7/30/14: Support Your Local Spirit Squad

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All Cheerleaders Die, Amanda Grace Cooper, back from the dead, battle of the sexes, Brooke Butler, Caitlin Stasey, cheerleaders, Chris Petrovski, Chris Sivertson, cinema, co-directors, co-writers, Felisha Cooper, film reviews, films, football players, girls against boys, Heathers, high school, high school angst, high school cliques, horror films, horror-comedies, Jordan Wilson, Leigh Parker, Lucky McKee, magic stones, Michael Bowen, Movies, Nicholas S. Morrison, rape, Reanin Johannink, Sianoa Smit-McPhee, Sidney Allison, teenagers, The Woman, Tom Williamson, troubled teens, Warlock, Wiccan, writer-director

For a time, Lucky McKee and Chris Sivertson’s All Cheerleaders Die (2013) is a rather nasty piece of work, a combination of the high school clique napalming of Heathers (1988) with the lethal gender conflicts of Donkey Punch (2008). Just as the film seems like it’s really going to dig its teeth in, however, it inexplicably becomes a mish-mash of Warlock (1989) and Dragon Ball Z, which is a much less effective, much sillier combination. As someone who was really blown away by McKee’s last film, the thoroughly uncompromising, jaw-dropping The Woman (2011), I was really hoping that his follow-up would continue the discussion on the battle of the sexes in a similar, uncompromising manner. To say that I was disappointed…well, that might just be the understatement of the year.

From the get-go, All Cheerleaders Die seems to be taking us down a fixed but certainly intriguing path: the film begins with hand-held footage of vapid head cheerleader Alexis (Felisha Cooper) performing a routine before landing on her head with a sickening crunch. Cut to the title, red letters on a black background. From here, we meet Alexis’ “friend,” Maddy (Caitlin Stasey). Maddy was the one filming the opening footage and, for all intents and purposes, seems to be the farthest thing from a stereotypical high school cheerleader: she’s droll, sarcastic, a budding journalist and quite intent on avenging Alexis’ death. To this end, Maddy tries out for (and makes) the cheerleading squad, although she rightfully hides her true intentions from her new “friends.”

Once ensconced within the spirit squad, Maddy goes about trying to detonate the popular girls from the inside-out. There’s Tracy (Brooke Butler), who’s now dating Alexis’ former boyfriend, quarterback Terry (Tom Williamson); Martha (Reanin Joannink), the team captain and Martha’s little sister, Hanna (Amanda Grace Cooper), the team’s put-upon mascot. Maddy blames each of the girls (along with their football player boyfriends) for Alexis’ death but saves the bulk of her vehemence for Tracy and Terry. By wheedling herself in close to Tracy, Maddy begins to drive a wedge between her and Terry, claiming to have evidence of Terry’s infidelity. On the periphery of this toxic little group is Maddy’s former best friend, the Gothy Leena (Sianoa Smit-McPhee), who also happens to be a practicing Wiccan and, apparently, was once Maddy’s girlfriend. Maddy has been dissing Leena, lately, which is all part of her plan to ingratiate herself in with the cheerleaders: this, of course, makes Leena feel like she’s been betrayed by the only person at the school who actually seems to understand her.

Things come to a head when Maddy encourages Tracy to send Terry a nasty breakup text message. When Terry shows up at that night’s cheerleader/football player kegger, the shit really hits the fan. Maddy pressures Tracy into shit-talking Terry in front of his team and you’d have to be completely dense not to see the gathering storm clouds. Indeed, after standing there, emotionless, Terry hauls off and punches Tracy square in the face, a shocking, gritty piece of violence that immediately seems to set the film on a grim track as a visceral examination of violence against women. Maddy tries to get the other football players to jump Terry (they don’t), Martha tries to call the police, only to have Terry snatch away her phone and the cheerleaders jump in their car and take off, pursued at maximum speed by the football players. As Leena watches in horror, the car containing Maddy, Tracy, Hanna and Martha plunges through a railing and straight into a pitch-black lake. Leena does what she can to save Maddy and the others but their bodies are already cold and water-logged by the time she hauls them to shore.

At this point, there were at least a handful of paths the film could have taken: it could have kept the revenge angle, with Leena taking up Maddy’s mantle; it could have had one of the girls survive, making her the avenger; there could have been a falling out among the football players, pitting the more hesitant members against gung-ho Terry and his best buddies. What the film opts to do, however, is to spin the film off into an entirely different direction: namely, All Cheerleaders Die transitions seamlessly from a gritty “battle of the sexes” into an FX-heavy supernatural thriller, sort of a cross between Warlock and Drag Me To Hell (2009). You see, Leena uses her magical powers to enchant the magic stones that she carries around: these stones than “reanimate” the dead girls, as it were, granting them with such things as super strength. The trade-off, of course, is that the cheerleaders must now feed on blood in order to sustain themselves. In other words, the cheerleaders are now zombie/vampire hybrids who are powered by magical glowing stones imbedded in their innards. Suffice to say that any sense of “grit” or “realism” just flew out the window, along with most of the savvy plays on high school cliques and popularity contests.

Instead, we end up with a film that consists of the cheerleaders playing cat-and-mouse, of sorts, with the football players. When the guys return from their little murder spree, they strut through the school like they were, literally, the cocks of the walk. Until, that is, the cheerleaders return to strut through the school. The guys know that the cheerleaders went into the lake, so suspect some sort of teenage version of Gaslight (1944): Terry, for his part, isn’t so sure and gets all the confirmation he needs when one of his guys witnesses Leena levitating her stones in the middle of class (Leena also ended up with a stone in her chest, despite not being dead, which appears to have amplified her magic powers). Every time the cheerleaders kill one of the football team, their power increases exponentially. This fact isn’t lost on Terry, who decides to turn the tables by consuming the cheerleaders’ magical stones and increasing his own powers. Soon, with the ranks on both sides decimated, it’s up to Maddy and Leena to finally put an end to Terry’s reign of terror. Will they be strong enough to stop him, however? And what other tricks might Leena have up her sleeve?

Right up to the point where the film transitioned from a tense, blackly comic drama into a full-on supernatural action film, I was largely, if not completely, on board. In many ways, All Cheerleaders Die plays like a lesser version of All The Boys Love Mandy Lane (2006) or a very light version of Heathers. While I didn’t love the film, I could appreciate where it was heading and looked forward to seeing if McKee was going to get as extreme as he did in The Woman. Once the magic, glowing, floating stones appeared, however, it became pretty impossible to take the film seriously. It doesn’t, of course, help that the CGI on the stones is utterly absurd and awful, reminding of nothing so much as all the damn cheesy “lightning and laser eyes” effects from crappy ’80s-’90s direct-to-video sci-fi epics.

Once the film finds its footing as a silly supernatural tale, it manages to recover a bit, based purely on its ability to grab the concept with both hands and refuse to let go. While the stones never do look any better than the similar effect in Warlock, there are a few eye-candy moments in the latter half that are well-executed (the bit where Tracy’s stone causes Ben (Nicholas S. Morrison) to bleed out in slo-mo, ala liquid droplets in zero gravity, is pretty awesome, as is the final jump-scare, which handily and honestly sets up a sequel). The biggest issue is simply that the two separate aspects don’t really cohere, making this seem like a couple different films jammed together.

In fact, in some ways, All Cheerleaders Die is a tale of several movies: a horror film, an indie superhero tale, a battle of the sexes film, a black comedy set in a high school…the unfortunate truth is that only a few of these films actually work. The horror elements are well-done, with some nicely realized gore scenes, while the “super powers” stuff is hackneyed and trite. The battle of the sexes stuff ends up being fairly negligible (again, Donkey Punch did it much better and pulled, ahem, fewer punches), while the blackly comic high school material ends up being fairly effective. Focused on any one of these angles, All Cheerleaders Die would have been a much stronger film: as it is, the movie lacks focus and coherence, issues that McKee has never had in his previous films.

I really wanted to like All Cheerleaders Die more than I did but, alas, the film was pretty much one continual disappointment. While the acting was solid, there were never any truly stand-out performances, although Stasey did admirably as the protagonist. The film looked and sounded pretty great, which made the ultra-cheesy SFX all the more laughable and obnoxious: it was almost as if the whole concept of the magic stones was added in post-production, which is just about as bad as it sounds.

I will say, however, that I appreciated how the filmmakers managed to marginalize the concept of the “male gaze”: unlike just about every other horror film involving cheerleaders in the history of horror films, the women in All Cheerleaders Die don’t spend the film in various states of undress, the camera lasciviously tracking up and down their nude bodies. In fact, there’s really only one scene that I can recall that broached this in any way and that would be the one where Tracy has just “reawakened” and proceeds to march across the street, wearing only a bra and panties, in order to find some “food.” In many ways, this is the scene that proves my rule: despite Tracy’s attire, the emphasis on the scene is squarely on her ravenous appetite, not the female form. It’s a smart bit and, unfortunately, one that I wish were repeated more often.

Ultimately, I’m probably so disappointed by All Cheerleaders Die because of my experiences with McKee’s other films: May (2002), The Woods (2006) and The Woman, along with McKee’s entry in the Master of Horror series, Sick Girl (2006), are all fascinating examinations of both feminism and male/female violence, with smart, three-dimensional characters and some astoundingly original/shocking elements. The Woman, in particular, was such a gut-punch that it easily ranks as one of the most unpleasant, yet necessary, films I’ve seen in decades. By comparison, All Cheerleaders Die is an entertaining, yet slight and disposable throwaway: by the time the climax rolls around, with Terry and the surviving women fighting like left-over Street Fighter characters, the whole thing feels like a cheap direct-to-video curiosity, rather than a film with an actual agenda.

If only the film were able to stay on the gritty road it started on: there’s definitely a really good movie buried in All Cheerleaders Die…the evidence of that film is pretty much everywhere you look. The problem, of course, ends up being that there are also at least three mediocre films trapped in there and this is, of course, at least three films too many.

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6/29/14 (Part Two): Utopia For Dummies

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After the Dark, alternate title, cinema, doomsday scenarios, fantasy sequences, film reviews, films, high school angst, international school, Jakarta, James D'Arcy, John Huddles, Movies, nuclear apocalypse, Philosophy 101, Rhys Wakefield, Sophie Lowe, survival of the fittest, teacher-student relationships, The Philosophers, writer-director

Imagine, for a moment, how completely ineffectual Halloween (1978) would be if the whole film ended up as Laurie Strode’s dream. It would certainly explain some of the film’s more fantastic bits (that Michael is a surprisingly resilient fella) but it would also serve as one massive disappointment at the end, similar to that whole “snow-globe” finale for St. Elsewhere. A revelation like this would deflate any tension the movie managed to build up, while also giving the easy-out of allowing any of the formerly disposed of characters to just pop back up, smiling, like nothing ever happened. It would feel like a cop-out, in some ways, as if the stakes that were previously so high had instantly been reduced to mush. Sure, there may still be tension during the initial viewing but how many people would return to the film time and again if they knew the whole thing was completely illusory? Fool us once and all that jazz. Now…suppose that we’re told the whole film is merely a dream within the first few minutes? Where, then, do our stakes go?

I’m guessing it would end up pretty similar to writer-director John Huddles’ fairly pedestrian After the Dark (2013), also known as The Philosophers (a much more on-the-nose title). Within fairly short order, we’re introduced to an international high school philosophy class, in Jakarta, led by the rather odious Mr. Zimit (James D’Arcy). It’s the final day of class for these seniors and Zimit wants to work up a little experiment to really get their teenage brains thinking: he proposes an end-of-the-world scenario where the 21 people in the room (including himself) must decide which ten of them would be allowed to stay in the fall-out shelter. This, of course, will give everyone a chance to debate the needs of the many vs the few, the necessity of certain professions in a doomsday scenario, etc etc. It will also give the filmmakers a chance to portray this end-of-the-world scenario in as safe a way as possible: after all, we’ve already been told up-front that this is all just a thought-experiment. Anyone who “dies” in the experiment will just have to suffer the trauma of sitting everything out, without all of that messy stuff like, you know…really dying. It’s a “duck-duck-goose” approach to drama and ends up carrying just as much emotional heft, in the long run.

We’re run through several different scenarios, each one guided by Zimit as he attempts to make whatever point he (ultimately) wants to make. For all intents and purposes, his various machinations seem aimed squarely at James (Rhys Wakefield), the working class boyfriend of Zimit’s star pupil, Petra (Sophie Lowe). Time and time again, Zimit seems to do everything he can to marginalize and piss off James, from ensuring that he “randomly” selects the profession/character trait that Zimit has picked out for him to constantly calling into question James’ place in the class. This, of course, has the tendency to tick off Petra and the others (once it’s revealed) but there appears to be a method to Zimit’s madness. Is he really just trying to broaden their horizons and get them to think outside the box or does he have a more sinister, ulterior motive? At the end of the day, it really won’t matter because, like Vegas, what happens in the scenarios stays in the scenarios.

Here’s the thing: once we’re told, up front, that all of the meat of the film will consist of fantasy sequences, with no actual bearing on the “real world,” it’s impossible to stay invested in what’s happening. Zimit “shoots” students, “banishes” people into a nuclear holocaust,” attempts to “engineer” relationships, “attacks” students, acts like an ass…but it’s all just a pretense, a tissue paper-thin gimmick and certainly not the load-bearing support that can prop up a film. This is not to say that the fantasy sequences, themselves, don’t present some small measure of interest: on their own, they ask some reasonable questions about the lengths folks will go to in order to survive, as well as all the things they won’t do. There’s plenty of mildly thought-provoking discussions about the importance of “practical skill vs artistic ones” as far as rebuilding a destroyed civilization goes but the whole thing is strictly surface-level and academic: this isn’t a tense drama so much as a filmed Philosophy 101 lecture. In fact, one of the most engaging segments in the film is actually the bit where we see depictions of various philosophical concepts: it’s still surface-level stuff but at least we’re learning a little something.

Aside from the unfortunate “fantasy” angle, After the Dark ends up being a thoroughly middle-of-the-road film. D’Arcy’s Zimit is ridiculous character, the kind of high school teacher that could only exist in a film like this. He has a “big” secret, of course, but it ends up being a pretty silly one (which leads to one of the film’s most ludicrously melodramatic scenes, which is saying a lot). Wakefield, as demonstrated in Sanctum (2011), is a serviceable but thoroughly uninteresting actor, although his tendency to emote does allow him to offer up one of the film’s biggest headslappers: “Just because I don’t want to sleep with you anymore doesn’t mean I don’t still love you!” You tell ’em, big guy! Lowe does fine with her role as the “voice of reason” who tackles Zimit head-on but her character pretty much devolves into a mouthpiece for “artists over plumbers” by the film’s final third, hammering home her talking points so often that it feels like we’re the mirror she’s practicing to before the big debate. Everyone else in the cast falls somewhere between these extremes, although no one approaches the sheer obnoxiousness of D’Arcy’s performance.

For the most part, the film looks pretty good, although Huddles has a tendency to film all of the romantic scenes between James and Petra in as clichéd a way as possible, all languid camera movements, indie rock and amber lighting: when compared to the rest of the film, these bits stick out like the proverbial sore thumb. Equally awkward are various moments in the film that seemed destined to jolt the audience, such as the decidedly ooky scene where everyone pairs off and gets to the business of baby-making. We never get anything more than some vague suggestions but the pairing of Petra with Mr. Zimit certainly has some queasy undertones. There are also some odd tonal disparities, like the bit where one character jovially explains his desire to be exiled with the other group as wanting to have the exiled women all to himself. Fuck altruism: this guy has the right idea, eh?

By turns overly self-serious and ridiculously over-the-top, After the Dark ends up being a bit of a non-entity. Minus the gimmick of the fantasy scenarios, the film would still be rough but it would, at least, have some genuine stakes to sweat over. As it stands, however, nothing that happens is real, so why should we really care who lives or dies? By the time we get to the point where Petra gets to choose all of the “survivors” and picks all of the people who Zimit repeatedly tossed out, such as the poet, musician and “Ebola-infected doctor” (yes, really), the film’s aims are pretty clear. Zimit warns Petra that she hasn’t chosen people with actual survival skills: her group won’t last long in his decimated vision of the future. We won’t live long, she counters, but we’ll live well. That’s the apex of the film’s philosophy and to that, I merely shrug: good for you, Petra, but I’ll be over here, hanging out with the kids who can start a fire and find food.

1/19/14: The Waiting is the Hardest Part

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alcoholism, All the Boys Love Mandy Lane, Amber Heard, anticipation, auteur theory, Cabin in the Woods, Chinese Democracy, cinema, documentaries, documentary, Film, Film auteurs, Happy People: A Year in the Taiga, high school angst, horror films, hunters, isolation, Jonathan Levine, long-delayed films, man vs. nature, Movies, Siberia, slasher films, trappers, Trick 'r Treat, Werner Herzog

Since this past weekend was a long one, I intended to cram as many films into Sunday and Monday as possible. I didn’t break any personal records but I did manage to pack four pretty disparate films into each day. As such, I’ve decided to split up the days and give each entry a little room to breath. This blog post will deal with the first two films from Sunday, All the Boys Love Mandy Lane and Happy People: A Year in the Taiga. We’ll deal with the final two next time.

It’s often been said that you don’t really appreciate something until you have to wait for it. The anticipation leading up to that moment can, oftentimes, be even greater than whatever enjoyment you might have garnered from whatever it is you’re waiting for. What happens, however, when the wait stretches to ludicrous proportions? If you’re a music fan, you might get Chinese Democracy. If you’re a film fan, you might get Trick ‘r Treat. Or, conversely, you might get All the Boys Love Mandy.

Let me be clear: there’s absolutely nothing wrong with director Jonathan Levine’s long-delayed homage to classic slasher films. The film does an excellent job of establishing a retro tone and look, even though there are enough modern touches (iPhones, most notably) to remind us that this is still taking place in the here and now. The violence is brutal and unrelenting, hearkening back to the yesteryear of practical effects and noisy stabbings. One kill in particular, a nasty bit involving a knife across the eyes reminded me directly of early Friday the 13th films.

The acting is, across the board, pretty strong: I normally don’t feel any connection to the disposable teens in slasher films, but I connected with a few of these yahoos nonetheless. Even when they were exhibiting boorish, crude behavior, there was still a basic humanity to all of them that made the kills sting a little, regardless of the bro-ish nature of the victims. I thought Amber Heard was good in the title role but certainly not the embodiment of Helen of Troy that the story posits. She was cute, don’t get me wrong, but I found it rather hard to believe that every male in the universe would be drawn to her like a moth to flame.

I must also praise the film’s sound design and soundtrack, elements which really added to the tone. I particularly liked the use of a cover of America’s “Sister Golden Hair,” perfectly cued as Mandy and her friends enjoy a last bit of youthful abandon before (presumably) the carnage begins: it’s a folky, wispy cover that is not only quite pretty but also fits the scene like a glove. Equally notable is the Bobby Vinton version of “Sealed with a Kiss” that closes the film: to be honest, the entire climax is extremely well done and pretty great, even if the “twist” is nothing special.

With all of these things to recommend it, then, what’s my hesitation with shouting my love of Mandy Lane from the rooftops? Well, essentially, there’s that whole thing about anticipation. You see, All the Boys Love Mandy Lane was made in 2006 but not released in North America until 2013 (the film received a limited UK release in 2008, however). It received good press at film festivals around the time of its completion, leading me to add the film to my “Must See” list at the time. As the years ground on, however, I actually forgot about the movie. Director Jonathan Levine went on to decent success with the Joseph Gordon Levitt cancer film 50/50 and, more recently, the zombie romance Warm Bodies which, I’m sure, helped to finally push All the Boys Love Mandy Lane into the public eye.

Is the film honestly worth a seven-year wait, however? Absolutely not. It’s a good film, sometimes a very good film but it doesn’t reinvent the wheel (or the genre, for that matter) or bring anything new to the table aside from the very nice cinematography and production designs. This was Levine’s debut feature but ended up being his fourth film to see release…yikes. As a comparison, Joss Weadon’s Cabin in the Woods and Michael Dougherty’s Trick ‘r Treat also experienced unduly lengthy release delays. They also, however, were incredibly crafted, highly-meta film experiences that justified every second of their ridiculous delays. All the Boys Love Mandy Lane is just a really good film that probably would have looked even better in 2006.

How in the hell can you not absolutely love Werner Herzog? I mean, really: if this guy isn’t the living embodiment of The Most Interesting Man in the World, who is? He’s been responsible for some of the most amazing, confounding art films in history (Aguirre, the Wrath of God; Fitzcarrldo; Only Dwarfs Start Small), some of the most batshit crazy Klaus Kinski moments in a career filled to bursting with batshit (the aforementioned Aguirre; Nosferatu the Vampyre; Cobra Verde), made a handful of amazing documentaries, including one about a guy who gets devoured by a grizzly bear and even directed a sequel to Abel Ferrara’s sleazy Bad Lieutenant starring the one and only Nicholas “Intensity” Cage. Is there anything Herzog can’t do?

For Happy People: A Year in the Taiga, Herzog serves as co-director and narrative, meaning we get the unmitigated pleasure of listening to Herzog expound on anything and everything around him. Believe me when I say that there are few joys as pure and absolute as listening to Herzog detail the necessary procedures to keep food safe from bears…this, by itself, deserves an Oscar.

As the title indicates, Happy People chronicles an entire year in the lives of a group of Russian hunter/trappers living in the Taiga region of Siberia. Completely inhospitable to the average person, the Taiga is only accessible by helicopter or boat and boats can only dock for a few months in the Summer. As such, this is pretty much one of the toughest places on earth, the kind of location that Jack London would head to for some rest and relaxation. The weather is cold, the terrain is formidable, food is scarce and clouds of mosquitoes fill the air. The hunters spend pretty much the entire year either preparing for the Winter hunt or actually hunting, only seeing their families for a few days at a time every couple of seasons. By all definitions, this is a brutally hard life.

Yet, the film is called Happy People. And, according to what we see (and Herzog tells us), these are happy people, indeed. They’re happy because when they finally leave the (relative) comforts of home and head into the wild to live off the land, they are truly free from the constraints of society. There are no taxes, no governments, no politicians or silly societal rituals to observe. There is only the hunter and his dogs, using their instincts, wits and training to survive and their personal ideals to guide them.

Admittedly, the revelation for the purpose of Herzog’s documentary is rather Zen but it perfectly fits his career-long themes. Herzog has always been an expert at documenting the lengths that man will go to isolate himself from the outside world and the ways in which the world will continue to make itself know. In Happy People, the outside world intrudes in a number of ways, most notably with the politician who visits the remote village to stump for his campaign (only the children pay attention and it’s doubtful that they’re allowed to vote) and the greedy hunters who earn the scorn of the other trappers by hunting and trapping in off seasons, depleting the stole population and putting everyone’s livelihood in jeopardy. Herzog also, for a brief time, turns his cameras on the Ket people, local natives who have fallen into alcoholism and can only collect firewood and perform other menial tasks to earn their pittance for survival. The point is pretty clear: when the outside world intrudes, humanity is crushed, whether spiritually, economically or politically.

As a film, Happy People is extraordinarily well-crafted. The footage is absolutely gorgeous, particularly the stunning and unforgettable Winter footage. There’s plenty of genuine pathos in the film, especially with regards to the relationship between the hunters and their dogs. One story, about a dog sacrificing itself to save its master from a bear, would make the hardest heart crack. The scene where one of the trappers returns to the village via snowmobile while his dog runs beside him, nonstop throughout the day and night, is, quite simply, one of the most magnificent moments ever laid to film. The visual grandeur of the moment is dwarfed by the impossible power of what’s happening: a dog so attuned to its master that it will run for a hundred miles without stopping.

Ultimately, Happy People offers one of the best, most valuable lessons any of us could ever take away from a film: To get through life, you need to grit your teeth and push on, no matter what stands before you. When you come home from a long, hard day of hunting and discover that your cabin has been completely crushed by a fallen tree, sometimes, you just have to grin and repair it. This sounds like a lesson we could all stand to learn.

1/18/14: The Great, The Lame and the Drooling

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Academy Awards, alcoholism, Alex Shinohara, artists, bad films, bad movies, Best Feature Documentary nominee, Chevy Chase, cinema, Cutie and the Boxer, documentaries, documentary, drama, films, high school angst, Hillary Duff, indie comedies, lazy films, Lizzy Caplan, marriage, Movies, Noriko Shinohara, Oscar nominee, Peter Dinklage, romance, Sean Astin, Snakes on a Plane, Stay Cool, The Last Rites of Ransom Pride, Ushio Shinohara, waste of time, Westerns, Winona Ryder, Zachary Heinzerling

This past (long) weekend began with two terrible films and one great one: not the most auspicious start to the proceedings but better than three terrible ones, I suppose. Here, then, is what happens when you put an Oscar contender in between two Z-grade films: the results are not pretty.

Let me begin by clarifying something: I have absolutely nothing against bad movies. Some bad movies are more ludicrously entertaining than any well-made film could ever hope to be, spewing out more ideas (terrible or otherwise) in a few moments than most films do in two hours. Some, like Snakes on a Plane or Sharknado, even manage to worm their way into the cultural zeitgeist, although I’m not personally a fan of either film. There’s a reason that “so bad they’re good” films are almost as popular as actual “good” films: they take the entertainment aspect of filmmaking and knock it out of the park, offering the kind of fan service that makes it easy to forget that every other aspect of the movie has wandered into the desert to die.

The Last Rites of Ransom Pride is a wretched film, an absolutely miserable waste of what I can only imagine was a lengthy 24-hour shoot. Its sins are many and run deep but some are more lethal than others. For one thing, the film displays the kind of casting choices that can best be described as “suspect”: Lizzy Caplan, most famous for her great comedic turn in Party Down, is a humorless prostitute-turned-gunfighter; Jason Priestly is the hard-as-nails titular gunslinger, Ransom Pride; Dwight Yoakam and his dead animal-pelt toupee appear as an alcoholic preacher/bad hairpiece duo that also serve as Ransom’s father; Kris Kristofferson looks half dead as some sort of Old West head honcho but his voice is still all gravel and asskicking; Peter Dinklage appears as a former circus performer who dresses like a member of one of those “urban vampire role-playing” games and travels in a circus tent with conjoined, opium-smoking twins. This, friends and neighbors, is what I like to call one messed-up goulash.

If the above-mentioned stars seem odd and out-of-place, at least they come off better than the other “actors” in the film, particularly the shrill creature that plays Maria la Morena, a whore/witch/madam/crime-boss that manages to be simultaneously ridiculous and obnoxious. After her second appearance, I muted every other time she popped up on-screen, preferring to miss whatever paltry exposition she might offer in return for my sanity. This is a film where your allegiances lie with whatever actor/actress is currently the least annoying: I tossed my hat in the circus corner, because at least they had Dinklage in wispy velvets, fake mustache and a bit where opium smoke is blown into a tracheotomy tube: yum! If Dinklage and twins had just been the damn heroes, we might be having a very different conversation but no…we get a scowling Lizzy Caplan and a love interest so bland I can only refer to him as Haircut #2.

But it’s a super-low budget Western, you might say: be gentle! Not a chance, bub: if this was big enough to get released and burn a scarlet L into my forehead, it’s big enough to take a little drubbing. Were there but one thing that actually worked, I’d keep my vitriol to myself. What in the hell are you supposed to do with dialogue like “Mexico…my precious and beautiful Hell” or “I was always a lover, despite the killings,” though? Laugh? Cry? Assume it’s some sort of Dadaist statement on the surreality of it all? How about the fact that one of the throwaway characters is named Luis Chama, apparently after John Saxon’s character in Joe Kidd? Is this relevant? Not that I could find, even though I love Joe Kidd: just a weird little bit of parallelism for no good reason.

The opening credits are a twitchy mess and the ensuing film manages to match the aesthetic perfectly. The whole thing is so jittery and spastic that I wanted to prescribe it Ritalin and a dark room: at some points, cuts were so quick and pointless that I actually thought they were using subliminal imagery. Alas, that would have taken more courage and brains than the entire production appeared to possess. And that look…oy…that look. I could be kind and say that the film looks very”digital” but, really, it  just looks crappy and cheap. Even though I prefer film stock, I’ve seen and enjoyed many films with a decidedly digital aesthetic: The Last Rites of Ransom Pride ain’t one of ’em.

Ultimately, The Last Rites of Ransom Pride is pure masochism: I detested the film almost immediately but forced myself to wade through the endless rivers of crap to see how bad it could get. The movie, however, was always up for the task: anytime I thought it had reached a new nadir, something else would come along to dig it down a foot deeper. I have, however, learned a very valuable lesson: fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice and you’re probably a crappy Z-Western starring the guy from 90210. Ugh.

Now this is more like it! After suffering through the tornado of terrible that was The Last Rites of Ransom Pride, I really needed something to reset my brain. What better film than one of this year’s Academy Award nominees for Best Feature Documentary? And so it was that Cutie and the Boxer saved my sanity.

I happen to really like documentaries, particularly those that cast a camera eye on outsider/fringe individuals. More often than not, these tales of life’s lovable losers (American Movie, Best Worst Movie, Room 237) can be bittersweet: these are usually really nice people with absolutely no sense of self-awareness and zero chance of success. It’s refreshing, then, to come across a film that arrives at roughly the same conclusion but manages to imbue it with more hope and potential than the others. There’s a lot of pain and sadness in Cutie and the Boxer but there’s a prevalent feeling of triumph that, ultimately, rules the day.

The film is an intimate examination of the 40-year marriage of Ushio and Noriko Shinohara, their respective art careers and the lifestyle choices that led them to their present circumstances. The two met when Noriko was only 19 and Ushio was the ripe old age of 41. Ushio is an underground artist, the toast of New York city for a few minutes in the ’60s and ’70s. Noriko functions as an unpaid assistant, of sorts, even though she’s also an artist. One of the film’s great conflicts is the dichotomy between Noriko’s roles as assistant and peer: there’s one heartbreaking moment where Ushio scoffs at his wife’s ability, stating that “those without talent must assist those with talent.” It’s a completely unfair assessment, besides being particularly thoughtless and goes a good way towards establishing some of the painful emotions on display here.

Ushio and Noriko, you see, are essentially broke, living in a ratty studio apartment in New York City with their grown son, Alex. Since Ushio never made much money with his art, even when he was popular, the aged pair have absolutely no nest egg or safety, a frightening enough prospect when you’re in your thirties but particularly terrifying when you’re in your eighties, I would imagine. Ushio has also struggled with alcoholism his whole  life, a condition which has left him allergic to alcohol in his old age (a blessing in disguise). Unfortunately, Alex has inherited his father’s (and mother’s, for that matter) proclivity for drink and this has tended to ruin his life, as well. Via home movies, we get to see a younger Ushio and Noriko getting falling down drunk with friends while their young son looks on, eventually tucking himself into bed. It’s a particularly stunning scene, as powerful as the one where a young, drunk Ushio has a breakdown, sobbing and slamming his fists repeatedly into a table. There is no shortage of real emotion on display here and, sometimes, it can get to be a bit much.

Luckily, filmmaker Zachary Heinzerling leavens the drama with plenty of humor and some truly neat animated scenes, courtesy of Noriko’s Cutie cartoons. There’s some nice insights into the New York art movement of the time (a picture of Ushio and Andy Warhol hanging out is pretty swell, indeed). The film’s style can seem a bit pretentious, at first, but Heinzerling quickly shows himself to be a deft hand at wringing genuine emotion and pathos from moments that might be too cloying in someone else’s hands.

More than anything, though, Cutie and the Boxer is a truly beautiful love story, a tale of two fractured individuals who found the love and support in each other that they never found in the rest of the world. It’s not a perfect relationship but no marriages (especially those lasting longer than 20 years, much less 40) are. Like everyone, they have their triumphs and upsets, joys and sorrows. There’s a moment where Noriko states that she and Ushio are “like two flowers in one pot: sometimes we don’t get enough nutrients.” These is a perfectly valid, if inherently sad, way to look at their co-dependent artistic careers. There’s an equally powerful moment, however, where Noriko states that, despite everything that’s happened, all of the joys and sorrows, the crippling alcoholism and crushing poverty, she would do the whole thing all over again. That, right there, is the very definition of love. I don’t think that Cutie and the Boxer will win the Oscar (I’m pretty sure that The Act of Killing has that locked down) but I, for one, will never forget the movie.

Is there anything worse than a terrible film? Yes, by gum, there certainly is: a lazy film. Lazy films may not make the same glaring mistakes as terrible films (say what you will about Howard the Duck but laziness is not one of its sins) but that’s because they lack the courage and conviction to do much of anything. For my money, there is nothing worse than sitting through a safe, lazy, middle-of-the-road film: I’d rather watch The Room on endless repeat than view something that not even the filmmakers could be bothered to care about.

Stay Cool, friends and neighbors, is one massively lazy film. We’re not talking a few shortcuts here and there, a little stereotyping to smooth things over: we’re talking practically comatose, a pulse so flat-lined that you’ve already called the morgue. From the cover art (the pic I posted above is actually much better than the official cover art, which really tells you something) to the lazy voice-over narration (cuz, you know, how else are we gonna know what’s going on?) to the actual story (man-child must return to high school to right the wrongs of his adolescence, having comical interactions along the way), there isn’t one thing about Stay Cool that pushes anything further than a shuffleboard puck on a seniors-only cruise.

But what about all of those familiar faces in the cast list, you may well ask? Let’s see if we can check these off the list fairly quickly, shall we? Winona Ryder collects a paycheck as the romantic lead, Chevy Chase is absolutely awful as the principal, Dee Wallace and Michael Gross are completely wasted as the protagonist’s parents, Sean Astin is saddled with the swishiest cliché of a gay character to appear on-screen in some time and Jon Cryer has what amounts to a cameo. And looks bored in the process, might I add.

It’s hard to single out my least favorite aspect of the film but there’s definitely something that’s easy to peg in my top 5: the ridiculous, juvenile attitude of the lead character. We’re actually supposed to believe that this man-child still acts like a petulant teenager (I don’t mean excessive partying, etc…I mean teenage whining and bitching, ladies and gents), lives at home with his parents and still has the same feud with his former high school principal, even though he must be in his late thirties/early forties and the principal is now in his seventies?! Suspension of disbelief is one thing: calling your audience stupid is something else entirely.

Betcha don’t know where the title came from, do ya? Let’s see if we can puzzle this out, shall we? You already know this is about a guy returning to his high school as an adult so…Yeah, that’s right: the clever title comes from the eternally clichéd quote that his high school dream girl wrote in his yearbook cuz, you know…Stay Cool! Genius! And so true, bro…so true!

1/17/14: Big Trouble with Taboo Cheerleaders

Tags

'80s action films, action-adventure, action-comedies, Africa, art films, arthouse film, B-movies, Big Trouble in Little China, But I'm a Cheerleader, cheerleaders, Chinatown, cinema, comedies, conversion therapy, drama, Escape From New York, F.W. Murnau, fantasy, Film auteurs, films, flashbacks, foreign films, gay and lesbian films, high school angst, Jamie Babbit, John Carpenter, John Waters, Kim Cattrall, Kurt Russell, Miguel Gomes, Mink Stole, Movies, Natasha Lyonne, Richard Moll, romance, Rupaul, social commentary, sorcerers, Tabu, They Live

My (seemingly) never-ending quest to catch my blog up with my viewing habits continue. We’re still in the past (last Friday, to be specific) but we’re getting closer all the time. Journey with me now as we get a little goofy, a little arty and a little funny.

Pound for pound, I don’t think that there’s been a more successful writer/director from the glory days of ’70s horror than John Carpenter. He’ll always exist in the minds of horror fans for his iconic Halloween (still one of the best films ever, in my little opinion, horror or not) but the rest of his filmography ain’t too shabby, either: The Thing, Assault on Precinct 13th, Escape From New York, They Live, The Fog and the horribly under-rated In the Mouth of Madness are all classics, any one of which a lesser filmmaker would be proud to stake their careers on. There have also, of course, been a few missteps along the way (Ghosts of Mars is a fascinating failure, a movie so tone-deaf that it almost achieves a kind of transcendence and Vampires and his remake of Village of the Damned are mostly gloss and no filler. Compare this ratio to someone like Tobe Hooper, Wes Craven or Sean Cunningham, however, and it’s pretty clear that Carpenter had the more consistent career.

While Carpenter’s name is synonymous with horror, thanks to the invincible Halloween, his films actually tend more towards pulpy, B-actioners, the kinds of films that feature sarcastic anti-heroes chewing gum and kicking ass. In fact, Assault on Precinct 13, Escape From New York, They Live, Escape From L.A., Vampires and Ghosts of Mars could almost be seen to take place in the same universe, relatively speaking, along with another Carpenter film: Big Trouble in Little China.

Like many people (I’m assuming), I was first drawn to BTILC thanks to the colorful box art. Just take a gander at that smiling, machine-pistol-bedecked Kurt Russell, looming over Chinatown like some kind of jolly ass-kicking giant, all manner of crazy shit going down in the background. That, ladies and gentlemen, was entertainment in the VHS age: hook us with some amazing artwork and see if the movie could keep up. They rarely could but BTILC almost does.

Russell plays a wisecracking (could there be any other kind?) truck-driver who must help his friend rescue his fiancée from the clutches of a wicked Chinatown sorcerer (the always esteemable James Hong). In the process, he’ll fight monsters, gangsters and lightning-wielding sorcerers. He might even get his truck back.

As a film, BTILC doesn’t always work and rarely makes much sense. Exposition (what little there is) is usually delivered in large data dumps that go something like: “Lo Pan? Let me tell you all about who he is, where he comes from and what he wants, in great detail.” The dialogue can be exceedingly clunky, even from Russell, which is kind of surprising. The numerous fight sequences have a tendency to keep piling on silly elements (in one over-the-top scene, a gunfight turns into a karate battle which turns into a fight with lightning-wielding warrior sorcerers that fly through the air like human dragonflies) and sometimes come across as no more than martial arts showcases: please stand there patiently while I demonstrate some moves in close proximity to your face, after which you may feel free to shoot me. Thank you.

But do all of these things make BTILC a bad film? Not in the slightest. This is certainly not a GOOD film, mind you, but it shares a pretty similar aesthetic to They Live, which is a good film. It’s always a pleasure watching Russell ham it up, especially during his golden age in the ’80s. Kim “Sex in the City” Cattrall is absolutely awful but this somehow works to her favor. Hong makes a great villain, even if he does get stuck behind a pound of eye-liner and foot-long fingernails: he even gets a pretty cool transformation scene where his skull glows from the inside-out. There’s a pretty decent shaggy monster-thing that Russell battles and an even decenter floating-eyeball-thingy that reminded me of something from my Dungeons & Dragons days. There’s also lots and lots (and lots) of ’80s lightning effects, which get old pretty quickly but are (briefly) rather charming.

In short, if you’re a fan of the more action-oriented side of Carpenter, Big Trouble in Little China should scratch that itch. It’s no Assault on Precinct 13 but it’s a helluva lot better than Vampire in Brooklyn.

I had originally intended to give Tabu its own separate post, since there’s a whole lot going on in this film. Due to my desire to keep us moving forward, however, I decided to see if we could fit this into the rest of that Friday’s viewings. Would it be possible to get any of this across in a shorter format? Let’s see if I’m up for the challenge.

First off, let’s address the elephant in the room: the title. Yes, that is a reference to F.W. Murnau’s final film, the Pacific-Island adventure Tabu. And yes, there’s actually more of a spiritual connection than just the obvious stylistic/plot connections would suggest. In the most obvious example, Murnau’s Tabu is separated into two chapters: Paradise and Paradise Lost. Miguel Gomes’ Tabu is also separated into two chapters: A Lost Paradise and Paradise. There are other, specific, similarities but I would daresay that the biggest connectors are more spiritual and thematic than anything. Suffice to say that you need not be familiar with the original Tabu, or even F.W. Murnau, for that matter, to enjoy this film.

In a nutshell, Tabu is about several acquaintances/friends and their interactions with each other. Pilar (ostensibly the film’s protagonist and moral center) lives next door to Aurora and her maid/assistant Santa in an apartment complex in Portugal. Aurora is just on the good side of senility, when the film starts, and is a bit of a handful: she routinely accuses poor Santa of witchcraft and sees conspiracies around every corner. She also gambles her money away one night after having a dream about a fortune-telling slot machine: she wakes up from the dream and just has to find out if its real. Spoiler alert: it’s not.

As Aurora’s health begins to decline, she asks Pilar to locate someone for her, a Mr. Ventura. This leads Pilar on a minorly epic journey about the city, as she finally tracks the elusive Mr. Ventura to a nursing home. His appearance in the film prompts a flashback to the past, explaining the lovely but tragic relationship that he shared with a young Aurora while they both lived in Africa. This leads to some of the film’s best moments, as the gorgeous black-and-white cinematography really comes alive on the African plains.

In certain ways, Tabu is the epitome and (perhaps) stereotype of independent art-house cinema. The film is shot in black-and-white, in a style that instantly calls to mind Italian neo-realism or Guy Maddin films. It’s slow and elegiac, although prone to bursts of strange whimsy, similar to a Jeunet film (one nonsensical subplot about a house-guest of Pilar’s that never shows up is a particular head-scratcher). Even the music reminded me of various foreign art films that I watched in college. That being said, there’s a lot of beauty in Tabu (especially in the wonderful, heartbreaking opening, which is almost a micro-short by itself) and I found myself genuinely caring about the characters. I won’t pretend that I understood everything (what the hell was the deal with the absent Polish house-guest?) but I was frequently fascinated and always ready for what might come around the corner.

Besides, how can you not like a black-and-white art film that features a garden-party scene where a rich, crazy old man fires a gun into the air, prompting his normal-looking but batshit crazy son to begin kick-boxing and punching invisible enemies? In any other film, that would be a centerpiece. In Tabu, it’s just another day at the office.

Sometimes, you don’t really appreciate a film when you first see it. This was certainly the case when I first saw But I’m a Cheerleader in the theater. I was (and am) a big Natasha Lyonne fan and was really excited to see what she would do after the previous year’s Slums of Beverly Hills. I remember enjoying But I’m a Cheerleader and laughing quite a bit but, ultimately, I never gave the movie much thought after that point.

Nastasha Lyonne plays Megan, a perfectly normal high school cheerleader who just might be, you know…gay. At least her parents, peers and teachers seem to think so, although poor Megan isn’t quite so sure. In order to “fix her,” Megan is shipped away to a conversion therapy program where she learns that sometimes, you’re just fine the way you are and the rest of the world just needs to learn to deal with it.

After re-watching the film, I find that my original impression still holds: I still enjoyed it and laughed quite a bit. This time around, however, I think I noticed a little more, particularly how sharp and cutting some of the dialogue and ideas are. I also noticed Rupaul, who I absolutely do not remember the first time around. Perhaps it’s because I’ve seen so many episodes of Drag Race but I found myself inordinately excited when he appeared, looking as masculine as possible, as a “pray the gay away” type camp counselor.

Stylistically (and thematically), But I’m a Cheerleader is like a less scuzzy, friendlier version of a John Waters film (or a slightly dirtier version of Pretty Baby, depending on your perspective) and even features Waters’ mainstays Bud Cort and Mink Stole in small roles. The production design is extremely bright and vibrant, tending towards lots of pinks, pastels and primary colors. There might be some notion that this is lazy symbolism but writer/director Jamie Babbit has a little more up her sleeve than that.

Looking at Babbit’s filmography, it becomes pretty apparent that she tends to focus on women, whether it be in her films (But I’m a Cheerleader, The Quiet, Itty Bitty Titty Committee, Breaking the Girls) or her TV work (Alias, Ugly Betty, Gilmour Girls, Gossip Girl, The L Word, United States of Tara, Girls), although it seems that her resume definitely leans more towards the small screen than the big one. Although there are some stereotypes floating around the film (especially once we get to the conversion therapy camp), there’s also a lot of genuine emotion and some nicely made points. By the time we get to the film’s point, that opening up your mind and accepting/loving everyone is the best way to live, it’s pretty hard to argue with it.  Here’s hoping that Babbit finds the time and/or support to bring something else to a theater near you sometime in the near future.