5/14/15: Don’t Go Stabbin’ My Heart

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'80s slasher films, 1980s films, Alf Humphreys, Canadian films, Carl Marotte, cinema, Cynthia Dale, Don Francks, film reviews, films, Friday the 13th, George Mihalka, Gina Dick, gory films, Halloween, Harry Warden, heavily-edited, Helene Udy, horror, horror films, horror movies, Jack Van Evera, John Beaird, John McDermott, Keith Knight, Larry Reynolds, Lori Hallier, love triangle, masked killers, miners, mining disaster, Movies, My Bloody Valentine, Neil Affleck, Patricia Hamilton, Paul Kelman, pickaxe, psycho killers, Rob Stein, Rodney Gibbons, Sean Cunningham, set in Canada, slasher films, Stephen A. Miller, Terry Waterland, Tom Kovacs, Valentine, Valentine's Day

While most folks probably feel that the insane killers are the determining factor in slasher films, I’d wager to say that there’s another factor that’s just as prominent and important: those kids just don’t listen. Time and time again, the youthful fodder in slasher films are given a handy set of rules to remember (“Don’t go in the woods,” “Don’t go in the cabin,” “Don’t have sex,” “Don’t look in the basement,” “Don’t split up,” “Don’t turn your back on it,” “Don’t feed it after midnight”) and, time after time, they just blow a raspberry and do their own thing. Doesn’t matter how many crotchety old men, sinister gypsies or age-old legends get thrown in their faces: these kids are here to party…and, of course, die.

The “rule” that the kids break (and pay for) in Canadian slasher classic My Bloody Valentine (1981) is the same one that Sir Kevin Bacon would rail against a scant three years later in the tap-dancing epic Footloose (1984): they just wanna dance, dammit, and they could give a hoot what any old psycho killers say. When the psycho killer in question just might be the pickaxe-wielding, cannibalistic and Valentine’s Day-hating sole survivor of a mining disaster, however, well…maybe the kids really should have listened.

20 years ago, in the town of Valentine’s Bluff, negligent mining officials paid more attention to the rockin’ Valentine’s Day dance than the mine and the resulting cave-in produced only one survivor, Harry Warden, who would proceed to murder the offending officials with his pickaxe. Leaving behind bloody heart-shaped boxes, Harry would also leave a parting directive: no more Valentine’s dances, ever. After heeding the maniac’s orders for two decades, the town’s young folks decide to throw caution to the wind and get their boogie on. The one guy not invited to the party? Harry Warden. Turns out ol’ Harry’s the kinda guy who doesn’t need an invitation, however: when he gets wind of the planned bash, the malevolent miner takes his weapon of choice out of retirement and starts to cut a (very) bloody swath through the unknowing town.

As the bodies pile up behind the scenes, a love triangle takes center-stage: T.J (Paul Kelman), the wayward son of the town’s mayor/mine owner, has returned home and attempted to rekindle his romance with Sarah (Lori Hallier), the girl he left behind. Only problem is, Sarah has hooked up with T.J.’s former best friend, Axel (Neil Affleck), a pompous, abusive lout who doesn’t take kindly to his ex-bestie popping up in the picture. As the two alpha males butt heads and strut around, Sarah and her friends decide to take the party into the mine, proper. Led by cheerful Hollis (Keith Knight) and goofball Howard (Alf Humphreys), the ladies descend into an area of the mine that’s been out of commission since the days of Harry Warden. As they’ll come to find, however, not all old, dead things stay buried…and, sometimes, the killer you don’t know is far scarier than the one you do.

George Mihalka’s My Bloody Valentine fits neatly within the ’80s slasher boom, coming less than a year after Sean Cunningham would scare us out of the summer camp with his now iconic Friday the 13th (1980), right in the middle of a rather impressive glut of like-minded films. While many (most?) of the ’80s slasher boom would end up being rather forgettable carbon-copies of better films, there were plenty of them that stood out on their own due to various degrees of individuality: My Bloody Valentine certainly stands proud with these.

While the acting is the same kind of thing fans of the subgenre should know to expect (in some places, it’s so broad as to approximate a ’50s beach movie), the performers are all personable and none of them, including Humphrey’s “oh so zany” Howard, ever wear out their welcome. While the film’s central love triangle ends up being rather overheated and corny, it does provide a reasonable measure of dramatic tension, along with leading to the inevitable moment where the feuding beaus must join forces to save their (shared) beloved. The adults in the film, namely Don Francks’ Chief Newby and Larry Reynolds’ Mayor Hanniger, are all largely ineffectual but, then again, that’s also par for the course with the majority of ’80s slasher films, as is the de rigueur first-person POV shots and heavy breathing on the soundtrack.

Atmosphere-wise, Mihalka and crew make the very best of their mine location, providing plenty of suitably creepy shots and tense moments, highlighted by the showstopper where the masked miner slowly strides down a tunnel, smashing lit bulbs with his pickaxe: it’s a truly glorious moment and one that’s been replicated several times in the 30+ years since it (presumably) creeped the living shit out of audiences. Speaking of the miner: all slasher films live and die by their main creepazoid and My Bloody Valentine’s villain is one of the greats. Silent, hulking and prone to imaginative kills, ala Jason, the miner is a simple but massively effective construct: more’s the pity that this (and the 2011 remake) were his only moments in the sun (so to speak).

Despite being hailed as a minor classic within the subgenre, My Bloody Valentine is equally notorious as being one of the most heavily edited films of the era. Whether due to societal issues of the time, an increased focus on censorship or the blowback from other violent films, the vast majority of the film’s creative kills are edited almost to the point of nonexistence: in an ironic twist, My Bloody Valentine is both one of the most AND least gory of the ’80s slasher boom. While I detest censorship, in general, the edited version of Mihalka’s film ends up being its own curious kind of beast: with the geekshow factor of the excessively violent kills removed, leaving only snippets of the aftermath, the focus is put back on the actual film. As such, the edited version of My Bloody Valentine is a rather lame gore flick (the worst shot in the edited version is the seconds-long image of Mabel’s burned body) but it’s actually a very effective suspense/horror film, similar to the first Friday the 13th or, to a much lesser extent, Hooper’s unbeatable Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974).

While a restored version of the film from several years back added in some of the censored gore, the version that most folks will probably see is the more readily available edited version. After seeing both, I still find myself leaning towards the edited one a little more, perhaps because the “restored” version is still edited: it’s kind of like cleaning off one spot of a filthy window while leaving the rest dirty. At the very least, the fully edited version has a sense of unity that’s less jarring than the re-added footage, even though some of the setpieces are so gloriously loony as to warrant the added attention (the scene where Helene Udy’s Sylvia gets turned into a human water faucet manages to handily one-up the meat hook scene in TCM, while recalling some of the more gonzo giallos).

As a big proponent of film history and its more unsung chapters, I’ve always enjoyed My Bloody Valentine, even if it’s nowhere near the creme de la creme of the movement. The film is fast-paced, fun and endlessly inventive, however, even if it occasionally winks so hard in the direction of Cunningham’s originator that it gets a severe eye cramp (in particular, the character of Jack Van Evera’s Happy is just Walt Gorney’s Crazy Ralph with a different Social Security number). I’m willing to wager that most fans of slasher films (or just horror films, in general) will already be familiar with this little export from America’s Northern neighbors. If not, I heartily suggest rectifying that little omission: in order to know where horror is going, you have to know where it was. Back in the dawning years of the ’80s, this is where horror was. If your only experience with holiday-themed horror is John Carpenter’s pumpkin king, set a date with My Bloody Valentine next February: the movie has a lot of heart…and it just might win yours.

10/28/14 (Part Two): Leave Your Brain At the Door

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31 Days of Halloween, Adelaide Clemens, America Olivo, Beau Knapp, biker gang, cinema, Daniel Pearl, David Cohen, Derek Magyar, extreme violence, film reviews, films, George Murdoch, gory films, hostage situation, isolated estates, isolation, kidnapped, Laura Ramsey, Lee Tergesen, Lindsey Shaw, Luke Evans, Movies, No One Lives, psycho killers, Ryuhei Kitamura, The Midnight Meat Train, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Trojan horse, Versus, wrestlers, WWE

There’s nothing that frustrates or irritates me quite as much as a film that completely squanders its potential. Films that are consistently bad can sometimes be entertaining, in their own rights, but a movie that manages to scale the heights before plummeting to the depths all within the same 90 minute time span really gets my goat. Films like this can take many forms: top of the class in one aspect, class dunce on others…great plot, crummy filmmaking…solid film with an excruciating ending/twist that manages to ruin everything that came before…by this point in my film-viewing, I’ve seen just about every permutation of this issue and it never ceases to cut me to the core each time. It’s like a runner who leads the marathon only to blow out his/her knee at the finish line, crumpling into a broken, sobbing heap mere inches from victory.

Case in point: Ryuhei Kitamura’s ridiculously uneven No One Lives (2012). After (almost literally) blowing me away with the jaw-dropping ode to grievous bodily mayhem that was his adaptation of Clive Barker’s The Midnight Meat Train (2008), I found myself eagerly awaiting  the Japanese gorehound’s next descent into horror. Where Meat Train was a consistent, if hammer-headed, effort, No One Lives is more of a rollercoaster of badass/suckitude: for every scene like the completely unforgettable “Trojan horse” bit, there’s a block of dialogue so poorly written that it comes across like lines from a badly translated video game. For every ingenious plot twist and thrilling kill scene, there’s an actor so extravagantly terrible that they rip the viewer kicking and screaming from the film and deposit them back into the cold water of reality. Very rarely have I found myself watching a film that could, literally, have me jumping from my seat, fist triumphantly raised one minute, only to be seconds from turning the damn thing off the next moment. Believe me when I say that getting through No One Lives is an endurance match, a trial which ends up having very little to do with the ocean of extreme gore that runs through the film. Would it surprise you to discover that the film was produced by the WWE? Me neither…me neither…

From the get-go, No One Lives seems to jump us into several simultaneously occurring storylines, all of which will come to make sense in due time. We meet a terrified young woman, Emma Ward (Adelaide Clemens), as she runs frantically through the woods before getting caught in a rope trap. We also meet what appear to be a husband (Luke Evans) and wife (Laura Ramsey) as they take a car trip through the countryside: as they drive, we get some hint of trouble in their relationship, perhaps something to do with infidelity. Finally, we witness a biker gang, led by Hoag (Lee Tergesen), as they rob a wealthy family’s home: when the family returns unexpectedly, psychotic gang member Flynn (Derek Magyar) flies off the handle and executes them all post-haste, including a young child. When the gang heads to a local bar to blow off some steam, they end up running into the husband and wife, whom Flynn seems to take an instant dislike to.

From this point on, one of No One Lives greatest strengths (sometimes its only strength, to be honest), is the consistently surprising ways in which this characters all manage to collide together. No one, as it turns out, are really who they appear to be, least of all the husband and wife, which leads to some genuinely surprising revelations. Once the big reveals are out of the way, the film ramps up into something that approximates Adam Wingard’s You’re Next (2011), as the gang find themselves at the mercy of a foe who’s not only their equal but their better in almost every way. Blood will spill (lots and lots of blood), loyalties will be tested and secrets will be revealed. Who is the mysterious young woman from the beginning? What’s the husband’s connection to everything? Why the hell is Flynn such an obnoxious, insane asshole? The answer to these, and many more, can be found within. But remember: as the title points out, no one lives…at least, not without a good fight.

Here’s the thing about this movie: while No One Lives is technically well-made – Kitamura makes excellent use of legendary cinematographer Daniel Pearl, the cameraman behind a legion of classic films, including The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974) – and features ferocious action scenes and some incredibly well-staged gore effects, the film is also nearly brain-dead, at times, relying on contrived plot elements that stink to high heaven and constantly reveal the pitiful wizard behind the curtain. In particular, the psychopathology of the main villain is so loopy, so head-smackingly stupid, that it manages to drag the whole film right into the gutter. Ditto the frequently moronic dialogue: screenwriter David Cohen has but one film to his credit, which might be a blessing in disguise. The awful dialogue is made even more reprehensible when compared to some of the genuinely brilliant plot developments: did Cohen actually write the whole script, just the dialogue or just the story? At times, it feels like there were several cooks in the kitchen, none of whom were going off the same recipe.

Did I mention before how frustrating this is? Let me reiterate: there is nothing quite as frustrating as witnessing something as truly awe-inspiring as the “Trojan horse” setpiece (I would never dream of ruining the surprise but suffice to say that my jaw literally fell open during the sequence like some kind of cartoon character) only to have it followed by some of the worst, most wooden acting in the history of the business. I’ll admit that I got nervous when the WWE was listed as producer on the film (wrestlers and high-minded cinematic fare very rarely mix, after all) but the real puzzler comes from the fact that only one of the actors in the cast, George Murdock (aka Brodus Clay) appears to be a professional wrestler by trade…and he wasn’t even one of the film’s worst offenders! Topping the Hall of Shame here has to be Derek Magyar who manages to make the character of Flynn so completely silly and unbelievable that he loses any impact whatsoever: when you have a character who savagely massacres a family yet fails to possess any actual menace whatsoever, you may have a big problem.

Despite the cavernous depths to which No One Lives sinks, however, I still found myself torn between complete condemnation and grudging respect. When the film is good, it’s great: no two ways about it. The action scenes are genuinely visceral and nasty and some of the twists are incredibly smart. Luke Evans makes a decent enough “hero,” even if he often seems a bit bland, although he manages to carve out a handful of memorable scenes, one of my favorites being the bit where he gets picked up by a car full of frat boys: “This should be fun,” he leers at the camera, and for once, we wholeheartedly believe him. Lee Tergesen is pretty good as the gang leader, although many of his best scenes are effectively cancelled out by the ridiculously over-the-top performance by Magyar. Clemens also acquits herself fairly well, getting one really great scene where she weighs the pros and cons of aligning herself with the bikers (the lesser of two evils, we suppose) before realizing that the odds suck no matter what. I can’t help but feel that more Clemens and less of the others (particularly Magyar) might have helped matters to no end.

For all of its victories, however, No One Lives is nearly suffocated by its missteps. Unlike The Midnight Meat Train, No One Lives is a completely inconsistent mess, full of dreadful dialogue, terrible acting and some truly stupid plot developments. For all of that, however, I would feel remiss if I didn’t recommend this, if only in some tiny way, to hardcore gore fans: folks who’ve become jaded on violence in horror films would do well to give No One Lives a shot, as several of the setpieces are thoroughly unique, hardcore and pretty damn amazing: not to beat a dead horse but that “Trojan horse” scene…yowza! Ultimately, No One Lives is a decent enough film, all things considered, but that ends up being a pretty back-handed compliment when the film had the makings of a modern classic. Here’s to hoping that if Kitamura ever goes back to the horror well, he decides to use Meat Train instead of No One Lives as a template.

7/26/14: Putting Your Mind(s) To It

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Amy Madigan, auteur theory, based on a book, Candyman, cinema, dopplegangers, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, George Romero, George Stark, horror, horror films, Julie Harris, Kent Broadhurst, Michael Rooker, Movies, psycho killers, psychopomps, Robert Joy, Rutanya Alda, sparrows, Stephen King, Thad Beaumont, The Dark Half, Timothy Hutton, Tom Mardirosian, twins, writer-director

Although he’ll probably always be known as the father of the modern zombie film, I’ve often felt that George Romero’s non-zombie films are highly underrated. Sure, there’s been the occasional clunker: Knightriders (1981) is a real oddity that never overcomes its inane premise, despite an enthusiastic performance by Ed Harris, while Bruiser (2000) is just as faceless as its protagonist. Despite these misses, however, Romero has a pretty good track record: Season of the Witch (1972) is a nicely understated character study with an interesting feminist angle; The Crazies (1973) is a tensely plotted little B-movie; Martin (1976) is a really fascinating, unique take on traditional vampire films; Creepshow (1982) is a minor classic; and Monkey Shines (1988) is a flawed but thoroughly entertaining piece of pulp cinema.

Along with these films, Romero has also helmed what I feel to be one of the best adaptations of a Stephen King novel, The Dark Half (1993). King’s novel about pseudonyms run amok was one of my favorites as a kid and I can recall eagerly heading to the theater when the filmed version was released, despite the trepidation that always comes with any new King adaptation. Filmed versions of King’s novels have always been something of a running joke, so it’s quite refreshing to find one that actually gets it right. And The Dark Half, for the most part, really gets it right. While rewatching the film for the first time in years, I was pleased (and more than a little relieved) to discover that it still held up after all those years.

Romero’s adaptation, which he also penned, follows King’s original novel pretty faithfully. The film involves mild-mannered writer Thad Beaumont (Timothy Hutton), who secretly writes pulpy crime novels under the pseudonym George Stark. While Thad’s own books are high-minded literary “art,” Stark’s trashy, violent work is the real bread-winner for Thad, his wife, Liz (Amy Madigan) and twin babies. Imagine Thad’s consternation, then, when a sleazy fellow named Fred Clawson (Robert Joy) approaches him after a book-signing and threatens to expose the truth about George Stark (whose made-up background is one of the biggest selling points for his rabid fans) unless he receives some payola. Incensed, Thad discusses the situation with his wife and editors, Miriam (Rutanya Alda) and Rick (Tom Mardirosian), and they all decide that the best course of action is to get ahead of the impending controversy: it’s high time that Thad “killed off” Stark once and for all.

Staging a mock burial ceremony using a Beaumont family grave and fake tombstone, Thad and Liz lay Stark to rest, although the symbolic “ending” actually signals a horrifying new beginning. When the photographer is found murdered (beat to death with his own prosthetic leg) and the grave is desecrated, Thad becomes the number one suspect, since his fingerprints were all over the crime scene. After Clawson is found brutally murdered, in the exact way that Thad was heard to threaten him, things look increasingly dire for the beleaguered novelist.

Faster than you can say, “Candyman,” however, we see the truth: Thad’s violent alter-ego, George Stark (also Hutton), has come to horrific, shuddering life and is rather upset at Thad’s attempts to kill him off. George only wants one thing and he’s willing to massacre everyone that Thad knows and holds dear to get it: he wants another Stark novel, something to keep his legacy intact. The problem, of course, is that Thad and George cannot, technically, co-exist: as one grows stronger, the other weakens and begins to physically deteriorate. As Thad begins to re-experience the headaches and visions of ominous clouds of sparrows that plagued him as a boy, he and George move relentlessly towards an end game that will involve Thad’s family, his past and his very future: only one will emerge victorious…will it be Thad…or Stark?

From the opening intro that cues us in to the existence of Thad’s unborn twin all to the way to the visually impressive finale, The Dark Half is an exceptionally close reading of King’s original novel. Romero even manages to toss in a few blink-and-you-miss-’em bits of fan service, including the revelation that Thad is currently working on “Here There Be Tygers,” one of Stephen King’s earliest short stories. The film, itself, looks great: there are several really nifty set-pieces, including the tense, protracted scene where Mike Donaldson (Kent Broadhurst) is stalked by Stark down a dingy apartment hallway that lit by alternating red and blue lights. Hutton does a good job portraying both halves of the equation, as it were, with his George Stark being a suitably sleazy representation of King’s creation. It’s also nice to see veteran character actor Michael Rooker in a rare “good guy” role as Sheriff Pangborn: it feels like a classic case of casting against type and it works spectacularly well. Romero also makes great use of practical effects, including a jarring stabbing via pencil and the impressive “ripped apart by sparrows” finale.

In many ways, Romero’s film is also staged in a similar manner to Bernard Rose’s Candyman (1992), which preceded it by a year: as people close to him are killed off, Thad comes under more and more suspicion for the crimes, similar to the arc that occurs with Helen in the Clive Barker adaptation. There are even moments where people are killed while Thad is in another room, just like various scenes in Candyman. This particular tact offers up quite a bit of tension and plenty of creeping paranoia, as Thad tries in vain to convince his wife and the sheriff about the true nature of the crimes unfolding around them. Paranoia is always a potent element of horror fiction and Romero delivers the goods in more than satisfactory measure here.

Thematically, The Dark Half brings up several interesting issues, not the least of which is a writer’s inherent connection to his/her creations. Like the real Stephen King, Thad Beaumont is a study in contrasts: on the one hand, literary, high-minded and grasping for greatness while, on the other, visceral, pulpy, audience-friendly and uber-violent. There’s a nicely realized moment where Liz explains to Thad that he doesn’t actually want to “kill off” his alter-ego: he enjoys Stark because it gives him an excuse to behave badly, as it were, smoking, drinking and acting like a complete jerk. It’s the true dichotomy of any artist, be they actor, filmmaker, painter or author: the person creating the art is not always equitable to the art being created. Live it to King (and Romero) to bring this concept to glorious life by, literally, splitting the artist in two.

As previously mentioned, there’s certainly a dearth of “good” King films but I’ve always thought of The Dark Half as part of the solution, rather than the problem. It goes to prove that, in the right hands, it’s not only possible to make a good Stephen King adaptation but a good film, period. It may be approaching 15 years since Romero turned to non-zombie properties but, with a track-record like his, maybe it’s time to leave the walking dead behind for a little bit. If you’ve never seen The Dark Half, give it a whirl: after all, how could you possibly go wrong with murderous doubles, ominous sparrows and Black Beauty pencils?

 

7/9/14: Horse Waits, Tom Tries

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'80s films, Amber Bauer, Bill Pullman, cinema, Cold Feet, comedies, cowboys, double-crosses, estranged siblings, film reviews, films, greed, horses, Jeff Bridges, Kathleen York, Keith Carradine, Movies, odd movies, psycho killers, Rip Torn, Robert Dornhelm, Sally Kirkland, stolen jewels, Tom Waits

Tom Waits is such a weird, cool, enigmatic bad-ass of a dude that whenever he shows up in movies, he usually steals them right away from the rest of the cast. Like a thief in the night, Waits slips in, does that thing he does (acting? living? just being?) and slips out, leaving nothing but bare walls and floors in his wake. He’s truly an amazing actor in that, like similar odd-job Crispin Glover, he so readily becomes whatever character he’s portraying: it’s always impossible to tell where the character ends and Tom begins, which makes each and every performance both thrilling and a little terrifying. Needless to say, Waits’ by turns hilarious and frightening performance in Robert Dornhelm’s weird ’80s oddity, Cold Feet (1989), is not only the best, most interesting performance in that film but probably one of the best, weirdest performances of that whole year.

Monte (Keith Carradine), Maureen (Sally Kirkland) and Kenny (Tom Waits) are three small-time crooks with a big-time plan: they’ve stolen a small fortune in emeralds and had the bright idea to have them surgically implanted in a horse. After wack-a-doodle Kenny unceremoniously blows away the crooked vet who performs the surgery, the trio make their escape, hitting the high road and handily by-passing law enforcement.

Trouble comes to paradise when Monte double-crosses his partners (even more grievous since he was actually engaged to Maureen, who appears to be as loose-screwed as Kenny is) and hightails it for his square brother’s horse ranch. Monte hasn’t seen brother Buck (Bill Pullman) and his wife, Laura (Kathleen York), in quite some time but they didn’t exactly part on the best of terms: Monte is desperate, however, and really does want to save Infidel (the horse) from getting gutted by the increasingly ruthless Kenny. Monte also wants to reconnect with his estranged 9-year-old daughter, Rosemary (Amber Bauer), who’s just back from a “survival school.”What better place to hide a horse than a horse ranch, he figures?

As Kenny and Maureen haul ass across the country in a stolen motor home, Monte tries to convince his suspicious brother that the reasons for his surprise visit have more to do with familial love than ulterior motives. Laura would love to see Buck and Monte become close again but is this too little too late? Once the local sheriff (Rip Torn) gets involved, you just know that the whole thing is gonna get awful crazy awful quick. There’s no fury like a woman scorned, however, and Maureen is going to make sure to get her pound of flesh, come hell or high water. And Kenny? Well, he just wants to keep eating them Turkish dates, man!

Similar to the Crispin Glover-starring oddity Twister (oddly enough, also 1989), Cold Feet is about 10 pounds of weird in a 5-pound sack. The movie is all over the place, an almost complete mess tonally: it’s a light-hearted comedy right up to the point where Kenny blows somebody away in cold-blood, then goes into slapstick territory before becoming a “brothers-in-crisis” drama, a crime thriller and a romance. The whole thing is shot through with a garish, neon ’80s sensibility which is completely jarring when juxtaposed with the numerous nods to Westerns and rural living: call it the “Rhinestone (1984) factor” but there’s something about the neon-’80s and cowboys that just don’t go together.

Acting-wise, you’ve got a pretty mixed bag: Pullman plays it dead-serious, Carradine hams it up, Kirkland plays it like a dinner-theater version of Madea stoned on nitrous, Rip Torn is Rip Torn and Waits is, as can be expected, suitably amazing. It’s no surprise that Kenny ends up being not only the most interesting character in the film but, despite his obvious insanity, the most relatable character: he’s not interested in any games, he doesn’t have any agendas…he just is, dammit, and to hell with any of you squares who tell him otherwise! Whether he’s doing bizarre calisthenics in a moving car, reminding Maureen that sex with radium miners will make her ass glow, eating Turkish dates by the bagful or surviving the kind of shit that would kill the Terminator, Kenny is, quite simply, the man and Waits is absolutely magnificent. Despite any other issues with the film (and boy are there issues), folks could be forgiven for stopping by just to check out Kenny: Waits’ performance really is that much fun and he gets a sizeable chunk of celluloid dedicated to him.

Another highlight for me, albeit a fleeting one, was a pretty superb cameo from Jeff Bridges as a grinning, shithead bartender with a, itchy trigger finger: even for his few moments of screen-time, it’s painfully obvious how equally bad-ass Bridges is. I can’t help but feel that a true Tom Waits/Jeff Bridges collaboration might blow the planet off its axis, ushering in a new ice age…we should probably never find out.

Without a doubt, Cold Feet is definitely a curiosity. Director Dornhelm (still working today) has mostly stayed in the realm of television, so I’m guessing that this didn’t end up being a springboard to bigger and better things. The film never achieves anything approaching a consistent tone or sense of purpose but is still filled with some truly great moments: Sheriff Rip Torn scamming new boots…pretty much anything involving Maureen and Kenny’s cross-country ride…absolutely anything involving Tom Waits. There’s an awful lot of dead space going around, however, and the main storyline about Buck and Monte’s reconciliation is pretty long in the tooth. The film also has a tendency to slip into really silly slapstick (Maureen’s fight with Rosemary’s teacher is really stupid) which sits uncomfortably next to Kenny’s moments of actual violence.

Cold Feet is a weird bird but I’m pretty confident that at least some viewers out there will be able to get on its frequency. While the film is messy, silly and frequently nonsensical, it’s also quite a bit of fun and features one hell of an awesome performance from Tom Waits. If you’re a fan of Waits, this should be a must-see. For everyone else, however, this may just be one of those ’80s curios that passes you by. I would really think hard about it, though: after all, you wouldn’t wanna piss off Kenny, would you?

6/22/14: It Came From Space! (Circa 1983 or Thereabouts)

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alien impregnation, alien invasion, aliens, Almost Human, Anthony Amaral III, B-movies, body horror, cinema, directorial debut, drive-in fare, extreme violence, feature-film debut, film reviews, films, Friday the 13th, friendships, gory films, Graham Skipper, Hobo With a Shotgun, horror, horror films, horror movies, Jami Tennille, Joe Begos, John Ethier, lights in the sky, low-budget films, missing friends, Movies, period-piece, psycho killers, sci-fi, sci-fi-horror, science-fiction, set in the 1980's, slasher films, The House of the Devil, UFOs, Vanessa Leigh, violent, writer-director

It’s not much of a secret that modern horror productions seem to be particularly enamored with the 1980s. Whether filmmakers are crafting straight-up remakes of popular ’80s titles or crafting films that are, basically, homages to ’80s horror, such as Gutterballs (2008), The House of the Devil (2009) or Hobo With a Shotgun (2011), the decade between Friday the 13th (1980) and Puppet Master (1989) certainly seems to be fertile soil, as of late. My theory on the reasoning behind this is pretty simple: as the folks who grew up on ’80s horror get older and move into positions where they can begin to create their own content (directors and writers, for sure, but I’m thinking specifically of producers and studios, here), it’s only natural for them to return to the stuff that first fired them up as kids. Whereas previous generations might have been influenced by weekly serials, ’60s-’70s pop-culture/societal issues and the Cold War, the generation of filmmakers who came of age in the ’80s were influenced by their own particular set of issues and found comfort in their own “new” subgenres, such as slasher films and graphic sci-fi/horror combos like Creature (1985) and The Fly (1986). When it finally came time for the “children of VHS” to make their own films, it shouldn’t be surprising that they returned to their formative era: once the folks who grew up in the ’90s begin to take over, we should be seeing lots of rebooted ’90s properties (there’s already a Scream TV series in the works, so the cycle appears to have begun a little early). Life, as Stephen King so eloquently put it, is such a wheel that it always, in the end, comes round to the same place again.

One-man wrecking crew, Joe Begos, is a little young to comfortably fit within my above theory (he was born in 1987, making him a good decade younger than his “peers”) but he fits the bill so perfectly that he must be an old soul. The writer-director-producer-cinematographer-camera operator behind Almost Human (2013) announced his entry to the world of feature filmmaking with a sci-fi horror movie that could have fit perfectly within the ’80s, sandwiched somewhere between Xtro (1983) and The Hidden (1987). Far from being just a clever approximation of a bygone decade, however, Begos’ film manages to combine all of the necessary ingredients (rudimentary acting, gory practical effects, plenty of action sequences, goopy makeup, intense violence) with a loopy sense of energy and comes up with something that’s suitably rough but just endearing enough to make you want to write Begos’ name on your Trapper Keeper. If ever there were a new genre filmmaker to watch, this guy might just be it.

Set in 1987, Almost Human kicks off in sci-fi high-gear with our terrified protagonist, Seth (Graham Skipper, looking like a slightly doughy Daniel Radcliffe), rushing to the cabin of best friend Mark (Josh Ethier) and his wife, Jen (Vanessa Leigh). Seth has just watched as mutual friend Rob was sucked up into the sky, via a shaft of blue light, and the event has him a little unsettled…actually, he’s in a complete panic but why split hairs? Mark is a burly, Brawny Towel-kind of a dude, so he doesn’t seem too ruffled over Seth’s jibber-jabber. Too bad, since Seth is absolutely right: there’s something otherworldly out there and it sucks Mark straight up into the sky, leaving his terrified wife and buddy standing around as the air is filled with intense screeching and blinding, flashing lights. Smash-cut to the title, white letters on a severe, black background and you might be forgiven for thinking you’d booted up the VCR instead of the Blu-Ray.

Two years later and Seth has been cleared as a suspect but nothing else has really gone right for him: Mark and Rob never turned up, Jen moved on to a new guy, Clyde (Anthony Amaral III) and Seth is prone to headaches, nose bleeds and a generally shitty lifestyle. After two years of relative “peace,” however, things have started to happen again: power outages have become common-place again and folks have been seeing weird lights in the sky. Something appears to be brewing and a pair of unfortunate hunters stumble, literally, right into the middle of everything when they happen upon Mark’s naked body in the middle of the woods. Mark seems to be alive but doesn’t seem quite right (he appears to be covered in amniotic fluid which, for a grown, naked man is usually a dead giveaway that shit is not, in face, okay): his eyes look weird, he seems to be in shock and doesn’t say much more than “Jen,” over and over. He also ends up killing the two hunters with his bare hands, which is probably as good an indicator as any that the Mark we now see ain’t the Mark we once knew.

After taking some clothes and a rifle, Mark proceeds into town, cutting a bloody swath through anyone unlucky enough to confront him. His goal appears to be some kind of reconciliation with his former wife but to what end? As Seth finally reconnects with Jen, the two are forced to team up against a truly otherworldly force: you see, Mark is finally home but he’s both a lot less and a lot more than he used to be. What exactly does he want? Why, he just wants what anybody wants: he wants to start a family with the person he loves, that’s all. Unfortunately, Mark’s notions of fatherhood are more in line with Alien (1979) than Leave It To Beaver, leading to a desperate, all-in fight to save humanity from an evil, insidious force from beyond the stars…a force that, like a shark, knows only a few imperatives: eat…procreate…repeat. Can Seth and Jen survive? Can any of us?

From the above description, one could be forgiven for believing that Almost Human is a pretty traditional Alien/Xtro clone about an alien creature that uses humans for feeding and breeding: in reality, the film is actually much closer to a traditional slasher film dolled-up in sci-fi trappings. This actually allows Begos to do two different things: he can create a more traditional slasher, right down to the emphasis on varied methods of death, and he can throw in enough body-horror/sci-fi ickiness to make sure that this doesn’t just read like a Friday the 13th clone. How’s it work out? Pretty damn nicely, to be honest. The slasher elements are strong and well-done, if not particularly inventive (axes, close-range shotguns, scissors and knives all get workouts) but they’re given an additional shot in the arm by the sci-fi elements. While this definitely helps reign the film’s budget in (Begos, like other low-budget horror filmmakers, has learned that the cheapest villains are always the ones who look the most like us, even if they’re filled with aliens/ghosts/mystery juice/a dose of the crazies), the mixture is good enough that it never feels like a cop-out. Indeed, Bego’s sci-fi elements lead to some of the film’s strongest, strangest scenes such as the ooky “pod people” and Mark’s attempted rape/impregnation of Jen via nasty alien tube thingamabopper. Too many scenes of Mark trooping around with a glare and an ax and we get a pretty generic “dead teenager” film: too much outer space mumbo-jumbo and we get the equivalent of one of Corman’s micro-budget ’80s sci-fi curiosities (many of which were the Asylum/Syfy films of their era, as it was). It’s to Begos’ immense credit that the film always feels perfectly balanced: it always feels like a cheaply made B-movie but never feels awkward or disposable.

From a filmmaking standpoint, Almost Human can be hit-or-miss but most of the issues can be chalked up to “first-time filmmaker jitters” or any of the woes normally associated with micro-budget productions: the acting is pretty iffy, the sound mix is absolutely awful (when will low-budget filmmakers ever learn that sound is too fucking important to be handled by whoever has a free hand?) and some of the plot developments felt completely arbitrary, even for a low-budget horror film. That being said, Almost Human never feels sub-standard and is never difficult to watch: whatever minor flaws the film may have, Begos’ cinematography and the film’s editing style aren’t two of them. I’ve seen plenty of low-budget horror films that are practically painful to sit through: wildly inconsistent acting, poor lighting, crappy camera-work, lame scripts and ridiculous CGI effects. While Begos’ film isn’t a masterpiece, it also doesn’t fall prey to any of these potential deal breakers. The acting may be rough but it’s consistently rough, which makes it a lot harder to notice, ironically enough. The lighting and cinematography are good, as are the practical effects (truth be told, the effects work is actually very good, budget notwithstanding) and the script is solid, if less than spectacular.

Ultimately, as a life-long horror fan, it was impossible for me not to be suitably impressed by Begos’ feature-film debut. While the film was far from perfect, it also revealed a genuine love of the genre and an inherent ability that speaks extremely well for future projects (Begos interned with Stuart Gordon, which may go a long way towards explaining not only the younger filmmaker’s “older” aesthetic but also his affinity for nasty effects work). Begos may have been all of three years old when the ’80s slid into the ’90s but his aesthetic (both visually and thematically) is strictly old-school video store. When a 27-year-old writer/director includes a credit listing for a “Fake Shemp” in his debut film, let’s just say that it’s pretty obvious his head (and heart) is in the right place. Anyone who grew up in the era of direct-to-VHS shockers, low-budget slashers and ultra-gory sci-fi chillers should find something to like about Begos’ Almost Human. If you require the relentless polish and shine of “modern,” CGI-endowed horror films, however, look elsewhere: Begos ain’t for you. For me, however, I’m gonna be sure to keep the kid in my sights: after all, if Almost Human is the first lap, I can’t wait to see how this race progresses.

2/5/14: The One With the Bunny

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Abbie Cornish, action films, Christopher Walken, cinema, Colin Farrell, dog-napping, dumb films, film reviews, films, Gabourey Sidibe, Harry Dean Stanton, hitmen, In Bruges, Martin McDonagh, Movies, psycho killers, Sam Rockwell, screenwriters, self-referential, Seven Psychopaths, Tom Waits, Woody Harrelson

Sometimes, there really doesn’t need to be a better reason to watch a film than pure escapism. When the weight of the world becomes too heavy and everything seems too grim and too real, a nice, light, fluffy, loud popcorn movie can be just what the doctor ordered. Heck, I grew up on dumb ’80s B-movies, so I know the joy of this more than anyone. To be honest, however, big, dumb movies nowadays don’t do much for me.

Kind of like the person who has to constantly proclaim their “indie-ness,” some films just try way too hard to seem effortless and breezy. Most of Zach Snyder’s output strikes me in this way (especially Sucker Punch) and I get the same basic vibe from trailers I’ve seen of Kick Ass and its sequel. There’s a certain art to making a fun, dumb, breezy film and, as far as I’m concerned, too few modern films get it right: too much in one direction and the film becomes genuinely bone-headed; not enough and it all seems like too much of an obvious “wink” to the audience.

If genuinely fun, dumb films are difficult to pull off, then trying to replicate the complex structure of something like Pulp Fiction, while simultaneously attempting to adhere to the tenets of dumb movies is almost impossible. Too many Tarantino clones drown their proceedings in either fake blood or chewy dialogue, either of which can turn an audience off faster than a filmmaker can pull them back in. A few films, however, manage to walk this tightrope quite ably. Martin McDonagh’s Seven Psychopaths almost makes the trip but, ultimately, ends up in the net with most of the others.

I was a huge fan of writer/director McDonagh’s previous film, In Bruges, finding it to be one of the more clever, impactful “Tarantino clones” out there. The acting, by Colin Farrell and Brendan Gleeson, was spot-on and the story hummed along like a juiced-up power line. That being said, I was a little bit wary of Seven Psychopaths when I first saw the trailer: compared to In Bruges, this definitely seemed like a much louder, dumber picture. Throw in one of those huge modern ensemble casts that seem to populate every action movie nowadays (Sam Rockwell, Colin Farrell, Christopher Walken, Woody Harrelson, Tom Waits, Abbie Cornish, Harry Dean Stanton, Gabourey Sidibe) and this wasn’t the immediate must-see that I expected after In Bruges. My expectations, to say the least, weren’t particularly high.

Unlike In Bruges, Seven Psychopaths is a very dumb film, almost aggressively so. The dialogue, for the most part, is bloated and clunky; the acting is either exceptionally broad or pretty good; situations range from eye-rolling to forehead smacking and any sense of logic is pretty much tossed to the way-side before the film’s first act has concluded. That being said, Seven Psychopaths moves along at a vicious pace and is quite a rollercoaster ride, provided one is able to check their brain at the door.

The film concerns the antics of screenwriter Marty (Farrell), his “best friend” Billy (Rockwell) and Billy’s best friend, Hans (Walken). Marty is trying to write a script called “Seven Psychopaths” (natch), while Billy and Hans have a simpler goal: they just want to continue running their dog-napping scheme and, in the case of Billy, being a general hemorrhoid on the ass of humanity. Billy, you see, is a verifiable lunatic, a real psycho who acts first and thinks second in any given situation. Billy and Hans end up taking the wrong pooch, a little mutt belonging to Charlie (Harrelson). If Billy is a little nuts, Charlie is a whole lotta nuts and is determined to reclaim his prized pet at any cost, preferably via the violent deaths of everyone involved. Will Marty ever finish his screenplay? Will Charlie ever get back his dog? Will we ever find out who the Seven Psychopaths are? Will it make sense when we do?

Similar to junk food, Seven Psychopaths is enjoyable, at the time, but completely disposable afterwards. In other words, this may be one of the best “big dumb movies” in history. The opening scene is great shorthand for what the rest of the film has to offer: two hitmen stand around, making idle conversation, while an unseen masked man approaches them steadily from behind. The two hitmen are so wrapped up in their banter that they never even react when the masked gunman is suddenly behind them, turning their faces into red mist with a couple well-placed shots to the back of the head. A title appears on the screen: Psychopath #1. And we’re off to the races!

Or are we? For, you see, this very first scene was the point where I realized that Seven Psychopaths was going to be the film equivalent of marzipan cake decorations. To start with, the banter between the hitmen is leaden and, quite frankly, stupid. Had the dialogue been clever and well-written, the scene may have had some of the feeling of Reservoir Dogs famous “Madonna breakfast” or Pulp Fiction’s “Royale with Cheese.” As it is, the dialogue feels like it was improvised on the spot by a couple of actors who aren’t particularly comfortable with improv. It’s almost painful to watch/listen to but made doubly so by the unsettling notion that the filmmakers think this is pretty cool. They must, because the clunky dialogue rears it head time and time again. I couldn’t count the number of times where I would genuinely invested in the action only to be pulled out completely by some silly, stupid or unnecessarily self-referential bit of dialogue. Again, it had all of the unfortunate earmarks of a writer a little too pleased with his own sense of cleverness.

Which, ultimately, is a shame because a lot of Seven Psychopaths is a real hoot, albeit in a moonshine rather than cognac way. Some of the vignettes that introduce Marty’s  psychopaths (particularly the Vietnamese “priest” and the Amish killer) are stylish in a nearly perfect way and the actions scenes all have a real sense of urgency and energy to them. The acting isn’t always notable but it’s usually energetic, with Harrelson deserving special mention as a genuinely scary individual. Sobbing over his dog one minute, killing an innocent woman the next, Charlie reminded me (in a strictly positive way) of Gary Oldman’s stellar Drexl, from True Romance. Every film needs a good villain and Charlie was pretty darn good. Walken, as usual, was pretty great and while I’m not the biggest Farrell or Rockwell fan, I thought they were both believable, although I often found Billy to be a completely obnoxious, capricious character.

Unfortunately, lots of good elements are constantly let down by a sub-par script. While the dialogue is bad enough, some of the gaping plot holes and confusing story elements are almost worse. At one point, I was so confused by the various psychopaths’ backstories that I actually thought two of them were the same person, which is made more confusing later on when two of them ARE the same person. And this happened despite the fact that I took pages of copious notes…yikes. There’s also two campfire “storytelling” scenes that take place at different times but are shot and presented in the exact same way, making it seem as if the events occur at the same time. Not a critical injury, mind you, but pretty damn sloppy, especially when compared to the tight plotting of In Bruges.

Don’t get me wrong: there’s an awful lot to like about Seven Psychopaths: any film that features Tom Waits as a serial killing serial-killer killer with a fluffy white rabbit, Christopher Walken tripping on peyote in the desert and Harry Dean Stanton as a vengeful Amish father is already a lot cooler than most films out there. The visuals are bright and gaudy, there are a few nicely stylized shootouts and everything chugs along with all the anarchy of an old Warner Bros. cartoon. Too bad, then, that the film ends up being so wildly inconsistent and, ultimately, stupid. I’m more than willing to tell my brain to go sit out on the porch for a while: Seven Psychopaths would rather I shoot it and put it out of its misery.