7/29/15 (Part One): A Sinister Case of Deja Vu

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Antonia Campbell-Hughes, archival footage, archivists, Calum Heath, Carl Shaaban, Ceiri Torjussen, cheating partners, children in peril, cinema, dead children, dramas, father-son relationships, film reviews, films, foreign films, Hannah Hoekstra, haunted bathrooms, horror, horror films, human sacrifice, husband-wife relationship, infidelity, Irish films, Ivan Kavanagh, Kelly Byrne, Movies, Piers McGrail, Robin Hill, Rupert Evans, sewer tunnels, Sinister, Steve Oram, supernatural, The Canal, The Ring, twist ending, UK films, writer-director

Here’s a bit of friendly advice, free of charge and as heartfelt as the day is long: should there ever come a time when you’re in the market for a house and discover creepy video footage of terrible acts being committed in said house…go find another damn house. I mean, sure: this particular place might have hardwood floors, a nice backyard, good schools, a progressive city council and easy access to public transportation. If, however, it was also a place where people were tortured/murdered/sacrificed/et al, well…is linoleum really that bad?

While there have been a handful of films that have utilized the above trope to good effect, perhaps none have been more recently popular than Scott Derrickson’s Sinister (2012), in which Ethan Hawke moves his family into a former “murder house” and shit gets all kinds of…you know…sinister. On the heels of that surprise smash (with a sequel scheduled for sometime in the near future), we get Irish writer-director Ivan Kavanagh’s The Canal (2014), in which a husband/father discovers that his family’s new(ish) home might have more than a few secrets of its own. Similar to Derrickson’s film in some pretty substantial ways, The Canal still manages to carve out its own path, paralleling the sad dissolution of a marriage with the eerie happenings in and around a creepy house and the adjoining canal.

We first meet our hapless hero, David (Rupert Evans), as he and his pregnant wife, Alice (Hannah Hoekstra), are just about to buy the aforementioned creepy house. Flash forward five years and David, Alice and their now five-year-old son, Billy (Calum Heath), seem content in their abode, although we get hints of trouble in paradise. In particular, David and Alice seem to have a strained relationship that includes her getting late-night calls from “clients,” one of whom, a strapping young lad named Alex (Carl Shaaban), seems to be just a little too close for comfort to David’s lady-love.

As these dramatic developments are unfolding, David’s day-job suddenly inserts itself into the equation. You see, David and his partner, Claire (Antonia Campbell-Hughes), are film archivists and they’ve just got in a new batch of old police films, one of which takes place in the very house that David, Alice and Billy call home. It appears that a husband murdered his philandering wife, was jailed, escaped and proceeded to hunt down and slaughter his own son and the boy’s nanny. Faster than you can whisper “sinister,” David has become obsessed with the case, the grisly details of which have begun to seep into his dreams.

Opting to follow his hunch, David trails Alice, one night, and his worst fears are confirmed when he witnesses her making the beast with two backs with handsome, ol’ Alex. Utterly destroyed, David slouches away and winds up at the undeniably creepy public restroom, next to the canal by his house, where he and his young son once threw stones at “ghosts.” While sobbing in a stall, David is confronted by a mysterious figure who intones the suitably chilling “The Master wants you.” Racing out, he seems to be just in time to witness his wife grappling with someone by the water’s edge.

When his wife never comes home that night, David calls the police and ends up in the gravitational pull of one Detective McNamara (Steve Oram), a cagey, soft-spoken Irish Columbo who gets one of the film’s best lines: “People always suspect the husband. You know why that is? Because it’s always the fucking husband.” Needless to say, McNamara doesn’t buy David’s story of a mysterious assailant or bathroom visitation for one minute: from the jump, it’s pretty obvious that he’s a bulldog with a bone and has no intention of dropping his “prize” whatsoever, especially once Alice’s body is hauled up from the canal.

As David tries to keep his life together, with the endless assistance of long-suffering, pot-smoking nanny Sophie (Kelly Byrne), he digs deeper and deeper into the history of his house. Turns out that the aforementioned husband and wife weren’t the only tragedies in the home’s past: there’s a virtual laundry list of previous crimes, atrocities and terrible acts, including a woman who burned her own child alive but insists that “demons” did it. David becomes convinced that the house (and adjoining canal) are all part of a terrible child sacrifice conspiracy, a terrifying tradition of evil that he, Alice and Billy have, unwittingly, become part of. To make matters worse (better?), David sees all manner of strange, creepy figures around the house, especially once he begins to film supposedly empty rooms with an old-fashioned movie camera.

With Claire and Sophie worried about his sanity and McNamara doing his damnedest to put him into jail, David knows that the only way to clear his name is to uncover the hideous paranormal monstrosities at the heart of it all. Is David really getting a peep into a murderous, ghostly phantasmagoria or is he just as insane and guilty as McNamara assumes? To find out, David will need to do the unthinkable: he’ll need to go into the murky, seemingly bottomless depths of the canal. Will he find salvation…or doom?

Exceptionally well-made, if always a little too obvious, writer-director Kavanagh’s The Canal is the latest in a series of austere, serious-minded and atmospheric horror films that include the likes of Absentia (2011), The Pact (2011) and Oculus (2013), among others. As with the rest of these “New Wave of Atmospheric Horror” (NWoAH, patent pending) films, The Canal looks and sounds great: the colors are bright and vibrant (the color palette switches between reds and blues, depending on David’s current state of mind), cinematographer Piers McGrail (who also shot the highly lauded Let Us Prey (2014)) shoots some truly lovely footage and the sense of creeping unease is thick from the jump.

The acting is solid, with Evans and Oram leading the pack, albeit from two completely opposite sides of the coin: Evans perfectly portrays the combined despair, agony, fear, rage and sorrow within David, leading to a performance that’s truly three-dimensional, even if the whole thing is colored in shades of gray and black. Oram, on the other hand, is like a breath of fresh air, a vibrant, alive, cynical and altogether awesome police presence who provides a perfect foil for David and a great source of association for the audience.

Between these towering presences, the rest of the cast acquits themselves nicely (Campbell-Hughes is especially great as David’s partner/only friend), although a few of the characters (Alice’s mother comes immediately to mind) are so under-developed as to be more plot points than real people. I also wish that Hoekstra got a little more to do: there are a few nicely emotional moments between her and David but, by and large, the focus is squarely on him, not her. Due to this, Alice comes across as more of a “bad guy” than anything: since we never get to spend much time with her, the decision to cheat on David also feels more like a plot point than an organic culmination of their relationship.

On the horror side, The Canal also equates quite nicely with the aforementioned NWoAH films: like the others, the film has a chilly, glacial pace and a tendency to rely on slow burn chills and “something’s happening behind you”-isms, although the occasional jump-cuts and loud musical cues are thoroughly off-putting and kind of obnoxious. When you have images as nice as the ones in this film, long, leisurely takes work much better than jump-cuts or quick-cuts, especially when trying to build atmosphere. It’s a minor quibble, to be sure, but one that definitely took me out a time or two.

While The Canal is full of really rich horror moments/imagery (one of the most unforgettable being the zombie-like figure that gives birth to an equally horrifying child…I’ve rarely seen anything quite that nasty and it’s a truly bracing moment), the main problem, once again, ends up being the familiarity of it all. In particular, Kavanagh and company make two explicit references to Gore Verbinski’s remake of The Ring (2002), including one where a creepy woman with long, dark hair crawls out of a television set. To be honest, it’s an oddly lazy moment in a film that’s generally much more interesting than that, although the image, itself, still packs a nice visceral wallop.

There’s also an inherent issue with this kind of “did he/didn’t he?” storyline, especially when the filmmakers seem to push one particular viewpoint over the other: while The Canal does take a few twists and turns and does a good job with the kind of open ending that usually causes me to roll my eyes, nothing that happened was really that surprising or shocking. I felt like I knew what was coming from the first reel and, for the most part, that’s exactly what I got. Again, this isn’t to cast undue derision on Kavanagh’s film as much as to state the relative limitations of this particular kind of tale.

Despite some minor issues and the aforementioned similarities to other films, The Canal is actually quite exceptional: some of the supernatural elements and imagery were quietly stunning and the relationship drama aspect feels utterly real (almost painfully so). One of the scenes, where David films by the canal as “something” approaches the camera, agonizingly slow step by agonizingly slow step, is really as good as NWoAH films get: there’s a genuine sense of building terror that hits you in the gut like a brick.

Looking through Kavanagh’s back-catalog, The Canal appears to be his most explicitly horror-related film, with the majority of his work seeming to fall into the “dark drama” category. This, of course, makes perfect sense: as mentioned earlier, the dissolution of David and Alice’s marriage has a verisimilitude that makes you want to look away, even though you’re too wrapped up in the events to do so. Here’s to hoping that Kavanagh continues to work in the horror field: there are enough good ideas and stylish moments here to indicate that he definitely has something to say. Hopefully, in the future, he won’t lean quite so heavily on what came before: I have a feeling that Kavanagh’s “roads not taken” might lead to some pretty damn interesting places.

7/14/15: This Little Light of Mine

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cinema, Conor McMahon, couples in peril, couples on vacation, creature feature, film reviews, films, foreign films, From the Dark, Ged Murray, Gerry O'Brien, horror, horror movies, independent film, Irish films, isolation, low-budget films, Michael Lavelle, Monsters, Movies, Niamh Algar, night-vision, peat bog, Pitch Black, set in Ireland, Stephen Cromwell, Stitches, The Descent, weekend in the country, writer-director

Several years ago, a horror film emerged from the ether (so to speak) and gave me a righteous thumping upside my head: the film was Stitches (2012), the filmmaker was an Irish writer/director/editor named Conor McMahon and it became, hands down, one of my favorite films of the entire year. By turns horrifying, hilarious and almost ludicrously splatterific, Stitches was a glorious return to the good old days of the Nightmare on Elm Street franchise and introduced the world to one of the greatest, new horror icons of the 2000s: Stitches, the homicidal, undead clown. Death by ice cream cone? Two scoops, please!

After a few years of silence, McMahon’s newest opus, From the Dark (2014), has been unleashed upon a largely unsuspecting populace. As someone who not only liked but positively loved McMahon’s previous film, I found myself greedily seeking more of the same: after all, horror-comedy is never an easy sub-genre to pull off but the writer-director made it seem so easy-breezy the first time around, who can fault me for pulling an Oliver Twist? Proving he’s anything but a one-trick pony, however, McMahon’s newest film is the furthest thing from his previous one: From the Dark is an ultra-serious, low-budget and very modest production (the entire cast appears to consist of four actors, including the costumed creature) that involves a bickering couple stumbling upon ancient evil in the picturesque Irish countryside. While the film never approaches the sublime heights of Stitches, it handily showcases another side of an extremely exciting new(ish) filmmaker and points the way towards an interesting future.

Sarah (Niamh Algar) and Mark (Stephen Cromwell) are a young couple who set off for a romantic getaway but end up running into the usual raft of horror movie problems: their car gets stuck in the mud, in the middle of nowhere, and Mark is forced to set off and find help, as Sarah waits with the vehicle. Characterization is light but we get a few basics: the couple aren’t married, yet, although Mark’s dim view of the institution of wedlock doesn’t bespeak of a particularly rosy future. They bicker a little, although we can tell there’s a lot of love here. We also get the notion that Sarah is the stronger of the two, both mentally and emotionally: again, never bad qualities to have in a horror movie heroine.

Mark ends up stumbling upon a seemingly deserted farmhouse, although an intriguing opening scene has already set the scene for this, as well: our first image is of a grizzled old farmer digging up some sort of “body” in a peat bog, a body which seems to move of its own volition after the farmer leaves. We witness “something” attack and drag the farmer into a nearby pond, which makes Mark’s discovery of him standing in the dark farmhouse, zombie-like, somewhat disconcerting. After bringing Sarah back to the farmhouse, in order to help the seemingly wounded farmer, he suddenly turns on the couple, attacking viciously.

To make matters worse, the “thing” that the farmer initially dug up is roaming around the countryside, looking like a rather terrifying combination of the troglodytes in The Descent (2005), James Sizemore’s creations in The Demon’s Rook (2013) and Max Schreck’s take on Nosferatu. It’s big, monstrous, vaguely humanoid and seems to be very hungry (or angry…it’s a little hard to tell). There is a bright spot, however (quite literally): the creature can’t stand light, similar to the monsters in David Twohy’s under-rated Pitch Black (2000). Thus, Sarah and Mark retreat to the “safety” of the farmhouse and make a desperate stand, utilizing flashlights, lamps, candelabrum, makeshift torches and anything else they can get their hands on. If they can only make it to the morning, perhaps the healing, warm rays of the sun will wash away the evil. It’s going to be a long, dark night, however…a very long one, indeed.

Were I not such a huge fan of McMahon’s previous film, From the Dark would, most likely, have hit me a lot harder than it did: as it stands, however, I can’t help but feel a tad disappointed, even though there’s nothing particularly wrong with the finished product. It is a bit familiar, true: if I’ve seen one recent indie horror about a couple stranded out in the wilderness, I’ve probably seen at least five (to be fair, maybe four). It’s not like McMahon and crew drop the ball on this facet of the film: despite the familiarity, Algar and Cromwell are a likable enough pair and everything moves forward at a fairly fast clip. The cinematography, courtesy of Michael Lavelle, is plenty evocative and atmospheric, even if the occasional camera shake feels woefully out-of-place. The creature looks great from farther away and pretty good from up close (the closer we get, the more it looks like one of the aforementioned Descent critters) and there’s a really intuitive use of light and shadow to help build suspense and tension, both of which also tie into the basic mechanics of the film.

Pretty much everything is in place, yet From the Dark still feels a touch under-cooked, just a shade less developed than it needs to be. For one thing, there’s absolutely no mythos attached to the monster whatsoever: while I found the recent Horsehead (2014) to be cagier than necessary with its titular creature, From the Dark vaults straight past “mysterious” right into “unnecessarily vague.” The creature acts and looks sort of vampiric (the Nosferatu nod, being buried with a stake in its chest), infects people like a zombie, has night-vision (hence the light resistance, I’m assuming), has human-like hands and feet and, at times, seems to be able to fly around (or, at the least, run really quickly and silently). I definitely didn’t need an awkward exposition scene where an old townie holds a flashlight under his chin and tells us a ghost story but I also needed more than what we’re given. As it stands, we don’t even get the vague insinuations of age-old mutations hinted at in The Descent: we pretty much get a monster, which chases our protagonists around for a while.

This sense of vagueness also points towards another major difference between From the Dark and its predecessor: From the Dark is a markedly less clever, inventive film than Stitches. While this might have a little to do with the differences in tone (Stitches, after all, was an extremely dark comedy featuring a motor-mouthed comic in the lead sociopath role), some of the cleverest, most outrageous aspects of Stitches were the incredibly inventive death setpieces, not the hilarious dialogue. In these moments, Stitches was not only one of the smartest, wackiest modern films, it was one of the smartest to come down the pike since the glory days of the ’80s.

As compared to Stitches, From the Dark is as bare-bones, meat-and-potatoes as it gets. The only setpiece in the film that really stands out (aside from the beautifully Gothic final confrontation) is the one where Sarah maneuvers from the upstairs of the farmhouse to the ground floor, moving a lamp, as necessary, to provide meager protection from the rampaging creature. It’s a gloriously tense scene, exquisitely blocked and genuinely thrilling: too bad that so many other scenes devolve into your basic “run and get chased” formula. Stitches was a film where you never had any sense of what’s coming next: from clown sex to death by ice cream scooper, McMahon seemed to pull twists and outrage seemingly out of thin air. Here, McMahon seems to be following a pre-established recipe, giving us all of the required beats and moments for this type of thing but with a decided lack of “seasoning”: even the creature’s aversion to light hearkens back to Pitch Black, which managed to make much better use of that particular “gimmick.”

Despite my disappointment, however, I still enjoyed From the Dark. While Stephen Cromwell’s Mark got a little tedious and whiny by the film’s conclusion, Niamh Algar’s Sarah was always a sturdy protagonist and a more than suitable “final girl” to move the proceedings into their logical conclusion. In fact, I was so impressed with her organic progression from “scared” to “ass-kicking” that I’m going to make a point to follow her more in the future: I’m hoping that more filmmakers take McMahon’s lead and start making Algar the focus of their fright flicks.

I also really liked the film’s look and atmosphere, for the most part, and totally dug the idea of the monster, even if the actual execution was a little too vague and anonymous for my taste: I found myself thinking about it for some time after, trying to fill in the missing pieces. This, of course, is pretty high praise for any film, least of all a low-budget horror film: if I find myself thinking about any of it afterwards, that’s always a big plus, in my book.

There’s no doubt that Conor McMahon is one seriously talented dude: irregardless of its numerous issues, From the Dark is still vastly superior to many similar films. It’s also great to see that he’s not a one-trick-pony: anyone who can create something as giddy and uproarious as Stitches, yet follow it up with something as serious and glum as From the Dark seems poised to avoid pigeon-holing at all costs. At the end of the day, however, I’m nothing if not a greedy bastard: for that reason, I’m gonna be holding out for another Stitches. Serious or funny…flip a coin. As long as McMahon’s next film displays the same delirious level of invention and imagination as his killer clown opus, I’ll be that proverbial kid in that proverbial candy store.

 

4/23/15: One Family’s Trash, Everyone’s Treasure

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cinema, coming of age, dramadies, dramas, dysfunctional family, Eva Birthistle, family in crisis, film reviews, films, Fionnula Flanagan, foreign films, grandmothers, independent films, Irish films, Kelly Thornton, Lance Daly, Lesley Conroy, Life's a Breeze, lost money, low-key, media circus, Movies, Pat Shortt, Philip Judge, set in Ireland, Willie Higgins, writer-director-cinematographer-editor

As far as problems go, Nan (Fionnula Flanagan) has quite a few on her plate: she’s just about to turn 80; her pie-in-the-sky son, Colm (Pat Shortt), is habitually unemployed; her daughters, Margaret (Eva Birthistle) and Annie (Lesley Conroy), don’t understand her; her granddaughter, Emma (Kelly Thornton), doesn’t want to spend time with her; and her little Irish town is just about as economically depressed as one place can get. And she’s just had her life savings accidentally sent to the landfill by her well-meaning but hopelessly inept family: you know…no big deal.

The loss of Nan’s fortune (she was quite the thrifty saver!) is, of course, only the catalyst of writer-director Lance Daly’s low-key Life’s a Breeze (2013): the meat of the matter is the way in which her dysfunctional family must pull together in order to undo their own colossal blunder, during which they’ll heal old wounds, create new friendships and actually become a family. As the motley group races around town, desperately seeking the tossed-out mattress that holds just south of a million euros, they’ll learn the most important lesson of all: family may drive you crazy but, when the chips are down, they’re also the only people you can ever really rely on.

Story-wise, Life’s a Breeze (which takes its name from the logo on a prominent air freshener, in but one of many sly sight gags) is pretty standard-issue, independent film dramady but it’s elevated exponentially by a truly great cast. As always, Fionnula Flanagan is a complete treasure, one of those actors who is so immensely entertaining that she can carry just about production on her shoulders. In this case, however, the heavy-lifting is alleviated by the presence of Pat Shortt (equally outstanding in The Guard (2011) and Calvary (2014)), Eva Birthistle and Lesley Conroy as Nan’s constantly feuding children. The chemistry between the family is pitch-perfect, leading to some deliciously on-the-nose bickering, all tempered by a genuine sense that these misfits actually love each other.

If Life’s a Breeze has a secret weapon (besides Flanagan, of course), it definitely lies with Kelly Thornton. This is her debut and, to be honest, she’s nothing short of astounding. Emma’s coming-of-age journey from petulant teen to strong, confident young woman is never less than riveting and Thornton very nearly steals any scene that she’s in. With her ever-present knit cap (complete with ears), Emma often reminds of a life-action version of the incomparable Louise Belcher and I mean that in the absolute best way possible. Suffice to say that I hope (and expect) to see much more of Thornton in the future: everything about her performance suggests that she’s just beginning what promises to be a must-see career.

Ultimately, Life’s a Breeze is an agreeable, surprisingly serious and incredibly well-acted (if overly familiar) entry in the “dysfunctional family” subgroup of independent films. Fans of Fionnula Flanagan (and, let’s be honest, who isn’t?) will definitely want to check this out but I suspect that Kelly Thornton’s Emma will be the one that stays on most audience member’s minds well after the credits roll. At the end of the day, Daly’s film is really about the passing of the torch from the older generation to the younger and I can’t think of anyone more deserving of receiving that prestigious flaming honor than Thornton.

3/5/15: Hail To the Freaks

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bands, Best of 2014, bittersweet, Captain Beefheart, Carla Azar, Chris Sievey, cinema, co-writers, dark comedies, disguises, Domhnall Gleeson, dramas, dysfunctional family, entertainment community, experimental music, fame, favorite films, film reviews, films, foreign films, François Civil, Frank, Frank Sidebottom, Frank Zappa, Hayley Derryberry, hidden identities, inspired by true events, Irish films, James Mather, Jon Ronson, Leonard Abrahamson, Maggie Gyllenhaal, mainstream vs counter culture, masks, mental illness, Michael Fassbender, Movies, music-based films, musicians, outsider art, outsiders, Peter Straughan, pop music, Scoot McNairy, Shane O'Brien, social media, Stephen Rennicks, voice-over narration, Wes Anderson

Do true musicians create for themselves, alone, or is there always some sort of audience in mind? It’s a question that’s probably plagued the entertainment community since the first humans discovered that banging rocks in syncopated fashion caused people to get up, get down and get a little crazy. As music gradually moved from a pure art form into a commodity as readily quantifiable as real estate holdings, the question has become even more prescient: where, exactly, is the dividing line between art and product?

Is it even possible for musicians to create purely for the sake of creativity or is a marketing angle necessary regardless of how “experimental” or “outre” you are? Would past geniuses like Frank Zappa, Captain Beefheart or Einstürzende Neubauten even be able to get a foothold in our current musical climate or would they be instantly written off and discarded for being too “uncommercial” or “difficult to sell”? And what, exactly, does it say about us if everything nowadays must come with a price tag? Art for art’s sake? Not on our watch, bub!

Leonard Abrahamson’s Frank (2014) takes a look at some of these questions, although it’s not as interested in the answers as it is in positing more questions: To whom, exactly, does an artist’s music belong? Does it belong exclusively to that artist? To their fans? Their critics? The world at large? Is it more important to stay true to one’s “vision” and languish in obscurity or is compromise necessary in order to insure that at least some part of an artist’s meaning makes it out, even in an unintended form? What responsibility do musicians have towards their fans and vice versa? Do the wants and desires of the masses outweigh and override the needs of the individual artist? And, perhaps most importantly: what responsibility do audiences owe severely “damaged” artists? If the very act of creating leads to mental distress for the musician, is it proper (or even moral) for the rest of us to consume said product?

Loosely based on Jon Ronson’s book about his tenure with Frank Sidebottom (aka Chris Sievey) in the ’80s, Abrahamson’s film combines elements of the enigmatic performance artist (known for wearing a giant, fake head at all times) with aspects of Captain Beefheart’s eclectic, “everything and the kitchen sink” recording process to come up with the perfect outsider artist. By updating the action to the present day, Frank also allows for some rather piercing insight into the ways in which things like social media help to shed light on previously unknown performers, for better or (in the this case) much worse. Through it all, however, one thought remains clear over all others: some people are just out of step with their era, regardless of what era that happens to be.

Our entry into the story is young Jon (Domhnall Gleeson), an aspiring singer-songwriter-keyboardist who still lives with his parents, is constantly on Twitter and seems to spend the majority of his time walking around, writing spontaneous songs about any and everything he sees. As luck would have it, Jon lands a gig with a touring band after their keyboardist, Lucas (Shane O’Brien) tries to drown himself in the sea. The band’s name is unpronounceable, their music sounds like an atonal, experimental jam (including theremin!) and their frontman, Frank (Michael Fassbender) wears a giant paper-mache head as he rants, raves and performs what seems to be some sort of stream-of-conscious manifesto. Needless to say, Jon is fascinated by the group and thrilled when he gets the call to join them, full-time, as their new keyboardist.

Once in the band, Jon finds himself smack dab in the middle of a fairly unique group of individuals: Clara (Maggie Gyllenhaal), the theremin player, is almost impossibly angry and seems to hate Jon with absolute zeal; Don (Scoot McNairy), Frank’s right-hand man, spent time in a mental hospital and used to “fuck mannequins”; Baraque (François Civil) and Nana (Carla Azar) don’t speak English and dress as if they just stepped out of a French New Wave film. And Frank…oh, my…Frank. Our titular fellow is a complete mystery, a soft-spoken, well-reasoned musical prodigy who just happens to operate on a completely different wavelength from the rest of the world. His perception of “normal” is so skewed that when Jon asks him for a more “mainstream” song,at one point, his contribution still sounds like some form of mutant Martian national anthem.

Things go from “absurd” to “very difficult” in no time flat after the group convenes in an isolated cabin (on a deserted island, to boot) in order to record their album. As Jon tries to push the group into a more “mainstream” direction, Clara and the others push back with all their might: only Frank seems bemused enough to want to give it a shot. Frank’s idea of “normal,” however, is about as abnormal as it gets and Jon begins to dread the group’s upcoming performance at a South By Southwest music showcase: will Frank’s decidedly cracked psyche be able to handle not only the trip to America but the exposure to a (presumably) new audience or will Clara need to make good on her promise to stab Jon if he “fucks up America for them?” As their situation gets stranger, more strained and more precarious, Jon will gradually come to realize that some artists really are better off in the margins, away from the blinding-white spotlight of public perception.

In every way possible, Leonard Abrahamson’s Frank is a love letter to the weirdos, the freaks and the dreamers of our world, those individuals who follow their own drummer and, in the process, create so much indelible, amazing art for the rest of us to enjoy, puzzle over, debate, love and hate. Operating within a production style that handily recalls that other great lover of the misfits, Wes Anderson, Frank is a colorful, quirky, odd and utterly endearing film, packed with great performances and some nicely nuanced commentary about this crazy era we find ourselves in.

As a biopic of the original Frank Sidebottom, it’s difficult to gauge how well Frank hits its mark: as someone who’s only peripherally aware of the Sidebottom character, it’s pretty impossible for me to determine how “accurate” any of this is. On the other hand, I’m familiar enough with outre artists like Captain Beefheart to recognize bits and pieces of their history in the film, leading me to believe this is more of a melange than anything approaching a straight-forward biography. If anything, I’m sure that the character of Frank Sidebottom provided the filmmakers with a readily identifiable outside artist to reference, as well as giving the film its visual hook (that big, fake head is pretty unforgettable, after all).

By updating the action to the present day, Abrahamson, Ronson and co-writer Peter Straughan are able to make plenty of astute observations about the ways in which social media help to fuel (or, in some cases, create) a performer’s career. Despite never playing a single gig in the U.S., Frank and the others (supposedly) have a ready-made audience waiting for them, thanks to Jon’s numerous Twitter and Youtube updates on the band’s recording process. It doesn’t matter that their music is highly experimental and unlikely to appeal to the “average” music festival fan: social media hype turns everything into an “event,” even if for only a minute or two. As Jon comes to discover, however, interest in “hype” is much different from actual interest in something: hype is what gets bodies in the seats but it’s no guarantee that they’ll stay there.

There’s also plenty of interesting discussions on the dangers of exposing “vulnerable” artists to a larger, uncaring audience. As we come to know Frank better, it’s painfully obvious that he’s a deeply troubled, possible mentally disturbed, individual.  This, of course, doesn’t stop Jon from trying to expose him to a larger audience: as a “true fan,” Jon feels that he has an obligation to expose his heroes to as many people as possible. As a similarly hardcore fan of music, I know exactly what he’s feeling: if I had a penny for every time I tried to expose someone to challenging, experimental or “difficult” music, I’d own most of the planet’s uninhabited islands, by this point.

While there are plenty of great performances in the film (Gyllenhaal and McNairy are particularly great), they all tend to orbit around Gleeson and Fassbender’s twin planetary spheres. Gleeson is quickly establishing himself as one of this generation’s finest actors, as handily capable of portraying sweet naivety as he is petulant bullheadedness. In other hands, Jon might have come out a much different character: too much “nice” and he’s a lunk-headed bit of stage property…too much avarice and he’s an unrepentant creep. In Glesson’s hands, however, Jon is nothing if not complex: we come to understand not only his over-riding desire for fame and recognition, at any cost, but also his genuine love and affection for Frank and his band. The last thing that Jon would ever want to do is destroy the group that he loves so much which, ironically, makes his inevitable destruction of said band so genuinely sad.

For his part, Fassbender works wonders with just his voice and body language: Frank’s fake head could have come across as just another gimmick but there’s never the sense that Fassbender takes the performance as anything less than deadly serious. It would have been incredibly easy to turn Frank into a childish symbol of innocence and purity but Fassbender is always able to keep the character fully grounded, even during the film’s more whimsical moments. For as often as the film builds genuine laughs and humor from the character of Frank, it just as often frames him in a poignant, bittersweet way that never fails to remind us of his ultimate situation: this isn’t just a quirky weirdo…this is a real, damaged individual whose unblinking mask hides a wealth of fear, insanity, confusion and sorrow. While Fassbinder has been a reliable presence in films for a good decade, at this point, Frank is one of his most subtle, vibrant creations yet. The moment where we finally see him, sans mask, is a real gut-punch and Fassbender deserves much of the credit for that.

Frank is a helluva film, no two ways about it. While there’s plenty of humor here (the scenes where the band tries to record their album are all great, as are any of the ones where Clara threatens to commit grievous bodily injury to Jon), the film has a solid emotional core that leads to some incredibly powerful moments. By the time we get to the hushed, intimate finale that features a band reunion in a scrappy pool hall, it’s pretty obvious that Frank is an exceptional piece of filmcraft. Whether you love music, love outsiders, love a rags-to-riches-to-rags story or just love good films, Frank should be right up your alley.

If nothing else, the film should give anyone pause for thought whenever they consider their favorite “unknown” artist: we might want the whole world to celebrate them, just like we do…but what would they actually want? Chances are, if they’re anything like Frank, they just want the chance to live their lives, in their world, under their own terms.

12/31/14 (Part Three): Bless Me Father, For You Have Sinned

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absentee father, Aidan Gillen, Best of 2014, Brendan Gleeson, Calvary, Catholic church, child molestation, Chris O'Dowd, Church sex scandal, cinema, dark comedies, David McSavage, David Wilmot, Domhnall Gleeson, dramas, Dylan Moran, estranged family, father-daughter relationships, favorite films, film reviews, films, foreign films, forgiveness, Gary Lydon, Irish films, Isaach de Bankole, John Michael McDonagh, Kelly Reilly, Killian Scott, Larry Smith, M. Emmet Walsh, Marie-Josee Croze, Movies, New World in the Morning, Orla O'Rourke, Owen Sharpe, Pat Shortt, Patrick Cassidy, revenge, Roger Whittaker, secrets, set in Ireland, sins of the fathers, small town life, The Guard, writer-director

In a small, dim confessional, Father James (Brendan Gleeson) is calmly told by one of his parishioners that he is to be “sacrificed” the following Sunday, made to die for the sexual abuse that the unknown man suffered at the hands of another priest when he was a boy. The offending priest has since died but the man isn’t interested in making a “bad” priest pay: he wants Father James, a “good” priest, to take a bullet, since the Church will feel his loss harder. “Nothing to say, Father?,” the mysterious man asks, when he’s finished passing his judgment. “I’m sure I’ll think of something in a week,” Father James sardonically replies.

The week leading up to that fateful Sunday forms the crux of Irish auteur John Michael McDonagh’s amazing Calvary (2014), the stunning follow-up to his masterful debut, The Guard (2011). During that time, Father James will reflect on his own life, his failings, his victories and his faith. He’ll spend the time wandering about his tiny, coastal town, making small-talk with the parishioners, these “friends” and neighbors who secretly wish him dead, despite their smiles and condescending good natures: after all, he immediately knows who the wannabe assassin is, even if we don’t…in a town that small, everyone knows everyone else, regardless of the supposed “anonymity” of the confessional window. Despite his knowledge, however, Father James will go through the motions, investigating each “lead” as if it were a Holmes-worthy clue, biding his time until that inevitable, fateful meeting on the beach. Despite his own innocence, Father James is more than willing to become a victim, a sacrificial goat, if that’s what his town needs to heal…to keep on with the drudgery of life under the age-old grip of the Church, Ireland’s bloody past and its uncertain future.

From the jump, McDonagh’s Calvary grabs a hold of you and never lets go: from the great opening quote, by St. Augustine, to the haunting, empty Irish landscape shots that play over the final credits, this is a film that is so exquisitely crafted that it’s almost a Swiss clock. There’s an overarching sadness to the film, a sense of fate and inevitability that cuts across any of the film’s many joyful moments (there are plenty) and underlines all of its most dramatic ones (likewise, plenty). Truth be told, Calvary is one of the saddest films I’ve ever seen, although its sorrow is a mechanical heart, beating deep within the film’s chest and nearly invisible to the naked eye.

There’s a lot going on in Calvary, although McDonagh’s excellent script manages to make everything fit, even if it doesn’t always tie it all together with a big, red bow: the estranged relationship between Father James and his grown daughter, Fiona (Kelly Reilly)…the way in which the entitlement of the upper-class continues to determine the fate of the poor working stiff, as embodied by Dylan Moran’s boozy lord, Michael Fitzgerald…the way in which the terrible economy and bad housing market have conspired to marginalize the middle class nearly to the point of extinction…the importance of forgiveness in a world that would rather focus on punishment…the way in which the Catholic church’s priest sex scandals continue to influence and change the complex relationship between the clergy and the common people, slowly turning blind devotion into something more closely resembling abject hatred…the necessity of sacrifice as a form of healing…despite this wealth of themes and big ideas, Calvary never feels weighted down or overly preachy (no pun intended).

One of the things that helps Calvary stay afloat when other films might have sunk under this much ambition is the way in which McDonagh subtly uses humor (sometimes bright and laugh-out-loud funny, other times so dark and mean-spirited as to be practically unrecognizable as such) as a means of guiding us through the dark. As previously mentioned, Calvary is an intensely sad, unrelenting film: the characters that haunt its halls are such twisted, wretched, damaged individuals that this streak of gallows’-humor is an absolute necessity. When one character melodramatically describes how his “whole life has been an affectation,” Father James quietly responds that “that’s one of those lines that sounds good but doesn’t make much sense.” We need to know that Father James is keeping his chin up and taking it all in stride because, otherwise, we would never be able to take this journey with him. At one point, Freddie (Domhnall Gleeson), one of James’ former students who’s now locked up for killing and cannibalizing a young girl, plaintively asks the priest: “God has to understand me because he made me, right?” After a beat, Father James replies, “If God can’t understand you, no one can.” The dark streak of humor functions in the same way, reassuring us that things in Father James’ world are never quite as grim as they seem to be, even when our heart tells us that they’re actually much worse.

As with The Guard, McDonagh populates his film with a host of impressively individualistic characters: stellar actors like Dylan Moran (of Black Books fame), Chris O’Dowd, David Wilmot, Aidan Gillen, Gary Lydon and even good, old M. Emmet Walsh (looking positively ancient but sounding just as great as ever) all show up and help weave the intricately intertwined tapestry that forms the fabric of the film. Kelly Reilly does some great work as James’ estranged daughter and I must admit to rather loving Killian Scot’s ridiculously over-the-top performance as Inspector Stanton’s gay, tough-guy lover: it’s a blustery, obnoxious performance with just enough underlying sadness and vulnerability to sell the whole thing, part and parcel.

Towering over everything like some sort of enormous, cassock-clad, bearded Colossus of Rhodes, however, is Brendan Gleeson. Easily one of the best actors working in film today, Gleeson seems to spit out amazing performances like this in his sleep: he’s like the male, Irish Meryl Streep, completely incapable of phoning anything in or giving any less than 1000%. Gleeson isn’t acting: he IS Father James, from head to foot, inhabiting the character so completely that any notion of mimicry goes out the window. There’s not one moment in Gleeson’s performance, one single iota, that ever hits as anything less than completely authentic and genuine. It’s a heartbreaking performance for a number of reasons but the main two are pretty simple: Father James seems like a genuinely nice person and Gleeson brings him to life in a way that makes us know and feel for him. We don’t need to take a side, one way or the other, to feel the tremendous tragedy, the complete unfairness of Father James’ fate: Gleeson makes us feel it because we don’t have a choice.

Craft-wise, Calvary looks and sounds amazing: cinematographer Larry Smith, who also shot Nicholas Winding Refn’s Bronson (2008) and Only God Forgives (2013), turns the emerald greens and azure blues of the Irish countryside into one of the film’s main characters. There’s an impressive sense of space and isolation that perfectly meshes with Father James’ own “man without a country” status in the town and some of the sweeping vistas are so gorgeous that they resemble something out of a travel program. The score and sound design are also expertly realized: one of my very favorite scenes, ever, has to be the one where Father James prepares to leave town, set to the tune of Roger Whittaker’s soaring “New World in the Morning.” The scene is such a perfect synthesis of song and visual, so emotionally wonderful, that it, literally, took my breath away…even thinking back on it now, I find myself getting a little emotional, which is surely the mark of an indelible moment.

All in all, Calvary stands as yet another absolute home-run for McDonagh, a filmmaker who has quickly established himself as one of the most formidable around. Truth be told, I still find it hard to believe that this is only his second film: quality like this should be the result of a lifetime spend honing one’s craft, not the span of four or five short years. From beginning to end, Calvary is a nearly flawless character study and one of the very finest films of this year (or many others, for that matter). For anyone lamenting the lack of quality, “adult” entertainment, look no further than Calvary: it just doesn’t get much better than this, folks.

12/14/14 (Part Two): The Little Garda Who Could

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auteur theory, bad cops, Bad Lieutenant, Brendan Gleeson, buddy cop films, Calexico, cinema, corrupt law enforcement, David Wilmot, Declan Mannlen, Don Cheadle, drug dealers, dying mother, eponymous characters, FBI agents, feature-film debut, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, Fionnula Flanagan, fish-out-of-water, gallows' humor, Garda, Gary Lydon, Guy Ritchie, Irish films, John Michael McDonagh, Larry Smith, Liam Cunningham, Mark Strong, mother-son relationships, Movies, racism, Rory Keenan, Sergeant Gerry Boyle, set in Ireland, small town life, stolen guns, The Guard, UK films, Wendell Everett, writer-director

Towards the end of writer-director John Michael McDonagh’s The Guard (2011), there’s a scene where Sergeant Gerry Boyle (Brendan Gleeson) solemnly changes into his traditional “Garda” uniform before heading out to face-off with the vicious drug dealers who have cold-bloodedly killed his partner. As he drives down the country-road, eyes locked straight ahead, he’s saluted by a young boy: a hero being recognized by the very people that he’s sworn to protect, an image as timeless as the very concept of law enforcement. It’s a huge, soaring moment for one important reason: for the first time in years, Sergeant Boyle has decided to actually do his job and we know, without a doubt, that the end result will be simply glorious.

Sergeant Boyle is the titular “guard” of the title but he’s also The Guard in a larger sense: every frame of the film, every plot twist, blackly comic moment and dastardly deed in McDonagh’s stunning feature-debut is completely and totally dominated by the towering presence that is Gleeson’s Boyle, a character who manages to be gleefully corrupt, yet still stands as a beacon of truth amidst those who are, you know, a whole lot worse. In a career that’s stretched to nearly three decades, Gleeson has never been better or more explosive: take a seat, Harvey…this here is the REAL bad lieutenant and you won’t be able to take your eyes off him.

We first get introduced to Gerry as he steals drugs from the bodies of a bunch of teens who just flipped their speeding car. The police officer nonchalantly drops acid, says “What a lovely fucking day” and we get the title, so big that it fills the entire screen, squeezing Boyle into the margins. The intent, as mentioned above, is pretty obvious: Boyle will dominate the proceedings, no two ways about it. Boyle might not be an honest cop, but he’s sure a helluva lot smarter than the rest of his peers: his partner, McBride (Rory Keenan) is one small step away from being a complete idiot and their superior officer, Inspector Stanton (Gary Lydon), thinks that “liquidated” people are actually turned into liquid. In this environment, can anyone really blame Boyle for looking out for number one? It’s not so much that Boyle is a bad cop, or even a lazy one, per se: he’s just so burned out on all the bureaucratic bullshit that he’s completely tuned-out…no sense getting fired-up about fighting crime if everyone around you keeps dropping the ball, is there? Better to spend one’s time cavorting with prostitutes, playing video games in a pub during the middle of your shift and getting shit-faced whenever possible.

Boyle gets shaken from his comfortable stupor, however, when his small, Irish hamlet ends up with a certifiable murder-mystery: a body has been found, shot in the head and posed in a way that seems to indicate some sort of cult activity. Despite caring so little about the case that he practically yawns his way through the initial investigation, Boyle goes through the motions, since that’s what he’s expected to do. Things really get interesting, however, when FBI agent Wendell Everett (Don Cheadle) shows up in town, investigating some sort of major drug case that involves four seriously bad dudes: Francis (Liam Cunningham), McCormick (Declan Mannlen), O’Leary (David Wilmot) and Clive (Low Winter Sun’s Mark Strong).

During Everett’s debriefing, Boyle makes a complete ass of himself after stating that he thought “only black lads were drug dealers:” Everett calls him a “racist,’ to which Boyle snaps back that “racism is part of Ireland’s tradition.” Casually racist though he might be, Boyle also recognizes McCormick as their anonymous murder victim, which gives Everett his first actual break in the case. Faster than you can say “odd couple,” Boyle and Everett are soon working together, albeit as reluctantly as possible. “I can’t tell if you’re real motherfucking dumb or really motherfucking smart,” Everett notes, at one point, and it’s a pretty valid question: Boyle is constantly working so many angles that he’s either the dumbest guy in town or the smartest, depending on whose bad side he happens to be on. When Everett and Boyle end up in the crosshairs of Francis and his gang, however, Boyle’s going to need all of his wits to survive. When the drug dealers kill one of his own, however, regardless of what an idiot he was, Boyle has no choice: it’s time for this Garda to quit messing around and get to the business of putting away the bad guys.

The Guard is an exceptional film, no two ways about it: quite possibly one of the very best films of the last five years. So much of the film works to an almost supernatural degree that it readily brought to mind “instant classics” like Guy Ritchie’s Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels (1998). The cinematography, by frequent Nicholas Winding Refn collaborator Larry Smith, is beautiful, making expert use of bright, primary colors and that lush, gorgeous Irish countryside. The score, by the Southwestern-based Calexico, is ridiculously rousing, all spaghetti-Western horns, steel guitar and action beats like one of Ennio Morricone’s classic scores. McDonagh’s script is airtight, full of deliciously snarky dialogue and some of the driest humor ever put to film. There’s something rather amazing about watching Everett and Boyle feint, parry and thrust around each other, testing for weak points and trying to push as many buttons as possible.

Let’s not forget about the cast, however. While Cheadle and Gleeson are the main focal points, The Guard is filled with interesting, three-dimensional characters, not least of which are the three drug dealing villains. Veteran character-actor Liam Cunningham is great as the exasperated leader of the group, while David Wilmot shares a thoroughly badass scene with Gleeson that features one of the film’s most joyous surprises. Nearly stealing away their shared moments, however, is Mark Strong’s Clive Cornell: morose, philosophical, depressed and given to metaphysical ponderings, Clive is an awesome creation, at once lethal and silly. In fact, it’s to McDonagh’s great credit that one of the film’s sneakiest ideas (that no one, including the drug dealers, are actually doing the jobs they want to do) comes across entirely through subtle character development and dialogue: no unnecessary hand-holding to be found here!

It pretty much goes without saying that Cheadle is excellent as the put-upon fish-out-of-water FBI agent but let’s go ahead and say it again, anyway: Cheadle is absolutely excellent as Everett. Long one of Hollywood’s most dependable actors, Cheadle is the kind of performer, like Ron Perlman, who can elevate any film, regardless of the amount of screen time he gets. Here, we get lots of Cheadle and I don’t that anyone would mind. His scenes with Gleeson are marvelous little jewels but the really revelatory moments come when Everett is forced to pound the small-town pavement solo: his interactions with the overly hostile, racist locals are some of the best scenes in the film, hands-down.

The unquestionable star of the show, however, the “reason for the season,” as it were, is the amazing, unstoppable Brendan Gleeson. Towering over everything like a ragged, Gaelic god, Gleeson doesn’t appear to be acting: he honestly seems to be channeling the very spirit of Gerry Boyle. Gleeson doesn’t make a single misstep in the film: whether sneaking his dying mother (an outstanding Fionnula Flanagen) into the pub for one last pint, blowing Everett’s mind by rising from the freezing ocean in a skin-tight wetsuit or telling each and every authority figure in the world to sit and spin, Boyle is never less than completely charismatic and magnetic. I dare you to tear your eyes from the epic climax where Boyle strides relentlessly through the middle of a firefight, a rosy-faced Angel of Death who knows that he’s screwed and yet refuses to admit the fact to anyone, much less himself. There are countless good reasons to watch The Guard but there’s one necessary reason: no one who considers themselves an aficionado of fine acting can afford to miss Gleeson’s performance…it really is that good.

As it stands, The Guard is another film that I feel pretty confident recommending to anyone under the sun: if you’re a fan of darkly humorous UK crime films, “cops gone bad” movies or “buddy action” flicks, this one’s definitely for you. Truth be told, I really can’t see anyone walking out of The Guard disappointed or underwhelmed: if you should find such a person, stay far away, my friends…it’s obvious that they can’t be trusted.

1/28/14: Innocence Lost

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Carrie, child abuse, child trauma, cinema, Dark Touch, Film, horror films, Irish films, killer children, Lovely Molly, Marina de Van, Missy Keating, Movies, Niamh, telekinesis, unpleasant

As someone who watches a lot of films, particularly horror and exploitation fare, I occasionally find myself in the position of watching something that, in hindsight, I would rather not have seen. This can be due to several factors: visuals/scenes that are excruciatingly nauseating or graphic; themes/plot elements that are genuinely disturbing (I’m thinking more child and animal abuse than alien abduction or masked slashers); constant and never-ending misery, etc. Over the years, I’ve seen a few films (Salo, Cannibal Holocaust, Lovely Molly, Nekromantik, Irreversible, Henry) that I’ll never quite forget but will never actively think about for fear that details of each pop fresh into my skull (which they just did as I typed out this sentence). Unfortunately, I inadvertently added to this list with my recent viewing of Marina’s de Van’s unrelentingly disturbing Dark Touch.

On the outside, Dark Touch doesn’t seem particularly disturbing but the devil is definitely in the details with this one. The film details the struggles of Niamh, an 11-year-old irreparably scarred and twisted by abuse. Her mother and father have just been massacred in what the police in her small Irish town are calling a brutal home invasion. When Niamh goes to stay with Nat and Lucas, kindly friends of her deceased parents, it seems that she may just have a chance at happiness. Alas, the seeds of abuse can be planted deeply and the weeds they produce can choke and kill any happiness. Niamh already knows this and, soon, Nat, Lucas, their two small children and the entire town will learn this, as well.

In many, many years of watching films, I’ve rarely seen a film as fundamentally unpleasant as Dark Touch. For one thing, the film is unrelenting grim and gray, from the first frame to the last frame. There is absolutely no humor, levity or happiness to be found anywhere within the film’s 90 minutes. This does, of course, befit a film that focuses on the horrible aftermath of physical and sexual child abuse. Imagine if, however, the entirety of Requiem for a Dream consisted of the scene with the arm abscesses. There is misery and then there is misery: Dark Touch manages to stake out a new place at the head of the pack.

It’s no secret or spoiler to note that Niamh is an abused child and that her parents are the abusers: we’re given this information within the first 15 minutes of the film. The only mystery, ultimately , ends up being just how far Niamh will be stretched before she breaks. In many ways, Dark Touch is like a pitch-black, pre-teen version of Carrie, with abuse subbed for the oppressive religious angle of King’s classic. There was never much doubt in my mind as to who, exactly, was causing the mysterious deaths (if you’ve seen at least two poltergeist/moody kid horror films in your life, this should come as no surprise whatsoever), although I’m not sure that the film ever posits itself as a genuine mystery, so this is probably a moot point.

As mentioned, the film is exceedingly grim and unpleasant throughout its runtime. The final 20 minutes, however, manages to out-do the entire rest of the film in terms of sheer squeamishness/unpleasantness/potential to scar. Without giving any actual details away, let’s just say that Niamh and two other abused kids adopt the personas of their abusers and proceed to inflict these abuses upon innocent people. This sequence, to be honest, is so sickening, so revoltingly raw and terrible, that it becomes impossible to look away. It truly is like looking all the way to the bottom of Nietzsche’s abyss and seeing a reflective surface. Suffice to say that I hope to never, in this life or any others afterwards, see its like again.

Content and tone aside, Dark Touch, from a filmmaking perspective, is an exceptionally well-made film. The visuals are consistently stunning and moody, if constantly dark but the sound design is a true thing of beauty. Dark Touch is one of the few modern horror films that understand how truly important a good sound design can be to the overall impact of a film. The movie is loaded with great examples of the design but my favorite comes from the creepy scene where Niamh wanders the streets of her town at night, whistling an eerie tune. As she whistles, the sound becomes modulated and distorted, eventually becoming part of the soundtrack, by which time the whistle has been something altogether different and alien. It’s a genius technique, one that is employed at a few other key points in the film. The soundtrack has a tendency to favor dissonant, ringing tones and high, wavering sounds, at times coming across as some nightmarish collision of Philip Glass and Aphex Twin.

From a horror perspective, the violence in the film is fairly hardcore: imagine the poltergeist activity (moving tables, slamming doors) of most “haunting” films taken to a completely Grand Guignol level. People are ripped apart, bodies are torn, tender extremities are pierced, faces are pulverized: the gore scenes are so violent, especially when juxtaposed against the slower, moodier atmosphere of the rest of the film, that they almost come across as parody or satire. Imagine if the kill scenes from a Final Destination film were welded onto a dark indie chiller and you have a basic idea. Across the board, however, the effects work is exceptional and seems to rely on plenty of practical effects, which is always a nice touch.

The acting, unfortunately, tends to be a bit hit-and-miss. Missy Keating, as young Niamh, is a revelation, an actress so perfectly suited to the role that it doesn’t really seem like an acting job. She’s one of the most impressive child actors I’ve seen in years and I really hope she gets a chance to do something other than be miserable for an hour and a half. The adults, particularly Nat and Lucas (Marcella Plunkett and Padraic Delaney, respectively) have a habit of being too over-the-top and frantic, traits which make them seem less capable than the children (which, come to think of it, may be the film’s intent). The script, likewise, can be clunky and overly expository: Lucas, in particular, gets saddled with so many leaden lines that his character can seem more like a plot-construct than an actual human being.

At the end of the day, however, one’s acceptance and enjoyment (if you could call it that) of Dark Touch will hinge entirely upon the child abuse angle, in the same way that appreciation for something like Ms. 45 or I Spit on Your Grave hinges entirely on the rape-revenge subgenre. If you are unable to view cinematic depictions of child abuse (the abuse is very obvious and open, although the film is careful to only show the abuse being perpetrated on adults, for the most part, as opposed to the intended child victims), this is absolutely not something you will be able to sit through. The message behind the film is decidedly non-exploitative and important: the evils of child abuse continue to propagate and spread, long after the initial abuse is but a memory. After watching the film, however, I really did only have one thought: I’m glad that I’ll never have to watch this again.

1/26/14: 90 Minutes in Purgatory

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action films, Alistair Little, cinema, drama, Film, Five Minutes of Heaven, forgiveness, Irish films, Irish Republic, James Nesbitt, Liam Neeson, Mark Ryder, Movies, Northern Ireland, Oliver Hirschbiegel, Protestant vs Catholic, reconciliation, retribution, revenge, UVF

Sometimes, you can have the very best intentions and still fall short. You may set out to help someone, for all the right reasons, only to have everything backfire completely. You might attempt to atone for a past transgression, only to re-stoke flames of hatred that might, otherwise, have been forever snuffed. You might even attempt to make a film that deals in highly personal issues of redemption, forgiveness and hatred while simultaneously showcasing pulse-pounding action. Five Minutes of Heaven strives for many things but, unfortunately, falls just as short on many of them.

Five Minutes of Heaven is a fictional film that’s actually inspired by real events, although the bulk of the film still dwells in the land of supposition and “what-if.” The movie begins in 1975 with young Alistair Little, a member of the Ulster Volunteer Force, in Northern Ireland. The UVF were a staunchly anti-Catholic, anti-Irish Republic group that patrolled Northern Ireland during the worst part of the age-old British/Irish conflict. In retaliation for a perceived threat by Catholic workers against a Protestant worker, Little finds and kills a Catholic man, Jimmy Griffin, in front of his younger brother, Joe. Alistair ends up serving time in prison, where he seems to have come out a changed, repentant man. Joe survived a childhood where he was unfairly blamed by his mother for his older brother’s death and made to suffer every day under her emotional and physical abuse. His only dream has been the “five minutes of Heaven” that he would experience as he killed Alistair Little. Thirty-odd years later, Joe just may get his chance as a TV crew facilitates a meeting between Alistair and Joe, under the guise of promoting a reconciliation between the two men. Alistair is cautious yet seems to genuinely desire a chance to begin the healing process. Joe, for his part, just can’t keep his hands off that sharp knife in his pocket. Which notion will prevail: forgiveness or vengeance?

As stated earlier, Five Minutes of Heaven has noble, if rather scattered intentions. There is some genuinely good work being done here, especially by Liam Neeson as modern-day Alistair. Neeson brings much of the quiet reserve that he’s noted for to the role, somehow making a former terrorist into something of a penitent monk. It’s not the easiest transition to swallow but Neeson really sells it. There’s a notable difference between the brash and arrogant young Alistair (played quite capably by Borgia’s Mark Ryder in a part that amounts to little more than a cameo: he’s so good that I wish we’d spent more time in the past) and the quietly religious older Alistair.

James Nesbitt, as modern-day Joe, is good but he has the tendency to play everything too aggressively, too unhinged. It reminds one of the criticisms lobbed at Jack Nicholson for his portrayal of Jack Torrance in The Shining: he started off unhinged, so the slippery slope to madness isn’t very steep. Similarly, Nesbitt plays Joe as such a damaged, fractured, spastic creature that it’s difficult to get a sense of anything from him except for pain. Every line is delivered with either clenched-teeth, ready-to-explode anger or an actual outburst, a few of which are powerful enough but lose impact through repetition. There’s something of a Nicholas Cage quality to Nesbitt’s performance, which doesn’t necessarily work to the film’s benefit. We’re allowed to see Alistair cycle through several emotions: sorrow, anger, regret, hesitation, confusion, serenity. For Joe, however, we only get pain, anger, regret and fear. This can, of course, be chalked-up to Joe’s miserable childhood and single-minded desire to kill Alistair: all well and good. Nesbitt’s constant red-lining of the emotions, however, leaves no room whatsoever for emotional building or resonance: it’s either flat or outraged.

Structurally, the film makes a few odd choices that tend to detract from the overall package, particularly involving confusing voice-overs (at one point, I thought Joe was actually talking, only to realize it was the voice-over, which promptly segued back into actual dialogue: needlessly confusing. The strangest aspect of the film, however, is the abrupt transition from emotional drama to action film in the film’s climax. It’s a scenario that the film seems to have been building up to for some time but, when it comes, the moment feels entirely out-of-place and strange, like a scene lifted from another film (possibly one of Neeson’s Taken films) entirely. That the film manages to end in a manner more consistent with the dramatic angle than the action one only further compounds the situation and makes the climatic fisticuffs that much odder and, to be frank, sillier.

Five Minutes of Heaven is a decent film with performances that range from the very good (Neeson and Ryder) to the very presentational (Nesbitt and Jill Crawford as a rather bizarre makeup assistant who functions as a sounding board for Joe’s rants as they await the arrival of Alistair). I can certainly appreciate the sentiment but can’t help feeling that a much more interesting film, a film that I really wanted to see, was left back in 1975 with all of those misguided young men patrolling the night and shooting each other for reasons even they can’t figure out. That sounds like a pretty great film, to be honest: as it stands, Five Minutes of Heaven is just a decent one.

1/2/14: Die Laughing

Tags

bratty kids, Conor McMahon, horror, horror films, Irish films, killer clowns, Nightmare on Elm St., Ross Noble, Shakes the Clown, Stitches, UK films, villain

The first part of today’s installment will feature half of last night’s double-header: Stitches. Since I’ve got quite a few words to say about Stitches, we’ll handle A Lonely Place to Die in another post. On to the show!

Without a shadow of a doubt, Stitches is the single best Nightmare on Elm St. film since Part 3: The Dream Warriors. This may, of course, seem a little odd, since Stitches is clearly not related in any way, shape or form to Wes Craven’s seminal franchise. Upon closer examination, however, there are a few more similarities.

I’ve always loved the NOES series: it’s probably my favorite horror series (the Halloween franchise is way too hit/miss and I’ve always preferred Freddy to Jason) but I’ll be the first to admit its faults. After debuting with a serious effort, the series gradually became campier, with more of an emphasis on pop culture references (“You forgot the Power Glove!” being a chief offender), zany deaths and Freddy’s increasingly Henny Youngman-esque one-liners. The transition to camp was pretty much solidified by Part 5, with Part 6 being so over-the-top that it even featured Alice Cooper and Roseanne Barr. For a very short time, however, the series managed to get the tone absolutely perfect, with The Dream Warriors being (in my mind) the quintessential NOES film.

What made Part 3 work so well? In short, the synthesis between the scares and laughs was pitch-perfect. Freddy drops wisecracks but he’s still a seriously scary dude by this point. He hasn’t assumed the mantle of stand-up comedian yet and is very much a smug, sarcastic, nasty bastard (literally). The group of kids involved may still be ’80s cliches but they’re vibrant ones, clearly individuals and easy to like. The kills are also some of the most inventive in the series (the human marionette will go down as my favorite moment in the entire series, closely followed by the Freddy snake) and the effects work is astounding, especially considering the late ’80s glut of big effects bonanzas. In my mind, although the franchise remained entertaining, it never topped the third entry (the 4th is pretty good, to be honest, and I always enjoy the 5th, camp be damned).

Stitches, then, becomes the best NOES film since Part 3 by taking all the best elements of that film and running with them. The film begins with a tone that reminds one of the crude blue-collar humor of Edgar Wright before swinging easily into something that could best be described as a UK version of Scream with a greater emphasis on the interpersonal dynamics. The kids in Stitches are cliches, of course, but they’re not lazy ones. Each character takes their prescribed quirks and tics and incorporates them into something that actually feels like a real teenager. Shocking! You’re not supposed to like most of these kids (in fact, aside from the hero, most of them are complete assholes) but they feel so real that you can’t help but feel something when they die. And die they do.

You see, where Stitches really assumes the NOES crown is where it counts: the bad guy. A horror franchise is, literally, only as strong as its chief antagonist. Make them memorable enough (Freddy, Jason, Michael, Chucky) and they enter the cultural vernacular, becoming as much a part of the pop landscape as any celebrity. Make them too generic (any of at least a thousand slashers in the ’80s-’90s) and they sink beneath the masses of similar product. Stitches, the killer clown, is probably the best modern horror antagonist since Freddy was created.

As portrayed by Ross Noble, Stitches is spiritual kin to Bobcat’s repugnant Shakes the Clown. Hard drinking, as unhygienic as possible and obnoxious to the core (in response to a mother’s statement that he’s late to her child’s birthday party, Stitches replies, “And you’re fooking ugly. Just kidding.” before honking his lapel flower at her), he’s probably the last person you would want around your kids.

But these kids, man…these kids. The party is full of brats, a prank is pulled, Stitches accidentally ends up with a butcher knife in his head and the birthday boy is scarred for life. But, as a bizarre clown elder tells the hero (in one of the films coolest, weirdest sequences, akin to something by either Jodorowski or de la Iglesia), any clown that doesn’t finish a birthday party can never rest. And a joke is never as funny the second time around.

Stitches returns from the grave, six years later, to exact revenge against the now teenage brats. At this point, the film pulls its most glorious hat-trick of all. When Stitches returns, he’s not quite the scuzzy drunkard from the beginning. Noble has modulated his performance, slowed Stitches down a bit and, in the process, creates a classic performance. His line delivery recalls an even droller, drier Freddy Krueger and, to be honest, I could have easily done with more of him. The balance between chills and laughs is perfect, especially with the killer clown’s look being akin to King Buzzo in facepaint.

And those kills. My, oh my…those kills. Imagine a live-action version of an Itchy and Scratchy Show episode. I was originally going to use Wile E. Coyote and the Roadrunner as an example but, to be honest, those really don’t even come close to this film. Suffice to say that the kills in Stitches are absolutely brilliant, perhaps the best looking gore effects since the original Hatchet and the most ambitious, energetic set-pieces since the glory days of Dario Argento. All of the deaths involve an ironic clown angle (of course) but move in such genuinely fresh and daring directions that it’s exhilarating to watch. I will say that, even almost 30 years into my horror film viewing, there was some pretty shocking violence here. Played for laughs, perhaps, but way past the vast majority of mainstream horror offerings.

Since saying too much about any of them can spoil some very big thrills, I’ll keep rather mum on the specifics but I will say that there was one particular scene that set a bar so high that most other films can’t even see it. The scene involves an ice-cream scoop, a can opener and the cheestastic anthem “(I Just) Died in Your Arms Tonight,” ending with Stitches holding his victim in approximation of the Pieta, complete with a sadly wistful look on his grease-painted face. If you’re the kind of horror fan that can name every kill in Jason X, the kills in Stitches will probably take top honors on your list.

But are inventive kills really what make a horror film? Of course not. However, inventive kills, a great villain, exciting set-pieces, intelligent humor, astounding practical effects, good acting, a rich and deep backstory (all of the stuff about the clown council and the creepy clown crypt is so damn good that I really wish there was more) and a complete and overriding sense of fun are certainly what make a great horror film. Even better, the film ends with a fantastic set-up for a sequel (the tag is actually so clever that I hope it buries that stupid “one last jump scare before the credits roll” bullshit forever), one that I hope comes to more fruition than Buckaroo Banzai vs The World Crime League.

In short, Stitches is not only a great horror film but it’s a great film, period. It may be campy but it’s never stupid: this was a film made by people who obviously love films and are passionate about them. This passion comes through loud and clear, providing what was, for me, the most fun horror film I’ve seen in years. Had I seen this earlier, Stitches would have easily made my Best of 2013 list. To be honest, maybe that list already needs some revision.