2/2/15 (Part Two): No Justice…Just Us

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Alejandra Yañez, Alejandro Fernández Almendras, Ariel Mateluna, based on a true story, bullies, Cape Fear, Chilean films, cinema, Daniel Antivilo, Daniel Candia, Death Wish, divorced parents, family, family in crisis, father-son relationships, fighting back, film reviews, films, foreign films, forest ranger, guilt, harassment, ineffectual cops, Inti Briones, Jennifer Salas, justice, masculinity, Movies, Pablo Vergara, rape, revenge, set in Chile, Straw Dogs, thugs, To Kill a Man, vigilante, vigilantism, writer-director-editor

Most of the time, cinematic evil is pretty flashy, memorable and, let’s face it, kinda cool: it’s the Bond super-villain plotting the world’s destruction from the comfort of his high-tech, fortified island estate…the suave, dastardly mustache-twirler butting heads with the hardy hero…the badass monster with acid for blood and a hankering for humans…the evil genius who’s constantly building killer robots, turning people into zombies and infecting the water supply with some sort of designer mega-virus. Take a minute to think about which characters in any Nightmare on Elm Street film are more interesting: the bland, anonymous victims or wise-crackin’, ultra-cool Freddy? Evil may be something to overcome (most of the time) but that doesn’t mean it can’t be gussied up with some sweet duds and an enviable haircut.

In the real world, however, true evil is rarely as “cool” as movies make it out to be. In fact, true evil, for the most part, is exceptionally banal: it’s the bureaucrat moving “casualties” from one column to the next…the terrorist who kills based on dogma…the egomaniacal dictator who rules by virtue of having the most guns, not the best plan…the bored thrill-seekers just looking for something to do…the bullies who indiscriminately target the weak in an effort to make someone’s, anyone’s life more miserable than their own…the fat cats who relentlessly pad their own wallets at the expense of those around them…the companies dumping pollutants into the water and air. Real evil, for the most part, is boring, beige. True evil is also all but impossible to eradicate: you may be able to send in Rambo or Jason Bourne to take care of the cinematic baddies but it doesn’t work quite like that in the real world. Most of us are in no position to eliminate the day-to-day evils of the world: evil, like good, is just a fact of life.

Alejandro Fernández Almendras’ To Kill a Man (2014), which the Chilean director also wrote and edited, takes us right into the thick of real evil, showcasing the casual cruelty, misanthropy and harassment that often leads to violence, heart-break and death. There are no heroes here, just a desperate, broken-down father who tries (and fails) to protect his family. There are no super-villains, either, no suave harbingers of cool chaos for us to vicariously live through: the evil in To Kill a Man is earth-bound, sweaty, stupid and ugly, the product of generations of degradation, not a special serum or radioactive infection. There is nothing rousing, fist-raising or “epic” about the fight between good and evil in Almendras’ film: this is real evil, in all of its slouching, misshapen glory. There are no happy endings here because, in the real world, evil is seldom vanquished: it simply returns to the soil, like so much rot, in order to spring anew elsewhere. By removing feel-good notions of cosmic justice and the supposed balance between good and evil, Almendras lifts up the rock that is our world and let the hidden things spill out into the light: in the process, he creates one of the most powerful, tense and unpleasant films of the year, a funeral dirge for our modern age.

The protagonist of our little film, Jorge (Daniel Candia), is a mild-mannered forest ranger, father of two and loving husband. He’s soft-spoken, diabetic, gets his family whatever they want at the drop of a hat and seems like a genuinely nice guy. As with Paul Kersey in Death Wish (1974), however, this is not the kind of world for a meek, kind-hearted push-over: this is the jungle and the weaker animals are always prey for the stronger. In this case, the stronger animal is one Luis Alberto Alamos Alamos (Daniel Antivilo), also known as Kalule. Kalule and his gang of reprobates have recently taken over a small park in Jorge’s neighborhood and currently “rule” with an iron fist. No one is safe from their harassment, petty larceny and thuggish violence: think a meaner, stupider and crasser version of Alex’s droogs and you’ve on the right track.

One night, while passing through the park on his way home from work, Jorge happens to run afoul of Kalule and his “boys.” At first, the thugs just harass the poor guy, kicking a soccer ball at him, calling him names and cheerfully menacing him. When Jorge is forced to go back through the park later, however, in order to buy his son, Jorge (Ariel Mateluna) and his friends some beer, his second meeting with the gang isn’t quite as “pleasant.” The creeps surround Jorge, push him around and snatch his wallet, taking what they want and throwing the rest into the dirt. The scene is terrible and humiliating, with Jorge as defenseless as a small child, despite his status as patriarch of his household. To add insult to injury, Kalule refuses to take Jorge’s credit card (“I’d probably have to pay your bill,” he laughs) but does take the expensive blood tester that Jorge needs to help control his diabetes.

When Jorge gets home, he’s too devastated to even look his family in the eyes. His wife, Marta (Alejandra Yañez), and daughter, Nicole (Jennifer Salas), seem mortified and his son is pissed off and ready for action: he wants his dad to give him 5000 pesos so that he can go to the gang and, at the very least, negotiate the return of his dad’s tester. Jorge tells him to drop it which, of course, has the opposite desired effect: young Jorge sneaks out while his parents sleep and attempts to get his dad’s stuff back. When he finds out, Jorge rushes after his son, only to get to his side right after Kalule has shot him. While he watches, Kalule calmly shoots himself and then calls the police, claiming that Jorge’s son attacked him and he only shot in self-defense.

At the trial, Kalule continues to plead his innocence, even as he accepts a plea deal that would put him in prison for 1.5 years. Jorge’s family, for their part, is heartbroken: young Jorge has survived but his injuries have put an end to his schooling, dooming him to the same sort of lower-class life as his parents. Marta, meanwhile, has never stopped blaming Jorge for their son’s injury and the couple have since divorced, with the kids staying with their mother and Jorge taking up residence in a flea-bag motel. Faster than you can say “Cape Fear (1991),” however, Kalule is out of jail and looking to even the score with Jorge and his family. The thug begins a campaign of terror and harassment against the family that includes obscene phone calls, throwing rocks at their house and stalking young Nicole everywhere she goes. The police, so unhelpful during the original crime, are just as unhelpful now: regardless of how many complaints the family lodges, how many protection orders they get or how much they try to avoid Kalule and his gang, the authorities merely shrug their shoulders, leaving the family completely on their own.

As the pressure begins to wear on him, Jorge finds himself changing in subtle ways. After a confrontation with an asshole in the forest ends with Jorge chasing him off with a shotgun, however, the beleaguered father begins to feel empowered, if only ever so slightly. After Kalule and his men commit a shocking, vile and humiliating act against his daughter, however, Jorge finds himself at a crossroads: will he be able to continue taking the “high road,” hoping that the police will eventually do their job, or will he take matters into his own hands and try to make his own version of “justice?” When he finally does make a choice, Jorge’s decision will have a terrible, lasting impact on all those around him: there are no winners, here, only various shades of losers and wrecked human beings.

Lean, mean and consistently down-trodden, To Kill a Man is one of the finest examples of “feel bad” cinema I’ve seen in some time. Everything about the film is calculatedly to make the viewer feel as tense and uncomfortable as possible: the ominous score, all deep-voiced wind instruments and droning, low tones crawls under your skin and stays there…the violence, when it happens, is sudden, shocking and all-too realistic…the gang seem all-powerful and absolutely immoral, lending the film an overriding sense of futility…in every way possible, To Kill a Man is the epitome of a stacked deck.

Jorge, as portrayed by Candia, is a sympathetic, yet largely pathetic, character, a man who wants to believe in some notion of balance and justice yet keeps getting kicked in the nuts by the universe at every turn. Yañez, for her part, serves as surrogate for anyone taking the view that bullies need to be stood up to: the scene where Marta sneers at Jorge and warns him to beware of “mean kids in the park” is a real heart-breaker, since it just reinforces the notion that Jorge was too weak and not “masculine enough” to protect his family. We witness young Jorge go from the traditionally supportive son to a bitter, jaded shell of a man who holds his father in the same contempt that his mother does. And poor Nicole, so hopeful and positive, is absolutely destroyed by the violence and misogyny that swirls around her like a toxic cloud. This isn’t a family so much as three horses which, along with Kalule, are striving to pull Jorge to pieces.

While the acting is consistently strong and nicely understated, the cinematography, courtesy of Inti Briones, is a real thing of beauty. Time after time, Briones comes up with some truly gorgeous images: the shot of an automatic door slowly closing, only to stop midway, works on a number of levels, as does the awesome shot of Jorge’s truck disappearing backwards into the night, its wan headlights gradually swallowed in the same manner as Jorge’s rapidly dwindling humanity. The sense of framing is exquisite and the frequent close-ups, shot from odd angles, keep the constantly shifting power relationships as off-kilter as possible. As difficult as To Kill a Man is to sit through, content-wise, the film always looks and sounds amazing, a razor blade wrapped in a candy shell.

Ultimately, I was pretty blown away by Almendras’ film: while I’ve never been the biggest fan of what I like to call “hopeless cinema,” it’s impossible to deny the raw power of To Kill a Man. In many ways, the film is a modern successor to Death Wish, a searing, jagged examination of the destructive power of vengeance and what it means to be a “protector” in these violent times. While Jorge’s measured march to his own annihilation is painful to watch, it’s the kind of pain that any cinephile should force themselves to endure. At its core, To Kill a Man peels back humanity’s skin, revealing the coal-black heart that beats beneath. You may not necessarily “enjoy” the film but truth, like life, is often painful. Sometimes, you need that pain to appreciate everything else. Sometimes, that’s all there is.

10/26/14 (Part Two): That Knock At the Door

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31 Days of Halloween, cinema, co-writers, couples, death of a child, dramas, feature-film debut, film reviews, films, flashbacks, forgiveness, Gabriel Cowan, gas masks, ghosts, guilt, Haunter, home invasion, horror films, indie films, isolated estates, isolation, John Suits, Milo Ventimiglia, Movies, multiple writers, Sara Paxton, Sarah Shahi, Static, The Others, Todd Levin, twist ending, William Mapother, writer-director

Jonathan (Milo Ventimiglia) and Addie (Sarah Shahi) can’t seem to buy a break. First, they lose their young son in some sort of undisclosed tragedy. The terrible event rocks the very foundations of their marriage, as often happens, but the bad times don’t stop there. There are also hints at problems with infidelity in the relationship, just as vague and ill-defined as the tragedy that stole away their child but definitely there. The couple have retreated to the isolation of a remote estate in order to work on their marriage, only to have their peace disrupted when a mysterious young woman (Sara Paxton), clad in a parka, pounds on their front door. It seems that the young woman is being pursued by a mysterious group of assailants, all wearing gas masks, apparently with the intent to cause her grievous injury. After the couple lets the frantic “guest” into their home, they find themselves under siege by the outside group, as a desperate struggle for survival unfolds. Talk about heapin’ on the misery!

For most of its run-time, Todd Levin’s Static (2012) (which features a whopping three screenwriters, including Levin) is a modest, somber little home invasion flick that breaks absolutely no new ground and does nothing particularly interesting with the sub-genre. At a certain point, however, the filmmakers throw in a twist that sends the film off in another direction entirely. From that point on, the film becomes a different, albeit equally familiar, type of movie, leading to a resolution that should be overly familiar to anyone who’s ever seen one of these types of films. I won’t spoil the “twist” but will note that its ultimate revelation made me sigh aloud: I’d recently seen another, much better, film that did basically the same thing and this was like trying to read the smudged Xerox of a fourth-generation photocopy.

The film is well-made and features a capable, if small, cast: for the majority of the film, the only actors that we see are Ventimiglia, Shahi and Paxton. Ventimiglia, who’s recently been making quite the name for himself in genre efforts like The Divide (2011) and Kiss of the Damned (2012), is his usual brand of emotionless cool mixed with the occasional fiery outburst, sort of a much less interesting variation on Mark Wahlberg. Shahi, for her part, gets a few nice emotional beats but there’s very little chemistry between her and Ventimiglia: we can buy that the couple have hit a rough patch in their marriage but there doesn’t appear to have been much spark there in the best of times, either. Paxton, know for genre fare like The Last House on the Left (2009), The Innkeepers (2011) and Shark Night 3D (2011), does fine with what she’s given but the character of Rachel really only exists as a punchline, as it were, to the film’s main “twist.” Beyond that plot mechanism, her character really doesn’t have much of a purpose, which sort of renders her a little moot.

All in all, Static is decent enough but wears out its welcome fairly quickly. The look of the “bad guys,” complete with gas masks, is a good one, although it still manages to unnecessarily reference the whole “masked people trying to break in” angle of films like Them (2006), You’re Next (2011) and The Purge (2013). For the most part, the film is a kitchen-sink drama about a marriage collapsing, intermittently “spiced” up with the home invasion angle. It’s a tactic that could have worked, ala You’re Next, but everything here just feels kind of cheap and reductive. Ultimately, Static is thoroughly competent, if somewhat depressingly so.

6/8/14 (Part Three): Sweets For the Sweet

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1990s films, abandoned mansion, avenging spirits, based on a short story, Bill Condon, Bill Nunn, Candyman, Candyman: Farewell to the Flesh, cinema, Clive Barker, cursed families, Daniel Robitaille, David Gianopoulos, David Gianopoulous, electronic score, Ethan Tarrant, evisceration, family obligations, family secrets, Farewell to the Flesh, film reviews, films, former plantations, Gods and Monsters, guilt, hook for a hand, horror, horror films, Kelly Rowan, Mardi Gras, Matt Clark, Michael Culkin, mirrors, Movies, New Orleans, Philip Glass, pre-Katrina New Orleans, revenge, sequels, slavery, Tony Todd, upper vs lower class, vengeance, Veronica Cartwright, William O'Leary

How much of a good thing, exactly, is too much? For most of us, if we’re talking about indulgences like food, alcohol, candy or amusement park rides, it’s probably when we get sick: becoming physically ill from something is a good way to end the good times. In reality, however, we can have too much of almost anything. Too much time off can make one restless, too much sleep can make one groggy and too many Tribbles…well, we all know the trouble with Tribbles, don’t we? Too much self-assurance and you’re an asshole, too much humility and you’re a wimp. In film, just as with the rest of the world, it’s certainly possible to get too much of a good thing although sequels certainly push back against this conventional wisdom: since replicating a previous film’s success is so important, delivering more of the same “good thing” is usually the order of the day.

In many cases, sequels to popular films that weren’t originally planned as serials attempt to give fans more of the “good stuff” by either expanding on the backstory of the returning characters, so as to give fans of the characters a deeper, richer experience (along with more face-time with their favorites), or by attempting to replicate the most popular aspects of the first film. This can lead to films like Friday the 13th Part 2 (1981), which often plays as a remake of the first film, or Halloween II (1981), which picks up from the end of the first film and continues with many of the same characters (the survivors, at least). Personally, I tend to be a bigger fan of expanding upon the story versus simply replicating my favorite parts from the previous film: even if I really enjoyed something once, why would I want to see the exact same thing over and over? As someone who was never big on the original Candyman (1992) when it first came out, I never saw a reason to bother with the sequel, Candyman: Farewell to the Flesh (1995). For purposes of the blog, however, I recently re-watched the original film and decided to screen the follow-up as a double-feature. Unlike the original film, I had no experience with the sequel save for some vague memories from trailers when it originally came out. How would Farewell to the Flesh measure up as an actual sequel to a seemingly stand-alone tale? Would it fall into the same pitfalls as other “unnecessary” sequels or would it actually stake out its own place and expand upon the original’s mythos?

Even though the action has moved from Chicago to New Orleans, we begin with a direct link to the first film in the person of egomaniacal, obnoxious egghead Purcell (Michael Culkin), the urban legends expert who butted heads with Helen over her Candyman research. This time around, Purcell is giving a reading of his most recent book about Candyman, a book which mentions that Helen took on the persona of Candyman in order to continue his gruesome crime spree. After the reading, Purcell is confronted by Ethan Tarrant (William O’Leary), who blames the writer for the death of his father, Coleman. According to Ethan, Coleman was killed by Candyman after Purcell convinced him that it was just a myth. When Purcell is shortly eviscerated by our friend, Candyman (Tony Todd), Ethan becomes the primary suspect and is tossed behind bars. Detective Ray Levesque (David Gianopoulos) is positive that Ethan’s responsible for not only Purcell’s death but Coleman’s, as well, mostly because he’s always disliked the “mansion on the hill, rich and privileged” lifestyle of the Tarrants: they’re so wealthy that they must be corrupt, he reasons.

After hearing about her brother’s arrest, schoolteacher Annie (Kelly Rowan) rushes to be by his side but it doesn’t seem to be much use: Ethan has already confessed to Purcell’s murder (even though it’s obvious he didn’t do it) and feels equally responsible for his father’s death. As Annie tries to figure out what’s going on, she visits the Tarrant family manor, a former plantation that been collapsing into rubble, moss and graffiti for some time. Once there, Annie happens upon elaborate murals and an impressive shrine dedicated to Candyman. When one of her students, Matthew (Joshua Gibran Mayweather), begins to draw pictures of Candyman, Annie takes it upon herself to help “dispel” the myth by “summoning” Candyman in front of her students. Annie’s mildly triumphant when nothing happens but her victory is short-lived once she realizes that the urban legend does, in fact, exist and he’s now stalking the streets of New Orleans. As Mardi Gras kicks into full force, Annie gets pulled further and further into the darkness. As the people around her continue to get gutted, one by one, Annie soon becomes the prime suspect (ala Helen from the first film) and must delve deep into her family’s long-buried secrets in order to finally put an end to the curse of Candyman. Everything will come to a head in the long-abandoned, flooded former slave quarters of her old home, as Annie faces off against the monster that destroyed her family…a destruction that may have been completely justified, as the abyss of time collapses to show Annie that anyone can be capable of ultimate evil, under the right circumstances.

Despite the somewhat lesser production values, Candyman: Farewell to the Flesh actually holds up as a pretty suitable sequel to the original film. While it lacks some of the previous film’s “Ken Russell on opium” vibe, there are enough artistic flourishes to keep this one from seeing like strictly “direct-to-video” product. Philip Glass returns to score the sequel, which helps to provide a sense of continuity with the first film, particularly since certain passages/suites are reused for similar effect. The locations are also top-notch: pre-Katrina New Orleans is always an eye-popping delight, especially during Mardi Gras, and the film makes expert use of its setting. On top of the gorgeous New Orleans imagery, the abandoned mansion and flooded slave quarters are pretty damn awesome: in particular, the slave quarters may be one of the single creepiest set-pieces I’ve seen in some time and are a fantastic place to stage the final confrontation.

Like the first film, Candyman: Farewell to the Flesh incorporates a few complex themes within its more traditional “slasher” framework. Whereas the first film dealt with “white flight” and the plight of urban housing developments in the big city, the sequel tracks this conflict back further, focusing on the overt racism that led to Daniel Robitaille’s transformation into Candyman. We get an even more detailed and disturbing depiction of his murder this time around (although the incident was still disturbing in the original film), which focuses on plenty of small but important details: the women and children who gather around to laugh as he’s tortured to death…the fact that “Candyman” isn’t a name that Robitaille chose for himself (ala the Son of Sam or the Unibomber) but is something that was given to him by his attackers/oppressors, like a slave name…perhaps most importantly, the film steps back to give us a slightly more clear look at the relationship between Robitaille and his white girlfriend, a relationship that was directly responsible for his murder. If anything, this extra emphasis on the past events tends to paint Candyman as something of a Byronic anti-hero, like a Dracula: he’s not some heartless monster but a loving, compassionate man who was tortured, mutilated, humiliated and killed by a rabid, racist mob. Whereas Candyman seemed like an equal-opportunity slayer in the first film, his killings in the sequel are directly tied in to his killing, making them more revenge-related than sociopathic. It’s a small but significant difference.

Despite the fact that Farewell to the Flesh holds up so well, it’s still a noticeably lesser film than the original. While the slight loss of atmosphere is a bit of a bummer, the over-reliance on “musical stinger jump-scare” effects is a complete wet blanket: this was an issue that was non-existent in the first film, which makes the repeated stingers that much more annoying. A slightly bigger issue has to be the subtle sense of deja vu that the film evokes: while its bears distinct differences from the original, Farewell to the Flesh still manages to replicate many of the original’s biggest beats. In many ways, Annie and Helen are the same character and go through nearly identical arcs across their respective films. The “Candyman shrine” moments in both films are nearly identical, although the scene in Farewell to the Flesh is much more visually interesting than its predecessor. Perhaps most noticeable, however, is the utterly repetitious nature of the killing: if you’ve seen one “hook hand-gutting” in Farewell to the Flesh, you’ve seen all 99 or so of them, since each and every one is executed in the exact same manner. The Candyman films were never about a cornucopia of inventive deaths, ala the Friday the 13th films, but the generic, repetitious nature of the deaths here actually makes this a bit tedious by the midpoint.

Director Bill Condon, who would go on to helm the Oscar-winning Gods and Monsters (1998), treats the material with utmost sincerity, which helps elevate the pulpy source a little. While the film doesn’t feel quite as inventive as the original, Condon is a pretty sure hand with staging the various action sequences and, as mentioned earlier, the climatic scene in the slave quarters is a masterpiece of atmosphere and efficiency. From a craft-standpoint, Farewell to the Flesh must surely stand as one of the more elegant, nuanced “non-essential” genre sequels out there: while there was absolutely no need to continue the story after the first film ended, Farewell to the Flesh feels less like a money-grab than an attempt to say something new, if only ever so slightly.

For the record, I’m still not a huge fan of “sequels for sequels’ sake,” even though I’ve re-watched most horror franchises so much that I have them memorized. That being said, I ended up being duly impressed by Candyman: Farewell to the Flesh. I didn’t go in expecting much but the film managed to throw me several curveballs and there was enough connection to the original to warrant calling this an actual sequel. While it’s not an amazing film, Farewell to the Flesh is a clever, energetic way to continue the series. Although I’ve yet to see the third and (presumably) final film in the Candyman trilogy, my intuition tells me that Farewell to the Flesh will still stand as the better finale. This might be more of the same but it’s different enough to keep me from getting sick of it…yet, at least.