12/14/14 (Part Two): The Little Garda Who Could

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auteur theory, bad cops, Bad Lieutenant, Brendan Gleeson, buddy cop films, Calexico, cinema, corrupt law enforcement, David Wilmot, Declan Mannlen, Don Cheadle, drug dealers, dying mother, eponymous characters, FBI agents, feature-film debut, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, Fionnula Flanagan, fish-out-of-water, gallows' humor, Garda, Gary Lydon, Guy Ritchie, Irish films, John Michael McDonagh, Larry Smith, Liam Cunningham, Mark Strong, mother-son relationships, Movies, racism, Rory Keenan, Sergeant Gerry Boyle, set in Ireland, small town life, stolen guns, The Guard, UK films, Wendell Everett, writer-director

Towards the end of writer-director John Michael McDonagh’s The Guard (2011), there’s a scene where Sergeant Gerry Boyle (Brendan Gleeson) solemnly changes into his traditional “Garda” uniform before heading out to face-off with the vicious drug dealers who have cold-bloodedly killed his partner. As he drives down the country-road, eyes locked straight ahead, he’s saluted by a young boy: a hero being recognized by the very people that he’s sworn to protect, an image as timeless as the very concept of law enforcement. It’s a huge, soaring moment for one important reason: for the first time in years, Sergeant Boyle has decided to actually do his job and we know, without a doubt, that the end result will be simply glorious.

Sergeant Boyle is the titular “guard” of the title but he’s also The Guard in a larger sense: every frame of the film, every plot twist, blackly comic moment and dastardly deed in McDonagh’s stunning feature-debut is completely and totally dominated by the towering presence that is Gleeson’s Boyle, a character who manages to be gleefully corrupt, yet still stands as a beacon of truth amidst those who are, you know, a whole lot worse. In a career that’s stretched to nearly three decades, Gleeson has never been better or more explosive: take a seat, Harvey…this here is the REAL bad lieutenant and you won’t be able to take your eyes off him.

We first get introduced to Gerry as he steals drugs from the bodies of a bunch of teens who just flipped their speeding car. The police officer nonchalantly drops acid, says “What a lovely fucking day” and we get the title, so big that it fills the entire screen, squeezing Boyle into the margins. The intent, as mentioned above, is pretty obvious: Boyle will dominate the proceedings, no two ways about it. Boyle might not be an honest cop, but he’s sure a helluva lot smarter than the rest of his peers: his partner, McBride (Rory Keenan) is one small step away from being a complete idiot and their superior officer, Inspector Stanton (Gary Lydon), thinks that “liquidated” people are actually turned into liquid. In this environment, can anyone really blame Boyle for looking out for number one? It’s not so much that Boyle is a bad cop, or even a lazy one, per se: he’s just so burned out on all the bureaucratic bullshit that he’s completely tuned-out…no sense getting fired-up about fighting crime if everyone around you keeps dropping the ball, is there? Better to spend one’s time cavorting with prostitutes, playing video games in a pub during the middle of your shift and getting shit-faced whenever possible.

Boyle gets shaken from his comfortable stupor, however, when his small, Irish hamlet ends up with a certifiable murder-mystery: a body has been found, shot in the head and posed in a way that seems to indicate some sort of cult activity. Despite caring so little about the case that he practically yawns his way through the initial investigation, Boyle goes through the motions, since that’s what he’s expected to do. Things really get interesting, however, when FBI agent Wendell Everett (Don Cheadle) shows up in town, investigating some sort of major drug case that involves four seriously bad dudes: Francis (Liam Cunningham), McCormick (Declan Mannlen), O’Leary (David Wilmot) and Clive (Low Winter Sun’s Mark Strong).

During Everett’s debriefing, Boyle makes a complete ass of himself after stating that he thought “only black lads were drug dealers:” Everett calls him a “racist,’ to which Boyle snaps back that “racism is part of Ireland’s tradition.” Casually racist though he might be, Boyle also recognizes McCormick as their anonymous murder victim, which gives Everett his first actual break in the case. Faster than you can say “odd couple,” Boyle and Everett are soon working together, albeit as reluctantly as possible. “I can’t tell if you’re real motherfucking dumb or really motherfucking smart,” Everett notes, at one point, and it’s a pretty valid question: Boyle is constantly working so many angles that he’s either the dumbest guy in town or the smartest, depending on whose bad side he happens to be on. When Everett and Boyle end up in the crosshairs of Francis and his gang, however, Boyle’s going to need all of his wits to survive. When the drug dealers kill one of his own, however, regardless of what an idiot he was, Boyle has no choice: it’s time for this Garda to quit messing around and get to the business of putting away the bad guys.

The Guard is an exceptional film, no two ways about it: quite possibly one of the very best films of the last five years. So much of the film works to an almost supernatural degree that it readily brought to mind “instant classics” like Guy Ritchie’s Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels (1998). The cinematography, by frequent Nicholas Winding Refn collaborator Larry Smith, is beautiful, making expert use of bright, primary colors and that lush, gorgeous Irish countryside. The score, by the Southwestern-based Calexico, is ridiculously rousing, all spaghetti-Western horns, steel guitar and action beats like one of Ennio Morricone’s classic scores. McDonagh’s script is airtight, full of deliciously snarky dialogue and some of the driest humor ever put to film. There’s something rather amazing about watching Everett and Boyle feint, parry and thrust around each other, testing for weak points and trying to push as many buttons as possible.

Let’s not forget about the cast, however. While Cheadle and Gleeson are the main focal points, The Guard is filled with interesting, three-dimensional characters, not least of which are the three drug dealing villains. Veteran character-actor Liam Cunningham is great as the exasperated leader of the group, while David Wilmot shares a thoroughly badass scene with Gleeson that features one of the film’s most joyous surprises. Nearly stealing away their shared moments, however, is Mark Strong’s Clive Cornell: morose, philosophical, depressed and given to metaphysical ponderings, Clive is an awesome creation, at once lethal and silly. In fact, it’s to McDonagh’s great credit that one of the film’s sneakiest ideas (that no one, including the drug dealers, are actually doing the jobs they want to do) comes across entirely through subtle character development and dialogue: no unnecessary hand-holding to be found here!

It pretty much goes without saying that Cheadle is excellent as the put-upon fish-out-of-water FBI agent but let’s go ahead and say it again, anyway: Cheadle is absolutely excellent as Everett. Long one of Hollywood’s most dependable actors, Cheadle is the kind of performer, like Ron Perlman, who can elevate any film, regardless of the amount of screen time he gets. Here, we get lots of Cheadle and I don’t that anyone would mind. His scenes with Gleeson are marvelous little jewels but the really revelatory moments come when Everett is forced to pound the small-town pavement solo: his interactions with the overly hostile, racist locals are some of the best scenes in the film, hands-down.

The unquestionable star of the show, however, the “reason for the season,” as it were, is the amazing, unstoppable Brendan Gleeson. Towering over everything like a ragged, Gaelic god, Gleeson doesn’t appear to be acting: he honestly seems to be channeling the very spirit of Gerry Boyle. Gleeson doesn’t make a single misstep in the film: whether sneaking his dying mother (an outstanding Fionnula Flanagen) into the pub for one last pint, blowing Everett’s mind by rising from the freezing ocean in a skin-tight wetsuit or telling each and every authority figure in the world to sit and spin, Boyle is never less than completely charismatic and magnetic. I dare you to tear your eyes from the epic climax where Boyle strides relentlessly through the middle of a firefight, a rosy-faced Angel of Death who knows that he’s screwed and yet refuses to admit the fact to anyone, much less himself. There are countless good reasons to watch The Guard but there’s one necessary reason: no one who considers themselves an aficionado of fine acting can afford to miss Gleeson’s performance…it really is that good.

As it stands, The Guard is another film that I feel pretty confident recommending to anyone under the sun: if you’re a fan of darkly humorous UK crime films, “cops gone bad” movies or “buddy action” flicks, this one’s definitely for you. Truth be told, I really can’t see anyone walking out of The Guard disappointed or underwhelmed: if you should find such a person, stay far away, my friends…it’s obvious that they can’t be trusted.

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10/17/14 (Part Two): The Scarecrow That Wasn’t

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31 Days of Halloween, abandoned plantation, Alex Turner, American Civil War, cinema, cornfields, curses, Dead Birds, extreme violence, favorite films, feature-film debut, film reviews, films, Henry Thomas, horror, horror film, horror films, horror movies, horror westerns, Isaiah Washington, Mark Boone Junior, Michael Shannon, Movies, Muse Watson, Nicki Aycox, North vs South, Patrick Fugit, racism, scarecrows, set in 1860s, Simon Barrett, slavery, Steve Yedlin, stolen gold, The Burrowers, voodoo curses

In the world of horror films, hyphenates and hybrids are king: horror-comedies, sci-fi horror, teen slasher flicks (as opposed to geriatric slasher flicks, one assumes), rom-zom-coms, found-footage films, military-based horror films…if two disparate styles/genres/things can be forcibly jammed together, the horror industry has probably already done it. Of all of these various amalgams, however, one of the most under-represented, but endlessly entertaining, variations must certainly be the horror-Western.

While horror-Westerns appeared to have a bit of a renaissance in the ’50s and ’60s (albeit one composed entirely of questionable fare like Billy the Kid vs Dracula (1966) and The Beast of Hollow Mountain (1956)), you can count the number of “modern-day” horror-Westerns on a remarkably small number of fingers. Among exceptional films like The Burrowers (2008) and Ravenous (1999), there are also odious entries like the obnoxious Wesley Snipes-starring turkey Gallowwalkers (2012) and The Quick and the Undead (2006): while a Western setting can be glorious fodder for a horror film, it can also lead to any number of tired, stupid “zombie gunslinger” clichés, lazy ideas that are easily as tedious as cheap, cash-in found-footage films or dime-a-dozen zombie flicks.

Of the modern-day horror-Westerns that “get it right,” Alex Turner’s Dead Birds (2004) is easily one of the highlights, ranking right there with the aforementioned Ravenous and The Burrowers as some of my favorite modern horror films. There’s a quiet elegance to Dead Birds that’s almost hypnotizing, a notion of stepping off the beaten path and into a world that’s just slightly askew from ours. Thanks to an excellent script by genre mainstay Simon Barrett and some truly gorgeous cinematography courtesy of frequent Rian Johnson collaborator Steve Yedlin, Dead Birds is a subtle chiller that looks great and is smarter than the average bear. The resulting film is a slow-burner that still manages to incorporate jump scares (albeit fewer than the typical modern horror film) to good effect, while offering up an ending that should give audiences something to mull over for days to come.

The film begins in Alabama, in 1863, at the tail-end of the American Civil War. A group of gunmen – William (Henry Thomas), Sam (Patrick Fugit), Joseph (Mark Boone Junior), Clyde (Michael Shannon), Todd (Isaiah Washington) and Annabelle (Nicki Aycox) – have just made off with a large shipment of gold after a brazen, bloody bank robbery. After making it out of the town, the group decides to bunker down at an old homestead, the Hollister place. When they finally make it to the place, it ends up being a sprawling, abandoned plantation, the main house decrepit and unbelievably creepy at the end of a massive cornfield. Trudging through the wall of corn, the group makes two equally unsettling discoveries: a scarecrow that’s probably a human body stuck up on a pole and a bizarre, small, hairless creature, vaguely humanoid in shape, that Sam handily kills with a bullet to the head. As foreboding moments go, it doesn’t get much more foreboding than that.

Once the group makes it to the farmhouse, the usual tendencies to fight and form sub-groups take over: Clyde and Joseph hate that they’re getting paid as much as Todd, who’s black, and scheme to keep all the gold for themselves; William and Annabelle continue the courtship that appears to have begun in a military field hospital and Sam seems to be getting more fidgety and paranoid by the minute. When the group begins to see strange apparitions throughout the house, demonic things that look like children with hollow, empty eyes, they come to the realization that they might have stepped smack-dab into quite a bit of trouble. As the group try to make sense of what’s going, they’ll gradually come to learn the full story of the plantation’s former owner and the terrible steps he went through to get back his lost love. If they’re lucky, the group will make it out with their hides, if not their minds, intact. If not, however, they’ll find themselves as just another part of the plantation’s terrible past, trapped in the cornfield until the end of time.

There’s an awful lot working in Dead Birds’ favor (great cast, good effects, fantastically creepy setting, authentic period detail) but the feather in the cap definitely ends up being Simon Barrett’s exceptionally sharp, intelligent script. Rather than traffic in tired horror movie clichés (other than the nearly ubiquitous “scary-faced” people, of course), the film comes up with a fresh, nicely realized mythology of its own, one that manages to incorporate voodoo curses, demons and no small amount of irony. In a genre where story often feels like something you trip over on your way to the next gore shot, Dead Birds is definitely a breath of fresh air.

As a horror film, Turner’s movie hits all of its marks: the violence can be sudden and intense, the atmosphere is thick with tension and the scares are genuine and frequent. While the film doesn’t really traffic in setpieces, ala something like Suspiria (1977), there are still plenty of memorable scenes, such as the moment in the final third where we get a good look at the scarecrow and some really spooky bits involving the demonic children. Unlike more “cookie-cutter” films, we get to know and like (for the most part) the characters in Dead Birds, making their inevitable fates all that much more impactful.

In particular, Henry Thomas (yeah, Elliott from E.T. (1982)) is a great square-jawed protagonist, while genre vet Michael Shannon and Sons of Anarchy’s Mark Boone Junior make a great pair as the evil-leaning Clyde and Joseph. Most importantly, the ensemble works really well together, bringing a sense of cohesion to the production that’s likewise missing in more slap-dash films. None of these characters exist as mere cannon fodder, which makes the overall film that much more meaningful.

Despite positively adoring Alex Turner’s debut feature, I ended up being massively let-down by his follow-up, the Iraq-set Red Sands (2009), a sloppy affair which was full of great ideas and ramshackle execution. Here, Turner gets everything just perfect, turning out an absolute modern classic, in the process. Here’s to hoping that Turner has another Dead Birds up his sleeve for the future: films like this don’t come along every day but you can’t fault me for being greedy and wanting a few more.

9/14/14: This Little Piggy

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bad cops, bad decisions, Bad Lieutenant, based on a book, black comedies, Brian McCardie, British films, cinema, Clint Mansell, corrupt law enforcement, Eddie Marsan, electronic score, Emun Elliott, film reviews, films, Filth, gallows' humor, Gary Lewis, homophobia, Imogen Poots, infidelity, insanity, Irvine Welsh, James McAvoy, Jamie Bell, Jim Broadbent, John Sessions, Jon S. Baird, Matthew Jensen, mental illness, Movies, pigs, racism, sexism, Shauna Macdonald, Shirley Henderson, Trainspotting, voice-over narration, writer-director

When it comes to filmed adaptations of Scottish scalawag Irvine Welsh’s novels, Danny Boyle’s extraordinary version of Trainspotting (1996) will probably always be the gold standard. In a way, Boyle’s film was a perfect storm and, perhaps, the only one of the adaptations to truly capture Welsh’s unique voice and style. Boyle managed to find the essential humanity at the core of some pretty reprehensible characters and wrapped the proceedings in an alternately candy-colored and bleakly hallucinatory environment: the film was the perfect combination of the romantic and the scatological, the joy and shuddering horror of the trod-upon Scotch lower-class writ large for the whole world to see. In Boyle’s hands, there was equal parts poetry and filth, the proverbial rose pushing up through a mountain of shit. Trainspotting works so well because Boyle walks the tightrope so perfectly: too much glitz and we lose the allure of Welsh’s gutter-punk angels…too much vulgarity and we tune out the misery, if only to avoid staring too deeply into the abyss.

Although it’s not (necessarily) meant as a pejorative, writer/director Jon S. Baird’s adaptation of Welsh’s Filth (2013) is no Trainspotting. In certain ways, the film plays more like an over-the-top (waaaaay over the top) take on Abel Ferrara’s classic of feel-bad-cinema, Bad Lieutenant (1999), just as content to shove our noses in bad behavior as it is to comment on it. Where Ferrara’s film wore its intentions on its sleeve, (any film that centers around a nun forgiving her rapist is obviously interested in more than just a visceral reaction), Filth is a little cagier about its ultimate goal. When Baird’s film works, it’s ferocious, funny, eye-popping and endlessly offensive, featuring a truly great ending and a career-best performance by James McAvoy. When the film doesn’t work, however, it’s actually rather dreadful: pretentious, empty-headed and more stylish than substantial, Filth manages to make all of the mistakes that Trainspotting didn’t. While I (ultimately) ended up liking the film quite a bit (no doubt due, in no small part, to that phenomenal ending), there was plenty that I found to be equally eye-rolling, obnoxious and tedious. Filth may not ascend to the heady heights that Trainspotting did but there’s plenty to enjoy here: fans of Welsh’s purple prose may, indeed, celebrate the fact that Baird has captured the author’s often difficult voice so well.

Our “hero” and guide through this little section of Hell is none other than Bruce Robertson (James McAvoy), a cop so completely and thoroughly corrupt/reprehensible that he makes Harvey Keitel’s titular “bad lieutenant” look like a real sweetheart. Bruce is virulently sexist, racist and homophobic, hoovers up cocaine by the metric ton and eagerly blackmails the underage daughter of a prominent lawyer into performing oral sex on him. He steals money from his “best friend” while anonymously serving as obscene phone-caller to the poor guy’s wife, while also sleeping with the wife of one of his co-workers. Bruce is angling for a department promotion which, in his fetid little world, involves doing everything he can to sabotage his fellow officers’ chances of vaulting over him to the finish line.

We first meet Bruce’s co-workers via a series of fantasy vignettes in which our resident Mr. Wonderful gives his (slanted) take on his peers: Dougie (Brian McCardie) is the “Nazi” who’s being cuckolded by Bruce; Peter (Emun Elliott) is the “metrosexual” and “closeted gay”; Ray (Jamie Bell) is the “coke-head rookie”; Gus (Gary Lewis) is the “old as dirt, single-IQ” department veteran and Amanda (Imogen Poots) is the “token female” who “must be sucking off the whole squad,” at least according to Bruce’s jaundiced worldview.

While Bruce’s work-life appears to be one never-ending scheme after another, his home-life appears to be just as complicated and unpleasant. We meet his lovely blonde wife, Carole (Shauna Macdonald), through a series of largely unsuccessful vignettes/voice-overs and get some hint of a past trauma after Bruce attempts (and fails) to give CPR to someone who has collapsed on the street. The dead man’s widow, Mary (Joanne Froggatt), periodically appears to serve as Bruce’s conscience, in a way, while also giving hints at the kind of love story that belongs in a much nicer film.

To muddy the waters even further, Bruce’s squad is currently embroiled in the controversial case of a Japanese exchange student who has been brutally beat to death by a gang of Scottish punks. As the team investigates the case, the stakes are raised when it’s revealed that closing the case will virtually guarantee one of them a plum new promotion: Bruce wants that promotion and sets out to stop his fellow officers in any way he can. Bruce has such single-minded devotion to his plan, in fact, that the actual murder case fades into the background, even when it appears that Carole may be the only witness to the incident.

As Bruce dives deeper and deeper into the sewage around him, his tenuous grasp on reality begins to flicker in and out: he starts to imagine people (including himself) with animal heads, loses control of his hair-trigger temper at a moment’s notice and descends even further into an unrelenting drug hell. Will Bruce be able to keep it all together long enough to solve the murder or, at the very least, completely wreck his co-workers’ lives? What mysterious incident happened to Bruce that causes him to constantly reminisce about a dead boy? And what, exactly, is going on with Bruce’s absent wife, Carole? The ultimate revelation is quite a surprise and leads to a truly bravura climax that almost (but not quite) rivals the “Choose life” finale from Trainspotting, albeit from a much grimmer angle.

As mentioned above, Filth is a pretty hit-and-miss affair but the hits are heady enough to gloss over the misses. Chief among the “pros” here is McAvoy’s astounding performance as Bruce: as painful as a raw nerve, as dastardly as any villain and just charming enough to prevent you from wanting to squash him like a bug, Bruce is a massively interesting construct and is brought to glorious life by McAvoy. Without a strong center, the film would, literally, collapse into wet newspaper: who the hell wants to get stuck with an unlovable, lecherous sociopath for 90 minutes? To McAvoy’s immense credit, he manages to humanize Bruce just enough (the guy is still an inhuman creep, mind you) to allow the finale to have genuine impact. There’s a truly odd but relentlessly effective scene where Bruce obscene calls his friend’s wife while watching old home movies: as tears stream down his cheeks and his eyes betray pure misery, Bruce mouths some of the most vile “sex talk” in some time and masturbates in almost robotic fashion. The split screen shows us that Bunty (Shirley Henderson) is also furiously pleasuring herself, which makes a ludicrous parallel to Bruce’s miserable actions. It’s a small but effective moment, a bit that fuses the film’s twin obsessions of gutter-trawling and emotional overload into one dynamic whole.

Although McAvoy is, head and shoulders, the focal point of the film, it’s definitely not a one-man show. The ensemble is a particularly strong one, with all of Bruce’s co-workers receiving their own moment in the sun, along with some despicable behaviors of their own. Particularly impressive, however, is veteran British character-actor Eddie Marsan as Bruce’s put-upon “best friend” and Masonic Lodge brother Clifford. With his doughy features and perpetually hang-dog demeanor, Clifford is a fabulous foil for Bruce: the scene where Bruce takes Clifford out for a night on the town flops wildly between a “night out for the lads” and “complete psychological torture.” Clifford is an intriguing character and Marsan goes for the gusto in the role, expanding what could have been a caricature into a fully fleshed, if largely worthless, individual.

From a craft standpoint, Filth looks great, although it’s occasionally a little blown-out for my tastes. The film also has the benefit of a pretty excellent soundtrack courtesy of former Pop Will Eat Itself frontman Clint Mansell: while the score doesn’t rival the iconic soundtrack from Trainspotting, it’s still an effective combination of Mansell’s traditional electro scorework and some pretty apt pop tunes (Mansell’s evocative cover of Radiohead’s Creep scores the final scene and is absolutely perfect for the mood Baird has established.

While the film has plenty to recommend it, however, there’s also plenty that nearly derails it completely. The interludes with Carole never work and always seem ancillary to the main narrative. They’re also quite irritating, to be honest, and tonally out-of-sorts with the rest of the film. Along those lines, several scenes, such as the impromptu musical number, seem out-of-place and manage to fall completely flat, affording nothing more than a shrug. For a film that’s about lurid and anti-social behavior, Filth also has a strange tendency to seem…well, just a little bit tame, if that makes sense. Whereas Ferrara’s Bad Lieutenant was a feral, unhinged fever dream, Filth plays out more as a snide, tongue-in-cheek expose on “bad behavior”: it’s a little like crossing the street to avoid an exceptionally creepy looking stranger only to discover that the stranger is actually Robert Pattinson with drawn-on tattoos. In many ways, I fear that this comes down to the film’s “style over substance” issues: like many other “everything and the kitchen sink films,” Filth throws so much stuff at the audience that, inevitably, fatigue sinks in. Compare this to the groodiest moments in Boyle’s masterpiece and it’s easy to see how less can, indeed, often be more.

Ultimately, I found myself quite taken with Filth, even though it’s several solid steps below Trainspotting. McAvoy is pitch-perfect throughout and is just good enough to warrant watching the film: regardless of your tolerance for the debauchery on display, McAvoy is outstanding and turns in a real “actor’s performance.” If you can forgive the film its excesses and step over the plot holes that begin to spread like wildfire in the second half (my least favorite being the revelation that Bunty doesn’t realize it’s Bruce that’s been prank-calling her: Really? I mean…really?), I think that you’ll find Filth to be a massively entertaining examination of one of the slimiest cinematic slugs to slither its way across the silver screen in some time. You might not be able to stand in Bruce’s corner (I’d be kind of scared if you could) but that shouldn’t stop you from seeing him get his just desserts. Filth might not be Trainspotting but, for patient and tolerant viewers, it just might be the next best thing.

6/8/14 (Part Two): What’s Blood For But Shedding?

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1990s films, based on a short story, bees, Bernard Rose, Cabrini-Green, Candyman, cheating husbands, Chicago, child killing, childhood fears, cinema, Clive Barker, Daniel Robitaille, DeJuan Guy, dream-like, electronic score, false accusations, film reviews, films, graffiti, hook for a hand, horror, horror films, housing projects, Immortal Beloved, Kasi Lemmons, Michael Culkin, mirrors, missing child, Movies, murals, Philip Glass, racism, revenge, self-sacrifice, serial killer, Ted Raimi, The Forbidden, Tony Todd, urban legends, Vanessa Williams, vengeance, Virginia Madsen, voice-over narration, writer-director, Xander Berkeley

Urban legends are funny things. On their surface, most of them seem pretty easy to discount: How, exactly, do baby alligators grow to enormous size after being flushed down the toilet? Do we actually believe that people have died from mixing Pop Rocks and soda? How come this stuff always happens to a friend of a friend’s twice-removed cousin? Examined in the cold light of day, almost all urban legends seem absolutely ridiculous (even the hook on the door requires too much suspension of disbelief to be truly scary): rational thought is always there to chase away the boogeymen and monsters of the imagination. As our parents may have been wont to say, we’re only scaring ourselves most of the time: there isn’t really anything out there to be worried about.

In reality, however, humans are deeply flawed, superstitious creatures who possess boundless capacity for believing in anything under the sun. We need look no further than the infamous witch trials that claimed the lives of so many innocent people in the 1600s: none of us believe in witches until there’s mob rule, at which point we all believe in witches. The human mind is a wondrous thing, the equal to any computer that’s yet been conceived. Part of the mind’s power comes from our ability to acquire, examine and interpret information around us, changing our preconceived notions if the new information should go against them. In other words, we possess the limitless capacity to learn, to absorb new knowledge and experiences and allow these experiences to change and color our overall world-view. We are so amazing because we have the simultaneous ability to soundly reason and to unleash our wildest imaginations. We believe in urban legends because we are human: our rational mind examines the evidence and discards each situation as it arises, yet the imaginative, childlike part of our brain allows for any number of possibilities…including the very real possibility that everything we think we know is wrong. Bernard Rose’s Candyman (1992), an adaptation of one of Clive Barker’s short tales, examines the intersection of rational thought and unchecked imagination, detailing what happens when our belief in something becomes so strong that we can pull something from the shadowy world of legend into the cold, hard light of the real world.

After an ominous, impressionistic opening that establishing the oppressive mood of the film, we meet our protagonist, Helen Lyle (Virginia Madsen). Helen is a grad student who happens to be married to the egotistical, philandering Prof. Trevor Lyle (Xander Berkeley). Helen and her friend, Bernadette (Kasi Lemmons), have been doing research on urban legends, with their eyes on publishing a paper about their results. In particular, their work focuses on the legend of Candyman, a hook-handed, vengeful spirit who’s said to haunt the Cabrini-Green housing projects in Chicago. While neither Helen nor Bernadette actually believes in the myth (say “Candyman” five times in a mirror and he’ll appear to gut you with his hook), Bernadette lets Helen know that there are plenty of real-world horrors to be found in Cabrini Green, including vicious street gangs and omnipresent drug devastation.

Ignoring her friend’s warnings, Helen plunges headfirst into the mystery of Candyman, going so far as to examine the abandoned apartment of one of his supposed victims. Once there, Helen finds a hidden passage into an area that contains a giant Candyman mural, explaining the events that led to his original death, as well as what appears to be a shrine to the cult figure. She also meets and befriends Anne-Marie (Vanessa Williams), an initially suspicious and standoffish neighbor who has an infant child and a healthy distrust of white people like Helen: “The white folks that come around ain’t to handshakey,” she tells Helen and it’s not impossible to believe. Cabrini-Green, as portrayed in the film, is an almost post-Apocalyptic, burned-out wreck: Helen seems to be the only white person for miles and the various residents she meets view her with a mixture of contempt, amusement and dislike.

As she continues her journey into Cabrini-Green, Helen befriends a youngster named Jake (DeJuan Guy), a firm believer in the Candyman mythos thanks to a “friend of a friend” connection to the supposed killings. Jake shows her the public restroom where another young boy was supposed to have been butchered by Candyman and, once there, she runs afoul of a local gang leader who calls himself “The Candy Man” and wields a sharp hook. When the police arrest the gang leader, everyone (including Helen) assumes that he’s responsible for all of the Candyman-related deaths. Helen changes her mind, however, when she’s confronted by the real Candyman (Tony Todd) in a parking garage. Helen passes out and wakes up in Anne-Marie’s apartment, covered in blood: Anne-Marie’s dog has been brutally killed, her baby is missing and Helen is lying on her apartment floor, holding a bloody knife.

As the terrified, confused Helen finds herself the number-one suspect in a terrible crime, the walls between fantasy and reality begin to collapse. Helen keeps seeing Candyman everywhere and, when she does, someone around her is sure to be butchered. He seems to want Helen for something although whether it’s vindication or vengeance is left up for debate. As she finds herself increasingly alone, Helen becomes even more connected to Candyman and his tragic history. In order to clear her name and end the terror, Helen must descend into the shadowy recesses of Cabrini-Green, in search of Anne-Marie’s missing child and the truth behind Candyman. Will Helen end up solving the mystery, bringing peace to Cabrini-Green, or will she end up as another of Candyman’s victims? Is there really even a Candyman or is Helen just losing her mind?

I remember watching Candyman when it originally came out and being less than impressed, perhaps because I was such a gonzo Clive Barker fan at the time: I was so eager for any Barker content on the screen that my expectations were constantly too high (damn you, Lord of Illusions (1995)) and I was always getting disappointed. Ironically enough, I haven’t read the original story, “The Forbidden,” in decades, so it’s a little hard for me to determine how close/not Rose’s adaptation ends up being. My most recent viewing of the film, however, revealed a pretty simple truth: Candyman is actually a really good film.

Part of the reason for the film’s success is due to the unrelentingly oppressive atmosphere served up from the first frame to the last. Thanks in part to renowned experimental composer Philip Glass’ haunting, dissonant score and some beautifully evocative cinematography from industry vet Anthony B. Richmond (who shot The Man Who Fell to Earth (1976), The Sand Lot (1993) and one of my all-time favorite films, Ravenous (1999)), there’s a thick, Gothic vibe to everything that really accentuates the horror. Cabrini-Green, with its dilapidated buildings and empty, burned-out streets is a helluva location even before we get to the ultra-creepy “shrine” that Candyman calls home. Stylistically, the film often plays out like a fever-dream, as if avant-garde genius Ken Russell were helming the proceedings rather than a more workmanlike director like Rose. Many of the scenes, such as the beginning and any of Helen’s meetings with Candyman, play out with imperfect logic. The apex of this definitely has to be the disorienting, horrifying scene where Helen wakes up in Anne-Marie’s apartment: the scene is played with such a breathless, breakneck pace that it’s easier to absorb what’s happening than to actually understand it. It ends up being a genuinely powerful cinematic moment in a film that could just as easily have been aimed at lowest-common denominator multiplex audiences.

On occasion, Rose’s film can be a bit heavy-handed (heavenly choirs on the soundtrack always indicate something is up) but this tends to play nicely into the thick, cloying atmosphere. If anything, Candyman often plays a modern-day fairytale, an update to the cautionary tales of the Brothers Grimm. As a horror film, Candyman contains not only the requisite moments of gore and violence (which tend to be a bit shocking, although that’s always been Barker’s milieu) but also scenes that are genuinely creepy and unsettling. One of the most well-done moments in the film involves Helen and Bernadette discovering the secret passage in the murder victim’s apartment. As Helen looks into the mysterious, dark unknown, the sense of creeping tension and dread is palatable. Her passage to the other side carries the same sense of primal wonder and fear that can be found in the similar scene in Michael Mann’s The Keep (1983): humanity moving from the warm light of understanding into the frigid abyss of the unknown.

Candyman’s backstory is well-integrated into the overall themes of the film, driving home the notion that our history of racial inequality and a terrible lynch-mob mentality are ultimately responsible for Candyman’s rampage. While it’s painfully evident that Daniel Robitaille’s transformation into the Candyman is due to the violence inflicted on him by his white oppressors, it’s just as evident that a similar, if much more subtle, form of violence is being inflicted on the mostly black residents of the Cabrini-Green housing project. When Anne-Marie makes her comment about the “white folks not being too handshakey,” she seems to be speaking for most of the residents of the Green: if white people are there at all, they’re there to take advantage, satisfy their curiosity or get a cheap thrill. Even Helen, who seems to have the best of intentions, ends up bringing an untold amount of misery down up on the residents of Cabrini-Green: she presumes to be helping them but she’s really only furthering her own academic ambitions.

Acting-wise, Candyman is top-notch, with Madsen presenting a nicely vulnerable, multi-faceted performance as Helen. Even though she’s far from perfect, Helen actually means well and Madsen takes a character that could come across as condescending and makes her appealingly real. I didn’t always agree with everything Helen did (to be honest, she made some astoundingly bad decisions from the jump) but she never felt like a plot contrivance, especially once we reach the powerful, emotional climax. The final scene is one that could have across as over-the-top and unnecessarily maudlin, but Madsen wisely takes the “Ellen Ripley” approach, letting the character’s inherent heroism shine through, if for only a brief moment.

As the titular “villain,” Tony Todd is excellent in the role that brought him to the attention of the horror world and turned him into a household name along the likes of Robert Englund, Sid Haig, Kane Hodder and Bill Moseley. While Todd doesn’t get a ton of screen-time, relatively speaking, he is a completely empathetic, complicated character, as far from a one-dimensional slasher like Freddy Krueger or Jason as one could get. There’s an inherently sad, tragic and romantic component to the Candyman backstory that’s beautifully communicated via Todd’s ever-expressive, sad face. Combined with his powerful, mellifluous voice, Tony Todd’s depiction of Candyman went a long way towards enshrining the character in the annals of pop culture. That and the ribcage full of bees, of course.

Ultimately, Candyman is equal parts bombastic and restrained, hushed and explosive. While Clive Barker’s books/stories haven’t always survived the transition to the big screen (the aforementioned Lord of Illusions is ridiculously disappointing and the torture-porn version of Dread (2009) is thoroughly wretched and despicable), Candyman is one of the best, perhaps only bested by Barker’s own Hellraiser (1987). I can only imagine that my teenage mind must not have been quite ready to process what was presented on-screen, since my recent viewing brought up very few actual issues with the film, many of which were endemic to ’90s-era horror films. For its intriguing collision of the past and present, violence and sexuality and white vs black relations, Candyman deserves to be dusted off and given another look in the 2010s. Just remember: you better think real hard before you get to that fifth “Candyman.” It’s probably just a myth but…better safe than sorry.

2/13/14: Just a Couple of Easy Riders

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A Martinez, Amanda Wyss, based on a book, Bonnie Red Bow, buddy films, Buddy Red Bow, cinema, David Seals, Dead Man, discrimination, film reviews, films, Gary Farmer, Graham Greene, independent films, jail-break, Jonathan Wacks, magical-realism, Movies, Native Americans, Northern Cheyenne, Philbert Bono, Powwow Highway, racism, reservations, road movie, road trips, self-discovery, vision quests, Wayne Waterman, Wes Studi

Finding one’s own identity and sense of self can be a daunting task under the best of circumstances. Some people may spend their entire lives “discovering” themselves, while others seem to know just who they are from a relatively young age. To make matters even more complicated, notions of self and personal identity also come not only from our internal communities but from the larger global communities around them. It can be hard enough to know who you are without the media and entertainment organizations constantly tossing in their own ten cents.

If finding one’s own place in the world can be difficult enough under the best scenarios, how much more difficult must it be when one has been marginalized, made to be an outsider in one’s own home? What if the surrounding culture, the “dominant culture,” as it were, was not only radically different from yours but, in some cases, diametrically opposite? In the case of the United States’ Native American population, this has often been the case. Jonathan Wack’s buddy pic, Powwow Highway, examines this concept of the search for personal identity while wrapping it within an easy-going, often meandering but ultimately entertaining road-trip framework. Powwow Highway isn’t a perfect film but it is an incredibly likable one and a surprisingly wry one, at that.

Philbert (Gary Farmer), a sweet-natured but naive member of the Northern Cheyenne, lives on a reservation in Montana. One day, he sees a blatantly racist TV commercial for a local car dealership and decides to head over and “pick out his pony.” When he gets there, the dealership is a bit less impressive than the commercial made it seem (read: filthier than the repo-shop in Repo Man) but Philbert is still able to trade some weed, a little whiskey and five bucks for his very own “pony”: a beat-to-shit, rusted-out junker that looks like a contemporary to the Edsel. Despite looking like it will require foot-power, ala the Flintstones, Philbert is ecstatic and sets out on his very own vision quest, in pursuit of becoming a warrior. As luck would have it, he finds a road-partner in Buddy Red Bow (A Martinez), a hot-headed local activist who’s involved in a bitter dispute with a local mining company. They want in, Red Bow wants them out and he’s just passionate and fiery enough to rally the residents.

The mining company, however, plays dirty pool and they’ve figured out a pretty sure-fire way to get rid of the pesky activist: plant drugs on his estranged sister, Bonnie (Joanelle Nadine Romero), get her arrested in New Mexico and wait for Red Bow to go bail her out. In the meantime, they’ll be free to work their magic minus his less-than-passive resistance.  Red Bow meets up with Philbert and, together, the two set off on their respective missions. Red Bow doesn’t have a lot of respect (or patience) for the patently old-fashioned Philbert, finding his stories about the old days and desire to be a warrior to be pretty silly delusions. Philbert, for his part, thinks that Red Bow has lost his way and needs to be reminded of his ancestry. Together, the two meet a collection of colorful characters on the road, including Bonnie’s kooky best friend, Rabbit (Amanda Wyss), another Native American activist named Wolf Tooth (Wayne Waterman), a stoic but frightening Vietnam vet (Graham Greene, in a very early role) and a hunky, girl-crazy stud named Buff (Wes Studi, in one of his first roles, before his breakout in the following year’s Dances With Wolves). Together, this motley crew helps get Red Bow closer to freeing his sister and Philbert closer to becoming a warrior.

At its heart, Powwow highway is anchored by Gary Farmer’s massively impressive performance as Philbert. Without a doubt, Farmer is the true heart and soul of the film, imbuing Philbert with a completely intoxicating mix of childlike enthusiasm, righteous indignation, pride, fear and anger. There are a million ways that a character like Philbert could be portrayed: wounded, silly, self-righteous, a martyr, a savior, an idiot savant. It’s to Farmer’s great credit that he plays Philbert as, quite simply, a complex and completely real human being. At no point does Philbert ever come across as merely a symbol or a stand-in for the film’s message. Even when the magical-realist element of the film is at its highest, such as when Philbert repeatedly sees the Native American warrior in traditional tribal garb, Farmer always makes sure that Philbert’s feet remain firmly on the ground. Despite his constant sunny nature and optimism, Philbert is no Pollyanna: the scene where he grabs and shakes Red Bow is sobering because it’s exactly what we want to do, in that situation.

A Martinez’s Red Bow, while hitting a few more stereotypical character notes then Farmer does, also turns in a great performance. With any other co-star, Martinez’s gruff, passionate activist would be the one that the audience can’t take their eyes off of. Despite his central status in the storyline, however, this is definitely Philbert’s story: Red Bow is, effectively, riding shotgun throughout the film. The rest of the performances are equally assured: Studi is a hoot as the perpetually horny Buff and Greene is quietly powerful as the shattered Vietnam vet. If anything, his scant screen time is the film’s biggest disappointment, since it leaves you wanting more: he says more with a look and a downcast stare than most actors do with a monologue. Wyss (Judge Reinhold’s girlfriend in the seminal Fast Times at Ridgemont High) is fun as Bonnie’s nutty friend but the character ends up being pretty superfluous to the action and doesn’t seem to serve much point.

Idea-wise, Powwow Highway gives plenty to think about. From a filmmaking standpoint, however, things are a bit murkier. For one thing, the film’s soundtrack is pretty awful: it may be 1989 but the synthy keyboard dreck on display reminds of the cheesiest excesses on the beginning of that historically cheesy era. Even the U2 song that runs over the closing credits is schlocky and under-whelming, continuing the unfortunate musical trend.

The film also seems to be fairly low-stakes: despite any of the situations that the characters find themselves in, there never seems to be a genuine sense of danger to anything. The effect is similar to watching weekly episodes of MacGyver: regardless of the size of the bomb, you know Mac’ll be there next week. Similarly, it’s hard to get too invested in situations like Philbert busting Bonnie out of jail (ropes tied to the window-bars, just like in an old Western) or the group being pursued by the entire Sante Fe police department, since everything seems so low-key. Even a potentially tear-jerking finale is ultimately rendered into a happy ending: despite its refusal to pull punches, Powwow Highway seems inordinately determined to please its audience, at all costs.

Ultimately, Powwow Highway ends up being a fun, energetic but slightly weightless film. While there’s an awful lot to like here (Farmer’s performance, the quirky situations, the authentic setting) and only a few real missteps (the awful score. the occasionally dingy cinematography), the film doesn’t seem to have a ton of substance. Perhaps less reliance on Red Bow’s story and more emphasis on Philbert’s quest to become a warrior would have helped: even the film doesn’t seem particularly interested in the resolution of the stale mining subplot, since it never even bothers to actually resolve it within the framework of the film. The real drawing point here is Farmer’s fearless performance. He may have played Nobody in Dead Man, but Farmer proves that he’s the big somebody at the heart of this little world.