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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2/28/15 (Part Two): The Unexamined Life

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'90s films, 1990s films, Andrew Kevin Walker, auteur theory, Brad Pitt, cinema, Darius Khondji, Dark City, David Fincher, detectives, dramas, envy, favorite films, Fight Club, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, gluttony, greed, Gwyneth Paltrow, horror, horror movies, Howard Shore, husband-wife relationship, industrial score, insanity, John C. McGinley, Kevin Spacey, lust, Morgan Freeman, Movies, NIN, Nine Inch Nails, police, police procedural, pride, R. Lee Ermey, Richard Roundtree, Se7en, serial killers, Seven, Seven Deadly Sins, sloth, The Crow, The Game, Trent Reznor, twist ending, wrath, Zodiac

I can still recall the first time that I saw David Fincher’s break-through, Seven (1995), as clearly as if it were a few days past. I was 18, at the time, and went to see the film on opening night with a high school buddy. The theater was filled with the usual mix of boisterous young people, couples on dates and large groups of friends, everyone ready for the weekend and focused on having a good time. By the time the end credits rolled, however, the entire theater was dead quiet: no one talked on the way out, no one hooted and hollered, nothing approaching a smile crossed anyone’s faces. I’ll never forget watching the formerly happy couples walk out in rather stunned silence, unable (or unwilling) to get any closer to each other than arm’s length. For our part, my friend and I said nothing to each other on the way home, each of us lost in our own thoughts, neither of us willing (or able) to deal with any other humans, at that particular moment.

20 years later, Fincher’s sophomore film may have lost the shock factor that allowed it to so handily eviscerate unsuspecting audiences: after all, in a post-Saw (2004) world, the very concept of on-screen human suffering has set such a high bar that it’s almost impossible to really shock people anymore…blame it on the internet, our own jaded sensibilities or the fact that the 24-7 news cycle has brought countless real-world atrocities right into our own living rooms but that’s just the way it is. That being said, Seven still stands as a towering testament to the inherent evil of the human animal and is still, to this day, my very favorite Fincher film. 20 years later, I offer Seven the best compliment you might give in this modern age: the film has aged exceedingly well.

The core story is nothing if not familiar: a jaded, cynical police detective, a mere week away from retirement (Morgan Freeman), gets an eager-to-impress, hotheaded, new partner (Brad Pitt) and a grotesque murder case. This particular murder was methodically planned, sickeningly creative and impossibly brutal: fearing the first sign of a serial killer, the veteran detective wants off the case…this isn’t the way that he wants to leave the force. His partner, on the other hand, sees the high profile murder as the first step on his rising career. When additional murders emerge, the older detective is proved right: it is the work of a serial killer, a seemingly genius maniac who kills based on the Seven Deadly Sins. As the pair continue to investigate the case, they uncover an increasingly complex plot that involves damnation, redemption and pure, unadulterated evil. In the process, the detectives plunge down a rabbit hole that, for at least one of them, will lead straight to a living hell.

As previously mentioned, much of the initial power of Fincher’s film comes from the shocking ways in which the story unfolds: it’s not necessarily a mystery, per se, since we’re never given quite enough to piece it all together. Rather, Fincher gradually unfolds the film, layer by layer, inching us towards the devastating conclusion one ugly atrocity at a time. The film is unrelentingly gruesome, although all of the focus is on the aftermaths: we never actually see any of the victims die, ala Saw, but we do spend plenty of time with the disturbing crime-scenes. Disturbing, in this case, is a bit of an understatement: each of the murders revolves around a particularly nasty detail that makes for some appropriately bracing visuals but, more importantly, worms its way straight into the viewer’s brain.

Unlike most slasher/serial killer/horror films, the various murders in Seven aren’t there to be “admired” by gorehounds (think of any of the latter Friday the 13th sequels or pretty much any Nightmare on Elm Street film for examples of cinematic slaughter tends to devalue the victims in favor of the “star” villain). The killings are painful, both physically and emotionally: Seven is the kind of film that you think about for days afterward, your mind constantly turning back to the various torments inflicted by the killer, worrying them over and over, like a dog with a bone. While “Gluttony,” “Greed” and “Pride” are all terrible, “Lust” and “Sloth” were the two that always got to me: there’s something so undeniably awful, yet undeniably clever, about those torments, something that I’ve never really seen replicated on-screen since (including any of the Saw films or their endless imitators).

Fincher and cinematographer Darius Hhondji (responsible for such eye-popping treasures as Jeunet’s Delicatessen (1991) and City of Lost Children (1995), as well as several of Fincher’s other films) shoot the film in the darkest, dreariest way possible, as if the evil at the core of the narrative has spread out to infect the entire world around them. Perpetually rainy, shadowy and claustrophobic, Seven pulls you into its thick atmosphere of dread and holds you there for the entire run-time: nothing sunny infiltrates this world, no joy, no hope…there’s only pain, sorrow and the promise of future pain for the denizens of Seven’s world to look forward to. It’s an atmosphere that’s as fully realized as more fantasy-oriented films like The Crow (1994) or Dark City (1998) but the grounding in “reality” makes it all seem that much more hopeless.

Across the board, the performances in Seven are impeccable, showcasing not only Fincher’s reputation as an “actor’s director,” but helping to keep us immersed in the narrative. In many ways, Brad Pitt’s performance as Det. Mills is a companion piece to his performance in Twelve Monkeys (1995), catching the matinee-idol in the transition between his twitchier, fidgetier past (there are lots of big arm movements, here, just like in Twelve Monkeys, and he often comes across as petulant, rather than driven) and his more polished future. For his part, Freeman is reliably world-weary and as sturdy as a rock: he doesn’t break any new ground, here (his performance as Det. Somerset looks an awful lot like many of his other performances, truth be told), but he’s the perfect compliment to Pitt’s brash, young enthusiasm and brings a welcome sense of “grounding” to the proceedings.

We also get Gwyneth Paltrow, in a nicely understated performance as Mills’ pregnant wife, right before her “star” would begin its meteoric rise into the stratosphere. She has genuine chemistry with both Pitt and Freeman, here: one of the films best scenes (and ideas) is the notion of the young wife seeking out the grizzled detective for life and relationship advice. There’s a subtle sense of father-daughter dynamics between the two that helps expand both their characters, as well as providing the shocking finale with an ever bigger gut-punch. As for Kevin Spacey: after first arriving on my radar via his demented performance as Mel Proffit in the old Wiseguy TV series, Spacey would go on to really impress me in Swimming With Sharks (1994) and The Usual Suspects (1995). While his role in Seven is, in some ways, little more than a cameo, he’s absolutely crucial to the film (for many obvious reasons): Spacey’s cold, reptilian, mannered performance is the embodiment of psychological evil in the same way that the gruesome killings are the embodiment of physical evil…you can’t have one without the other.

In many ways, it’s hard to gauge just how influential Fincher’s film has been in the 20 years since its release. If you think about it, so many modern genre film elements that we routinely take for granted spring from this film, like Athena from Zeus’ skull: the shadowy, dark cinematography and mise en scene; the industrial soundtrack (which features future Fincher collaborator Trent Reznor’s Nine Inch Nails); the focus on the aftermath of the killings; the complex pathology of the killer, complete with twisted “morality”; the shocking twist that puts a pitch-black bow on everything…Fincher wasn’t the first filmmaker to use these techniques, granted, but he was one of the first pop filmmakers to put them all into the same cauldron, freely mixing the “underground” with the multiplex. Without Seven, it’s doubtful there would have been a Saw (or an 8mm (1999), for that matter, but we won’t hold that against Fincher)…the film’s DNA runs so deep, by this point, that it’s almost subliminal.

In the 20 years since Seven careened into theaters, Fincher has become one of the most well-known, iconic filmmakers of the modern era: Fight Club (1999) and Zodiac (2007) are both neo-classics and if The Game (1997), Panic Room (2002), The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (2008) and The Social Network (2010) are all far from perfect, they’re also the furthest thing from dull, middle-of-the-road films as possible (even the schmaltzy Benjamin Button has some pretty dark undercurrents to it). Fincher may continue to define and improve his craft but, for me, Seven will always be his finest, most essential film: even if the film fails to “shock” me, these days, it never fails to make me queasy, unlike many other past favorites.

If anything, I envy modern audiences the opportunity to see Seven for the first time, with fresh eyes. As miserable and soul-shatteringly horrifying as the film is, it possesses a feral power that manages to cut through years of processed bullshit, cutting straight to our emotional core. The proof, as they say, is in the pudding: 20 years later, I still remember the experience like it was yesterday. That, ladies and gentlemen, is a classic.

7/9/14: Horse Waits, Tom Tries

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'80s films, Amber Bauer, Bill Pullman, cinema, Cold Feet, comedies, cowboys, double-crosses, estranged siblings, film reviews, films, greed, horses, Jeff Bridges, Kathleen York, Keith Carradine, Movies, odd movies, psycho killers, Rip Torn, Robert Dornhelm, Sally Kirkland, stolen jewels, Tom Waits

Tom Waits is such a weird, cool, enigmatic bad-ass of a dude that whenever he shows up in movies, he usually steals them right away from the rest of the cast. Like a thief in the night, Waits slips in, does that thing he does (acting? living? just being?) and slips out, leaving nothing but bare walls and floors in his wake. He’s truly an amazing actor in that, like similar odd-job Crispin Glover, he so readily becomes whatever character he’s portraying: it’s always impossible to tell where the character ends and Tom begins, which makes each and every performance both thrilling and a little terrifying. Needless to say, Waits’ by turns hilarious and frightening performance in Robert Dornhelm’s weird ’80s oddity, Cold Feet (1989), is not only the best, most interesting performance in that film but probably one of the best, weirdest performances of that whole year.

Monte (Keith Carradine), Maureen (Sally Kirkland) and Kenny (Tom Waits) are three small-time crooks with a big-time plan: they’ve stolen a small fortune in emeralds and had the bright idea to have them surgically implanted in a horse. After wack-a-doodle Kenny unceremoniously blows away the crooked vet who performs the surgery, the trio make their escape, hitting the high road and handily by-passing law enforcement.

Trouble comes to paradise when Monte double-crosses his partners (even more grievous since he was actually engaged to Maureen, who appears to be as loose-screwed as Kenny is) and hightails it for his square brother’s horse ranch. Monte hasn’t seen brother Buck (Bill Pullman) and his wife, Laura (Kathleen York), in quite some time but they didn’t exactly part on the best of terms: Monte is desperate, however, and really does want to save Infidel (the horse) from getting gutted by the increasingly ruthless Kenny. Monte also wants to reconnect with his estranged 9-year-old daughter, Rosemary (Amber Bauer), who’s just back from a “survival school.”What better place to hide a horse than a horse ranch, he figures?

As Kenny and Maureen haul ass across the country in a stolen motor home, Monte tries to convince his suspicious brother that the reasons for his surprise visit have more to do with familial love than ulterior motives. Laura would love to see Buck and Monte become close again but is this too little too late? Once the local sheriff (Rip Torn) gets involved, you just know that the whole thing is gonna get awful crazy awful quick. There’s no fury like a woman scorned, however, and Maureen is going to make sure to get her pound of flesh, come hell or high water. And Kenny? Well, he just wants to keep eating them Turkish dates, man!

Similar to the Crispin Glover-starring oddity Twister (oddly enough, also 1989), Cold Feet is about 10 pounds of weird in a 5-pound sack. The movie is all over the place, an almost complete mess tonally: it’s a light-hearted comedy right up to the point where Kenny blows somebody away in cold-blood, then goes into slapstick territory before becoming a “brothers-in-crisis” drama, a crime thriller and a romance. The whole thing is shot through with a garish, neon ’80s sensibility which is completely jarring when juxtaposed with the numerous nods to Westerns and rural living: call it the “Rhinestone (1984) factor” but there’s something about the neon-’80s and cowboys that just don’t go together.

Acting-wise, you’ve got a pretty mixed bag: Pullman plays it dead-serious, Carradine hams it up, Kirkland plays it like a dinner-theater version of Madea stoned on nitrous, Rip Torn is Rip Torn and Waits is, as can be expected, suitably amazing. It’s no surprise that Kenny ends up being not only the most interesting character in the film but, despite his obvious insanity, the most relatable character: he’s not interested in any games, he doesn’t have any agendas…he just is, dammit, and to hell with any of you squares who tell him otherwise! Whether he’s doing bizarre calisthenics in a moving car, reminding Maureen that sex with radium miners will make her ass glow, eating Turkish dates by the bagful or surviving the kind of shit that would kill the Terminator, Kenny is, quite simply, the man and Waits is absolutely magnificent. Despite any other issues with the film (and boy are there issues), folks could be forgiven for stopping by just to check out Kenny: Waits’ performance really is that much fun and he gets a sizeable chunk of celluloid dedicated to him.

Another highlight for me, albeit a fleeting one, was a pretty superb cameo from Jeff Bridges as a grinning, shithead bartender with a, itchy trigger finger: even for his few moments of screen-time, it’s painfully obvious how equally bad-ass Bridges is. I can’t help but feel that a true Tom Waits/Jeff Bridges collaboration might blow the planet off its axis, ushering in a new ice age…we should probably never find out.

Without a doubt, Cold Feet is definitely a curiosity. Director Dornhelm (still working today) has mostly stayed in the realm of television, so I’m guessing that this didn’t end up being a springboard to bigger and better things. The film never achieves anything approaching a consistent tone or sense of purpose but is still filled with some truly great moments: Sheriff Rip Torn scamming new boots…pretty much anything involving Maureen and Kenny’s cross-country ride…absolutely anything involving Tom Waits. There’s an awful lot of dead space going around, however, and the main storyline about Buck and Monte’s reconciliation is pretty long in the tooth. The film also has a tendency to slip into really silly slapstick (Maureen’s fight with Rosemary’s teacher is really stupid) which sits uncomfortably next to Kenny’s moments of actual violence.

Cold Feet is a weird bird but I’m pretty confident that at least some viewers out there will be able to get on its frequency. While the film is messy, silly and frequently nonsensical, it’s also quite a bit of fun and features one hell of an awesome performance from Tom Waits. If you’re a fan of Waits, this should be a must-see. For everyone else, however, this may just be one of those ’80s curios that passes you by. I would really think hard about it, though: after all, you wouldn’t wanna piss off Kenny, would you?