7/26/15 (Part Two): Run to the Light

Tags

Anna Paquin, auteur theory, Carles Cases, cinema, Craig Stevenson, darkness, dead children, dysfunctional family, father-son relationships, Fele Martínez, Fermí Reixach, Fernando de Felipe, Film auteurs, film reviews, filmed in Spain, films, Giancarlo Giannini, haunted houses, horror, horror films, human sacrifice, Huntington's Disease, husband-wife relationship, Iain Glen, isolated estates, Jaume Balagueró, Lena Olin, Luis de la Madrid, Miguel Tejada-Flores, missing children, mother-daughter relationships, Movies, multiple writers, possession, set in Spain, sins of the fathers, sins of the past, solar eclipse, Spanish-American films, Stephan Enquist, The Nameless, writer-director, Xavi Giménez, [REC], [REC] 2, [REC] 4

Back in 2007, before found-footage/first-person-POV horror films had become as standard a fixture in the industry as zombies were before them, Spanish writer-director Jaume Balagueró unleashed a feral little film known as [REC] (2007) on a largely unwitting populace. While the film would go on to produce three sequels (two of which were also directed by Balagueró) and an awful American remake (Quarantine (2008) is, without a doubt, one of the most unrelentingly shitty films I’ve personally sat through), I was taken enough with Balagueró’s style to check out his entire filmography.

Beginning with his feature-length debut, The Nameless (1999), and continuing through Fragile (2005), his short film To Let (2006) and the [REC] series, Balagueró’s films have been darkly stylish, atmospheric fables that combine the stresses of familial interaction with the traditional tropes of haunted house films. In Balagueró’s hands, the sins of the parents always come home to roost on their children, every dark, sinister room holds a secret and mysterious figures have an alarming tendency to slink around while the hapless protagonists are looking in the other direction. In many ways, Darkness (2002) is a synthesis of his myriad themes and influences, all top-lined by an all-star cast that includes Anna Paquin, Lena Olin, Iain Glen and Craig Stevenson. Primo Balagueró? For better and worse: absolutely.

Darkness details the adventures of a small family of American ex-pats who’ve been uprooted from their home and moved back to the father’s childhood stomping grounds in Spain. As horror movie families are wont to be, our happy clan is more than a little dysfunctional: father Mark (Iain Glen) suffers from Huntington’s Disease and has a tendency to either fly into manic episodes or collapse into painful-looking seizures; mother Maria (Lena Olin) seems distracted to the point of completely ignoring her children; teenaged Regina (Anna Paquin) is as overjoyed as any kid would be who has to leave all of their friends behind and move to a foreign country just as she’s about to begin her senior year of school; and young Paul (Stephan Enquist) keeps getting his colored pencils stolen by spooky ghost children. You know…the usual stuff.

As their new home, a sprawling, isolated country manor that practically screams “Here there be ghosts” begins to reveal certain creepy, sinister happenings at an alarming rate, Mark begins to channel ol’ Jack Torrance, leading Regina to fear for the safety of her brother, especially after he begins to develop unexplained bruises and injuries. While investigating the convoluted history of her family’s new abode with her new friend, Carlos (Fele Martínez), Regina begins to unravel a strange story that spans back 40 years and involves her father, his father (Giancarlo Giannini), a complete solar eclipse, insane cult members, murdered children and the end of the world. Will Regina be able to save her family from the grip of ultimate evil or will all of her best efforts, inadvertently, bring about the very apocalypse that she so desperately wants to avoid?

When Balagueró eases back on the narrative clutter, needless back-and-forth and pointless quick-cut editing, Darkness is actually a pretty decent “old dark house” film, albeit one with a “twist” that puts it firmly in the camp of someone like Adrian Garcia Bogliano (there are more than a few similarities to his Penumbra (2011), not the least of which is the eclipse element). The problem, as it turns out, is that the writer-director over-seasons this particular dish something fierce: the final 20 minutes are so cluttered, confusing, noisy and melodramatic as to be almost completely off-putting, despite the genuinely intriguing core story.

There’s just too much of everything: too much explanation, too much confusion, too many vague motivations, too much unrealistic interaction, too many noisy jump-scares and musical cues…stripped of all its bulky “clothing,” Darkness would be a much scrawnier film, to be sure, but it would also be one that could stand better on its own two feet. As it is, the narrative (and film) is too overladen to ever move far in any direction. It’s difficult to get fully invested in a story where new elements seem to pop up at random (the bit about the snake and the egg makes no sense, no matter how I try), while old standards like “characterization” leave and return like a wandering sleepwalker.

Lest I heap too much abuse on the cluttered narrative and stylistic issues (when the quick-cut editing falls by the wayside, cinematographer Xavi Giménez produces some suitably attractive, evocative images), Darkness is also plagued by some seriously odd, uneven performances. While Paquin has a few moments that strain credibility (her occasionally halting line delivery is a real head-scratcher), Glen is all over the place and Olin, despite her legendary status, is almost completely worthless. The character of Maria never makes a lot of sense, to begin with, but Olin’s totally “checked-out” performance does no one any favors. Each and every moment of her screentime is painful (for various reasons) and I never could see through to her character’s actual motivations: was Maria crazy? Did she hate her kids? Her husband? Did she actually care about any of it? Each and every reaction and bit of dialogue is so laissez-faire and noncommittal that Maria always seems superfluous to the larger story.

Glen, for his part, goes the full “Nicholson” here (as we all know, you never, ever go full Nicholson), which turns the film’s back-half into something of a poverty-row re-imagining of The Shining (1980): as Mark bellows, huffs, screams, rages and attacks doors with aplomb, in frantic pursuit of his wife and young son, it’s hard not to think back on the far-superior older film. Glen has moments that are nicely realized (unlike poor Olin) but he’s never a particularly believable character, which really hurts any identification we might have with him. On a lesser note, Mark’s Huntington’s Disease never seems to function as anything more than a plot device, leading him to act in whatever manner the narrative calls for at that time. For all the difference it makes, Mark could have been a recovering alcoholic, a schizophrenic or just really angry…like many of the film’s elements, the disease seems as arbitrary as anything else.

Despite my frustrations with Darkness, it’s still impossible to deny that Balagueró has some genuine skill, both as a writer and a director (here, he co-scripts with Fernando de Felipe). When the film is allowed to work on its own merits, there’s some undeniable power to be found: amidst the chaos and noise of the film’s climax, there’s some really interesting observations about familial duty, fate, the nature of reality and weird dooms-day cults. More’s the pity, then, that the whole thing collapses into a soggy mess of evil doppelgängers, frantic action, ridiculous proclamations (“Regina is in her house…in Hell!!!”) and haunted house conceits that would have been moldy decades ago (the scene where a character is pursued down a hallway by extinguishing lights is so well-worn that it’s threadbare).

As it stands, Darkness is an interesting enough part of Balagueró’s oeuvre, even if it never comes close to either its predecessor or the [REC] films that would follow. Think of it as a transitional film, a bridge between his more atmospheric chillers and the action-packed fare that would follow, that first tentative moment where one transitions from walking to running. While his future ended up suitably bright, there will always be a little Darkness in Balagueró’s rear-view mirror, for better or worse.

4/25/15: The Fixer-Upper From Hell

Tags

Adam Thomas Wright, Altar, Antonia Clarke, British films, British horror, children in peril, cinema, film reviews, films, ghost whisperer, ghosts, haunted house, haunted houses, hidden mosaics, home renovations, horror, horror film, horror films, horror movies, husband-wife relationship, isolated estates, isolation, Jan Richter-Friis, Jonathan Jaynes, Matthew Modine, Movies, Nick Willing, Olivia Williams, parent-child relationships, possession, Rebecca Calder, Satanic rituals, set in England, sins of the past, Stephen Chance, Steve Oram, supernatural, twist ending, UK films, writer-director

If we go by the conventions of horror films, one of the single most dangerous occupations out there is home renovation. Sure, law enforcement, fire fighting and high-rise window-washing might seem more dangerous, at least on paper, but we know the truth: anytime someone tries to fix up a creepy, old, decaying country estate, there’s a roughly 90% chance of something terrible happening. If those were Vegas odds, Sin City would have gone the way of the dodo generations ago.

Writer-director Nick Willing’s Altar (2014) is but the latest in a long line of haunted house films precipitated on the above notion: a family moves into a creepy, isolated country manor in order to renovate it, runs into long-buried secrets and ghostly presences and must survive the sinister residence’s sustained assaults upon their persons and psyches. In this case, Meg Hamilton (Olivia Williams) is the renovator who, along with her artist husband Alec (Matthew Modine) and children, Penny (Antonia Clarke) and Harper (Adam Thomas Wright), move into the creepy abode. Faster than you can say “Jack and Wendy Torrance,” the family are dealing with ghostly manifestations, Alec’s obsession with suddenly crafting a life-like clay figure and Meg’s discovery of a strange, vaguely pagan floor mosaic. If you guessed that “possession” factors into the proceedings, you’d be right but Willing has a few tricks up his sleeve that help take Altar in a slightly different (even if barely so) direction from the rest of the herd.

As far as atmosphere and location go, Altar is strictly top-notch: there’s a genuine sense of foreboding that lingers over every scene, thanks in large part to the exceptionally creepy location. Quite simply, Radcliffe House is the kind of evil, Gothic edifice that can make or break a haunted house film: in this case, it goes an awful long way in stocking up good will for the (occasionally) rough going. Willing goes light on the obvious jump scares, allowing for the whole thing to feel much more organic and old-fashioned than similar films (obnoxiously loud musical stingers are, thankfully, few and far between) and cinematographer Jan Richter-Friis’ camera-work helps to subtly play up the creep-factor.

The acting is uniformly good, which is another important factor in this kind of film: when a movie relies on mood and atmosphere, nothing spoils the party quite as effectively as over-the-top, amateurish or stilted acting. Williams is excellent as the mother/renovator: her extremely expressive face always seems to be reflecting some new measure of fresh horror, amping the psychological horror to an almost unbearable level. Modine, who’s had an almost ridiculously varied career over the past 30+ years, doesn’t fare quite as well as Williams does, mostly because his character is saddled with a few more eye-rolling traits than hers is. That being said, Modine and Williams have good chemistry together: until things go completely off the rails, it’s easy to imagine these two as a (once) loving couple, which is certainly more than you can say for many horror film duos. As the beleaguered children, Clarke and Wright are quite good, although they don’t get quite as much to do as their parents: at the very least, neither one wears out their welcome which, again, is more than you can say for many young actors in horror productions.

If anything really lets the air out of Altar’s sails, it’s definitely the hum-drum, overly clichéd ending: while the plot has plenty of holes (especially in the later going), the film manages to glide over most of them pretty effortlessly until it crashes headfirst into the chasm that is the film’s final “revelation.” While I wouldn’t dream of ruining the ending (perhaps because I understand it so imperfectly), suffice to say that faithful genre devotees will have seen this exact same thing done many, many times in the past…and done much better and much clearer, might I add. It’s a pity, really, since the film has some fairly intriguing ideas about transmogrification that are completely lost in the muddle. However unique the film begins, it ends in territory that is, to be kind, well-worn.

Ultimately, Altar is a good, if not great, entry in the crowded “family in peril” subgenre of horror films. When the atmosphere and mood are allowed to develop at their own measured, glacial pace, Willing’s film stands tall above the pretenders, buoyed by its own sense of stately grandeur. When the film becomes overly familiar and middle-of-the-road, however, it sinks right back into the teeming masses, indistinguishable from any one of two dozen other similar films.

3/23/15: Mama, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Golfers

Tags

bad fathers, bad films, Blake Berris, brother-sister relationships, cheating husbands, cinema, confusing films, Diane Dalton, dramas, film reviews, films, ghosts, golf, haunted house, horror films, House of Last Things, husband-wife relationship, Ken Kelsch, kidnapped child, Lindsey Haun, Micah Nelson, Michael Bartlett, Michele Mariana, missing child, Moreen Littrell, Movies, possession, Randy Schulman, RJ Mitte, sins of the past, suicide, writer-director-editor, yellow balloons

The cinematic world is filled with cheap, poorly made and unquestionably bad films: that’s probably the worst kept secret in the entirety of human existence. For every amazing, unmitigated classic, there are at least ten astonishingly bad bottom-scrapers following in its wake, like flies drawn to rotten meat. Filmmaking, after all, is an industry like any other: some architects design works of art, others build out-houses…there will always be a market for both.

This is especially true for the horror genre, where cheaply made “product” is often seen as either a rite of passage for a burgeoning filmmaker or a quick and easy way to pocket some of that fanboy dinero. Suffice to say, it’s often a full-time job separating the cream from the crud, especially when so many films stuff their bullshit sausages into attractive outer casings: many times, you have to wade hip-deep into a film before you realize just how nasty and cloudy the water has become. By then, of course, it’s usually too late.

Michael Bartlett’s House of Last Things (2013) does the honorable thing, then, and reveals its intentions from the very first frame: it’s not a good film and doesn’t mind if we know it. Opening with a ridiculous, slo-mo shot of golf clubs flying through the air, backed by one of the most bombastic scores since the infamous over-head drive in The Shining (1980), Bartlett’s fourth feature film (and first since 1998) is a confusing mess of awkward acting, strange dialogue and obvious camera set-ups, all with a head-scratching golfing preoccupation that mostly involves finding balls in weird places (like…I dunno…inside an apple…). It might not be a good film but it’s never a boring film.

The movie begins with a married couple, Alan (Randy Schulman) and Sarah (Diane Dalton), as they’re preparing to leave for a much-needed vacation in Italy. While they’re gone, Kelly (Lindsey Haun) has been enlisted to watch over their spacious home. As soon as the couple has left, however, Kelly gets a couple of visitors in the persons of her brother, Tim (RJ Mitte) and her skeevy boyfriend, Jesse (Blake Berris). Tim’s a nice enough guy, reasonable and fairly level-headed but Jesse is a complete spazzy douchebag, the kind of character in a horror movie who’s usually designated “Victim #1.” Jesse is a complete asshole to both Tim and Kelly, although the bad boy routine certainly seems to be working wonders on one of them (hint: it’s not the one who used to be on Breaking Bad).

As the trio butt heads, odd things begin to happen around the house: strange shadows pass by the outside windows, blue-collar Jesse develops an unexplained interest in wine and opera and mysterious yellow balloons start popping up everywhere. And, of course, let’s not forget about those damn golf balls, which turn up everywhere from the sugar canister to the aforementioned apples. Meanwhile, as this is going on, we catch up with Alan and Sarah on their awkward Italian vacation. Just like back home, Alan is plagued by golf balls, along with a sinister Harlequin clown, who pulls a golf ball out of Alan’s ear, ala a 10-year-old’s birthday party. There’s also the nagging notion that something unknown and unpleasant has transpired between Alan and Sarah, some sort of past trauma that neither is willing to discuss.

Meanwhile, back at the bat cave: Jesse gets a wild hair up his ass, heads to the local grocery store and appears to kidnap a young boy who’s waiting outside. He takes his young hostage, Adam (Micah Nelson), back to Alan and Laura’s house (much to Kelly and Tim’s immense consternation), where he plans to ransom the kid off, even though he has no idea of how to contact his parents/guardians. After a day passes and there’s no news of a missing kid, however, Kelly comes to the realization that no one has reported him missing…because no one wants him back.

This frightening revelation leads to a series of events that include (but are not limited to): a real estate agent attacked by aggressive yellow balloons; possessions; homemade porno mags; scary visions; intense, indoor toilet-papering; old-time golfers; long-held secrets; a medium who shows up, out of nowhere, and pulls a Zelda Rubenstein on us; more golf balls than you can shake a stick at and a weird apple fetish that might be Biblical but is probably just for convenience. In other words: it all collapses into one glorious, goofy, dog-pile of insane influences and bat-shit crazy plot developments. By the time it’s over, you’ll never look at golf balls…or apples…or balloons…or RJ Mitte, for that matter…the same way again.

There’s not much about House of Last Things that works, to be honest, with the problems and issues stacked like wayward Tetris blocks. The film frequently seems like a straight-faced farce or subtle parody (the scene where Rose asks if the house was built over a golf course had to be a joke…I won’t accept any other possibility), although it also seems to be taking itself way too seriously: the score is always tense and gloomy, while the drama is frequently pitched at a near hysterical level. The split focus between Alan and Sarah’s jaunt through Italy and Kelly and company’s adventures back home does more to kill momentum than give insight into either storyline, while also making little sense in context of the film’s ultimate revelations.

The acting tends to the awkward, made worse by dialogue that often comes out of left-field and seems forced and strained. None of the cast really click together, which makes the various relationships difficult to accept: as mentioned earlier, Blake Berris’ Jesse is such a thoroughly loathsome character that his relationship with Kelly never makes sense. Some of the performances, such as Michele Mariana’s bizarre medium (I guess…?) Rose Pepper, are campy and over-the-top, while others, like Micah Nelson’s Adam are flat to the point of non-existence.

Perhaps the biggest overall issue with the film, however, is how little sense it all ends up making. There’s a point, sure, and even enough vestiges of clues to half-way get there but so much of the film feels arbitrary and unfocused that the whole thing feels kind of surreal. It also doesn’t help that the fright sequences are staged in ways that all but guarantee failure: one of the big set-pieces involves yellow balloons that pop, menacingly, in a real estate agent’s face, as she freaks out. The “For Sale” sign bursting into flames is a nice touch, as she runs out, screaming, but it’s more like the cherry on an outrageously silly sundae. It’s impossible to build up tension or feel genuine fear in a situation like that, regardless of how seriously said scene is staged: replace Michael Myers with Sponge Bob and you get the drift.

For all of my issues with the film, however, I’ll be the first to admit: I was never less than totally wrapped up in what was going on, albeit for reasons that might not have been the original intent of the filmmakers. It’s obvious that care and love went into the film, not necessarily due to the performances (RJ Mitte, in particular, looks like he just wants the whole thing to be over with), but certainly through the detailed, fastidious production design. A lot of attention was paid to establishing recurring themes and motifs (the yellow balloons, the golf balls, the apples), so it’s clear that Bartlett and company put thought into this, for better or worse. The film often looks good, even if it rarely makes much sense.

A quick look at Michael Bartlett’s bio reveals an interesting career that stretches back to his first feature, in 1987 (made in Germany, although Bartlett is originally from California), and includes music videos and another German feature. After watching House of Last Things, I’m curious to see Bartlett’s earlier films: perhaps I’ve missed an over-riding theme or something that might bring a little more order to the insanity. As it stands, however, I found his most recent production to be a mind-boggling miss, albeit a constantly entertaining one. If nothing else, I’ll be keeping my distance from both golf balls and yellow balloons in the near future: that’s one point that I did get, loud and clear.