5/4/16: Art Imitating Strife

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Alexandre Desplat, based on a play, Beau Willimon, campaign manager, cheating husbands, cinema, co-writers, dramas, Evan Rachel Wood, extramarital affairs, film reviews, films, George Clooney, Grant Heslov, Gregory Itzin, House of Cards, Jeffrey Wright, Jennifer Ehle, Marisa Tomei, Max Minghella, Michael Mantell, Movies, multiple writers, Paul Giamatti, Phedon Papamichael, Philip Seymour Hoffman, political campain, political scandals, political thriller, Presidential campaign, Ryan Gosling, U.S. politics, writer-director-actor

If you really think about it, apple pie and baseball aren’t the things that most folks would readily associate with the good old U.S. of A…at least, not for the past forty years or so. Truth be told, I’m not sure that either of those oldies-but-goodies would even make the top ten list these days. There is one thing, however, that I’m willing to wager would make just about everyone’s list, one particular aspect of this country that has come to define us for the past few decades more than any others: we are a nation living under the shadow of an absolutely insatiable political machine.

This is not, of course, to make the case for the United States being the most politically savvy country on this particular interstellar ball of rock, water and gas. Not at all. Rather, we are a country completely obsessed with the notion of politics not as a great unifier but as the ultimate divider. Americans have developed an “us against them” mentality that has turned political parties into virtual religions, each with their own zealous acolytes dedicated to spreading the “good word” and stomping out all rivals.  Politics and political campaigning have become such a part of our cultural DNA that they no longer have their own “seasons”: we seem to be inundated with political information, via the 24-hour-news-cycle, on a daily basis. Nowadays, we don’t have presidential election campaigns every four years: we have one, constant, political campaign that’s been running non-stop since the early ’80s.

As we find ourselves in the midst of one of the nastiest, most contentious, presidential campaigns that the country has ever known (by comparison, the George W. era almost seems quaint), it’s hard to turn in any particular direction without getting smacked in the face with some sort of hard-line rhetoric, political scandal or screaming pundit. As with any big societal issue, however, one expects pop culture to spring back with its own rejoinder, add its voice to the conversation. Where, then, are the big political films about this chaotic era? Where is the multiplex fare that makes voters go “hmm”?

Turns out, one of the better, more incisive and cutting films about this current mess we call American political campaigning already came out…back in 2011. With the foresight of a modern-day Nostradamus, House of Cards creator Beau Willimon (who had extensive experience working on Democratic political campaigns, including Howard Dean’s 2004 run for the White House) wrote a play, back in 2008, entitled Farragut North. Several years down the road, Farragut North would be adapted by Willimon and co-writer/director George Clooney as The Ides of March (2011). In the process, they would craft a political thriller that manages to be more prescient five years down the line than it was at the time it was actually released. How’s that for a neat card trick?

Governor Mike Morris (George Clooney) is the kind of golden-boy politician who says all the right things, flashes a million-dollar-grin at the plebes and seems as far-removed from most career scumbags as humanly possible. He comes across as a pie-in-the-sky idealist (shades of ol’ Bernie) but that’s just the kind of difference that’s currently setting him up as the Democratic front-runner for the current primary season. You see, Morris’ only serious challenger, Senator Pullman (Michael Mantell), is one of those “business-as-usual” types (shades of ol’ Hillary) and it seems that the Democratic voter base is primed for a system overhaul. Public popularity aside, however, DNC management just doesn’t see the idealistic Morris as a viable alternative against whatever Republican gets the nomination: they’re rather go with the tried and tested Pullman rather than easy-target Morris (sound familiar?).

Despite his own party’s power games, however, Gov. Morris seems to be fairly well-regarded by all. Perhaps no one person idolizes him more, however, than his second-in-command staffer, Stephen Meyers (Ryan Gosling). To Stephen, Morris isn’t just his latest employer: he’s a force for good, an agent of change that will wipe all the bullshit away and start us out with a clean slate. Paul (the late Philip Seymour Hoffman) might be Morris’ campaign manager but no one is more of a zealous booster than ruthlessly loyal Stephen.

After a series of big wins (most instigated by Stephen’s sly political maneuvering and pitbull-with-lockjaw tenacity), Morris is looking increasingly like the shoe-in. When a misguided attempt to reach out to another senator (Jeffrey Wright) with a large delegate base ends up producing the exact opposite result, however, Stephen and Paul have to go into crisis-control mode. Senator Pullman’s sleazy campaign manager, Tom Duffy (Paul Giamatti), makes overtures towards Stephen once it seems that the Morris campaign boat is headed straight for an iceberg: imagine a large rock sailing towards a pristine, crystal-clear picture window and you have the basic idea.

Besieged by all sides, both “friend” and “foe,” Stephen only has one clear compass left: his unwavering belief in and support of Morris and his campaign. When Stephen finds out something scandalous about Morris, however, something that threatens to tank his worship of the man in an instant, his whole world threatens to crumble around him. Will Stephen be able to separate the man from the message or is this just cosmic proof that every politician, at heart, is really a self-serving scumbag?

Right off the bat, The Ides of March should be instantly familiar to anyone who’s happened to catch any of Willimon’s House of Cards series. In tone, style, intent and message, there’s a whole lot of crossover here: hell, they even both deal with politics as filtered through the Democratic Party, a further similarity that’s too glaring to miss. Where House of Cards often falls into the trap of upping the melodrama to almost Shakespearian levels, however, The Ides of March is consistently more grounded and level-headed.

Like House of Cards, The Ides of March is a brisk, busy piece of work, stuffed to the brim with political minutae, realistic Machiavellian scheming and plenty of sturdy, if not overly showy, performances. There’s a sense of verisimilitude here that certainly speaks to Willimon’s extensive political background: like the best police or medical procedurals, you get the idea that Willimon knows what he’s talking about and that kind of trust goes a long way towards keeping you in the film’s clutches.

As usual, Clooney is a thoroughly charming, disarming presence: appropriately serious and imminently “presidential,” yet possessed of the ability to slip effortlessly into cold, reptilian evil, it’s a role that fits his style to a tee. For his part, Gosling does what he does best: cold, unemotional detachment broken, ever so often, by jagged spikes of pure, steely focus. While Gosling’s style tends to dampen nearly all of his big emotional moments (like it usually does), his performance is consistent, strong and essential to the film’s inner dynamic.

On the support side, we get something of a smorgasbord of small, indelible performances. Marisa Tomei is pitch-perfect as the journalist who considers loyalty to be a four-letter word. Hoffman and Giamatti don’t do much that we haven’t seen before but each actor manages to imbue a role that could’ve been nothing more than plot device with an underlying sense of sadness that’s both striking and subtle. Evan Rachel Wood’s Molly might be a bit of a thankless character (as are most of the female characters that aren’t played by Tomei, to be honest) but she brings a perfect blend of naivety and ambition to the role that helps to balance out the almost feral machinations of everyone around her.

In many ways, The Ides of March strikes me as a much better version of another recent political thriller, Austin Stark’s The Runner (2015). Where The Runner tended to wallow in the worst aspects of shows like House of Cards and Boss, however, The Ides of March takes a much calmer, more nuanced approach. It’s the difference between fire and ice, between a long, overwrought speech and a quick, cutting glance.

From a film-making perspective, The Ides of March is as sturdy as its performances. The script is strong, Clooney’s direction is typically self-assured and the film has a rich, burnished quality, thanks to cinematographer Phedon Papamichael’s stellar camerawork. If the score can, at times, get a little overblown (this is Alexandre Desplat, after all), it just as often falls away to complete silence, an impressive detail in a cinematic world where leading musical cues are as common-place as product placement. The name of the game here is “subtlety”: Clooney and Willimon aren’t as interested in spoon-feeding you the info as they are in handing you a fork and telling you to dig in.

Thematically, there’s a lot to process here but the basic take-away is actually pretty simple: be careful who you choose to elevate to godhood. No human is infallible and people, by their very nature, will let you down. Fall in love with a politician’s policies, with their strategies and their plans for the future. Believe wholeheartedly in the message but be very, very careful about the messenger. As the old saying goes, “absolute power corrupts absolutely.” The unspoken notion, of course, is that any and all power will corrupt, to some extent. As poor Stephen finds out, we’re all only human, when all is said and done, and humans have been doing some pretty terrible things ever since we climbed out of the primordial ooze. Spend a day watching campaign ads and you’ll realize that we’re still up to the same tricks.

11/11/15 (Part Two): Mr. Cage Goes to Washington

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Austin Stark, based on true events, BP, Bryan Batt, cheating husbands, Christopher Berry, Ciera Payton, cinema, Connie Nielsen, crooked politicians, directorial debut, extramarital affairs, film reviews, films, husband-wife relationship, Kerry Cahill, Movies, Nicholas Cage, oil spills, Peter Fonda, Sarah Paulson, set in 2010, sex scandals, The Runner, Wendell Pierce, writer-director

Is the phrase “honest, self-effacing politician” equitable to “jumbo shrimp” or “deafening silence”? Is it actually possible for someone who makes their living brokering deals, securing power structures, rewarding patronage and constantly campaigning to do what they’ve been elected to do and serve the average, every-day citizenry? Sure, there are plenty of examples of good, necessary actions taken by politicians stretching all the way back to the dawn of our political system: the concept of absolute evil is convenient for pop culture and entertainment but rarely plays out that way in real life. Even the very worst, most self-serving and vilely corrupt glad-hander out there is still capable of doing good…provided, of course, that it also benefits their bottom line.

Is there really such a thing as an incorruptible, sincere and tireless proponent for the average tax-payer, however? Are there really politicians who see their choice of career as a personal calling and chance for advocacy rather than a convenient way to achieve power, influence and wealth? The answer, at least based on writer-director Austin Stark’s The Runner (2015), is a resounding, firm “yes and no.”

We begin with Rep. Colin Pryce (Nicolas Cage), from Louisiana, and his passionate, fiery condemnation of “Big Oil” in the aftermath of the BP oil spill of 2010. There’s definitely a lot of Mr. Deeds in Pryce, especially as portrayed by Cage, whose intense earnestness has been a sort of cottage industry for the past few decades. There’s no denying that Pryce wants the best for the fishermen and blue-collar workers that compromise the electorate in his predominately African-American precinct: his speeches before the House and to the locals bespeak commitment and conviction far more than carefully planned rhetoric.

While Pryce might have all the best intentions as a political representative, however, it turns out that his personal life is much more of a shambles. The son of an alcoholic, philandering, former mayor who was known as a public mess as much as a civil rights pioneer (Peter Fonda, doing solid support work), Pryce shares a few too many genes with his daddy for comfort: chief being, of course, that he’s currently shtupping Lucy (Ciera Payton), the wife of one of the local fishermen that he’s supposed to be advocating for. Doh! Even better, Pryce is also married (Connie Nielsen, essentially reprising her role from the TV show Boss), which means that the whole situation is a powder-keg just waiting for an appropriate match.

That match ends up coming in the form of one whopper of a political scandal, the fall-out of which promises to thoroughly thrash whatever remains of Pryce’s career. As Pryce scurries around, attempting whatever measure of damage control he can, he finds that his proposed good deeds have become eclipsed by the mountain of negative press that surrounds him. Once “Big Oil” comes sniffing around the mortally-wounded Pryce, will he be able to hold on to what little values he has left or will he sell out the people who believe in him (along with his own soul) in order for one, last desperate chance to stay in the game?

Earnest, focused, deadly serious and, unfortunately, more than a little dull, Stark’s directorial debut (after serving as a producer for several years) doesn’t make a lot of obvious mistakes but also never rises above anything more than a passable time-waster. The story’s beats are overly familiar, by this point, much more capably echoed in TV shows like House of Cards or the aforementioned Boss: in fact, there were so many points during the film’s 90-minute run-time that directly reminded me of not only House of Card’s plot points but also its characters, cinematography and sound design that the film often felt like some sort of indirect homage to the series.

While the infidelity angle comes across as over-heated and melodramatic (Stark lacks the finesse to paint these scenes with anything less than the broadest brush strokes), the political machinations pack a little more punch, even if they’re given rather short shrift overall. Mad Men’s Bryan Batt turns in a great performance as a gently slimy BP executive whose attempts to court Pryce have the subtlety that too much of the rest of the film lacks.

It’s this schism, in the end, that probably does more to harm The Runner than any of the myriad minor issues that plague it: by splitting the focus between the scandal and the political maneuvering, neither aspect is explored to its fullest potential. There are some nice bits involving the apple not falling far from the tree, as far as Fonda’s character is concerned, and some generic “dark night of the soul” stuff from Cage (who pretty much specializes in that) but none of its interesting or novel enough to keep audience attention from wavering.

Ultimately, that’s kind of a shame: buried beneath the stereotypical sex scandal aspect, it’s clear that Stark’s film does, indeed, have something to say. While the story of a well-intentioned, but flawed, politician attempting to atone for his past transgressions is certainly nothing new under the cinematic sun, it’s not like that particular tale ever goes out of fashion, especially during our current political climate.

Craftwise, The Runner does what it needs to do in fairly unspectacular fashion: it looks and sounds fine and the large cast turns out a collection of performances that run the gamut from “getting the job done” (Nielsen, Payton, Wendell Pierce) to “fully invested” (Cage, Fonda, Batt, American Horror Story’s Sarah Paulson). The biggest problem, at the end, is that the whole thing is so predictable that it never subverts, tweaks or upends our expectations: if you’ve seen one film like The Runner you have, quite probably, seen much of what’s being offered here. Even Cage, widely recognized as the “wild card” of mainstream film, turns in the kind of subdued, middle-of-the-road performance that will, undoubtedly, remind one of at least half-a-dozen other, similar performances.

With little individual identity, The Runner manages to go the distance, yet never separates itself from the rest of the pack. We might remember the folks who are the first to cross the finish line…hell, we’ll probably remember the folks who are the last to cross it, too. All the other ones clustered in the middle, however? Just like in real life, it’s kind of hard to tell them apart.

6/28/15: Livin’ the Life

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based on a book, caper films, Charlie Tahan, cheating husbands, cinema, Clea Lewis, crime film, Daniel Schechter, dark comedies, double-crosses, Elmore Leonard, Eric Alan Edwards, film reviews, films, heist films, held for ransom, husband-wife relationship, Isla Fisher, Jennifer Aniston, John Hawkes, Kevin Corrigan, kidnapped wife, kidnapping, Life of Crime, literary adaptation, Mark Boone Junior, Mickey Dawson, mistress, Movies, partners in crime, ransoms, Supporting Characters, The Newton Brothers, The Switch, Tim Robbins, Will Forte, writer-director-editor, Yasiin Bey

A couple of criminals who don’t quite trust each other…a wealthy husband who doesn’t exactly want his kidnapped wife back…a kidnapped wife who doesn’t really want to go home…a Nazi-obsessed associate who’s not completely sane…a love-struck friend who’s almost an idiot…a conniving mistress who’s everything but an idiot…1970s Detroit…sounds like quite the predicament, eh? In the wrong hands, this many disparate elements and plot threads would be an easy recipe for disaster: good thing that all of the above was the handiwork of one Elmore Leonard, the patron saint of quirky crime fiction for over 50 years.

With a battalion of classics under his belt, Leonard’s novels have been a go-to for filmmakers for some time: indeed, one need only look at the tremendous box-office success of adaptations like Get Shorty (1995), Jackie Brown (1997) and Out of Sight (1998) to see what a perfect fit Leonard’s hardboiled, if tongue-in-cheek, prose and instantly memorable characters are for the silver screen. The latest Leonard adaptation, based on his 1978 novel The Switch, is writer-director Daniel Schechter’s Life of Crime (2013). Thanks to a pitch-perfect cast, a great script, exceptional production values and one of those patented twisty-turny Leonard plots, Life of Crime sits comfortably next to the aforementioned classics, proving that good writing never goes out of style.

Louis (John Hawkes) and Ordell (Yassin Bey, formerly known as Mos Def), a couple of small-time crooks plying their trade on the streets of late-’70s Detroit, think they’ve stumbled upon the perfect crime: they’re going to kidnap Mickey Dawson (Jennifer Aniston), the trophy wife of notorious drunk/golfer/real estate baron Frank Dawson (Tim Robbins) and hold her for a $1 million ransom. With the assistance of their Nazi-obsessed associate, Richard (Sons of Anarchy’s Mark Boone Junior), the pair pull off the kidnapping without a hitch, spiriting their captive away to Richard’s “safe house.”

The problem, of course, is that Frank is a real asshole: he’s currently canoodling with his mistress, Melanie (Isla Fisher), in the Bahamas, and could really give two shits about his wife’s situation. Even worse, he’s actually planning to divorce Mickey and marry Melanie: as such, Frank and Melanie decide to call Louis and Ordell’s “bluff” and refuse to pay for Mickey’s safe return. This, obviously, isn’t quite what they had in mind: after all, what use is a kidnappee if no one wants to pay for said person?

As Louis and Ordell try to figure a way out of their situation, complications arise exponentially. Creepy Richard develops an unhealthy interest in Mickey (he’s particularly fond of peeping on her via numerous hidden holes throughout his house), Frank and Mickey’s family friend, Marshall (Will Forte), is secretly in love with Mickey, blundering his way into the sticky situation and Melanie is working some angles on her own, constantly keeping an eye on the ultimate prize of lifelong financial security. To top it all off, Louis finds himself developing feelings for Mickey, who proves herself to be made of much steelier stuff than all of them put together. Will Louis and Ordell get their “just rewards?” Will Frank get the comeuppance that he so richly deserves? Will poor, pathetic Marshall ever get a clue? As our hardy group of oddballs knows, living a life of crime may not be easy but it sure as hell ain’t dull!

There are a lot of moving pieces to this particular game and, to Schechter’s immense credit, he manages to make the whole thing look rather easy. Working from his own script (he also edited the movie), Schechter proves a steady hand with not only the acting and dialogue (paramount to any Elmore Leonard adaptation) but also the film’s numerous setpieces: the opening scene where Ordell runs over a thug with his van, the kidnapping and Richard’s SWAT team stand-off are all top-notch action scenes, executed with a maximum of efficiency and a minimum of flashy nonsense. One of the film’s best moments is the fist-pumping scene where Marshall escapes from Richard, set to the tune of “Don’t Pull Your Love”: it’s a brilliantly executed, fun and endlessly thrilling scene, recalling nothing so much as the giddy heights of Tarantino’s trash-culture aesthetic.

Production-wise, the film looks and sounds fantastic: cinematographer Eric Alan Edwards gives everything a crisp, colorful burnish and the ’70s-era mis-en-scene is effortless, as far from gimmicky as a period piece can get. The score, courtesy of the Newton Brothers (who also did the score for Oculus (2013)) is equally great, accentuating the action scenes while keeping us right in the funky, swaggering heart of the 1978 Motor City.

As good as everything looks and sounds, however, the acting is what really vaults this particular production over the top. To put it bluntly: there isn’t a bad apple in the whole batch. Hawkes and Bey are absolutely fantastic as the untrustworthy partners, so symbiotic in their performances that they come across as a well-oiled, decades-in-the-making cinematic team. Aniston is extraordinary as the kidnapped wife, finding not only the vulnerability but the inherent strength of her character: the scene where she pokes a lit cigarette into Richard’s peeping eye isn’t just an awesome moment (which it certainly is) but it’s a perfect representation of Mickey’s growth as a character. Robbins and Fisher are equally great as the slimy philanderers, with Fisher bringing a miniature universe of subtle tics, quirks and facial expressions to her performance: it’s a role that could have been utterly thankless but, in Fisher’s hands, becomes something much more interesting.

On the supporting side, Boone Junior is a revelation as the kooky supremacist, finding the perfect balance between empty-headed animalism and a slightly sympathetic doofus: it’s nothing whatsoever like his role in Sons of Anarchy and makes me wish more filmmakers utilized him in better roles. Forte is typically great as the simpering, slightly confused friend who holds an unrequited torch for Mickey, showing that he slips into dramatic roles with the same ease that he does comedic ones. And, of course, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that one of my all-time favorite actors, Kevin Corrigan, even gets a bit part as a put-upon police detective: he may not get much screentime but he hits an absolute home-run with what he gets.

All in all, I was massively impressed with Schechter’s version of this particular Leonard story: not only does he hit all the right beats and tones (the film is actually much more serious than it at first seems, winding up in the same general tonal area as Tarantino’s Jackie Brown, rather than Sonnenfeld’s Get Shorty) but he really makes the material his own, no small feat when we’re talking about Leonard. When the film wants to make you laugh, it has no problem doing so: the interactions between Ordell, Louis and Richard are absolutely priceless, culminating in the fantastic scene where Mickey finally gets a wide-eyed look at Richard’s assorted Nazi paraphernalia, to which Louis deadpans, “What’s the matter: don’t you like history?” When the film wants to thrill you and keep you on the edge of your seat, it has no problem doing that, either: the actual kidnapping scene is one of the best I’ve seen in recent years.

As a filmmaker, Schechter has been on my radar ever since his low-key, clever treatise on film editors, Supporting Characters (2012), first crossed my path some years ago. At that time, the writer-director-editor definitely seemed like someone to keep an eye on: his latest film only confirms my original belief. Here’s to hoping that Daniel Schechter finally earns a spot at the Hollywood “big kids table”: in an age where multiplex action films are big, loud and dumb, Schechter’s brand of subtle, smart thrills sounds like the perfect antidote. At the very least, someone needs to get him funds for another Leonard adaptation: when the iron is this hot, you damn well better keep striking.

6/8/15 (Part One): What Would You Do For the Money, Honey?

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13 Sins, Amanda Fuller, Andrew Wheeler, Autopsy, bets, Brody Gusar, Cheap Thrills, cheating husbands, cinema, co-writers, dark comedies, dark films, David Chirchirillo, David Koechner, desperate times, desperation, directorial debut, disturbing films, dramas, drug abuse, E.L. Katz, Ethan Embry, film reviews, films, Funny Games, greed, Home Sick, husband-wife relationship, infidelity, jealousy, Laura Covelli, Mads Heldtberg, money problems, moral dilemmas, Movies, multiple cinematographers, multiple writers, old friends, Pat Healy, Pop Skull, Sara Paxton, Sebastian Wintero Hansen, self-mutilation, The ABCs of Death 2, thrillers, Trent Haaga, violent films, wagers, What Fun We Were Having, Would You Rather

There’s nothing quite like pure, undiluted desperation to help someone solidify their personal beliefs. Sure, you might fancy yourself a pacifist, a vegan, a Creationist, an atheist, a philanthropist, an activist or just a plain, old nice person. When the chips are really down, however, and you have a gun to your head (either literally or figuratively), how many of those deeply held beliefs will actually outlast the most primal emotion of them all: desperate need? If it came down to saving yourself and/or your loved ones, I’d wager to say that the staunchest vegetarian could be made to choke down a steak, the most honest among us could be compelled to lie their asses off and the most pie-in-the-sky do-gooder could, in fact, be persuaded to become an absolute monster.

In an age where income inequity is at an all-time high, the gaping abyss between the “haves” and the “have-nots” has never been wider or deeper. As conspicuous consumption approaches a level not seen since the vaunted ’80s (Gordon Gekko would absolutely rule the 2010s) and the middle-class continues to shrink into oblivion, American society begins, more and more, to resemble the grotesque, self-cannibalistic plutocracy that Brian Yuzna introduced us to in Society (1989). Eat the rich? Not if they eat you first, baby!

E.L. Katz’s directorial debut, Cheap Thrills (2013), takes these twin notions (the desperation of the poor and the mercenary callousness of the ultra-rich) and mashes them expertly together, coming up with a film that’s equal parts pitch-black comedy, endurance match and twisted social commentary. In many ways, Katz’s film makes an interesting companion piece to Michael Haneke’s equally bleak Funny Games (1997), showcasing a world where unrelenting cruelty is the norm and any sense of “humanity” is snuffed out quicker than a candle in a hurricane. While it’s never really a “fun” ride, per se, Cheap Thrills is a masterful film, one of the smartest, most unpleasant movies to stick in our craws in a long, long time.

Our hapless, downtrodden “hero” is Craig Daniels (Pat Healy), a former hot-shot writer who now toils away in a garage, his ability to provide for his wife, Audrey (Amanda Fuller), and new baby slipping away more and more each day. When Craig gets the double-whammy of being laid off and receiving an eviction notice on the same day, he decides to throw the towel in and head to the local bar rather than have an extremely unpleasant conversation with his loving wife. Craig’s not a bad guy, he’s just completely overwhelmed: with his glasses, thinning hair and nerdy demeanor, there’s nothing about him that indicates he can fight his way out of a paper sack, much less a crippling financial crisis.

While drowning his sorrows, Craig happens to bump into an old high school buddy, Vince (Ethan Embry). Like Craig, Vince has also fallen on hard times but he’s an altogether more carnivorous beast than his former friend is: he’s been to prison, has the kind of nervous, suspicious glare that’s meant to keep the world at arm’s length and currently makes ends meet as a strong-arm debt collector. He once broke a guy’s arm for $80, while the guy’s young daughter watched…in other words, Vince does not give one single, flying fuck about the rest of the world. But, yeah: it’s always good to see old friends, right?

As the pair continue to, awkwardly, reconnect, they happen to come into the orbit of another couple of bar patrons, the incredibly conspicuous Colin (David Koechner) and his impossibly bored wife, Violet (Sara Paxton). It’s Violet’s birthday, according to Colin, and the self-proclaimed ultra-rich husband (he brags about a $10K bottle of tequila sitting in his luxurious mansion, for starters) wants to give her an ultra-memorable night.

To that end, Colin begins offering Craig and Vince money for performing a series of “tasks” that range from being the first to drink a shot ($50) to slapping a stripper’s ass ($200) to punching a massive, meat-head bouncer right in the nose ($500). Through it all, Vince is as eager as can be, heartily leaping into whatever Colin commands, regardless of the danger, illegality, etc…as long as he doesn’t have to “suck Craig’s dick,” Vince is down for whatever the night entails, especially once Colin busts out the Peruvian marching powder. Craig, on the other hand, is much less enthusiastic: he may be desperate but he’s also a happily married man and a pretty decent guy…snorting coke, hanging out at strip clubs and getting into brawls really isn’t his thing.

When the party moves to Colin and Violet’s mansion, however, the whole thing begins to tilt on its axis. Vince becomes increasingly excitable and violent, Colin’s “tasks” become increasingly dark (self-mutilation is but one of the party favors) and Violet seems to be throwing herself at Craig with the kind of zeal normally reserved for hawks hunting squirrels. Despite desperately needing the proffered cash in order to support his family, Craig faces one moral quandary after another. Will he be forced to choose between his basic humanity or his family’s needs, making the terrible decision to either be a bad person or a bad husband/father? Or, in the end, will he be turned into the living equivalent of a child’s toy, bent and abused due to the capricious desires of a mysterious, all-powerful “benefactor”? They may be cheap thrills but, in the end, Craig and Vince might just end up paying the highest price of all.

Similar to the recent upswing in doppelgänger films, the current trend definitely seems to favor movies in which normally good, deserving members of the middle-lower class are forced to do terrible things in order to secure financial stability, usually at the urging of the filthy rich. Of these films, three managed to really catch my eye: Daniel Stamm’s 13 Sins (2014), David Guy Levy’s Would You Rather (2014) and E.L. Katz’s Cheap Thrills. While 13 Sins was a blackly-comic geekfest that tended to accentuate the numerous outrageous setpieces, Would You Rather was an altogether more serious affair, albeit one tempered by the inherent bat-shittery that is the incomparable Jeffrey Combs. Unlike the colorful insanity of Stamm’s film, Levy’s tense thriller focused more on physical and psychological torture, making it the much more relentless, if repetitious, of the two.

Katz’s Cheap Thrills splits the difference and ends up the strongest of the three, thanks in no small part to the excellent performances and a truly twisted script (courtesy of Troma’s Trent Haaga and David Chirchirillo, who served as a PA on Haag’s equally twisted Chop (2011)). While the film does become a bit predictable towards the end (if you’ve seen one of these films, you have a pretty good idea of how most of them end), there are still plenty of surprises and left-field revelations. To be honest, I would have expected nothing less from the demented scribe behind The Toxic Avenger IV (2000) and the dreamy, if no less disturbed, Deadgirl (2008).

Acting-wise, the film is grounded by its four leads, each of whom pulls an equal share of the weight. Healy, no stranger to genre fans thanks to performances in everything from Magnolia (1999) to The Innkeepers (2011) to Starry Eyes (2014) is fantastically balanced as the hapless Craig. In order for the film to work, we have to be 100% on Craig’s side, even as the situation gradually degrades from “awkward” to “awful”: if we stop supporting him too early, we lose any moral compass that the film might possess. It’s to Healy’s immense credit that we always buy what Craig is selling: this isn’t just an effortless performance, this is an actor actually “becoming” their character and, as always, it’s a real treat to watch. Suffice to say that once Healy really gets to cut loose, in the film’s final third, it’s the absolute best release to the built-up tension possible.

As Craig’s foil, Vince could have been one of those eternally reprehensible characters who practically demands a comeuppance: think of the hateful jock assholes who are always first on the firing line in any good slasher. Thanks to Embry’s all-in performance, however, Vince comes across as much more complex and fully rounded than he might have seemed on paper. Makes no bones about it: Vince isn’t anyone’s definition of a “nice guy.” Like Craig, however, he is a pathetically desperate individual and, agree with his tactics or not, it’s hard for us to not, at the very least, empathize with (some of) his choices. Vince is a battered, broken person and he holds on to only truism, clutching it as tight as possible: money makes the world run and if you don’t have any, you just don’t exist. Embry, who was so good in the recent Late Phases (2013), has experienced the same kind of genre career resurgence that Elijah Wood has: let’s hope he keeps striking while the iron is sizzling.

Meanwhile, Sara Paxton (who also did time with Healy in Ti West’s The Innkeepers) and David Koechner (who is, perhaps, the living embodiment of “Oh, hey: that guy!) are pitch-perfect as the jaded, sinister rich couple. While Paxton spends much of the film staring at her smart phone with enough ennui to choke Sofia Coppola, she’s also responsible for some of the film’s most unsubtle, uncomfortable scenes. Her timing is perfect: the part where she blandly asks Craig if he wants her to email him photos of the night is superb, as is the one where she nonchalantly suggests that fucking her will, in fact, make him feel better. Although she never gets as much to do as Koechner, Paxton is a vital component to everything and her interplay with her on-screen husband is pretty flawless.

For his part, Koechner balances the smarmy and sinister sides of Colin with uncanny ease: from scene to scene, it’s all but impossible to predict which way his temperament will go, which produces an absolutely essential sense of sustained tension. Colin is a filthy rich vulgarian, unlike Comb’s refined aristocrat from Would You Rather: he’s the living embodiment of the trashy “nouveau riche,” the start-up millionaire who makes up for lost time by throwing money at anything that moves. Alternately goofy, charismatic, slovenly and whip-smart, Colin is a helluva character and Koechner brings him to brilliant, roaring life.

From beginning to end, Cheap Thrills is exceptionally well-made: Andrew Wheeler and Sebastian Wintero Hansen’s cinematography is consistently warm and well-composed, while Mads Heldtberg, who also did the flat-out excellent score for You’re Next (2011), manages to avoid telegraphing anything…no stingers or musical jump scares here, folks. Throughout it all, Katz displays an absolute deft touch, whether it’s through his ability to draw out the tension, the exacting interplay of the performers or the way in which he makes the most of claustrophobic locations like Colin and Violet’s living room. Most importantly, Katz is able to execute all of the film’s major setpieces (none of which I would dream of spoiling) without a hitch: like puppets on a string, Katz hauls us from one shocker to the next.

While there’s a lot to love in Cheap Thrills, the film is, undoubtedly, a pretty nasty piece of work: emotionally similar to the aforementioned Funny Games, Cheap Thrills couches its essential nihilism in some fancy duds but it’s still nihilism, none the less. I’m willing to wager that many folks (the same folks who had similar issues with 13 Sins and Would You Rather, naturally) will find this proximity to utter desperation to be both wearying and the dictionary definition of a “bummer.” For those who either find themselves slipping through the cracks or know someone who has, however, Cheap Thrills might just be one of the more perfect depictions of our modern malaise.

At the end of the day, I’m sure it would comfort us all to know that we could, heartily and without reservation, tell people like Colin and Violet to take their money and shove it where the sun will never shine. The true horror of Cheap Thrills, of course, is that none of us will ever really be sure until we actually have to make that choice. At the end of the day, Katz’s film asks a very simple question: what would you do for the money, honey? In our brave new world, you might not like the answer.

5/22/15: Doin’ It For the Kids

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7th Floor, Abel Dolz Doval, Adrian Garcia Bogliano, Alfred Hitchcock, alternate title, Argentinian film, Belén Rueda, Buenos Aires, Charo Dolz Doval, cheating husbands, cinema, custody issues, divorced parents, film reviews, films, foreign films, Guillermo Arengo, husband-wife relationship, infidelity, Jorge D'Elía, kids in peril, Lucas Nolla, Lucio Bonelli, Luis Ziembrowski, missing children, Movies, mysteries, Osvaldo Santoro, parent-child relationships, Patxi Amezcua, Ricardo Darín, Septimo, set in Argentina, Spurloos, suspense, The Lady Vanishes, The Vanishing, thrillers, twist ending, writer-director

For parents of young children, there can’t be many more terrifying nightmares than having them vanish, seemingly without a trace. Despite how careful and attentive parents might be, they’re not omniscient deities: even the best parents can let their attention stray for a moment, become complacent with friendly surroundings, take their eyes off their precious charges for the barest of moments. As we find out all too frequently these days, it doesn’t take more than a moment (sometimes only a few seconds) for tragedy to strike.

Argentinian writer-director Patxi Amezcua’s Septimo (2013) deals with just this parental nightmare and, for over half its 88 minute running-time, it’s quite the razor-sharp, white knuckle thriller. Coming off as a grim combination of Hitchcock’s classic The Lady Vanishes (1938) and George Sluzier’s Spurloos (The Vanishing) (1988), Amezcua puts his characters (and his audience) through the wringer, giving us a front-row seat to the mounting terror that an estranged husband and wife feel as they desperately search for their missing children. Once the mystery comes into sharper focus, however, the film loses much of its inherent tension, playing out towards a rather predictable ending, right up to the fourth act “twist.” At the end of the day, however, half a Hitchcock ain’t too shabby.

When we first meet newly divorced criminal lawyer, Sebastian (Ricardo Darín), it’s pretty obvious that the guy is a dick: we watch him shrug off his anxious sister’s concerns about her potentially abusive ex and see him rage against the “old lady” who keeps parking in his designated spot at his apartment building. After the kindly super, Miguel (Luis Ziembrowski), explains that the old lady is almost blind, Sebastian snorts and replies that he’ll happily have her towed, anyway: if she can’t see, sell the damn car. George Bailey, he’s most certainly not.

Once Sebastian gets up to his seventh floor apartment (hence the film’s Spanish title, as well as its alternate title, 7th Floor), we meet his adorable kids, Luna (Charo Dolz Doval) and Luca (Abel Dolz Doval), as well as his put-upon ex-wife, Delia (Belén Rueda). There’s still lots of simmering tension in the relationship, mostly due to the fact that Sebastian is a pompous ass who’s constantly running late, although more for the fact that he steadfastly refuses to sign the paperwork that will allow Delia to move herself and the kids to Spain (they all currently reside in Buenos Aires), so that she can take care of her ailing father. Sebastian is, above all else, a deeply selfish man, however, and he has no intention of making anything easy for his ex.

On the day of a particularly high-profile case, however, Sebastian’s life hits a bit of a speed-bump. Humoring his children, the lawyer lets them race down the stairs while he takes the elevator, the exact same “game” that Delia has previously complained about being “too dangerous.” Beating them to the lobby, Sebastian waits around until he gets a troublesome notion: the kids aren’t coming down. From this point, Luna and Luca’s father flies into a mad frenzy of activity, frantically searching his apartment building for any sign of his kids, all while trying to avoid alerting Delia to the present crisis. Enlisting a resident police office, Rosales (Osvaldo Santoro), for help, Sebastian questions his neighbors, many of whom seem to be decidedly odd, suspicious people. As the clock continues to tick down, the obnoxious lawyer must learn to rely on the help of others, even as he seeks to unravel the mystery of his kids’ disappearance. Is this related to his high-profile case? Does Rosales know more than he’s letting on? And, most importantly: will Sebastian and Delia ever see their children again?

Up until the midpoint revelation, Septimo is an endlessly tense, nail-biting bit of cinema, easily comparable to the work of fellow Argentinian Adrián García Bogliano (there are bits and pieces of his Cold Sweat (2010) and Penumbra (2011) littered through Septimo’s DNA). The acting is uniformly solid, with Darín and Rueda being easy standouts as the parents. There’s a real art-form to playing an asshole character (too much on either side and the character becomes either completely unbearable or thoroughly unrealistic) and Darín hits the bulls-eye with what seems to be studied ease. It’s all in the margins for the character: we get enough casual exposition to establish Sebastian’s more douche-bag tendencies (his infidelity with Delia’s best friend, his casually dismissive interactions with anyone “below” his station) but he fills in the spaces with some truly subtle mannerisms that are almost subliminal. We can see that Sebastian is an asshole but, more importantly, we can feel that he’s an asshole: as far as I’m concerned, that’s great characterization, right there.

For her part, Rueda’s Delia is a massively complex character, made more so by the fact that we spend so little time with her compared to Sebastian: like Sebastian, we pick up much of our impressions of her from the margins, with the added benefit of the surprise “revelations” of the mystery format. There’s a subtle sense of downplaying that really works with Rueda’s performance: she dials it back enough that, when Delia needs to let loose, her outbursts actually come with a little punch. Call it the benefit of knowing when to turn the knobs to 11 and when to exercise a little restraint.

The rest of the cast does equally admirable work, albeit in much smaller doses. Osvaldo Santoro is extremely charismatic as the gruff, no-nonsense police officer, while Luis Ziembrowski manages to make the character of the landlord seem kindly, sympathetic and a tad bit sinister. Perhaps most impressively, the Dovals do fantastic work as the children, Luna and Luca. Oftentimes, child performers are the weak link in any production: it pretty much comes with the territory. In this case, however, Abel and Charo hit every single required beat, managing to walk a tight line between adorable urchins and actual flesh-and-blood people.

If I have any real complaints with Septimo, they lie more with what is being expressed than how it’s being expressed (although I’ll freely admit that the midpoint resolution and resulting “twist” ending did nothing for me and actually knocked the film down a peg or two, in my mind). While I won’t give away the final revelation (astute viewers will probably be able to piece at least part of it together well before the final act), suffice to say that it felt more than a little misogynistic and casually cruel, at least to this viewer. It seems that Amezcua went out of his way to establish Sebastian as an unrepentant cad throughout the film, only to suddenly end up in his corner by the finale. It feels a little unfair, sure, but it also feels as if it blatantly disregards many of the subtle points that have been raised throughout the rest of the film. I’m not sure if Amezcua was making an actual point or whether I just read a bit too much into it: regardless, this ended up leaving a distinctly bad taste in my mouth that impacted my overall impression.

Slightly muddled message aside, there’s an awful lot to like here. As stated earlier, the first 40+ minutes of the film are some of the tightest, most tense and atmospheric that I’ve seen recently: I don’t throw that Hitchcock stuff around lightly, after all. When Darín is frantically racing around his apartment building, barging into locked residences and alternately cajoling and threatening anyone who crosses his path, there’s a sweaty, adrenalized sense of panic to the proceedings that are pure cinematic bliss. Perhaps it was asking a bit much for Amezcua and company to sustain that fever pitch for the entirety of the film but I still can’t help but feel a bit disappointed. Here’s to hoping that, next time around, Amezcua lets us all twist on the hook just a little longer.

3/23/15: Mama, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Golfers

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bad fathers, bad films, Blake Berris, brother-sister relationships, cheating husbands, cinema, confusing films, Diane Dalton, dramas, film reviews, films, ghosts, golf, haunted house, horror films, House of Last Things, husband-wife relationship, Ken Kelsch, kidnapped child, Lindsey Haun, Micah Nelson, Michael Bartlett, Michele Mariana, missing child, Moreen Littrell, Movies, possession, Randy Schulman, RJ Mitte, sins of the past, suicide, writer-director-editor, yellow balloons

The cinematic world is filled with cheap, poorly made and unquestionably bad films: that’s probably the worst kept secret in the entirety of human existence. For every amazing, unmitigated classic, there are at least ten astonishingly bad bottom-scrapers following in its wake, like flies drawn to rotten meat. Filmmaking, after all, is an industry like any other: some architects design works of art, others build out-houses…there will always be a market for both.

This is especially true for the horror genre, where cheaply made “product” is often seen as either a rite of passage for a burgeoning filmmaker or a quick and easy way to pocket some of that fanboy dinero. Suffice to say, it’s often a full-time job separating the cream from the crud, especially when so many films stuff their bullshit sausages into attractive outer casings: many times, you have to wade hip-deep into a film before you realize just how nasty and cloudy the water has become. By then, of course, it’s usually too late.

Michael Bartlett’s House of Last Things (2013) does the honorable thing, then, and reveals its intentions from the very first frame: it’s not a good film and doesn’t mind if we know it. Opening with a ridiculous, slo-mo shot of golf clubs flying through the air, backed by one of the most bombastic scores since the infamous over-head drive in The Shining (1980), Bartlett’s fourth feature film (and first since 1998) is a confusing mess of awkward acting, strange dialogue and obvious camera set-ups, all with a head-scratching golfing preoccupation that mostly involves finding balls in weird places (like…I dunno…inside an apple…). It might not be a good film but it’s never a boring film.

The movie begins with a married couple, Alan (Randy Schulman) and Sarah (Diane Dalton), as they’re preparing to leave for a much-needed vacation in Italy. While they’re gone, Kelly (Lindsey Haun) has been enlisted to watch over their spacious home. As soon as the couple has left, however, Kelly gets a couple of visitors in the persons of her brother, Tim (RJ Mitte) and her skeevy boyfriend, Jesse (Blake Berris). Tim’s a nice enough guy, reasonable and fairly level-headed but Jesse is a complete spazzy douchebag, the kind of character in a horror movie who’s usually designated “Victim #1.” Jesse is a complete asshole to both Tim and Kelly, although the bad boy routine certainly seems to be working wonders on one of them (hint: it’s not the one who used to be on Breaking Bad).

As the trio butt heads, odd things begin to happen around the house: strange shadows pass by the outside windows, blue-collar Jesse develops an unexplained interest in wine and opera and mysterious yellow balloons start popping up everywhere. And, of course, let’s not forget about those damn golf balls, which turn up everywhere from the sugar canister to the aforementioned apples. Meanwhile, as this is going on, we catch up with Alan and Sarah on their awkward Italian vacation. Just like back home, Alan is plagued by golf balls, along with a sinister Harlequin clown, who pulls a golf ball out of Alan’s ear, ala a 10-year-old’s birthday party. There’s also the nagging notion that something unknown and unpleasant has transpired between Alan and Sarah, some sort of past trauma that neither is willing to discuss.

Meanwhile, back at the bat cave: Jesse gets a wild hair up his ass, heads to the local grocery store and appears to kidnap a young boy who’s waiting outside. He takes his young hostage, Adam (Micah Nelson), back to Alan and Laura’s house (much to Kelly and Tim’s immense consternation), where he plans to ransom the kid off, even though he has no idea of how to contact his parents/guardians. After a day passes and there’s no news of a missing kid, however, Kelly comes to the realization that no one has reported him missing…because no one wants him back.

This frightening revelation leads to a series of events that include (but are not limited to): a real estate agent attacked by aggressive yellow balloons; possessions; homemade porno mags; scary visions; intense, indoor toilet-papering; old-time golfers; long-held secrets; a medium who shows up, out of nowhere, and pulls a Zelda Rubenstein on us; more golf balls than you can shake a stick at and a weird apple fetish that might be Biblical but is probably just for convenience. In other words: it all collapses into one glorious, goofy, dog-pile of insane influences and bat-shit crazy plot developments. By the time it’s over, you’ll never look at golf balls…or apples…or balloons…or RJ Mitte, for that matter…the same way again.

There’s not much about House of Last Things that works, to be honest, with the problems and issues stacked like wayward Tetris blocks. The film frequently seems like a straight-faced farce or subtle parody (the scene where Rose asks if the house was built over a golf course had to be a joke…I won’t accept any other possibility), although it also seems to be taking itself way too seriously: the score is always tense and gloomy, while the drama is frequently pitched at a near hysterical level. The split focus between Alan and Sarah’s jaunt through Italy and Kelly and company’s adventures back home does more to kill momentum than give insight into either storyline, while also making little sense in context of the film’s ultimate revelations.

The acting tends to the awkward, made worse by dialogue that often comes out of left-field and seems forced and strained. None of the cast really click together, which makes the various relationships difficult to accept: as mentioned earlier, Blake Berris’ Jesse is such a thoroughly loathsome character that his relationship with Kelly never makes sense. Some of the performances, such as Michele Mariana’s bizarre medium (I guess…?) Rose Pepper, are campy and over-the-top, while others, like Micah Nelson’s Adam are flat to the point of non-existence.

Perhaps the biggest overall issue with the film, however, is how little sense it all ends up making. There’s a point, sure, and even enough vestiges of clues to half-way get there but so much of the film feels arbitrary and unfocused that the whole thing feels kind of surreal. It also doesn’t help that the fright sequences are staged in ways that all but guarantee failure: one of the big set-pieces involves yellow balloons that pop, menacingly, in a real estate agent’s face, as she freaks out. The “For Sale” sign bursting into flames is a nice touch, as she runs out, screaming, but it’s more like the cherry on an outrageously silly sundae. It’s impossible to build up tension or feel genuine fear in a situation like that, regardless of how seriously said scene is staged: replace Michael Myers with Sponge Bob and you get the drift.

For all of my issues with the film, however, I’ll be the first to admit: I was never less than totally wrapped up in what was going on, albeit for reasons that might not have been the original intent of the filmmakers. It’s obvious that care and love went into the film, not necessarily due to the performances (RJ Mitte, in particular, looks like he just wants the whole thing to be over with), but certainly through the detailed, fastidious production design. A lot of attention was paid to establishing recurring themes and motifs (the yellow balloons, the golf balls, the apples), so it’s clear that Bartlett and company put thought into this, for better or worse. The film often looks good, even if it rarely makes much sense.

A quick look at Michael Bartlett’s bio reveals an interesting career that stretches back to his first feature, in 1987 (made in Germany, although Bartlett is originally from California), and includes music videos and another German feature. After watching House of Last Things, I’m curious to see Bartlett’s earlier films: perhaps I’ve missed an over-riding theme or something that might bring a little more order to the insanity. As it stands, however, I found his most recent production to be a mind-boggling miss, albeit a constantly entertaining one. If nothing else, I’ll be keeping my distance from both golf balls and yellow balloons in the near future: that’s one point that I did get, loud and clear.

1/4/15: Leave Your Mind At the Sound of the Beep

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Ahnna Rasch, Alexander Brøndsted, Antonio Tublen, audio experiments, audio tones, Björn Löfberg Egner, cheating husbands, cinema, Computer Chess, dark comedies, dramas, dysfunctional family, electronic score, Erik Börén, experiments, film reviews, films, flashbacks, foreign films, hallucinations, husband-wife relationship, infidelity, insanity, Johanna Tschig, LFO, Linus Eklund, loners, Lukas Loughran, mental breakdown, mental illness, mind control, Movies, neighbors, Patrik Karlson, Per Löfberg, Samir Dounas, sci-fi, scientists, secrets, sound frequencies, sounds, stylish films, Swedish films, synthesizers, troubled marriages, writer-director-score-editor

Suppose that you invented the perfect self-help device, a machine that would put you into a highly suggestible state, allowing for subtle modifications to your behavior. Trying to cut back on sweets? Simply leave a “message” for yourself and your mind will subconsciously take care of the heavy lifting. Want to exercise more? Listen to a particular tone and, without even trying, you’ll actually want to run a marathon and do sit-ups until the cows come home. Want to just be a “better” person, in general? Set the controls, leave your command and, through no additional effort of your own, your brain and body will spring into action, making your “wish” come true. Sounds pretty amazing, right?

Now…suppose that you also just realized that if your humble little invention works so well on you, it might also work equally well on others. Suppose you discover that your device allows you to “control” others, using the power of hypnotic suggestion to subliminally influence and direct their actions and thoughts. Would you use said device to help make the world a better place, influencing people to abandon selfish, dangerous and destructive behaviors in favor of a more helpful, unified world view, inching humanity ever closer to a long-sought-after utopia? Or would you use it to turn those around you into mindless slaves, unknowingly beholden to your whim and command?

In a nutshell, that’s the conflict at the center of multi-hat-wearing director Antonio Tublen’s (he also wrote, edited and performed the electronic score) intriguing LFO (2014), an odd, stylish and darkly humorous bit of heady sci-fi that whips mind control, mental illness, marital discord and God complexes into a heady brew. While the film can be a little rocky, at times, and comes across as overly complex in the early going, LFO eventually settles down into a smart, edgy and appropriately weird little film that’s somewhat reminiscent of Andrew Bujalski’s Computer Chess (2013), while still managing to stake out plenty of original territory of its own.

Robert (Patrik Karlson) is a loner who lives by himself, routinely ignores his self-posted notes to “Take his medication” and seems to hallucinate the specter of his former wife, Clara (Ahnna Rasch), who appears to serve as his conscience. He also appears to be a scientist, of some sort, who’s working on an experiment involving sound frequencies: Robert collaborates with several other colleagues, including Sinus-San (Erik Börén), via short-wave radio, since he rarely seems to leave his house. Robert makes a breakthrough when he notes that a particular frequency makes him highly susceptible to suggestion: upon further experimentation, he discovers that he can actually command himself to do things by giving an order into his device and listening to the resulting tone. In a humorous bit, Robert makes himself dislike cookies: after “waking up” from the frequency, he absent-mindedly noshes on a cookie, only to spit the treat out in disgust. Success!

After further tests prove how well the device works, Robert decides to take everything to the next level, “Phase 2,” as it were. Inviting his new neighbors, Linn (Johanna Tschig) and Simon (Per Löfberg) over for coffee, Robert uses the device on them and discovers that it has the exact same effect as on him. While in their hypnotic states, Robert plants subtle subliminal commands that have the effect of turning Linn and Simon into mindless drones: whenever they hear the tone, they’re powerless to resist Robert’s commands, although they remember nothing upon “waking.” In short order, the mad scientist is using Simon for free labor, while Linn serves as his sex slave, in a pretty obvious example of “absolute power corrupts absolutely.”

As Robert continues to fine-tune and perfect his device, however, outside forces begin to swirl about him. Sinus-san has taken to lurking around the periphery after discovering that Robert has cut him out of their joint discovery, while a mysterious insurance adjuster, Peter (Lukas Loughran), keeps asking questions about a car accident that Robert seems to have been involved with. There’s also the little matter of Clara, whose presence becomes more and more pronounced, as she constantly admonishes Robert to take his meds. Buffeted on all sides, Robert begins to lose control of his unwitting neighbors, who are now beginning to experience strange, unexplained half-memories of things that they can’t quite recall, such as Linn having sex with Robert. As Robert slips further and further into madness, humanity slides ever closer to a complete loss of free will…for better or much, much worse.

Tublen’s LFO bursts out of the gate with a smart, fresh concept and then proceeds to expand on it in some interesting ways. If the initial going can be head-swimmingly complex (perhaps those with knowledge of sound frequencies and the resulting science behind it may be able to keep up but this viewer was underwater fairly quickly), the film eventually settles down and, once we’ve accepted the tech aspect, becomes much more of a basic “mind control” film, albeit one filtered through the cracked, surreal lens of something like a Quentin Dupieux film. While not as outwardly strange or surreal as Dupieux’s films, there’s still the basic sense of a world that’s similar to ours but just off-kilter enough to be strange and unsettling.

LFO is a highly stylish, visual film, filled with vibrant colors, blinking lights, lo-fi technology and lovingly composed frames. The cinematography, courtesy of dual personnel Alexander Brøndsted and Linus Eklund, is consistently strong and the film always looks interesting. As befits a film focused on sound frequencies, the sound design in LFO is absolutely top-notch: I don’t normally single out sound engineers but I’d be a real jerk not to heap some praise on Samir Dounas, since the sound mix and editing is so vital to this particular film’s success. There’s also a highly effective electronic score, courtesy of the director, himself, which adds immeasurably to the atmosphere and tone of the film: another way in which LFO reminded me of Dupieux’s filmography.

The performances are uniformly strong, with Karlson being particularly impressive as the increasingly unhinged Robert. Tschig and Löfberg are quite convincing as the couple, vacillating between dead-eyed drones and confused, slightly frightened babes-in-the-woods: particularly good are the later scenes where Robert pretends to be a marriage counselor and leads the couple through his version of reconciliation therapy. One of the most impressive aspects of the film is how outwardly funny it is, albeit in a dark, rather twisted way. All three of the leads display excellent and subtle comic timing, which helps keep everything moving smoothly.

If I have any real complaints with LFO, they’re the same kinds of issues I might have with any similarly “tricky” film: at times, the film can get tripped-up in its own complex rationalizations and the whole thing feels just slightly longer than it should be. There’s also the underlying problem of Robert’s virtually unbeatable ability to control minds: similar to superheroes/villains that are too powerful, the balance of power in LFO is always drastically unbalanced. Since Robert is able to effortlessly control any and every situation with a click of his remote, there are times when the film feels rather low stakes: regardless of his situation, we’re always fairly sure that our little anti-hero will be able to regain control. Tublen still manages to wring plenty of genuine suspense and tension out of the scenario, don’t get me wrong, but this is definitely the epitome of a “stacked deck.”

In the end, I quite liked LFO: the film was very smart, relentless and genuinely intriguing. While never as unpredictable as something like Computer Chess or Wrong (2012), it was still one of the trickier films I saw last year and is never anything less than thought-provoking. LFO also manages to go out on a real high point, with one of the best endings I’ve seen in some time: in fact, the ending is so good that it actually helped to smooth out some of my previous reservations, proof positive that you always want to leave ’em with your best foot forward. While I’m sure that none of us would ever want a neighbor like Robert, it goes without saying that we could all benefit from spending a little time with the creepazoid, now and then.

12/19/14: Mommy Issues

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auteur theory, broken families, castration, cheating husbands, Cho Jae-hyun, cinema, dual role, dysfunctional family, extreme films, father-son relationships, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, foreign films, graphic films, infidelity, insanity, Kim Jae-hong, Kim Jae-rok, Kim Ki-duk, kinky films, Korean films, Lee Eun-woo, Moebius, mother-son relationships, Movies, no dialogue, organ transplants, perversion, rape, S and M, sadomasochism, Seo Young-ju, sexual perversion, sexual violence, South Korea, unpleasant, writer-director-cinematographer-editor

There are a lot of ways you could describe South Korean auteur Kim Ki-Duk’s newest film, Moebius (2013): you could certainly toss out the terms “revolutionary,” “daring” and “brave,” as long as you also make room for “graphic,” “perverse,” and “unpleasant.” Calling the film “relentless” and “difficult” certainly seems apt, along with “eye-opening,” “raw” and “frightening.” It certainly is “colorful,” no two ways about it, although “deviant” also seems like a fairly apt term. No description could be complete without “dialogue-free,” although leave “silent” at home: Moebius is anything but. “Exquisitely made?” Absolutely. “Fun,” in any way, shape or form? Not on your life, bub…not in this one or the next.

Moebius concerns itself with the fate of an anonymous family which consists of the father (Cho Jae-hyun), mother (Lee Eun-woo) and teenage son (Seo Young-ju). Despite the film’s complete lack of dialogue, it’s pretty easy to pick up the main narrative thrust: to whit, the father has been having an affair with a local shopkeeper (also played by Lee Eun-woo) and his long-suffering wife has just found out about it. Needless to say, the wife isn’t happy about this particular development: to be more accurate, it appears to drive her more than a little mad. In a fit of passion, the wife takes up a large kitchen knife and decides to perform some “elective” surgery on her husband’s wayward manhood: he’s able to fight her off but her thirst for vengeance needs some sort of outlet. In a move that some might call “questionable,” the mother decides to go ahead and just castrate her son, instead: any port in a storm, right?

As can be expected, the mother’s action has a host of connected consequences, not the least of which is driving her son into the arms of her husband’s lover. As the father tries to deal with his guilt over his role in his son’s mutilation, the son tries to come to terms with the loss of his penis, a loss which can be particularly difficult to deal with when one is attempting to start a new romantic relationship. Never fear, however: the father has been busy researching alternate ways for his son to receive sexual pleasure and the shop-keeper is only too happy to assist. The particular method may rival anything in Cronenberg’s Crash (1996) in terms of sheer icky sexuality but, hey…the heart wants what it wants, eh?

To this incredibly toxic stew, be sure to add a crazy street gang, school-yard bullies, plenty of rape and attempted rape (male and female, both), incest, penis transplants, hallucinatory dream sequences, masturbation, S & M and the very embodiment of “violent sex.” If it seems like Moebius is pretty much one atrocity after another, like a perverse parade of deviance rolling down the main thoroughfare…well, in a way, it kind of is. There are some films that you enjoy and there are some films that you endure…without a doubt, Moebius belongs to the latter category.

In certain ways, Ki-duk’s film is a bit of a gimmick but one that’s exquisitely executed: from the first frame to the last, there’s isn’t a single spoken line of dialogue in the film’s entire 90 minute runtime. This is no silent film, mind you: we get all of the expected digetic sounds along with an effective musical score. This isn’t even a “fantasy” world where everyone is mute: there are numerous scenes where characters make or take phone calls: they just step outside so that we can’t hear anything, that’s all. In short, it’s a brilliant concept that could have been a complete disaster in execution but ends up working so remarkably well that it’s surprising it hasn’t really been done more. By its very nature, cinema is a visual medium but dialogue and “info dumps” have become such a disproportionately “important” aspect of modern cinema that it’s not only refreshing but damn right wonderful to experience a film that’s been completely stripped back to the visual element. Despite the fact that we never learn any of the characters names, it’s never particularly difficult to keep up with what’s going on: some of the more surreal latter-half occurrences may have benefited from a little explanation, all things considered, but I never felt so lost that I became frustrated. This, in itself, makes Moebius one of the more impressive films I’ve seen in some time. From a filmmaking perspective, Moebius is very well made, albeit in a no-frills style that actually compliments the visuals and themes.

On the other hand, Moebius is going to be an extremely tough sell for just about anyone other than extremely hardened, jaded filmgoers. Speaking for myself, I am absolutely not a shrinking violet when it comes to films: I’ve seen Cannibal Holocaust (1980) and Salo (1975), any number of Italian gore flicks and enough “video nasties” from the ’80s to drive a normal person crazy. I learned the difference between “real” and “fake” when I was a kid and have frequently been revolted by films but rarely truly disturbed. Moebius is a truly disturbing film. There were scenes here that not only managed to turn my stomach but fundamentally bother me: it’s no hyperbole to say that I’ll never be able to get a lot of this out of my head, similar to the atrocities I witnessed in Salo. It’s just a movie and I know that: the knowledge, however, did nothing whatsoever to convince my poor, addled mind once I was in the thick of things. Regardless of how “hardcore” audience members think they are, Moebius is the kind of film that delights in proving folks wrong: there is something in here, somewhere, that will offend and disgust just about every human on the face of the earth…some things will offend on a physical level, others on a moral level and still others on a larger, metaphysical level but make no mistake…you will be shaken to the core by what you see.

So…just what kind of person will enjoy Moebius? To be honest, I’d like to think that no one could possibly “enjoy” the film, even if I strongly feel that everyone should respect it. Kim Ki-duk is an absolutely uncompromising, revolutionary filmmaker, a virtually unstoppable force of nature who also happens to be a one-man wrecking crew (writer/director/cinematographer/editor) with a unique vision and no interest in holding audience hands whatsoever. Is there a greater point to Moebius than pure shock value? Absolutely: Ki-duk makes some very provocative comments about the destructive power of infidelity and Moebius can be read, in a way, as a detailed examination of the particular ways in which cheating in a marriage can destroy not only the trust and love between husband and wife but also between children and their parents. Of course, Moebius can also be read as a mind-blowing examination of the mutability of gender and identity (anytime you have the mistress and wife both played by the same actor, there’s obviously something deeper bubbling below the surface) or about the ways in which deviant sexuality can seem “normal” to those with no other options.

Moebius is a complex, fascinating film that also happens to be revolting, extreme, unpleasant and as far from a “crowd-pleaser” as possible. It’s feel-bad cinema, in the best possible way, and the perfect antidote for those days when everything just seems too sweet, nice and hopeful. If I was being conservative, I’d estimate that only about 5% of the entire film-going populace will actually be able to get through all 90 minutes here: this is no challenge to the “meek,” mind you, but simple fact. If you’re one of the few who wants to give it a try, know that Moebius is monumentally impressive filmmaking and just as much fun as getting a root canal with no anesthetic: don’t say I didn’t warn you.

11/6/14: One Is the Loneliest Number

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Andrew Scott, Ben Daniels, Bill Milner, British films, cheating husbands, cinema, Dickon Hinchliffe, dramas, Eastern Promises, film reviews, films, foreign films, Haris Zambarloukos, illegitimate child, infidelity, isolation, Ivan Locke, Locke, midlife crisis, Movies, Olivia Colman, one interior, one-location, Redemption, Ruth Wilson, set in a car, Steven Knight, Tom Hardy, Tom Holland, UK films, writer-director

From time to time, I find myself presented with films that are a lot easier to respect and appreciate than to actually like: normally, this comes from intensely unpleasant, disturbing horror fare but I sometimes get this same experience from more traditional films, such as writer-director Steven Knight’s Locke (2013). While the film is exceptionally well-crafted and makes great use of its “one actor, one location” conceit, I found it impossible to connect with the main character on any meaningful level, rendering the film more of a style exercise than the dramatic character portrait that it obviously aims to be. Nonetheless, Locke ends up being a dazzling, if subtle, bit of craftmanship and gives Tom Hardy one more mildly intriguing character portrayal to add to his resume.

Hardy is Ivan Locke, the titular “hero” of Knight’s film, although “hero” is a bit of a stretch. More than anything, Locke is a man with his back to the wall, almost entirely thanks to his own doing. When we first him, Locke is leaving a construction site in the wee, dark hours of the morning, heading off for points unknown: the entire rest of the film will consist of nothing but the character driving, all interactions with other characters coming via his frequent phone conversations. Right off the bat, we’re thrown into the deep end, coming into the story in media res as Locke tries to deal with various problems, the chief one being thus: in the morning, he’s supposed to be overseeing the single largest concrete pour in European history (outside of military and nuclear installations) but he’s currently driving in the opposite direction, racing across town to a hospital. At the hospital, Locke’s middle-aged secretary, Bethan (Olivia Colman), is preparing to give birth to a child that’s the product of her and Ivan’s one-night stand. Determined to do “the right thing,” regardless of the consequences, Locke has promised to be there for the birth of the child, even though any problems with the construction job will cost his company upwards of $100 million, effectively wiping them from the face of the earth.

And then, of course, there’s the little issue of his family: neither his loving wife, Katrina (Ruth Wilson), nor his young sons Eddie (Tom Holland) and Sean (Bill Milner), have any idea that Ivan is about to blow their happy world apart. When Ivan calls his wife to explain why he won’t be home, the situation goes from zero to one hundred in seconds, with a devastated Katrina giving Ivan the ultimate ultimatum: get home now or don’t come home at all. Ivan is a “principled” man, however, and he’s determined to see his decision through to its necessary conclusion, even as his boss, Gareth (Ben Daniels) screams at him, his kids innocently relay details of a football game that Ivan should have been home watching and Bethan, whom Ivan slept with out of “sympathy,” proclaims her love for a man that she knows doesn’t care about her. As his personal life collapses around his ears, Ivan must also deal with his co-worker, Donal (Andrew Scott), as he tries to troubleshoot him through one work problem after another. Through it all, however, Locke seems to have one mantra running through his head: fix the job and he can fix his marriage. Life is never that easy, however, and as the night rolls on, Locke may just be running out of time…and luck.

Let’s get one thing squared away up front: Locke is a meticulously crafted film that provides a more than suitable showcase for the kind of understated performance that Hardy is capable of when not surrounded by CGI explosions. Cinematographer Haris Zambarloukos makes great use of the film’s one location, giving us plenty of beautifully-lit shots of the twinkling night outside Locke’s car, as well as the dark, dashboard-lit interior. The musical score, by Dickon Hinchliffe, is suitably droney and atmospheric, helping to add tension to scenes that are, literally, just Tom Hardy talking into a car phone. In all respects, Locke’s central conceit could have been its downfall but it ends up working spectacularly, similar to the coffin-locale of the Ryan Reynolds-starrer Buried (2010). Far from being a dull, monotonous affair, Locke is consistently engaging, albeit relentlessly straight-forward.

The biggest issue, at least as far as I’m concerned, is that Ivan Locke is never a sympathetic character: he’s a human wrecking ball whose strict adherence to an ill-defined code of “ethics” propels the film’s narrative in the same way that the T-rex got rid of those pesky raptors in Jurassic Park (1993). Ivan’s motivations are never clear: he obviously has no interest in Bethan and still feels a connection to his family, yet he consistently makes decisions that put him on opposite ends of the spectrum. While the film’s conclusion hints at a resolution, of sorts, the whole thing feels so unemotional and cold as to be largely academic: it’s as if Locke reasoned out the pros and cons of everything, tallied the results and came up with as scientific a response as possible.

This cold detachment sits at distinct odds with the film’s few moments of genuine passion: Locke’s angry explosion when he realizes that Donal is getting drunker by the phone call…the bit where tears roll down his cheeks as his son describes a football goal that couldn’t be less important in the grand scheme of things…these are the little moments, the sparks that threaten to bring Locke to glorious, blazing life, only for Hardy’s composed frown and slightly distracted demeanor to douse the flames. It’s often been said that Stanley Kubrick’s best films were cold and mannered to a fault: while I’ve never agreed with that particular criticism, it’s one that I can level at Locke without a moment’s hesitation…the film is cool, mannered and detached to a fault, bleeding away most of the impact in the process.

Knight, who also wrote and directed the dour Jason Statham-vehicle Redemption (2013), as well as the screenplay for David Cronenberg’s amazing Eastern Promises (2007), is an obviously gifted filmmaker who displays the same eye for the dark, neon-lit gutters of humanity that Nicholas Winding Refn does, albeit without Refn’s trademark deft touch. Despite feeling disengaged from the main character and emotional beats, Locke was always a pleasure to watch, a similar feeling that I had when I first saw Redemption. I’ll always be the biggest supporter of tricky, against-the-grain filmmakers you’ll run into, so there’s no way I won’t give Locke at least a recommendation, no matter how slight. That being said, I can’t shake the feeling that Knight’s sophomore production could have been so much more powerful if I…you know…actually cared about any of the characters. Style over substance? Perhaps but I’m more than willing to accept a ride from Knight the next time he decides to prowl the nocturnal streets.

6/8/14 (Part Two): What’s Blood For But Shedding?

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1990s films, based on a short story, bees, Bernard Rose, Cabrini-Green, Candyman, cheating husbands, Chicago, child killing, childhood fears, cinema, Clive Barker, Daniel Robitaille, DeJuan Guy, dream-like, electronic score, false accusations, film reviews, films, graffiti, hook for a hand, horror, horror films, housing projects, Immortal Beloved, Kasi Lemmons, Michael Culkin, mirrors, missing child, Movies, murals, Philip Glass, racism, revenge, self-sacrifice, serial killer, Ted Raimi, The Forbidden, Tony Todd, urban legends, Vanessa Williams, vengeance, Virginia Madsen, voice-over narration, writer-director, Xander Berkeley

Urban legends are funny things. On their surface, most of them seem pretty easy to discount: How, exactly, do baby alligators grow to enormous size after being flushed down the toilet? Do we actually believe that people have died from mixing Pop Rocks and soda? How come this stuff always happens to a friend of a friend’s twice-removed cousin? Examined in the cold light of day, almost all urban legends seem absolutely ridiculous (even the hook on the door requires too much suspension of disbelief to be truly scary): rational thought is always there to chase away the boogeymen and monsters of the imagination. As our parents may have been wont to say, we’re only scaring ourselves most of the time: there isn’t really anything out there to be worried about.

In reality, however, humans are deeply flawed, superstitious creatures who possess boundless capacity for believing in anything under the sun. We need look no further than the infamous witch trials that claimed the lives of so many innocent people in the 1600s: none of us believe in witches until there’s mob rule, at which point we all believe in witches. The human mind is a wondrous thing, the equal to any computer that’s yet been conceived. Part of the mind’s power comes from our ability to acquire, examine and interpret information around us, changing our preconceived notions if the new information should go against them. In other words, we possess the limitless capacity to learn, to absorb new knowledge and experiences and allow these experiences to change and color our overall world-view. We are so amazing because we have the simultaneous ability to soundly reason and to unleash our wildest imaginations. We believe in urban legends because we are human: our rational mind examines the evidence and discards each situation as it arises, yet the imaginative, childlike part of our brain allows for any number of possibilities…including the very real possibility that everything we think we know is wrong. Bernard Rose’s Candyman (1992), an adaptation of one of Clive Barker’s short tales, examines the intersection of rational thought and unchecked imagination, detailing what happens when our belief in something becomes so strong that we can pull something from the shadowy world of legend into the cold, hard light of the real world.

After an ominous, impressionistic opening that establishing the oppressive mood of the film, we meet our protagonist, Helen Lyle (Virginia Madsen). Helen is a grad student who happens to be married to the egotistical, philandering Prof. Trevor Lyle (Xander Berkeley). Helen and her friend, Bernadette (Kasi Lemmons), have been doing research on urban legends, with their eyes on publishing a paper about their results. In particular, their work focuses on the legend of Candyman, a hook-handed, vengeful spirit who’s said to haunt the Cabrini-Green housing projects in Chicago. While neither Helen nor Bernadette actually believes in the myth (say “Candyman” five times in a mirror and he’ll appear to gut you with his hook), Bernadette lets Helen know that there are plenty of real-world horrors to be found in Cabrini Green, including vicious street gangs and omnipresent drug devastation.

Ignoring her friend’s warnings, Helen plunges headfirst into the mystery of Candyman, going so far as to examine the abandoned apartment of one of his supposed victims. Once there, Helen finds a hidden passage into an area that contains a giant Candyman mural, explaining the events that led to his original death, as well as what appears to be a shrine to the cult figure. She also meets and befriends Anne-Marie (Vanessa Williams), an initially suspicious and standoffish neighbor who has an infant child and a healthy distrust of white people like Helen: “The white folks that come around ain’t to handshakey,” she tells Helen and it’s not impossible to believe. Cabrini-Green, as portrayed in the film, is an almost post-Apocalyptic, burned-out wreck: Helen seems to be the only white person for miles and the various residents she meets view her with a mixture of contempt, amusement and dislike.

As she continues her journey into Cabrini-Green, Helen befriends a youngster named Jake (DeJuan Guy), a firm believer in the Candyman mythos thanks to a “friend of a friend” connection to the supposed killings. Jake shows her the public restroom where another young boy was supposed to have been butchered by Candyman and, once there, she runs afoul of a local gang leader who calls himself “The Candy Man” and wields a sharp hook. When the police arrest the gang leader, everyone (including Helen) assumes that he’s responsible for all of the Candyman-related deaths. Helen changes her mind, however, when she’s confronted by the real Candyman (Tony Todd) in a parking garage. Helen passes out and wakes up in Anne-Marie’s apartment, covered in blood: Anne-Marie’s dog has been brutally killed, her baby is missing and Helen is lying on her apartment floor, holding a bloody knife.

As the terrified, confused Helen finds herself the number-one suspect in a terrible crime, the walls between fantasy and reality begin to collapse. Helen keeps seeing Candyman everywhere and, when she does, someone around her is sure to be butchered. He seems to want Helen for something although whether it’s vindication or vengeance is left up for debate. As she finds herself increasingly alone, Helen becomes even more connected to Candyman and his tragic history. In order to clear her name and end the terror, Helen must descend into the shadowy recesses of Cabrini-Green, in search of Anne-Marie’s missing child and the truth behind Candyman. Will Helen end up solving the mystery, bringing peace to Cabrini-Green, or will she end up as another of Candyman’s victims? Is there really even a Candyman or is Helen just losing her mind?

I remember watching Candyman when it originally came out and being less than impressed, perhaps because I was such a gonzo Clive Barker fan at the time: I was so eager for any Barker content on the screen that my expectations were constantly too high (damn you, Lord of Illusions (1995)) and I was always getting disappointed. Ironically enough, I haven’t read the original story, “The Forbidden,” in decades, so it’s a little hard for me to determine how close/not Rose’s adaptation ends up being. My most recent viewing of the film, however, revealed a pretty simple truth: Candyman is actually a really good film.

Part of the reason for the film’s success is due to the unrelentingly oppressive atmosphere served up from the first frame to the last. Thanks in part to renowned experimental composer Philip Glass’ haunting, dissonant score and some beautifully evocative cinematography from industry vet Anthony B. Richmond (who shot The Man Who Fell to Earth (1976), The Sand Lot (1993) and one of my all-time favorite films, Ravenous (1999)), there’s a thick, Gothic vibe to everything that really accentuates the horror. Cabrini-Green, with its dilapidated buildings and empty, burned-out streets is a helluva location even before we get to the ultra-creepy “shrine” that Candyman calls home. Stylistically, the film often plays out like a fever-dream, as if avant-garde genius Ken Russell were helming the proceedings rather than a more workmanlike director like Rose. Many of the scenes, such as the beginning and any of Helen’s meetings with Candyman, play out with imperfect logic. The apex of this definitely has to be the disorienting, horrifying scene where Helen wakes up in Anne-Marie’s apartment: the scene is played with such a breathless, breakneck pace that it’s easier to absorb what’s happening than to actually understand it. It ends up being a genuinely powerful cinematic moment in a film that could just as easily have been aimed at lowest-common denominator multiplex audiences.

On occasion, Rose’s film can be a bit heavy-handed (heavenly choirs on the soundtrack always indicate something is up) but this tends to play nicely into the thick, cloying atmosphere. If anything, Candyman often plays a modern-day fairytale, an update to the cautionary tales of the Brothers Grimm. As a horror film, Candyman contains not only the requisite moments of gore and violence (which tend to be a bit shocking, although that’s always been Barker’s milieu) but also scenes that are genuinely creepy and unsettling. One of the most well-done moments in the film involves Helen and Bernadette discovering the secret passage in the murder victim’s apartment. As Helen looks into the mysterious, dark unknown, the sense of creeping tension and dread is palatable. Her passage to the other side carries the same sense of primal wonder and fear that can be found in the similar scene in Michael Mann’s The Keep (1983): humanity moving from the warm light of understanding into the frigid abyss of the unknown.

Candyman’s backstory is well-integrated into the overall themes of the film, driving home the notion that our history of racial inequality and a terrible lynch-mob mentality are ultimately responsible for Candyman’s rampage. While it’s painfully evident that Daniel Robitaille’s transformation into the Candyman is due to the violence inflicted on him by his white oppressors, it’s just as evident that a similar, if much more subtle, form of violence is being inflicted on the mostly black residents of the Cabrini-Green housing project. When Anne-Marie makes her comment about the “white folks not being too handshakey,” she seems to be speaking for most of the residents of the Green: if white people are there at all, they’re there to take advantage, satisfy their curiosity or get a cheap thrill. Even Helen, who seems to have the best of intentions, ends up bringing an untold amount of misery down up on the residents of Cabrini-Green: she presumes to be helping them but she’s really only furthering her own academic ambitions.

Acting-wise, Candyman is top-notch, with Madsen presenting a nicely vulnerable, multi-faceted performance as Helen. Even though she’s far from perfect, Helen actually means well and Madsen takes a character that could come across as condescending and makes her appealingly real. I didn’t always agree with everything Helen did (to be honest, she made some astoundingly bad decisions from the jump) but she never felt like a plot contrivance, especially once we reach the powerful, emotional climax. The final scene is one that could have across as over-the-top and unnecessarily maudlin, but Madsen wisely takes the “Ellen Ripley” approach, letting the character’s inherent heroism shine through, if for only a brief moment.

As the titular “villain,” Tony Todd is excellent in the role that brought him to the attention of the horror world and turned him into a household name along the likes of Robert Englund, Sid Haig, Kane Hodder and Bill Moseley. While Todd doesn’t get a ton of screen-time, relatively speaking, he is a completely empathetic, complicated character, as far from a one-dimensional slasher like Freddy Krueger or Jason as one could get. There’s an inherently sad, tragic and romantic component to the Candyman backstory that’s beautifully communicated via Todd’s ever-expressive, sad face. Combined with his powerful, mellifluous voice, Tony Todd’s depiction of Candyman went a long way towards enshrining the character in the annals of pop culture. That and the ribcage full of bees, of course.

Ultimately, Candyman is equal parts bombastic and restrained, hushed and explosive. While Clive Barker’s books/stories haven’t always survived the transition to the big screen (the aforementioned Lord of Illusions is ridiculously disappointing and the torture-porn version of Dread (2009) is thoroughly wretched and despicable), Candyman is one of the best, perhaps only bested by Barker’s own Hellraiser (1987). I can only imagine that my teenage mind must not have been quite ready to process what was presented on-screen, since my recent viewing brought up very few actual issues with the film, many of which were endemic to ’90s-era horror films. For its intriguing collision of the past and present, violence and sexuality and white vs black relations, Candyman deserves to be dusted off and given another look in the 2010s. Just remember: you better think real hard before you get to that fifth “Candyman.” It’s probably just a myth but…better safe than sorry.