7/7/15: The Sweet Science

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Best Craftsman in France, Chris Hegedus, cooking competition, D.A. Pennebaker, dedication vs obsession, director-cinematographer-editor, documentaries, Don't Look Back, France, Frederique Lazard, husband-wife relationship, intense competition, Jacquy Pfeiffer, Kings of Pastry, Meilleur Ouvrier de France, mentors, MOF, multiple directors, pastry chefs, Philippe Rigollot, Philippe Urraca, President Nicolas Sarkozy, Regis Lazard, Sebastien Canonne, self-sacrifice, set in France, The War Room

Like many skill sets, it’s quite possible for just about anyone to bake something: with enough time, patience and resources, the clumsiest oaf among us can create baked goods that are, at the very least, edible…even if just barely. Cooking, after all, is as much about science and process as anything else: if you can understand what happens in the kitchen, there’s a good chance that you can replicate it. In theory, at least.

As with anything, however, it takes something a little extra to truly excel. While just about anyone can prepare a dish (under the right circumstances), being an artist is something else entirely. Becoming the equivalent of Picasso in the kitchen requires no small amount of dedication, self-sacrifice, forward-momentum and tunnel-vision: while there are any number of talented chefs spread across the globe, there are very few who could be considered “the very best,” the shining standard to which all other chefs aspire. The “kings of pastry,” if you will.

Veteran documentarians D.A. Pennebaker and Chris Hegedus take a look at these “creme de la cremes” of the baking world with their vibrant, thoroughly engaging Kings of Pastry (2009). The film takes a look at the ultra-prestigious Meilleur Ouvrier de France (literally “best craftsman in France”), a difficult, stressful and intense three-day baking competition that takes place every four years and draws chefs from around the world. Rather than competing against each other, the chefs attempt to prove their worth and earn the coveted “collar,” a badge of honor which becomes a lifelong calling card. Few will make it through the demanding trials and even fewer will earn the top honor: after all, there are plenty of extremely talented chefs in the world but only a few who can be considered “the best of the best.”

For the purposes of the documentary, Pennebaker and Hegedus follow around several different contestants as they prepare for, participate in and deal with the fall-out from the Meilleur Ouvrier de France (known among the participants as the MOF). We spend the most time with Jacquy Pfeiffer, an intense, driven chef who founded the only “pastry-only” baking school in America, but it’s definitely not a one-man show. We’re also introduced to Philippe Rigollot, a devoted family man, and Regis Lazard, a chef making his second attempt at the MOF after dropping one of his creations during his first go-around. Since the MOF trials are four years apart, the contestants spend the time in between honing their craft and preparing: it truly is the Olympics of baking and the chefs must give their whole lives over to the pursuit if they hope to have any chance of success.

As follow around the various chefs, we also get peeks into their private lives and the forces that guide them on their journey. Pfeiffer is the neurotic perfectionist, an artist capable of the most exquisite, delicate pastry sculptures imaginable, yet wracked by such doubt that his girlfriend, Rachel, has to call him every night and pretend that the MOF competition has been cancelled just so he can fall asleep. Rigollot is the nice-guy family man whose kids are his personal tasting judges and whose mother instilled a love of baking in him from an early age. Lazard is the underdog coming back for one last shot at glory: his long-suffering wife, Frederique, wants this to be Lazard’s last MOF attempt so that he can focus on his own business and family. With all of the forces around them, the contestants must attempt to clear their heads and focus on the task at hand.

And what a task: spread out over three days, the chefs must create 40 different recipes, ranging from ridiculously elegant wedding cakes to chocolate sculptures, sugar sculptures and lollipops. They must create razor-thin candy ribbons, work with chocolate that begins to harden seconds after its poured and fight the ravages of humidity (the enemy of sugar, as we’re told), all while under the constant scrutiny of the MOF judges and the ever-present ticking clock. Disaster lurks around every corner (setting the delicate creations down is a nerve-wracking pursuit that seems roughly equitable to juggling dynamite) and the chefs’ fragile nerves are always in danger of cracking, just like their glossy, edible art. The task is almost impossible but the reward is tremendous: the winners will receive not only personal accolades from French President Nicolas Sarkozy, himself, but life-time bragging rights as genuine “Kings of Pastry.”

Despite its bare-bones look and style (the camerawork reminds of ’90s-era PBS documentaries and the score is as repetitive and chipper as video game music), Pennebaker and Hegedus’ film is a thoroughly absorbing and fascinating peek into one of the most demanding cooking competitions out there. There’s a genuine sense of tension and drama to the film that, at times, translates to some fairly white-knuckle moments: the climatic scene involving Rigollot’s sugar sculpture is powerful and heartbreaking, two terms which are rarely equated with cooking competitions. The subjects are all likable and engaging, to boot, which really helps draw the audience in. While we end up spending more time with Jacquy, his daughter, Alex, and Rachel than we do with the others, we get enough time with Rigollot and Lazard to prevent them from seeing under-developed or like afterthoughts.

There are also plenty of nice reflections and commentary from Philippe Urraca, the head of the MOF organization. Urraca is the one who points out the (sometimes minute) separation between the “great” and the “very best,” stating how it can often just be a matter of timing: it actually took him three attempts to become an MOF and now he’s the president of the whole thing…try and try again, indeed! Urraca and the other judges seem to have genuine affection and interest in the contestants, a fact driven home by everyone’s distress over Rigollot’s last-minute catastrophe. Since the chefs aren’t really competing against each other, per se, there’s much more sense of camaraderie and fellowship than in more cut-throat competitions.

Ultimately, Kings of Pastry is a fascinating look into what it takes to become the very best chef in France, a country that is certainly no slouch when it comes to the art of cooking. Toeing the line between dedication and obsession (one contestant was on his fourth MOF, meaning that he’d been working on this for sixteen consecutive years!), Pennebaker and Hegedus show that you need to be all-in in order to become the very best. Come for the unbelievable displays of pastry (in every sense of the term, this film is hardcore, triple-X “food porn”) but stay for the genuinely involving human drama and the ultimate triumph of true believers putting it all on the line for their dreams.

7/6/15: Cthulhian Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

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Aaron Scott Moorhead, Americans abroad, cinema, co-directors, co-writers, dramas, film reviews, films, Francesco Carnelutti, genetic research, horror films, immortality, Jeremy Gardner, Jimmy Lavalle, Jonathan Silvestri, Justin Benson, Lou Taylor Pucci, love story, Lovecraftian, Monsters, Movies, mutations, Nadia Hilker, nature, Nick Nevern, relationships, Resolution, romantic films, self-sacrifice, set in Italy, Spring, true love, twists, writer-director-cinematographer-editor

Despite what rom-coms, TV commercials and the greeting card industry might say, true love is actually a pretty ugly business. Once the initial pie-in-the-sky phase of any relationship is over, couples actually have to get down to the nitty-gritty of living with each other, warts and all. We all have aspects of our personalities that we shield from the world at large (call ’em “dark sides” but do it with a sinister glare, for effect), aspects which our significant others tend to get the brunt of, for better or worse. When everyone else has gone home, when the TV is silent and the phones are off, when there’s nothing between you and another human being but the skin you were born with and the neuroses you picked up along the way…well…that’s amore, my friends.

The trick in any new relationship, of course, is to try to see through the cotton candy and unicorns into whatever “monsters” might be lurking in the background: we’re all damaged goods, to one degree or another, but the amount of damage varies from individual to individual. Accepting our partners at their absolute worst, just as we accept them at their absolute best, is one of the key tenets of being in love: you can like people, lust after them, respect the hell out of them or any combination of the three. You can’t truly love someone, however, unless you’re willing to also love their dark side, as well.

Aaron Moorhead and Justin Benson’s Spring (2014) is about this duality of romance, in ways both symbolic and much more explicit. At its core, the film is about the stirrings of new romance, the courtship and subtle dance that unites two complete strangers via their commingled heartstrings. It’s about the feelings (and thoughts) that rush to one’s cerebellum after the blood has finished rushing to points south, the questions and concerns that extend beyond “What now?” into “What next?.” Spring is about the eternal need for companionship, the primeval drive to continue the bloodline and find a sympathetic audience for our own endless tics, quirks and delusions. It’s about what happens when the person you love displays monstrous qualities…when they might be, in fact, a literal monster. Does love really conquer all or are our individual biologies really the unmitigated masters of our destinies?

When we first meet him, Evan (Lou Taylor Pucci) is in a bit of what might best be described as a complete and total tailspin into oblivion. His beloved mother has just died after a long, drawn-out illness, he’s relentlessly angry and the world at large is just one big fight waiting to happen. While drowning his sorrows with his buddy, Tommy (fellow indie writer-director Jeremy Gardner), in the same dive bar where he works, Evan gets picked on by a meat-headed moron who’s looking to tussle. Evan cleans his clock righteously (for a small guy, he fights like a wolverine) and gets fired, on the spot, for his trouble. He also ends up in the crosshairs of the vengeance-seeking jerk and his buddies, as well as the local cops: weighing his options, Evan decides to bid a not-so-fond farewell to the U.S. of A and hightail it for the beauty and grandeur of Italy.

As the American ex-pat triapses about his newly adopted homeland, he meets a couple of assholish backpackers (Nick Nevern and Jonathan Silvestri), as well as a kind-hearted old farmer, Angelo (Francesco Carnelutti), who sets Evan up with honest, hard work, as well as room and board. Just when it seems that Evan might, successfully, slip into anonymity, he lays eyes on the alluring Louise (Nadia Hilker). The rest, as they might say, could be history.

Louise is an intriguing character: a smart, droll student studying evolutionary genetics who also happens to be a vegetarian (although she admits to “craving meat” occasionally), Louise speaks several languages, raises the rabbits that she rescues from medical trials as her pets and seems but one quirky Vespa away from your standard “manic pixie girl” in a rom-com meet-cute. As mentioned previously, however, Louise has a dark side that she keeps carefully hidden from the world at large: she’s constantly injecting herself with mysterious fluids, like some sort of cyberpunk drug addict, refuses to see Evan after dark and has a tendency to turn into a slimy, reptilian, Cthulhian monster, from time to time. In other words: pretty much your usual relationship baggage.

As Evan continues to fall madly in love with Louise, she struggles with telling him too much about her own, unique genetic background: it’s hard enough not farting around your loved one…try not turning into a monster and see how it goes! For his part, Evan discovers one of Louise’s discarded needles and makes the natural assumption (no, not the monster one, silly) that his dream girl might have one foot firmly in nightmare territory. “I need to know if you’re the kind of crazy I can handle,” Evan says, at one point, a slightly goofy grin on his face. Suffice to say, Evan will have his answer before too long…whether he likes it or not.

Writer-director team Moorhead and Benson first hit my radar thanks to their astounding debut, the impossibly clever, thought-provoking and radical Resolution (2012), a film that manages to completely upend conventional notions of horror by getting all meta with the very basics of story/narrative construction. Resolution was a helluva film, by any definition, and my level of anticipation was through the roof for their full-length follow-up (their V/H/S Viral (2014) segment was tasty but not much more than an appetizer). While Spring is nowhere near the achievement that Resolution was (to be honest, few modern films are), it nonetheless finds Moorhead and Benson polishing up their craft, moving ever farther afield from the ultra lo-fi approach of their debut.

As far as mysteries go, the secret of Louise’s dual nature is pretty much dead on arrival: between the various posters, one-sheets, trailers and synopses floating around, I find it hard to believe that any semi-aware audience member would find this to be surprising in the slightest. This, of course, is never the film’s intent: Spring is much more interested in Evan and Louise’s tangled romance than it is in pulling another tired “twist” on the audience. Moorhead and Benson spill the beans approximately a third of the way into the film, leaving the remaining two-thirds as fall-out, as it were. This isn’t a film about a man who ends up falling in love with a woman who’s revealed to be part monster: it’s a film about a man who falls in love with a woman who just so happens to be part monster…it’s a subtle difference but a major one and it forms the crux for everything we see.

No romance works unless we buy into the lovers, however, which is one reason that Spring has no problem pulling off its particular hat-trick: not only are Lou Taylor Pucci and Nadia Hilker completely comfortable in their roles, the pair have genuine romantic chemistry…we actually believe that they do (or could, as it were) love each other, which makes it a lot easier to empathize with everything else that happens. One of my primary concerns with “meet-cutes” is that they often feel so forced: we’re told that Quirky Girl A and Square Dude B are perfect for each other because the story requires it. Spring overcomes this obstacle by making the “falling in love” portion of the film feel like something out of a Linklater opus. There’s a genuine sense of tragedy to the proceedings because we see what a great couple Evan and Louise might be under any circumstances other than the ones they’re given.

While Pucci (who also featured prominently in the recent Evil Dead (2014) remake, as well as Richard Kelly’s nutty Southland Tales (2006)) walks a fairly predictable route as Evan, Hilker does much more interesting things with her performance as Louise. Despite this being the German actress’ first big-screen role, she absolutely owns every inch of the frame: the character of Louise is an intoxicating combination of eldritch biology, innate urges, human femininity and misplaced mothering instincts, a combination which Hilker handles with aplomb. One of the film’s biggest coups is that Louise is such a sympathetic creation: by keeping our empathy high, Moorhead and Benson allow us to slowly become as enrapt with her as Evan is.

While the filmmaking duo gets nice supporting work from a good cast (although I can’t help but wish Gardner had much more screen time than he does), this is Evan and Louise’s movie, through and through, meaning that it’s also Pucci and Hilker’s film, through and through. In many ways, it’s not a radical departure from what Leigh Janiak did in the recent Honeymoon (2014) (or even what Andrezj Zulawski did much earlier in Possession (1981)), but Moorhead and Benson’s star-crossed lovers are much more sympathetic than either Janiak or Zulawski’s protagonists. When we’re going to be spending nearly two hours with a couple of young lovers, they damn well better be interesting and Evan and Louise are anything but dull.

From a production standpoint, Spring looks gorgeous, certainly much more so than its predecessor (which was much more of a found-footage film). Aaron Moorhead’s cinematography (he also edited and produced the film, along with Benson) makes terrific use of some truly beautiful Italian scenery, taking us into picturesque old towns, lovely grottos and lush countryside in ways that split the difference between travelogue and old-world mystery. One of the most eye-popping aspects of Spring’s camerawork is the numerous crane and helicopter shots that pop up throughout: aside from giving a thoroughly awe-inspiring view of the surroundings, the cinematography also instills a proper sense of scope and scale to the narrative. When set against the backdrop of such ancient beauty and serene nature, the body-horror aspect of Spring becomes even more pronounced and grotesque, a streak of brain matter on an otherwise pristine wall.

Despite how well made Spring is, however, I couldn’t help but be a bit disappointed by the whole thing. While Moorhead and Benson handle this occasionally musty material with plenty of energy and wit, there’s almost no comparison to the unhinged brilliance of Resolution. In many ways, Resolution was much closer to the mind-fuck cinema of Nacho Vigalondo or even Darren Aronofsky: there was a genuine sense that absolutely anything could happen and any easy sense of narrative continuity or logic was effectively thrown from the penthouse window. Resolution was an inherently tricky film but it wasn’t a gimmicky film: rather, it used the conventions of narrative filmmaking (and even narration, itself) to make particularly incisive comments on the ways humans create.

For its part, Spring is a much more straight-forward, streamlined film: in many ways, this is just your typical indie love story, albeit one with a foot firmly set in H.R. Giger’s nocturnal dream-world. While the film is undeniable well made and entertaining, I kept expecting it to develop into something trickier and deeper, developments which never really happened. Aside from an atypically sunny ending (all things considered), there are very few genuine surprises to be found here, although there’s also a decided lack of tone-deaf or eye-rolling moments, either. If anything, Spring feels like a way for Moorhead and Benson to announce themselves to the world at large, an employment ad, if you will: “Available for thought-provoking puzzlers, multiplex popcorn fare or any combination of the two.”

Even though Spring is a solid step-down from Resolution, it’s still one of the more evocative, atmospheric and interesting films of the year: if Moorhead and Benson can just find a way to effortlessly meld the aesthetics of their two full-lengths (the anything-goes intellectual swirl of Resolution with the top-notch production values of Spring), I have a feeling that they’ll be virtually unstoppable.

3/12/15: Where There’s a Mom, There’s a Way

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abandoned in a foreign place, adult friendships, Andres Munar, Anthony Chisholm, bittersweet, Bradford Young, cinema, co-directors, co-writers, Colombian immigrants, coming of age, courage, dramas, dysfunctional marriage, Eddie Martinez, Entre Nos, feature-film debut, female friendships, film festival favorite, film reviews, films, Gil Talmi, Gloria La Morte, homeless, homeless children, husband-wife relationship, immigration, inspired by true events, Jacqueline Duprey, Laura Montana, motherhood, Movies, multiple directors, multiple writers, Paola Mendoza, Sarita Choudhury, Sebastian Villada, self-sacrifice, set in New York City, single mother, Spanish-language films, strength, writer-director-actor

Think about Mariana (Paola Mendoza) the next time you’re having a bummer day: uprooting herself and her two children from their lives in Colombia, she follows her shifty husband, Antonio (Andres Munar), all the way to Queens, New York, only for him to suddenly head off to sunny Miami, where he’s decided to start a new life…one that doesn’t include his “old” family. Alone in a foreign land, unable to speak the language, jobless and with children in tow, Mariana’s options look as grim and hopeless as they do scarce. Like I said: there are bad days…and then there are BAD days.

The human spirit is a funny thing, though, the kind of inner power that would make a superhero blush. When someone has the will to survive and the relentless drive to keep pushing forward, against all odds…well, pretty much anything is possible. Paola Mendoza and Gloria La Morte’s extraordinary Entre Nos (2009) is testament to this notion of inner strength, a semi-autobiographical story about an unstoppable mother’s ferocious fight to keep her family together, despite every disaster, tragedy, hiccup and speed bump that the universe can possibly throw at her. What could have been maudlin, overly emotional or obvious becomes vibrant, life-affirming and genuinely resonant in the hands of the truly gifted filmmakers and cast.

While Entre Nos (roughly, “between us”) is about the struggles that immigrants face when coming to a new country, it’s also about how easy it is for people to slip from the scant comfort of the “lower” classes into the abject terror of homelessness: as Mendoza and La Morte show, there’s only a few short steps and misfortunes that lead from four walls and a floor to a park bench. There’s a universality to the film that goes far beyond the nationalities of its protagonists: while not all of may have first-hand experiences with the struggles of being an emigrant to a foreign country, it’s fair to say that any and everyone worries, at least in the back of their heads, where their next meal is coming from.

It’s to Mendoza and La Morte’s great credit that they manage to combine these twin struggles, that of the immigrant and the newly homeless, into such a potent, vibrant stew. As mentioned earlier, there’s nothing overly sentimental or aggressively manipulative about the film: we’re simply shown a woman who’s been thrown into a hole and, rather than bemoan that fact, simply puts her head down and starts digging her way out. There’s a refreshing matter-of-factness to the way in which Mariana sizes up any given situation and acts: she’s conflicted, sure, and we get more than a couple heart-breaking breakdown, along the way…that’s just the unfortunate other half of the human condition. When the chips are down, however, Mariana has a resilience and power that’s positively inspiring: if she doesn’t let life beat her down, why should we?

Entre Nos, then, is about the struggles of the immigrant and the ever-present threat of personal and economic collapse: that would be a potent enough one-two punch for just about any film. There’s more under the hood, however, than just the “big” issues: Mendoza and La Morte’s film is also about the relationship between a mother and her children, about trying to balance being a kid with becoming an adult and about the importance of providing for your family, regardless of the costs or sacrifice. It’s about friendships, those halting ones that begin over shared strife and continue based on genuine love.

This is Mariana’s story but it’s not hers, alone, to tell: characters like the kindly recycling maven, Joe (Anthony Chisholm), or Mariana’s landlord/hesitant friend, Preet (an absolutely extraordinary Sarita Choudhury), contribute just as much to the overall tapestry, but we’d be remiss not to mention the reason for Mariana’s constant struggle: her beloved son, Gabriel (Sebastian Villada), and daughter, Andrea (Laura Montana). As strong as the rest of the cast are, Villada and Montana still manage to shine as the equally resilient kids. It’s a real treat watching Gabriel, slowly, become a man, while Andrea provides a necessary innocence and sense of child-like optimism to circumstances that could certainly be deemed soul-crushing.

Entre Nos isn’t just an acting tour de force, however: the film is exquisitely crafted and looks amazing. Props to Gil Talmi for a funky, head-bobbing score that mixes cumbias with more “traditional” dramatic scores and only occasionally dips into stereotypically “serious” territory. The often gorgeous cinematography, courtesy of Bradford Young, has endless appeal: there’s one shot that frames Mariana and her sleeping children like the Pieta and is almost impossibly beautiful. In the years since Entre Nos’ release, Young would go on to shoot a couple of films called Selma (2014) and A Most Violent Year (2014): you know…no big deal…

Like the particular spot of land that it depicts, Entre Nos is nothing if not a melting pot of influences, styles, points of view and ways of life. There’s a vibrancy and immediacy to the proceedings that pulls viewers in and keeps us right in the thick of things: if I had to compare the filmmakers’ style to anything, it would be latter-day John Sayles, which is pretty damn high praise, indeed. There’s an eye and ear for the way that every-day folk talk and interact that cuts thorough generations of artificial bullshit and gets right to the heart of the human condition: each and every one of us deserves to live our lives to the fullest of our potential, regardless of our individual situations.

We find out, at the end, that Andrea became a filmmaker and created Entre Nos as a tribute and testament to the strength of her mother. It makes perfect sense: everything about the film has the feel of a passion project and Mendoza’s triple-threat of writing-directing-acting is nothing short of stunning. Reminiscent of Marion Cotillard’s powerful blend of iron-will and vulnerability, Mendoza’s performance is utterly unforgettable and the film’s deserves all of the love that it’s received at festivals since its release (although a little mainstream attention might be nice…).

Exemplifying the very best aspects of the human condition, Entre Nos is a film that deserves not only praise for its technical and thematic elements but for its ability to unite us all under one common need, regardless of race, class, gender, nationality or political affiliation: if you can’t understand and empathize with Mariana’s need to make a better life for herself and her children, well, pardner…I’m gonna go ahead and assume that you’re not human. In this one case, the film was definitely not made for you: move along…absolutely nothing to see here, whatsoever.

2/8/15: After the Freeze, the Thaw

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action film, aliens, Atticus Mitchell, Bill Paxton, Canadian films, cannibals, CGI, Charlotte Sullivan, cinema, civilized vs savage, climate change, co-writers, Doomsday, Dru Viergever, dystopian future, extreme violence, film reviews, films, foreign films, frozen wasteland, horror, ice age, isolated communities, Jeff Renfroe, John Healy, John Tench, Julian Richings, Kevin Zegers, Laurence Fishburne, Movies, multiple writers, post-apocalyptic wasteland, quarantine, sci-fi, sci-fi-horror, science-fiction, Screamers, self-sacrifice, siege, Snowpiercer, survival of the fittest, survivors, The Colony, underground colonies, violent films, voice-over narration, writer-director

Sometimes, you don’t expect much more from a film than you can get from a cursory glance at said film’s box art: in this case, I expected Jeff Renfroe’s The Colony (2013) to be a serviceable sci-fi/action flick, set in a frozen, dystopic future, with Laurence Fishburne and Bill Paxton butting heads…nothing more, nothing less. For the most part, this is exactly what I ended up with: while the film throws a few minor twists into the mix, nothing here will be unfamiliar to viewers who’ve seen films like Screamers (1995), Doomsday (2008) or any of a hundred other similar sci-fi/horror/action hybrids. That being said, The Colony is fast-paced, reasonably tense and features a handful of truly impressive fight sequences: if the film ends up being rather silly and over-the-top, in the end, it at least manages to keep the courage of its convictions.

We’re immediately dumped into one of those frozen-over worlds of the near-future that forms such an integral part of recent sci-fi films like Snowpiercer (2014): in this case, we’re not given any real reasons for the catastrophe, although a handy voice-over does let us know that the common cold is now a lethal killer, which positions this somewhere between climate change and bacteriological devastation on the “We’re Fucked” scale. Regardless of the reason, humanity has been split into two separate groups: the ones who made it underground, to protected colonies, and the ones who stayed above-ground. To make it even easier: underground = alive, above-ground = dead. Suffice to say, the future ain’t such a hot place to be, in every sense of the term.

Our entry into the narrative is Colony 7, one of the last, surviving colonies. Run by the even-handed, level-headed Briggs (Laurence Fishburne), the colony is also home to hot-headed, reactionary Mason (Bill Paxton), proving the old film adage that everyone needs an antagonist, especially those who lead post-apocalyptic societies. Our narrator (and defacto hero) is Sam (Kevin Zegers), a nice, upstanding young man who happens to be sweet on Kai (Charlotte Sullivan), the tough-as-nails supply controller who’s more than capable of taking care of herself in an unforgiving world. Life in Colony 7 is harsh and violent death is always around the corner: any residents who develop the sniffles are given one of two options – let Mason put a bullet in their noggins or take a long, cold walk into the oblivion of the snow-blasted wasteland above-ground. It’s not, exactly, how Briggs would prefer to get things done but it’s a balance that works, for the time being.

In a development that vaguely echoes the under-rated sci-fi chiller Screamers, Colony 7 receives a distress signal from the only other known, surviving colony: Colony 5.  In the interest of trying to preserve as many human lives as possible, Briggs, Sam and a young go-getter by the name of Graydon (Atticus Mitchell) set out on a perilous journey to check out the signal. Briggs leaves Kai in charge, which sits about as well with the ludicrously macho Mason as you’d expect. With tension back home at an all-time high, the trio set out for the blinding-white environs top-side, determined to find out what’s going on with their closest “neighbors.”

After a short series of adventures through the CGI-created frozen world that used to be ours, our trio ends up at Colony 5, only to discover what appears to be the remnants of violent conflict. Upon further exploration, the trio finds a single survivor, Leland (Julian Richings), who spins a  tale that begins hopefully, with a potential thawed zone on the surface world, and ends horribly, with news of some kind of attack that wiped everyone out. Since our heroes really can’t leave well enough alone, they continue to explore Colony 5 and run smack-dab into a rampaging horde of bloodthirsty cannibals led by a leader (Dru Viergever) who manages to be a teeth-gnashing, chest-beating amalgam of pretty much every savage/feral/cannibal/evil warlord leader in the history of dystopic cinema. This then begins a protracted chase, as our heroes must return to the safety of their colony while being careful not to lead the cannibal army directly to their next smorgasbord. Who will survive and who will become toothpicks? In this colony, it’s anyone’s guess!

For the most part, The Colony is a pretty run-of-the-mill, bargain-bin type of dystopic action flick. It’s got all of the visual and aural hallmarks of said subgenre (morose score, muted color palette, panoramic wide shots), as well as many of the pitfalls (extremely dodgy CGI, extraneous use of slo-mo and overly flashy editing, over-the-top acting). The cannibal angle isn’t so much a twist as an inevitability and this particular iteration of feral savages is much less interesting and singular than, say, the flesh-eaters of Doomsday, who at least had the foresight to barbecue their victims with an industrial size backyard grill. Here, we just get the typical filthy, snarling, rampaging cannibal Berserkers, albeit with the added lunacy of watching them run around in snow gear. If it sounds silly, it is but no more so than many films of its ilk.

For their part, the non-cannibal actors turn in fairly workmanlike performances, with both Fishburne and Paxton all but fading into the background. Paxton, in particular, seems to be moving on auto-pilot: I expected at least a little gonzo nuttiness but his performance was surprisingly subdued and more than a little grumpy. Zegers and Sullivan make a blandly attractive couple as Sam and Kai but there’s not much spark to their turn, while the rest of the colony passes in a blur of rather similar, generic characterizations.

In truth, there are only two ways that The Colony really distinguishes itself: the computer-designed backgrounds, prior to arriving at Colony 5, are astoundingly fake and the film is surprisingly violent and brutal, even for a post-apocalyptic fable about rampaging cannibals. The violence isn’t really an issue, since I doubt that any shrinking violets in the crowd are going to be drawn to a cannibal film, but it is certainly impressive: there’s one setpiece, involving cutting someone’s head in half, that’s gotta be one of the most bravura effects spectacles I’ve seen in a while. The excellent gore effects are made even more noticeable by contrast to the awful CGI, which seems to exist at a sub-mockbuster level. There’s never a point where the backgrounds look like anything less than a green screen: in one particularly egregious moment, the trio walk into the cheesiest CGI fog that has ever been committed to screen and I’ll go to my grave believing that. I can deal with dodgy SFX: growing up on Corman flicks has a tendency to lower one’s inherent expectations regarding B-movies. The CGI work in The Colony is so rudimentary, however, that it’s all but impossible to suspend disbelief anytime our intrepid group is outside (which is often enough to be a huge problem). Once we get to Colony 5, the film actually doesn’t look bad: close quarters seems to suit the filmmakers better than the wide-open, fake vistas of the surface world. The trip there, however, leaves a bit to be desired.

Ultimately, The Colony isn’t a bad film, although it is a cheesy, largely predictable one. While Fishburne and/or Paxton fans might be a little disappointed at the disposable performances here, fans of dystopic future, cannibal or “frozen world” scenarios might find at least a little something to sink their teeth into. Think of this as a poor man’s version of Snowpiercer (extremely poor, mind you), minus any of that film’s political or sociological significance: if that’s up your alley, pack your long johns and head for The Colony. Otherwise, you’d probably be better off just hibernating until spring.

12/20/14: No Room At the Inn

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abandoned inns, alternate title, Carolina Guerra, cinema, Evil Dead, evil kids, Fallen, father-daughter relationships, film reviews, films, Gallows' Hill, Gustavo Angarita, Hellraiser: Revelations, isolated estates, isolation, Juan Pablo Gamboa, Julieta Salazar, Movies, Nathalia Ramos, Peter Facinelli, possession, rainforests, Richard D'Ovidio, Sebastian Martinez, self-sacrifice, set in South America, Sophia Myles, Tatiana Renteria, The Damned, The Evil Dead, Victor Garcia, witches

Here’s a little advice for all you fine folks, free of charge: should you ever find yourself in some fundamentally creepy location like, say, an abandoned inn in the middle of the Columbian rain forest, do not – I repeat, do not – attempt to free any strange, emotionless children who appear to be locked inside small cells covered in occult symbols and writing. At the very least, you might be interfering with some sort of extreme time-out scenario. Worst case? You might actually be unleashing an all-powerful, unstoppable witch onto the general populace. Now, wouldn’t that just make you feel like a big, ol’ jackass?

Good advice, to be sure, but advice that doesn’t seem to have made it to the characters in Victor Garcia’s The Damned (2013): they end up at that creepy inn, they let loose the creepy girl and, as often happens, they reap plenty of Hell in the process. While the scenario may be slightly musty, Garcia’s film is an atmospheric enough little chiller that features a handful of suitably creepy scenes, plenty of by-the-book jump scares and enough references to classic genre fare like The Evil Dead (1981) and Fallen (1998) to prove that the filmmaker’s done his research. While The Damned won’t necessarily blow anyone away, it’s a more than suitable entry in this particular sub-genre and worth at least a watch.

The evil presence, in this case, is a long-dead witch by the name of Elena. Elena, even for a witch, is a pretty nasty piece of work: she can’t be killed, knows everyone’s deepest, darkest secrets and can “jump” into a new host whenever her current body is killed. Since Elena can’t be killed, the only recourse is to keep her locked away, forever, in a magically protected wooden box. When we first meet the witch, she’s been imprisoned in the body of a young girl, in said creepy, abandoned inn, watched over by her father, Felipe (Gustavo Angarito) for as long as he continues to live.

As often happens in these situations, a bunch of American tourists end up wrecking the party for everyone. David (Peter Facinelli) and his fiance, Lauren (Sophia Myles), have traveled to Bogata, Columbia, in order to pick up David’s wayward daughter, Jill (Nathalia Ramos), and return her to the States for their wedding. Jill is in Columbia hanging out with her aunt, Gina (Carolina Guerra), a local reporter and sister to David’s deceased wife, Marcela (Tatiana Renteria) and has no interest in attending the wedding: she misses her “real” mom and views Lauren as a “gold-digging bitch”…clearly, no love lost here. After it’s revealed that Jill has left her passport at Gina’s house, the group, along with Gina’s camera-man, Ramon (Sebastian Martinez), decides to go get it, despite the torrential rains that are currently causing flooding everywhere.

Sure enough, the group attempts to cross a flooded-out wash and almost get killed for their troubles when their van is washed away in a truly thrilling bit of outdoor survival action. Regrouping, they manage to make it to the aforementioned creepy, abandoned inn, where they meet the aforementioned Felipe. When the group ignores Felipe’s warnings and explores the inn, they end up finding the sinister, imprisoned Ana Maria (Julieta Salazar), who may look like a little girl but is something far older and more deadly. As the group falls pray to the witch’s spirit, one by one, the ancient evil jumps from one to the next. As their numbers dwindle, the survivors are left to figure out who is now possessed and how, if at all, they’ll be able to excise themselves from this nightmare. Elena, as it turns out, has a plan and each and every “innocent” soul will play its own part.

Lest it seem that the above review is a tad “spoilery,” let me assure you that the film does nothing to hide any of the inevitable revelations about Ana Maria’s true identity: at no point is there ever any doubt that the young girl is evil, even if it takes us a little while to get the full backstory. From the very time we see young Julieta Salazar, with her blank, expressionless eyes and lack of emotion, we should know what we’re getting into: I can’t imagine anyone but honest-to-god horror “newbies” being surprised by any of the film’s twists or revelations, right down to the supposed “shocking twist” ending. Unlike other films that keep audiences guessing as to whether the evil is genuine or not, The Damned throws all its cards on the table the first time Ana Maria uses one of those stereotypical “gravely demon voices” to taunt Felipe. Again, if you’re surprised by this, you really weren’t paying particularly good attention in the first place.

Despite its over-familiarity, however, The Damned is actually a pretty good film: it’s not great, mind you, but the acting tends to be pretty sturdy, the effects are nicely realized (although the hokey CGI storm clouds are real head-smackers) and it’s got some killer locations: you really can’t beat an abandoned inn in the middle of the rain forest as far as creepy places go. The witch’s backstory is also nicely realized and provides a nice counterpoint to more generic horror origin stories: it’s nothing particularly original, mind you, but it also hasn’t been beaten to death (at least yet). Garcia manages to come up with some nicely atmospheric scenes, such as the first time we see the creepy basement area, and balances this atmosphere with some more traditional jump scares (stuff like closing the open fridge door to reveal someone standing there, etc…). There also seem to be quite a few references to Sam Raimi’s classic Evil Dead here, too: everything from the large trapdoor that hides the basement to the “Deadite”-esque demon voices and possessions seem to directly reference the granddaddy of “cabin in the woods” horrors.

For the most part, Garcia is known for films like Return to House on Haunted Hill (2007), Mirrors 2 (2010) and Hellraiser: Revelations (2011), which is easily one of the worst films in a pretty wretched series. With that kind of back catalog, The Damned easily stands out as a high-water mark, if for no other reason than it bears the distinction of not being a direct-to-video sequel to previously established franchises. He gets good performances from his cast, for the most part, with Nurse Jackie’s Peter Facinelli faring the best as the father trying desperately to save his family and Gustavo Angarita faring the worst as the overly angry, shouty Felipe: everyone else falls in between these extremes, although no one really sticks out like a sore thumb.

Ultimately, The Damned is one of those films that plays best on a lazy, rainy weekend when you’ve got nothing better to do than lounge around and watch rain drops race down the window pane. There’s nothing here that hasn’t been done before (and, in many cases, better) but that doesn’t change the fact that Garcia’s film is eminently watchable and engaging enough to keep viewers hooked til the end. In an era when possession films seem to rule the horror film roost, it’s always nice to see something that takes a route slightly less traveled, even if marginally so.

Just remember: if you find that creepy little girl, leave her right where she is…no good deed ever goes unpunished.

8/24/14: A Fistful of Nuts

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animated film, animated films, bank robbery, based on a short, Brendan Fraser, cartoons, cinema, film reviews, films, Gabriel Iglesias, Gangnam Style, heist films, Jeff Dunham, Katherine Heigl, Liam Neeson, Maya Rudolph, Movies, nut store, nuts, Peter Lepeniotis, Sarah Gadon, self-sacrifice, squirrels, Stephen Lang, Surly Squirrel, The Nut Job, Will Arnett

There are few things in this world that I openly detest quite as much as overly referential animated films, ala Shrek (2001), although films like Scary Movie (2000) and Disaster Movie (2008) are certainly right up there. My big problem with movies like this (aside from the fact that they’re usually obnoxious, shrill and prone to induce seizures in anyone younger than 20) is their undue reliance on “of-the-moment” pop culture references: a few months (or even weeks) after films like this are released, they’re instantly dated and feature no staying power whatsoever. It’s similar to SNL skits that are based on recent celebrity faux pas and “current affairs”: these incidents may have relevance at the moment but who’s going to care in a month, let alone a decade?

I begin with this disclaimer by way of saying that Peter Lepeniotis’ The Nut Job (2014) almost lost me before it had a chance to grab me. Within moments of starting the film, I was treated to my first pop culture reference (albeit an extremely dated one): the heroic squirrel Grayson (Brendan Fraser) smirkingly remarks to another character that “Chicks dig the tail.” Not only was this roughly the millionth tired variation of the Batman & Robin (1997) bon mot that I’d been treated to over the years but it also managed to come almost twenty years too late to be anything more than a complete head-scratcher: do people still remember Joel Schumacher’s Batman films, especially in the wake of Christopher Nolan’s extremely popular modern reboot? More importantly, does anything really care enough to be tickled by another stupid reference to an already tedious film?

I say “almost lost me,” however, because The Nut Job manages to pull off a rather nifty hat trick: it nimbly straddles the dividing line between “cheeky, good fun” and “hyperactive kiddie fodder,” coming out quite handily on the side that doesn’t tend to make me see red. In many ways, The Nut Job reminds of recent films like Free Birds (2013) and The Croods (2013), although it’s a solid step down from either of those movies. Nonetheless, there was enough good stuff here to keep me utterly engaged all the way up to the end credits, wherein an animated Psy appeared to shake his pixels to his mega-hit Gangnam Style: it probably says a lot that not even the ultimate gratuitous pop-culture reference could spoil the good will that the film earned.

The Nut Job concerns the misadventures of Surly Squirrel (Will Arnett), the disagreeable loner with the “all about me” attitude. Surly lives in one of those giant cinematic urban parks that seem to consist of miles of unspoiled trees, pristine ponds and general pastoral beauty. The rest of the park’s resident animals, including the aforementioned Grayson, Andie (Katherine Heigl), Mole (Jeff Dunham) and Buddy the Rat (Rob Tinkler), are ruled by the iron-fisted Raccoon (Liam Neeson), a smooth-talking “Tammany Hall”-type politician with a hidden agenda. When Surly’s newest scam (stealing a mobile nut cart) backfires and leads to the destruction of his fellow animals’ winter food storage, the angry animals banish the rapscallion to the terrifying wilds of the city proper, the worst punishment that any of the animals can imagine.

Once in the city, alone but for the continued friendship/servitude of his mute buddy Buddy, Surly happens upon a little bit of nirvana (nutvana?) in the form of a nut store, seemingly run by the same shady fellas that ran the doomed nut cart. Turns out that these fellas, Fingers (James Rankin) and Lucky (Scott Yaphe), are a couple of gangsters working for King (Stephen Lang) and the mysterious, mute Knuckles: they’re all playing to use the nut store as a front for breaking into the bank next-door. In a cute bit of symmetry, Surly plots to break into the nut shop in the same basic way that King and his gang plot to break into the bank. When Andie and Grayson show up, however, looking for food for the rest of the park animals, Surly is forced to reexamine his standoffish ways and must decide whether to swallow his pride and help those who’ve exiled him. As Surly will learn, it doesn’t take anything special to look out for number one but it takes a whole other kind of animal to selflessly look out for others: it takes a hero.

While The Nut Job features a witty, tight script, its two greatest strengths are, without a doubt, the exceptional voice acting and the eye-catching computer animation. While I’ve always been a huge fan of the traditional cel-style of animation (think the classic Disney films), I’m gradually warming to the more recent computer animation of films like the aforementioned Free Birds, The Croods, Rango (2011) and ParaNorman (2012). When done well, these films can look quite beautiful (if slightly colder than more traditional animation styles) and The Nut Job is no exception. Indeed, the scene where the animals’ storage tree burns is quite wonderfully evocative, almost artistic in its destruction. Nothing about The Nut Job looks cheap, which really helped to pull me into the story.

The biggest boon for any modern animated film is its voice cast, however, and The Nut Job features some real winners. While Arnett is a slightly less interesting presence here than in his live-action performances (or the animated Bojack Horseman, for that matter), he’s still a commanding performer and utterly magnetic. I’ve, personally, never been the biggest fan of Katherine Heigl, but was completely taken with her Andie: she brings a refreshing measure of common sense, trepidation and strength to the character that makes her not only an interesting character but a pretty good role model, to boot…not a bad trick for a “kid’s movie” to pull off. For my money, however, the real pick of the litter this time around has to be Liam Neeson: the veteran actor (now action star, apparently) rips into his role with absolute gusto, turning in one of the most bravura performances of a pretty bravura career. Neeson is having so much fun as the nefarious Raccoon that it’s completely infectious: I found myself grinning from ear to ear whenever he showed up to spread his pretty poison about and the climatic battle with Surly is a complete treat. My only complaint with the voice cast at all, to be honest, is with the relative lack of Fraser as the boneheaded, heroic Grayson: there just wasn’t enough of him here, making the character come across as woefully underdeveloped and strictly one-dimensional. This, of course, is a tremendous pity, since Fraser is one of the few human actors around (Andy Serkis being another one) who almost seems more of an animated character than a flesh-and-blood person.

Ultimately, I found a lot to like about The Nut Job. The film is vibrant and kinetic, yet manages to downplay the hyper-active pop-culture references that manage to sink similar films (at least as far as I’m concerned…Shrek’s massive popularity seems to bespeak of a much more tolerant attitude among the general movie-going populace). The voice talent is top-notch and the film is full of nicely orchestrated, suitably tense action scenes and set-pieces. I also really liked how the film manages to serve as commentary on our current superhero-obsessed culture: despite Surly’s position as park savior, the film is really about how self-sacrifice is necessary to the continued survival and evolution of our communities and societies. Surly doesn’t truly find happiness until he sets aside his own selfish needs and feelings and works towards the greater good: I’m not suggesting that I completely believe in this kind of “feel-good community activism” but it sure as hell beats the “every man/woman for him/herself” tact by a country mile.

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.