11/7/15: Doc Sportello and the Manic Mutton Chops

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auteur theory, based on a book, Benicio del Toro, caper films, Chinatown, Christopher Allen Nelson, cinema, crime film, dark comedies, Eric Roberts, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, Hong Chau, Jena Malone, Joanna Newsom, Joaquin Phoenix, Jonny Greenwood, Josh Brolin, Katherine Waterston, Keith Jardine, Leslie Jones, literary adaptation, Los Angeles, Martin Donovan, Martin Short, Maya Rudolph, Michael Kenneth Williams, Movies, Owen Wilson, P.T. Anderson, Paul Thomas Anderson, private detective, Reese Witherspoon, Robert Elswit, Serena Scott Thomas, set in Los Angeles, set in the 1970s, Southern California, The Long Goodbye, Thomas Pynchon, voice-over narration, writer-director

Say what you will about writer-director Paul Thomas Anderson, love him or hate him, it’s impossible to deny his status as one of the pivotal filmmakers of the past two decades. Ever since exploding into the public conscience with surprise hit Boogie Nights (1997), Anderson hasn’t crafted “films” so much as he’s created “events”: his fussy, overly-complex character studies have marked him as the modern-day Robert Altman and his relatively small output (seven full-lengths in 19 years) insures that a hungry public is always ready for the next course.

When Anderson’s films click with the zeitgeist, they go over like gangbusters: Boogie Nights, Punch-Drunk Love (2002) and There Will Be Blood (2007) all made their fair share of coin at the box office, without bending one inch towards anything approaching easy conformity. They also managed to enter into the pop culture vernacular, which may just be the greatest measure of a film’s indelible mark (for better or worse). When Anderson’s films don’t click with the general public, such as Magnolia (1999) or The Master (2012), they’re still afforded the respect due previous generations of auteurs like Coppola, Scorsese or Altman. Again, love him or hate him, any new Paul Thomas Anderson film is a big deal, precisely because he’s yet to turn in anything compromised, easily digested or disposable.

This, of course, brings us to Anderson’s newest film, a cinematic adaptation of Thomas Pynchon’s acid-etched love letter to ’70s-era Los Angeles, Inherent Vice (2015). On the outside, Pynchon and Anderson seem to be as natural fits as a hand in a glove: after all, who better to bring Pynchon’s notoriously thorny prose, subtle satirical edge and often outrageous characters to the big screen than the filmmaker who made Dirk Diggler and Daniel Plainview household names? With his ability to expertly balance the dark and light sides of characters, to find the comedy in the tragedy and vice versa, who better to bring the misadventures of Doc Sportello to the eager masses?

Our erstwhile protagonist and guide through the neon-lit proceedings is Doc Sportello (Joaquin Phoenix, re-teaming with Anderson after The Master), the perpetually confused, constantly pot-befogged private detective who seems to float, unscathed, through one potentially lethal situation after another, a literal babe in the woods whose inherent naivety just may be his greatest weapon. After old flame, Shasta Fay Hepworth (Katherine Waterston), pops back up in his life with a plea for help, Doc is thrust into the shadowy underworld of ultra-hip 1970s L.A., rubbing shoulders with shady dentists, dangerous foreign drug traffickers, corrupt cops, sinister New Age healing centers and white supremacists.

As Doc tries to figure out just what the hell is really going on, he runs afoul of his former partner from his days on the police force, Lt. Det. Christian “Bigfoot” Bjornsen (Josh Brolin), a genuinely strange individual who believes Doc to be part of some sort of Manson-esque cult, even as he seems to know more about Doc’s situation than he lets on. With new factions and players being revealed at seemingly every turn, it’s up to Doc to (somehow) blunder into the truth, unraveling the overly complex machinations to reveal the surprisingly simple core.

From the jump, one thing is plain and clear about Inherent Vice: it’s easily Anderson’s lightest, funnest and funniest film since Boogie Nights. Brisk, colorful, full of quirky, memorable dialogue and equally memorable characters, Inherent Vice is the epitome of a cinematic “good time,” a film that’s as eager to please as a friendly puppy. In many ways, Inherent Vice is more The Long Goodbye (1973) than Chinatown (1974), a cheerful, slighty hazy, shaggy-dog story that never feels oppressive, despite its film noir trappings.

Like most of Anderson’s films, Inherent Vice features a cast that’s almost an embarrassment of riches. There’s Phoenix, of course, doing his dependable best (more on that later) but he wouldn’t have nearly the impact without the rest of the exceedingly game cast. First and foremost, Brolin is an absolute blast as Bigfoot, providing the film with many of its most explicitly funny scenes/moments (the scene in the sushi restaurant is a comic masterpiece, with Brolin’s shouted “Molto panacayku!” being the brilliant cherry on top). The interaction between Brolin and Phoenix is endlessly fascinating, a giddy mixture of absurd violence, mopey nostalgia and genuine insanity that powers the film like a generator, along with providing just the right amount of emotional gravitas (when needed). Always a dependable actor, Brolin has rarely been more fun than this.

Waterston is great as Doc’s one-true-love, bringing just the right amount of angelic etheriality and earthy sexuality to the role: it’s easy to see why Doc is so obsessed with her (always a key element to this kind of thing) and their scenes together perfectly play up their largely unspoken past. As somehow who usually finds cinematic sex scenes to be largely unnecessary and…well…largely unsexy…I also must admit that the scene where Waterston graphically describes her sexual adventures before Phoenix spanks her (among other things) absolutely smolders. I’ll stand corrected: sex scenes can be sexy, after all.

Really, though, the role call of great performances could continue for some time: Owen Wilson is perfect as poor Coy Harlingen; Benecio del Toro pretty much reprises his role from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (1998) and the second time is just as much a charm; Martin Short is ruthlessly smarmy as the Golden Fang’s “legitimate” business front; Reese Witherspoon gets to play against type as Doc’s growly D.A. girlfriend; singer Joanna Newsom has fun as the film’s narrator/Doc’s imaginary muse; and Hong Chau is pure nitro as diminutive masseuse/Golden Fang employee, Jade.

Above and beyond it all, however, slouches the inimitable shadow of Phoenix’s Doc Sportello. For all intents and purposes, Phoenix doesn’t play Sportello: he BECOMES Doc, slipping into his amiable, doped-out shoes with such ease that it’s less acting than channeling a past life. Similar to Elliot Gould’s unflappable, off-the-cuff take on Philip Marlowe, Phoenix’s Doc is the living embodiment of “the reed bends so that it doesn’t break.” Regardless of the situation, whether faced with a loaded firearm, a skinhead with a lethal dose of heroin or the sudden reappearance of his dream girl, Doc (and Phoenix) approach it all with the same sense of wide-eyed, innocent befuddlement. It’s an approach that could have come across as needlessly comedic, in the wrong hands (I shudder to imagine what Johnny Depp might have done here, for example), but works like a charm here. Phoenix is one of the era’s most esteemed actors for precisely this reason: his ability to imbue the material with the proper amount of weight, regardless of how lightweight it might (or might not) be is virtually unparalleled.

From a filmcraft perspective, Inherent Vice is undeniably lovely, featuring a burnished, warm tone that befits the era (cinematographer Robert Elswit has shot all of Anderson’s films, with the exception of The Master) and another one of those chock-a-block musical scores that are so emblematic of Anderson’s films (Radiohead’s Jonny Greenwood does the honors here, just like he did for There Will Be Blood and The Master). The film’s neon-and-pastel aesthetic perfectly fits the slightly goofy material, culminating in a neon-bedecked credit sequence that just might be my favorite way to end a film in years.

After all of that’s said and done, however, one question still remains: how does Inherent Vice stack up against the rest of Anderson’s formidable filmography? Despite how much I, personally, enjoyed the film (it’s easily my second favorite Anderson movie, after Boogie Nights), I won’t deny that it’s also a surprisingly slight offering. Despite the overly complex nature of the plot and the endless ways in which the large cast maneuver in and around each other, the resolution is surprisingly, almost smugly simple: it’s the machinations of Chinatown minus any of the actual import.

Not to say that this doesn’t dovetail neatly with Pynchon’s source material (the “so convoluted it’s simple” structure is one of the novel’s best jokes, along with the patently ridiculous character names like Doc Sportello, Bigfoot Bjornsen, Michael Wolfmann, Sauncho Smilax and Rudy Blatnoyd) but it also makes for a film that’s the equivalent of a heaping helping of cotton candy: colorful, fun and capable of giving a mighty sugar rush but patently devoid of any nutritional value. Unlike the angle Anderson took with Boogie Nights, there’s precious little in the way of genuine emotional weight here and the whole thing feels relatively low stakes. We never really fear for Doc since he’s such a charmed idiot, similar to how no one ever really worried that Buster Keaton was going to blunder into actual physical danger.

Ultimately, however, these are probably more the quibbles of an ultra-fan than any damning criticism: regardless of how lightweight or disposable the film often feels, it’s still a Paul Thomas Anderson flick through and through and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. Sort of a spiritual little brother to the Coens’ immortal The Big Lebowski (1998) (if you cross your eyes just right, you can see a lot of The Dude in Phoenix’s bewildered performance), Inherent Vice is an utterly alive, cheeky and cheerful good time. Smart, groovy and as breezy as a warm, tropical day, Inherent Vice may be one of Anderson’s least thorny creations but I doubt you’ll be thinking about that much once you get caught up in the insanity.

As Doc’s muse notes, at one point: “Doc may not be a ‘do-gooder’ but he’s done good.” To piggyback on that sentiment: Inherent Vice may not be perfect but it’s pretty damn good, nonetheless.

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2/11/15: Our Hero

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American Dream, anti-hero, Best of 2014, Bill Paxton, capitalism, character dramas, cinema, City of Angels, crime journalism, Dan Gilroy, dark films, directorial debut, dramas, ethics, favorite films, feature-film debut, film reviews, films, Jake Gyllenhaal, James Newton Howard, journalistic ethics, Kevin Rahm, L.A., Los Angeles, Louis Bloom, Michael Hyatt, misanthropes, Movies, Nightcrawler, Price Carson, Rene Russo, Riz Ahmed, Robert Elswit, set in Los Angeles, snubb, sociopath, tabloid journalism, Taxi Driver, the American Dream, Travis Bickle, writer-director

If it’s true that we get the heroes that we deserve, then Louis Bloom may just be the quintessential hero for our modern era. Consider this: he’s fearless, driven and in a constant quest to improve his standing in life. He’s a go-getter who pulls himself up by his bootstraps, sets his sights on a goal and, through hard work and perseverance, achieves just what he sets out to do. A fierce believer in the “American Dream,” Louis is also proof-positive that said dream can, in fact, be achieved: work as hard as he does and the world is your oyster. That Louis is also an unrepentant misanthrope with such a cold, reptilian disdain for his fellow humans that he cheerfully lies, cheats and extorts them to further his own ends is of little concern: at the end of the day, the guy gets the job done, right? Isn’t that really all that matters?

Louis Bloom, as played by the increasingly impressive Jake Gyllenhaal, is the very heart and center of Dan Gilroy’s quietly stunning Nightcrawler (2014), a nocturnal trudge through the muck of Los Angeles that manages to serve as both a spiritual and logical successor to Scorsese’s untouchable Taxi Driver (1976). Part twisted love letter to the City of Angels, ala Drive (2011), part depraved character study and completely focused on the myth of the American Dream, Nightcrawler is a stunning piece of filmcraft. Decidedly old-fashioned yet never anything less than “of the moment,” Gilroy’s film holds a mirror up to modern society and asks the all-important question: “Do you like what you see?” That some folks might answer in the affirmative makes Louis Bloom as necessary today as Travis Bickle was in the ’70s.

Quite simply, Nightcrawler is the story of one man’s quest to make something of himself, by hook or by crook. We first meet Bloom as a petty thief, albeit a particularly motor-mouthed, self-assured and ruthless one. In no time, however, Louis has set his sights on a slightly more “respectable” line of work: amateur crime journalism. After getting the gist of the job from grizzled veteran Joe Loder (Bill Paxton), Bloom is up and running on his own, attracting the attention of Nina (Rene Russo), news director for a Z-grade local station. He’s so successful that even hires an assistant, Rick (Riz Ahmed), although the poor guy is more of a meagerly-paid intern than an equal partner. As Louis continues to claw his way to the top of the heap, making himself a complete gadfly to the police, his rival photographers and everyone he comes into contact with, his ambitions get bigger and bigger. When the opportunity comes up for Louis to, literally, “create” the biggest story of his nascent career, our humble “hero” dives in headfirst: he’s going to be the best in the biz, regardless of who has to suffer or die in the process. After all, what’s survival of the fittest without a little collateral damage, eh?

In every way, Nightcrawler is an amazing film, as streamlined and driven as the antihero who pulls all the onscreen strings like a malevolent puppet master. It’s almost impossible for me to believe that this is actually Dan Gilroy’s debut film: prior to this, he served as screenwriter for films like Freejack (1992) (a childhood favorite), Tarsem’s quirky The Fall (2006) and The Bourne Legacy (2012). Gilroy also wrote the script, which is full of so many incredibly subtle little touches that it’s impossible to list all of the highlights. There’s a premium put on character development here, which lends a nice sense of three-dimensionality to the film: while the film’s themes and basic set-up echoes Taxi Driver in some fairly significant ways, it’s this attention to character detail that really reminds me of Scorsese’s classic.

Robert Elswit, who serves as P.T. Anderson’s resident director of photography, produces some undeniably beautiful images here: in many ways, Nightcrawler is as much about the heart and soul of Los Angeles as it is about Louis Bloom and Elswit’s gorgeous photography really drives this home. From twinkling night-time cityscapes to iconic landmarks like Laurel Canyon, L.A. has rarely looked this inviting, neon-lit pretty poison for its clusters of residents. There’s also a nicely atmospheric, subtle score by composer James Newton Howard that helps to envelop the audience in the city’s smoky mystique: everything about Nightcrawler is a fully immersive experience.

Gilroy gets some exceptionally strong performances from a very solid supporting cast, something which definitely reminded me of Taxi Driver. Riz Ahmed, who was quite good in Four Lions (2010), is equally strong here as Louis’ surrogate conscience: his character has a nicely tragic arc that serves as perfect complement to Bloom, as does his nervous, fidgety performance. Bill Paxton is pretty great as Loder: there’s nothing phoned-in about his performance and the scene where he calls Bloom a “twerp” is a particular highlight, as is the haunting bit where his staring eyes provide the loudest condemnation possible. Rene Russo, returning to dramatic roles for the first time in a decade (not counting her appearances in the Thor franchise), is quite amazing here: she really brings the character of Nina to life and her inevitable “corruption” is as painful to watch as it is foregone. Special mention must also be made of Kevin Rahm, who brings an unusual degree of nuance and depth to the character of Nina’s editor, Frank. Frank serves as the film’s sober voice of reason, standing aghast at Bloom’s increasing sociopathic tendencies, even as Nina and the others bend over backwards to accommodate him. It’s a thankless role, in many ways, but Rahm brings such a sense of nobility and moral integrity to the character that he proves integral to the film’s final destination.

As great as the rest of the cast is, however, all pale in comparison to Gyllenhaal’s stunning portrayal of the ultimate creepazoid. From his constantly shifting eyes, to his hunched body language, to the eerie half-smile that always ghosting across his lips, Louis Bloom is a thoroughly unforgettable character, brought to vibrant, unsettling life by Gyllenhaal. Similar to DeNiro’s performance as Travis Bickle, Gyllenhaal is all-in: there’s nothing about this that feels like acting…everything about Bloom feels completely, uncomfortably and terrifyingly real. Aside from one notable exception, everything about Louis Bloom is strangely serene and placid, still waters that conceal ravenous sharks. It’s an amazing performance and, quite frankly, one of the very best of the entire year. While Nightcrawler’s complete absence from the upcoming Academy Awards is a crime, Gyllenhaal’s absence from the Best Actor category is totally unfathomable: for the second time in the same year (Enemy was the first), Gyllenhaal has been snubbed. While I’ve found Gyllenhaal to be a sturdy actor ever since Donnie Darko (2001), his career choices in the 2010s have been nothing short of revelatory: at this rate, he’s going to be one of the greatest living actors in a few short years, a statement which is not hyperbolic in the slightest. If anyone still has doubts about his abilities (which no one should), his portrayal of Louis Bloom should put them to rest: his work here is just as impressive as DeNiro’s in Taxi Driver, which is certainly no small praise.

At one point in Nightcrawler, Nina tries to get Louis an entry-level job at the news station, only for him to handily turn her down: “I wanna be the guy that owns the station that owns the camera,” he tells her and it’s a sentiment that should be familiar to lots of people. After all, who among us would rather continue to run in the rat-race if we got the opportunity to call the shots? Nightcrawler is such a powerful film precisely because of the inherent dichotomy of the “American Dream”: you step on plenty of people on the way to the top of the heap, all of whom have their own needs, wants and desires. As Gilroy gradually ratchets up the tension and Louis slowly journeys from “casual observer” to “active participant,” it’s easy to get swept up in his success. After all, isn’t this what everyone really wants: to be successful at whatever they happen to be doing? By the time Louis’ actions move from “questionable” to “downright scary,” we’re already so far down the rabbit-hole that it no longer really matters: in an era where mega-corporations and the wealthy control every aspect of society, the deck is already stacked…who are we to complain when someone finds a way to win a rigged game?

One of the more interesting criticisms I’ve heard leveled at Nightcrawler is that the film refuses to take a stand on Louis Bloom: his actions are presented without condemnation or qualification, not portrayed as the true acts of evil that they really are. I would counter this by saying that, as a mirror, Nightcrawler reflects back the image of whoever happens to be watching: plenty of folks will watch Bloom’s actions and be righteously offended, recognizing him as the dangerous sociopath that he really is. For many people, there is nothing justified or good about a system that prizes naked ambition and drive over any other considerations: building your fortune on the back of your fellow-man is not only immoral but bad for humanity, in general. By his very actions, Bloom is shown to be the antithesis of community and society: if anything, he’s but one small step removed from a complete psycho like Patrick Bateman.

Some people, however, will undoubtedly watch Nightcrawler and come away with an altogether different point of view. For these people, they might recognize Bloom as the very poster child for the American Dream: here, after all, is a guy who started with nothing and ended up with everything that he wanted. He achieved these goals not through handouts or outside assistance but through his own hard work and tenacity: he earned his “degree” on the streets, not in the hallowed halls of academia. The positioning of Bloom as a fledgling small business owner, at the end, is subtle but important: for many people, this is the culmination of a dream, making Bloom something of an inspiration.

In a world where we increasingly tell ourselves that the ends do, in fact, justify the means, Dan Gilroy’s instantly classic debut stands as bracing testimonial to the dangers of said belief. We might not like what Nightcrawler has to say but we would be absolute fools to ignore it.

1/1/15 (Part One): Hollywood Meat Grinder

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Adam Bricker, Alexandra Essoe, Amanda Fuller, Astraeus, casting couch, cinema, co-directors, co-writers, Dennis Widmyer, Fabianne Therese, fame, Fautian deals, film reviews, films, Hollywood, horror, horror movies, insanity, Kevin Kolsch, Los Angeles, Louis Dezseran, Marc Senter, Maria Olsen, Movies, Natalie Castillo, Nick Simmons, Noah Segan, occult, Pat Healy, Sarah Walker, Satanism, selling your soul, Shane Coffey, starlets, Starry Eyes, The Fly

Just how far would you go to be a star? For some folks, the idea of fame doesn’t have much appeal: they’re more than happy to conduct their business from the sidelines, keeping cool while someone else burns under the spotlight. For others, however, the pursuit of fame is all-encompassing, a never-ending quest for that fabled brass ring, that opportunity to stand on the world stage, hold their heads up high and shout, “Here I am,” to bask in adulation, admiration and envy from the masses. We live in an era where people can become famous, if only briefly, for seemingly capricious reasons: one person uploads a YouTube video and receives a million views…their next-door-neighbor does the same thing and hears crickets. Despite how important fame is for so many people, there is no such thing as a “sure thing,” no unbeatable formula to becoming a star.

But what if there was? What if there was some way to ensure your celebrity, some sure-fire way to “jump the line,” as it were, and go straight to the “adoring fans” stage? If fame is so important, would you give up everything in your life – your friends, your family, any interests – in order to guarantee your 15 minutes in the spotlight? Just how much would you be willing to give up to be a star? Your morality? Your dignity? Your soul? These are the questions that get asked in Kevin Kolsch and Dennis Widmyer’s Starry Eyes (2014), a Faustian tale of one young starlet’s search for fame and the hideous price that she pays to finally see her name on the big marquee. The answers won’t surprise horror fans but they might give budding ingenues pause for thought as they continue their own quests for immortality and fame. Spoiler alert: these things never go as planned.

Our wannabe starlet is Sarah Walker (Alexandra Essoe), a bright-eyed, hopeful and rather naive young actress who spends her days wearing hot-pants at Big Tators (think a sleazier version of Hooters) and her evenings going to one audition after the other, all in pursuit of that fabled “big break.” Her manager, Carl (Pat Healey), is a chauvinistic jerk, her “friends” are a bunch of catty, privileged and unbelievably shallow assholes (all of whom are, likewise, hunting for fame and fortune) and the limelight seems impossibly far away. All of this seems to change, however, when Sarah receives a call to audition for mysterious production company Astraeus Pictures’ newest film, The Silver Scream. Could this finally be the break that she’s so desperately looking for?

After a terrible audition, Sarah heads right to the bathroom and promptly throws the kind of fit usually reserved for young children or mental patients: screaming, sobbing, tearing huge chunks of hair out of her head and throwing herself about, Sarah is interrupted by one of Astraeus’ casting agents. Perhaps they’ve missed something “special” after all: Sarah is invited back, with one caveat – she has to throw the same fit for the casting agents. She does and is rewarded with yet another call-back. As Sarah continues to meet with the representatives from Astraeus Pictures, the auditions get stranger and stranger, culminating in a meeting with The Producer (Louis Dezseran) where all of the cards are laid on the table: the coveted lead role is Sarah’s…provided she takes her spot on the casting couch, that is.

Mortified by the “offer,” Sarah rushes out and resigns herself to becoming a star “the right way.” Her roommate, Tracy (Amanda Fuller), seconds Sarah’s outrage: none of them would ever sink that low, so there’s no reason Sarah should, either. After realizing that she’ll never break into their tight-knit clique, however, Sarah begins to reevaluate the offer from Astraeus: she calls them back and is offered one more chance to “meet” with The Producer. As Sarah will find out, however, everything has a price and she will have to trade in one small thing in her pursuit for fame: her basic humanity.

Expertly crafted, Starry Eyes is the kind of well-made, full-throttle B-movie that used to choke video store shelves in the ’80s horror boom: the kicker, of course, is that the film is from 2014, not 1983, making it yet another in the boom of modern genre films that explicitly reference other eras. Despite being part of a larger stylistic trend, however, Starry Eyes holds its own: in many ways, it’s much closer to Ti West’s excellent The House of the Devil (2009) in that the film always “feels” like a period piece, without seeming like slavish imitation. Chalk it up to a mix of Adam Bricker’s cinematography, the film’s themes or its structure but Starry Eyes is one of the most authentic “non-authentic” genre films I’ve seen in some time.

At its heart, however, Kolsch and Widmyer’s film isn’t much more than another variation on the age-old Faust story, albeit one that manages to throw elements of Cronenberg’s gooey The Fly (1986) and the batshit Jeff Lieberman oddity Blue Sunshine (1978) into the mix. Despite a suitably unpredictable (and ridiculously gory) climax, Starry Eyes hits each and every expected beat for this type of story: someone makes a Faustian deal to acquire fame/fortune/power/knowledge, comes to regret their decision after the real “cost” is revealed. As far as the film goes, that’s pretty much it: the “Hollywood starlet/casting couch” aspect doesn’t mix things up much, although everything is wrapped-up in a suitably cohesive way by the conclusion.

If co-writers/directors Kolsch and Widmyer don’t do much new or unique with the formula, however, they also don’t make any obvious missteps. The film looks and sounds great, for one thing, and the frequent digressions into more visual stylistic tics are highly effective: there’s a really well-done drug-trip scene and the finale is wonderfully creepy and atmospheric, sort of a split between the aforementioned Blue Sunshine and one of Val Lewton’s classics. The filmmaking duo has style to spare and there’s a sense of economy to the film that quite nice: it feels like its own small, self-contained world, which is a nice change of pace in this day and age of “everything’s connected.” The acting is decent enough, with veteran character actor Healey bringing a little nuance to his performance as Carl (he could have just been a complete scuzzball but you actually end up feeling for him, a little) and Essoe doing good (if occasionally one-note) work as the aspiring starlet. I found myself actively hating all of Sarah’s friends, however, which probably had as much to do with the script establishing them as worthless twits as it did with the actual performances. That being said, it was impossible for me to get invested in any of their fates, which robbed the finale of some of its awful power: suffice to say, my mourning period was non-existent.

From a horror standpoint, Starry Eyes is exceptionally solid: despite the story’s inherent familiarity, there’s a reason why Faust has always played so well on the big screen and Kolsch and Widmyer manage to wring every last drop of dread and inevitability out of the scenario. The practical effects are actually quite exceptional, with some truly ghastly body horror stuff in the final reel and the single most intense head-smashing scene I’ve ever seen, including the infamous fire extinguisher scene from Irreversible (2002). I’m not normally one to dwell on gore in films (by this point in my life, you could say that I’m a little jaded) but that head-pounding setpiece really is a showstopper, in every sense of the word, and proof positive that the filmmakers have no problem going to some very extreme places.

All in all, I really liked Starry Eyes, even though there wasn’t anything particularly special about it. In certain ways, it reminded me of another retro-minded film, Almost Human (2013): while, likewise, well-made and massively entertaining, it was really nothing more than an enjoyable, direct-to-video B-movie. Perhaps my affinity for and slight (very slight) disregard of Starry Eyes come from the same place: I grew up on movies just like these, good but not amazing horror and genre films that were massively entertaining but largely disposable. If anything, I wish that there were a lot more films like this: I certainly wouldn’t object to a glut of well-made, effective genre films, even if none of them are mind-blowing or game-changing. Without a doubt, Starry Eyes is effective and extremely atmospheric: it compares favorably with the best horror films of the year on quality alone, even if it never takes that “big step” that would vault it above the competition. I liked it enough to anticipate Kolsch and Widmyer’s next project: if they keep mining this same vein of retro-minded horror, I have a feeling that they’ll come up with a real firecracker next time.

 

2/15/14: Jocks Gone Wild

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1980's, Beavis and Butthead, Boner the Barbarian, celebrities, Charlie Harper, Charlie Sheen, Christopher McDonald, cinema, Film, film reviews, Gregg Araki, high school grads, killing spree, Los Angeles, Martin Sheen, Maxwell Caulfield, mental illness, Movies, Penelope Spheeris, road movie, road trips, serial killers, spree killers, The Boys Next Door, The Decline of Western Civilization, Wayne's World, William Friedkin

To paraphrase the late, great Rick James: celebrity is a helluva drug. The whirlwind of celebrity crash-and-burn has claimed many formerly good actors (Anyone remember the time when Gary Busey wasn’t the punchline to a joke? As hard as it may be to believe, there once was such a time.) and will probably continue to grind up performers until the sun finally winks out of existence. One of the biggest casualties? The current wild-man/former actor known as Charlie Sheen.

Once upon a time, way before “winning,” “warlocks” and “Denise Richards,” Sheen was a promising young actor who seemed poised to follow in his father’s footsteps. Young Sheen appeared in a string of successful films, including Platoon (1986), Wall Street (1987), Young Guns (1988), Eight Men Out (1988), Major League (1989), The Rookie (1990), Hot Shots! (1991) and Hot Shots! Part Deux (1993). David Twohy’s above-average alien-encounter flick The Arrival (1996) would be Sheen’s last “big” role before he made the move to TV, doing two years as Michael J. Fox’s replacement in Spin City before playing the part of Charlie Harper on Two and a Half Men for the next eight years.

Somewhere in that timeline, Sheen made the decision to put his acting on the back burner and focus, instead, on partying, drug use and general debauchery aka “The Robert Downey Jr. Plan.” As such, Sheen had already become something of a public joke before his very public meltdown and removal from his hit TV series made him a complete joke. Since that time, Charlie Sheen has existed as a sort-of meta-celebrity, an actor who only plays himself (A Glimpse Inside the Mind of Charles Swan III) and who seems to only be famous for being famous and saying outrageous (although increasingly less so) things.

Back at the beginning of his career, however, absolutely anything seemed possible. As the son of similarly hard-charging Martin Sheen, Charlie seemed to be a natural fit to follow in his dad’s footsteps (he even had a walk-on in Martin’s Apocalypse Now). The Boys Next Door, only Charlie’s second starring role, isn’t a great film but it is an interesting one and a pretty quaint look back into a time when Sheen was known more for his acting then his antics.

The film opens with sobering talking-head footage about serial killers, the consensus being that they usually end up being people who know and interact with on a regular basis, seemingly normal people who end up being less than human. We then cut to Roy (Maxwell Caulfield) and Bo (Sheen), a couple of knuckle-headed, prank-loving, high-school graduates acting like complete pains in the asses. They irritate their peers, giggle like flesh-and-blood versions of Beavis and Butthead, draw dirty pictures in class and crash pool parties that they’re not invited to. Once they appear to have exhausted their supply of home-town fun, the meat-heads steal a classmate’s dog, re-name it “Boner the Barbarian,” and hit the road for L.A. At this point, the film seems like any number of schlocky, ’80s teen road-movies, albeit with that aforementioned Beavis and Butthead vibe. Soon, however, the film will attempt to pull the rug from underneath our feet and will (to varying degrees) succeed.

As the two friends (and Boner the Barbarian) drive to Los Angeles, Roy quickly reveals himself to be a complete psychopath, a severely damaged individual who wants to join the army just so that he can kill something. As they travel about, Roy’s rage continues to bubble to the surface and, before long, he’s begun to violently lash out at everyone they come across: a gas-station attendant is beaten senseless…an old lady is hit in the head with a bottle. Before you know it, Roy is killing people and Bo (distinctly non-homicidal but so ineffectual as to become an unwitting accomplish) is “helplessly” along for the ride. Once the police get involved, the film becomes a headlong rush to a pretty inevitable fate: if you’ve seen one “fugitives on the run” film, you’ve probably seen at least 50% of them.

In certain ways, The Boys Next Door is an extremely strange film and at least some of the credit for this must be due to director Penelope Spheeris. Fans of transgressive ’80s cinema will recognize Spheeris from both 1981’s The Decline of Western Civilization (still one of the very best documentaries/looks into the burgeoning 1980’s U.S. hardcore scene) and Suburbia (1983), a look into disaffected youth that would seem to directly presage Gregg Araki’s nihilistic ’90s films. On the flip side, more modern sensibilities may recall that Spheeris also directed the original Wayne’s World (1992) before disappearing down the rabbit-hole of increasingly crass comedies and remakes: The Beverly Hillbillies (1993), The Little Rascals (1994), Black Sheep (1996), and Senseless (1998) all seemed to put the fork into a career that started out fairly interesting before sputtering out.

It’s definitely the “pre-PG13” Spheeris that we get in The Boys Next Door, however, which certainly accounts for much of the film’s psuedo-Repo Man look and vibe. At times, especially once Roy goes batshit, the film also reminded me of William Friedkin’s strange spree-killer/courtroom-drama Rampage (1988). Since Spheeris’ film preceded Friedkin’s by several years, it’s rather tempting for me to think that she might have had a little influence on his (decidedly) better film but I’m not sure if he would have been paying attention: Friedkin would have been working on To Live and Die in L.A. (1985) by that time.

One influence that can be seen in The Boys Next Door, however, is a bit of future influence: you can actually see shades of Wayne’s World, as bizarre as that may sound, in much of the film. Whether it’s in scenes like the goofy ones where our two “protagonists” drive around the city and gawk at “punk-rockers” or the real head-scratcher where Roy and Bo are chased by an angry mob of bikini-clad women after pelting an old lady in the head with a bottle, the film definitely recalls (at least in feel, if not tone) the antics of Wayne and Garth…minus all of the killing, of course.

Despite its frantic pace and Looney Tunes-sense of energy, The Boys Next Door still manages to run out of gas before its (inevitable) conclusion. After several scenes that managed to surprise, if not exactly shock, the conclusion is just about as lazy as it gets: a cheesy butt-rock guitar solo wails as Roy and Bo flee, first by car, then on foot, with the police in hot pursuit. The whole footchase essentially consists of anonymous shots of Roy and Bo running down generic hallways inter-cut with other anonymous shots of cops running down equally generic hallways. Between the frenetic noodling and the endlessly repetitive hallways, the finale feels like being stuck in purgatory, which may have been Spheeris’ intent all along.

As far as craft goes, The Boys Next Door holds together fairly well but certainly is nothing to write home about. Sheen is very good, if constantly bemused, as the “saner” of the two friends, while Caulfield pours his all into a role that frequently feels like a bone-headed update of that other Caulfield, the one who sulked through Catcher in the Rye. There’s a pretty hilarious (albeit unintentionally so) performance by a very young Christopher McDonald as a square, weepy cop. Older viewers will probably remember McDonald from any number of character turns over the past 30+ years but younger viewers will almost certainly remember him as Shooter McGavin, Happy Gilmour’s arch-enemy in the eponymous film. It’s a real hoot to see McDonald playing such a simpering, “nice guy” character, even if he doesn’t get much to actually do in the film. While the acting is decent, much of the film’s look and sound is strictly of the era, including a ridiculously clichéd and rather annoying score. As mentioned, the film frequently seems to be trying to mimic the look and feel of Repo Man (1984) but without a tenth of writer/director Alex Cox’s invention or gritty eye for absurdity.

As it stands, The Boys Next Door is a pretty-decent example of the “serial killer road trip” sub-genre but is, ultimately, pretty light-weight and forgettable, bar a few disturbing scenes (the one where Roy kills the girl that Bo is having sex with is a real corker). One big plus? The film has the temerity to introduce a dog but then never bothers to kill it: what were the filmmakers thinking? Any film that lets Boner the Barbarian live to rampage anew is just okay enough to deserve a look, in my book. Plus, you know, that whole Charlie Sheen thing. Winning, indeed!

1/22/14: A Little Noir and a Lotta Dumb

Tags

bad films, bad movies, Barry Fitzgerald, bars, cinema, Citizen Kane, comedies, crime film, Danny Devito, ensemble casts, Film, Girl Walks into a Bar, Gothika, Jimmy Halloran, Jules Dassin, Los Angeles, Lt. Daniel Muldoon, Mark Hellinger, Movies, New York City, Robert Forster, Rosario Dawson, Sebastian Gutierrez, Snakes on a Plane, terrible films, The Naked City, voice-over narration, Z-movies, Zachary Quinto

As a rule, I like to counter-program whenever I watch multiple movies: too much of any one thing can get tiring. There are exceptions, of course, such as my annual horror movie marathon in October: that’s pretty much just an entire month of horror films. Other than that, however, I usually like a little variety. Sometimes, however, I counter-program without even knowing it. Such was the case last Wednesday when I inadvertently paired up a pretty good film-noir (The Naked City) with a god-awful skid-mark called Girl Walks into a Bar. None of the names have been changed to protect the guilty.

Not all films deliver the goods in big ways. Some films (many films, if we’re being completely honest) are more about small moments, individual pleasures. You could probably fill an airplane hangar with the “pleasant diversions” that I’ve watched over the past 30 years, although I doubt if I could remember much about most of them save the titles. Sometimes, a film isn’t groundbreaking, vital or earth-shaking: sometimes, a film is just pretty good…and that’s good enough.

The Naked City is a pretty good film, less a film noir (which it at first resembles) than a police procedural. Ostensibly, the film is about the police manhunt for the individual (or individuals) who murdered a young, blonde model in her apartment. Lt. Daniel Muldoon (played with so much mischievous energy by Barry Fitzgerald that the character is practically a leprechaun) and officer Jimmy Halloran (a wide-eyed Don Taylor, evidently pretty fresh from the farm) are on the case, tearing the city apart in their quest for answers and justice.

Right off the bat, there’s something a little off about The Naked City. The film begins with an aerial view of New York City as producer Mark Hellinger (who doubles as the film’s narrator) explains to us that the film was not shot on sound stages but, rather, on the gritty streets of New York, itself. This is a film, he lets us know, that is as much about the city as the people who live there. It’s an interesting tact that makes sense when you consider the staged nature of most films released in 1948.

This attempt to get into the heart (and mind) of the city is, at first glance, quite disorienting. We spend almost ten minutes jumping around from cleaning lady to switchboard operator to late-night radio DJ and back, hearing their (mostly mundane) thoughts on their lives, jobs, etc…It’s an almost documentary-esque technique that is only shattered when the camera strays into the victim’s apartment and we witness two mysterious men kill her. For a time, the film really does seem like it will consist of day-in-the-life vignettes.

Another trait that marks The Naked City as a bit of an odd duck is the oftentimes intrusive narration by Hellinger. Much of the time, Hellinger functions less as narrator than as Greek chorus, color commentator or surrogate character in the unfolding drama. As Officer Halloran is scouring the city for clues, Hellinger’s narration is a constant companion: “Look at your city, Halloran;” “The dress shop is next, Halloran.” This can become a bit distracting, particularly once the action picks up in the latter half and Hellinger becomes a TV commentator: “Run over there, Halloran…he turned to the left…look up above you!…what’s that over there?” To further confound things, Hellinger’s narration and inflection seem rather inappropriate for a crime film. It’s hard to describe but anyone who grew up on old Disney films will, presumably, know what I’m talking about. Imagine the kindly-voiced narrator from Dumbo narrating a crime drama and you begin to get the picture. This could be a hold-over from old radio programs but Hellinger’s narration is always either too flip or snide to convey any sense of mystery.

Structure-wise, the film is very much indebted to Welles’ Citizen Kane, released a scant seven years before The Naked City. Officer Halloran travels about the city, talking to anyone and everyone that knew the dead girl, in an attempt to piece together just who she was. It’s an effective structural-choice and lends the film a sturdy framework that helps immeasurably when it (occasionally) decides to spin its wheels.

There are little moments in the film that I enjoyed quite a bit: a discussion between Halloran and his wife about spanking their son turns, out of nowhere, into a really interesting argument on gender roles; the public’s fascination with every detail of the unfolding murder-mystery was the same then as it is now; there’s a blind man and his seeing-eye dog that reminded me immediately of the blind man and dog in Argento’s Suspiria, right down to the type of dog and the man’s clothing (could Argento have been a fan?); Barry Fitzgerald’s absolutely joyous portrayal of Lt. Muldoon (rarely have I seen an actor not named Richard Harris or Robert Downey Jr. tear his teeth so lustily into a role like this) and the ending is very strong.

All in all, The Naked City was really fun to watch, albeit kind of weird and a little silly, at times. While nowhere near a great noir or crime film, The Naked City is a perfectly fine way to whittle away 90 minutes. As Hellinger states at the end: “There are eight million stories in the Naked City…this has been one of them.” Damn straight, Mark: damn straight, indeed.

Full disclosure: I absolutely hated this film. Positively detested it. In fact, I dare say that I have seen few films that I actively disliked as much as this hackneyed, pretentious, stupid, blissfully unaware, towering horse manure-monument to narcissism. I can’t even say that I was glad when it was over, since I then had time to focus my disgust inwards, wondering what mental deficiency necessitate that I spend even one minute with this aggressively brain-dead waste of trust funds. I, by association, was as guilty as Sebastian Gutierrez and every other misbegotten individual involved with this cinematic abortion.

Sebastian Gutierrez…Sebastian Gutierrez…why does that name sound familiar? Had the name sounded more familiar before I began, we wouldn’t be having this discussion. You see, writer/director Sebastian Gutierrez was also the genius who wrote Snakes on a Plane and Gothika. A little history: those two films are fucking terrible, pardon my French. Snakes on a Plane may have had Sam Jackson and a big pop culture push but, in reality, it was an awful film, a self-aware bit of stupidity that strove for cult status without ever realizing what made cult films “cult” in the first place. Gothika was an aggressively stupid, unpleasant, worthless supernatural thriller that starred Halle Berry and, by itself, would have been enough reason for me to curse Gutierrez’s name from now until the stars burn out.

So, we have one of the worst writers in the biz: not good so far. But we also have huge stars like Danny Devito, Zachary Quinto, Rosario Dawson, Robert Forster (!), Gil Bellows and Josh Hartnett, you might say. Of course, we do. We also have them spewing the filmic equivalent of baby diarrhea: you don’t want a big cup of that, do you? I felt bad for every actor in the film but reserved a special reserve of pit for Robert Forster. I mean…really? Robert Forster…in this? My heart hurt for him, I won’t lie. The rest, barring Quinto (who’s still got time), have been in their fair share of embarrassments but this must be an all-time career low for Forster, even including his stellar turn in Scanner Cop II.

How about the plot? Well, there’s a hit woman and she has to go to ten different bars because she’s looking for the guy who stole her wallet while playing pool and each person she meets gives her another clue until she…oh, who gives a shit? Plot is, quite frankly, the last thing that anyone involved with this debacle is interested in. Plot holes? More like a smidgen of plot surrounded by the black hole of deepest space. To add insult to injury, the whole thing is episodic, taking place entirely in first one bar then the next then the next ad infinitum. I kept thinking this must have been an adapted stage play but who am I fooling? I’m pretty sure that the last play Sebastian watched was his elementary-school Christmas pageant. More likely, it’s just a really sloppy, lazy way to tell a story.

At this point, I would normally list all of the things that I really liked about a film. In this case, why don’t I just list the elements that made me black out from anger?

— the long, tedious, drawn-out fantasy sequence where Terri the stripper imagines one-upping the scuzzy guys in the club. A perfect example of a scene that thinks it’s exceptionally clever when it’s actually drooling in the porridge.

— Danny Devito’s entire time in the movie consists of him telling a dumb joke…what a waste.

— “What are you good at? You look like you’re really good at something but I just can’t put my finger on it.” — I can’t believe a human wrote this line: this has chimp fingerprints all over it.

— every single second of film that Rosario Dawson was in. How one individual could manage to be so annoying is a question for the ages.

— the nudity in the swinger’s club is censored with black bars because…it’s clever, I guess? Again, this was a case of Dumb and Dumbererer thinking it’s The Seventh Seal.

— Terri and the hit-woman play a game that consists entirely of them coming up with “imaginative” euphemisms for cunnilingus. I don’t laugh at these scenes when they involve boorish men and this was equally tasteless and stupid.

— the film ends with the three main characters country-line dancing in an empty bar because, honestly, how the hell else would you end something so offensively stupid?

I’ll leave you with the very last note that I took as I finished watching this cinematic masterpiece: Fuck you, Sebastian Gutierrez…fuck you very much.

1/19/14: Jumping the Shark

Tags

Abre Los Ojos, Agora, Alejandro Amenabar, ancient Egypt, Anthony C. Ferrante, auteur theory, B-movies, bad films, bad movies, character dramas, cheesy films, cinema, costume epic, disaster films, drama, Film, Film auteurs, historical drama, hurricane, Los Angeles, Movies, Rachel Weisz, Roman Empire, Sharknado, sharks, Snakes on a Plane, Syfy Channel, Tara Reid, The Asylum, The Others, Z-movies

We took care of the first half of our quadruple bill last time. This time around, let’s take a look at the final two: Agora and Sharknado. You’d think this would be an easy fight to predict. In many ways…you would be correct.

Sometimes, the weight of expectations for a particular film (or director, for that matter) can be a heavier burden than the actual film (or person) can bear. For every Wes Anderson, there’s a Tobe Hooper. For every Terry Gilliam, a Tarsem Singh. As someone who fully subscribes to the auteur theory of filmmaking, I have a tendency to stick with directors I admire, believing them to be less capable of disappointment than those that I don’t tend to idolize.

While I won’t claim to be his number-one super booster, I’ve always been a big fan of Alejandro Amenabar’s films. My first experience came with The Others (Amenabar’s English-language debut), a chilling, elegant Nicole Kidman chiller that managed to put a very fresh and grim spin on traditional ghost stories. Once hooked, I sought out Abre Los Ojos (later remade as the far inferior Tom Cruise vehicle Vanilla Sky), Thesis and The Sea Inside, which has to rank as one of the saddest films I’ve ever seen. I’ve always been impressed with Amenabar’s range, so when I heard that he was tackling an epic set in Roman Egypt, I was particularly excited. Alas, Agora would end up being my least favorite Amenabar film yet.

Were it not for the weight of expectations set by his other films, I might not have been so disappointed with Agora. For one thing, the film has a cheap look that seems to belie a tight budget. Rather than work within the constraints of this, however, the film constantly feels like it’s straining to be more than it can be. Imagine if Star Wars featured one spaceship or Lord of the Rings featured one Orc and you begin to get the idea. As the film progresses, there are some big setpieces that are actually handled very nicely, particularly the scene where the Christians rampage through the library, destroying everything in their path.

The acting, as a whole, is good but certainly nothing extraordinary. Rachel Weisz is quite good as Hypatia of Alexandria, the philosopher that serves not only as protagonist but also as moral center. In some ways, however, it almost feels as if Weisz plays her character as too driven, pounding away any of the subtle humanism of her character. The closest that we get to real human emotion from Hypatia is the jaw-dropping scene where she responds to a student’s public declaration of love with an equally public, if much more gynecological, gift. It’s not that Weisz is bad: quite to the contrary. My problem with her performance is that she, essentially, reduces Hypatia to a one-note character, even if that note is rather resonate.

Ultimately, the film boils down to an intense discussion on tolerance, most of which is related to the inherent conflict between the Christians, pagans and Jews of the era. It’s to the film’s intense credit that it never seems to choose a side. The Christians come off looking the worst, mostly because of their whole destruction of the famed Library of Alexandria but there’s plenty of blame to spread around to the pagans and Jews. Anti-Semitism makes up a large part of the conflict and it’s interesting to see how the film develops the idea that long-held prejudices can gradually grow until they’re unbeatable.

My final takeaway from the film, however, is how massively depressing and hopeless it ultimately is. We know that no one can stand against the tide of history but for over two hours, we get to witness Hypatia scorned, mocked, humiliated, assaulted, subjugated and marginalized. It’s giving nothing away to say that the film does not end happily, for any of the players. While it may be too long and rather disjointed, it’s the ultimate feeling of hopelessness that colors my experience of this film more than anything else. Here’s to hoping Amenabar’s next film, which is currently in pre-production and stars Ethan Hawke, finds the right balance of hope and hopelessness.

In 2006, a cheesy, completely self-aware B-movie managed to leave a mark (no matter how inconsequential) on the cultural landscape. This film featured production values that made SciFi Channel fare look like Lawrence of Arabia, more stupid action than you could shake a wiffle-ball bat at and Samuel L. Jackson uttering the soon-to-be immortal line, “I have had it with these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane!” Yes, the film was Snakes on a Plane and, for a brief moment, it was the talk of the town. Was the film any good? I personally disliked it but it obviously struck a chord with plenty of folks.

Fast forward seven years and we witness the attempted birth of another legend: Sharknado. Now, as far as concept goes, Sharknado features some pretty next-level kind of stuff. Essentially, a hurricane has swept over Los Angeles, flooding the area like cutting-room footage from Roland Emmerich’s home movies. Since just a hurricane, by itself, can’t possibly be bad enough, the storm picks up what must be every shark in the ocean and carries the teeth-with-fins around: we get to watch the cute little CGI critters fly around a funnel cloud like so much of Dorothy’s furniture in Kansas. This does, of course, beg the question: doesn’t getting carried around in hundred-mile-an-hour winds, miles above the earth (and away from any water) and then getting unceremoniously flung about cause any discomfort to the sharks at all? Truly nature’s killing machines!

Since this is, ostensibly, a horror film (I guess), the filmmakers know that we’re going to need a more ferocious monster than mere flying sharks to scare us. Therefore, they enlist the services of an obviously mentally unstable Tara Reid to really shake things up. When Tara first appears, reading her lines like a tent-revival preacher might speak tongues, I’ll admit that I was fascinated: had she been lobotomized? Was this actually like a real life version of The Sixth Sense and we would all come to realize that Tara Reid has been a ghost THIS WHOLE TIME? My fascination quickly turned to terror, however, as I realized that I would be spending the next 80 minutes desperately fearing the moment that she would pop up, jack-in-the-box style, to deliver pithy lines like “We need a bigger chopper,” all while projecting the aggressive confidence of one who has learned the best way to conceal medication under one’s tongue.

Let’s see, let’s see…what else do we get here? Well, we get an awful lot of violence for what is, technically, a PG-13 TV movie, although most of it is of the “There’s a CGI shark overlaid on my foot! Aargh…this must be pain I feel!” variety. There’s also a chopper pilot that wiggles his arms so much that I got seasick, which is a perfect complement to the driving scenes that feature more arm waving than a beauty pageant.

But who am I fooling? Anyone who walks into this steaming pile of cinema expecting 2001, much less Jaws, has rocks in their heads. The moment you see the “The Syfy Channel and The Asylum Presents…” hit the screen, there should be absolutely no doubt that you’ve booked a first-class cabin on the S.S. Caca. The only question that really matters is: is the movie fun? Is this a Megalodon-level of stupidity or a Master of Disguise-level of stupidity? Will this plumb the depths of Tromaville or just be another lame Clash of the Titans remake? This, friends and neighbors, should be the only concerning factor: is this movie a guaranteed good time?

Alas, at least as far as I’m concerned, it really isn’t. Snakes on a Plane at least had the benefit of featuring Samuel L. Jackson whereas the most we can say about Sharknado is that it features an obviously crazy Tara Reid stumbling through a performance that I’m sure she doesn’t even recall. There aren’t any badass or, to be honest, really likable characters to latch on to, which gives this something of the air of an anonymous ’80s slasher: many will die, few will care. Sharknado’s worst sin, however, the same sin that killed Snakes on a Plane, is its complete self-awareness. This isn’t an Ed Wood film or a cheesy ’80s actioner where the creators assumed they were making art: this is a modern film that deliberately sets out to imitate the inept, shoddy silliness of actual B-movies like Carnosaur and Galaxy of Terror. As such, nothing about the film feels authentic, which is kind of like trying to learn about history from an Old West re-enactment.

As an unabashed fan of Z-grade cinema, I really wanted to like Sharknado and, in all honesty, did find myself smiling a time or two. I also, unfortunately, spent a pretty fair amount of time looking at my watch. For a movie that runs less than 90 minutes and is supposed to be all about “fun fun fun,” this seems pretty unforgivable. Come to think of it, maybe being boring is a greater sin than being self-aware…especially if you’re an Asylum film.