1/28/15: Murnau, Nosferatu and the Big ‘What If”

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award winner, based on a true story, Begotten, behind-the-scenes, black-and-white cinematography, Bram Stoker, Cary Elwes, Catherine McCormack, Chris Wyatt, cinema, Count Orlock, Dan Jones, dark comedies, Dracula, drama, E. Elias Merhige, eccentric people, Eddie Izzard, experimental filmmaker, F.W. Murnau, fantasy vs reality, film festival favorite, film reviews, filmmaking, films, Fritz Arno Wagner, Henrik Galeen, horror, horror films, insanity, John Malkovich, legend vs reality, life imitating art, Lou Bogue, Max Schreck, Movies, multiple award nominee, Nosferatu, obsession, period-piece, revisionist history, Ronan Vibert, set in the 1920s, Shadow of the Vampire, silent films, Steven Katz, stylish films, Suspect Zero, Udo Kier, vampire, vampires, Willem Dafoe

If you think about it, it’s been quite the short, strange trip for writer/director E. Elias Merhige. He first came to the public eye with the notoriously grungy, splatterific Begotten (1990), the kind of experimental art film that Kenneth Anger made his domain in the ’60s. Rather legendary among daring genre aficionados, Begotten was the kind of thing that got passed around on bad VHS tapes and posted online in various pieces: equal parts Anger, Lynch, Jodorowsky and Cronenberg, Begotten will never be anyone’s idea of a good time but it ended up being a great calling card for Merhige, since it gave him an unbeatable underground buzz. After following this up with a couple music videos for Marilyn Manson during his “Antichrist Superstar”-era, Merhige would return to the big screen for his most accomplished film, the multiple award nominee/winner Shadow of the Vampire (2000).

After Shadow of the Vampire became a hit, it seemed only natural that Merhige would capitalize on the momentum but it took him four years to follow it up: arriving in 2004, the “serial-killer-killing-serial-killers” flick Suspect Zero had an appropriately pulply, intriguing logline but the film, itself, was universally derided as being strictly by-the-numbers filmmaking. With only one short since that time, Merhige appears to have dropped off the map, leaving us with one semi-legendary experimental film, one bonafide neo-classic and a multiplex fizzle. Despite this incredibly small body of work, however, Merhige has staked out his own unique place in the history of genre filmmaking: any career that includes Shadow of the Vampire could, reasonably, be considered a roaring success.

Existing as a bit of cheeky revisionist history, Merhige’s sophomore movie takes a look at the filmmaking process behind legendary German auteur F.W. Murnau’s Nosferatu (1922). In a gonzo little bit of “what if”-ism, the film posits that Murnau (John Malkovich) actually used a real vampire in the role of Count Orlock, the mysterious, ratlike and boundlessly creepy Max Schreck (Willem Dafoe). Keeping the information from his clueless cast and crew, Murnau seeks to make his vampire film the most realistic it can be, possibly in response to being denied the rights to shoot an adaptation of Dracula by Bram Stoker’s estate.

Murnau passes his “star” off as an eccentric master actor who completely submerses himself into his roles, to the point where he “assumes” the identities of his characters. The cast and crew are to address Schreck as “Count Orlock” and are advised to give him a wide berth when not filming: as Murnau tells them, he has little interest in their conversations, praise or questions, since he’s “chasing his own ghosts.” While this strikes Murnau’s group (consisting of producer Albin Grau (Udo Kier), writer Henrik Galeen (Aden Gillett), cinematographer Wolfgang Muller (Ronan Vibert), assistant camera-man Paul (Nicholas Elliot) and lead actor Gustav von Wangenhein (Eddie Izzard)) as odd, they’re all used to Murnau’s eccentric way of working and just think it’s all just a way to build mood, like his insistence on shooting on location, rather than on a studio set.

As plans go, however, using a real vampire in your vampire film isn’t the greatest and the iron-fisted Murnau ends up running into one set-back after another, not the least of which is the fact that cranky, old vampires make really shitty actors: as Schreck continues to ad-lib, screw up scenes, ask for motivation and complain about countless bits of minutiae, the ever-hassled director watches his project increasingly fall to bits. Under the gun from his high-strung, bottom-line-oriented producer and in constant fear of having the project taken from him, Murnau can’t deal with any more setbacks. After the vampire snacks on Wolfgang, forcing Murnau to replace him with the zany Fritz Arno Wagner (Cary Elwes), however, the exasperated director has had just about enough: after all, the selfish vampire wasn’t even considerate enough to “take the script girl,” as Murnau complains…he went right for the “essential personnel.” As the rest of the cast and crew begin to suspect something’s rotten in Denmark, Murnau and Schreck continue to feint, verbally spar and test one another’s resolves. Things may look dire but Murnau is nothing if not dedicated and he’s determined to make his movie, even if it kills everyone around him…and that this rate…it just might!

From the very beginning, Shadow of the Vampire is a fascinating, visually sumptuous and ingeniously edited film: indeed, the opening 5-minute credit sequence, consisting of various murals and drawings, is like its own mini-film, giving a brief overview of not only key events in the general Dracula mythology but also thematic and underlying elements that will inform the film, itself. I specifically mention the editing, since Chris Wyatt’s work here is some of the most impressive I’ve ever seen: the way in which black and white shots blend into color cinematography is eye-popping but just as impressive are the subtle transitions, the ways in which the still images appear to have their own sense of movement, of life. It’s one of the very few times while watching a film that I’ve actively singled out the editing but it’s so masterfully done that it becomes another aspect of the film, rather than the “invisible” part of the filmmaking machine.

The sense of invention displayed in the opening is omnipresent in the film, leading to some genuinely delightful, weird moments: Murnau’s visit to a stylish sex club/drug den is a highlight, even if the scene, itself, makes little sense and Schreck’s underground “lair” is a marvel of strange production design that appears to include either an enormous spider-web or a gigantic iris…either one would fit, even if neither one make much sense, in context. In some ways, the production design reminds of Ken Russell, in particular his Lair of the White Worm (1988) and the filmmakers make terrific use of their creepy, atmospheric castle location.

As mentioned, one of the film’s most delightful visual quirks is the pronounced separation between the “real world,” which is in vibrant color, and the “filmed world,” which is in black and white. In some case, the film transitions between the two effortlessly, as if the black and white footage is being colorized before our eyes. Other times, we go in the opposite direction, as if the life and color is being bleached from the real world: not a bad symbol for vampirism, if you think about it.

As good as the film looks, however, it’s the extraordinary cast that really takes this all the way. Shadow of the Vampire is filled with vibrant, interesting characters, from Eddie Izzard’s wonderful take on the lunk-headed Gustav to Catherine McCormack’s “flapper with attitude” Greta to the dashing, utterly ridiculous creation that is Elwes’ Fritz Arno Wagner. We get the ever dependable Udo Kier doing his usual take on fastidious distraction, while Aden Gillett does some great work as the ever patient, ever indulgent writer.

The MVPs here, however, are undoubtedly Malkovich and Dafoe, two of the most interesting actors in the history of the medium. While I initially felt as if the roles should have been switched (in my head, I definitely see Dafoe as the dictatorial director, while Malkovich seems like a lock for the creepy, eccentric vampire, although this could also be based on recent roles), there’s no doubt that each actor makes the character his own. Our first sight of Malkovich, wearing tiny black goggles and endlessly cranking his camera, is a real doozy and sets the stage for everything that follows: he’s a constant blur of mischievous energy, all nervous twitches, half-smiles and sudden, angry shouting. The bit where he coaches Gustav through a scene only to force him to cut himself with a knife, for “reality,” is superb and his performance in the finale is suitably unhinged.

While Malkovich is always “Malkovich” in the film, regardless of how awesome that might be, Dafoe is completely unrecognizable as Schreck, which ends up being a nifty hat trick for an actor with such a defined persona as his. Nonetheless, he’s superb: feral, rat-like and even a little sympathetic, at times, Schreck is a magnetic personality and it’s impossible to tear our eyes from him. While the makeup work is absolutely uncanny, it’s the subtlest things that really draw out Dafoe’s performance: in particular, he does so much with just his eyes and posture (our first sight of Schreck, stiff-armed and with talon-like fingernails, is absolutely made by Dafoe’s creepy, weird, stiff-legged gait, makeup notwithstanding) that it immediately reminds us of what a truly talented actor he is. Not surprisingly, Dafoe would go on to be nominated (and win) multiple times for his performance, including an Oscar Nomination which he ultimately lost to Benicio del Toro for Traffic (2000). There’s something completely otherworldly about Dafoe’s performance which helps sell the character of Schreck part-and-parcel.

One of the most interesting aspects of the film is how explicitly humorous it is. While not, technically, a comedy, so much of the film is precipitated on some truly funny scenes (the bit where they struggle to get Schreck to deliver his lines is priceless, as is the truly great scene where Schreck complains about how “unrealistic” Dracula is) that the humor definitely becomes a noticeable part of the film. In certain ways, Shadow of the Vampire melds the behind-the-filmmaking-scenes humor of something like Living in Oblivion (1995) with a more traditional vampire narrative, resulting in a rather unique little combination. Combine this with the way the film effortlessly blurs the lines between fact and fiction (every one of the characters are actually based on real people, even if their individual actions are decidedly suspect) and Shadow of the Vampire ends up being a nicely original, individualistic piece of work.

Ultimately, Shadow of the Vampire is extremely well-made but it’s also a whole lot of fun, which may be the most important factor. While he doesn’t entirely turn his back on his debut (the black and white attack on Greta definitely feels like something from his Begotten-era), Merhige comes up with an intelligent, sassy and, at times, suitably outrageous, little bit of revisionist history that should be right up any genre fan’s alley. When the film is firing on all cylinders, it’s a real marvel. Here’s to hoping that Merhige returns from the woods, one of these days, and that he brings something like Shadow of the Vampire with him: witty, evocative and a real treat for film fans (especially fans of Murnau’s actual Nosferatu), this is one of those rare films that feels a lot older than it actually is, in all of the best possible way.

1/1/15 (Part Two): Bleed For Your Art

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35mm film, action-comedies, assassins, auteur theory, child actors, father-daughter relationships, Film auteurs, filmmaking, foreign films, Fuck Bombers, Fumi Nikaidô, Gen Hoshino, gory films, guerrilla film crew, guerrilla filmmaking, Hideo Yamamoto, Hiroki Hasegawa, husband-wife relationship, independent film crew, Itsuji Itao, Japanese cinema, Jun Kunimura, Megumi Kagurazaka, nostalgia, set in Japan, Shin'ichi Tsutsumi, Shion Sono, street gangs, stylish films, Tak Sakaguchi, Tetsu Watanabe, Tomochika, vanity project, voice-over narration, Why Don't You Play in Hell?, writer-director-score, Yakuza, Yakuza gang members

Calling gonzo Japanese auteur Shion Sono’s latest film, Why Don’t You Play in Hell? (2014), a sweetly sentimental film might seem a little nuts, especially if you’ve seen the movie. After all, isn’t this the same film that features a young girl “surfing” on an ocean of blood, Yakuza gang members as pick-up film crew, a finale that makes Kill Bill’s (2003) restaurant massacre look like a Hallmark special and a guerrilla film crew who call themselves “The Fuck Bombers” and delight in filming people throwing raw eggs at each other? All true, although none of these are really the film’s raison d’être: at its heart, WDYPIH? is about growing older, losing your dreams and the by-gone glory days of filmmaking (aka: the ones that actually used film). It might come wrapped in a stylish, candy-colored and ultra-gory wrapper but Sono’s goofy epic is, at heart, a friendly little shaggy mutt of a film: eager to please but rather unfocused, WDYPIH? is far from a masterpiece but I’m willing to wager that anyone who’s had their heart touched by the movie-making bug will find plenty to like here.

We begin 10 years in the past, as a pair of Yakuza gangs wage bloody warfare against each other: the Kitagawa and Muto clans seem evenly matched, as both gangs battle for control of the streets, but it’s a precarious balancing act and no one ever seems to be on top for long. The tide appears to turn when the Kitagawas send a team of assassins after the head of the Muto clan (Jun Kunimura) but Muto’s wife, Shizue (Tomochika), single-handedly kills the wannabe-killers, all while her young daughter, Mitsuko (Nanoka Hara) looks on in wide-eyed wonder. Shizue is sent to prison for her hand in the massacre (one would think some leniency would be in order, since it was basically Shizue defending herself against a group of attackers, although the point where she chased an injured guy into the street and butchered him might have thrown a monkey-wrench into the “self-defense” defense), Muto takes a mistress to “help him get through the hard times” and the Kitagawas reorganize themselves around Ikegami (Shin’ichi Tsutsumi), the only survivor of the original attempt on Muto’s life.

At this same time, we meet The Fuck Bombers, a young trio of guerrilla filmmakers led by Hirata (Hiroki Hasegawa), their far-beyond-driven director/de facto leader. The group recruits Bruce Lee-enthusiast Sasaki (Tak Sakaguchi) into their ranks, in order to shoot the action epics that they so dearly love. While out filming, the Bombers run straight into Ikegami, who’s fleeing the Muto house in a state of very bloody disrepair: he lets them shoot some footage of him, because he’s “cool” and then makes his escape. As fate would have it, however, this isn’t the last time this little group will cross paths…not by a long shot.

10 years later, Shizue is ready to be released from prison and her husband wants to give her the best present possible: a movie starring their beloved daughter, Mitsuko (Fumi Nikaidô). Unfortunately, the surly Mitsuko hates acting and has run away, throwing the whole production into jeopardy. Muto dispatches his gang to track her down and return her to him: at the same time, Ikegami prepares his gang to take another shot at the Muto empire and the Fuck Bombers are experiencing a bit of crisis. It seems that Sasaki is sick and tired of talking about making movies: Hirata keeps promising that they’ll make the “film of a lifetime” but it’s always “tomorrow,” never today. After ten years of “tomorrows,” Sasaki throws in the towel and quits, in disgust, leaving the FBs without their “action star.”

All of these disparate groups come crashing together when the FBs end up getting recruited (in a very roundabout way) by Muto in order to finish his vanity project. With Mitsuko back on board (no matter how unwillingly) and Hirata and the others eager to begin their “ultimate movie,” the stage is now set for some filmmaking magic. But what to film? As someone cannily notes, the Mutos and Kitagawas are preparing for one more, epic, bloody battle: why not turn the camera inward and capture the carnage as it happens? From this point on, the dividing line between fantasy and reality is shattered: as Hirata and the Fuck Bombers “stage” the battle, real blood sprays, real limbs are hacked and real Yakuza members are serving as the crew. It’s the ultimate “snuff” movie, as Hirata and his crew gleefully film the chaos swirling around them, always one step ahead of the gun (and the blade). Who will survive, what will be left of them but, most importantly: will they get the shot they need?

As should be rather clear from the above description, there’s an awful lot of stuffing crammed into this particular sausage-skin, even for a film that comes out a little over the two-hour mark. Despite all of the disparate elements (there are actually even more subplots and strands running through this than I mentioned, including a love story for Mitsuko and Ikegami’s obsession with returning the Kitagawas to the feudal days of Japan’s distant past), however, the film never feels particularly jumbled, probably because the Fuck Bombers storyline serves as the glue that holds everything else together.

Despite the fact that it all fits, however, WDYPIH? never feels as cohesive as it could be: the various threads tend to connect on a visual/stylistic level but don’t cohere as well on a thematic level. Even worse, however, WDYPIH? never quite feels like it completely cuts loose: despite the rather phenomenal level of bloodshed, especially in the climax, the film is actually so good-natured and goofy as to be relatively low-stakes. This is an especially strange complaint when one considers how many people die in this: if the numbers are in the double digits, they might as well be in the triple digits. By the conclusion, however, it seems that everyone is alive and well, ready to begin the next adventure as if everyone had been reset, ala Wile E. Coyote and the Road Runner. While this might have been some sort of commentary on the illusory aspect of film, it might also have stemmed from the desire to not “harsh our mellow,” so to speak. To be honest, I’m not really sure what the intention was: Sono sets up a pitch-black, nihilistic finale only to wrap it all up with a sunny, almost cartoonish bit and I was mildly confused, to say the least. Perhaps I missed something on the first go through but this particular quirk left me more than a little cold.

On a purely nuts-and-bolts level, WDYPIH? looks fantastic but the over-reliance on chintzy CGI effects, especially blood, really drags it all down a peg or two. When the effects work, such as in the blood surfing setpiece, it works fabulously. When the effects are poorly integrated and too obvious, ala much of the gore-drenched finale, it tended to pull me right out of the film. I can certainly understand the need to use CGI for many of the more outrageous effects (flying limbs, sword through the head, etc) but there are far too many points where an obviously CGI puddle of blood sticks out like a sore thumb. As someone who’s always been hot-and-cold on CGI effects, one of my all-time pet peeves is poorly done CGI blood: even ketchup would be more convincing, for Pete’s sake!

Ultimately, Why Don’t You Play in Hell? was a film that I really wanted to love but I could never quite clear the hurdles to get to that point. The film is never boring and when it’s good, it can be mind-rattlingly good: the blurring of real fighting and filmed choreography, in the climax, is pretty damn genius and there are plenty of genuinely funny cracks about independent filmmaking peppered throughout the script. Some of the fight sequences are also fairly jaw-dropping: the scene where Mitsuko spins around and decapitates an entire room full of assailants is exactly as cool as it sounds. Fumi Nikaidô is actually kind of great as the grown-up Mitsuko (the bit with her and the “broken glass kiss” is pretty amazing) and Tak Sakaguchi was a real hoot as Sasaki (he even kind of looked like Bruce Lee, at times, which was a neat trick) but too many of the other characters come and go without making much impact.

There’s definitely a lot to absorb here and I’ll admit to being a real sucker for the film’s discussion about the glory days of 35mm film: they’re preaching to the choir but I still appreciate the sentiment. At the end of the day, however, Why Don’t You Play in Hell?, despite a fairly unique angle and some outrageous ideas, never really seems like it comes into its own: neither as shocking as it probably means to be nor as emotionally resonate, Sono’s film kind of sits in a neutral zone, cooling its heels while much better (and much worse) films wage war around it. The middle-ground is always the safest place to be, but it’s not always the most interesting. While Shion Sono’s Why Don’t You Play in Hell? is a good enough film, I can’t help but wonder if it would have been more fun as a spectacular failure.

6/9/14 (Part Two): Father of the Living Dead

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1960's films, behind-the-scenes, cinema, Civil Rights Movement, documentaries, documentary, Elvis Mitchell, film criticism, film reviews, film theory, filmmaking, films, George Romero, guerrilla filmmaking, horror, horror film, horror films, independent film, independent films, interviews, Jr., Larry Fessenden, Mark Harris, Martin Luther King, Movies, Mr. Rogers, Night of the Living Dead, Pittsburgh, Prof. Samuel D. Pollard, Rob Kuhns, Robert Kennedy, Russell Streiner, social upheaval, societal changes, talking heads, the 1960s, The Birth of the Living Dead, visual effects pioneer, Whine of the Faun, writer-director-producer-cinematographer

By 1968, the Summer of Love was officially over: the war in Vietnam was in full escalation, racial tensions led to race riots in the inner cities and the disastrous Altamont Free Concert was but a year away, although neither Robert Kennedy nor Martin Luther King, Jr. would survive to know about it. The Zodiac Killer was still killing, the Cold War with the Soviet Union was still decades from thawing and the hippie “revolution” of the early-mid ’60s had failed to bring about the kind of lasting, peaceful change that adherents hoped for. Hope had been replaced by anger: the 1960s had failed to fix anything and the system was just as broken as ever. Into this caustic stew of fear, anger, war and turmoil slipped a humble little film that would go on to revolutionize not only horror films but the world of cinema, in general. When 27-year-old college dropout George Romero first unleashed his seminal horror film, Night of the Living Dead (1968), on an unsuspecting populace, little did he know that the film would permanently change everything that came after it, directly influencing the next 46 years of horror filmmaking.

Rob Kuhns’ exceptional documentary, Birth of the Living Dead (2013), gives an insightful and in-depth look into not only the making of Romero’s classic film but also the societal issues and developments that made the film not only possible but necessary. Night of the Living Dead was a new kind of horror film for a new era of horrors: when the horrors of Vietnam were being beamed into homes on a nightly basis, the same old “haunted house” scares weren’t going to work anymore. Kuhn’s film does an amazing job of showing just how truly groundbreaking NOTLD was, especially concerning its views on race and the family unit. By the end, he actually managed to give me new respect for a film that I’ve idolized for more years than I care to remember: no mean feat and a pretty sure sign that Kuhns is a filmmaker to keep an eye on.

Birth of the Living Dead takes us through the entire process of NOTLD, beginning with Romero’s background making short films for Mr. Rogers (I was surprised, to put it mildly) and beer commercials before taking the filmmaking leap with his first attempt, Whine of the Fawn (what a name!). When his art film tanked, Romero decided to try his hand at horror and the rest, as they say, is history. Romero served as cinematographer, director and editor, while the entire cast pulled double (sometimes triple) duty both in front of and behind the scenes. Some of the most glorious moments in the film come from the fascinating behind-the-scenes insights that Romero shares about the making of the film. Some of my favorites include the special effects experts who constantly smoked cigars while working with explosives and fuses, the actor/producer who built a wooden bridge with his own hands and the fact that the crew only got their sound edit after actor Russell Streiner (who played Johnny in the film) challenged the owner of the sound lab to a chess match: he won and the crew got their sound mix. For anyone interested in filmmaking, particularly ultra-low budget guerrilla filmmaking, the behind-the-scenes stories about NOTLD are absolutely priceless and worth a watch all by themselves.

Far from just being a “making-of,” however, Kuhns film is filled with plenty of insightful “talking head” interviews and commentary on the era that was directly responsible for Romero’s chiller. We get plenty of great stuff from independent filmmaking majordomo Larry Fessenden, whose enthusiasm for Romero’s film is absolutely infectious, along with historians and critics like Elvis Mitchell, Mark Harris and Prof. Samuel D. Pollard. In a truly magical bit, Mitchell talks about seeing NOTLD at a drive-in, when he was 10, and how it absolutely changed his life. There’s also plenty of on-point discussion about the casting of Duane Jones as the lead in a time where a strong, black hero in an all-white film would have been not only eye-opening but revolutionary. This was, after all, the era where one of the biggest black movie stars of all-time, Harry Belafonte, was not allowed to touch Petula Clark (a white singer/actress) in an advertisement. The fact that Ben’s race is never brought up in NOTLD was totally radical: for the first time in popular cinema, a leading black actor was just allowed to be a man, instead of a symbol. There’s real power in the stories about how the black inner city adopted Ben as a true hero, especially when they’re told by commentators who were actually in the theaters at the time of the film’s screening.

As a film, itself, Birth of the Living Dead is a complete success. The structure is well-organized, the footage and interviews are perfectly integrated and everything has a really exciting, kinetic sense of energy. Even better, Kuhns utilizes some really badass “Sin City-esque” red-and-black graphic-novel-type animation for many of the behind-the-scenes bits, making the whole film even more visually appealing. Birth of the Living Dead looks and sounds fantastic, although that just ends up being icing thanks to the fundamentally solid information being shared. If you’re a fan of Night of the Living Dead, Kuhns’ documentary is an absolute must-see, helping to fill in any gaps and offering up a virtual treasure trove of previously unknown insights. If you’re a fan of independent filmmaking, Birth of the Living Dead is a must-see for the ways in which we see Romero and his small band of true-believers literally wrestle this iconic film into being. Basically, if you like movies in any way, shape or form, you owe it to yourself to see Birth of the Living Dead: documentaries about horror films don’t get much better than this.