6/7/15 (Part Two): The Heart and the Loneliest Hunter

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A Girl Walks Home Alone At Night, addicts, Alex O'Flinn, Amirpour, Ana Lily Amirpour, Arash Marandi, atmospheric films, Bad City, based on a short, black and white film, black-and-white cinematography, cinema, death, Dominic Rains, dramas, drug addiction, drug dealers, evocative, fantasy, father-son relationships, feature-film debut, film reviews, films, French New Wave, ghost town, horror films, Iranian-American, isolated communities, Jim Jarmusch, John Hughes, loneliness, Lyle Vincent, Marshall Manesh, Milad Eghbali, moody films, Movies, Mozhan Marnò, romances, Rome Shadanloo, Sam Kramer, set in Iran, Sheila Vand, skateboarders, spaghetti Westerns, street urchin, stylish films, vampires, writer-director-producer

Billed as “the first Iranian vampire Western,” writer-director-producer Ana Lily Amirpour’s A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night (2014) is an endlessly fascinating debut, a thoroughly confident horror-art piece that manages to turn its grab-bag of cinematic influences into something effortlessly cool. More Dead Man (1995) than Only Lovers Left Alive (2013), Amirpour’s film throws gorgeous black and white cinematography, nods to the French New Wave, German Expressionism, the holy trinity of Jarmusch, Bergman and Jeunet and the ’80s youth flicks of John Hughes into a blender and hits “puree.” While the results aren’t perfect, AGWHAAN is still a stunning feature-film debut from an amazingly talented new filmmaker and a necessary addition to the existing bloodsucker canon.

Amirpour’s debut (based on an earlier short) concerns the various residents of the Iranian town of Bad City. A virtual ghost town, Bad City appears to be inhabited solely by drug addicts, prostitutes, pimps/pushers, hustlers and the odd street urchin, here and there. Our humble hero, Arash (Arash Marandi), is a hustler who looks like he stepped straight out of East of Eden (1955): with his white t-shirt, blue jeans, omnipresent sunglasses and vintage muscle car, he’s a classic rebel without a cause. His father, Hossein (Marshall Manesh), is a pathetic junkie who owes a wad of cash to the local pimp/dealer, Saeed (Dominic Rains). For his part, Saeed is a philosophical, if thick-headed, thug who isn’t above taking Arash’s car as partial payment for his dad’s debt, while ruling his “girls” with an iron fist. One such “employee” is Atti (Mozhan Marnò), the sad-eyed, thirty-year-old prostitute who plies her trade on the barren, empty streets of Bad City, overshadowed by the towering oil derricks in the background.

As these various sad-sacks go about their repetitive routines, a new force emerges to shake up the status quo: a mysterious, silent young woman (Sheila Vand) has taken to stalking the streets, doling out death to any who cross her path. When the vampiric girl puts a permanent end to Saeed, Arash seizes the opportunity and attempts to fill the void left by the drug dealer. As Atti and the mysterious girl form a bond, however, Arash finds himself similarly drawn to the enigmatic figure. What does the young woman really want? What does the future hold for Bad City and its shadowy residents? One thing’s for certain: if you have to be out after dark, be sure to stay far, far away from the girl walking home alone…your very life may depend on it!

Lush, hazy, hypnotic and vaguely hallucinatory, A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night is the kind of film that you wrap around yourself like a cozy blanket, consciously giving yourself up to its warm embrace. While the pacing and visuals often bring to mind a perfect synthesis of Jim Jarmusch and Ingmar Bergman’s respective styles (the scene where the Girl skateboards down the center of the deserted street is framed in a way that turns her into the spitting image of Death from the iconic Seventh Seal (1957), while the film’s numerous long takes and relative lack of forward momentum handily recalls the aforementioned Dead Man), Amirpour’s influences are far more wide-reaching than something as simple as “Indie 101.”

Rather, Amirpour has taken a range of different styles and influences and made them all work towards a common goal: in this case, the goal being the film’s all-encompassing sense of foreboding atmosphere. Along with the more traditional indie influences, there are several strong, direct nods to the ’80s youth films of John Hughes (the lovely scene involving Arash, the Girl, a mirror ball and the White Lies’ song “Death” is one of the best examples but certainly not the only one), as well as a strong Spaghetti Western undercurrent (the wonderfully evocative score, locations and sense of big, empty spaces is pure Leone, through and through). On paper, Amirpour’s debut might sound like a rather head-scratching gumbo but the results speak for themselves: thanks to the Iranian-American filmmaker’s deft touch, everything comes together beautifully, giving the film the sort of unifying style befitting something like Jeunet’s exquisitely-crafted fantasias.

While the evocative score and beautiful cinematography (Lyle Vincent, who also shot the upcoming Cooties (2015), is an absolute wizard with a camera) help to give the film a sense of dreamy unreality, the acting keeps everything from dissolving into just another morass of pretty images. Marandi is a suitably cool, aloof “antihero,” while Manesh brings enough genuine regret to his portrayal of the sad-sack, aging junkie to make his character decidedly more complex than he might have been. Rains brings an interesting, almost empathetic quality to his portrayal of the sleazy pimp/dealer, calling to mind a less outwardly insane version of Gary Oldman’s iconic Drexl.

Most impressive, however, are Mozhan Marnò as the melancholy Atti and Sheila Vand as the titular vampire. In both cases, the actresses do a tremendous amount with as little as possible: Marnò is able to express entire worlds of sadness and sensuality with nothing so much as a half-smile and a look from her piercing eyes, while Vand’s portrayal of the Girl is nothing short of ethereal and completely alien. In many ways, Vand’s Girl is similar to Scarlett Johansson’s Female in the similarly eerie Under the Skin (2013): other-worldly, curious, nearly mute and of constant interest to the males around them, the Girl and the Female could certainly share a common bloodline, even if their ultimate goals differ wildly.

Amirpour’s hazy film is many things (seductive, sad, odd, cool and hypnotic being but a few) but it also manages to nail one of the most important aspects of any horror film: when necessary, the film is also genuinely scary. Although the Girl’s attacks have a tendency to rely on some decidedly stereotypical musical stings and old-as-the-hills “scary voices,” the pacing, framing and sense of impeding dread are all masterfully executed, resulting in some great, unique scares. The scene where the Girl stalks a young street urchin is a virtual master-class in how to build and execute: the fact that Amirpour also manages to throw in a clever reference to Fritz Lang’s child-killer classic M (1931) is only frosting on a very tasty cake.

Despite being thoroughly impressed by A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night, there were a few elements that let a bit of air out of the proceedings. The aforementioned vampire stereotypes are problematic only because the rest of the film is so clever: at times, relying on the same stock clichés as other vamp films does more to pull Amirpour’s film down than it does to unite it with a common cinematic sensibility. I was also less than on board with the more verite, handheld-shaky-cam style of certain scenes, usually those involving Hossein’s drug use and withdrawal pains. Not only was the handheld style a distinct step-down from the gorgeous cinematography but the “drug scenes” had a different flow and pace that jarred against the rest of the film’s more dreamy atmosphere. In truth, all of these moments could have been cut without damaging the rest of the meticulously crafted narrative.

All in all, Amirpour’s debut feature is a real showstopper, the kind of film that kicks in the door and practically demands your undivided attention. While her debut was set in Iran (although filmed in California), Amirpour’s next film will, apparently, be a “dystopic love story, set in a cannibal compound, in a Texas wasteland,” featuring the combined talents of Keanu Reeves, Jim Carrey, Giovanni Ribisi, Jason Mamoa and the always amazing Yolonda Ross. In other words, it looks like Amirpour is going to continue her fearless genre-splicing. I’m willing to wager that her next feature will grab the world by the scruff of the neck and shake it silly. If it’s half as impressive as her debut, I’ll be the first person in line.

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10/10/14 (Part Two): Vampires Are For Lovin’

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31 Days of Halloween, Anna Mouglalis, cinema, erotic films, feature-film debut, film reviews, films, horror, horror films, Jean Rollin, Jess Franco, Jim Jarmusch, John Cassavetes, Josephine de La Baume, Kiss of the Damned, lovers, Michael Rapaport, Milo Ventimiglia, Movies, passionate love affairs, Riley Keough, romances, Roxane Mesquida, sisters, stylish films, The House of the Devil, vampires, vampires vs humans, voice-over narration, writer-director, Xan Cassavetes

When done well (ie: subtly), modern homages to previous generations of films can be fun and entertaining little morsels, helping to remind modern audiences of by-gone eras of cinema that may have fallen by the wayside in the present. Ti West’s The House of the Devil (2009) was a nearly perfect throwback to ’70s-era “Satanic panic” films, while Jason Eisener’s Hobo With a Shotgun (2011) was the single best grindhouse/classic Troma film that never saw the light of day. These films are successful because they’re able to accurately recapture the particular feel of these types of films without slavishly recreating and copying their individual high points: they might not be wholly original but they’re not necessarily stuck in FanServiceLand, either.

On the other hand, homages that end up as mere carbon copies of older films are significantly less interesting, if not necessarily any less fun to watch: Scott Sander’s blaxploitation goof, Black Dynamite (2009), ended up feeling decidedly slight and pandering by the end, despite having a surplus of energy and some genuinely fun setpieces. At times, it almost seemed as if Sanders and crew were trying to recall specific movies rather than an overall vibe, which has always struck me as unnecessarily reductive. The best homages should remind you of a specific era but shouldn’t, as far as I’m concerned, remind you of a specific film: that gets into territory that’s dangerously close to “re-imaginings” and remakes.

Writer-director Xan Cassavetes, daughter of renowned independent filmmaker John Cassavetes, takes a bit of both approaches with her feature-film debut, Kiss of the Damned (2012). For most of its running time, the film does an admirable job of recalling the gauzy era of ’60s-’70s-era Euro-vampire flicks, the kind of films made famous by exploitation auteurs like Jean Rollin and Jess Franco. There’s the same attractive, if hazy, cinematography…the emphasis on doomed romance and orgasmic, sweaty, passionate lovemaking…the pulsating electronic score…the emphasis on mood and atmosphere over narrative linearity…the leisurely, almost lazy, pacing. At times, however, Kiss of the Damned feels distinctly light-weight and rather unnecessary: it often seems as if Cassavetes is merely conducting a style experiment, similar to the one that Gus van Sant did with his shot-for-shot remake of Psycho (1998). It also doesn’t help that Kiss of the Damned bears more than a passing similarity to Jim Jarmusch’s extraordinary new vampire film, Only Lovers Left Alive (2013), right down to the reappearance of a “bad” sister. Had Jarmusch’s film not been so impressive, it’s quite possible that Cassavetes’ film would have hit me a little harder.

The film begins with our two lovers, Djuna (Josephine de La Baume) and Paolo (Milo Ventimiglia, from TV’s Heroes), as the meet for the first time at a video store. Djuna is a vampire, Paolo is broodingly handsome…it’s obviously love at first sight. Paolo rushes after Djuna when she leaves and ends up coming back with her to her massive mansion in the countryside. Things are looking pretty good for ol’ Paolo until the fun stops: just as Djuna seems to really be getting into it, she fearfully tosses a very confused Paolo out on his keister. Smitten, Paolo heads back to Djuna’s place the next night but she won’t even let him in: instead, the pair end up passionately making out through the latched door (they both must be equipped with lips like anteaters), sighing and blushing as if their very hearts will burst from the intensity of it all.

By the third night, Paolo gets Djuna to let him in and she fills him in on the story: she’s actually a vampire and has a tendency to go “full-Drac” when she’s in the mood (shades of the Schrader version of Cat People (1982)): she can’t see Paolo anymore because she loves him too much (already?) and doesn’t want to devour him in the throes of passion. Sensing a bit of a brush-off, Paolo calls foul but Djuna is determined to prove it to him. To that end, she has Paolo chain her to the bed (for his safety) and the two go at it like determined rabbits. Turns out that Djuna isn’t pulling Paolo’s chain, however: as she gets more and more frisky, her fangs grow and her eyes turn a brilliant turquoise. Seeing this, Paolo does the only thing sensible and unchains Djuna, more than willing to give himself to her, completely. Dog will hunt and vamps will bite, of course, so in no time, Djuna is riding Paolo to ecstasy as she bloodily rips open his jugular vein.

From this point, the film becomes a tad familiar: Djuna needs to school Paolo in the ways of his new lifestyle and the two continue to develop and strengthen their relationship. Djuna even takes Paolo to meet her friends, always a bit of a stumbling block in any fledgling romance, especially when your friends are all vampires and your new sweetheart is a blood-sucking newbie. All looks good for our lovers but things are never as simple as they seem and trouble rears its pixieish little head in the form of Djuna’s sister, Mimi (Roxane Mesquida). Mimi, for lack of a better word, is a real shithead: she’s selfish, immature, violent, sneaky, spiteful and vindictive: in other words, she’s the perfect foil for a pair of wannabe star-crossed lovers like Djuna and Paolo. While our gentle vamps feast on woodland deer for their blood source, Mimi pretty much eats anything that moves, man, woman or child (one of the film’s most impressive setpieces involves Mimi taking home a couple for a threesome and then hunting them in the woods like little animals).

Djuna tries to keep her little sister in check, even going so far as to appeal to her “landlord,” Xenia (Anna Mouglalis), who seems to be some sort of leader for the local vampire community. No one really seems to listen, however, except for Paolo, and Djuna becomes more and more desperate as Mimi’s blood-lust gets stronger and stronger. As Djuna and Paolo fight for their love, Mimi does everything she can to tear apart the couple, setting everyone involved on a crash-course with an unsuspecting human population who are much closer to their eventual extinction than they could possibly imagine.

As mentioned above, Kiss of the Damned is absolutely a case of style over substance, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing: after all, the films that Cassavetes references, such as Rollin’s The Shiver of the Vampire (1971) and Franco’s Vampyros Lesbos (1971), were also classic examples of style over substance. For most of its running time, Kiss of the Damned is quite lovely to look at, although the image can, on occasion, get a bit too blown out. There are some really nice shots on display here, as well, such as the meticulously framed images looking up from the bottom of Djuna’s baroque staircase. The score is particularly good, easily holding its own with historical scores from that era. The acting, like the filmcraft, is also pretty consistent: while some of the performances can lean towards over-the-top or slightly hammy, this is no different from performances in the original films. Euro-horror films of the ’60s and ’70s were not normally known for their realistic, award-winning acting: if anything, the best of these film featured performances that did their best not to trip up the film, which is sometimes the most that you can hope for.

My biggest issue with the film, despite a few specific criticisms (character motivations often seemed spurious, even for this type of film and the problem of Mimi is resolved in a way that is pretty much the definition of deus ex machina, although it does allow for a pretty great resolution to the film) is that there’s not enough individual personality here. Unlike something like Hobo With a Shotgun or The House of the Devil, I was never able to fully suspend my disbelief with the film: it always felt, at least in the back of my head, as if the filmmakers were simply checking specific beats off a sheet. Due to this, it was often difficult for me to engage the film in anything more than an academic way: it was easy to critique the film’s craft (which is pretty damn good, might I say) but more difficult to pull anything thought-provoking out of the film, itself.

Part of the issue seems to be that Paolo and Djuna’s various relationship travails never really seem to faze either of them that much: he ends up cheating on her (in a very confused bit) but it’s no big deal…she kills his friend but he shrugs it off. Too often, the pair don’t feel like a real couple but more like a fairytale, sitcom couple: we know that they’ll have mild issues for about 22 minutes but everything will be wrapped up with a bow in time for next week’s episode. While Djuna and Paolo do have a few more travails than that, mind you, the film still ends up feeling rather anti-climatic, especially with the script’s tendency to write itself into corners and then just whisk the affected parties away to safety.

Ultimately, Kiss of the Damned is a good, if less than revelatory, film, although it does make a pretty swell double-feature with Only Lovers Alive. I really admired a lot of what Cassavetes was doing here and her heart is definitely in the right place: with a more original story and more faith in her own vision, it’s not hard for me to see the film as nothing more than a stepping-stone to bigger and better things. Xan is, quite obviously, a very talented filmmaker and I can’t wait to really see her cut loose: I’m willing to wager that she’s got a film in her at least as good as Gloria (1980), if not The Killing of a Chinese Bookie (1976). Fans of steamy vampire films should definitely find much to enjoy here and even Michael Rapaport fans get a little love, although his performance is pretty much a glorified cameo. When Kiss of the Damned works, it works quite well, weaving an atmospheric, casually beautiful spiderweb that can’t help but ensnare its audience. When the film is just there, however, it feels so slight that one harsh breath might send the whole thing fluttering into the night sky like ashes. Cassavetes’ debut might remind audiences of the glory days of Euro-horror but I’m pretty sure it won’t make them forget any of those classics anytime soon.

10/10/14 (Part One): What a Drag It Is Not Getting Older

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31 Days of Halloween, Adam and Eve, Anton Yelchin, art films, auteur theory, Bill Laswell, Christopher Marlowe, cinema, Dead Man, Detroit, drama, ennui, eternal life, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, Ghost Dog, hipsters, horror movies, husband-wife team, independent film, Jeffrey Wright, Jim Jarmusch, John Hurt, Mia Wasikowska, Movies, Only Lovers Left Alive, romance, romantic films, Tangiers, Tilda Swinton, Tom Hiddleston, Vampire Code of Conduct, vampires, vampires vs humans, writer-director, youth vs old age

In certain ways, the classical notion of vampires is equitable with the current phenomena known as “hipsters”: vampires are intelligent, urbane individuals who look down on the dregs of “normal” society, take pleasure in obscure, archaic entertainments, consider themselves to be more sophisticated than those around them and lament the tawdriness of the modern age in contrast to purer, more interesting “times gone by.” Minus the blood-sucking bit and aversion to sunlight (well, perhaps not completely forgetting the aversion to sunlight bit…), that description sounds an awful lot like the current conception of hipsters. At the very least, both groups appear to share a common attribute: a completely world-weary and jaded viewpoint that makes snark and sarcasm more natural go-to responses than honest simplicity. For bored, ageless vampires, the business of “living” appears to be as much of a burden as “regular folks” are to the modern hipster. The whole thing is just so…gauche.

Auteur Jim Jarmusch’s newest film, Only Lovers Left Alive (2013), takes the above parallel between vampires and hipsters to its logical extreme, positing Tom Hiddleston and Tilda Swinton as the bored, ageless vampires Adam and Eve, doomed to cast a disparaging eye on the wreck that is humanity for more centuries than they care to recall. Or, at least, that’s definitely Adam’s take on the whole mess of existence. In fact, he’s so agitated with the inanity of the “zombies” (the vamps favorite descriptor for humanity) that he’s commissioned a wooden bullet and plans to commit the ultimate act of bored defiance: if this world won’t cease its tedium, he’ll just have to cease his existing.

Eve, on the other hand, views things just a little differently. In fact, it’s probably easiest to view Eve as a Gothic variation on the whole “manic pixie girl” ideal: unlike Adam, she hasn’t lost her sense of joy at being alive. As she sees it, living for hundreds of years can get tedious and humdrum, of course, but it also allows for more experiences and wonder than any “regular” person could ever have. After all, she’s best friends with the one and only Christopher Marlowe (John Hurt)…how many “regular” people can say that?

This contrast between Adam and Eve forms the foundation of Jarmusch’s film, his rather belated follow-up to The Limits of Control (2009). As befits someone who tackles genre films in the most unconventional ways possible (Dead Man (1995) is a trippy art-film masquerading as a Western, while Ghost Dog (1999) is a treatise on Eastern philosophy filtered through a gonzo Mafia framework), Only Lovers Left Alive is a highly unconventional film. For one thing, there isn’t a whole lot of narrative thrust to be found here: much of the film’s running time is taken up with the relationship between Adam and Eve and what happens when she leaves her home in Tangiers to come see him in Detroit (despite being married for, apparently, hundreds of years, the couple live across the world from each other, which has to one of the handiest metaphors for long-distance relationships in some time). Plot points do raise their heads from time to time, of course: the couple is visited by Eve’s young, out-of-control sister, Ava (Mia Wasikowska), and must figure out how to replenish their exhausted blood supply. On the whole, however, Jarmusch is largely uninterested in the vagaries of a traditional plot: this is all about atmosphere and vibe, two fronts which Only Lovers Left Alive really takes to the bank.

More than anything, Jarmusch’s newest film is an art film: the emphasis is most definitely on mood, with evocative shots, exquisite slo-mo and deliberate framing taking precedence over any traditional narrative devices. To that end, events sometimes come and go with a sense of arbitrary randomness: Adam’s best friend, the human Ian (Anton Yelchin), is dispatched early on but it so much as cause a ripple in the narrative. Ava seems poised to serve as some sort of villainous character (she’s so selfish, obnoxious and derisive towards humans that she feels cut from a much more traditional “vamps vs humans” film) until she’s pretty much written out of the story without so much as a second thought. Adam appears to be a rock star, of some sort, and much is made in the film about him constantly hearing his music in surprising places (a restaurant, for example) but this ends up having no bearing on the story whatsoever. Like much in the story, these various plot ends aren’t meant to be tied up neatly: they’re used for seasoning, like salt on a steak.

Lacking any sort of driving narrative, the responsibility for the success (or failure) of the film rests solely on its considerable craft: as with anything else in his catalogue, Jarmusch is more than capable of not only making this work but making it work spectacularly well. For one thing, Only Lovers Left Alive looks fantastic: the well-lit daytime scenes may seem a little blown-out but the night-time scenes are exquisite and highly evocative. The score, all hyperbole aside, is a true thing of beauty: not only does it manage to elevate the film, as a whole, but Jarmusch’s musical choices are just a ton of fun, all on their own. The scene where Adam plays his music is pitch-perfect (apparently, vampire music sounds like droning, Eastern-tinged shoegaze, which makes complete sense), as is the truly nice moment where Adam and Eve dance to a Motown tune. The Bill Laswell instrumental that closes the credits totally rips and this was the first art film I’ve seen in sometime that practically demands I check out the soundtrack.

As with all of his films, Jarmusch assembles a first-class ensemble and puts them through some pretty excellent paces. Hiddleston and Swinton are absolutely magnificent as the ageless lovers: not only is their relationship genuinely romantic but the pair make a truly unearthly couple…they not only look but act and sound like age-old creatures living in an era not of their construction. Wasikowska turns in another great performance as the childish, casually evil Ava and is quickly proving to be one of this generation’s most capable genre actors. It’s always good to see John Hurt in a film and he tears into the character of Christopher Marlowe with gusto, although I wish he got a little more screen-time. Likewise, Yelchin and Wright turn in great supporting performances as Ian and Dr. Watson, respectively: Hiddleston’s scenes with Wright are definitely a highlight of the film.

As a huge fan of Jarmusch’s work (Dead Man is one of my all-time favorite films), I went into this expecting nothing short of greatness and, for the most part, my expectations were met. Only Lover’s Left Alive is definitely an extraordinary film, from the peerless performances to the gorgeous cinematography and back to the picaresque locations (the dilapidated, ramshackle setting of the once-might Detroit makes a pretty awesome, if obvious, metaphor for a vampire film, since the city seems as undead as the vampires). That being said, I still found myself slightly letdown by the film: there’s nothing inherently wrong with the picture – truth be told, there’s a lot about it that’s very, very right – but it still manages to feel somehow slight, at least when stacked up against his previous work. Whether this due to my perception or Jarmusch’s intention, there definitely seems to be a disconnect (at least for me), a disconnect that I rarely noticed in his earlier films.

Ultimately, however, my slight dissatisfaction ends up being a pretty moot point: Only Lovers Left Alive is a pretty great film and certainly one of the more interesting vampire films to emerge in some time. The main idea, that ageless individuals with access to all of the music, art, history and time in the world, can still manage to be bored and listless is an extremely relevant one in this day and age of the Internet: after all, humanity now has access to just about everything that Jarmusch’s vampires do and we’re not content, either. It’s an interesting notion, is this idea that having it all really means we get nothing. It’s certainly not the kind of idea that’s par for the course in most vampire films. When you’re dealing with Jarmusch, however, “usual” and “par for the course” are pretty meaningless terms: he’s been doing it his own way for over 30 years, now, and I’m imagining he won’t be stopping anytime soon.

2/9/14: Here There Be Monsters

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A Field in England, absurdist, Alejandro Jodorowsky, auteur theory, Ben Wheatley, black-and-white cinematography, British films, cinema, Down Terrace, England, English Civil War, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, horror films, Jim Jarmusch, Kill List, Michael Smiley, Movies, mushrooms, Nicholas Winding Refn, Peter Ferdinando, psychedelics, psychological horror, Reece Shearsmith, Richard Glover, Ryan Pope, Sightseers, Top Films of 2013, Waiting for Godot

Even though this particular Sunday featured the first double-header in quite some time (and the last for at least a week, sadly), I still found myself having to split the reviews in half. The reason? The first screening on that particular day was Ben Wheatley’s eye-popping, amazing new film A Field in England. Suffice to say, I had more than enough praise to fill up its own entry. We’ll get to the second film, Walker, in the next installment.

When it came time for me to sit down and actually A Field in England, I found myself inexplicably thinking of the Sound of Music chestnut “Maria.” Specifically, I found myself running the line “How do you solve a problem like Maria?” through my head over and over again. You see, I had my own little problem here: how, exactly, do you review a film like A Field in England? Would it be possible to explain my complete and total love for a film that I only partially (and, most likely, imperfectly) understand? Will anyone but a complete and total weirdo like myself even care about this crazy, absurd, brilliant little bit of madness? I like to think that true quality will always shine through, however: if something is good enough, it will always make itself known, even if it can’t make itself popular. In that spirit, I feel that it’s my duty to help make A Field in England as visible as possible. You’ve been warned, fellow travelers…you’ve been warned.

There is a plot to A Field in England, of sorts, but the film really functions more as a visceral, emotional experience than as a narrative, intellectual one. Truth be told, there were so many points in the film where the visuals and ideas completely overwhelmed my senses (especially in the colossally mind-melting “psychedelic freakout” scene) that any attempt to follow a traditionally linear story-line was pretty much given up as a lost cause. I intend to watch the film many more times before I die and hope, with each viewing, to understand it a little more: by the time I’m 90, I may just have it figured out…although I doubt it.

The film opens on a chaotic battle, during England’s 17th century Civil War. Our “protagonist,” Whitehead (Reece Shearsmith), has just seen his abusive commander get speared right before his eyes and, as skittish as a deer crossing a four-lane-freeway, hightails it for freedom. Whitehead meets three other deserters, Jacob, Cutler and Friend (Peter Ferdinando, Ryan Pope and Richard Glover, respectively) and the four set out to find some way out of the madness…or, at the very least, some place to grab a beer. What they find, unfortunately, is an express route directly into the gibbering maw of insanity.

Eventually, the group comes across the titular field. The field is covered in mushrooms and one of the men makes a tasty mushroom stew, which everyone but Whitehead partakes in. Continuing their trek across the seemingly endless field, the group finds a huge rope running down the center of the field. As anyone would do when confronted by a giant rope, the group digs in their heels and gets to pulling. The rope, it turns out, is tied to a strange man laying in the middle of the field: this man, O’Neil (Michael Smiley), just happens to have stolen some important documents from Whitehead’s master, who just happens to be a powerful alchemist.  Whitehead wants the documents back but O’Neil has other plans: you see, he’s positive that there’s…something…buried in the field and he forces Whitehead and the others to help him find it. As the situation becomes more and more bizarre and otherworldly, everything comes to a head as the men are faced with a terrifying realization: either the world has gone completely mad…or they have. Either way, they’re now stuck in a very strange situation with a very dangerous individual. Will any of them, Whitehead especially, be able to retain their humanity? Will O’Neil ever find his “treasure?” And what are we to think of the black sun that seems poised to swallow the entire world?

If ever there was a film that could be done no justice whatsoever by a plot summary, than A Field in England is that film. At first glance, a black-and-white period-piece about a group of men digging in a nondescript field would seem to be just about as interesting as watching paint dry. Don’t make the mistake of assuming this is any regular film, however: this is another species of beast altogether, much more akin to the glory days of transgressive cinema than anything more modern.

A Field in England is a brilliantly constructed puzzle box, one of those seamless head-scratchers that depends not so much on 3rd Act twists and misdirection as on an omnipresent sense of skewed reality and insanity. It may seem strange for me to compare such a singular film to existing movies but I think there are at least a few that do bear mentioning. The films of Jodorowsky, particularly Holy Mountain, are a big reference, as are the films of Kurosawa, thanks in no small part to A Field in England’s beautiful, evocative black-and-white cinematography. There were many points were the film explicitly reminded me of The Hidden Fortress, particularly with the (occasionally) comic interplay between the deserters and Whitehead. Jarmusch’s Dead Man seems to be a huge point of reference, not only for the sense of absurdity that runs through it but also for the mystical, dream-like atmosphere that permeates every shot. I’d be remiss if I didn’t also mention Refn’s Valhalla Rising, which often seems like a spiritual twin to Wheatley’s film. Toss Eraserhead into the mix, for obvious reasons, and mix in ample amounts of Waiting for Godot and voila: you get about as close to a good description of A Field in England as you possibly could.

Although I may not understand the film completely, I enjoyed it absolutely. In fact, A Field in England was both one of the most best and most infuriating cinematic experiences I’ve had in some time. On a purely technical basis, the film is flawless: the cinematography really adds to the overall experience (some of the still, tableau-like shots of the actors were truly haunting), the sound design is amazing and the script is very sharp: one of my favorite lines in quite some time has to be, “I just figured out what God is punishing us for: everything.” The dialogue manages to nail the absurd, nonsensical quality of writers like Beckett and Ionesco without sounding like a bunch of random sentences thrown together: there’s a disquieting but tangible sense that comprehension is just around the corner…if we allow ourselves to understand, that is.

The film opens with a warning about the use of stroboscopic images and, for once, the warning isn’t a bit of mood-setting fluff: when the film really kicks into gear, during the jaw-dropping psychedelic scene, the combination of sound, strobing images and bizarre visuals nearly overwhelmed me. For one of the first times in my life, I felt physically assaulted by a film…and it was amazing! Similar to coming out of the dead-man’s-drop on a rollercoaster in one piece, emerging from the other side of A Field in England with my psyche intact felt like some kind of a special achievement: woe to any who might try to view the film with chemical enhancement, since I could easily see that leading to a mental breakdown. Think that’s a little hyperbolic? Turn the lights off, turn the sound up and try to keep from turning away during the scene in question. That weird sound you hear? That just may be your brain crying for help.

Over the course of four full-lengths (Down Terrace (2009), Kill List (2011), Sightseers (2012) and A Field in England) and one anthology segment (in the ABCs of Death), Ben Wheatley has quickly become my favorite 2000s-era filmmakers, next to Nicholas Winding Refn. I’ve never seen a Wheatley film that didn’t blow me away and I’ve noticed the absolutely delightful trend that his films just seem to keep getting better as he goes along: Kill List devastated me, only to have Sightseers top it, only to be bested, in turn, by A Field in England. With this kind of track-record, Wheatley is set to be one of the single greatest filmmakers since the glory days of the ’70s. Fitting, then, that his new project will be the first film version ever of JG Ballard’s seminal High Rise.

Wheatley’s ability to blend kitchen-sink British drama with absurd, horrifying situations has been honed into a razor-sharp point. There are some films that flirt with the strange and absurd (Donnie Darko, Dark City) and there are some films that ARE strange and absurd (Lost Highway, Eraserhead, Holy Mountain): A Field in England is definitely the latter. My early comparison to Waiting for Godot is particularly apt: until the introduction of O’Neil, when the film takes a decidedly dark turn, it’s nothing if not reminiscent of British absurdities like The Bed Sitting Room or, perhaps, a particularly low-key Monty Python. Anyone familiar with Wheatley’s other films will definitely recognize his M.O: begin in a familiar, blue-collar-setting/style before gradually drowning the proceedings in nightmarish insanity and uncertainty. A Field in England seems even more capable of throwing us off-kilter thanks to its quasi-fantastical, period setting, which automatically makes it seem stranger than Wheatley’s other “modern” films.

At the end of the day, A Field in England is that rarest of things: an honest-to-God experience in a day and age where such things, at least as far as films go, are all too rare. Even Martin Scorcese thinks so: the film’s poster prominently features a pull-quote from the iconic director that says, simply, “A most original and stunning cinematic experience.” There ya have it, ladies and gentlemen: if A Field in England is good enough for Marty, it damn sure better be good enough for you. If you haven’t joined the Wheatley fan club, now seems like as good a time as any to send in your membership.

1/12/13: Toggling Your Brain – On

Tags

Amigo, Chris Cooper, cinema, DJ Qualls, Film, Garret Dillahunt, independent films, Jim Jarmusch, Joel Torre, John Sayles, Lucas Neff, Philippine-American War, Steven Soderbergh, the Philippines, war films

As the perfect complement to Sunday’s viewing of the brain-dead Butcher Boys, I figured that I would go to the other extreme and watch a John Sayles film. I don’t think I could come up with two more polar opposites if I tried: Amigo definitely helped wash the mold from my brain.

Let’s get one thing straight, right off the bat: they don’t make ’em like John Sayles anymore. When I think of independent film, three names immediately pop into my head: Soderbergh, Jarmusch and Sayles. My first experience with Sayles came in the late ’80s, when I first saw The Brother From Another Planet. I’ll admit: I was hooked from the get-go. Here was a guy who somehow managed to mash together sci-fi, indie and message films into one delicious stew, creating not only a response to Spielberg’s ET (just two short years before The Brother…) but a powerful statement on the immigrant experience in America at that time (and now, to be honest).

After that first film, I devoured as much Sayles as I could get my hands on. The first Sayles’ film I actually got to see in a theater was Lone Star, which is also one of my favorites (perhaps these two things are related?) and I’ve made it a point to see whatever he deigns to release. Due to various outside factors, however, I’ve neglected to see his 2010 release, Amigo, until recently. As always, I only wish that I’d made more of an effort to see this earlier. Ah, well: better late than never, eh?

Set during the Philippine-American War at the beginning of the 1900s, Amigo is the heartbreaking story of what happens when the only available choices are bad ones. A small U.S. army regiment, led by Lt. Compton (Raising Hope’s Garret Dillahunt in an absolutely stunning performance) arrive at a small village in the Philippines, with the intention of occupying it and creating a U.S. garrison. The American soldiers have been getting hammered by Filipino guerrilla fighters and Col. Hardacre (Chris Cooper, so starched that he practically cracks whenever he walks) has charged Lt. Compton with securing the area.

Once there, Compton charges the villages mayor, Rafael, with assisting them in setting up the garrison. Rafael, dubbed “Amigo” due to his answer regarding his name, couldn’t be in a worse position: his brother is actually the leader of the guerrillas, his young son is part of the movement and the guerrillas have pledged to kill anyone who assists the Americans. On the other side, the Americans have pledged to make impossible for anyone who aids the guerrillas. Caught between a rock and a hard place, Rafael marches ever closer to his own oblivion, while his world falls apart around him.

First things first: Amigo looks absolutely gorgeous. Sayles has used his Filipino locations to excellent effect, providing a place that is equal parts paradise and Hell. There are some truly beautiful, long shots in the film, shots that are so composed as to be almost painted. To a man/woman, the acting is top-notch across the board. Particularly impressive (and surprising, at least to me) were the performances by Dillahunt and his Raising Hope co-star Lucas Neff. I don’t recall seeing these two in anything other than their TV show (despite Dillahunt’s impressive resume, I can’t recall him in anything else, including No Country for Old Men), so I had no idea what to expect. Neff has more of a bit part but Dillahunt really shines. Quite frankly, Lt. Compton and Rafael are the beating heart of the film, their performances complimenting each other perfectly.

In fact, it’s Lt. Compton’s journey from disrespectful Yankee to cautious supporter that gives the film some of its most powerful moments. In one key scene, Compton complains to Col. Hardacre that his policies for the villagers are too harsh: “I have to live with these people,” he complains. Hardacre’s response? “No, you have to make war on these people.” By the time the film reaches its terrible, but inevitable, conclusion, Compton is as much a part of the machine as anyone else, powerless to stop its destructive force.

At first, Sayles portrays the American soldiers in such a way as to make them seem almost cartoonishly callow and crude. They have no respect for the Filipino traditions or culture, seeing the natives as just another bit of fauna on the island. For a time, I was a little worried that Sayles would be taking the easy way out, shooting fish in a barrel, as it were. If the U.S. soldiers are just a bunch of obnoxious S.O.B.s, the audience will have no more connection to them than we would the villains in Die Hard. Luckily, Sayles has been doing this for way too long to ever take the easy way out: he knows that, more often than not, evil is just another way of pronouncing bureaucracy and good can be completely dependent on your present situation. Over time, the soldiers (for the most part) warm to the villagers, coming to see them as human beings, not just another extension of the enemy in the jungle. Compton even allows the villagers to throw a festival for their patron saint, much to the chagrin of Col. Hardacre.

If there can be understanding between the soldiers and the villagers,  then, can there also be an end to the armed aggression outside the village walls? Alas, Sayles is also too smart to sugarcoat this: mankind is made to destroy and destroy it shall. By paralleling the activities of the guerrillas in the jungle (including Rafael’s young son) with those of the villagers and American soldiers, Sayles shows us how fundamentally similar these groups really are. They’re each fighting for what they believe to be right and have no problem dying to support it. The big problem: the poor village is caught in the middle, no matter what. Help the Americans and lose your fellow countrymen…help the guerrillas and lose your life…essentially, the villagers are born to lose. Nowhere is this made more clear than the heartbreaking finale, where Sayles shows us that it is possible to both gain and lose everything simultaneously.

Despite how much I enjoyed the film, I do have a few (minor) quibbles with it. I felt that Padre Hidalgo, the captive Spanish priest, was just one mustache twirl away from being a silent-film villain. I realize that Sayles was making a point about the role of the Catholic church in the subjugation of the Philippines but the priest has so little humanity as to be almost a caricature. This same problem is repeated with the character of Col. Hardacre (and isn’t that name just a wee bit precious?), a human-like android whose programming only contains commands for “growl,” “snarl,” “snark” and “yell.” We’re allowed to see a tremendous, if subtle, growth in both Compton and Rafael’s characters, but both Hidalgo and Hardacre are as static as the day is long. It was also disappointing to see Sayles introduce and then drop (relatively quickly) the characters of the two Chinese laborers. For a time, these characters serve as a kind of Greek chorus, commenting on the action around them and giving their own (admittedly skewed)  take on the proceedings. They exit stage left way to early, however, depriving the audience of a singularly unique viewpoint in the film.

Ultimately, however, these are very minor quibbles and really more a matter of my taste than anything else. The individual responsible for so many of my all-time favorite film experiences (the aforementioned Brother from Another Planet and Lone Star, the Return of the Secaucus and Matewan…even Corman’s original Piranha and The Howling, both written by Sayles) has come through once again. One of my favorite quotes from Sayles states that he makes the movies he does because no one else will. In my opinion, there can be no more noble or important reason to make films: may Sayles continue to impress and educate us for as long as we’re willing to listen.