7/5/15 (Part One): Home is Where the Haunt Is

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Barbara Niven, cinema, dead children, father-son relationships, film reviews, films, ghosts, grown children, haunted houses, horror-comedies, Housebound, Jack Plotnick, Jeffrey Combs, John Waters, Kat Dennings, Lucas Lee Graham, Mackenzie Phillips, Mark Bruner, Matthew Gray Gubler, McKenna Grace, Mel Rodriguez, Michl Britsch, Movies, multiple writers, Muse Watson, Odd Thomas, paranormal investigators, racists, Ray Santiago, Ray Wise, Richard Bates Jr., Ronnie Gene Blevins, Sally Kirkland, scatological humor, seances, seeing ghosts, Sibyl Gregory, silly films, Soska Sisters, Suburban Gothic, suburban homes, suburban life, suburbia, The Frighteners, Under the Bed, writer-director-producer

Ah, suburbia: endless rows of identical houses, with identical lawns, with identical Suburbans parked in identical carports, tended to by identical suburbanites as they go about their virtually identical lives. For many people, suburbia is the very picture of success: after all, what really says “You’ve made it” more than your own house, family, steady job and reliable source of transportation? For the outsider, misanthrope and loner, however, the very concept of suburbia can be a kind of hell on earth: the place where all dreams go to become pureed into easily digestible slop. As the Descendents so aptly put it: “I want to be stereotyped…I want to be classified…I want to be a clone…I want a suburban home.”

For filmmakers, the concept of the dark underbelly of suburbia is nothing new: after all, films like The Stepford Wives (1975), The Amityville Horror (1979), Neighbors (1981), Parents (1989), The ‘Burbs (1989),  American Beauty (1999) and Donnie Darko (2001) have been equating cookie-cutter neighborhoods with existential dread for decades now. To this storied tradition we can now add writer-director Richard Bates Jr’s Suburban Gothic (2014): proving that there’s nothing wrong with ambition, Bates Jr takes the aforementioned suburban angst films and throws in elements of “I see ghosts” films, ala The Frighteners (1996) and Odd Thomas (2013), as well as “grown children moving back home” films, such as the instantly classic Housebound (2014) and the less successful Under the Bed (2012). If Suburban Gothic never comes close to reaching the heady heights of Housebound, there’s still enough silly, funny and outrageous material here to give genre fans a grin from ear to ear. Plus, it’s got Ray Wise: any film with Ray Wise is, of course, automatically better than any film without him…that’s just basic math, amigo.

Poor Raymond (Criminal Minds’ Matthew Gray Gubler) is in a bit of a pickle, the same conundrum that might befall many twenty-to-thirty-somethings: he’s over-educated and under-employed. Despite having his MBA, Raymond must swallow the bitterest pill of all and move back in with his over-protective, smothering mother, Eve (Barbara Niven), and obnoxious, disapproving and casually racist father, Donald (Ray Wise, swinging for the rafters), an event which is sure to put a crimp in any attempt he can make to take control of his life.

You see, Raymond is a bit of a mess: bullied as a child about his weight and “gifted” with the ability to see ghosts, he escaped his one horse town as soon as he could, hoping to put as much distance between him and the past as possible. Given to wearing outrageously showy clothes (his bright, purple scarf is a definite highlight), Raymond couldn’t be more out-of-place in his old hometown, especially once he ends up back in the sights of former bully Pope (Ronnie Gene Blevins) and his small crew of miscreants. Everyone in town is glad to see that Raymond failed at life, since it (somehow) validates their own humble existences. Everyone, that is, except for Raymond’s former classmate, Becca (2 Broke Girls’ Kat Dennings), who now tends bar at the local watering hole. To her, Raymond was always the only interesting person in town and she’s mighty glad to have him back, even if she has a snarky way of showing it.

Just in time for his homecoming, however, some truly weird shit has started to happen, seemingly centered around the makeshift childs’ coffin that Donald’s gardeners have just dug up in the yard. Before he knows what’s going on, Raymond is experiencing the same ghostly visions that he used to have, this time involving a sinister little girl. As the occurrences become more pronounced, Raymond and Becca are convinced that a wayward spirit is in need of a peaceful journey into the light, while Donald and Eve are convinced that their son is losing his ever-lovin’ mind. As Raymond and Becca dig deeper into the history of the house, however, they begin to realize that the spirit in question might not be that of a little lost girl: it might just be something a bit more on the “extreme evil” side of things. Will Raymond and Becca be able to set it all to rights or will this humdrum slice of suburban life end up destroying them all?

My anticipation level for Suburban Gothic was pretty high, right out of the gate, for one very important reason: I pretty much adored writer-director Bates Jr’s debut, the outrageous Excision (2012), a slice of high school life that managed to combine Grand Guignol gore with fanciful dream sequences and arrived at a wholly unique, if often repugnant, place that wasn’t so far removed from what the Soska Sisters did with their stunning American Mary (2012). Excision was the kind of debut that puts a filmmaker firmly on my radar, which leads us directly to the sophomore film, Suburban Gothic. If his newest possessed a tenth of the gonzo energy of his first, this seemed like a pretty sure-fire no-brainer.

In reality, Suburban Gothic is a good full-step (certainly at least a half-step) down from Bates Jr’s debut, although it’s still a thoroughly enjoyable romp on its own terms. The big difference ends up being tonal: unlike Excision, which buried its blackly comic sensibilities under a lot of very unpleasant material, Suburban Gothic is a much sillier, goofier affair. Nowhere is this made more explicit than the impossibly silly scene where Raymond watches his toenails rise and fall to the tune of the old chestnut “Let Me Call You Sweetheart.” Shoddy CGI aside, the scene has the feel of something truly slapstick and goofy, perhaps closer to The ‘Burbs than anything in Bates Jr’s debut.

This “silly” elements end up seeping into almost every aspect of the film: John Waters shows up as the blow job-obsessed head of the local historical society, the medium’s daughter is named Zelda (et tu, Poltergeist (1982)?), Raymond and Becca dress up in the most ridiculous ghost costumes ever (think Charles Schultz), anonymous hands grab Raymond from every-which direction and there’s more mugging going on than a thug convention. In one of the film’s most notable bits, Raymond masturbates while checking out his favorite site, “Latina Booty,” as an overhead light slowly fills with “ghostly” semen: at the “appropriate” moment, the light shatters, showering poor Raymond in about fifty gallons of spooky spunk. Disgusting? You bet yer bottom dollar! Terrifying? Not quite.

The aforementioned example, however, is also a good example of Suburban Gothic’s ace-up-the-sleeve, as it were: for all of the film’s silliness and scatological humor (along with the jizz, we get a lovingly filmed vomiting scene and a nice, long shot of a turd in a toilet), there’s also genuine intelligence and love for the genre. The light gag might be an easy-shot gross-out joke but it’s always a subtle, kind of brilliant nod to Sam Raimi’s original Evil Dead (1981). There’s also a not-so subtle reference to del Toro’s Pan’s Labyrinth (2006), lots of visual ques for The Amityville Horror and Poltergeist and plenty of cameos by genre royalty (the legendary Jeffrey Combs gets to play a bugshit-crazy doctor (natch), while the Soska Sisters pop up in a crowd scene).

While the actual plot is nothing revolutionary, Suburban Gothic is such a good-natured, eager-to-please popcorn flick that it’s never painful to watch: the CGI is fairly well-integrated (save that rather dreadful toenail bit) and if the color-timing on the cinematography seems constantly off (the film has an odd red cast that’s pretty noticeable), cinematographer Lucas Lee Graham (who also shot the much more striking Excision) serves up plenty of nicely composed, evocative images.

On the acting side, Gubler is pitch-perfect as the sarcastic, quietly suffering schlub who must swallow his distaste for everything in order to save his (decidedly undeserving) childhood home. Gubler has a rare ability to mix wiseacre dialogue delivery with Stoogian physical comedy, an ability which serves him well here: one of the film’s easy highlights is the hilarious scene where Raymond accidentally drops an ice cream cake, over and over, until he finally stamps on the damn thing in an abject display of childish tantrums writ large.

While Dennings takes a little longer to get revved up (her early scenes have a rather distracting “I don’t give a shit” quality that’s off-putting), she fully comes into her own by the film’s final reel and her and Gubler make for a believable enough couple. Although she’s never as consistent as Gubler, Dennings shows enough steel, here, to make me interested in her next move: here’s to hoping she spends a little more time in the horror genre…we could use a few fresh faces!

While Niven is fun as Raymond’s mom, Wise really gets to run roughshod over the proceedings: whether he’s proclaiming that all of his Latin American workmen are “Mexicans,” telling his son to “take a knee” as he rolls up to him in a squeaky office chair or apologizing to his black football players for his lack of “grape pop,” Wise is an absolute blast. If anything, his performance as Donald makes a nice comparison to his role as Satan in Reaper, albeit tempered with more than a little lunk-headedness. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: if there’s ever a Mount Rushmore for iconic genre personalities, Wise is guaranteed to be there.

Ultimately, Suburban Gothic is a thoroughly entertaining, amusing and mildly outrageous horror-comedy: fans of this particular style will find no end of delights, I’m willing to wager, although I still found myself slightly disappointed by the time the credits rolled (the less said about the ridiculously sunny coda, the better). Perhaps I’ve been spoiled by standout films like Housebound and The Frighteners, a pair of horror-comedies that are pretty much the first and last word on this particular subject…perhaps I was hoping for something with a little more bite, ala Excision. Whatever the reason, I have no problem whatsoever recommending Suburban Gothic (provided, of course, that potential viewers are prepared for the often rude humor), although it’s not quite the Richard Bates Jr joint that I hoped for.

I have a sneaking suspicion, however, that Bates Jr is going to become a force to reckon with in the next several years. If that doesn’t blow yer toenails back, pardner…well, I don’t know what will.

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6/6/15 (Part Two): Picking Your Poison

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13 Sins, Bardi Johannsson, Brittany Snow, Charlie Hofheimer, cinema, Daniel Hunt, David Guy Levy, dinner party, director-producer, dramas, dysfunctional family, Eddie Steeples, Enver Gjokaj, father-son relationships, film reviews, films, games, isolated mansion, Jeffrey Combs, John Heard, Jonny Coyne, June Squibb, Lawrence Gilliard Jr., Logan Miller, Movies, psychological torture, rich vs poor, Robb Wells, Robin Lord Taylor, Sasha Grey, self-mutilation, Shepard Lambrick, Steffen Schlachtenhaufen, Steven Capitano Calitri, thriller, torture, Would You Rather

In many ways, Iris (Brittany Snow), the protagonist of David Guy Levy’s Would You Rather (2012), is like a lot of folks in this modern economy: stuck between a rock and a much heavier, sharper rock. She’s the sole caretaker for her cancer-stricken younger brother, Raleigh (Logan Miller), it’s getting harder and harder to make ends meet and the future is looking increasingly grim. When she’s passed over for a hostess job that wouldn’t dig her out of the hole but would, at the very least, allow her and her brother to keep eating, it’s safe to say that Iris has slipped from the rarefied ranks of the “getting by” to the much less desired “left behind.”

All’s not lost, however: Raleigh’s kindly doctor, Barden (Lawrence Gilliard Jr.), arranges a meeting between Iris and mysterious aristocrat/philanthropist, Shepard Lambrick (Jeffrey Combs). It seems that Lambrick and his equally mysterious “foundation” hold regular “games” where groups of needy people are brought together: the winner of these games gets whatever support they need from the foundation for the rest of their lives. In Iris’ case, winning the game would mean getting an instant bone marrow transplant for her brother, along with enough money to set them up for the rest of their lives. When offered the chance to have all of our financial problems simply “vanish,” who among us would turn down a similar offer?

Canny genre fans, of course, will recognize this for the worst kind of sucker’s bet: historically, we know that nothing comes for free and if it’s too good to be true, it probably involves torture. Once Iris gets to the Lambrick mansion and meets the other seven participants, ranging from the obligatory conspiracy theorist (extra points for also making him the token recovering alcoholic) to a kindly, wheelchair-bound old lady and a sullen Iraq war vet, it becomes clear that this probably won’t be a winner-takes-all Pokemon tournament. By the time Lambrick’s obviously nutso son, Julian (Robin Lord Taylor), has made his entrance, we begin to get the idea that this particular royal-blue bloodline is a little compromised. Once Lambrick’s formerly MI-5-employed butler, Bevins (Jonny Coyne), wheels his old torture rig in, however, the full measure of madness becomes much clearer. This won’t end well…for anyone.

If horror and genre films are a good indicator of what particular fears are running rampant in society during any given era, it’s especially telling that the last five years or so have seen such a proliferation in two rather specific subgenres: the doppelgänger film and the “rich people using poor people for sport” film. If you think about it, though, it makes perfect sense: in this era of the social media “identity,” it’s only natural for folks to assume that, somewhere out there, an alternate version of themselves is having a much better time. What is social media, after all, if not a great opportunity to present a carefully cultivated persona to the outside world, regardless of how much it might (or might not) resemble the actual person?

By that token, perhaps no subgenre bears as much current relevancy (at least in the United States) as “rich people using poor people for sport.” One need only look at the current state of income equality to see that this particular pyramid has an extremely small apex and a ridiculously wide base: when so few individuals hold so much wealth and power, it’s understandable that the less fortunate might begin to view these wealthy as virtual deities, capable of doling out both misery and good fortune with equal aplomb. If the game truly is rigged, perhaps the best course of action is to make friends with the dealer and hope for the best.

In many ways, Levy’s film (written by Steffen Schlachtenhaufen) is a much grimmer, more stage-bound version of Daniel Stamm’s 13 Sins (2014) (or vice-versa, since Would You Rather preceded the other by a few years). The action, here, is confined almost exclusively to the mansion and its grounds (mostly the dining room), unlike the more free-roaming 13 Sins. The focus in Levy’s film is also on the psychological torment of the characters rather than Stamm’s focus on the often shocking stunts. To that end, Would You Rather definitely comes off as the more serious and “austere” of the two, despite its eventual descent into the kind of blood-soaked madness that we expect.

As grim and relentless as a freight train, Levy’s film gains much of its impact from another typically excellent performance by Jeffrey Combs (can’t someone just give him the Lifetime MVP award, already, and get it over with?), as well as an exceptionally sturdy turn from Pitch Perfect’s (2012) Brittany Snow. Unlike protagonists like 13 Sins’ Elliot or Cheap Thrills’ (2014) Vince, Iris is a much more likable, relatable character. We’re pulling for her every step of the way, which makes her inevitable bad decisions even more painful to watch. The relationship between Iris and her brother is also nicely depicted in the film, gaining some genuine resonance from Snow and Miller’s intuitive interactions: they actually feel like a brother and sister, which is quite refreshing.

While the cast is consistently solid (it was a real hoot to see Eddie Steeples – better known as Crab Man from My Name is Earl – in a rare serious role and he really kills it), there are a few lead weights: Sasha Grey, who turned in a pretty great performance in the recent Open Windows (2014), is as obnoxious as possible and as abrasive as fingernails on chalkboard with her “performance” as Amy and Trailer Park Boys’ main-man Robb Wells feels decidedly out-of-place with his broader take on the character of Peter. I usually really enjoy Wells (he was outstanding in Hobo With a Shotgun (2011), for example), so it was doubly disappointing to find him so tedious here.

For the most part, though, Would You Rather is stuffed with lots to like: Jonny Coyne’s congenial sociopath is a great character and almost steals the film from Combs, which is no mean feat. Taylor has fun playing the sleazy Julian, although his broad performance almost goes off the rails, at times. While the film can be slightly repetitive in the early stages of the “game” (all participants must do the same trials, which significantly cuts down on the “what’s coming?” factor that can work so well in keeping our hearts in our throats), Levy and Schlachtenhaufen display an admirably dark wit once it gets to the penultimate phase, where contestants must choose between spending two minutes underwater or the unique, unknown test on the cards before them: it’s here where Would You Rather really takes off, featuring some truly inspired, twisted setpieces.

All in all, it’s hard to find much fault in Would You Rather: the script is solid, the performances are generally top-notch, the cinematography (courtesy of Steven Capitano Calitri) is quite evocative and well-staged and the ’80s-inspired score (by Daniel Hunt and Bardi Johannsson) is a real knockout. The film manages to maintain a fairly high degree of tension, throughout, and if the subplot involving the kindly doctor racing to save Iris never amounts to anything, it does give the filmmakers a chance to make a Shining (1980) reference, which is always appreciated. Even the (by now) de rigueur downbeat ending fits the film like a glove, highlighting the extremely arbitrary nature of life: you can do it all right and still get fucked. C’est la vie, eh?

Despite being top-notch entertainment, I’ll freely admit that Would You Rather won’t be for everyone: in specific, if you’re the kind of person who avoids torture films (either psychological or physical) like the plague, you’d probably be best served avoiding Levy’s latest. For those who don’t mind taking a walk on the dark side, however, Would You Rather will probably be right up your alley. Just remember: the next time a filthy-rich plutocrat wants to offer you a hand up, make sure the other hand isn’t holding a knife.

2/21/15 (Part One): The Mold Knows, Jack

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Adrian DiGiovanni, Alex Mauer, bizarre, Bliss Holloway, breaking the fourth wall, cinema, Danielle Doetsch, dark comedies, Don Thacker, fake commericals, fake TV shows, feature-film debut, film reviews, films, Frank Henenlotter, Hannah Stevenson, horror, horror movies, Ian Folivor, insanity, isolation, Jeffrey Combs, Ken Brown, life coach, loneliness, Meet the Hollowheads, Motivational Growth, Movies, Pete Giovagnoli, Quentin Dupieux, real world, Robert Kramer, self-help, speaking to camera, talking mold, television, The Dark Backward, video games, weird films, writer-director-editor

Many films flirt with the weird: they sidle along the edges, dipping a toe into the bizarre here and there but never fulling committing to go all-in. Sure, we might get a few strange situations, maybe an oddball character or two but the end result is usually much more conventional than the starting destination. For most people, “weird” is a great vacation spot but not quite where they want the mail forwarded. Some films, however, cannonball right into the middle of bizarre, clipping the safety nets, making all the foolhardy moves and taking leaps of faith that make the Grand Canyon look like a sinkhole. For folks that like their films fearless, thought-provoking and original, however, there’s nothing quite like coming across a genuinely weird, legitimately “out there” movie, especially if it burns the rule book in the process.

As a lifelong, devoted follower of the weird in all of its strange, wonderful and disturbing forms, I’ve been lucky enough to see a handful of truly bizarre films over the years. Films like The Dark Backward (1989), Meet the Hollowheads (1989) and pretty much anything by Quentin Dupieux scratch a vital itch for me: the intense, burning need to be surprised, befuddled, confused and disturbed by the magic of moving pictures. I’m always looking for new films to add to this very special short-list but, as can be expected, authentically weird films don’t grow on Hollywood trees: they’re usually found on strange, deserted, creepy little patches of overgrown dirt, tucked away from the prying eyes of the mainstream and left to run riot on their own. Anytime I can uncover one of these strange little treasures, it’s an immediate cause for celebration. The newest reason to fire up the party cannon? Writer-director Don Thacker’s full-length debut Motivational Growth (2013), one of the strangest, most disturbing and flat-out coolest films I’ve seen in ages.

In a strange, deformed, asymmetrical nutshell, Motivational Growth is about Ian Folivor (Adrian DiGiovanni), a reclusive, shut-in loser and what happens after his beloved television, Kent, finally gives up the ghost. Suddenly left with no purpose to his pointless life, our eccentric host does the only sensible thing and decides to off himself, mixing up a big ol’ batch of chlorine gas in his bathtub. Turns out that Ian is as bad at dying as he is at living, however, and manages to muff the suicide attempt something fierce, falling and clocking his head on the bathroom floor, in the process. When he comes to, Ian finds out that he’s no longer alone: the enormous patch of revolting mold in his absolutely disgusting bathroom has gained sentient intelligence. Ian, meet…The Mold (Jeffrey Combs).

The Mold, as it turns out, is a chipper kind of fellow (we suppose?) and functions as sort of a life-coach to the helpless recluse, encouraging him to clean up his life in order to get all the things he desires, like his attractive next-door-neighbor, Leah (Danielle Doetsch). So far, so good: after all, if there’s anything Ian and his grubby life could use, it’s a little self-help spring cleaning. After all, he owes back-rent to his hulking, violent landlord, Box the Ox (Pete Giovagnoli), can’t afford to tip his grocery-delivery person (Hannah Stevenson), hasn’t shaved or bathed in god knows how long and seems to be the only person in the universe without a plasma TV. If bathroom mold can pull him out of rut, hey…more power to it, right?

The problem, of course, is that nothing is ever as straight-forward as it seems. Sure, The Mold is friendly, full of good cheer and knows his way around a pithy quip (“Out-there is running against Reagan in ’84…out-there is a wet T-shirt contest in a nursing home…this isn’t out-there: this is opportunity, Jack!”). On the other hand, The Mold also asks Ian to eat vile-looking “mushrooms” that pop out of it from time to time, punch holes in the walls and stuff them with raw meat and refrain from opening the front door or going outside. Ian also has to call The Mold by its proper name: forget the “The” and prepare for one severe tongue-lashing, Jack: The Mold don’t brook no crap, you hear?

As Ian finds himself more and more in thrall to The Mold, the very fabric of his home, his life and his reality begin to morph and change around him. Sinister repairmen enter the equation, the TV commercials begin to speak directly to him in some very disturbing ways and there appears to be…well…something growing out of the walls. Is Ian going crazy or is this all just part of the grand plan? Is The Mold the most laconic life coach this side of Matthew McC or does his droll personality hide a much darker, more evil side? Will Ian find true love with the equally strange Leah or is true what they say: nothing comes between a boy and his Mold?

Reading through the above synopsis, you might be inclined to imagine exactly what Motivational Growth has in store. You would be dead wrong, of course, regardless of what you initially imagined but that’s totally fine: there really is nothing that can (or should) prepare you for Thacker’s film. In fact, one of the most marvelous aspects of this thoroughly unhinged dark comedy is how radically unpredictable it is. Even when the film seems to give away a huge clue right around the midpoint, it ultimately reveals nothing at all: by the conclusion, it’s still anybody’s guess as to what’s going on, even with the seemingly obvious “clues.”

There really isn’t anything about Motivational Growth that plays out in a logical, predictable manner. Ian addresses the camera directly, although none of the other actors do, yet there’s never a consistent sense of breaking the fourth wall. We get inter-titles that seem to divide the film into chapters, although there’s no sense of organization or meaning to it. The film looks like it takes place in “our world,” yet everything is just off enough to situate us in some far-off, completely alien galaxy: none of the foodstuff resembles anything we’re used to (this aspect really reminded me of Meet the Hollowheads) and we never get a clear look outside the front door. At times, the film swings into inexplicable video-game-influenced images, a stylistic quirk that’s only reinforced by the cheerful, chiptune score…yet there’s never any reason or rational for it…it just happens. All of the acting is extremely broad and theatrical, yet the film never feels over-the-top or silly: if anything, there’s a consistent feeling of dread and encroaching doom that hangs over everything like a shroud, regardless of how manic the action on-screen gets.

Basically, nothing about Motivational Growth should work…yet it all ends up working spectacularly. While I’ll admit that the first 10 minutes was slightly rough going (Ian’s constant monologue takes a little getting used to…he pretty much never shuts up for the length of the film, although it gets much easier to take as it goes along), the film picks up speed frightfully quickly and the final half is an absolute blur of one insane, eye-popping monstrosity after the other. Once all of the elements have a chance to mix together, Thacker’s film becomes virtually unstoppable: it’s no lie to say that the final 30 minutes of the film are some of the most intense, self-assured and bat-shit insane moments that I’ve ever had the pleasure to witness. No lie: for his debut feature, Thacker comes across like a wizened veteran…think Frank Henenlotter at the height of his power and you have a pretty good idea.

At the center of the film, just like he’s at the center of Ian’s life, is genre great Jeffrey Combs’ towering vocal performance as The Mold. From his first line to his last, The Mold is an absolute treasure: I haven’t seen a film so instantly quotable since the first time I watched Pulp Fiction (1994). While the stop-motion on The Mold is excellent, it’s Combs who really brings the talking fungus to life: as weird as it sounds, it really is one of the most interesting characters to emerge in some time. For his part, Adrian DiGiovanni does a great job as Ian: while his verbal diarrhea can be tedious, at times, he fully inhabits every inch of the character like a second skin. He’s filthy, disgusting, strange, unpleasant…but he’s also weirdly sympathetic and, if you squint just right, probably looks more familiar than any of us would like to admit. While the character of Ian may stand for society in modern times, the individual in an increasingly homogeneous world or, quite possible, just folks who love to lick bathroom mold, the actor playing him always manages to keep a foot firmly in “our” reality, even when the rest of the film has leapt into a bottomless void.

On a side note, especially for folks who might be a bit more “sensitive” than most: Motivational Growth is an exceptionally disgusting film. While the movie has no shortage of violent moments (the scene that transitions from Ian “heroically” slicing a lead pipe in a Ginsu commercial to him carving other materials in the “real world” is, to say the least, bracing), there’s a nauseating aroma of body horror (ala early Cronenberg) that wafts through nearly every scene. I’m not too proud to say that I gagged several times during the film (suffice to say that poor Ian eats more rancid, “juicy” things during the course of the movie than any Fear Factor contestant ever did) and there’s one shot of a body that pretty much rewrites the rulebook on that sort of thing: if any of this sounds like it might not be your cup of tea, let me assure you…if you have to ask, it most certainly isn’t.

If you’ve got a strong stomach and a desire to see something completely fresh, invigorating and flat-out amazing, however, look no further than Motivational Growth. For a first time writer-director-editor, I found Don Thacker to be nothing short of a revelation: on the strength of this one entry, I’ve already gone ahead and reserved him a seat at the modern horror Round Table. After all, it’s not every day that you find a filmmaker who can effortlessly mix talking mold, a humorous suicide attempt, self-help gurus, television addicts and creeping, Lovecraftian existentialism into such a tasty treat. By the time you get to Box’s cheerful story about breaking chimp arms (“They won’t let you do it easy, either…they’re dirty fighters”) for fun and profit, one thing should be very clear: for better or worse, there just aren’t a lot of films like this out there. Here’s to hoping Thacker keeps pumping out these filthy jewels like clockwork: for lovers of weird cinema, we just might have found a new patron saint.