2/17/15: Where Eagles Dare

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21 Grams, 87th Annual Academy Awards, Academy Award Nominee, Alejandro González Iñárritu, Alexander Dinelaris, Amores Perros, Amy Ryan, Andrea Riseborough, Antonio Sanchez, Armando Bo, art films, auteur theory, Babel, backstage drama, Best of 2014, Birdman, Biutiful, Broadway play, cinema, co-writers, colorful films, difficult actors, divorced parents, Edward Norton, Emma Stone, Emmanuel Lubezki, father-daughter relationships, favorite films, Film auteurs, film festival favorite, film reviews, films, glory days, hallucinations, infidelity, insanity, Lindsay Duncan, mental breakdown, meta-films, Michael Keaton, Mike Shiner, Movies, multiple award nominee, multiple writers, Naomi Watts, Nicolás Giacobone, Raymond Carver, Riggan Thomson, single-take shots, superheroes, washed-up actors, writer-director, Zach Galifianakis

Amidst the stunning technical razzle-dazzle of auteur Alejandro González Iñárritu’s Birdman (2014), there’s one scene that, perhaps more than others, exemplifies how truly impressive the film is: after discovering the remains of a joint in the possession of his fresh-out-of-rehab daughter, Sam (Emma Stone), washed-up Riggan Thomson (Michael Keaton) explodes into a mess of self-righteous fury, blaming her for trying to scuttle his chance at a comeback, only to have her turn the tables by giving as good as she gets. Sam slashes her blowhard, absentee dad to the bone, reminding him of just how irrelevant he really is, how little he matters in the larger scheme of the world.

After all, what makes him any different from the faceless slobs who live, toil and die in anonymity: what kind of massive, sick ego makes him think that any of his shit is more important than anyone else’s? The camera stays on Sam after she finishes her rant, however, allowing us to see the pain and sympathy that’s crept over her formerly hard, angry features. Everything she’s said is true, no two ways about it: Riggan doesn’t really have anyone but himself to blame for his current situation. But words can hurt as much as weapons and the instant regret that we see is confirmed when the camera finally turns to show the defeated, shamed shell of a man who stands before her. It’s a lot easier to “cut someone down to size” if you don’t have to actually look them in the eyes, after all.

Much of the attention centered around Iñárritu’s extraordinary follow-up to Biutiful (2010) will probably center around two key elements: the film’s duly mind-blowing cinematography and technical polish and Michael Keaton’s all-in lead performance. To be fair, there’s certainly nothing wrong with that reaction: the filmcraft is masterful and Keaton hasn’t been this commanding since the ’90s. In fact, on the first go-through, both of these aspects loom so large that it might be difficult to focus on everything else. This is tunnel-vision, however, since multiple viewings reveal an endless variety of subtle details, outstanding performances and sly commentary on everything from the nature of celebrity to the virtue of sacrifice and the dangers of complacency. In every way, shape and form, Birdman is an extraordinary film, one of the very best of 2014 and, quite possibly, one of the biggest “no-brainers” for early inclusion into the canon of classic cinema. For the fifth time, in a row, Iñárritu has delivered something unforgettable: how’s that for consistency?

Birdman follows (quite literally) the aforementioned Riggan, a former shining star in Hollywood who portrayed the titular superhero in three blockbuster films before hanging up the costume in order to focus on more “serious” pursuits. We know how this story always ends, however: the general public is much more interested in superhero punch-ups than maudlin drama, so Riggan has seen his star gradually fade as he’s distanced himself from the multiplex junk that used to pay the bills. In a final, desperate bid for relevance, Riggan has turned the Raymond Carver story, “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love,” into a Broadway show, which he directs and stars in.

When one of Riggan’s co-stars, Ralph (Jeremy Shamos), is taken out of commission by a falling stage light, he’s forced to come up with a replacement at incredibly short notice. Ralph was a terrible actor, however, so Riggan is more than happy to have him gone: he’s even happier when another co-star, Lesley (Naomi Watts), is able to get her famous actor boyfriend, Mike Shiner (Edward Norton), to agree to step in. Riggan’s best friend/producer/lawyer, Jake (Zach Galifianakis), is thrilled with the development, since Shiner has instant name appeal and will help give the production the visibility it desperately needs, with opening night on the horizon.

Turns out, however, that Mike is a pretty terrible person: egomaniacal, given to violent, drunken outbursts and so shifty and backhanded as to be one step removed from an outright villain, Mike is a human wrecking ball and the last thing that a struggling play needs. He’s big in the theater world, however, which is what Riggan needs if he’s going to win over people like stodgy, unpleasant critic Tabitha Dickinson (Lindsay Duncan), a Broadway power-broker whose poison pen can either make or kill a production, regardless of its relative merits.

As Riggan juggles all of this, he must also deal with his caustic, perpetually unpleasant daughter/assistant, Sam; his concerned ex-wife, Sylvia (Amy Ryan); his pregnant girlfriend/co-star, Laura (Andrea Riseborough); his own feelings of inadequacy and anger, as well as his increasingly precarious mental state. You see, while all of this is going on, Riggan is constantly harassed, mocked, pestered and belittled by his gruff-voiced Birdman alter-ego: Birdman doesn’t think Riggan is living up to his full potential and wants him to don the suit again, in order to resurrect both the feathered crime fighter and his own flat-lined career. As his world begins to collapse into chaos, Riggan becomes increasingly unfettered from the constraints of reality: Riggan Thomson, the man, may be a laughing-stock but there still might be a chance for Birdman to swoop in and save the day. Will Riggan be able to stand his ground, defy the naysayers and fulfill his lifelong dream or will he retreat to the safety of public acceptance and weekend box-office returns?

Right off the bat, Birdman looks and sounds amazing: while the Academy doesn’t always (or often) get their nominations right, I don’t think anyone can deny that Iñárritu’s film absolutely deserved nods for legendary cinematographer Emmanuel Lubezki’s camera-work, as well as the truly impressive sound design. While the single-take element of the film was thoroughly impressive the first time I watched it, I couldn’t help but feel that I was missing subtle cuts: there was no way it could all be one take. After watching it a second time and really focusing on the cinematography, however, I’m pretty sure I’m dead wrong: with the exception of the obvious cuts at the beginning and end, as well as a small handful of moments during the film (the genius transition into the bar, a possible moment where the camera passes into darkness), I’m pretty sure this was all done as a single-take. In a word: wow.

The sheer level of planning and raw talent that goes into planning something like this is truly mind-blowing, especially when one considers the frequency of mirror shots in the film, the seamless integration of CGI elements and the overall length of the piece: DePalma gets plenty of love for his long, single-take scenes but that’s child’s play compared to what Iñárritu and Lubezki come up with here. Even though the camera can’t cut, we still need to be able to transition to other characters, locations, and time spans: it’s in these moments where the film really flexes its considerable muscles. Employing a technique whereby the camera follows one character before “jumping” to another, we seamlessly follow the action from Point A to Point Z, giving us a complete overview of everything that’s happening. It’s dizzying but, once you surrender to it, completely intoxicating: there’s a flow and poetry to Birdman’s camera movement that manages to blur the line between fiction and fact, audience and actors. We’ve seldom been this close to the action and it’s a helluva feeling.

The other benefit to the single-take approach is that it puts a premium on the entire cast’s performances: despite being the “subject” of the film, Keaton’s Riggan is absolutely not the only element that “matters.” Since Iñárritu and Lubezki can’t fall back on the traditional back-and-forth cutting element of most cinematic conversations, we get whole scenes where the camera focuses exclusively on one character, allowing us to see the full range of their emotions. The aforementioned scene with Sam reading her dad the riot act is an obvious highlight but the film is chockfull of scenes just like that. Each and every performer in Birdman needs to be “on” in every scene, making this one of the most masterfully acted films in some time.

While Norton is pretty great as the unrepentant shithead know-it-all and Stone is superb as the broken-down but defiant Sam, the film is full of wonderful performances. I’ve never been the biggest fan of Galifianakis, finding him to be one of the most annoyingly one-note performers to come down the pike in some time but his performance as Jake is, easily, a career highlight: for the first time, Galifianakis actually comes across as a real person, rather than a blustery caricature, and it works marvelously. Naomi Watts brings a genuine sense of pain to her portrayal of Mike’s long-suffering girlfriend and the scene where she breaks down is truly difficult to watch. By contrast, Andrea Riseborough isn’t given nearly enough to do as Riggan’s girlfriend, which is a shame: the few moments where the film focuses on her are some of its most impactful scenes. I’d also be remiss if I didn’t throw a little praise at Lindsay Duncan, who manages to make Tabitha one of the most effortlessly loathsome characters in quite a while. The scene where she, matter-of-factly, tells Riggan how she plans to ruin him, without even giving him the benefit of the doubt, works on a number of levels and she proves integral to the film’s internal machinations.

While the cinematography and acting are out-of-this-world, the rest of Birdman’s filmcraft ably follows suit. The sound design is quite genius and impossibly immersive: the way in which the non-diegetic, percussive score (courtesy of Antonio Sanchez) seamlessly becomes diegetic is a brilliant way to illustrate Riggan’s growing mental divide and used to great effect. The film is also full of so many smart background details, immaculate production design and vibrant colors that the entire film seems to be a constantly breathing, shifting organism: my second viewing revealed so many details that I missed the first time around, it makes me wonder what the fifth viewing will reveal. One of my favorite, subtle bits is the “A thing is a thing, not what people say it is” placard that’s tucked into the corner of Riggan’s dressing room mirror.

The script, credited to four writers (including Iñárritu), constantly loops and wraps around itself: while the film is fairly linear, it’s anything but straight-forward. The parallels between the on-stage world of Riggan’s play and the “real world” of his life are subtle but they help to establish the kind of complex intertexuality that’s so key to filmmakers like Charlie Kaufman and Spike Jonze. Despite how “tricky” the film is, it never feels pretentious or overly showy: indeed, Iñárritu and crew have created an “art film” that manages to feel decidedly down-to-earth, despite its more fantastic flights of fancy.

And, of course, there’s that central performance by Keaton: a former superstar, himself, Keaton IS Birdman and wears the character like a second skin. I’ve heard some critics say that Keaton is a “character actor” and, therefore, not worthy of Academy consideration for his performance. This, of course, is the exact same insult that Tabitha tosses in Riggan’s face like acid: he’s a “celebrity,” not an actor. Just as in the film, the condemnation holds no water: the quality of a performance has nothing to do with the performer and everything to do with the performance, itself. Keaton displays a range and depth, here, that’s consistent with some of the best performances of the year: while I’m not sure that his was the “best,” it was certainly one of the strongest of the year and eminently worthy of award consideration.

All in all, Birdman is a hell of a film: eye-popping, deliciously dark and surprisingly funny, it’s the kind of film that usually gets ignored by the mainstream, which makes its nine Oscar nominations a bit of a head-scratcher. I’m not saying that it doesn’t deserve all of them (even without seeing all of the nominees, I know that Birdman belongs there) but I’m certainly surprised. For my money, Dan Gilroy’s Nightcrawler (2014) has a slight (ever so slight) edge over Iñárritu’s latest but that, ultimately, says more about my particular sensibilities than anything: in most ways, the two titans line up pretty evenly, at least in my book.

At the end of the day, Birdman is a towering achievement, a film about the vagaries of backstage life that easily rivals predecessors like Noises Off (1992) and Living in Oblivion (1995). It’s a film about the eternal, pointless crusade for cultural immortality, the never-ending war between “art” and “commerce” that’s split the art community since at least the Middle Ages. It’s a film about accepting one’s place in the world, while refusing to stop reaching for the stars. It’s a film about a father and daughter taking the first, tentative, painful steps towards reconciliation. It’s about ego, self-sacrifice and the need to be loved by someone, anyone, before we shuffle off this mortal coil. Iñárritu’s Birdman is an ambitious, exquisitely made love letter to dreamers, dabblers and the people who love (and hate) them, set against the bustling crowds and marquees of Broadway.

It’s a one-of-a-kind film which, I suppose, makes it just another day at the office for Iñárritu.

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2/14/15 (Part Two): Blame the Cat

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Adi Shankar, Anna Kendrick, auteur theory, Bosco, childhood trauma, cinema, colorful films, dark comedies, disturbing films, Ella Smith, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, flashbacks, Gemma Arterton, hallucinations, horror, horror film, horror movies, insanity, Jacki Weaver, Marjane Satrapi, Maxime Alexandre, mental breakdown, mental illness, Michael R. Perry, mother-son relationships, Movies, Mr. Whiskers, Oliver Bernet, Paul Chahidi, Persepolis, psychopaths, Ryan Reynolds, Sam Spruell, serial killers, Stanley Townsend, talking animal, talking animals, talking cat, talking dog, The Voices, Udo Kramer, vibrant films

For the most part, live-action “talking animal” movies are awful. Sure, you get the occasional Babe (1995) or Homeward Bound (1993) in the batch but most films in this particular sub-genre are rather abysmal: pitched at the lowest-common denominator, full of bad CGI, “peanut butter mouth” and dumb humor, most live-action talking animal flicks are only good for torturing doting parents unlucky enough to be caught in their orbit. Even the “good” talking animal films tend to be family-focused or comedies: to the best of my knowledge, the only “serious” talking animal film out there is Baxter (1989), Jérôme Boivin’s disturbing fable about a philosophical, if psychotic, dog who kills indiscriminately while we “hear” his thoughts. One is, indeed, the loneliest number.

To this incredibly exclusive group, let’s add the newest film by Marjane Satrapi, the Iranian auteur behind the superb animated film Persepolis (2007): The Voices (2015) is not only the best talking animal film to come out in decades, it’s also one of the most intriguing, disturbing and colorful films I’ve ever seen. In many ways, The Voices is what you would get if you threw Repulsion (1965) and Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer (1986) into a blender and had Wes Anderson serve up the smoothies. If that sounds like your drink, belly up to the bar for one wild and wooly good time.

Meet Jerry (Ryan Reynolds), our cheerful, sweet and slightly naive protagonist. Jerry works at a bathroom fixtures wholesaler, never has an unkind word for anyone and lives above an abandoned bowling alley with his faithful dog, Bosco, and his aloof cat, Mr. Whiskers. Jerry’s a happy, friendly kind of guy but he’s also go a few problems. He’s lonely, for one, since he’s so painfully shy that he can never get the nerve up to talk to any girls, including Fiona (Gemma Arterton), his office crush. He’s also regularly seeing a court-appointed psychiatrist, Dr. Warren (Jacki Weaver), for some sort of unspecified childhood trauma. And then, of course, there’s the little issue about Bosco and Mr. Whiskers: while many folks talk to their pets, Jerry’s got to be one of the only ones who actually holds back-and-forth conversations with them. That’s right, folks: Jerry’s got himself a couple of talking animals.

Jerry’s talking animals are a little different from most, however. For one thing, they’re not quite benevolent: while Bosco seems like a nice enough, if slightly dopey, kinda guy, Mr. Whiskers is a real sociopath. Snarky, foul-mouthed and a firm advocate of violence as conflict resolution, Mr. Whiskers is like a feline version of Trainspotting’s (1996) psychotic Begbie. The other way in which Jerry’s animals are different from the ones in most talking animal films is…well, it’s because they aren’t actually talking. You see, sweet little Jerry is also completely, totally insane, a character trait that he does a remarkably good job of hiding from the outside world. Driven over the deep-end by a patently terrible childhood involving his equally demented mother and abusive father, Jerry has a tenuous relationship with reality, at best.

Disaster strikes when Jerry finally gets up the nerve to ask out Fiona, only for her to stand him up on their resulting date. The pair end up running into each other after Fiona’s car breaks down and Jerry offers her a lift: a bizarre accident on an isolated, country road leads to Fiona’s shocking death and sends a panicked Jerry straight back to the wise counsel of his pets. Bosco tells Jerry that he needs to do the right thing and report the incident to the police. Mr. Whiskers, however, has a slightly different take on the situation: if Jerry comes clean, his future is going to include an awful lot of non-consensual prison sex…his only recourse, according to the cat, is to dispose of the body.

As Jerry tries to figure out what to do, even more disaster looms over the horizon: Lisa (Anna Kendrick), another of Jerry’s co-workers, is smitten with him and coming dangerously close to figuring out his secret. Will Jerry be able to suppress his darker instincts, take his meds and rejoin the land of the lucid or has Fiona’s death opened up a Pandora’s Box that will go on to consume everyone around them? Regardless of the outcome, you know one thing: Bosco and Mr. Whiskers are always ready with an encouraging word.

When press first came out regarding Satrapi’s film, I was struck by her desire to throw herself headfirst into a horror film: after all, her previous films, Persepolis, Chicken With Plums (2011) and The Gang of the Jotas (2012) were the furthest things possible from genre films. In certain ways, it seemed like Satrapi was interested in making a horror movie strictly for the novelty factor, which is always a dangerous route to take (I’m looking at you, Kevin Smith). When someone “dabbles” in something, there’s always a chance that the results are going to be half-assed or, at the very best, significantly flawed. After watching the results, however, I really only have one thing to say: All hail Marjane Satrapi, one of the boldest, freshest and most ingenious “new” faces in the world of horror.

In every way, The Voices is a revelation. The film looks astounding, for one thing, with a visual flair that’s the equal of Wes Anderson’s most candy-coated moments. Indeed, the film looks so eye-popping, colorful and gorgeous that it’s tempting to just stare at the images as if one were watching a particularly lovely slideshow. All of the colors in the film are unbelievably vibrant and genuinely beautiful: one of the neatest motifs in the film is the repeated use of pink and pastel colors, something which gives the whole demented masterpiece something of the feel of a Herschell Gordon Lewis-directed Easter special. Veteran cinematographer Maxime Alexandre (Alexandre Aja’s resident camera guy, as well as the man behind the lens of Franck Khalfoun’s equally colorful Maniac (2012) remake) paints such a lovely picture with his images that it’s easy to forget we’re watching a film about an insane killer. One of Satrapi’s greatest coups is that she has such respect for the material and the film: the quality, literally, shines through the whole production.

The script, by longtime TV scribe Michael R. Perry, is rock-solid, full of smart twists and turns, as well as some truly great dialogue. One of the greatest joys in The Voices is listening to the way that Bosco and Mr. Whiskers (both voiced by Reynolds) feint, maneuver and verbally spar with each other throughout the course of the film. They, obviously, represent the proverbial angel and devil on his shoulders but nothing about the film is ever that obvious. Just when it seems as if things are starting to fall into predictable patterns, the film throws us another curve-ball, such as the instantly classic bit where Jerry starts to take his meds and we finally see the true “reality” of his living situation. In a genre that can often have one or the other but doesn’t always have both, The Voices is that rarest of things: a smart, witty, hard-core horror film that also looks and sounds amazing.

And make no bones about it: The Voices rolls its sleeves up and gets dirty with the best of ’em. For a filmmaker with no previous experience in horror, Satrapi displays an uncannily deft touch with the gore elements: while the film never wallows in its bloodshed (certain key scenes are staged in ways that deliberately minimize what we see), it can also be brutal and shocking. More importantly, the film can also be genuinely frightening: when things really go off the rails, in the final act, the tone shifts from playful to outright horrifying in the blink of an eye. If this is Satrapi’s first shot at a horror film, I’ll spend an eternity of birthday wishes on a follow-up: she’s an absolute natural and, in a genre with a depressingly small pool of female voices, an absolute necessity.

One of the things that really puts The Voices over the top (and another testament to Satrapi’s skill behind the camera) is the stellar quality of the acting. The film has a killer cast, no two ways about it: Ryan Reynolds, Anna Kendrick, Gemma Arterton, Jacki Weaver, Ella Smith…any and all of these folks have turned in more than their fair share of great performances. A great cast doesn’t always indicate a great film, however: plenty of notable names have been attached to absolute dogs. In this case, however, each member of the ensemble compliments each other perfectly, allowing for a completely immersive experience.

Say what you will about Ryan Reynolds but his performance in Buried (2010) was absolutely masterful: his work in The Voices is even better. Reynolds is an actor who lives or dies by the dichotomy between his boyish good looks and slightly unhinged demeanor, ala Bradley Cooper, and his performance as Jerry takes it all to another level. Alternately sympathetic, likable, pathetic and terrifying, this is the kind of performance that should get people talking: at the very least, I find it impossible to believe that he won’t end up on at least a few “year-end” lists. It’s always a dicey proposition when an actor needs to portray someone who’s mentally unstable: Elijah Wood found the perfect balance in Maniac and Reynolds does the same here.

The rest of the cast is equally great: Anna Kendrick brings enough of an edge to her typically bubbly persona to keep us wondering about her actual mental state, while Jacki Weaver, who was so good as Aunt Gwen in Stoker (2013), makes her psychiatrist the perfect combination of quirky and caring. Arterton, meanwhile, manages to make the potentially clichéd, unlikable character of Fiona duly sympathetic: she’s not a “mean girl” looking down her nose at a social misfit…she a real person who doesn’t appreciate unwanted advances. As with everything else in the film, it’s the kind of characterization we don’t get enough of in horror films.

Ultimately, my praise of Marjane Satrapi’s The Voices can be summed up thusly: it’s a ridiculously self-assured, stylish and unique film that manages to constantly surprise, while finding myriad ways to upend the “psycho killer” sub-genre. While I thought Persepolis was an amazing film, The Voices practically comes with my name on it: it’s like handing a carnivore a slab of prime Kobe beef. Visually stunning, smart, packed with great performances and featuring two of the best animal performances in years (Bosco and Mr. Whiskers deserve their own franchises), The Voices is a truly singular experience.

As a lifelong horror fan who watches more than his fair share of horror films, let me close with my highest possible recommendation: The Voices is an absolute must-see and Marjane Satrapi is one of the most exciting, fascinating new voices in the field. I absolutely loved this film and I’m willing to wager that you will, too. I’m also willing to wager that if you have pets, you might never look at them the same way again.

2/3/15: It’s Always the Quiet Ones

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Aloha Oe, alternate title, Carl Marznap, Carl Panzram, child abuse, childhood trauma, cinema, crime film, dark films, dark tourism, Dark Tourist, disturbing films, dramas, film reviews, films, flashbacks, Frank John Hughes, gang rape, grief tourism, Grief Tourist, hallucinations, Hawaiian songs, Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer, homophobia, horror, insanity, isolation, juvenile detention facility, juvenile offenders, loners, Lovely Molly, Melanie Griffith, mental breakdown, mental illness, Michael Cudlitz, misanthropes, misanthropic, mother-son relationships, Movies, murdered prostitutes, Nayo Wallace, Pruitt Taylor Vince, serial killers, Suri Krishnamma, Suzanne Quast, Taxi Driver, transgender, Travis Bickle, twist ending, unpleasant films, voice-over narration

In certain cases, I can predict exactly what I’ll be getting when I sit down with a previously unknown film. Sometimes the cover art will give clues or there’ll be some strategic stunt casting that sets off alarm bells (anything with a WWE personality, for example, is probably not going to be “a contender”). It might be a filmmaker that I’m familiar with, giving me a general idea of what lays ahead, or a screenwriter that’s intrigued me with other scripts. In some cases, certain films just project an aura of…well, let’s just call it “compromise” and be generous, shall we? These are the equivalent of the direct-to-video detritus that used to line store shelves back in the glory days of VHS: they’re still here, of course, although now they clog virtual racks rather than physical ones.

There are always those films, however, that end up defying, destroying and resetting expectations. Every once in a while, a film that might seem completely forgettable from the outside ends up surprising me and boring straight into my brain-pan. One of my favorite examples of this is Eduardo Sanchez’s Lovely Molly (2011), a film which seems so generic and bland from the outside that it feels like you’ve been dipped in lava once it reveals itself to be an absolutely unholy hell of an experience. Without a doubt, Lovely Molly is one of the single most unpleasant films I’ve ever watched: it’s also completely unforgettable and, quite possibly, one of the greatest unknown films of the 2000s. While Suri Krishnamma’s Dark Tourist (2012) isn’t quite the film that Lovely Molly is, it still managed to obliterate my low expectations, positioning itself as a sort of cross between Taxi Driver (1976) and Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer (1986). When Dark Tourist is good, it’s absolutely riveting and, easily, one of the most grueling, unpleasant cinematic experiences I’ve had in months. This is definitely not a film that can (or will) appeal to everyone. If you’re ready to take a trip to some seriously damaged locales, however, Dark Tourist is saving you a seat on the bus.

Our protagonist is Jim (Michael Cudlitz), a misanthropic security guard who works the over-night shift at some sort of factory. Via his near constant voiceover, we learn a few handy things about our wannabe hero: he absolutely loves his solitude, eschewing human contact whenever possible; he’s obsessed with serial killers and their lives to the point where he makes yearly “pilgrimages” to check out their childhood homes, murder sites, etc.; he’s a virulent homophobe, racist and sexist, who decries Hollywood as “for the faggots,” bitches about his “Jew fucker” doctor and cheerfully describes his co-workers as “sluts, drug addicts, whore mongers and child molesters.” That Jim is able to be this terrible of a human being while still maintaining the outward semblance of normalcy is admirable, to say the least: we know how fucked up the guy is, since we’re getting the info straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. To everyone else, however, he just comes across as a standoffish, polite but cold guy with some weird hobbies. In other words, the epitome of “he seemed like such a nice, quiet guy.”

For this year’s trip, Jim has set his sights on the life and times of one Carl Marznap (based on real-life serial killer/monster Carl Panzram). Marznap was a killer/arsonist who was gang-raped in a juvenile facility and sought to take out his anger on the rest of the world, culminating in burning down a church full of people. Jim traces Marznap’s journey from his boyhood home to the (now abandoned) juvenile facility and the remains of the burned church, trying to get some sense of who the real Carl was. Along the way, Jim strikes up a tentative friendship with a lonely diner waitress (Melanie Griffith) and stays at a fleabag motel where the constant activities of the resident hooker, Iris (Suzanne Quast), start to provoke some rather “Travis Bickle-esque” feelings in him. Soon, Jim is having a hard time concentrating on his “vacation,” a situation which becomes even more difficult once he starts to see visions of an adult Marznap (Taylor Pruitt Vince). As Jim’s grasp on reality gets more and more precarious, he finds himself rocketing towards a revelation that is both impossibly sad and unrelentingly horrifying.

One of the greatest tricks that Krishnamma and screenwriter Frank John Hughes pull with Dark Tourist is making the misanthropic Jim such a thoroughly fascinating character. Chalk this up to a combination of good writing and a great performance by Cudlitz (who instantly reminded me of a younger Ron Perlman) but it’s a real coup: Jim should have been an absolutely miserable character to spend 80 minutes with but we still end up on his side (kind of/sort of) right up until the whole thing goes ass-over-tea kettle in a holocaust of violence. For a time, it’s easy to believe that Jim is just a severely damaged individual, ala Travis Bickle, who still has some deep-buried sense of morality, however perverted. When the worm turns, however, we’re smack-dab in Henry territory and it’s a pretty nasty place to be.

Craftwise, Dark Tourist isn’t exactly a home-run. The cinematography is often flat and kind of ugly, at its worst, and serviceable, at best. There’s an unfortunate lens-distortion effect used on the flashback scenes, which is rather cheesy, and the supporting performances range from good (Donna Ponterotto as Jim’s waitress mother) to serviceable (Pruitt Taylor Vince’s performance as Marznap is fine, if rather clichéd and perilously close to a cameo) to rather dreadful (I adore Melanie Griffith but the less said about her awkward, halting performance as Betsy, the better). There’s also an unfortunate tendency to hammer things home a bit hard: the part where Jim’s voice-over explicitly lays out his mental state is way too obvious, especially since the film had been so good at subtly laying out the same notion prior to that.

When the film follows through on its convictions, however, it comes perilously close to being a truly soul-shattering experience. The “twist” is a real gutpunch, which allows the previously foregone conclusion to pack much more emotional weight than it might otherwise have. The violence is sparse but genuinely disturbing when it comes (similar to Henry, if you think about it) and Krishnamma’s use of traditional Hawaiian instrumentals and songs such as “Aloha Oe” help keep the whole thing off kilter. For every familiar beat, Krishnamma throws in something so outside the box that it makes the whole production feel much fresher than it probably should have. This is, without a doubt, the very definition of something being far greater than the sum of its parts.

Ultimately, for as good as Dark Tourist ends up being (and the film is very, very good), it’s still the kind of movie that will have extremely limited appeal. Similar to Simon Rumley’s misery-epics The Living and the Dead (2006) and Red, White & Blue (2010), there is no sunshine to be found here whatsoever. Things begin on a grim note and degrade from there into abject and complete despair: it’s not spoiling a thing to say that nothing in Dark Tourist will end positively because there’s no way it could…Jim (and the world he inhabits) are way too fucked up for any sort of “fairy tale ending.” This is the kind of film that is best described as an “endurance match”: for as much as I respected Krishnamma and Hughes’ bleak vision, I would be extremely wary of anyone who said that they actually enjoyed it. Gentle readers, take note: if you’re not ready to descend to the depths of human depravity, you might want to book passage on an entirely different cruise.

1/4/15: Leave Your Mind At the Sound of the Beep

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Ahnna Rasch, Alexander Brøndsted, Antonio Tublen, audio experiments, audio tones, Björn Löfberg Egner, cheating husbands, cinema, Computer Chess, dark comedies, dramas, dysfunctional family, electronic score, Erik Börén, experiments, film reviews, films, flashbacks, foreign films, hallucinations, husband-wife relationship, infidelity, insanity, Johanna Tschig, LFO, Linus Eklund, loners, Lukas Loughran, mental breakdown, mental illness, mind control, Movies, neighbors, Patrik Karlson, Per Löfberg, Samir Dounas, sci-fi, scientists, secrets, sound frequencies, sounds, stylish films, Swedish films, synthesizers, troubled marriages, writer-director-score-editor

Suppose that you invented the perfect self-help device, a machine that would put you into a highly suggestible state, allowing for subtle modifications to your behavior. Trying to cut back on sweets? Simply leave a “message” for yourself and your mind will subconsciously take care of the heavy lifting. Want to exercise more? Listen to a particular tone and, without even trying, you’ll actually want to run a marathon and do sit-ups until the cows come home. Want to just be a “better” person, in general? Set the controls, leave your command and, through no additional effort of your own, your brain and body will spring into action, making your “wish” come true. Sounds pretty amazing, right?

Now…suppose that you also just realized that if your humble little invention works so well on you, it might also work equally well on others. Suppose you discover that your device allows you to “control” others, using the power of hypnotic suggestion to subliminally influence and direct their actions and thoughts. Would you use said device to help make the world a better place, influencing people to abandon selfish, dangerous and destructive behaviors in favor of a more helpful, unified world view, inching humanity ever closer to a long-sought-after utopia? Or would you use it to turn those around you into mindless slaves, unknowingly beholden to your whim and command?

In a nutshell, that’s the conflict at the center of multi-hat-wearing director Antonio Tublen’s (he also wrote, edited and performed the electronic score) intriguing LFO (2014), an odd, stylish and darkly humorous bit of heady sci-fi that whips mind control, mental illness, marital discord and God complexes into a heady brew. While the film can be a little rocky, at times, and comes across as overly complex in the early going, LFO eventually settles down into a smart, edgy and appropriately weird little film that’s somewhat reminiscent of Andrew Bujalski’s Computer Chess (2013), while still managing to stake out plenty of original territory of its own.

Robert (Patrik Karlson) is a loner who lives by himself, routinely ignores his self-posted notes to “Take his medication” and seems to hallucinate the specter of his former wife, Clara (Ahnna Rasch), who appears to serve as his conscience. He also appears to be a scientist, of some sort, who’s working on an experiment involving sound frequencies: Robert collaborates with several other colleagues, including Sinus-San (Erik Börén), via short-wave radio, since he rarely seems to leave his house. Robert makes a breakthrough when he notes that a particular frequency makes him highly susceptible to suggestion: upon further experimentation, he discovers that he can actually command himself to do things by giving an order into his device and listening to the resulting tone. In a humorous bit, Robert makes himself dislike cookies: after “waking up” from the frequency, he absent-mindedly noshes on a cookie, only to spit the treat out in disgust. Success!

After further tests prove how well the device works, Robert decides to take everything to the next level, “Phase 2,” as it were. Inviting his new neighbors, Linn (Johanna Tschig) and Simon (Per Löfberg) over for coffee, Robert uses the device on them and discovers that it has the exact same effect as on him. While in their hypnotic states, Robert plants subtle subliminal commands that have the effect of turning Linn and Simon into mindless drones: whenever they hear the tone, they’re powerless to resist Robert’s commands, although they remember nothing upon “waking.” In short order, the mad scientist is using Simon for free labor, while Linn serves as his sex slave, in a pretty obvious example of “absolute power corrupts absolutely.”

As Robert continues to fine-tune and perfect his device, however, outside forces begin to swirl about him. Sinus-san has taken to lurking around the periphery after discovering that Robert has cut him out of their joint discovery, while a mysterious insurance adjuster, Peter (Lukas Loughran), keeps asking questions about a car accident that Robert seems to have been involved with. There’s also the little matter of Clara, whose presence becomes more and more pronounced, as she constantly admonishes Robert to take his meds. Buffeted on all sides, Robert begins to lose control of his unwitting neighbors, who are now beginning to experience strange, unexplained half-memories of things that they can’t quite recall, such as Linn having sex with Robert. As Robert slips further and further into madness, humanity slides ever closer to a complete loss of free will…for better or much, much worse.

Tublen’s LFO bursts out of the gate with a smart, fresh concept and then proceeds to expand on it in some interesting ways. If the initial going can be head-swimmingly complex (perhaps those with knowledge of sound frequencies and the resulting science behind it may be able to keep up but this viewer was underwater fairly quickly), the film eventually settles down and, once we’ve accepted the tech aspect, becomes much more of a basic “mind control” film, albeit one filtered through the cracked, surreal lens of something like a Quentin Dupieux film. While not as outwardly strange or surreal as Dupieux’s films, there’s still the basic sense of a world that’s similar to ours but just off-kilter enough to be strange and unsettling.

LFO is a highly stylish, visual film, filled with vibrant colors, blinking lights, lo-fi technology and lovingly composed frames. The cinematography, courtesy of dual personnel Alexander Brøndsted and Linus Eklund, is consistently strong and the film always looks interesting. As befits a film focused on sound frequencies, the sound design in LFO is absolutely top-notch: I don’t normally single out sound engineers but I’d be a real jerk not to heap some praise on Samir Dounas, since the sound mix and editing is so vital to this particular film’s success. There’s also a highly effective electronic score, courtesy of the director, himself, which adds immeasurably to the atmosphere and tone of the film: another way in which LFO reminded me of Dupieux’s filmography.

The performances are uniformly strong, with Karlson being particularly impressive as the increasingly unhinged Robert. Tschig and Löfberg are quite convincing as the couple, vacillating between dead-eyed drones and confused, slightly frightened babes-in-the-woods: particularly good are the later scenes where Robert pretends to be a marriage counselor and leads the couple through his version of reconciliation therapy. One of the most impressive aspects of the film is how outwardly funny it is, albeit in a dark, rather twisted way. All three of the leads display excellent and subtle comic timing, which helps keep everything moving smoothly.

If I have any real complaints with LFO, they’re the same kinds of issues I might have with any similarly “tricky” film: at times, the film can get tripped-up in its own complex rationalizations and the whole thing feels just slightly longer than it should be. There’s also the underlying problem of Robert’s virtually unbeatable ability to control minds: similar to superheroes/villains that are too powerful, the balance of power in LFO is always drastically unbalanced. Since Robert is able to effortlessly control any and every situation with a click of his remote, there are times when the film feels rather low stakes: regardless of his situation, we’re always fairly sure that our little anti-hero will be able to regain control. Tublen still manages to wring plenty of genuine suspense and tension out of the scenario, don’t get me wrong, but this is definitely the epitome of a “stacked deck.”

In the end, I quite liked LFO: the film was very smart, relentless and genuinely intriguing. While never as unpredictable as something like Computer Chess or Wrong (2012), it was still one of the trickier films I saw last year and is never anything less than thought-provoking. LFO also manages to go out on a real high point, with one of the best endings I’ve seen in some time: in fact, the ending is so good that it actually helped to smooth out some of my previous reservations, proof positive that you always want to leave ’em with your best foot forward. While I’m sure that none of us would ever want a neighbor like Robert, it goes without saying that we could all benefit from spending a little time with the creepazoid, now and then.

10/12/14 (Part Three): The Most Deceiving of Looks

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31 Days of Halloween, Australian films, auteur theory, Christopher Kirby, cinema, Dead Calm, Domenic Purcell, drama, Everett De Roche, father-daughter relationships, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, foreign films, hallucinations, insanity, isolation, Link, mental illness, mother-daughter relationships, Movies, ocean voyage, Ozploitation, Patrick, pirates, Radha Mitchell, Ray Barrett, Richard Franklin, Road Games, sailboats, sailing around the world, Susannah York, suspense, The Shining, Tottie Goldsmith, Visitors, voice-over narration

When it came time to put together my potential horror viewing for this year, Visitors (2003) definitely felt like it deserved a spot on the list. After all, it was directed by Richard Franklin, one of the godfathers of ’70s-’80s Ozploitation cinema, starred genre vet Radha Mitchell and had a tag that read “Fear runs deep.” The film’s logline mentions strange encounters during an ocean voyage. Hell, the cover art features more sinister screaming skulls than a teenage metalhead’s Trapper Keeper. All of the signs pointed to a nifty little ghost story, perhaps even a twisted time travel scenario like Triangle (2009) or maybe something grounded a little more in reality, ala Dead Calm (1989). The sky, as they say, was the limit.

Visitors, alas, is a decidedly more low-flying affair. While the film flirts with elements of the supernatural and sinister (there are, indeed, mysterious figures that appear during an ocean voyage), it tips its hand way too early and establishes a thoroughly mundane explanation for the occurrences: our faithful protagonist, Georgia Perry (Radha Mitchell), is off her rocker. With that knowledge firmly in pocket, it becomes impossible for the film to muster any sort of tension whatsoever. Imagine a Wizard of Oz (1939) that begins with Dorothy discussing how she’s about to have a very detailed dream and concludes with her waking, looking at the camera and declaring, “Wasn’t that a crazy dream that we just watched?” It’s one thing to be handed an “It’s only a dream” ending after the fact: it’s a cheap tactic but at least you get to enjoy the action, as is, until you realize you’ve been had. It’s another thing entirely to know, up front, that what we’re seeing is fictitious: talk about low-stakes storytelling.

There’s plenty of potential with Visitors, although much of it ends up being unduly squandered. Mitchell plays Perry, a driven young woman who’s hell-bent on setting a record for sailing around the world, solo, in 140 days. She’s a troubled young woman with a concerned husband, Luke (Domenic Purcell), a wealthy benefactor (Tottie Goldsmith) and a complicated relationship with her parents (Susannah York, Ray Barrett) that hints at some past trauma. Georgia is also one hell of a sailor, as we witness thanks to a montage that shows her easily handling the various travails of life on the open sea. With only her cat for company, Georgia seems eminently capable of taking her place in the record books.

Georgia has a habit of talking to her cat, which isn’t surprising: the eye-raising moment comes when the cat actually answers back, speaking in an urbane but distinctly human voice. Since this particular revelation occurs right at the beginning of the film, we’re handed a fairly important bit of information right off the bat: Georgia has actual conversations with her cat. Since nothing in the film has led us to expect any sort of magical realism whatsoever, we can really only draw one conclusion: Georgia is losing/has lost her ever-loving mind.

Once we know that Georgia isn’t playing with a full deck, it completely removes the tension from any of her future interactions. There’s a creepy guy wandering around the boat: could it be real or Georgia’s imagination? Take a guess. Strange, unexplained sights, such a neat scene involving a horde of supremely creepy sea spiders? Please see above. Georgia getting involved in potentially life-threatening scenarios? Are we sure? Advise from a talking cat? Yeah…why not?

Once it’s established that Georgia is cracking up, it’s a pretty clear line to see that all of her “visitations” will somehow revolve around whatever her central issue is. In other words, these “hauntings” are distinctly of the Christmas Carol variety and will serve to help make Georgia a better person and bring her closer to her dysfunctional family, yadda yadda yadda.

Personally, I’m not a fan of this kind of “twist”ending but I’ve encountered it often enough to just shrug and accept it as one of those “clever” ideas that writers always feel they came to first. In the past, however, at least there’s been some sort of attempt to make this a genuine surprise. Once Georgia’s cat lets loose with that mellifluous human voice, all bets are off: unless you’re willing to assume that this is a film about a woman and her talking cat sailing around the world, we can pretty much assume that trusting our eyes and ears will be a bit of a fool’s errand.

It’s a shame, really, because this could have been a much better film if Franklin would have just kept us dangling a little longer than 10 minutes. There’s plenty of nice atmosphere here, including lots of truly creepy fog-shrouded shots of the sailboat at night. The sea-spider scene is pretty damn great, to be honest, and stands as the highlight of the film, despite its relative brevity. Mitchell is typically sturdy as Georgia, although she takes a note from the Jack Nicholson Guide to Actin’ Crazy and starts the performance dialed almost to 11, leaving her precious little room to move around, emotion-wise. By the time the film hits its climax, Mitchell is pitched at a fever-pace, which ends up seeming decidedly silly since we know everything is just in her head.

As a genre film, Visitors tanks because there’s no actual tension but it doesn’t fare much better as the kitchen-sink, mother-daughter relationship drama that it seems to want to be, either. The central conflict between Georgia and her mother feels arbitrary, since it occurred when Georgia was so young, and ends up setting the mother up as an almost inhuman shrew. Her father comes across as one of those slightly lumpy “white knight dad” characters and there’s nothing about the family dynamic that feels particularly important or even interesting. By the time we get to the climax where Georgia’s mom chases her around the ship’s cabin and tries to get her to commit suicide, there’s been so little actual connection between the characters that they might as well be strangers instead of flesh and blood.

I’m inclined to say that this doesn’t feel much like any of Richard Franklin’s previous films (Patrick (1978), Road Games (1981), Psycho II (1983), Link (1986)) but there are actually plenty of moments that directly recall his earlier (and better) work: the aforementioned sea-spider scene, the foreboding bit where the cat calmly pokes holes in Georgia’s delusions, the creepy scene involving the mysterious figure walking about the boat…it’s not like the film can’t build a decent head of steam, it’s just impossible to maintain any consistent sense of tension when you know nothing’s real.

Ultimately, I like Franklin’s filmography enough to give Visitors a shot, even though it was clear from a pretty early stage that the film didn’t really fit my traditional October viewing bill. That being said, the film just isn’t very good, even when viewed as a generic “family in crisis” drama: it’s too often silly and self-deflating (the final line is the sassily-delivered “What’s the matter: cat got your tongue?”, which seals the film’s coffin with a resounding thud). The movie has potential, as mentioned earlier, and I still think there’s a really great story to be made about someone encountering spooky happenings during a solo ocean voyage (how amazing would a horror mash-up of All Is Lost (2013) and Humanoids From the Deep (1980) be?!). Visitors isn’t that film, however, which is kind of a pity.