6/27/15 (Part Two): Two is the Loneliest Number

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Adam Cronheim, Alana O'Brien, baseball players, buddy films, Christian Stella, cinema, directorial debut, dramas, end of the world, film reviews, films, friendship, horror films, independent films, Jamie Pantanella, Jeremy Gardner, Larry Fessenden, low-budget films, low-key, Movies, Niels Bolle, post-Apocalyptic, road movie, Ryan Winford, slow-moving films, stranded, The Battery, undead, Walkman, writer-director-producer-actor, zombie apocalypse, zombie movies, zombies

How rad would it be to run wild in a post-apocalyptic world with your best friend? Hunting, fishing, killing zombies, taking whatever you need, never answering to “The Man,” never working another day in your life, just kicking back and taking it all in…if you squint just right, it looks like a damn good life, doesn’t it? Now…imagine the exact same scenario but substitute “a co-worker you don’t know very well” for “your best friend” in the above equation. Not quite as fun, eh?

First-time director Jeremy Gardner (working from his own script) takes a close look at the second scenario, the one that sees you getting stuck with a relative stranger during the fallout from an unnamed zombie epidemic, in the low-key, immensely effective horror-drama The Battery (2012). Utilizing a slow, measured pace and a startling degree of real-world verisimilitude, Gardner has created the equivalent of a mumblecore zombie film, a movie not so much about the ravenous hordes of undead that stagger and groan across empty swatches of abandoned humanity but about the few remaining humans who’ve been left holding the bag. When the end-times come, Gardner seems to say, we’ll all find ourselves doing the exact same things we did during “better times”: arguing, swearing, fighting, listening to music on our headphones, masturbating, hoping, goofing around, wondering and wishing for a better tomorrow.

In as economical a way as possible, we meet our two leads and get the lay of the land right off the bat: Ben (writer-director Gardner) and Mickey (Adam Cronheim) are a couple of baseball players who find their lot tied together once the U.S. (and, presumably, the rest of the world) becomes overrun by zombies. We don’t get big explanations, no sense of a larger scheme at play here, just the facts, ma’am. Although the two were never great friends when things were “normal,” they now find themselves needing to rely on each other for their very survival: you might think that making a new friend is difficult…try doing it when mobs of zombies are trying to eat your face!

Personality-wise, the two former teammates couldn’t be more different. Ben is the brash, act-first member of the team, a guy who sees killing zombies as his duty and relishes the opportunity to live “off the grid” and make his own way through life. Mickey, on the other hand, is much more reserved, quiet and withdrawn. With his ever-present headphones and lingering memories of his lost life with his pre-apocalypse girlfriend, Mickey is like an open, throbbing wound, slinking from one place to the next without ever really living. Hell, he even resists Ben’s constant attempts to teach him how to fish: he’s got plenty of canned goods, after all, so why bother with the “real stuff” until he has to? Grizzly Adams, he ain’t.

Change comes to the guys’ daily fight for survival when they happen to pick up a mundane conversation on their walkie talkies. The discussion might not be earth-shattering (picking out the movie choice for that night) but Ben and Mickey are rocked to their very cores: here, at long last, is proof that they’re not alone. For Ben, it means more potential problems but for Mickey, the existence of others allows him the faintest glimmer of hope: for the first time, he can begin to see the path that leads out of their personal wilderness and back into regimented society.

The problem, of course, is that folks in post-apocalyptic societies don’t tend to be the friendliest, most trusting, sorts. One of the voices, Frank (Larry Fessenden), pointedly tells our heroes that there’s no more room at this particular inn, while the other voice, Annie (Alana O’Brien) does much the same thing, albeit in a nicer way. Too late, however: poor Mickey has already locked on to the newly discovered survivors as his own source of salvation and he won’t take no for an answer. Despite Ben’s constant protests, Mickey wants to track down Frank, Annie and the others at all costs: not only does he get a whiff of the civilization he so desperately misses but, with Annie, he gets a hint of that other thing he desperately misses…female contact.

As Ben and Mickey continue to move through the destroyed landscape of what used to be a familiar country, constantly on the watch for ambushing zombies, they find their own burgeoning friendship tested and strained at every twist and turn in the path. Will the two ever be able to set aside their differences and become united in their goals? Will Mickey be able to rejoin the civilized society that he always carries so close to his heart, via his ever-present Discman, or will he spend the rest of his days in the wild, gradually giving his own humanity over to survival instincts? And what, exactly, are Frank and Annie trying to hide from them? What is the truth behind “The Orchard” and will it spell salvation or doom for our hardy protagonists?

Low-key, understated and pitched at a glacial pace, Gardner’s film isn’t what one might call a “thrill-a-minute” ride. What it lacks in visceral action, however, it more than makes up for with intelligent, character-driven drama. The focus here is squarely on the humans, not the monsters: for almost the entirety of the film, give or take a few choice setpieces, the zombies remain in the background of the action, serving as omnipresent threat but allowing Ben and Mickey to take the reins. In some ways, it’s a similar tactic to Gareth Edwards’ Monsters (2010), in which the massive beasts became secondary to the human drama at the film’s core. The Battery is, first and foremost, about the ways in which Ben and Mickey navigate around their world. which is an important distinction from most low-budget zombie films.

Despite this focus on the dramatic aspect, however, Gardner and crew don’t shortchange the horrific aspect. The zombies are all well-realized, with effective makeup, and the violence, although infrequent, is always gritty and physical. When the film wants to pull out the stops, it has no problem doing so: the setpiece involving Ben and Mickey trapped in a car by a veritable army of the undead is as tense as they come, culminating in a truly brave six-minute shot that handily recalls the tent scene in Bobcat Goldtwait’s recent Willow Creek (2013). By not making the zombie action the center of the film’s universe, it makes the scattered horror moments that much more effective: I can’t stress enough how radically different this is from most low-budget zombie fare.

In many ways, The Battery is a two-man show: although we meet a couple other characters, including the aforementioned Annie and a carjacker (played by Niels Bolle), the vast majority of our screentime is devoted to either Ben or Mickey. As with many low-budget films (particularly horror films), this could have been the kiss of death: as a lifelong horror fan, “outstanding acting” isn’t usually something I usually associate with these types of movies, at least not at this level.

Rather than being a deficit, however, the performances in The Battery end up being one of the film’s greatest benefits. Quite simply, Gardner and Cronheim have fantastic chemistry: not only do we buy these guys as real people but we also buy into their developing friendship, warts and all. There are certain moments, such as the minutes-long scene consisting of nothing more than Ben and Mickey brushing their teeth, that feel like nothing less than getting a front-row seat to real-life, albeit one where the occasional zombie pops into view. Both actors give unique life and characterization to their respective roles (Ben is the “asshole,” Mickey is the “nice guy”) that extends beyond easy stereotyping and feels a whole lot more like real acting. In this aspect, The Battery reminded me of another exemplary indie horror film about a friendship, Justin Benson and Aaron Moorhead’s extraordinary Resolution (2012). Like Resolution, the characters in The Battery feel 100% authentic, which works wonders on selling the inherent “unreality” of the zombie apocalypse.

While the cinematography in the film is never much more than decent (aside from a few scattered standouts), the sound design is actually pretty brilliant and flawlessly integrated into the fabric of the film. The big conceit here, that Mickey’s Discman provides the score in “real-time,” is pretty damn awesome: that the musical selections are so varied and exceptional (incorporating everything from traditional blues to Neutral Milk Hotel-ish sonic collages) really kicks the whole film up a notch, resulting in scenes and moments that could best be described as “thoroughly kickass.” The montage of Ben and Mickey bumming around the countryside, set to an old blues stomper, is beautifully evocative, as is the wild, chaotic abandon that fuels the scene where Ben gets wasted and dances in front of a mural. Gardner and crew understand that sound design is as integral a part of a film as the visuals and The Battery provides a great crash course in just how to accomplish that.

All in all, I was massively impressed by The Battery: for a low-budget, independent zombie flick, this is just about as artistic and exceptional as it gets. While the film doesn’t always break new ground (Mickey’s obsession with Annie is particularly tiresome and “old hat”), it strikes out on its own path often enough to prove how much Gardner has to say. For some viewers, the slow pace and relative lack of action might be slightly off-putting but more patient audiences will realize one important fact: you have to learn to crawl before you walk. By taking its time and easing into the horror, Gardner’s film demonstrates that it has the stamina to go the distance. Here’s to hoping that Jeremy Gardner and his team continue to pump out effective, well-made little films like this: for a genre that can often be more smoke than fire, there will always be a need for movies that are actually about something.

The Battery may a road movie set during a zombie plague but, in the bigger scheme of things, it’s really about human interaction and the ways in which we’re all intertwined, whether we like it or not. I’ll take that over another bloody disembowelment any ol’ day of the week.

6/1/15 (Part Two): The Mournful Cry of the Lone Wolf

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absentee father, Adrian Garcia Bogliano, Alex de la Iglesia, auteur theory, blind, blind protagonist, Caitlin O'Heaney, cinema, Cold Sweat, Eric Stolze, Ernesto Herrera, Ethan Embry, father-son relationships, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, Here Comes the Devil, horror, horror movies, Karen Lynn Gorney, Karron Graves, Lance Guest, Larry Fessenden, Late Phases, Movies, Nick Damici, old folks home, Penumbra, practical effects, retirement communities, Robert Kurtzman, Rutanya Alda, The ABCs of Death, Tina Louise, Tom Noonan, Under the Bed, Vietnam vet, war veterans, werewolves, Wojciech Golczewski

In the modern world of cinematic monsters, werewolves sure do seem to get the short end of the stick. Sure, they may have factored into the mega-colossi that were the Twilight and Underworld franchises and they’ll never be able to take Lon Chaney, Jr. away from us but, to quote the parlance of the time, “What have they done for us lately?” Compared to peers like zombies, vampires and space aliens, there’s a notable shortage of lycanthrope films to choose from but, ironically, some of the best werewolf films have also been some of the best horror films, period: the aforementioned classic The Wolf Man (1941), An American Werewolf in London (1981), The Company of Wolves (1984), Ginger Snaps (2000) and Dog Soldiers (2002) are not only shining examples of tortured folk howling at the full moon but they also hold fairly esteemed ranks within the horror genre, as a whole.

While it’s been some time since I’ve seen a werewolf film that’s good enough to howl about from the rooftops, it looks like the dry-spell has finally been broken: not only is Spanish auteur Adrián García Bogliano’s Late Phases (2014) the best werewolf film to come out in over a decade, it’s also one of the very best horror films I’ve seen this year. While it’s tempting to say that I’m surprised, I’m really not: with a track record that includes such essential cinema as Cold Sweat (2010), Penumbra (2011) and Here Comes the Devil (2012), I fully expect any and all Bogliano films to kick major ass over and above their daily allotted allowances. Truth be told, I can’t think of a better filmmaker to tell the story of a legally blind Vietnam vet who goes to war with the werewolves terrorizing his seemingly serene retirement community. In the simplest way possible: Adrián García Bogliano has done it again.

The fearless, tough-as-nails protagonist of our little tale is Ambrose McKinley (the always amazing Nick Damici), the aforementioned blind war veteran who has just been moved into a retirement community by his disapproving, micro-managing son, Will (Ethan Embry). Ambrose is a difficult guy, no two ways about it: with a perma-scowl affixed to his face, Ambrose’s unseeing eyes seem to peer right through everyone he meets, cutting through any societal pleasantries and exposing the rest of us for the bullshit artists we really are. Call him the AARP Holden Caulfield, if you must, but for god’s sake, don’t do it to his face.

As Ambrose settles into his new home, he immediately meets some of his new neighbors: his next-door-neighbor, Delores (Karen Lynn Gorney), and the local “welcoming committee” of Emma (Caitlin O’Heaney), Gloria (Rutanya Alda) and Clarissa (Tina Louise), as well as local preacher Father Roger (genre vet Tom Noonan) and church benefactor James Griffin (Lance Guest). As befits his nature, Ambrose does absolutely nothing to curtail favor with anyone, leading Delores to view him with something approaching puppy-dog infatuation, while the others react in ways ranging from extreme amusement to extreme suspicion.

Practically before he’s completely unpacked, however, Ambrose finds himself knee-deep in a grisly mystery: as he listens, helplessly, from his room, he hears Delores being savagely attacked on the other side of the wall. The local authorities blame it on vicious dogs, saying that “old people make good targets” and should be more aware of their surroundings. Ambrose is the furthest thing from stupid, however, and none of this makes sense to him, especially after he finds himself under attack from the same monstrous creature that mutilated his neighbor. Once he discovers that these attacks seem to occur once a month, around the full moon, Ambrose launches into his own investigation, much to the dismay of his put-upon son.

As he pokes around the retirement community, Ambrose begins to uncover the threads of a larger conspiracy, one that may or may not include the community’s quiet, slyly watchful man of God. Despite being blind, however, Ambrose can actually “see” better than anyone around him: he’s also a pretty damn good shot, a fact which certainly comes in handy when you’re hunting monsters. Before it’s all over, Ambrose, armed with a sharpened shovel, more moxie than a mob of Eastwoods and a studied disdain for morons, will become a one-man army. He’d better move fast, however: there’s another full moon on the horizon and it’s bringing a very hairy, very hungry beast with it. As Ambrose knows all too well, you don’t come to places like the retirement home to live: you come to places like this to die.

For his English-language debut, Bogliano turns in his most streamlined effort to date: not surprisingly, Late Phases ends up being the best film (thus far) in an extremely impressive body-of-work. Gone are the occasionally tedious flourishes and unnecessary camera zooms of his previous effort, the otherwise excellent Here Comes the Devil. Bogliano also minimizes the darkly humorous elements of previous films like Penumbra and Cold Sweat, making Late Phases seem more like a serious cousin to Don Coscarelli’s Bubba Ho-Tep (2002) than the natural successor to his earlier works. Despite being his most straight forward film, however, Late Phases is a virtual embarrassment of riches, thanks in no small part to a great script, fantastic performances and some truly amazing werewolf effects, courtesy of legendary SFX guru Robert Kurtzman.

One notable difference between Late Phases and Bogliano’s previous films is that he relinquishes the pen here, handing writing duties over to Under the Bed’s (2012) Eric Stolze. At first, this change carried the most potential for disappointment: after all, Bogliano’s earlier films were tightly plotted and often rather ingenious, whereas Stolze’s prior genre effort was disjointed and, frequently, kind of a mess. As it turns out, however, I had very little to fear: short of one completely unnecessary and confusing red herring involving certain characters coughing, the script and plotting for Late Phases is air-tight and easily comparable to Bogliano’s scripts, albeit without his (usually) overt political sensibilities.

From a technical aspect, Late Phases looks and sounds great: frequent Bogliano cinematographer Ernesto Herrera turns in some beautifully autumnal imagery, even managing to imbue the film’s frequent gore with a lovely, burnished quality that makes the entire film feel almost impossibly lush. He does some truly great things with light and shadow, not least of which is the quietly powerful scene where Ambrose slowly moves backwards into darkness, his craggy features slowly subsumed by inky nothingness. The gorgeous imagery is handily tied together by Wojciech Golczewski’s understated score: each aspect helps to elevate the film past its simple indie horror roots, taking it into the territory of something like Jim Mickle’s classic Stake Land (2010).

One of the main issues with any creature feature, dating all the way back to the Universal originals, is the actual depiction of said creature. In many cases, monster movies are inherently disappointing because whatever promise is set up by the movie’s mythology is usually dashed once we actually get to see the creature: anyone who grew up on old horror flicks will be more than familiar with that reliable old game of “spot the zipper.” Not so here, in any way, shape or form: Late Phases’ lycanthropes are brought to roaring, terrifying life by SFX pioneer Kurtzman (if you’re a horror fan and aren’t familiar with KNB, you need a refresher course, stat) and they’re easily the equal of any werewolves that came before, including Rick Baker’s iconic American ex-pat wolf man. Equally important for werewolf films are the obligatory transformation scenes: as expected, Late Phases knocks this out of the park with one of the goopiest, most painful-looking transformations ever put to film. If you’re not gritting your teeth by the time our monster rips his own skin off, like a snug t-shirt, well…you have more iron in your blood than I do, neighbor.

As a werewolf/horror film, Late Phases meets and exceeds pretty much every requirement: what really sets the film into its own class, however, is the high-quality performances that ground everything, starting with the film’s protagonist, Ambrose. Quite simply, Nick Damici is one of the greatest, unsung treasures of our modern era and Bogliano uses him to spectacular effect here. Ambrose is easily the equal of Damici’s iconic Mister (from Stake Land) and ends up being one of the most effortlessly cool, kickass heroes since Eastwood lost his name and donned his serape. The concept of a blind protagonist always brings issues with it: in many cases, plot developments like this are usually just ways for filmmakers to shoehorn in gimmicks involving dark rooms, night-vision, what have you. In Late Phases, however, Bogliano and Stolze do the best thing possible: they just establish Ambrose and then let Damici sell us on the character. In the best example of “show don’t tell” I’ve seen in years, he does just that. If there were any justice, Nick Damici would be a household name along the lines of Jason Statham or Scott Glenn.

Ably supporting Damici are a handful of some of the most accomplished character actors currently treading the cinematic boards: indie MVP Larry Fessenden has some nice scenes as a slightly bemused headstone salesman; Ethan Embry does great work as Ambrose’s son, with some genuinely touching moments between the two; Tom Noonan gets to don a priest’s collar, again, and his performance is his typically assured combo of quietly reptilian intelligence and paternal concern; and, of course, genre fans should recognize Lance Guest from more things than they can shake a stick at, including Halloween II (1981), The Last Starfighter (1984) and any number of ’80s and ’90s-era TV shows. We also get the phenomenal tag-team of Tina Louise (Ginger from Giligan’s Island), Rutanya Alda and Caitlin O’Heaney (who also appeared in the ’80s-era cult classic Wolfen (1981): between these three actresses, you’ve got more amazing horror and genre history than most films have in their entire casts.

Ultimately, there’s one big thing that separates Bogliano’s Late Phases from any number of pretenders: genuine passion. At no point in the proceedings is there ever the notion of “phoning it in” or “making do.” Unlike Álex de la Iglesia’s severely disappointing English-language-debut, The Oxford Murders (2008),  Bogliano’s film feels like it belongs squarely in his canon: it’s a natural progression from what came before, not a watered-down reminder of what worked better in the native tongue. At this rate, Adrián García Bogliano is quickly establishing himself as one of modern horror cinema’s foremost artists: with another potential masterpiece, Scherzo Diabolico (2015), on the horizon, I have a feeling we’re going to be seeing a lot more of Bogliano in the future. I, for one, can’t wait.

12/31/14 (Part One): School is Back in Session

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ABCs of Death, Aharon Keshales, Alejandro Brugues, Alexandre Bustillo, Ant Timpson, anthology films, Best of 2014, Bill Plympton, Bruno Samper, Chris Nash, cinema, Dennison Ramalho, E.L. Katz, Erik Matti, favorite films, film reviews, films, foreign films, Hajime Ohata, horror, horror films, horror-comedies, Jerome Sable, Jim Hosking, Juan Martinez Moreno, Julian Barratt, Julian Gilbey, Julien Maury, Kristina Buozyte, Lancelot Odawa Imasuen, Larry Fessenden, Marvin Kren, Movies, multiple directors, multiple writers, Navot Papushado, Robert Boocheck, Robert Morgan, Rodney Ascher, sequels, shorts, Soichi Umezawa, Soska Sisters, Steven Kostanski, The ABCs of Death 2, Tim League, Todd Rohal, Vincenzo Natali

Count me as one of the number of people who love anthology films. Going all the way back to the old Amicus days, anthology films have always been a great way to inject a little variety into your viewing, sort of the equivalent of sitting down with a good short story collection rather than trudging through a full-length tome. Over the years, there have been plenty of anthology films, good and bad, but the basic formula has remained pretty constant: take a good wrap-around segment, add some nice varied shorts with effective twists and shocks et voila! The perfect anthology film!

When The ABCs of Death (2012) came around, the concept was pretty unbeatable: give twenty-six different genre directors a different letter of the alphabet and have them fashion a short, with the only rule being that the shorts must represent death, in some way, shape or form. While some of the shorts were pointless, stupid and/or tedious, many of them were blackly-comic mini marvels and I found the whole thing to be a great way to get exposure to a wide variety of genre filmmakers in small, bite-sized morsels. Needless to say, when a sequel, The ABCs of Death 2 (2014) was announced, I found myself more than ready to absorb the next twenty-six entries in this informative little series. The consensus this time around? Part Two is bigger, better and outrageously fun, pretty much the best party film of the year and a must-see with a big audience, if one gets the chance. A sequel that’s better than the original? You can bet your blood-stained, bottom dollar on it!

As with the first installment, ABCs of Death 2 sees twenty-six wildly divergent filmmakers each tackle a different letter of the alphabet, with the only intention being to depict grievous bodily harm in as many colorful, gonzo and awe-inspiring ways as possible. Some filmmakers take an explicitly humorous take on the proceedings, such as Jim Hoskin and Erik Matti’s offerings, whereas others treat the subject as deadly serious (Kristina Buozyte and Bruno Samper’s exquisite “K is for Knell,” Dennison Ramalho;s brutal “J is for Jesus”). While there’s no real theme, per se, the trend in this particular iteration is towards films from Latin and South America, which provides an interesting contrast with the more Asian-oriented films from the previous ABCs of Death. Despite this, however, ABCs of Death 2 still provides a nice global overview of horror filmmaking, from the United States to Australia, from Africa to Israel, Mexico, Japan and the Philippines.

Any time you have twenty-six different films from twenty-six different filmmakers, you can expect a wide range of quality and effectiveness: in other words, there are going to be at least a few clunkers amid the gems. While I’ll admit that a few of the shorts in The ABCs of Death 2 rubbed me the wrong way (I actively hated Todd Rohal’s P-P-P-P Scary! and was really disappointed by the shorts turned in by Bill Plympton, the Soska sisters and Larry Fessenden), the ratio of great-to-meh was overwhelmingly tilted in the right direction. When the shorts were great, such as with the E.L. Katz, Robert Morgan, Kristina Buozyte/Bruno Samper, Robert Boocheck, Vincenzo Natali, Chris Nash, Steven Kostanksi and Julien Maury/Alexandre Bustillo films, they were practically transcendent, revealing fascinating, new takes on familiar horror tropes and cliches.

In fact, one of the greatest things about The ABCs of Death 2 is just how genuinely interesting the various shorts are. With very few exceptions (Rohal’s short is almost unbearably bad), even the lesser entries are, at the very least, oddball and interesting enough to gloss over any issues with production values, acting, scripts, etc… and make them worthwhile views.

I’ll also take a minute to point out that the effects on display range from the very basic to the very mindblowing: I’m pretty sure that Kostanki’s Wish segment will impress just about anybody, with its absolutely masterful blending of CGI, stop-motion and practical effects. Gorehounds will be happy to know that ABCs 2 very rarely shies away from the hardcore: restraint is not a virtue, as far as these particular shorts are concerned and some of the segments hit some truly nightmarish plateaus.

All in all, ABCs of Death 2 was one of the biggest surprises I had all year. While I enjoyed the first film, I had no reason to expect that the follow-up would be anywhere near this good: when it’s firing on all cylinders, ABCs of Death 2 is, easily, one of the best horror films of the year. There are certain images in this film, especially with Steven Kostanski’s brilliant “W is for Wish,” that I’ll probably never get out of my head…and that’s a very good thing. When it’s good, which is often, ABCs of Death 2 is the kind of film that horror fans will definitely want to remember and cherish. At this rate, I’m already looking forward to ABCs of Death 4: bring it on, you magnificent bastards…bring it on!

10/11/14 (Part One): Getting the Cold Shoulder From Mother Nature

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31 Days of Halloween, Alaska, Arctic setting, auteur theory, cinema, co-writers, Connie Britton, environmental-themed horror, environmentalism, favorite films, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, global warming, horror, horror film, horror films, indie films, isolation, James Le Gros, Jamie Harrold, Joanne Shenandoah, John Carpenter, Kevin Corrigan, Larry Fessenden, Movies, oil riggers, Pato Hoffmann, Robert Leaver, Ron Perlman, The Last Winter, The Thing, writer-director-producer-actor, Zach Gilford

There’s something about the desolate wasteland of an Arctic landscape that just makes for a good horror story. Lovecraft knew it…Carpenter knew it…hell, Jack London knew it, if you think about it. The combination of harsh living conditions, relentless weather, isolation and vast, untouched frontier is the perfect setting for putting humanity under the microscope and seeing what squirms around. The infinite, stark surroundings could hide anything from ancient, alien civilizations to rampaging monsters to serial killers or it could just be the perfect location to allow festering paranoia, jealousy, anger and fear to bubble to the surface and turn humans, ourselves, into our own kind of monster.

Over the years, a handful of films have used the unforgiving Arctic climes as incubators for their particular brand of terror, most notably John Carpenter’s The Thing (1980), which is sort of the grand-daddy for this little sub-genre, which is fitting considering that Howard Hawks’ The Thing From Another World (1951) is the great-grand-daddy of frigid fright films. Filmmakers have used the cold wastelands as homes for cannibals, aliens, mutated creatures, ghosts…even Frankenstein’s monster took up residency there, for a while. When done right, I don’t think that there’s anything quite as frightening as a cold-bound horror film unless it’s a space-bound one: chalk it up to the isolation factor or the notion that either location seems to feature a lot of “rocks” that we haven’t looked under, leading to plenty of unknown squirmy things just waiting to pop out and say hi.

Veteran writer-producer-actor-director and all-around Renaissance man Larry Fessenden has had quite the career. As an actor, he’s one of those quirky characters that you might not recognize by name but you’ll definitely recognize by sight: he’s been in everything from mainstream films like Scorsese’s Bringing Out the Dead (1999) to indie films like Jarmusch’s Broken Flowers (2005) to genre films like Session 9 (2001). He’s produced outstanding movies like I Sell the Dead (2008), The House of the Devil (2009)and Stake Land (2010) and has directed and written six full length films, thus far, as well as a slew of shorts, videos and a segment in the “Fear Itself” TV series. Over the years, I’ve found Fessenden to be one of the most uncompromising, talented and just flat-out cool voices in independent cinema, the kind of filmmaker like Ben Wheatley or Nicholas Winding Refn who sells me on a film by name alone. To paraphrase that old Field of Dreams (1989) chestnut: if Fessenden films it, I’ll be there. His entry in the frozen-wasteland sweepstakes, 2006’s The Last Winter, stands as another high point in an already exceptional filmography: it’s not quite The Thing but it’s one mighty impressive film, nonetheless, and easily one of my favorites.

The Last Winter begins by informing us that North Industries will begin to drill for oil in a previously untapped part of Alaska, due to the loosening of environmental restrictions. To that end, Ed Pollack (Ron Perlman) shows up at North’s drilling camp in order to check on their progress. Despite having an expert team, including Abby (Connie Britton), Motor (Kevin Corrigan), Maxwell (Zach Gilford), Lee (Pato Hoffmann) and Dawn (Joanne Shenandoah), the drilling site has hit a bit of a snag: conditions in the area aren’t cold enough to drill and support their heavy equipment, thanks to unseasonably warmth weather. Environmental impact expert James Hoffman (James Le Gros) and his assistant, Elliot (Jamie Harrold), want Ed and his team to put the brakes on their operation but there are deadlines involved and lots of money to be made, so Ed doesn’t pay the “hippie” much attention.

The situation goes from bad to worse, however, when Maxwell begins to act strange: he fancies that he hears strange sounds out in the freezing wasteland and seems to be able to see ghostly visions that might or might not be herds of phantom elk stampeding through the landscape. He goes out one night to investigate an isolated test well and doesn’t return: the rest of the group frantically hunt for Maxwell but turn up empty-handed. When Maxwell comes wandering back into camp sometime later, however, relief turns into more worry: the young man is different now, more distant and decidedly more strange. He begins to tell everyone that they’re grave-robbers, stealing the “dead bodies” of animals and plants that have been dead for millions of years. At some point, he warns them, the oil will get tired of being taken advantage of. At some point, it won’t passively wait to be taken from the ground: it will rise up, on its own, and come to pass horrible judgment on the masses of humanity for their environmental crimes.

The rest of the group, including the decidedly green Hoffman, think that Maxwell must have a screw loose. When unexpected things keep happening at the camp site, however, the team is faced with a truly terrifying prospect: perhaps Maxwell is right and Mother Earth really is rising up to take revenge on her human parasites. As the frozen wasteland and whatever it hides begins to claim more victims, paranoia and fear run rampant through the camp. Will any of the team make it back to civilization or will the stunningly beautiful and harsh frozen landscape become their final resting place?

One of the many criticisms that are often hurled at horror films is their relative lack of relevance to our daily lives: a mask-wearing psycho may mean something to us in a figurative sense but it doesn’t mean a whole lot on a personal sense, unless one happens to actually live in Haddonfield or Springwood. Fessenden’s film corrects this complaint by actually being about something: both overtly and covertly, The Last Winter is a treatise on the effects of global warming on this big globe of ours. The issue, of course, is a divisive one, having morphed from a scientific concern into a political one thanks to the best efforts of lobbyists and activists on both sides. Fessenden is not interesting in the political ramifications of the issue, however, unless in the most general way (“tree-huggers vs average Joes”). On the contrary, he tackles the issue as a purely scientific fact: Hoffman tests the temperatures, they’re warmer than they used to be, the ice is obviously thinner than it was and it’s affecting how they can transport their equipment. That’s pretty much it. In a way, The Last Winter isn’t so much a cautionary tale (“If we don’t stop now, this will be our fate”) as it is a resolved one (“It’s already too late, so let’s see what happens next”).

Along with this more involved storyline, Fessenden and co-writer Robert Leaver have come up with a pretty solid little script, full of some nice characterizations and snappy dialogue. Carpenter’s The Thing taught us that the ensemble cast is key in something like this and Fessenden stacks his deck pretty high: Perlman, Le Gros, Britton and Corrigan are all exceptional character actors and each of them brings their A-games to the film. Perlman, in particular, is in great form: I don’t think that I’ve ever seen a bad performance from the guy, to be honest, but there’s something about the character of Ed that lets Perlman flex a few different acting muscles this time around. Ed tows the company line, sure, but he’s not a sleazy, uber-villain like Paul Reiser’s Carter Burke from Aliens (1986): he genuinely cares about his crew although he’s got his own set of orders to follow. There’s also a nice romantic triangle established between Ed, James and Abby which allows for a little more intimate emotions than we normally get from the genre great.

Craftwise, The Last Winter is a pretty stunning production: the cinematography is flawless and handily establishes just how minuscule and insignificant these humans are against their stark, white landscape. While this isn’t really an effects-heavy film, it manages to pull off its setpieces with suitable aplomb: the climatic encounter features a pretty interesting creature design which, although nothing compared to Bottin’s landmark effects work from The Thing, is still miles above similar-budgeted genre fare. The score and sound design help play an integral part in the production, amping up tension at every corner and the film’s editing (courtesy of Fessenden) is unfussy and suits the material to a tee. I’d also be remiss if I didn’t mention the ending, which manages to reference another environmental “horror” film, Peter Weir’s The Last Wave (1977), and provides a suitably powerful, if appropriately vague, conclusion to the narrative.

I first saw The Last Winter when it was originally released and fell in love with it almost immediately. Indeed, it nearly serves as a textbook for my personal notions of how to make a successful horror film: find a nicely evocative location, populate your film with some interesting, three-dimensional characters, keep the tension high and don’t treat your audience like morons. Fessenden has managed to make a career out of following these simple rules, which will always give him a special place in my heart. If you love frozen horror films, environmentally themed genre movies or just enjoy a good movie, in general, The Last Winter should fit the bill nicely. As humans, we may argue and disagree with just everything our fellow humans say and do but we should all be able to recognize quality when we see it. Under any set of guidelines, The Last Winter is quality entertainment, indeed.

 

10/4/14 (Part One): They Sin So You Don’t Have To

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31 Days of Halloween, Andre Royo, bad priests, based on a graphic novel, Catholic church, cinema, Clancy Brown, Clifton Collins Jr., Dan Fogler, dutiful heroes, elder gods, exorcists, Fallen, film reviews, films, Ghostbusters, Hellbenders, horror-comedies, J.T. Petty, Larry Fessenden, Last Supper, Macon Blair, Movies, religious-themed horror, Robyn Rikoon, S&man, sins, Soft For Digging, Stephen Gevedon, supernatural, Surtr, The Augustine Interfaith Order of Hellbound Saints, The Burrowers, writer-director

In an era where ideas (and films) seem to get recycled with as much ease as hand-me-down clothes, it’s more than refreshing to come across an original concept: it’s downright life-affirming. Writer/director J.T. Petty’s Hellbenders (2012) has one hell of an original concept, pun intended: six priests, all of various denominations, exist in a state of constant sin so that they may serve as the “nuclear option” for exorcisms. When there are demons that are too powerful for “regular” exorcists to handle, the team swoops in, invites the demons to possess them and then commit suicide, thereby dragging the demons straight back to hell with them. What this really is, of course, is a perfect excuse to witness priests swear, booze it up and engage in some very bad behavior, ranging from the slightly assholish to the downright blasphemous. It’s a great concept and almost guarantees an interesting film: even though the final product ends up a religious-themed Ghostbusters (1984) with a touch of Fallen (1998), there’s enough wicked good times here to make genre fans pay attention.

The film actually has a rather inauspicious beginning as we witness Angus (Clancy Brown), Larry (Clifton Collins, Jr.) and Det. Elrod (genre auteur Larry Fessenden) tromping around in some nondescript attic-area, lit only by flashlight. The scene recalls [REC] (2007), which seems like a strange point of reference, before jumping into some sloppy pseudo-mockumentary, talking-head-type footage. Just when things seemed to be taking a turn for the generic, however, the glorious opening credit sequence swooped in and saved the day: set to a swaggering, stomping tune, we see our six heroes arrayed around a table, Last Supper style, engaging in everything from excessive drinking to make grilled cheese sandwiches with a Jesus sandwich-press. It’s a silly, visually impressive and, most importantly, utterly badass intro and ends up setting an impossibly high bar for the rest of the film. For a time, however, the movie almost lives up to its potential.

Our resident exorcists are Angus, the de facto leader and oldest of the group; Larry, the second-in-command (fulfilling the Peter Venkman role); Elizabeth (Robyn Rikoon), the resident spitfire who casually sleeps around with Larry; Stephen (Andre Royo), the “accountant” of the group, who keep track of their ledger of sins; Eric (Dan Fogler), who not-so-secretly pines for Elizabeth and Macon (Macon Blair), the free-lovin’ Southern Baptist minister who’s obsessed with his pretty-boy looks. The group lives together, cracking wise and engaging in their various sins with gusto, living just like a parochial version of the Ghostbusters. Their antics may be necessary as far as keeping the world safe goes but they certainly don’t go over well with certain bureaucratic elements at the Vatican, as evidenced when holy pencil-pusher Clint (Stephen Gevedon) comes around to keep an eye on the wayward priests. He definitely approve of the drinking, drug use, fornicating and blasphemy but he seems to be even more irate over the inherent waste of funds: sinning be damned, the Hellbound Saints just don’t make good fiscal sense!

As with any film like this how, however, we know that our dutiful heroes will be needed even if their superiors don’t. They’re forced to spring into action when they get involved with one seriously badass demon, an elder god by the name of Surtr. It seems that Surtr is known as a “god-killer” and has roamed around eternity putting the snuff on other deities that it considers to be weaker. Surtr has now set his sets on the Judeo-Christian God and it’s up to Angus and his crew to stop it before all of Heaven is destroyed in the process. Things get complicated, however, when Elizabeth becomes possessed by Surtr but neglects to kill herself, giving the elder god an earthly vessel, as well as a convenient way to gain more followers (achieved via a noxious cloud of flies). Angus wants to kill Elizabeth in order to send Surtr to Hell. Larry, on the other hand, is in love with Elizabeth and would rather not see her suffer eternal damnation, despite it being pretty much her only job duty. With all of humanity on the line (or, at least, the Judeo-Christian portion), will love or duty win out?

For the first ten minutes or so of Hellbenders, I laughed so hard that I cried: no lie. The script is impossibly witty, choked with so much rapid-fire obscenity, bad behavior and juvenile attitude that it feels like one’s being pummeled by a prize-fighter armed with one-liners rather than fists. It’s a heady experience and, for a time, I was pretty sure this was going to be the funniest film I’d ever seen, hands down. And then, of course, the honeymoon was over and tedium began to set in: what was uproariously funny in a compressed ten minutes became wearing and tiresome over the sustained course of the film. This might sound like harsh criticism of the film and, in a way, I suppose that it is. It’s also, conversely, a big compliment: if you can stay on the film’s wavelength, it’s pretty much the apex of this type of movie. I ended up really liking the film but was disappointed, ultimately, because I didn’t love it: there was potential for so much more than was fully realized here and that kind of let me down.

Make no mistake, however: when Hellbenders is good, it’s pretty damn great. The acting is top-notch, from top to bottom, with Robyn Rikoon being particularly stellar as Elizabeth. It’s a great ensemble cast and they work together like a charm: in fact, the film really starts to come off the rails when it moves from the opening “bad priests hanging out” material into the more familiar “battling supernatural evil” territory. I’ve seen plenty of films that look exactly like the latter but precious few like the former: I really wish that we could have had a little more to get to know our priests before they were off butting heads with ancient evil in some rather clichéd fight scenes.

J.T. Petty directs the film based on his own graphic novel and there are plenty of points where the film actually feels like a big-screen comic book adaptation, not least of which is the odd moment where the film actually becomes a comic, complete with panels. That odd misstep aside, the film looks consistently great and features some pretty exemplary effects work. The film also ends up being pretty violent, which might seem like a given but is only odd when the majority of gore is loaded into the film’s conclusion: suffice to say that I was rather surprised to witness someone bite out another character’s eyes, although I was certainly forewarned when a nose was later chewed off in similar manner.

While I will freely admit that I disliked Petty’s debut feature, Soft For Digging (2001), with a zeal that I normally reserve for much shittier films, I’ve actually enjoyed the rest of his filmography quite a bit. In particular, I think that his 2008 horror-Western The Burrowers is an amazing, nearly perfect film that’s equal parts eulogy and nail-biting terror, although his found-footage experiment, S&man (2006), is an equally interesting, if substantially more flawed, production. Even though he’s never mentioned alongside the likes of current genre faves Ti West or Adam Wingard, I personally feel that Petty has the potential to be the best of the bunch, some day: The Burrowers is such a monumental achievement that I keep hoping it wasn’t his magnum opus.

Even though Hellbenders ends up in a much more familiar place than it begins, it’s still a ton of fun and seems perfect as a party/crowd film. There are plenty of glorious setpieces here, the overall storyline is pretty genius and the ensemble cast is superb, riffing off each other in near perfect synthesis. I wish that the film was able to sustain its gonzo tone longer than it does but I’m also reminded of the saying that the flame that burns twice as hot only burns half as long. Fair enough: Hellbenders is hot enough for most of its running time that I can forgive if it seems to fizzle out a bit before the conclusion. There appears to be hints at a sequel, however, which could easily take the film’s universe into some pretty awesome Hellboy-like territory. Sign me up! I may not have loved Petty’s Hellbenders but I liked it enough to anticipate the next installment. In the meantime, it’s good to know that we have people like Angus and his crew watching over us, keeping humanity safe one upraised middle finger at a time.

6/9/14 (Part Two): Father of the Living Dead

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1960's films, behind-the-scenes, cinema, Civil Rights Movement, documentaries, documentary, Elvis Mitchell, film criticism, film reviews, film theory, filmmaking, films, George Romero, guerrilla filmmaking, horror, horror film, horror films, independent film, independent films, interviews, Jr., Larry Fessenden, Mark Harris, Martin Luther King, Movies, Mr. Rogers, Night of the Living Dead, Pittsburgh, Prof. Samuel D. Pollard, Rob Kuhns, Robert Kennedy, Russell Streiner, social upheaval, societal changes, talking heads, the 1960s, The Birth of the Living Dead, visual effects pioneer, Whine of the Faun, writer-director-producer-cinematographer

By 1968, the Summer of Love was officially over: the war in Vietnam was in full escalation, racial tensions led to race riots in the inner cities and the disastrous Altamont Free Concert was but a year away, although neither Robert Kennedy nor Martin Luther King, Jr. would survive to know about it. The Zodiac Killer was still killing, the Cold War with the Soviet Union was still decades from thawing and the hippie “revolution” of the early-mid ’60s had failed to bring about the kind of lasting, peaceful change that adherents hoped for. Hope had been replaced by anger: the 1960s had failed to fix anything and the system was just as broken as ever. Into this caustic stew of fear, anger, war and turmoil slipped a humble little film that would go on to revolutionize not only horror films but the world of cinema, in general. When 27-year-old college dropout George Romero first unleashed his seminal horror film, Night of the Living Dead (1968), on an unsuspecting populace, little did he know that the film would permanently change everything that came after it, directly influencing the next 46 years of horror filmmaking.

Rob Kuhns’ exceptional documentary, Birth of the Living Dead (2013), gives an insightful and in-depth look into not only the making of Romero’s classic film but also the societal issues and developments that made the film not only possible but necessary. Night of the Living Dead was a new kind of horror film for a new era of horrors: when the horrors of Vietnam were being beamed into homes on a nightly basis, the same old “haunted house” scares weren’t going to work anymore. Kuhn’s film does an amazing job of showing just how truly groundbreaking NOTLD was, especially concerning its views on race and the family unit. By the end, he actually managed to give me new respect for a film that I’ve idolized for more years than I care to remember: no mean feat and a pretty sure sign that Kuhns is a filmmaker to keep an eye on.

Birth of the Living Dead takes us through the entire process of NOTLD, beginning with Romero’s background making short films for Mr. Rogers (I was surprised, to put it mildly) and beer commercials before taking the filmmaking leap with his first attempt, Whine of the Fawn (what a name!). When his art film tanked, Romero decided to try his hand at horror and the rest, as they say, is history. Romero served as cinematographer, director and editor, while the entire cast pulled double (sometimes triple) duty both in front of and behind the scenes. Some of the most glorious moments in the film come from the fascinating behind-the-scenes insights that Romero shares about the making of the film. Some of my favorites include the special effects experts who constantly smoked cigars while working with explosives and fuses, the actor/producer who built a wooden bridge with his own hands and the fact that the crew only got their sound edit after actor Russell Streiner (who played Johnny in the film) challenged the owner of the sound lab to a chess match: he won and the crew got their sound mix. For anyone interested in filmmaking, particularly ultra-low budget guerrilla filmmaking, the behind-the-scenes stories about NOTLD are absolutely priceless and worth a watch all by themselves.

Far from just being a “making-of,” however, Kuhns film is filled with plenty of insightful “talking head” interviews and commentary on the era that was directly responsible for Romero’s chiller. We get plenty of great stuff from independent filmmaking majordomo Larry Fessenden, whose enthusiasm for Romero’s film is absolutely infectious, along with historians and critics like Elvis Mitchell, Mark Harris and Prof. Samuel D. Pollard. In a truly magical bit, Mitchell talks about seeing NOTLD at a drive-in, when he was 10, and how it absolutely changed his life. There’s also plenty of on-point discussion about the casting of Duane Jones as the lead in a time where a strong, black hero in an all-white film would have been not only eye-opening but revolutionary. This was, after all, the era where one of the biggest black movie stars of all-time, Harry Belafonte, was not allowed to touch Petula Clark (a white singer/actress) in an advertisement. The fact that Ben’s race is never brought up in NOTLD was totally radical: for the first time in popular cinema, a leading black actor was just allowed to be a man, instead of a symbol. There’s real power in the stories about how the black inner city adopted Ben as a true hero, especially when they’re told by commentators who were actually in the theaters at the time of the film’s screening.

As a film, itself, Birth of the Living Dead is a complete success. The structure is well-organized, the footage and interviews are perfectly integrated and everything has a really exciting, kinetic sense of energy. Even better, Kuhns utilizes some really badass “Sin City-esque” red-and-black graphic-novel-type animation for many of the behind-the-scenes bits, making the whole film even more visually appealing. Birth of the Living Dead looks and sounds fantastic, although that just ends up being icing thanks to the fundamentally solid information being shared. If you’re a fan of Night of the Living Dead, Kuhns’ documentary is an absolute must-see, helping to fill in any gaps and offering up a virtual treasure trove of previously unknown insights. If you’re a fan of independent filmmaking, Birth of the Living Dead is a must-see for the ways in which we see Romero and his small band of true-believers literally wrestle this iconic film into being. Basically, if you like movies in any way, shape or form, you owe it to yourself to see Birth of the Living Dead: documentaries about horror films don’t get much better than this.

3/10/14: Once More, with Feeling

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Ambyr Childers, auteur theory, Best of 2013, Bill Sage, cannibalism, cannibals, cinema, family, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, horror films, Jim Mickle, Jorge Michel Grau, Julia Garner, Kelly McGillis, Larry Fessenden, Michael Parks, Movies, Nick Damici, remakes, responsibilities, We Are What We Are

As far as films goes, I have very few hard-and-fast rules although I do have a few: I dislike “MTV-style-editing,” although there’s probably a better way to describe that notion nowadays…I think that character development is a must, even in a Z-grade slasher film…if the subtitled version is available, the dubbed version is persona non grata…gratuitous gore better have a purpose or it better be so over the top that I laugh…and I dislike remakes/re-imaginings/re-dos with a passion. As with anything, these rules were made to be broken but they’ve served me pretty well over the years, nonetheless. Of all of these, however (although the subtitled/dubbed rule is one I rarely violate and then only from necessity), the one that probably sticks with me the most is the one about remakes.

For the most part, I find modern remakes to be pointless, crass money-grabs that are all about the almighty dollar: modern filmmakers don’t remake films because they think they can do them better…they remake films because there’s already a built-in audience, cutting down the need for excessive advertising and (possibly) guaranteeing a big box office take, at least initially. Here’s the funny thing about modern remakes, however: they’re pretty much the ultimate in head-scratching, “who-are-they-trying-to-please?” marketing. In most cases, modern remakes don’t do much more than sub in younger, more attractive casts, polish up the production values and add elements that might appeal to modern viewers (current pop culture references, pop music, nods to current events, etc…). Let’s take the (fairly) recent Platinum Dunes remakes of the slasher chestnut Friday the 13th. If you’re a fan of the gritty, low-budget original film, are you really going to be interested in a big budget, glossy remake? Likewise, if you’re a hip modern kid, are you really going to be interested in a moldy old relic like Friday the 13th when you have everything from The Human Centipede to August Underground to feast your little peepers on? Probably not. These films seem to exist in a no-man’s-land where the only line of reasoning seems to be “This movie once existed and people watched it. If we remake it and release it again, they’ll watch it again.”

That being said…rules are made to be broken. Every great once in a while, a come upon a remake that I actually like. In the rarest of occasions, I can even find myself loving a remake: what horror/genre fan doesn’t absolutely adore John Carpenter’s remake of The Thing? Cronenberg’s The Fly? I found myself really impressed by the recent remake of Maniac and I’ve always preferred the American remake of The Ring to the original Ringu. I even find myself really enjoying Zach Snyder’s remake of Romero’s classic Dawn of the Dead, which is something that approaches heresy in my belief system. Keep in mind, however: this is five films (with another possible five or so to go) out of dozens and dozens of films…possibly more than that. At this point, everything from The Toolbox Murders to Patrick to I Spit on Your Grave and Poltergeist are being remade, often with no more forethought or insight than any other direct-to-video release.

When remakes work (if at all) they work because the filmmakers actually have a vision, rather than a money-making idea. Whether trying to improve on an older, beloved film (Del Toro’s re-imagining of Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark) or taking the original property in a wildly divergent direction (Cronenberg’s The Fly, which resembles the Vincent Price original in name only), successful remakes actually have something to say: they aren’t just empty calories, the cinematic equivalent of Ho-Hos. Jim Mickle’s striking, sobering remake of Jorge Michel Grau’s We Are What We Are manages to take the impressive original to amazing new heights, taking the basic story and twisting and contorting it in fascinating new directions. It’s the best way to approach remaking a film and, in this, Mickle has created one of his best, most enduring works yet.

In a rural America which may be the Ozarks, Oregon, Washington State or right around the corner from the folks in Jug Face, we meet the Parker family: mother Emma (Kassie DePaiva), father Frank (Bill Sage), young son Rory (Jack Gore) and daughters Rose (Julia Garner) and Iris (Ambyr Childers). The Parkers are friendly, if distant, and seem to subsist by renting out their large property to folks in mobile homes (including Larry Fessenden, whose turned these sort of “backwoods” roles into a kind of cottage industry). Times are hard, especially since nearly continuous rain has produced flooding which has forced many of the tenants from their lands. On top of this, Mrs. Parker suddenly grows sick and dies while grocery shopping in town. Aside from cooking, cleaning and tending to the kids, Mrs. Parker was also responsible for acquiring their “meat,” the kind which isn’t available in butcher shops. Now, Rose and Iris must step up and assume their place in a time-honored tradition, a tradition that is necessary for the continued survival of the Parkers but deadly business for anyone around them. As the local doctor (Michael Parks) and Deputy Anders (Wyatt Russell), who’s sweet on Iris, begin to piece everything together, Frank Parker becomes increasingly unstable. Will Rose and Iris be able to hold everything together or will the modern world finally wash them all to oblivion?

From the very first frame of the film, where we watch a leaf fall from a tree before continuing its journey down a river, We Are What We Are exudes a very austere, melancholy atmosphere, giving the film the veneer of a prestige picture that just happens to be about rural cannibals. Imagine a Merchant/Ivory version of The Texas Chain Saw Massacre and you’re in the right ballpark, although the corresponding image is way too flip to do the actual result justice. Plain and simple, We Are What We Are is a beautiful film, gorgeous to look at and filled with the kind of powerful, subtle performances that would draw raves were this any other kind of film. This is a film that deals with big issues (matriarchy vs patriarchy; the loss of traditional ways in the of modernity; the morality of a carnivorous lifestyle; family vs society; the death of a parent/spouse; the Electra complex) but manages to weave them organically into the fabric of the movie, making this the furthest thing from a “message picture,” while being one of the most thoughtful, cerebral genre films in quite some time.

In many ways, We Are What We Are is a companion piece to Alfredson’s Let the Right One In or, perhaps, the aforementioned Jug Face. These are all slow, solemn, character-heavy films that apply their drama and dread in equal measures, letting everything simmer and slow-burn before gradually amping things up to an inevitable fever pitch. We Are What We Are may begin in a quiet, pensive way but it climaxes in a fury of blood, an orgiastic feast that manages to subvert and subsume traditional notions of family all in one big gulp. That the film never loses its footing in between these polar opposites is impressive, but only if you don’t know who’s behind the wheel of this particular big-rig: Jim Mickle.

Mickle has been one of my favorite new directors and one of the shining stars on my Best New Directors list ever since I saw his debut feature, Mulberry St, back in 2006. The film, a gritty yet strangely dreamlike, claustrophobic zombie film that subs in mutant rat-men for the walking dead, was a helluva debut but the follow-up, Stake Land, was the kicker. After one viewing, Stake Land (2010) became my favorite vampire film ever and, to be honest, one of the best films I’ve (still) ever seen. After watching the film more times than I can count, my opinion still stands: Stake Land is one of those rare perfect films, the kind of impossible gem where every element is in complete synchronization. It’s hugely emotional without being manipulative (I still tear up every time I get to the end), full of jaw-dropping fight sequences and deliciously gory practical effects, features a smart, economical script and actually has new, interesting things to say about a very old genre. In short, Stake Land was going to be difficult to equal, impossible to best. While We Are What We Are isn’t better than Stake Land (honestly, I’m not sure that there’s much out there that is better, at least that I’ve seen), it is certainly the film’s equal and yet another feather in Mickle’s already impressive cap. His newest film, Cold in July, has been earning rave reviews on the festival circuit, ensuring that his star is only on the rise.

I went into We Are What We Are expecting a lot, despite the film’s status as a remake, and was not disappointed in the slightest. The film is a complete marvel, the kind of experience that patient genre fans will remember for years to come (possibly the rest of their lives). The movie is filled with what seem to be a million little bright spots, like clouds of fireflies on a summer day: Marge’s vegetarian lasagna; the flashbacks that reminded me of Ravenous (another favorite film); the subtle but strong sense of feminism that informed the film; the terrifyingly tense, almost Hitchcockian dinner scene; the flood that reveals God’s wrath in ways that no tent-revival preacher ever could; another wonderful performance by Fessenden; the revelatory performances by Julia Garner and Ambyr Childers; the ending that inspires hope and fear in equal doses…all of this and so much more.

As a remake, Mickle’s We Are What We Are does everything I want it to do (and more): it actually has a function. As a film, We Are What We Are does so much more. Like Carpenter’s The Thing and Cronenberg’s The Fly, Mickle’s film refuses to rest on the laurels of its predecessor, blazing bold new paths into the unknown. It’s an instant classic, pure and simple, but I really didn’t expect less.