12/22/14 (Part Two): The Sleep of Reason

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Alex van Warmerdam, alp, Annet Malherbe, auteur theory, Best of 2014, Borgman, Camiel Borgman, children in peril, cinema, Dirkje van der Pijl, Dutch film, dysfunctional family, Elve Lijbaart, Eva van de Wijdeven, fairy tales, fantasy, favorite films, Film auteurs, film festival favorite, film reviews, films, foreign films, forests, Hadewych Minis, husband-wife team, infidelity, isolated estates, Jan Bijvoet, Jeroen Perceval, Lars von Trier, Michael Haneke, Mike Weerts, Movies, nightmares, Pieter-Bas de Waard, Sara Hjort Ditlevsen, The Northerners, Tom Dewispelaere, Tom Erisman, Warmerdam, writer-director

What, exactly, would you get if you crossbred Pier Paolo Pasolini’s Teorema (1968) (or its American remake, Down and Out in Beverly Hills (1986), if you prefer) with Michael Haneke’s nihilistic Funny Games (1997) and then had oddball Greek auteur Yorgos Lanthimos direct the results while the ghost of Luis Bunuel shouted advise from the sidelines while playing sand volleyball with Lars von Trier? You would probably, of course, end up with a big, stinking, pretentious pile of pap: after all, that’s a whole lot of disparate arthouse balls to juggle at one time and we all know what happens to soup when the kitchen is full of cooks. If you’re one-of-a-kind Dutch master Alex van Warmerdam, however, you would take all of these ingredients and turn them into of the single most mind-blowing, difficult and flat-out amazing films to come down the pike since…well, probably since Warmerdam’s outsider classic The Northerners (1992) blew minds over two decades ago. But remember, kids: this guy’s a professional…do not attempt this at home.

Any attempt to give a plot synopsis for Borgman (2013) is pretty much doomed to fail miserably but we’ll give it the ol’ college try, nonetheless. Camiel Borgman (Jan Bijvoet), a mysterious transient of some sort, is roused from his underground forest lair by an armed posse (think pitchfork wielding villagers in Frankenstein films and you’re on the right track): narrowly escaping with his life, Camiel alerts the other forest dwellers and heads for the “safety” of a nearby upper-class suburb. After attempting to gain entry at various houses (he just wants to take a bath but, for some reason, folks seem rather hesitant to allow a mysterious, bearded vagrant into their homes for the express purpose of bathing…what happened to love your fellow-man?), he finally ends up at the Schendel residence. Life, as they say, will never be the same again.

Outwardly, the Schendels are the picture of modern success: husband/father Richard (Jeroen Perceval) brings home the bacon quite ably, even if he spends long hours at the office to do so; mother/wife Marina (Hadewych Minis) spends her time painting and working on her art and their three, young children, Isolde (Elve Lijbaart), Leo (Pieter-Bas de Waard) and Rebecca (Dirkje van der Pijl) are tended to by their au pair, Stine (Sara Hjort Ditlevsen). The Schendels live in a luxurious home, including a nearby “summer-house” that’s probably as nice as some folks’ “real” houses and seem to be the very picture of detached affluence.

This nice little facade of normalcy comes crashing to the ground, however, when Camiel ends up pushing himself into their lives. After provoking Richard to kick the ever-loving shit out of him, Camiel then appeals to Marina’s sympathy and she ends up hiding him in the summer-house, unbeknownst to her overly irritable husband. Despite her request that he stay put, Camiel freely wanders about the estate, slinking around the margins as Richard goes about his business, blissfully unaware. At first, Camiel’s motives seem inscrutable but largely harmless: he enjoys hanging out with the children and telling them stories and seems largely content to simply observe the family’s day-to-day activities from the shadows.

In short order, however, Camiel’s actions begin to seem decidedly stranger and more nefarious, not least of which when he cleans up his appearance and applies to be the Schendel’s new gardener after he bumps off the old one. Once he’s “officially” insinuated within the household, Camiel calls up the other “forest dwellers,” namely Pascal (Tom Dewispelaere), Ludwig (director Warmerdam, in a fantastic performance), Brenda (Annet Malherbe) and Ilonka (Eva van de Wijdeven), and seems to put some sort of grand plan into action.

With Pascal and Ludwig now working with Camiel as gardeners and Brenda and Ilonka functioning as a tandem hit-squad/cleaning crew, Camiel begins to insinuate himself more and more into the family. As he seduces the (very) unhappily married Marina, the others seem to be working their own games on the children and nanny, although the ultimate goal remains unclear. As Camiel and his crew finish up their grand, mysterious re-design of the Schendel’s garden and Richard grows more and more irrational and violent, Marina begins to be plagued by terrible nightmares, visions which seem to be seeping into her waking life. With the line between fantasy and reality growing ever blurrier, Camiel works towards an end-game that will either spell the complete destruction of the Schendels and everything they stand for…or their ultimate salvation.

For the most part, the less said about Borgman’s specifics, the better: part of the unstoppable joy of watching the film is experiencing the numerous ways in which writer-director Warmerdam constantly fucks with audience expectations. Suffice to say that the film does appear to follow some form of logic, albeit one that seems particularly alien to poor fools like us. There’s certainly a strong element of fantasy here, what with that exceptionally odd opening, the appearance of the dogs and the undeniably strange resolution, but the entire film is grounded in a kind of muddy realism that makes the more surreal elements stand out in even greater relief. In particular, I’m reminded of the way in which Haneke blended fantasy and realism in Funny Games: while the majority of the film can be read as a simple home-invasion scenario, the moment where one of the tormentors “rewinds” the action in order to get a different outcome is a distinctly fantasy element. Borgman is full of little moments like this, small details that cue us in to the notion that more is going on under the surface then we might at first notice.

Warmerdam has a particular way of staging certain events (such as the various scenes where the naked Borgman sits atop Richard and Marina while they sleep) that makes us question what we’re seeing: once Camiel is officially living with the Schendels, it’s almost impossible to fully separate fantasy from reality, especially since what occurs in the more overtly fantasy moments seems to directly affect things during the “realistic” portions. Lots of films are described as “dizzying” and “head-swirling” but Borgman is one of the very few films that earns those descriptors part-and-parcel.

One of the most intriguing aspects of Borgman is the film’s coal-black, dry-as-bone sense of humor. While very little in the film could actually be considered “funny,” per se, there’s still an undeniably comic thread that runs underneath everything. In particular, the ways in which Camiel and his gang react, largely unemotionally, to the increasingly passionate activities of Richard, Marina and Stine leads to some truly choice moments (the scene where Pascal blows off Stine’s advances and then goes to sleep while she’s standing there is a minor classic).

While some audience members may find themselves scratching their heads over Borgman’s denser, more outre elements, I’m sure that everyone can agree that the film looks absolutely stunning: from beginning to end, cinematographer Tom Erisman gives the film a rich, darkly fairy-tale-like sheen that compliments the strange doings to a tee. Similar to Lars von Trier’s exceptional Melancholia (2011), Borgman features some simply stunning visuals: one of my very favorite shots in decades has to be the gorgeous underwater ones that detail the outcome of the gang’s various “victims.” Borgman is the kind of film where you could turn the sound off and just admire the visuals: it’s easily as beautiful as one of Peter Greenaway’s epics or my personal go-to for this sort of thing, Gyorgy Palfi’s stunning Taxidermia (2006).

Whenever you’re dealing with hard-core surrealism, the acting can become a make or break element: as with everything else, Borgman has this locked down solid. Simply put, the cast is perfect, each actor bringing something unique and individual to the table. It’s tempting to single out Bijvoet here, since his performance as the titular Borgman is one of the most accomplished, impressive performances I saw all year. The truth is, however, he’s surrounded by great performances: Minis is stunning as the open-wound that is Marina, Perceval turns Richard from one-dimensional ape into something approaching a tragic figure, van de Wijdeven and Malherbe are superb as the most philosophical hitmen since Vincent and Jules and Ditlevsen is so bizarre as the au pair that she comes across as truly alien…there isn’t a single boring, “run of the mill” character to be found here, not one moment of lazy acting, nothing that takes us out of any of the characters. Surrealism like this is no mean feat to pull off but Warmerdam and his cast make it look elementary.

I’ve already established that Borgman looks amazing, is endlessly fascinating, brilliantly written and genuinely creepy…but what is it actually about? To be honest, that’s a pretty great question. I’m not too proud to admit that I was often completely lost during the film’s relatively short run-time (it’s under two hours but feels closer to 90 minutes), although that fact never bothered or frustrated me. In fact, this was one of the very few films I’ve seen recently that actually made me research it after it was over. Although I’m still not quite sure that I understand what Warmerdam is getting at, I’m pretty sure I’m in the right general area. The film can be read in at least a dozen different ways (I absolutely wasn’t joking about the parallels to Down and Out in Beverly Hills) but I think that Warmerdam feeds us clues throughout that helps point to a distinctly fantasy-oriented explanation: note the similarities between Camiel’s night-time visits to the Schendel bedroom and Johann Heinrich Fussli’s iconic painting “Nachtmahr” to see where I eventually ended up.

Ultimately, however, I really don’t care what Warmerdam’s end-game was: the resulting film is so damn cool that I’m perfectly happy to continue to imperfectly understand it until…well, until I finally figure it out, I suppose. As far as I’m concerned, a good film is like a puzzle but a great film is like one of those mammoth 10,000 piece jigsaw puzzles that seem to be mostly generic blue sky pieces. I’m not saying that you should work up a cranial sweat every time you sit down to watch a flick…there’s nothing wrong with flipping your internal switch to “idle” every once in a while. A truly great film, however, requires complete investment on behalf of the audience: if the filmmaker is trying to tackle something important, the least you can do is keep up. As far as I’m concerned, Borgman is one of the most undeniably great films of the year, a complex, confusing masterpiece that demands your complete attention, makes no concessions and has an absolute blast doing it. I may not have completely understood it but I absolutely loved it and can’t recommend it highly enough.

 

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10/19/14: A (Cow) Tale For the Ages

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31 Days of Halloween, Aleksander Nordaas, cinema, crime-scene cleaners, dark comedies, Erlend Nervold, fairy tale, fairy tales, film reviews, films, flashbacks, foreign films, government secrets, horror-fantasy, huldra, isolation, Jon Sigve Skard, Morten Andresen, Movies, Norwegian films, Scandinavian folklore, Silje Reinamo, Thale, voice-over narration, writer-director-cinematographer

Regardless of where or how we grew up, most of us have at least a passing familiarity with fairy tales: while the specifics may change from culture to culture and country to country, the general sense of wonder and subliminal morality inherent to these kinds of stories are pretty much universal. In many ways, fairy tales are our first experience with notions of “right and wrong,” the idea that each action will always produce a reaction: take the gold that doesn’t belong to you, get turned into a frog…learn to work together with others, reap the benefits…take too much, lose what you already have. For children, fairy tales are (usually) our first real glimpse into the workings of the adult world, albeit gussied-up with plenty of trolls, dragons, anthropomorphic animals and subtle life lessons. For all of this, however, there’s always the distinct notion that fairy tales are fictional: “The Princess and the Pea” is not based on a true story…or so we think.

But what if fairy tales were actually true? What if the fantastical creatures that inhabit these children’s stories were actually flesh-and-blood constructs, hidden from the “real world” by no more virtue than their desire to remain undisturbed? What would happen, then, if the worlds of humanity and fairy tales were to collide? Would it be just like in the Disney cartoons…or would the results be a little darker, something more akin to the classical Grimm tales? Norwegian writer-director Aleksander Nordaas’ Thale (2012) posits just such a meeting between fantasy and reality and the modest results are consistently intriguing.

We open with Leo (Jon Sigve Skard) and Elvis (Erlend Nervold), erstwhile employees of the No Shit Cleaning Service (specializing in crime-scene clean-ups), as they see to their latest assignment. It seems that an elderly recluse has been torn to pieces by animals at his isolated cabin in the woods and the duo have been called in to clean it all up and find the rest of the body, tasks which the novice Elvis approaches with as little enthusiasm as possible. While cleaning up the place, however, the pair stumble upon a hidden entrance to a sealed-up basement: further investigation reveals a modest living area, shelves full of canned goods that expired 30 years ago and some sort of laboratory setup, complete with a large tub filled with opaque liquid.

The situation takes a decided turn for the surreal, however, when a nude, mute young woman (Silje Reinamo) bursts from the tub. According to audiotapes that they find, tapes which appear to feature the voice of the deceased home-owner, the young woman is named Thale. Who…or what…she is isn’t quite so easy to figure out, however, and will lead our heroes to a mysterious government agency, a sad-eyed but cold-hearted G-man (Morten Andresen) and the rather awe-inspiring idea that the surrounding woods may just be filled with the living embodiment of fairy tales, creatures so alien and powerful that mankind would be better served pretending that they don’t exist.

There’s something really interesting about Nordaas’ film (wearing a virtual haberdashery, the film’s writer-director was also its cinematographer and editor), an element that can best be summed-up as “magical.” While Thale is an extremely modest production (one interior, one exterior; a small handful of actors; limited effects), it’s a completely self-assured one, striking a tone that falls just short of madcap but is distinctly zany. The overall idea – that fairy tales may be more reality-based than we think – is a good one and something that’s already been explored to good effect in something like Troll Hunter (2010) and Rare Exports (2010), films which Thale certainly shares an overall vibe with.

The relationship between the world-weary veteran and the wide-eyed novice, despite being a trope nearly as old as films themselves, is well developed by Skard and Nervold, respectively but the real star ends up being Reinamo as the mute, captive huldra. Ethereal, beautiful and just impish enough to keep us guessing, Reinamo is a real dynamo, bringing more characterization to the mute Thale than many actors give with pages worth of dialogue. The scene where she stalks the soldiers through the basement, nude and deadly as a tiger, is a real corker and instantly reminded me of the similarly bravura scene in Tobe Hooper’s wackadoodle Lifeforce (1985) where Mathilda May did pretty much the same thing.

Despite how much I liked the film, overall, I can’t help but wish it had a consistently better look: despite some nice exterior shots of the brooding forest, too much of the interior photography has a cheap, digital look to it that really takes away from the film’s fairy tale themes. If ever there was an indie horror-fantasy film that cried out for the hyper-fantastic, overly fussed with mise-en-scene of Wes Anderson’s oeuvre, Thale is that film. While the movie never looks flat-out ugly, it’s consistently flat, which ends up being a real disappointment. While I’m sure that this can be chalked-up to the film’s low-budget status, it’s definitely a bit of a bummer.

For the most part, however, Thale is a real winner: genuinely odd, suitably whimsical (or as whimsical as a film which features crime-scene cleaners can be, I suppose) and always interesting, Nordaas’ sophomore film is a fast-paced, short (under 90 minutes) and thought-provoking little movie that takes a distinct left-turn from most horror fare and is all the stronger for it. We might not fully understand everything by the time the end credits roll but, then again, when do we ever fully understand fairy tales? Sometimes, there are things you just can’t explain.

10/15/14: All in the Family

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31 Days of Halloween, adoption, Andres Muschietti, based on a short, childhood fears, children in peril, cinema, co-writers, Daniel Kash, David Fox, Don't Be Afraid of the Dark, fairy tales, feature-film debut, film reviews, films, Guillermo del Toro, horror, horror movies, Isabelle Nelisse, Jane Moffat, Jessica Chastain, Mama, Megan Charpentier, mother-daughter relationships, Movies, Nikolaj Coster-Waldau, sisters, The Woman in Black, writer-director

For the majority of its run-time, writer-director Andres Muschietti’s Mama (2013) is a moody, atmospheric and fairly slick little chiller that handily recalls such recent films as Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark (2010) and The Woman in Black (2012). Relying more on suspense and fantastic visuals than creative bloodshed or mass chaos, there’s something decidedly old-fashioned, yet intensely endearing, about the film’s rather modest aims. It’s nothing we haven’t seen before, for the most part, but it’s an incredibly easy film to get along with.

At the climax, however, Muschietti tries something a little bold and stretches for a pretty emotional, almost melodramatic, finale. While this tactic could have resulted in something with all the consistency of sodden cardboard, it actually ends up working spectacularly well, imbuing the film with a warm, authentically emotional and subtly powerful finale. If the final moments can color our ultimate impression of a film (how many otherwise quality movies have been all but ruined by terrible endings?), then Mama’s finale helps boost the movie up into a slightly loftier collection of peers.

Muschietti’s feature-length debut is actually an expansion of his earlier short (also called Mama), which garnered quite a bit of attention, particularly from genre superhero Guillermo del Toro. Suitably impressed with Muschietti’s ability to combine atmospheric chills, creepy visuals and genuine emotional impact, del Toro jumped on as executive producer, leading to the full-length expansion that we’re currently discussing. There’s always an inherent danger to expanding a short into a feature: one merely has to look at the vast majority of SNL “features” to fully see how difficult it can be to stretch 5 minutes of material across 90 minutes of dead air. In this case, however, Muschietti has succeeded in expanding out his original idea without making the whole exercise seem unnecessary and academic.

Beginning with a haltingly handwritten “Once upon a time…” scrawled in white over a black screen, Mama has all of the nightmare unreality and sense of fantasy of the best fairy tales. We follow an obviously distraught man as he packs up his two young daughters (leaving their pet dog behind, which strikes a subtly ominous tone from the get-go) and races out for an isolated cabin in the woods. His behavior is erratic and frightening and there’s nothing about this that seems to spell a happy (or long) life for either young girl. Once at the cabin, however, the father is attacked and dragged off by some kind of unseen something, leaving his daughters on their own in the middle of nowhere.

Jumping ahead five years, we learn that the girls’ uncle, Lucas (Nikolaj Coster-Waldau), has been looking for them ever since, despite the nagging notion that five years is an awful long time for a couple of young kids to be missing. As luck would have it, Lucas’ friend, Burnsie (David Fox), manages to stumble into the hidden cabin in the woods and finds the young girls alive and well, if filthy and seemingly feral. With the aid of his punk-rocker girlfriend, Annabel (Jessica Chastain) and the kindly Dr. Dreyfuss (Daniel Kash), Lucas attempts to reintegrate the girls back into the civilized world.

The girls, however, are acting a bit odd, to say the very least. For one thing, they won’t stop talking about the mysterious “Mama” that (supposedly) cared for them in the cabin for the past five years. Burnsie and Lucas find no sign of anyone, however, leading them to believe that the girls have retreated into their imaginations in order to deal with the trauma of their father’s actions. Even more unnerving, however, are the quiet little conversations that Victoria (Megan Charpentier) and Lilly (Isabelle Nelisse) appear to have with no one in particular. As these behaviors continue, Lucas and Annabel begin to feel the influence of a powerful, potentially malevolent force.

When Lucas is inexplicably shoved down the stairs by an unseen force, Annabel is forced to care for the kids on her own, while her boyfriend lies unconscious in the hospital. Despite her steadfast refusal to devote herself to kids or “settling down,” Annabel comes to care for Victoria and Lilly, vowing to protect them at all costs. Something else feels protective towards the children, however, something primal, evil and relentless. It would seem that someone else was looking after the girls, after all…and Mama has no intention of letting her “babies” go without one helluva fight.

Similar to Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark and The Woman in Black, Mama puts atmosphere before action and setpieces, which tends to give the whole affair a more muted, subtle feel. This isn’t to say that the film doesn’t feature more “modern” scare moments (ie: the “screeching jump-scare sound of death”) but it is to say that these moments are easily the film’s weakest. When allowed to spool out slow and creepy, however, Mama proves to be a real winner. There one scene, in particular, which showcases the film’s aesthetic to great effect: as Annabel and Victoria play in one room, Lilly plays with an unseen Mama in the other. The shot is devised as a “natural” split screen, with the door frame dividing the screen in half. It’s a cleverly staged moment, to be sure, but it’s also a fantastically effective one: I’m willing to wager that more than one viewer will experience a bit of the ol’ goose-flesh during that particular moment.

As mentioned earlier, the film is aided considerably by a nicely realized, very emotional finale. Without giving anything way, suffice to say that Muschietti manages to temper the character of Mama with enough melancholy to put her evil into a different perspective, allowing for a climax that’s equal parts sad, lovely and very satisfying. There’s nothing especially upbeat about Mama but it also refuses to traffic in easy “sorrow-porn,” either.

Craftwise, the film has a consistently polished look that works quite nicely, especially during the aforementioned finale. The special effects scenes, while obviously CGI, are fairly well-integrated into the film, allowing everything to feel a bit more organic than in the similar Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark (which often felt perilously close to slipping into CGI-silliness). The acting is good, although I must admit to being less than impressed with Chastain’s performance: her character vacillates between whiny and ridiculously self-assured and there were plenty of moments where I found myself unable to fully invest in her character. By contrast, Charpentier and Nelisse are rather amazing as the young girls: child actors can be notoriously hit-and-miss but there’s nothing about either one of their performances that took me out of the film, especially once things start to ramp up in the final third.

While there’s nothing especially gritty about Mama, it stands as an exceptionally well-made, effective and moving bit of fairy-tale influenced horror. From the outstanding opening credit sequence (creepy kids’ drawings that tell the film’s story in shorthand) to the knockout finale, Mama is a consistent pleasure. It may not be the most original film in the world (astute viewers should probably be able to get the general drift by at least the midpoint of the film, if not sooner) but it’s also the furthest thing from anonymous dreck as one can get. If you’re a fan of slicker, more commercial fare (the movie is rated PG-13 which, for the most part, means absolutely nothing nowadays), you could definitely do a whole lot worse than pulling yourself up to Mama’s table.

5/31/14 (Part Two): The Children Suffer

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abused children, Aharon Keshales, Ami Weinberg, bad cops, Big Bad Wolves, black comedies, child killing, cinema, co-directors, co-writers, cops, cops behaving badly, Doval'e Glickman, Dror, fairy tales, film reviews, films, gallows' humor, Gidi, irony, Israeli films, Kalevet, Lior Ashkenazi, Menashe Noy, Micki, missing child, Movies, Nati Kluger, Navot Papushado, Prisoners, Rabies, revenge, Rotem Keinan, torture, Tzahi Grad, vengeance, writer-director

While we’d all like to think that we’re above primal emotions like hate and fear, the reality is actually a lot less black-and-white. The human animal may try to distance itself from its more feral, four-legged “cousins,” casting its eyes (and aspirations) to the cosmos, suppressing more earthy, “unpleasant” instincts. It may do this to its heart’s content but one overwhelming fact cannot be denied: the wild, untamed brutality of the animal kingdom always lurks just below the serene, civilized facade of humanity. At any given moment, we all walk the razor’s edge, careful not to give ourselves over too completely to the darkness.

This delicate balancing act becomes a lifelong task, then, just one other facet of life to navigate. We’re always perfectly balanced, the necessary combination of light and dark to survive in a dangerous world…until we aren’t. When we allow powerful, devastating primal urges like hate, fear and vengeance to take the controls, we tempt the fates, throw off the natural order of things. Too little of the “animal instinct” and we’re gingerbread figures, empty haircuts that mean as much to the natural order as plankton do to whales. Too much of the “old ways,” however, and we become something much different from human…much more dangerous. When the hearts of men and women become overstuffed with hate and vengeance, when we cast aside all other notions of humanity in service of stoking the indignant fire in our guts, we become wolves, ourselves. As we see in Aharon Keshales and Navot Papushado’s extraordinary, incendiary new film, Big Bad Wolves (2013), even the desire for justice can become something ugly in the blast furnace of hate, leading us to do all of the right things for all of the most terribly wrong reasons.

Our protagonist, Micki (Lior Ashkenazi), is a charismatic Israeli police detective with a huge problem: there’s a psychopath kidnapping, raping, torturing and killing young girls. Micki’s a good guy, at heart, but he’s also one of those movie cops who operates best outside the polite constraints of the law. Along with his by-the-book partner, Rami (Menashe Noy), and a couple of eager young cops nicknamed “Beavis and Butthead,” Micki takes the chief suspect in the case, Dror (Rotem Keinan), to an abandoned factory for a little good old-fashioned “questioning questioning.” Dror, a religious studies teacher, is a particularly pathetic figure, resembling nothing so much as one of those shaggy dogs that gets wet and ends up looking like a drowned rat. During the course of the “interrogation,” Micki and the perpetually giggling moron brothers put quite the smack-down on Dror (including actually smacking him repeatedly with a phone book), all in the hope of getting him to cop to the heinous crimes. When the factory ends up being less than abandoned, footage of the entire incident is uploaded to YouTube: Micki becomes an instant celebrity and is rewarded with being busted down to traffic cop, while Dror is summarily released into a community that has pretty much already convicted him. Not the best situation for a school teacher, it turns out, and Dror is quickly asked to take a little “vacation” by the principal (Ami Weinberg): he’s welcome to come back once everyone’s “got over it,” presumably sometime between “the distant future” and “never.”

Despite being summarily chewed out by his superior, Tsvika (Dvir Benedek), Micki is still positive that Dror is guilty and intends on continuing to push him until he cracks. With a knowing look, Tsvika tells him that he can do whatever he likes, since he’s no longer working the case…as long as he doesn’t get caught, of course. But Micki does end up getting caught, right at the key moment when he has spirited Dror away to an isolated forest locale and made the terrified man dig his own grave. Far from an agent of law enforcement, however, Dror’s “guardian angel” ends up being a devil in disguise: Gidi (Tzahi Grad), the vengeful father of one of the dead girls. Like Micki, he’s also convinced that Dror is guilty but his ultimate intention is a bit different from Micki’s: he intends to torture Dror until he reveals the location of his daughter’s missing head. By inflicting all of the torture onto Dror that he suspects the schoolteacher of inflicting on the girls, Gidi hopes to achieve a kind of perverted justice. If Dror talks, he gets a merciful bullet to the brain. If he doesn’t, he’ll get the hammers…and the pliers…and the blowtorch.

As the three men interact within the isolated, soundproofed house that Gidi has set-up expressly for this occasion, allegiances are formed and torn asunder. Micki alternates between being Gidi’s captive and his accomplish, depending on how far down the rabbit-hole he’s willing to go. Dror tries to appeal to Micki’s basic humanity, as well as their shared connection as fathers: both Dror and Micki have young daughters and difficult relationships with their respective wives. Complications arise when Gidi’s pushy father, Yoram (Doval’e Glickman), drops by to bring him some soup. Upon seeing the situation, Yoram gently chides Gidi but offers to help: he’s ex-military, after all, and knows a thing or two about getting men to talk. As the situation for Dror (and Micki) becomes more dire, new revelations threaten to spin the entire mess off the rails. When men become angry, desperate and frightened, they become dangerous: they become big, bad wolves.

One of the first things that becomes clear in Big, Bad Wolves is that there’s a strong, consistent dose of gallows’ humor that runs throughout the entire film. In fact, right up until the gut-punch final image (which manages to be as terrifyingly bleak as the final scene in Darabont’s The Mist (2007)), the film is actually quite funny. Bleak, violent, savage and hopeless? Absolutely. The dark subject matter is leavened considerably, however, by a script that manages to be not only subtly clever but also broadly comedic, when called for. One of the best scenes in the film is the one where Tsvika calls Micki into his office. It’s “Bring Your Son to Work Day” and Tsvika has brought his son with him: in a classic scene that works on a number of levels, Tsvika and his son engage in some tandem ball-busting that’s pretty damn funny. “This is the yellow card conversation,” Tsvika tells his son, at one point. “Like in soccer, dad?” “Just like in soccer, son,” Tsvika says proudly, mussing his son’s hair while staring Micki down with a glare that would melt Medusa.

Keshales and Papushado (whose debut film, Kalevet (2010), bears the distinction of being Israel’s first-ever horror film) use this scene of humor is some truly surprising, disarming ways, none more so than the scenes where Gidi tortures Dror. There’s never anything funny about torture but the filmmakers manage to wring a surprising amount of genuine laughs out of these scenes. As Gidi sets about on his path of vengeance, he’s constantly interrupted by reminders of the “polite” world. As Gidi is about to begin breaking Dror’s fingers, one by one, his cellphone rings: it’s Gidi’s mom and he’d better take the call, lest she go “crazy.” Gidi and Micki flip a coin to see who gets the first go at Dror, only to have the coin dramatically roll away. Micki tries to stall the inevitable mayhem by telling Gidi that they should drug Dror first, if they really wanted to do everything to him that he did to the kids: Gidi matter-of-factly tells him that Dror also violated the girls sexually but they’ve both decided to pass on that punishment…there are always compromises.

In many ways, Big, Bad Wolves plays as a sardonic counterpart to the much more po-faced Prisoners (2013). While the Jake Gyllenahaal-starring Oscar nominee had a portentous, serious tone that practically demanded it be taken seriously, its Israeli “cousin” is much more loose and easy-going. For one thing, Ashkenazi is a ridiculously charismatic lead, sort of a Middle Eastern take on George Clooney: he does more acting with his eyes and the corner of his mouth than most actors do with the entire script. In a particularly knockout moment, Micki stares incredulously as Dror stops to help an old woman cross a busy street. The look of surprise and disbelief is obvious, but there’s an undercurrent of amusement and, dare I say, approval, that comes through just as loud and clear. Micki is a complex, engaging character with a truly heartbreaking arc and one of the most interesting cinematic creations in some time.

The real revelation of the film, however, is the towering, absolutely astounding performance of Tzahi Grad as Gidi. By the time we’re introduced to him, Gidi is already “past” the actual murder of his daughter and is moving on to the closure that he wants: there’s very little outward “sadness” to the character and no moping or chest-beating whatsoever. Gidi is a practical, cold and successful man who has been dealt a terrible blow and now must make it all “right,” just as he’s always done. As additional details about Gidi’s character creep in, we begin to see a more fully formed vision of the man, making his actions that much more difficult to fully condone (or condemn, if we’re being honest). There is nothing stereotypical about Gidi or his actions. Frequently, I would find myself genuinely shocked by something he does (the film does not wallow in gore and violence but what there is tends to be extremely sudden, extremely brutal and rather unforgettable) but I never lost my connection to him as a character. While the writing in Big, Bad Wolves is pretty flawless, a lot of the credit for this must go to Grad: it’s not easy to make a potentially monstrous character “human,” but Gidi manages to be not only massively human but completely relateable and likable, as well. He feels like a real person, not a film construct.

Big, Bad Wolves ends up being filled with the kind of subtle details and moments that practically demand repeat viewings. A throwaway line of dialogue becomes an important bit of foreshadowing…a “random” encounter with a mysterious, nomadic horseman (Kais Nashif) becomes an opportunity for an incisive point about Arab/Israeli relations. The whole film is full of fairy-tale imagery, from the opening title sequence to the trail of “breadcrumbs” that lead to the dead girls to the title of the film, itself. Far from being an all-too obvious bit of symbolism, the fairy-tale aspect is completely organic, seamlessly interwoven into the film and providing a rich depth missing from the straight-laced, nuts-and-bolts construction that was Prisoners.

Despite being an exceptionally difficult film to watch, at times, Big, Bad Wolves is the furthest thing possible from “torture porn” like Hostel (2005) and Seven Days (2010). Unlike more shallow genre exercises, the torture and violence in Big, Bad Wolves is not intended to be fodder for gorehounds: there is real pain and suffering to be found here, not just from the battered, bloody man receiving the violence but from the emotionally scarred men distributing it. Similar to Winner’s original Death Wish (1974), Keshales and Papushado’s film goes to great lengths to explore the actual concept of vengeance: inflicting pain on someone will never bring back a loved one. In a way, it’s just another death: the death of the soul and the death of essential humanity.

Ultimately, Big, Bad Wolves is a fierce, ferocious and utterly alive film. It practically bursts from the screen, thanks to a combination of exceptionally skilled filmmaking (the script and cinematography, alone, are two of the very best of 2013) and raw, vital acting. If Keshales and Papushado marked themselves as filmmakers to watch with their debut, they’ve cemented their reputations with its follow-up. Undoubtedly, there will be some who can’t stomach the audacious mixture of soul-crushing violence and humor that the film offers and that’s quite alright: the real world, the terribly unfair, brutal and beautiful orb that we stand on, is the same mixture of violence and comedy and many can’t deal with that, either. As the most cutting, intuitive writers have always known, however, comedy and tragedy always go hand-in-hand…it’s quite impossible to live without experiencing more than your fair share of both. It may seem wrong to laugh as it all comes collapsing to the ground but it’s also necessary. After all, without a sense of humor, aren’t we really all just wolves?

 

1/6/14: Fighting Studios, Witches and Medieval Diabetes

Tags

action films, anachronistic, Dead Snow, Drew Struzan, Drew: The Man Behind the Poster, Edward the Troll, fairy tales, fantasy, films, Gemma Arterton, Hansel and Gretel: Witch Hunters, horror, Jeremy Renner, medieval diabetes, Middle Ages, poster art, Tommy Wirkola

Tonight’s double-feature consisted of a documentary and a goofy fantasy action-film. I like to mix it up a little and, for some reason, I felt these two would compliment each other fairly well. The evening began with:

Talk about a massive case of “Oh, yeah…that guy!” I went in to this doc about poster artist Drew Struzan with only the barest knowledge of the man’s work: I knew that he was a ridiculously famous poster artist, mostly because I like to collect Mondo posters and Struzan has done a few here and there. I also knew that he was responsible for some truly iconic movie posters…I just didn’t know that he was pretty much responsible for ALL of the most iconic movie posters. I also didn’t realize that he designed some of my all-time favorite album covers: talk about a serious overachiever!

What, exactly, do all of these films have in common: John Carpenter’s The Thing; the Back to the Future trilogy; the Indiana Jones quadrilogy; most of Spielberg’s best (including The Goonies and ET); the classic Muppet movies; all of the Star Wars films; Big Trouble in Little China? They all feature truly iconic posters and all were done by Struzan.

How about Black Sabbath’s Sabbath Bloody Sabbath and Alice Cooper’s Welcome to my Nightmare and Greatest Hits (the awesome gas station gangsters cover)? Yep, those belonged to good ol’ Drew, as well. In fact, one of my favorite parts of the documentary was where he described the process behind Sabbath Bloody Sabbath: not only is Struzan the man in bed on the front and back covers but the idea of putting a “heaven” scene on the back (to compliment the hell scene on the front) was his, too. I really cannot stress enough how much I love both that album and cover, so this little insight was pretty nifty for me.

Since film posters are a lost art these days, it’s definitely bittersweet to take a look back to an era when everyone actually seemed to give a shit. We’ll never see this variety of hand-painted, non-Photoshopped posters in the future and the film world is definitely poorer for that. Drew’s posters all had such a vitality and individuality, traits that simply can’t be replicated in these days of “line-up/floating heads/person standing in the center/facing backwards” cookie-cutter promotional tools. I hesitate to even call these things posters because, in reality, they’re actually just computer files.

More than anything, however, Drew: The Man Behind the Poster is a love story. It’s a truly touching story about how Struzan, a loner and rebel whose family didn’t like him and who left home as soon as he could, met and fell in love with another loner, Dylan. The two have been together since their teens, have a grown son and grandson now and are pretty much the most perfect couple I’ve ever seen. In fact, one of the biggest takeaways from this documentary is just how loved and respected Drew is. From George Lucas to Guillermo del Toro and back to Michael J. Fox, all of those interviewed go out of their ways to describe how sweet, good-natured and obscenely talented Struzan is. One of the most heartbreaking parts of the film was when Drew described being taken to the cleaners by a former partner he trusted: the guys seems so nice that I knew people would be taking advantage of him.

In the end, if you have any interest in movie and album artwork, this is a must-see. The documentary comes loaded with more amazing artwork than you can shake a stick at and also gives viewers a rare look into Struzan’s home studio, including several of his non-film/music related “personal” artwork. After seeing the doc, I would love to get a chance to meet the master in person and just say, “Thank you.”

First of all, let’s clear one thing up right off the bat: Hansel and Gretel – Witch Hunters is not the stupidest film you’ve ever seen. Not even close. Without even knowing you personally, I can guarantee this (unless, of course, your entire life has been spent watching nothing but Bergman and Godard films. If so, Hansel and Gretel will be, without a doubt, the stupidest film you’ve ever seen.).

Why do I feel the need to defend this before I’ve even described it? Well, probably because the film has received the kind of critical drubbing that usually accompanies bottomless pits of waste like Van Helsing, Howard the Duck and Hudson Hawk. I tend to detest big, loud, dumb movies, especially ones that have delusions of intelligence. I went into Hansel and Gretel expecting something unrepentantly dumb, empty and soulless: perfect multiplex fare. What I actually got was something ludicrously entertaining and much smarter than 80% of similar films at the box office.

Helping matters along immensely is writer/director Tommy Wirkola. Had I paid more attention and realized that he created this, I would have definitely gone to see it in the theater. Why? Oh, just because of a little Norwegian wonder called Dead Snow, that’s all. Dead Snow is the best Nazi zombie film ever (of the five or six in existence, at least) and became one of my favorite modern horror films after my first viewing. Wirkola walks a tight wire between comedy and gushing blood, making Dead Snow one of the most fun experiences I’ve had watching a film: it’s simply impossible for me not to stand and cheer at various points.

Wirkola applies this same sense of humor to Hansel and Gretel and it works wonders. There are so many clever things happening on the periphery of the story, so many neat little details, that the film almost becomes a Bosch painting: part of the sheer joy is in hunting for little details you might have missed. Despite the medieval setting, we get: pictures of missing children on milk bottles; an insulin-injection system to help Hansel control the diabetes (“sugar sickness”) that he got from his first encounter with a witch’s gingerbread house; a taser that also doubles as a defibrillator; enough guns to make the Expendables look like Bronies and more uses of the word “fuck” than two back-to-back viewings of Joe Pesci’s drive-thru scene in Lethal Weapon 2.

Of course all of this stuff is anachronistic. Anyone with half of a brain should know this: machine guns and tasers weren’t invented until 1502, a full two years after the Middle Ages had technically ended. I find it endlessly amusing, however, to read reviews that pick up on that one angle as being synonymous with the filmmakers’ general lack of interest in their project. I could understand this criticism being leveled at a CGI-advertisement like Van Helsing but there’s a real, live heart beating beneath H & G’s cartoonish exterior. I never got the thought that the modern elements were thrown in willy-nilly, more that they all added up to the particular world that Wirkola wanted to set his film in. Bully for him. I’m not required to like or agree with any director’s slant on a story. I’m much more likely to get invested in their vision, however, if it’s a completely realized one, versus a marketing strategy. Van Helsing and Branded are great examples of films that establish worlds I simply can’t buy: they’re video game backgrounds, not real places. Blade Runner and H & G, by contrast, both have fully realized worlds. I would never compare the two, aside from that one undeniable fact: both films pull me into their worlds and keep me there, despite any of the odd or fantastical stuff that may be happening.

The film is anchored by three very good performances: Jeremy Renner and Gemma Arterton are perfect as Hansel and Gretel, playing the parts as the action stars that Wirkola requires. Almost as good, however, is Edward the Troll. A canny mixture of practical and CG effects work (I’m positive that Edward isn’t all CG but someone prove me wrong, if so), Edward brings more pathos and emotion to one raised eyebrow than most actors do with a speech. He’s a great character and makes me wish that Wirkola had applied the same attention to the witches in the film.

Are there problems with the film? Yeah, a few big ones. Primarily, the movie could really use some good villains. The inspired credits sequence set up anticipation for lots of cool fights with various kinds of witches but, in the end, we get the same-old-same-old: a few people in clichéd “scary-face” makeup overacting. The main witch, as portrayed by Famke Janssen, is one of the most generic baddies I’ve ever seen. The effects scenes where she turns from “Famke-face” into “scary-face” were tired five years ago and I just couldn’t help but feel that I’d rather have anyone else playing that role, including a CG creation. Oh, well.

Ultimately, Hansel and Gretel is what it is: a high energy, tongue-in-cheek re-imagining of a very old story. The action scenes are well-staged and thrilling; the effects are good and the acting is above-average. A few generic fantasy/horror beats don’t distract from the fact that H & G is, head and shoulders, above “similar” effects films like Van Helsing, et al. This provided a great stop-gap while I wait for Wirkola’s upcoming Dead Snow 2 to blow my head around backwards.