12/31/14 (Part Two): Parents Just Don’t Understand

Tags

Best of 2014, Bruce Hopkins, Cameron Rhodes, cinema, favorite films, feature-film debut, film reviews, films, foreign films, Gerard Johnstone, Glen-Paul Waru, haunted houses, horror-comedies, house arrest, Housebound, Kylie Bucknell, Morgana O'Reilly, mother-daughter relationships, Movies, New Zealand films, Rima Te Wiata, Ross Harper, Ryan Lampp, set in New Zealand, Simon Riera, The Frighteners, The Jaquie Brown Diaries, writer-director

In a year crowded with excellent horror and genre films that managed to fly below the mainstream radar, there was still one film that stood out, head and shoulders, as my favorite horror film of the year: Gerard Johnstone’s astounding debut, Housebound (2014). This wasn’t the scariest film of the year, although it had plenty of frights and atmosphere to spare. It certainly wasn’t the most horrific film of the year, although it doesn’t skimp on the grim stuff, either. For my money, Housebound was, quite simply, the best synthesis of all of the horror elements that I look for and love, the single best representation of what I truly enjoy when I sit down to watch a film. I may watch and enjoy many different kinds of movies but few filmmakers have managed to reach straight into my brain in the way that Johnstone does: in many ways, this is the epitome of what I look for in a horror-comedy.

Beginning with a dynamic two-person assault on an ATM machine that quickly collapses into a comedy of errors, we’re introduced to our protagonist, the fabulous Kylie Bucknell (Morgana O’Reilly). Tough as nails, smart, sarcastic, cynical and an all-around badass, Kylie is probably one of the coolest characters I’ve run across in a film in quite some time. As far as I’m concerned, she compares favorably with Kurt Russell’s immortal Snake Plissken in the badassitude department. Caught and sentenced for her attempted theft, Kylie receives the single worst punishment she could hope for: eight months of house arrest under the “watchful” eye of her screwy mother, Miriam (Rima Te Wiata), and step-dad, Graeme (Ross Harper).

Kylie and Miriam get along like oil and water for any number of reasons, not least of which is that Miriam is a superstitious believer in any and every paranormal thing possible, whereas Kylie has a tremendous amount of trouble believing in anything at all, let alone some mumbo-jumbo that she can’t see. Determined to make her mother’s life a living hell, Kylie proceeds to act like the world’s oldest teenager, sulking about, eating her parents out of house and home and, in general, acting like a spoiled, self-entitled little brat.

All of this changes, however, when Kylie happens to overhear her mom call into a radio show and discuss their “haunted” house. Initially passing the whole thing off as more of her mom’s loony fantasies, Kylie is forced to change her tune when she has an unexplained occurrence of her own. Determined to find a rational explanation, Kylie begins to research the house’s history, hoping to disprove her poor mother’s beliefs along the way. While this is going on, Kylie must also navigate around her dopey counselor, Dennis (Cameron Rhodes), as well as Amos (Glen-Paul Waru), the friendly tech who works for the company that monitors Kylie’s ankle bracelet and happens to be a firm believer in the paranormal. Kylie continues to experience things that she just can’t explain and she’s forced into the one partnership that she would never, in a million years, expect to make: her own mother.

Before we go any further, let me state, for the record, that I absolutely loved this film. I’m a person who tends to have intense reactions to movies, both good and bad, although it will often take a particular kind of film to draw the most intense reactions out of me: Housebound was that film. Something about the film drew me in from the very first frame and I stayed on its wave-length all the way through the final credits. Housebound is the kind of movie that I look forward to owning, in physical form, the kind of film that will “elevate” my humble collection, for what that’s worth. In the simplest way possible, it’s great…really, really great. Let’s see if I can’t explain why.

For one thing, Housebound looks absolutely amazing: Simon Riera’s cinematography is gorgeous, showcasing the marvelously creepy old house to stunning effect. It’s truly difficult to believe that Riera works, primarily, in TV and shorts: everything about Housebound screams “veteran cinematographer,” from the shot composition to the framing and the intuitive ways he works with depth-of-field. My hat’s off to Riera for coming up with one of the best looking films of the whole year: bravo, sir…bravo!

You can’t have a great film without a great script, however, and Johnstone certainly doesn’t disappoint there. Truth be told, Housebound is kind of brilliant: not only is the film laugh-out-loud funny, it’s also quite chilling and moving, in equal doses, which is certainly no mean feat. The film’s mythology isn’t particularly original (in fact, much of the film recalls fellow New Zealander Peter Jackson’s The Frighteners (1996), at least in tone, if not specifics) but it’s nicely realized and doesn’t seem moldy or overly obvious. There’s also some surprising weight to the mother-daughter relationship, which gives the whole film an underlying gravitas that’s belied by the constantly arch tone: it’s a delicate balancing act but Housebound manages to come across as sweet without seeming cloying and obvious: again, that’s a damn handy hat trick to pull off.

How are the actual horror aspects, though? As far as I’m concerned, top-notch. The true key to effective horror, as far as I’m concerned, will always be atmosphere and mood, two areas in which Housebound easily excels. Although it’s the furthest thing from graphic, Johnstone’s isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty and there were at least a couple organic jump scares that actually made me jump. Kudos to a great production design team who manage to give everything the appropriate creepy touch: it’s a suitably classy affair but the horror still shines through, loud and clear.

When it all comes down to it, however, there are two very potent reasons why Housebound is such a great damn movie: Morgana O’Reilly and Rima Te Wiata. Quite frankly, the two are perfect: there isn’t one single note, one movement, one affectation or one line delivery that I would change with either performer, were I in such a position to do so. O’Reilly’s performance as Kylie ranks up with my favorite cinematic badasses ever: I can’t help but return to the Snake Plissken comparison because it just feels so apt. When Kylie really gets going, she’s damn near unstoppable: I would love to see a franchise precipitated around her shrugging her way through various evil situations, sort of like an ever more cynical and irritable version of Bruce Campbell’s Ash.

Te Wiata, for her part, is nothing short of a marvel: she makes Miriam such a twitchy, neurotic, nearly unbearable ball of nerves that it seems impossible to ever empathize with the character. That Miriam is never anything less than 100% likable, then, is nothing short of a miracle: I’ve seen lots of great performances, over the year, but to not mention Te Wiata would be the most criminal form of neglect. Even better, the duo mesh perfectly as mother and daughter: they’re such an inspired team that I’m really hoping for a continuation of the partnership, even if they switch up the details. I honestly feel that O’Reilly and Te Wiata are one of the most inspired comic teams of this decade and can only hope that Housebound serves merely as the opening act of a great partnership.

I could go on and on, really, but anything more that I say runs the risk of spoiling any of Housebound’s myriad surprises. There’s a genuine sense of invention and wide-eyed enthusiasm that’s quite infectious: I find it rather impossible to believe that anyone wouldn’t be completely sucked into the film by the five-minute mark. In a year where lots of first-time filmmakers surprised me with some pretty stunning debuts, Gerard Johnstone’s was one of the most shocking and utterly delightful. Suffice to say that Housebound managed to rocket straight into my list of favorite films after a single viewing: this is one of those films, like Pulp Fiction (1994) or The Good, The Bad and the Ugly (1966), that I look forward to having a very long, happy relationship with. Here’s to hoping that Housebound is just the tip of the iceberg and that Johnstone proves to be one of our very brightest, best new talents.

10/12/14 (Part One): Beat on the Zom-Brat

Tags

'90s films, 31 Days of Halloween, auteur theory, Bad Taste, Brenda Kendall, cinema, co-writers, Dead Alive, Diana Penalver, Elizabeth Moody, favorite films, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, foreign films, Fran Walsh, gore films, Heavenly Creatures, horror-comedies, Ian Watkin, Meet the Feebles, Movies, New Zealand films, Peter Jackson, practical effects, Raiders of the Lost Ark, special-effects extravaganza, Stuart Devenie, The Frighteners, The Lord of the Rings, Timothy Balme, writer-director, zombies

Fans who flocked to Peter Jackson after his groundbreaking adaptation of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings (2001-2003) must have really had their worlds expanded once they started to take a trip through his back catalog. The Frighteners (1996) isn’t such a stretch, obviously, and Heavenly Creatures (1994) is certainly a strange film but it’s more of an arthouse curio than a truly deviant piece of filmmaking. Go back further than that, however, and you truly start to hang out in the weird part of town. Jackson began his career with a trio of films that managed to explore perversity, gore, shock, taboos and humor in some pretty bracing ways: Bad Taste (1987), Meet the Feebles (1989) and Dead Alive (1992) are just as shocking today, in many ways, as they were over two decades ago. Very few films have ever dared to tread ground half as controversial as Jackson’s X-rated puppet spectacular Meet the Feebles and his Bad Taste manages to live up to its name in just about every way possible. And then, of course, there’s Dead Alive.

For horror fans of a certain age, especially those who’ve always sought out the more extreme ends of the genre, Jackson’s Dead Alive has been something of a right of passage since it was released 22 years ago. Popular mythology states that Dead Alive is the goriest film ever made and, to be quite frank, I’m more than inclined to agree. Oh sure, there are plenty of films out there are more extreme and unpleasant, more focused on mean-spirited body torture and nerve-wracking surgical procedures than Jackson’s zombie-comedy. There’s been twenty years of special effects improvements since the early ’90s and even network TV shows (think about some of the setpieces in NBC’s Hannibal and recall a time when NYPD Blue’s bare butts were a sign of the impending apocalypse) are trafficking in the kind of gore effects that used to be the sole purview of underground horror flicks. Conventional wisdom would seem to make it impossible for Dead Alive to keep its throne after all this time. After rewatching the film, however, I was struck with a realization: this is still just as bracing, intense and hardcore as it ever was. In fact, I’m hard-pressed to think of any other film that manages to maintain such a consistent level of gleefully insane, gore-drenched mayhem as Dead Alive does: that the film also manages to come across as sweet-natured and decidedly old-fashioned is not a fluke…it’s one of the reasons why Peter Jackson has been one of the world’s most interesting filmmakers since he first burst onto the scene.

At its heart, Dead Alive is a sweet love story about clumsy, mild-mannered nice-guy Lionel (Timothy Balme) and fiery shop-clerk, Pacquita (Diana Penalver). Pacquita has fallen madly in love with Lionel thanks to a Tarot reading and is determined to get her “happily ever after,” even though poor Lionel seems more bemused than smitten. There is, of course, one big problem: Lionel’s absolutely wretched mother, Vera (Elizabeth Moody). Vera is a complete harpy – nasty, vain, hectoring, verbally abusive, snide, stuck-up…she makes Anne Ramsey’s awful mother in Throw Momma From the Train (1987) seem like Mary Poppins, by comparison. Vera has Lionel completely wrapped around her finger and likes it that way. When she notices that her little boy is showing an undue interest in the shop clerk, Vera springs into action, determined to keep them apart at all costs.

As Vera spies on the young lovers at the zoo, however, she manages to stand just a little too close to the Sumatran Rat Monkey cage. We’ve been introduced to this particular critter already, of course, thanks to an ingeniously gory intro that manages to parody both Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981) and King Kong (1933) and we know what’s coming: in due time, Vera has contracted a bit of the ol’ zombie sickness and has got to the business of rotting and eating unsuspecting people and animals. Soon, Lionel’s full-time job becomes keeping an eye on his zombified mother and her increasing horde of victims, all of which he keeps tranquilized in the basement, in order to prevent the kind of mass zombie invasion that seems all-too imminent. Poor Lionel is getting run ragged, however, and has started to push Pacquita away, in order to keep her safe from the mounting chaos. When Lionel’s unbelievably shitty uncle, Les (Ian Watkin), shows up and wants a piece of his dead sister’s estate, however, Lionel is pushed to the breaking point. Over the course of one insane night, Lionel, Pacquita, a mob of Uncle Les’ obnoxious rockabilly friends and a horde of ravenous zombies will all converge: heads will fly, limbs will fly, guts will fly, lawn mowers will be used as melee weapons, lawn gnomes will be jammed into bloody neck stumps and Lionel will learn that mother doesn’t always know best, particularly when she’s trying to chew off your face.

In any other hands, it would be easy to see how Dead Alive could have been nothing more than a grueling test of one’s cast-iron stomach, the horror movie equivalent of a game of freeway chicken. It’s absolutely no hyperbole to say that the film is drenched in blood: the intro features multiple dismemberment and the resulting blood “splashes” onto the screen, forming the film’s title…this is nothing if not truth in advertising, friends and neighbors. Jackson’s gore epic features everything that you expect from the “typical” zombie film (graphic flesh-eating; gut-munching; zombies blasted into pieces) but manages to add sequences that vault the film into a whole other stratosphere, such as the bit where a zombie pushes through another character and wears them like a mask or the bit where Lionel runs in place for several minutes because the floor is completely covered in slippery blood and body parts. Very little in this world really compares to Lionel being forced back into his (now enormous) dead mother’s womb, however, and this certainly serves as one of those horror watershed moments: if this film doesn’t bother you, congratulations…in all likelihood, very little will.

The gore effects and setpieces are absolutely astounding and jaw-dropping, no two ways about it, but the film’s real ace card is it’s totally wacky sense of humor. Despite being as intensely violent as anything out there, Dead Alive is also remarkably silly, goofy and, most surprisingly, good-natured. The film often fills like a fairy tale or kids’ movie gone awry, thanks to Jackson’s heightened use of magical realism and his trademark production design. Rather than feeling forced or out-of-place, the numerous comedy setpieces shine as brightly as the gore ones. One of my favorite scenes in any film, ever, is the spectacular moment where Father McGruder (Stuart Devenie) runs up to assist Lionel with his zombie problem and immediately springs into gleeful kung-fu mode: “I kick ass for the Lord,” he chortles, as he (literally) karate-kicks a zombie into multiple pieces. The scene is silly, sure, but it’s also a ton of fun and is tonally perfect. Likewise the scene where Lionel takes the zom-baby for a stroll in the park and tries to emulate the behavior of the parents, especially once the situation manages to spiral completely out of control: there are few joys quite as sublime as watching Lionel elbow-drop onto the rubber baby or drop-kick it across the park as concerned mothers raise eyebrows sky-high.

This, then, becomes the film’s true legacy: the movie is astoundingly gory and frequently completely disgusting (you’ll probably never look at custard the same way again) but it’s never anything less than good-natured, fun and 100% entertaining. Dead Alive may just be the perfect party film, for horror fans, especially if one can watch the film with neophytes: it’s one of the few films where I truly envy newbies the experience of seeing it for the first time, especially when one reaches the show-stopping party climax. Personally, I’ve always liked Meet the Feebles a little more than Dead Alive, probably because the former film will always seem like a nasty, transgressive marvel to me while the latter has increasingly achieved the kind of warm and fuzzy sentimentality that most folks probably associate with their favorite Christmas movies. That being said, Dead Alive is one of those films that made its way to my “favorite films” list after one viewing and has never left. I’m a fan of lots of different things, from the cute-and-cuddly to the soul-shattering but Dead Alive has always been a guideline for me, in a way: if you don’t like the film, we can still exist in the same orbit…I’ll always understand if the movie isn’t someone’s cup of tea. If you love this movie as much as I do, however, than you and I are gonna get along just fine.

5/8/14: A Big Load of…Something?

Tags

accidental death, alternate title, Anna Campion, Bloody Weekend, Cadbury Creme Eggs, Catherine McCormack, cinema, Curdled, Danny Cunningham, Dearbhla Molloy, directorial debut, drug trips, famous siblings, film reviews, films, found-footage, found-footage films, horror film, independent films, indie dramas, isolated estates, Loaded, making a movie, Mathew Eggleton, Movies, movies about movies, New Zealand films, Nick Patrick, Oliver Milburn, Thandie Newton, The Blair Witch Project, writer-director, youth in trouble

Sometimes, a film can be so confused, so completely and totally lost, that you almost want to put it out of its misery. There might be intriguing concepts rattling around or a talented cast or even just a really cool location. Ultimately, however, these are all for naught, propping up an empty shell, like the Western facades in old TV shows. A car with a shiny, new coat of paint and four flat tires is just as useful as a junker with four flat tires: neither of ’em are going anywhere. In the case of Anna Campion’s directorial debut, Loaded, this particular vehicle is sidelined by a pretentious, confusing and fairly dumb narrative. The film may be technically proficient but it’s a nonsensical nightmare and, perhaps, a clue as to why Campion took 12 years to follow it up (with a short, one might add). Sister Jane had The Piano (1993) and Anna got Loaded…talk about awkward family get-togethers!

The biggest issue with Loaded (among many, many issues) is the simple fact that the film is needlessly confusing and hopelessly fractured. At first, this would seem to be the natural default for a film about young people tripping on drugs: after all, drug trips tend to be highly disorienting and confusing (so I’ve been told), so why shouldn’t depictions of said trips be just as confusing? This argument holds water right up until the point where you realize that the actual drug trip doesn’t come until the final 30 minutes of the film. Essentially, there’s over an hour of film before the actual drug trip that is just as fractured and nonsensical: in fact, it’s actually more disjointed, just without the interesting visual quirks from the trip sequence (an animated bird was, without a doubt, the highlight of the film…which says a lot, I fear).

I’ll fully admit that I didn’t understand much of the actual plot logistics, so my “synopsis” might not even be correct: I honestly don’t know. Here’s what I got out of it, though: a group of friends head to an isolated cabin in the woods to film some sort of “indie horror film”, take drugs and “accidentally” kill one of their own. I say “indie horror film” since they describe it that way but the footage we see doesn’t look like a horror film at all: it pretty much features them wearing odd costumes and floating around in a swimming pool. Seriously. This is made even more befuddling because we actually hear the “director,” Lance (Danny Cunningham) describe the project in some detail. When he describes it, it sounds like a pretty by-the-book slasher film. When they start shooting it, however, it becomes some sort of pseudo-baroque costume mess that bears no resemblance to what they described. So…what gives?

You’ll notice that I also say “accidentally” kill one of their own: that’s because it doesn’t look much like an accident. In fact, it looks just like a suicide, since the soon-to-be-dead guy, Lionel (Mathew Eggleton), rides his motorcycle right into the car that hits him. Witnessing the mishap, I don’t think that there’s a jury on Earth that would’ve convicted the driver, Neil (Oliver Milburn). No need, however, since Neil later says that he did kill Lionel on purpose because…well…ah, who cares. Campion’s screenplay is full of so many holes that picking out individual issues seems kinda mean, since the whole thing is problematic.

What are we to make of a film that begins with one of our characters (Neil, as it turns out) bringing a camcorder into his therapy session so that he can record his shrink (veteran Irish actress Dearbhla Molloy), while they discuss the sadomasochistic letters that he’s has been sending her? Probably the same thing that we’re to make of dinner at the cabin consisting of some sort of bizarre ambrosia salad: who in the Sam Hell serves nothing but ambrosia salad for dinner? My favorite revelation in the film? I’m almost  positive that the bizarre orgy-like, drug-trip dance sequence is scored by the funky wah-wah breakdown from U2’s “Mysterious Ways.” Least favorite revelation? After being batshit incomprehensible for most of its running time, the film was going to settle into that tired old warhorse of “We gotta call the cops/we can’t call the cops cuz we’ve been gettin’ crazy.” It still didn’t make any sense but at least I could guess the ending now. Success…I guess.

If Loaded (alternate title: Bloody Weekend, neither of which are very accurate) is remembered for anything at all (besides a supporting role from a young Thandie Newton), it will probably be remembered for being a harbinger, of sorts, for The Blair Witch Project (1999). While Loaded certainly wasn’t the first “found-footage” film (I’m calling Cannibal Holocaust for that one, folks), it preceded Blair Witch by a good five years and there are some undeniable similarities, mostly with the setting and use of the camera. The Blair Witch Project, despite its faults, is a much, much better film than Loaded, however, making me appreciate it even more.

I’ll be honest: there was a brief window where this film could’ve got back in my good graces. Right before the “traumatic” “accident,” Lance and Neil head out (with Lionel following on his motorcycle), to get some cigarettes or something. On their way home from the store, Lance and Neil pull their car over so they can enjoy a Cadbury Creme Egg. That’s right, folks: rather than put anyone’s lives in harm’s way, our intrepid duo pulls over so that they can enjoy their Easter-themed candy. If only the entire film had displayed that forethought and concern for humanity, we might be having a much different conversation right now. As it stands, I’m just gonna go eat my Cadbury Egg in the corner and pout.