of a carnivorous lifestyle; family vs society; the death of a parent/spouse; the Electra complex) but manages to weave them organically into the fabric of the movie, making this the furthest thing from a “message picture,” while being one of the most thoughtful, cerebral genre films in quite some time.

In many ways, We Are What We Are is a companion piece to Alfredson’s Let the Right One In or, perhaps, the aforementioned Jug Face. These are all slow, solemn, character-heavy films that apply their drama and dread in equal measures, letting everything simmer and slow-burn before gradually amping things up to an inevitable fever pitch. We Are What We Are may begin in a quiet, pensive way but it climaxes in a fury of blood, an orgiastic feast that manages to subvert and subsume traditional notions of family all in one big gulp. That the film never loses its footing in between these polar opposites is impressive, but only if you don’t know who’s behind the wheel of this particular big-rig: Jim Mickle.

Mickle has been one of my favorite new directors and one of the shining stars on my Best New Directors list ever since I saw his debut feature, Mulberry St, back in 2006. The film, a gritty yet strangely dreamlike, claustrophobic zombie film that subs in mutant rat-men for the walking dead, was a helluva debut but the follow-up, Stake Land, was the kicker. After one viewing, Stake Land (2010) became my favorite vampire film ever and, to be honest, one of the best films I’ve (still) ever seen. After watching the film more times than I can count, my opinion still stands: Stake Land is one of those rare perfect films, the kind of impossible gem where every element is in complete synchronization. It’s hugely emotional without being manipulative (I still tear up every time I get to the end), full of jaw-dropping fight sequences and deliciously gory practical effects, features a smart, economical script and actually has new, interesting things to say about a very old genre. In short, Stake Land was going to be difficult to equal, impossible to best. While We Are What We Are isn’t better than Stake Land (honestly, I’m not sure that there’s much out there that is better, at least that I’ve seen), it is certainly the film’s equal and yet another feather in Mickle’s already impressive cap. His newest film, Cold in July, has been earning rave reviews on the festival circuit, ensuring that his star is only on the rise.

I went into We Are What We Are expecting a lot, despite the film’s status as a remake, and was not disappointed in the slightest. The film is a complete marvel, the kind of experience that patient genre fans will remember for years to come (possibly the rest of their lives). The movie is filled with what seem to be a million little bright spots, like clouds of fireflies on a summer day: Marge’s vegetarian lasagna; the flashbacks that reminded me of Ravenous (another favorite film); the subtle but strong sense of feminism that informed the film; the terrifyingly tense, almost Hitchcockian dinner scene; the flood that reveals God’s wrath in ways that no tent-revival preacher ever could; another wonderful performance by Fessenden; the revelatory performances by Julia Garner and Ambyr Childers; the ending that inspires hope and fear in equal doses…all of this and so much more.

As a remake, Mickle’s We Are What We Are does everything I want it to do (and more): it actually has a function. As a film, We Are What We Are does so much more. Like Carpenter’s The Thing and Cronenberg’s The Fly, Mickle’s film refuses to rest on the laurels of its predecessor, blazing bold new paths into the unknown. It’s an instant classic, pure and simple, but I really didn’t expect less.