The VHS Graveyard Meets the Chattanooga Film Festival – Day Two (Part One)

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Anieya Walker, auteur theory, Brandon Cole, Casey T Malone, CFF, Chad Crawford Kinkle, Chattanooga Film Festival, cinema, cults, Dementer, film festival favorite, film festivals, film fests, film reviews, films, foreign films, horror, Joelyn Dormady, Johannes Nyholm, Katie Groshong, Koko-di Koko-da, Larry Fessenden, movie reviews, Movies, psychological horror, Rebecca Sue Button, Stephanie Kinkle, surreal, surrealism, Swedish films, The Chattanooga Film Festival, The Ringing Bell, writer-director

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After a slower start to Day One than I expected, it was time to step my game up for the remainder of the festival: I only had three more days to get through 23 films, after all. To that end, I screened six films on the second day, including another one of those pesky “instant classics.” Like I mentioned earlier: there was no shortage of quality films at this year’s Chattanooga Film Fest…just a shortage of hours in the day.

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Dementer

Indie writer/director/producer Chad Crawford Kinkle first landed on my radar with his excellent, backwoods creeper Jughead way back in 2013, so I was pretty excited to find out he had a new film hitting the festival circuit. When I saw indie auteur Larry Fessenden’s name in the cast, well, let’s just say that pretty much sealed the deal: one of the titans of independent cinema reuniting with one of its most promising indie up-and-comers? Done and done.

Kinkle’s ultra-naturalistic new film follows a troubled young woman (Katie Groshong) as she tries to piece her life together after a truly horrible trauma ripped it to shreds. Living out of her car and with no resources, Katie finds a job at a care facility for adults with special needs and comes to care deeply for one of her charges, Stephanie (Kinkle’s real-life sister), a young woman with Down Syndrome. Just as Katie begins to become comfortable in her new life, terrible flashes of her past begin to interject themselves, leading her to wonder if a truly evil figure (Fessenden) has returned to target poor Stephanie or whether Katie has finally lost the last frayed edges of her sanity.

Unlike Kinkle’s more polished debut, Dementer is pretty much the definition of no frills, low-budget indie filmmaking. Cinematographer Jeff Wedding shoots the film in such a way that, when combined with the mostly non-professional cast (the film is set at what appears to be an actual care facility and features the staff and residents), achieves a startling degree of realism. At times, I was reminded of something like Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer, if for no other reason than their shared ability to completely demolish the barrier between film fiction and reality.

This is also an extremely personal project for Kinkle since his real-life sister, Stephanie, stars as the woman that Katie tries to save from sinister forces. As such, the film never feels disrespectful of the residents of the home and nothing about it feels forced or exploitative. If anything, the various residents all receive ample opportunities to express themselves in the film, resulting in a work that feels notably character-driven for an ultra-low budget horror film. It’s something that I wish all films took the time to do, regardless of genre or finances.

All that being said, I must confess that I did not love this film, despite my deep respect for it. While the setting provides for an unbeatable atmosphere of reality, too much of the film involves Katie’s various duties around the care facility, broken up with regular interjections via flashback. After a certain point, it develops a pattern and becomes rather predictable, making the film seem repetitive on a narrative level. I also felt that the drama elements worked better than the horror ones: they felt more authentic and, ironically, interesting (workday routines not withstanding), although Fessenden was a force to be reckoned with whenever he was on-screen. Call this a near miss for me, although I eagerly await Kinkle’s next film.

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The Ringing Bell

Poor Judah (Brandon Cole) has a bit of a problem: he’s a lucid dreamer and having an impossible time telling his vivid waking dreams from reality. This inability to tell fact from fantasy is messing with not only Judah’s ability to process grief (someone close to him is gone) but also with his participation in an ill-advised bank robbery concocted by his cousin, Brona (Anieya Walker), and her on-again/off-again lover, Orva (Joelyn Dormady). Will the contents of the mysterious box they seek have the answers that Judah is looking for or will the pursuit of forbidden knowledge be the downfall of them all?

It’s quite obvious that The Ringing Bell is a very personal project for multi-hyphenate filmmaker Casey T. Malone. He says as much, in a festival intro, but he also serves as writer/director/producer/editor/score composer and cinematographer: that’s a lot of hats  to wear, especially when the subject is personal pain, grief and loss. As such, there’s a weight to The Ringing Bell that you don’t often get in low-budget genre films, especially those rare ones that are fantasy-leaning.

The other thing you will remember about this film long after it’s over is how amazing so much of it looks. Combining animated sequences, surreal live-action and stop-motion effects, The Ringing Bell is, without a doubt, a truly singular, imaginative, mind-boggling film. I’m not sure if Malone was involved in the animation and effects or if that was the work of John Baker (creature designs) and Fred Franczak (production design) but whoever did it absolutely blew my mind, especially when you consider that this was most likely another very low-budget production. There’s a monster effect, at one point, that’s easily in my Top 20 moments of the year. Not all indie films have a discernible sense of style and design but The Ringing Bell brought enough for the whole class.

Here’s the thing, though: as much as I loved the film’s look and sense of surreal imagination, I’m pretty hard-pressed to tell you what it was actually about. Despite watching the film closely and being fully engaged, I still have no idea who Judah was mourning (or why), which made it difficult to get into his mindset. I have a feeling that much of the film was supposed to exist in a dream logic realm but I found myself along for the ride more than actively engaged. When combined with a particularly quiet sound mix that made it difficult to hear dialogue, too much of the film became the equivalent of visual interludes strung together.

Perhaps repeat viewings would prove beneficial in this case: I’m sure that I missed something that would have cleared up a few loose ends for me. It’s obvious that Malone and company brought a lot of passion and innovation to The Ringing Bell, even if it never fully clicked with me. I’m more than willing to see what they have up their sleeves next time around.

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Koko-di Koko-da

As I mentioned earlier, most of the films playing at this year’s CFF were complete unknowns to me, but there were a few exceptions, chief among them being Swedish writer-director Johannes Nyholm’s Koko-di Koko-da. While I had purposefully avoided spoilers, I’d read enough advanced press on the film to know that it was being heralded as disturbing and surreal. Turns out, the critics hit it right on the nose.

Existing in the same general vicinity as the works of Alex van Warmerdam, Lars von Trier, Michael Haneke and Yorgos Lanthimos, Nyholm’s thought-provoking sophomore feature plays out like a truly horrifying, demented fairy tale. Tobias and Elin (Leif Edlund and Ylva Gallon) take a camping trip and try to work on their collapsed marriage three years after a horrible tragedy destroyed their family and future happiness in one, fell swoop. As if trying to repair a fractured relationship isn’t hard enough, however, they soon discover that they’ve chosen a rather unfortunate place to set up camp, managing to cross paths with a trio of demented individuals who are only too happy to teach them a truly twisted lesson. And then things get really strange.

Right off the bat, let me issue a gentle warning: this is one severely fucked up film. Engaging in the same sort of psychological terrorism that’s been von Trier’s stock in trade for his entire career, there are elements of Koko-di Koko-da that will stick to your brain like plankton, whether you want them to or not. By turns powerfully sad, disturbing, odd, disgusting and eye-opening, Nyholm’s film makes a perfect compliment to works like Funny Games, Borgman, Antichrist and The Killing of a Sacred Deer. If there are not moments in this film that don’t absolutely sting you to your core, I daresay that you didn’t pay much attention.

From a production standpoint, the film is immaculate: Nyholm achieves a completely immersive sense of icy-cold magical-realism that makes one feel as if they’re taking an (unfortunate) look into a parallel universe that’s as beautiful as it is terrible. Cinematographers Tobias Holem-Flyckt and Johan Lundborg shoot some gorgeous images, including plenty of amazing overhead shots that turn the film’s repeated theme into something of a museum diorama: it’s awesome stuff and something I never got tired of. Combine this with Pia Aleborg’s insanely detailed production design and Koko-di Koko-da is a world that you never tire of looking at, even if it’s never a place you want to visit.

The acting is all top-notch, with heart-breaking performances from Edlund and Gallon that are almost too real and painful to be anything close to entertaining. The ghastly trio, bemusing as they are, are perfect antagonists, coming off as a bit of a marriage between Rob Zombie’s Firefly clan and van Warmerdam’s invasive Borgman. While the cast is small (essentially five people, two dogs and a cat), it plays in perfectly with the film’s general sense of isolation and alienation.

Is Koko-di Koka-da a well-made film? Without a doubt: in fact, I daresay it’s one of the best films of the year, from a purely technical standpoint. Is it a good film? Depending on your tolerance-level, I’d go so far as to say that it’s a great film: Nyholm has a singular vision and executes it perfectly. Is it a film that I intend to revisit any time soon? Not a chance, friends. Even as I type this, images and scenes keep popping into my head, none of which I’d prefer to remember. Like the best (most difficult?) works of the aforementioned filmmakers, Koko-di Koko-da is an uncompromising, unpleasant and unforgettable deep dive into the misery of the human condition. You won’t see much gore on display here but the characters are skinned and filleted, nonetheless.

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This takes us through the first half of Day Two: in service of trying to break up a rather considerable chunk of text, I’ve opted to split the screenings into two posts. Tune in for the remainder as we continue to move through our experience at this year’s Chattanooga Film Festival. As always, boos and ghouls, stay safe and remember: there’s always room for one more at The VHS Graveyard.

7/23/17: The Bad Batch

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2017 films, A Girl Walks Home Alone At Night, Ana Lily Amirpour, cannibals, cinema, cults, dystopian future, film reviews, films, Giovanni Ribisi, Jason Momoa, Jayda FInk, Jim Carrey, Keanu Reeves, Lyle Vincent, movie reviews, Movies, revenge, romances, spaghetti Westerns, Suki Waterhouse, The Bad Batch, writer-director, Yolonda Ross

Some films have such an impossibly fascinating premise that they demand your attention: writer-director Ana Lily Amirpour’s debut, A Girl Walks Home Alone At Night (2014), was one of those films. Billed as “the first Iranian vampire film,” this gorgeous, black-and-white homage to everything from John Hughes to Roman Polanski more than lived up to the premise, showcasing a fresh, exciting new voice that promised a truly fascinating career.

For her follow-up, The Bad Batch (2017), Amirpour moves the action from Iran to the badlands of west Texas, hammering down harder on the spaghetti-Western leanings of her debut to craft something that is far more visceral but no less gauzy, in its own way. One thing remains abundantly clear, however: Ana Lily Amirpour is an amazing filmmaker whose craft continues to impress at each new turn.

We find ourselves in a world that’s recognizably ours, yet smeared with a heavy coating of grease and grime: think early Mad Max, pre-Fury Road. “Undesirables” are processed through some vague penal system, dubbed the Bad Batch, tattooed with an identifying number and tossed out into the unforgiving, scorched Texas badlands. Your choices, at that point, are pretty slim: you can try to get to the frontier town of Comfort, led by smarmy New Age guru/Ibiza part host The Dream (Keanu Reeves and one seriously choice mustache) or you can try to avoid being dinner for the roving cannibals known as Bridgers, while surviving on whatever you can eke out of the cracked earth.

Arlen May Johnson (Suki Waterhouse), as it turns out, opts for more of an “all of the above” approach. She gets captured by cannibals, loses an arm and a leg, escapes and makes it to Comfort, only to realize that the grass isn’t always greener on the other side. One day, while target shooting in the wastelands outside the town’s walls, Arlen comes upon a pair of cannibals, a mother and daughter, and makes the fateful choice that will put her into direct contact with the formidable Miami Man (Jason Momoa). Arlen will come to learn that when you’re already on the fringes of society, questions of “right” and “wrong” don’t mean much and that people with the least often have the most to lose.

To get the gushing praise out-of-the-way: I really loved The Bad Batch, part and parcel. I’m more than willing to admit that the film isn’t perfect, mind you, but the sheer level of invention on display here should more than gloss over some narrative wheel-spinning or any nitpicking. We need more filmmakers taking risks and this, if nothing else, is one helluva risky film.

Risky, you say? Let’s see…you have a gritty, revenge-oriented, spaghetti-Western, complete with all the stock characters and trappings you would expect. You also, of course, have a Mad Max-style, post-apocalyptic film where people live in junkyards and a messianic guru holds court from atop a giant, neon boom box. Let’s not forget what could arguably be called a traditional, ’50s teen romance where kids from the wrong side of the tracks somehow find true love. Oh, yeah: it’s also got elements straight out of The Hills Have Eyes. Easy sell, right?

As with her debut, however, Amirpour is a natural when it comes to taking all these disparate elements and blending them into a completely organic, believable whole. Although the scale is certainly smaller, The Bad Batch definitely evokes some of the wonder of the Fury Road world: with its cannibalistic body builders, DJ-led cults, baroque prison system and dystopian wastelands, it’s not hard to place this in the same, general universe. I left the film wanting to know more about its world and denizens, always the biggest compliment I can pay any film, especially a stand-alone movie.

From a craft standpoint, The Bad Batch looks and sounds phenomenal. The cinematography, courtesy of Lyle Vincent (who also shot A Girl Walks Home Alone At Night), is simply gorgeous, full of rich wide shots and eye-popping, vibrant colors. The score and sound design make excellent use of songs to highlight scenes, in much the same way as AGWHAAN did, but puts a greater emphasis on sparse arrangements: for much of the film, there’s no score at all and it’s a powerful, well-executed choice.

For her cast, Amirpour collected a pretty diverse group of performers and manages to make the choices look like anything but stunt casting. Suki Waterhouse, equally great in last year’s Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, is simply superb as Arlen, turning in the kind of kickass turn that would make spiritual forebears like Clint Eastwood proud. Equally great is Jason Momoa, giving us the kind of tragic character that would be exceedingly hard to pull off with so little (largely garbled) dialogue, let alone as a violent cannibal. Keanu Reeves, continuing his latter-day trend of quirky roles, brings the proper amount of genuine pathos and complete sleaze to his cult/town leader role and is never less than magnetic when he’s on-screen.

To that core trio, let’s add a roster that includes: the always incredible Yolonda Ross as Miami Man’s wife, Maria; Jayda Fink, doing a fair amount of heavy-lifting in only her second performance, as the little girl; Jim Carrey, doing some of the best acting of his life, in a completely silent role (and I’m not being snarky, in the slightest); and Giovanni Ribisi, as a possibly prophetic madman. It’s a cast that looks odd, on paper, but plays together beautifully. In a film with plenty of sublime joys, the acting is certainly one of the foremost ones.

When all is said and done, The Bad Batch is an incredibly smart, self-assured experience. The film is about many things – one need only look at the marked contrast between the serious, family-oriented cannibals and the party-hardy, hedonistic townies to know that Amirpour has a few things to say about a few different subjects. From a purely cinematic viewpoint, however, she’s created a completely immersive experience and, as an avid cinephile, that’s something I just don’t get enough.

From the first spoken words, as the Bad Batch are processed, to that final, amazing campfire shot, Amirpour’s sophomore film holds your attention like a bear trap. It’s not always an easy film (shit gets hacked off and there will be blood) but there’s a genuine beauty to the ugliness and grime that’s undeniable. As someone who grew up on films like The Good, The Bad and the Ugly, I appreciate that glorious combination of the panoramic shot and the gut shot…the decision of the individual to shrug, say “the hell with it,” and wade back into hell just because…the way that death is an ever-present given but life and love still manage to carve their own paths through the wilderness.

The Bad Batch might not be a perfect film but I’ll be damned if I didn’t feel close to perfect on at least a dozen times while watching it. That’s just about all I need to know, friends and neighbors.

7/9/15: Sheep In Wolf’s Clothing

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Ansel Roth, Beth Grant, brainwashing, character dramas, Chris Ellis, cinema, cult leaders, cults, dark comedies, deprogrammers, dramas, dysfunctional family, fall from grace, Faults, feature-film debut, film reviews, films, Heather McIntosh, hotel rooms, Jon Gries, Lance Reddick, Leland Orser, Leonard Earl Howze, living in a hotel, Mary Elizabeth Winstead, Michael Ragen, Movies, Nicholas Tucci, parent-child relationships, Riley Stearns, Sarah Beth Shapiro, surreal, The Cub, washed-up, worried parents, writer-director

Cinema has a long, proud tradition of anti-heroes, although few are quite as memorable (or reprehensible) as Ansel Roth (Leland Orser). When we first meet Ansel, the de facto protagonist of writer-director Riley Stearns’ incredible Faults (2014), he’s trying to use a previously used voucher to scam a free breakfast from a hotel’s in-house restaurant. The confrontation turns physical after Ansel refuses to leave, eating ketchup packets with a fork while the restaurant manager and waiter attempt to wrestle him to the ground. The capper to the whole fiasco? Turns out Ansel pulled the voucher out of the trash in the first place. The cost of the meal that he refused to pay? $4.75. That, my friends, is conviction.

Ansel is a scruffy rat, a washed-up, defeated con artist who no longer believes in the bullshit he peddles but doesn’t really have a lot of options, at this point in time. Shuffling from one hotel conference room to the next, he discusses cult deprogramming to tiny groups of largely disinterested people, all while trying to sell a book that no one wants. Despite having a former best-selling book and television show, a professional fall from grace and ensuing divorce have left Ansel a broken, wretched schlub, trading on former glories that are in danger of being completely forgotten, leaving his entire existence in question.

After a particularly disastrous “seminar,” Ansel is approached by Paul (Chris Ellis) and Evelyn (Beth Grant), a couple of salt-of-the-earth types who want the former deprogrammer’s help in rescuing their beloved daughter, Claire (Mary Elizabeth Winstead), from the clutches of a cult. Despite initially blowing them off, Ansel is forced to change his tune after his publisher, Terry (Jon Gries), drops him as a client and sends the menacing Mick (Lance Reddick) to collect what Ansel owes for his latest flop of a book. Ansel agrees to “kidnap” and deprogram Claire, undoing the cult’s brainwashing and giving the couple back their daughter…all for an incredibly steep price, of course.

Ansel and his lunk-headed partners snatch Claire off the street and spirit her away to a motel room, where Ansel plans to spend the next five days deprogramming her. While Claire, at first, seems more than a little shell-shocked, in no time at all, she’s engaging in a philosophical back-and-forth about her life, her involvement with the cult and, to a great extent, the abject worthlessness of Ansel’s own existence. Things really get interesting when Ansel reveals that Claire’s parents are staying in the adjoining room.

As Paul’s aggressive, “my way or the highway” attitude threatens to wreck Ansel’s progress (along with giving us plenty of good reasons for Claire’s initial departure), Terry and Mick continue to hover in the background, promising to take the grubby deprogrammer apart and put him together backward if they don’t get their promised cash. Will Ansel be able to keep his own wreck of a life together long enough to save Claire or will it all end up being the straw that broke the camel’s back?

After gaining some measure of notice with the clever “raised by wolves” short The Cub (2013), Stearns really kicks down the door and blowtorches the joint with his debut full-length, Faults. As with John Maclean’s similarly excellent Slow West (2015), Stearns’ film is a perfect synthesis of form, theme, performance and technique, each element blending into and leading into the next like Ouroboros eating its tail. The script is tight, taut and full of exceptional dialogue, giving the film the feel of a really good stage play, a feeling reinforced by the tendency to confine the action to small, contained locations (the motel room, the van, Ansel’s car). Faults is the kind of film that can hold an audience rapt with nothing more than two characters talking, a definitively old-fashioned notion in this era of sensory overload.

Cinematographer Michael Ragen shoots some incredibly beautiful, evocative images, doubly impressive when one considers that Faults is his full-length debut, as well, after a series of shorts and music videos. Ragen was also responsible for shooting The Cub, so here’s to hoping that his relationship with Stearns continues to bear such impressive fruit. Ragen’s often dreamlike images are perfectly complimented by Heather McIntosh’s whimsical score: the score helps to leaven the film’s darker edges and accentuates the more absurd comedy elements quite nicely. Faults looks and sounds consistently great, making it one of the more attractive films to come down the pike this year.

Towering over everything like a pair of Titans, however, are the astounding performances by Leland Orser and Mary Elizabeth Winstead. Despite how great the script and production is, despite the raft of solid supporting performances (Ellis and Grant are particularly good as Claire’s parents) and the tight sense of economy, Faults is, at its heart, a two character study and those two characters are Ansel Roth and Claire, Leland Orser and Mary Elizabeth Winstead. If there are any cracks in this foundation, any failure on the part of the principals to take us “all the way,” than Faults would become just a curiosity, a kindred spirit to Jane Campion’s odd Holy Smoke (1999). Luckily for us all, Orser and Winstead turn in two of the very best performances of the entire year.

Orser, a character actor whose career encompasses everything from walk-ons in The Golden Girls and Se7en (1995) (he was the male half of the “lust” setpiece) to more substantial roles in films like Alien: Resurrection (1997), Saving Private Ryan (1998) and Liam Neeson’s Taken franchise, is an absolutely mesmerizing presence here, demanding our attention like an immutable black hole. There’s no notion of separation between actor and character, here: no zippers or seams in this particular “costume.” Rather, we get a complete portrait of an impossibly fractured, miserable man, a loathsomely smooth-talking snake-oil salesman who believes in nothing whatsoever, including his own bullshit. From that opening introduction in the restaurant all the way to Ansel’s shocking “evolution,” there’s not one missed note or misstep in Orser’s performance. I fully expect him to be snubbed come awards’ season but know this: he absolutely deserves to be represented when they announce the short-list for Best Actor in a Leading Role, hands-down.

Winstead, who first came to prominence via performances in genre pictures like The Ring 2 (2005), Final Destination 3 (2006), Black Christmas (2006), Death Proof (2007) and The Thing remake (2011), is nothing short of a revelation here, giving us what surely must be the trickiest, most subtle performance of her entire career. The co-mingled sense of naive innocence and steely determination is a heady one and watching Claire slowly assume control of the whole messy situation is one of the greatest cinematic pleasures I’ve experienced in some time. Winstead is completely invested in the performance, giving Claire the kind of multi-dimensionality that marks the very best cinematic creations. Immense kudos to Winstead for her fearless performance: Stearns is her real-life husband and I’m assuming that their relationship allowed her to open up in ways that might not have been possible with another filmmaker. Regardless of the reason, Winstead is quite marvelous as Claire, from her parking lot intro (she puts up a pretty good fight!) all the way through the film’s multiple surprise revelations and twists.

The aforementioned twists, another facet of Stearns’ fantastic script, are yet another reason why I found myself falling in fast love with the film. Quite simply, Faults is the furthest thing from a predictable, run-of-the-mill film as possible. While I’m sure that many audience members might call some of the surprises, I seriously doubt whether anyone will be able to predict them all: the last 20 minutes of the film was a constant barrage of “rug-pulling” that was as exhilarating as it was unpredictable. For all of that, however, Faults still feels completely organic: any and every twist revelation is earned, nothing is unduly telegraphed and the whole film feels as smart as advanced trigonometry, albeit much more fun.

So, here I stand, my application in hand to become a devoted acolyte of the transcendent Faults (no “the,” if you please, as Claire patiently informs Ansel). I’m fully ready to give myself over to flawless filmmaking, extraordinary performances and a casually brilliant script, ready to take that next step and “progress” to quality filmmaking. I’m here to recruit you in this endeavor, as well, to take your hand and lead you to the same light I found. No need for deprogrammers here, my friends: let the Church of Stearns show you the way.

 

2/28/15 (Part Four): Making a Case For the Staycation

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Andrés Levin, Beto Cuevas, black magic, Borderland, Brian Presley, cinema, co-writers, cults, Damián Alcázar, drug cartel, drug cartels, drug dealers, Eric Poppen, extreme films, extreme violence, film reviews, films, foreigners abroad, Francesca Guillén, gory films, Greg McLean, horror, horror films, horror movies, Hostel, human sacrifice, inspired by true events, Jake Muxworthy, Marco Bacuzzi, Martha Higareda, Mexican gangs, Mexico, Movies, Rider Strong, Scott Kevan, Sean Astin, set in Mexico, torture, torture porn, tourists, violent films, Wolf Creek, writer-director, youth in trouble, Zev Berman

If there’s one thing that modern horror films seem to make abundantly clear, it’s that tourists make great cannon fodder. From Hostel (2005) to Wolf Creek (2005), from Turistas (2006) to The Ruins (2008) all the way to the frigid water of the Reykjavik Whale Watching Massacre (2009), horror films have taught us that foreigners abroad (usually Americans in foreign countries…fancy that!) can expect a few things: beautiful locations, sinister locals, dangerous sight-seeing and more occult ceremonies, dismemberment and torture than they can shake a stick at. Hell, under this rubric, Australia’s Greg Mclean is probably the number one bane to that country’s tourism industry: between his Wolf Creek films and Rogue (2007), his giant croc opus, it’s a wonder that any non-resident would ever want to step foot in the Land Down Under, much less poke around in its isolated, Outback areas.

Tourism-based horror films work, in many cases, because we all (Americans, in particular) harbor certain preconceived notions and prejudices about “the other”: we all want to take in and experience as much of the world as we can but there’s always the nagging notion that what you don’t know can, without a doubt, flay you alive. Meeting new people and experiencing new cultures is always a good thing, we say, but humanity’s inherent fear of the unknown is a mighty powerful primal urge to overcome. For some audiences (and filmmakers, apparently), there can be nothing more terrifying than being “stuck” in a foreign country, surrounded by strangers, unable to fully communicate, protect or look after ourselves. It’s a biased fear, of course, but aren’t all fears? After all, the difference between fearing something and respecting it is usually a pretty small step, one that begins with understanding and empathy. As the TV used to say: knowing is half the battle.

Zev Berman’s Borderland (2007) is another in the long line of “tourists in peril” films, while also slotting neatly into the “torture-porn” subgenre that was spearheaded by the likes of Saw (2004) and Hostel (2005) in the mid-’00s. While I’ve never been a fan of torture-porn films, despite having seen more than my fair share – I’ll go on record as saying that the Saw films are something of a guilty pleasure, for me, while I find the Hostel films (and most of Eli Roth’s output, to be honest) to be fairly worthless, aside from the geek-show appeal – I’ve seen plenty that manage to balance their gratuitous blood-letting and suffering with actual narratives. When done right, these types of films can be unbelievably powerful, drawing us right into the dark heart of suffering and putting us uncomfortably close to the terrible action on screen. Despite some scattered issues, Berman’s Borderland ends up in the “well done” column, thanks to some atypically solid acting, a suffocating sense of helplessness and a connection to real-world events, no matter how tenuous. They’re small differentials, in some cases, but they make all the difference in a relatively crowded field.

The “other,” in this case, is Mexico: to be more specific, the violent, drug cartel aspect of Mexico that’s managed to turn the border between the U.S. and its southern neighbor into a veritable war-zone. The issue, of course, is much more complex than simply “good vs evil”: notions of societal infrastructure, politics (both domestic and international), xenophobia and good old-fashioned capitalism all play in. While the notion of eradicating the cartels is a noble one, it’s also a notion that’s steeped in wish-fulfillment as much as reality: at this point, the relationship between the cartels, Mexico’s political structure and its civilians is too intertwined to be easily severed. There’s also the underlying (and largely unspoken) notion that the United States plays a huge role in this problem: issues of supply and demand notwithstanding, the “war on drugs” has managed to turn cartels into cash cows, in the same way that Prohibition managed to give the mob a significant boost in the ’20s.

This is the framework into which we’re dropped, although the meat of the narrative is another “fish out of water” tale, involving a trio of freshly graduated, all-American high school seniors who decide to have one, last blow out in Mexico and get more than they bargained for. The trio are “types” more than individuals but that’s also par for the course: Henry (Jake Muxworthy) is the macho, cocky douchebag with a dick for a brain and an inherent dislike of the lower classes; Phil (Rider Strong) is the geeky virgin who just wants to get laid and Ed (Brian Presley) is the sensitive, nice guy (and obvious hero). After Ed “saves” a comely bartender (Martha Higareda) who ends up being more than capable of taking care of herself, the trio get a pair of bumming-around companions in the form of Valeria and her demure, religious cousin, Lupe (Francesca Guillén).

This is all well and good, of course, but the film’s opening introduced us to a severely terrifying group of Mexican drug dealers, led by the astoundingly creepy Gustavo (Marco Bacuzzi), and it doesn’t take a psychic to foretell that paths will, eventually, be crossing. When Phil mysteriously disappears after going to visit his 17-year-old prostitute “girlfriend” (she was his first, after all), Ed and Henry, along with Valeria and Lupe, scour the area, looking for any signs of him. When they run into a grizzled, former police detective by the name of Ulises (Damián Alcázar), however, they learn about the cartel and discover just how much trouble their friend (and they) are really in. As luck would have it, they’ve come to town just as the cartel’s “high priest,” Santillan (Beto Cuevas), has arrived: it’s time for a special ceremony, it seems, and Phil is the guest of honor.

Despite its unrelenting brutality, Borderland is actually a fairly thoughtful, well-thought-out film. While the camera never shies away from the violence (particularly in the incredibly unpleasant scene where a cop is tortured), it also doesn’t wallow in it: there’s never the sense that Berman has simply strung one gore setpiece to the next, ala the Hostel films. The violence is all justified within the framework of the story: Santillan and the cartel have a reason for doing what they’re doing, even if it isn’t a particularly solid one, which positions this as the furthest thing from “psycho killers hackin’ up teens.”

Unlike the recent spate of overly-glossy, polished horror films (think anything by Platinum Dunes), Borderland actually has a gritty, grainy look that really helps sell the foreboding atmosphere. At times, particularly during the opening credits, the film actually reminded me (favorably) of Tobe Hooper’s original Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974), although Berman’s film is nowhere near as accomplished. Cinematographer Scott Kevan, who also shot Eli Roth’s gore-tastic Cabin Fever (2002), does lose points for some unnecessarily shaky camera (especially during some nausea-inducing running scenes that would make the Blair Witch blush) but it’s never bad enough to fully pull one out of the action.

One of Borderland’s secret weapons is definitely it’s collection of bad guys. Beto Cuevas’ Santillan is a cold, reptilian, uber-polite, smart and unassuming dude, the kind of guy that you wouldn’t mind discussing art with…if he wasn’t so busy sawing you into pieces, that is. Channeling something of the cool menace of Anthony Hopkin’s legendary Hannibal Lecter, Cuevas is nothing short of masterful and Santillan is, easily, one of the scariest “real-world” villains to pop up in horror films in some time. We’ve already mentioned Bacuzzi’s freakish Gustavo (sort of a Mexican cartel Michael Berryman who shoots first and asks never), but let’s not forget Sean Astin’s stellar take on the ex-pat-turned-cartel-whipping-boy Randall: friendly, apologetic and completely mercenary, Randall is the last person you’d want watching you in this situation. Put them all together and Borderland has a better group of villains that most action films I’ve seen in a while: kudos, indeed!

While Borderland certainly plays up the popular media perception of the Mexican border as a lawless war-zone (we’re informed that the film is “inspired by real events” at the outset), it’s certainly no more xenophobic than any of the aforementioned tourist-related horror films. We spend time with not only the cartel but also the police and locals (in the form of Valeria and Lupe): it’s not a fully-fleshed portrait, by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s a fair sight more balanced than the typical “sneering, glowering, backwoods” take on this sort of thing.

I also appreciated that Higareda’s Valeria was never a shrinking violet, clichéd sexpot or damsel in distress: by the film’s conclusion, she’s maintained herself as a fairly independent asskicker and a worthy equal to Ed. Additional bonus points for allowing the character of Henry to develop (if ever so slightly) from arrogant asshole to properly-humbled dude after a confrontation with Gustavo: I’d change my tune awful damn quick if I butted heads with that guy, too!

Ultimately, Borderland is a well done, if decidedly unpleasant, film: despite a questionably happy ending, the majority of Berman’s movie is claustrophobic, lean, mean and engineered to pummel an audience into submission. While nothing here surprised me, necessarily, I was genuinely impressed by the way all of the moving parts came together into a cohesive, fairly unique and endlessly disturbing whole. While there might not be a shortage of tourist-in-peril or torture-porn films on the market, Berman’s Borderland manages to stand out from the crowd: sometimes, that’s all you can ask for.

9/21/14: Father Doesn’t Know Best

Tags

AJ Bowen, Amy Seimetz, auteur theory, based on a true story, Charles Anderson Reed, cinema, cults, Donna Biscoe, Eden Parish, estranged siblings, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, found-footage, Gene Jones, House of the Devil, isolated communities, Jim Jones, Joe Swanberg, Jonestown Massacre, Kate Lyn Sheil, Kentucker Audley, mass suicide, mockumentary, Movies, murdered children, Safe Haven, Talia Dobbins, The House of the Devil, The Innkeepers, The Sacrament, Ti West, Timo Tjahjanto, VICE, writer-director

Sometimes, all of the elements can be there for a roaring blaze but all you get is a little spark and some smoke. Although I went into writer/director Ti West’s newest film, The Sacrament (2013), with high hopes and a head full of overwhelmingly positive critical reviews, I’m rather disappointed to admit that this appears to be yet another underwhelming showing from the modern-day horror auteur. Although I really enjoyed West’s sophomore effort, The House of the Devil (2009), I must admit that I’ve been hard-pressed to really like the rest of his output: The Roost (2005) felt half-baked and slight, The Innkeepers (2011) squandered some nicely built atmosphere with a lazy, perfunctory climax and his entry for The ABCs of Death (2012) managed to be equal parts lazy, stupid and sloppy. My main issue with West remains the same: his films tend to look good but are as empty and slight as cereal commercials. While I’d love to say that West’s take on the infamous Jonestown Massacre is a grand slam, the film is actually closer to an entire nine innings composed of walks and bunts.

For a time, The Sacrament manages to hold, build and maintain a reasonable amount of interest and tension. Our trio of protagonists, Sam (AJ Bowen), Patrick (Kentucker Audley) and Jake (indie writer/director Joe Swanberg) are all employed by modern alternative-media outlet VICE, perhaps most familiar to casual fans as the organization that immerses itself in various “outsider” enterprises like street gangs, drug dealers and, apparently, religious cults. This “immersionism,” as the film calls it, results in a neutral, no-judgement take on various societal elements that usually spawn pretty intense reactions one way or the other. Most importantly for the context of the film, VICE is a real organization and their inclusion in the film helps to heighten the realism of the found-footage aspect, as well as blurring the lines between the reality of the situation and the highly fictional nature of filmmaking. This ends up being the film’s biggest hat trick and, for a while, was almost enough to keep this viewer’s attention…almost.

The plot is almost simplicity, itself: Patrick’s drug-addled, estranged sister Caroline (Amy Seimetz) has just sent him a letter explaining that she got clean, moved out of the country and hooked up with a religious cult. Patrick plans to head to the tropical commune and check out the situation: when his boss, Sam, convinces Patrick to take him and cameraman Jake along for the ride, we get yahtzee. Once there, the trio notices that there seem to be quite a few more armed soldiers hanging around than seems necessary for a supposedly peaceful commune: the place looks more like a ramshackle army encampment. The followers all seem nice and friendly, however, especially the former gutter-trawling Caroline. Although our friendly heroes are a little wary, nothing seems particularly out of the ordinary…at least nothing that they can put their fingers on.

In time, Sam gets his wish and is allowed to interview the cult’s charismatic leader, Charles Anderson Reed (Gene Jones), otherwise known as “the Father.” Reed makes his initial appearance dressed in an all-white suit, wearing sunglasses, entering to rapturous applause: he’s like an older, pudgy, nerdier version of Bono. He also seems a bit cuckoo, although his initial paranoia and dislike of American policies doesn’t necessarily set-off warning bells among the counter-culture journalists. When a young girl (Talia Dobbins) slips Sam a note that says, “Please help us,” however, the group begins to realize that there’s something more sinister going on here. As their departure time approaches, unease and turmoil seems to be spreading through the camp: something’s brewing and it’s making Sam, Jake and Patrick more than a little nervous. When “paradise on earth” suddenly becomes “Hell,” however, the journalists find themselves trapped in a living nightmare and realize the terrible truth: when you immerse yourself too completely in darkness, you tend to disappear.

For most of its running time, The Sacrament is a fully competent and well-made film: the cinematography is frequently lovely, the acting is decent and the locations are certainly interesting. The main problem, unfortunately, is the overwhelming sense of “been there, done that.” Perhaps this is due to the fact that Ti West has modeled his film pretty much part and parcel on the real-life Jonestown Massacre: in many ways, Charles Anderson Reed is just a slightly fictionalized version of Jim Jones, right down to the way he dresses. The problem with this becomes a similar problem with any film based on true events: when you know how everything will play out and end, there needs to be other elements to hold viewer interest. Although James Cameron’s Titanic (1997) is a rather dubious example (I’ve never actually sat down to watch the film, so my knowledge of it is strictly anecdotal), there does appear to be one main difference between the two films: Cameron’s film used the sinking of the Titanic as the background for a love story, whereas West seems content to simply rehash the basic beats of the original story.

We get very little in-depth analysis on the cult or its members and none of the main characters are ever fleshed-out beyond a few basic brushstrokes: Sam and his wife are expecting their first baby, Patrick is worried about his ex-junkie sister, yadda yadda yadda. With no particularly interesting characters to focus on, our primary focus becomes the story, itself. The problem with this, of course, is that most of us already know how this particular story ends. I could certainly see how someone who’s unfamiliar with the original Jonestown Massacre might be shocked and horrified by what’s on display here but the reality was much, much worse: West’s depiction ends up being a pale imitation of real events.

This notion of “same old, same old” is compounded by the fact that horror fans have already seen this particular idea done much better previously: Timo Tjahjanto’s entry in V/H/S 2 (2013), Safe Haven, was a similar “journalists go hang out with a doomsday cult” scenario but managed to be endlessly inventive, eye-popping and a ludicrous amount of fun. The Sacrament is too serious and po-faced to be that entertaining, unfortunately, seeming to strain for a relevance that it just doesn’t fully earn.

For all of my disappointment in the film, I still can’t deny that West is a talented filmmaker: the film is filled with highly effective, evocative scenes (the “interview” scene between Sam and The Father is especially atmospheric and well-done) and the mass suicide scenes definitely have a raw power to them. There’s something especially dreadful about watching the helpers mix up the poisoned Kool-aid and serve it to the unsuspecting children as their tearful, resigned parents look on. The violence and gore effects are well-done, helping to ramp up the inherent realism of the piece. On the acting side, AJ Bowen does a typically rock-solid job as the pushy editor, while Gene Jones makes a highly effective cult leader: there’s something about his soft, doughy expressions and wheedling voice that are both strangely soothing and unsettling.

Ultimately, however, The Sacrament is what it is: an extremely faithful retelling of the Jonestown Massacre that features no real surprises and seems to add nothing to discussion of the original incident. While there’s not much technically wrong with the film, there’s also no spark, no real sense of invention or purpose. In a genre that thrives on strong audience reactions to films, whether positive or negative, The Sacrament received the worst possible reaction from me: I shrugged. So middle-of-the-road as to be nearly faceless, Ti West’s newest is another case of “close but no cigar.” I’ll keep watching his films but, at this point, it’s becoming increasingly difficult to muster up much more emotion than faint interest.

7/1/14: That New World Odor

Tags

Aaron Poole, Alan C. Peterson, Bruce Clayton, Christopher MacBride, cinema, conspiracy theories, conspiracy theorists, cults, feature-film debut, film reviews, films, found-footage, James Gilbert, Lina Roessler, Mithras, Movies, New World Order, paranoia, secret societies, Tarsus Club, the Bilderberg Group, The Conspiracy, thrillers, writer-director

If you think about it, it’s really not so difficult to imagine that some sort of world-wide conspiracy is responsible for the current state of the world. After all, in a time when the rich and multi-national corporations have their hand in everything from food safety to the justice system to scientific research, it’s not a stretch to assume that they don’t really have the best interests of “the rest of us” in mind. After all, the robber barons may have built America but they didn’t build it for the railroad workers, the slaves and the “poor, huddled masses”: they built it for themselves and were “nice” enough to allow everybody else to live there…for a price, of course. Just because the notion of a secret, all-powerful group who runs the world from behind the scenes is plausible, however, certainly doesn’t make it fact. As with many things, the belief in large-scale conspiracies requires no small amount of faith on the part of the believer: after all, you can find a pattern in almost anything, if you look hard enough. On the other hand, however…is it really paranoia if someone is actually out to get you?

Writer-director Christopher MacBride tackles this idea of global, secretive society head-on in his recent found-footage thriller, The Conspiracy (2012) and the results are certainly fascinating, if less than eye-opening. While much of the film revolves around some pretty basic, “Conspiracy 101” ideas (chem-trails, the Illuminati, secret societies, the NSA, New World Order, et al), The Conspiracy manages to be more than just a soapbox: there’s plenty of genuine tension and a cracking good ending that manages to reference both The Wicker Man (1973) and Kill List (2011) while still managing to maintain its own sense of self. While The Conspiracy might not have the capacity to change the world, it certainly offers a nice respite from the usual “haunted house/lost in the woods/exploring the asylum”-type of found footage films and should certainly hold some appeal for fans of more thoughtful horror offerings.

Beginning with a quote from Benjamin Disraeli about how the world is governed by very different forces than we imagine, we’re introduced to our protagonists, Aaron (Aaron Poole) and Jim (James Gilbert), a pair of filmmakers making a documentary about conspiracy theorists. Jim is the more settled of the two, thanks to his loving wife, Tracy (Lina Roessler) and infant son, while Aaron is the wilder and woollier of the pair (at times, Poole reminds of Aaron Paul). We’re told that the dynamic duo began working with uber-conspiracy theorist Terrance G (Alan C. Peterson) in 2011, after coming across YouTube clips of Terrance practicing his particular brand of street-corner conspiracy evangelism. His goal, as he tells the fellows, is to let “them” know that he knows about them: watching the watchers, as it were.

After a July 11th interview, however, Aaron and Jim lose contact with Terrance for four weeks. Going to his formerly cluttered apartment, they find the whole place cleaned-out, save for heaps of the newspaper clippings that Terrance kept tagged to every available surface in his place. Taking the assorted clippings with them, the pair is, at first, extremely flippant about Terrance’s disappearance (“Maybe the mother-ship came and picked him up”) but are still curious about his “research.” As Aaron becomes more and more invested in the clippings, however, he begins to adopt some of Terrance’s rather nutso tendencies, such as filling every available surface in his home with clippings, scraps of paper and pictures while also noticing a distressing amount of mysterious folks hanging around everywhere. Jim is naturally skeptical of the whole thing (“Every conspiracy theory is up there: if you stare at it long enough, of course it will make sense,” Jim tells Aaron in exasperation) but begins to come around when Aaron makes a breakthrough. According to Terrance’s research, Aaron is able to trace the source of many of these conspiracies back to a single group: the Tarsus Club (standing in for the real-life Bilderberg Group).

According to Aaron (and Terrance), the Tarsus Club (whose symbol is a red bull’s head) has been pulling the strings on every major political, socio-economic and cultural issue for generations: their meetings always seem to occur right before big, world-changing events (such as wars) and the group seems unnecessarily secretive: their website describes Tarsus as “a membership-only club for leaders” and a call to their listed phone number only results in an automated female voice repeating Aaron’s phone back, over and over. Clearly, something is going on here and the guys do what any self-respecting researchers would do: they flood the internet with requests for any and all information about the Tarsus Club and their activities. Soon, they’re sent an invitation to meet in one of the online conspiracy virtual chat-rooms that Terrance frequented: once there, they’re introduced to Mark Tucker (Bruce Clayton), the supposed author of a Time Magazine article about the Tarsus Club. Mark agrees to meet with them, in person, and give them the low-down on Tarsus, provided they stop with all the internet stuff: according to him, it’s just pricking the bull (so to speak) and will only result in them getting unceremoniously squashed.

Mark proves to be a rather strange, enigmatic figure, whose obviously broken and reset hand speaks to some pretty dire stuff in his background. He fills them in on the Tarsus Club, telling them that the club actually dates back to a pre-Christian cult that worshipped the god Mithras. Mithras was always depicted killing a bull, hence the bull-head symbol, and Tarsus Club meeting always include the ritual killing of a bull. When asked what the point of all this is, Mark readily points to the New World Order: the desire to put more power in the hands of fewer people has resulted in the entire world being split up between a few factions, all of which are connected to Tarsus.

As time passes, Aaron becomes more and more paranoid: he sees strangers stalking him at all times and ends up moving in with Jim and Tracy after his apartment is ransacked. When a mysterious, black SUV shows up at Jim’s house late one night, he begins to get the notion that this whole enterprise might be a wee bit hazardous for him and his family but Aaron refuses to back down. When Mark tells them that he can actually sneak them into the next Tarsus Club meeting, so that they can see what goes on firsthand, Aaron jumps at the chance, dragging a much more hesitant Jim along for the ride. The pair will soon learn, however, to be careful what they wish for, as they get to witness, firsthand, just how the Tarsus Club conducts business.

As a unique spin on found-footage films, The Conspiracy really stands out, with one rather odd caveat: most of the cinematography is way too good to ever be passed off as found-footage. In fact, up until the two infiltrate the meeting, there’s not much of the film that couldn’t pass for a more “traditional” paranoid thriller. While I expected this to bother me, I actually got used to it pretty quick: in many ways, The Conspiracy is more of a faux-documentary than a found-footage film (at least until the final 15 minutes or so). The cinematography, by veteran camera operator Ian Anderson (who also makes an appearance in the film), is quite good throughout and goes a long way towards establishing the film’s chilly, sinister atmosphere.

I was also quite fond of many of MacBride’s filmmaking tricks, such as the decision to “blur out” all of the faces of the people at the Tarsus Club: this added an extra air of authenticity to the proceedings, which helped with the overall suspension of disbelief. In fact, everything about the Tarsus Club portion is spot-on and pretty great, especially from a horror standpoint. If the film has the occasional rough moment in its first two-thirds, the back-half is consistently well-done and, at times, quite frightening. While I could see the ending coming fairly early on (if you watch enough of these kinds of films, it’s pretty inevitable, regardless of the quality of said film), MacBride still managed to throw a few twists in that I didn’t see coming. The Conspiracy is MacBride’s feature debut and I’m genuinely interested to see where he goes from here: I’m not sure if the gentleman is actually interested in conspiracy theories or is merely mining fertile ground for his own uses but he’s obviously a talented filmmaker/writer, which is always a great find.

Ultimately, despite its emphasis on conspiracy theories and paranoia, The Conspiracy is not simply aimed at a core, captive audience. I’m willing to bet that anyone, regardless of political or social believes, would find something to like in the film: after all, remove the conspiracy angle stuff and you’re still left with a whip-smart thriller that features just enough horror elements to appeal to a wide swatch of potential viewers. While The Conspiracy may not revolutionize the world (or filmmaking, for that matter), it’s a more than worthy addition to the growing canon of found-footage/first-person-POV films and should appeal to anyone with an open mind and about 80 minutes to kill. Remember, though: it’s not paranoia if they’re actually out to get you.

5/27/14: A Real Leap of Faith

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'70s-era, Ahom Aquarian, based on a book, based on a true story, California in the '70s, cinema, communes, counterculture, cult, cults, documentaries, documentary, Father Yod, film reviews, films, freak-folk musicians, hippies, Hollywood CA, Isis Aquarian, Jim Baker, Jodi Wille, John Lennon, Makushla, Maria Demopoulos, meditation, Mother Ahom, Movies, polygamy, ritual magic, sex magic, Source Family, the Sacred Herb, The Source Family, the Source Restaurant, the Sunset Strip, utopian communities, utopian societies, Yahowa 13

I’ve always been fascinated by cults, probably because I’ve never actually believed in any one thing (or person) enough to blindly follow it off a cliff. I’m also staunchly and proudly anti-authority, so giving one guy (and let’s be honest: for various reasons that have nothing whatsoever to do with religion, the leaders of these things are usually dudes) complete control over my life seems…well, like about as much fun as getting devoured by ants, to be honest. Cults are fascinating things, however, because regardless of my personal belief in them, plenty of other folks do believe in them. As I like to say: live and let live…provided, of course, that the other person is just as willing to live and let live in return. The inherent problem with almost all cults (or call them “Utopian communities,” if that makes you feel better) is that they usually end up butting heads with “polite” society, usually in some pretty violent ways. I’m sure we’re all familiar with Manson and his “family,” but the Branch Davidian and People’s Temple cults are probably better examples: I think that most cults start from a (relatively speaking) “normal” mindset but I’ll never be convinced that ol’ Charlie didn’t have his trajectory plotted out from day one.

The Source Family, a fascinating product of the hodge-podge mindset of ’70s-era Los Angeles, was a cult: I don’t really think there can be much beating around the bush on that one. As led by Father Yod (formerly Jim Baker), the “Family” exhibited all of the classic signs, including the liquidation of all members’ personal assets, in service of the group; communal living in (progressively smaller and smaller) compounds; polygamy and relationship management (Yod would often “assign” wives to men, regardless of previous arrangements/relationships/desires) and an often adversarial relationship with the outside world that involved run-ins with law enforcement and strained community ties. As seen in The Source Family (2012), a documentary about Father Yod’s group put together by surviving members of the Family, however, there was a lot more to them than just their similarity to more infamous cults. In the end, a lot of this had to do with the fascinating, polarizing figure that was Jim Baker…aka Father Yod.

Regardless of what he ended up doing with the cult, Baker was a pretty interesting fellow: before he was Father Yod, he’d been a top-notch fighter pilot, fitness guru and successful restaurateur. He was a hunky ladies’ man who once killed two men with his bare hands and robbed at least one, if not more, banks. After falling in with the “peace and love” movement, in his early 40s, Baker opened The Source Restaurant in sunny Hollywood, CA. The Source would go on to some notoriety as the favorite hang-out of various little-known celebrities like Steve McQueen, John Lennon, Goldie Hawn, Joni Mitchell and the members of Yes: you know, no big deal. At one point, according to the documentary, the Source Restaurant made more money per square inch than any restaurant in the United States. Let that sink in for just a minute, ladies and gentlemen. This guy, at least on the outside, was not your typical cult leader.

Baker assembled the Source Family teaching from a number of popular California trends/customs of the time, including health food, hedonism, drug use and Eastern and Western mysticism: in many ways, the Source Family’s tenets were kind of a “greatest hits set,” as it were, although Baker, now rechristened Father Yod, was always the de facto center of the organization. Yod would marry 19-year-old Robin, who would become Mother Ahom Aquarion (all member of the group legally changed their last names to Aquarian, making this sort of like a nutty, ultra-official version of the Ramones…which is kinda cool, if you think about it) and the two would lead their group through a number of changes, not the least of which was the eventual introduction of polygamy into the Source Family, along with concepts like “ritual magic” and “sex magic.” Yod would end up with thirteen wives, much to the consternation of Mother Ahom, and the group would begin to seem, quite suddenly, like a more traditional cult. After being “forced” from their longtime home in California, the group picked up stakes and moved to Kauai, Hawaii, where things would remain less than ideal. Once Father Yod died (in a very strange incident that, depending on who you ask, either sounds an awful lot like suicide or a colossally stupid decision), the group would continue on, for a time, under the tutelage of Makushla, one of Yod’s thirteen wives. Upon dissolving, the members would go on to do everything from award-winning stem cell research to continuing the work of their freak-folk band, Yahowa 13. Some would stay with the group, such as Isis Aquarian, while others would look back fondly, from a great distance. Unlike the People’s Temple, however, there was no great flame-out, no mass “exodus”: things just seemed to sort of peter out after Baker’s death. For all intents and purposes, the Source Family was a fascinating, ultimately unsuccessful experiment in creating a true counter-culture society.

As a documentary, The Source Family is utterly enthralling: I was pretty much glued to the screen from the first word to the last (the opening is particularly great, featuring a slow-zoom in on a portrait of Yod that ends with a close-up on his intense eyes). It’s a fast-paced, very informative film that’s filled with one neat factoid after another: cult actor Bud Cort was once a member, in good standing, of the Source Family…famous rock photographer Ron Raffaeli discusses how he was asked to join the group but was too busy and thought they were a little too weird…a member describes how he knelt and kissed Yod’s feet the first time he met him, to which Yod, impressed, responded “Far fucking out.” The Source Family was certainly an imposing, photogenic group and plenty of photos from the era bear this out: there’s something rather majestic (if not slightly nuts) about the sight of Father Yod, looking like Rick Rubin as a spiritual guru, leading his huge “family” around on the streets of Hollywood in the ’70s. There’s a nutty energy to everything that’s absolutely a product of the ’70s: it’s impossible to imagine stuff like this happening anywhere but Hollywood, at that time.

I was genuinely surprised by the musical aspect of the Family: I’d never heard of their band before (or the group itself, to be honest) but it’s impossible not to see how influential their sound has been to modern musicians. Hell, you could actually make a case for the entire freak-folk subgenre springing directly from Yahowa 13: even Billy Corgan thinks they were unbelievably influential and who are we to disagree with the Great Pumpkin? One of my favorite parts of the film is the bit where they discuss Yod and the band playing various gigs at area high school lunch hours. The footage of one of these gigs is absolutely priceless: watching Yod and crew freak the fuck out on stage, before a massive crowd of bored teenagers, all while Yod delivers a nearly non-stop “sermon,” may be one of the highlights of my last decade of movie-watching…no joke. The only thing I could think while watching this was: “When would something like this have ever been acceptable? Trying doing this nowadays and see how fast the proverbial shit would hit the fan…I’m guessing almost immediately.

Ultimately, even though I don’t think Baker was anything more than a kooky, ultra-wealthy guy who saw a sure-fire thing and grabbed it with both hands, I had a blast actually watching the documentary. Truth be told, I’d love to see a fictionalized version of this same story: hell, give it to David O. Russell, since his American Hustle-mode would be perfect for this story. This definitely isn’t an unbiased account of the events: while the film does include plenty of commentary from detractors (mostly pretty gentle, bemused kind of reflections, although the bit where one of Baker’s former co-workers scoffs at his desire to be called Father Yod is pretty snarky), it also tends to gloss over lots of problem areas.

I’m troubled, to say the least, about actions like marrying off the underage girls to Family members, in order to circumvent local rape laws: that doesn’t sound kosher, to say the very least. The “family engineering” aspect is also pretty horrible, since that’s what religious fundamentalists use to swap partners around among families, “rewarding” faithful men with more (or different) wives. There is some discussion about how much control the women had over this but it’s also explicitly stated that Yod would often “ask” members to participate in this: since no one refused him, this would be the same thing as requiring it, no? Same thing goes for the groups use of ritual and sex magic: from the outside, it seems kind of easy to assume that Yod’s ritualistic sex with various women and girls (underage or not) had less to do with helping them achieve personal nirvana than with helping him get off. We could always give him the benefit of the doubt but, to be honest, the documentary does a pretty good of muddying up this issue, as it is. Suffice to say that it’s a lot easier to buy Baker as a bored, opportunistic hedonist who stumbled into a pretty great way to run out the last years of his life than it is to buy him as a misunderstood religious guru.

Ultimately, The Source Family is a fascinating, fast-paced and well-made (if obviously biased) account of the life of a true outsider. Hell, when was the last time you heard a religious leader referred to as a perfect combination of Lenny Bruce and Krishnamurti? If Baker often seemed like an all too earthly figure, there’s certainly something other-worldly about his bigger-than-life persona. I might not have been converted to the cause, but The Source Family gave me a pretty great insight into a fascinating time in our history, a time when utopia seemed just around the corner and the possibilities were endless. Baker might not have been able to keep his dreams (or himself) aloft but there’s no denying that the guy lived life on his own terms. For better or worse, there’s something kind of inspirational about that.