10/23/14 (Part Two): Eat To Live, Don’t Live To Eat

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31 Days of Halloween, Anthony B. Richmond, Antonia Bird, Bill Brochtrup, black comedies, cannibalism, cannibals, cinema, cowardice, Damon Albarn, David Arquette, favorite films, film reviews, films, forts, gallows' humor, gory films, Grand Guignol, Guy Pearce, horror, horror films, isolation, Jeffrey Jones, Jeremy Davies, John Spencer, Joseph Running Fox, Manifest Destiny, Mexican-American War, Michael Nyman, Movies, Neal McDonough, Ravenous, Robert Carlyle, set in the 1840s, Sheila Tousey, Sierra Nevadas, Stephen Spinella, Ted Griffin, U.S. army, wendigo, Westward expansion

For my money, Antonia Bird’s Ravenous (1999) has to be one of the most under-rated films out there: it’s certainly one of the most under-rated horror films, which is a real head-scratcher considering just how good the movie is. Perhaps audiences were thrown off by the subject matter (cannibalism has the virtue of still being one of the few remaining Western taboos) or found the tone confusing (an argument that’s certainly valid, if needlessly reductive). Maybe genre audiences were resistant to a horror film helmed by a female director (Bird replaced the original director a few weeks into filming), a terribly stupid prejudice that’s haunted the genre practically from its inception. Regardless of the reason for its “shunning,” however, the facts remain the same: Ravenous is one hell of a great film and deserves to be mentioned in any list of the best films of the ’90s.

Set in the American West, circa 1847, we’re introduced to the character of Captain John Boyd (Guy Pearce) as he receives a medal for his bravery during the Mexican-American War. The irony, as we see via choice flashbacks and the withering comments of Boyd’s superior officer, General Slauson (John Spencer), is that Boyd is actually a coward: as his men were getting slaughtered left and right, Boyd hid himself under a mountain of bodies and pretended to be dead. Once all of his men were dead and the Mexican soldiers’ attention was elsewhere, Boyd slipped out and, single-handedly, captured the Mexican encampment. A one-man army? Definitely award-worthy! A coward who watches his own troops get butchered? Better get a broom: this is getting swept under the rug, folks.

As “reward,” Boyd is sent to remote Fort Spencer, an isolated and rarely used way-station for travelers in the Sierra Nevadas: the U.S. army loves him so much, they don’t want him anywhere around. At the fort, Boyd meets his new comrades, an exceptionally strange bunch of folks if there ever were any: Col. Hart (Jeffrey Jones), the commanding officer, is a philosophical man who reads books in their original language because the fort “thrives on tedium”; Major Knox (Stephen Spinella), the next in command, is a falling-down drunk who also serves as the fort’s resident doctor (“Don’t get sick,” is Hart’s sage advice to Boyd); Pvt. Toffler (Jeremy Davies), the group’s missionary, is a real nutcase who’s given to talking to himself in hushed tones and writing fervent religious poetry at the drop of a hat; the “over-medicated” Pvt. Cleaves (David Arquette), the perma-stoned cook who spends the majority of his time getting high and giggling; Pvt. Reich (Neal McDonough), the creepily cheerful, gung-ho soldier who’s given to standing in freezing ponds and primal screaming; and the fort’s resident Native Americans, Martha (Sheila Tousey) and her brother George (Joseph Running Fox), who also happens to be Cleaves’ smoking buddy. In other words, you have just about the most interesting group of characters (and actors) that you could possibly get…and it only gets better from there.

One night, the general boredom of the fort’s routine is upset when the group spy a mysterious, haggard mountain-man outside, in the freezing snow. Rushing him inside, the group finds him weak and nearly dead, but still kicking. After administering to him, they learn that the man is F.W. Colqhoun (Robert Carlyle), a Scottish immigrant who was travelling with a wagon train that found disaster in the unforgiving Sierra Nevadas. The train’s leader, Col. Ives, was an incompetent man who led them astray and got them all stranded in an underground cave. As the harsh winter set in around them, the group quickly blew through their food rations before turning to their pack animals and things like their leather belts and shoes. When those ran out, the group began to cannibalize the dead, some with more gusto than others, according to Colqhoun. Ives, in particular, became a monster who gleefully chowed his way through all of the survivors until it was just him, Colqhoun and another woman. Fleeing into the night, Colqhoun left Ives and the woman behind in the cave, a cowardly act that serves as a fitting parallel to Boyd’s own act of self-preservation.

Upon hearing that Ives and the woman may still be alive in the cave, Hart wastes no time in organizing a rescue mission, taking Boyd, George, Toffler, Reich and Colqhoun with him, as Knox stays behind to mind the fort. On the way, Toffler ends up getting injured, which leads to the unsettling incident where Colqhoun is discovered licking the missionary’s wound as they all sleep in their tents. Colqhoun, it would appear, has a bit of an impulse control problem. He’s also quite the liar, as the group discovers when they reach the cave and find a much different, more horrible scenario than the one Colqhoun so helpfully described. With the tables turned, Boyd is soon engaged in a life-or-death struggle with Colqhoun, a struggle that ends with Boyd grievously injured and trapped in a hole in the woods.

After freeing himself, Boyd returns to the fort only to discover that General Slauson and his men are already there: Hart’s party is still missing and Slauson has come down to lead the search. He’s also brought a new commanding officer with him, someone to run Fort Spencer in Hart’s absence…a cheerful, friendly fellow by the name of Col. Ives. From this point on, the film becomes a brilliant cat-and-mouse game as Boyd tries desperately to convince those around him that Ives is not only an imposter but a supernaturally strong, blood-thirsty cannibal, as well. Ives has plenty of tricks up his sleeve, however, and he’s a patient man: he’s more than happy to wait as Boyd becomes more and more entangled in his web. The whole thing builds to a Grand Guignol climax that features one of the most intense, amazing mano-a-mano battles that I’ve ever seen (think Family Guy’s “Chicken vs Peter” fights but with live-action actors and gallons of blood), all before finishing up with one of the most subtle, succinct commentaries on the human condition ever put to screen.

I remember going to see Ravenous in the theaters when it first came out and being so absolutely blown away by it that I promptly went to see it again. As soon as I was able, I bought the DVD and have happily revisited the film at least once a year for over a decade. Obviously, I’m quite fond of the movie: it’s actually one of my favorite films, let alone one of my favorite horror films. What, exactly, appeals to me so much about this marvelous little gem? In a nutshell, Ravenous is one smart film, from beginning to end and if there’s anything I appreciate, laud and worship, it’s a smart film.

One of the biggest complaints levied against Ravenous is that the film is tonally inconsistent, so schizophrenic as to almost be two films jammed into one: a slapstick comedy, complete with “zany” sound effects, and a serious, gore-drenched horror movie about cannibals and Wendigos. This tendency is evident from the very first frame, where Nietzche’s famous quote about fighting monsters is followed by the immediate rejoinder, “Eat Me!,” credited to “Anonymous.” The second comment pops up with one of those aforementioned “zany” sound effects, which creates a completely jarring tone when juxtaposed with composer Michael Nyman and Blur frontman Damon Albarn’s austere bluegrass-y score. All of this is balanced against Anthony B. Richmond’s absolutely stunning cinematography: the snowy mountain setting is truly beautiful.

Rather than being a handicap, I’ve always felt that Ravenous’ split-tone was one of its greatest assets. Despite the occasionally slapstick action, the film is never silly or stupid: instead, it uses the frequent gallows’ humor and moments such as Colqhoun/Ives’ sarcastic asides to keep the audience in a constant state of uneasiness. From one moment to the next, it’s all but impossible to predict the film’s next move: a gleefully insane gore setpiece might sit uncomfortably next to a masterfully executed comedic scene. One of the film’s best moments is the one where Hart asks Boyd about his hobbies, only to be told he enjoys swimming: after a long pause, Hart casts an eye outside, at the frozen landscape, before giving the priceless rejoinder, “Hope you don’t mind hard water.” Classic! Likewise, the excellent, atmospheric score (truly some of Albarn’s best work) helps pull the mood in a million directions at once: the film’s main theme is very catchy and evocative and serves to accentuate several key moments, helping to do a little of the heavy lifting, thematically speaking.

And that cast…oh, boy…that cast…Any film that features Guy Pearce, Robert Carlyle, David Arquette, Jeffrey Jones, Neal McDonough, Stephen Spinella and John Spencer should be guaranteed more than its fair share of eyeballs glued to the screen but, alas, even this star power wasn’t enough to pull in the ticket-buyers. It’s a real shame, too, because Carlyle’s performance as Colqhoun/Ives is not only one of his very best performances (pretty much second only to the marvelous piece of shit that is Begbie) but it’s reason enough to see the film, hands down. Quite simply, Carlyle turns in one of the all-time best villainous performances I’ve ever had the pleasure of witnessing. He’s so good, in fact, that I’ll stack his performance next to any cinematic villain from the dawn of the Nickelodeons right up to yesterday: Colqhoun/Ives is an unforgettable creation and Carlyle should have been praised from here to the moon for the performance, hands down.

For me, one of the saddest aspects to Ravenous’ box-office failure was the way that it effectively cut Antonia Bird’s cinematic career short. Predominantly a television director until her big-screen debut with Priest (1994), Ravenous would only be her fourth (and last) non-TV effort. After the film went the way of the dodo, Bird went back to television where she would remain until her untimely death last year at the age of 62. More than anything, I lament the amazing, lost films that might have followed Ravenous had the movie only been successful…or had Bird just been given another chance. The irony of the fact is that Ravenous is an exceptionally well-made film: it looks gorgeous and has more atmosphere than a bakers’ dozen of lesser movies. In a perfect world, these traits would be rewarded. In the bizarro-world of Hollywood, however, receipts are king and Ravenous never really had a chance.

And there you have it, folks: the best film that hardly anyone’s seen. Why should anyone care about a 15-year-old horror-comedy about cannibals? Well, if you’re a horror fan, the film features amazingly real and gruesome practical effects, along with one of the all-time great cinematic “monsters” and some genuinely shocking scenes. If you’re just a general fan of the cinema, Ravenous is expertly crafted, featuring beautiful cinematography, a truly unique and wonderfully fitting musical score and a superb ensemble cast. For those who like a little something to think about, Ted Griffin’s script finds some truly brilliant ways to equate Manifest Destiny and Westward expansion with the consumption of human flesh: as the settlers chewed up and spit out the remains of those who came before them, so, too, does Colqhoun plan to chew up and spit out the settlers. It’s the circle of life: it might not be pretty, but it sure does look familiar.

As a writer, I feel that one of the greatest, most important things I can possibly do is to make sure that quality films like Ravenous don’t completely fade out into obscurity. Just as I’ve fallen in love with this ramshackle little mutt of a film, so do I feel that anyone else can, with the right push. As someone who’s spent the better part of his life separating the wheat from the chaff, as far as horror films go, let me now throw the fullest recommendation possible behind Ravenous. Give it a chance and I’m pretty sure you’ll agree: there’s absolutely nothing else out there like Ravenous…and we’re all a whole lot poorer for it.

 

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2/9/14: A Place of One’s Own

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absurdist, Alex Cox, American imperialism, anachronisms, anachronistic, auteur theory, bio-pic, biopic, cinema, Cornelius Vanderbilt, Ed Harris, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, Gary Oldman, historical drama, Honduras, Iran-Contra scandal, Joe Strummer, liberation, Manifest Destiny, Marlee Matlin, Movies, Nicaragua, Oliver North, Pat Garrett & Billy the Kid, Peter Boyle, Repo Man, Richard Masur, Ronald Reagan, Rudy Wurlitzer, Sid & Nancy, Straight to Hell, surreal, Walker, William Walker

We now finish up the Sunday double-feature with Alex Cox’s kind-of/sort-of biopic, Walker.

There are, quite possibly, as many different ways to film and present a biopic as there are people to make them about. Filmmakers can approach the subject as dry, historical fact, presenting only the information widely accepted as true. The subject can be approached from a bias, either for or against, with the entire film making a case for this particular reading. The film might even co-mingle elements of fact and fiction, using real people but playing up non-existent emotional quandaries in order to get to the psychological core of the characters. Any of these approaches are valid, depending on the overall intent of the filmmakers, but there’s usually an attempt to delineate (at least to some extent) what sort of biopic we’re watching. Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter did not, for example, purport to be anything other than the goof it was: there certainly were no pretensions towards telling “the definitive” version of Lincoln’s life, as it were, just the part where he (apparently) fought vampires. All well and good, as it were.

What if, however, the overall slant of a particular biopic wasn’t quite so obvious? What if the line between real and fictional were blurred, leading the audience to wonder not only what the subject may have really been like but what actual events may have really been like? Depending on the particular director, this tactic could result in a severely disorienting experience, akin to being plagued by an internal unreliable narrator. When the director is Alex Cox, this is all but guaranteed.

Cox is the visionary behind one of the strangest films ever made (and one of my favorite films of all time), Repo Man (1984). He was also responsible for another biopic, Sid and Nancy (1986), which had the effect of unleashing Gary Oldman upon the world at large. Completing Cox’s trifecta was Straight to Hell (1987), perhaps the most bat-shit insane “Western” ever made, other than El Topo. Walker, Cox’s biopic of William Walker, was released the same year as Straight to Hell, and marks the end of Cox’s ’80s hot-streak. Falling somewhere in-between the nearly hallucinogenic insanity of Straight to Hell and the biopic stylings of Sid and Nancy, Walker is a constantly fascinating, if occasionally frustrating, experience, anchored by one massive performance by master thespian Ed Harris.

Walker purports to tell the story of William Walker (Ed Harris), an American “adventurer” who undertook several military incursions into Mexico and South America during the mid-part of the 1800’s. Walker took control of several territories in Mexico before finally being driven out by the government and arrested, tried and acquitted by the U.S. He (briefly) became Commander of the Armed Forces and, later, President, of Nicaragua before being deposed and executed by Honduran forces. These, as they say, are the basic facts. Cox and writer Randy Wurlitzer (Pat Garrett & Billy the Kid), however, have a few more tricks up their sleeve than just presenting us with a colorful historic figure. Their minds aren’t on Nicaragua’s past: they’re very much on the Nicaragua of the late ’80s, the one embroiled in that era’s Iran-Contra scandal.

More than anything, Walker is about U.S. imperialism and the dangerous effect it often has on other countries, particularly those we attempt to “liberate.” As a British expatriate remarks when Walker explains his plans to liberate the country: “How peculiar: you must be Americans.” We’ve already seen how Walker’s attempted conquest of Mexico is viewed, if not altogether favorably, as completely understandable and, in a way, desirable: his proclamation of Manifest Destiny earns him a pretty quick acquittal, after all. Walker is allowed to get as far as he does (and he gets pretty far, relatively speaking, for someone with absolutely no actual authority) because, inherently, the American system places high priority on both conquest and “liberation,” often seeing both as opposing sides of the same coin.

While the government might have been a bit “on-the-fence” regarding Walker’s activities, it becomes obvious rather quickly what side Cox takes. Practically from the jump, we’re introduced to that most subtly powerful of filmmaking tricks: the unreliable narrator. In a move that explicitly recalls the grand Michael Caine romp Pulp (1972), Harris narrates the film with an authority that can best be described as “questionable.” At one point, Walker describes how the Nicaraguan people “rejoice” when he has their President executed and takes his place: the image we actually see of the same event doesn’t resemble anything close to rejoicing, however. Rather, we see the people solemnly mourn their murdered leader, covering his body in white roses. This schism is reinforced when the local paper repeats the same sentiment as a headline: it’s pretty obvious who wrote that particular press-release.

Cox stacks the deck against Walker in a number of other, more subtle ways. There’s the oddly messianic way that Walker seems to stride through massive gunfights while obtaining nary a scratch, battles that lay waste to everyone else (friend or foe) that surrounds him, perhaps symbolic of the way in which American foreign policies often set up scenarios in which we emerge unscathed but our enemies (and allies) are obliterated. There are the ways in which none of Walker’s proclamations seem to be taken seriously: he makes a point to say that no excessive “drinking, whoring, carousing or fighting” will be tolerated from his men, even as we see all of this (plus some implied bestiality, to boot) taking place in the background. Walker can’t speak the local language, despite considering himself the leader, and, therefore, can’t actually comprehend what any of the native Nicaraguans are saying (hint: none of it’s nice). Walker spends most of the film dressed like the Tall Man from Phantasm, a get-up which constantly recalls fire-and-brimstone evangelical preachers (which Walker partakes in).

One of Cox’s greatest (and strangest) coups, however, is the subtle, almost subliminal, way that he weaves historical anachronisms into the film. It begins when you catch what appears to be the corner of a computer in one shot: a little strange, since computer’s weren’t exactly around in the 1850’s. Later on, there’s a soldier drinking from a modern (1980’s, at least) Coke bottle and someone else reading a copy of Time magazine that wouldn’t exist for about 70 more years. This all comes to a head in the film’s finale, when an ’80s-era military team, complete with helicopter, swoops in to rescue the Americans from a burning Grenada. While certainly different, the intent seems pretty clear: Cox isn’t so much telling the story of William Walker as he is setting the Iran-Contra scandal in the past. While the times may have changed, he seems to be saying, the scam remains the same.

As a film, Walker is consistently entertaining but falls short of Cox’s magnum opus (that would be Repo Man, in case you dozed off). The acting is always top-notch but I never expect less from Ed Harris. For my money, Harris is one of the most gifted, chameleonic actors in the business and is never less than a joy to watch. He seems to have a blast with the role and provides Walker with some truly interesting quirks and tics. Peter Boyle shows up as Cornelius Vanderbilt and is always larger than life: he punctuates the line “I’m entitled to do anything I want” with the single loudest cinematic fart since Blazing Saddles and nearly steals every scene he’s in. Marlee Matlin has an odd bit part as Walker’s doomed fiancée, Ellen, and Richard Masur shows up as Ephraim Squire, one of Vanderbilt’s lackeys.

Aesthetically, Walker recalls Straight to Hell more than either Repo Man or Sid & Nancy, lacking the grime of the others in favor of Hell’s more colorful palette. There isn’t much in the film that could legitimately be called “beautiful,” although the burning of Granada is conducted in a very dream-like, surreal way that features quite a few astounding images. Other than that, however, the film serves more as a showcase for Cox (and Wurlitzer’s) ideas than for David Bridges’ completely serviceable cinematography. Joe Strummer did the score which, to be honest, is less than noteworthy: I mostly recall the oddly inappropriate ’80s-era smooth sax that kept popping up everywhere more than I do any of Strummer’s contributions…unless he was actually playing the sax, at which point I’ll keep my mouth shut.

Ultimately, Walker is a fascinating, quick-paced curiosity, an attempt by a genuinely head-scratching auteur to fold, spindle and mutilate history, proving the old adage that there really is nothing new under the sun, a fact made even clearer by the closing-credit newsreel footage of then-president Ronald Reagan discussing the Iran-Contra affair. As the poster states: Before Rambo…before Oliver North…there was Walker. Cox posits a bizzaro-world scenario where all three were not only contemporaries but the same individual.