The 31 Days of Halloween (2017): 10/15-10/21

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2017, 31 Days of Halloween, cinema, Clown, Dark Exorcism, Film, film reviews, films, Halloween, horror, horror films, Movies, October, Sleepy Hollow, The ABCs of Death, The Innkeepers, wendigo

Almost in time for the next installment, The VHS Graveyard now presents Week Three of the 31 Days of Halloween. We came up one film short this week but never fear: there’s still a week left until the big day and plenty of films up on the horizon. Now: kick back, grab a six-pack of blood (or diet blood, if you prefer) and journey back to the wilds of last week as we visit headless horsemen, killer clowns, vengeful ghosts and so much more…right here on The VHS Graveyard.

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Sleepy Hollow

This zippy adaptation of the classic Washington Irving story captures both Tim Burton and muse Johnny Depp at a point in their collaborative partnership where the well still felt deep and the possibilities endless. Burton is (relatively) restrained, although there are plenty of audacious and thrilling set-pieces (one wonders if the flaming windmill here inspired the similar visual in Windmill Massacre), and the material is allowed to breathe and feel much more organic than later efforts like the Alice in Wonderland films.

For his part, Depp is rather delightful, light years from his smarmy, played-out schtick of the last several years. He plays Ichabod as an eager greenhorn but stops short of playing him for a fool, ala Jack Sparrow, and his interplay with the rest of the impressive ensemble (including Christina Ricci, Jeffrey Jones, Miranda Richardson, Michael Gambon and the always awesome Christopher Walken), is as much about give-and-take as stealing the show.

If you think about it, Sleepy Hollow is the most overtly “horror” film that Tim Burton ever made: gratuitous decapitations, a (relative) lack of whimsy, heavy Gothic atmosphere, deep sense of foreboding…that’s just one Christopher Lee short of a Hammer film! In other words, perfect Halloween fare.

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Dark Exorcism

I avoided watching writer/director David Spaltro’s Dark Exorcism for one simple reason: everything about it screamed “generic possession flick” at first glance. As part of my never-ending list of 2016 horror films, however, it was going to get viewed at some point and October 2017 seemed as good a time as any. Turns out I shouldn’t have waited so long: Spaltro’s film is a real sleeper and probably the best indie exorcism/possession film I’ve seen in some time.

A non-believing grad student (Lynn Justinger) and her supernatural-debunking mentor (Fiona Horrigan) meet their match when a terrified mother (Catherine Cobb Ryan) begs for help with her tormented daughter (Grace Folsom). What first seems like a cut-and-dried haunting is revealed to be something much more sinister, requiring a little bit of the ol’ title ceremony. Will the cynical student and burned-out master have what it takes to triumph or will evil be chalking up another win?

Although it never reinvents the wheel, Dark Exorcism is also a breezy, painless experience that manages to avoid most of the pitfalls inherent in exorcism films. Much credit goes to the filmcraft: from the clever opening credit sequence to the colorful cinematography and subtle score, Dark Exorcism always looks and sounds good, even when it takes the occasional foray into the silly or insipid. It does everything that I expect from this kind of film and does it better than most of its peers: that’s good enough for me, neighborino.

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The Innkeepers

Full disclosure: I didn’t care for Ti West’s slow-burn ghost film when I first saw it in theaters back in 2011. Everything up to the finale was fine enough but the climax really ticked me off: I honestly can’t even recall my specific issue but I distinctly remember walking out irritated and let-down. It’s a feeling so strong that I completely avoided the film until this year’s 31 Days of Halloween.

In hindsight, I was wrong. There’s nothing wrong with the ending of this modest tale of amateur ghost-hunters (Sara Paxton and Pat Healy) in a haunted New England hotel. In fact, the whole film is pretty darn good, giving me another reason to like Ti West (for those keeping count, this makes the third of his films that I’ve genuinely enjoyed, right behind In a Valley of Violence and House of the Devil).

If you’re in the mood for an atmospheric, creepy and slow-paced little chiller, go ahead and check-in with The Innkeepers. And remember: there’s nothing wrong with being wrong, kids.

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Clown

Not much more to say about this modern classic than what I’ve already gushed about in the past but the Cliff Notes version goes a little something like this: Jon Watts and Christopher Ford’s loving tribute to pure horror should be required viewing for anyone who considers themself a horror fanatic and right at the top of the list for those looking for that elusive “truly scary movie.” Beep, beep, Richie!

A doting father (Andy Powers) puts on an old clown costume, as a last-minute replacement for his birthday boy’s absent entertainment, and can’t take the darn thing off. Because, you know, it’s attached to his skin. As his blood-lust grows, the doomed dad discovers that only one dish truly hits the spot: fresh child.

With no hyperbole, Clown is easily one of the best pure horror films since the genre’s heyday in the ’80s and ’90s. Streamlined, mean, inventive, colorful and possessed of one fantastic setpiece after the other, this is in the best vein of films like Pumpkinhead and The Fly: it’s a horror film that centers itself around relatable, likable characters and then builds horror from the tragedy around them. Toss in a phenomenally great origin story for the clown menace and Clown is one of those films that’s just impossible to forget.

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The ABCs of Death

As concepts go, The ABCs of Death series has always had one of the best ones: give 26 different filmmakers a letter of the alphabet and free-rein to create whatever associated horror-oriented treat strikes their fancy. It’s a pretty genius concept but, as with almost every anthology film ever, the results are decidedly mixed. In this case, unfortunately, the results definitely tend towards the drearier end of the spectrum.

Personal favorites? Marcel Sarmiento’s sleek and mean “D is for Dogfight,”  Timo Tjahjanto’s impossibly repulsive “L is for Libido,” Helene Cattet and Bruno Forzani’s elegant “O is for Orgasm,” Adam Wingard and Simon Barrett’s silly but effective “Q is for Quack” and Jon Schnepp’s truly demented “W is for WTF.” As for the rest, they range from disappointing efforts from respected filmmakers (Bogliano, Wheatley, Rumley, Vigalondo, West) to shorts that I actively disliked (Noburo Aguchi’s “F is for Fart” and Ti West’s “M is for Miscarriage” are still two of my least-favorite things since I first saw this collection years ago).

All in all, this is a decidedly disappointing first shot across the bow that would go on to produce much more impressive offerings in the second go-around. Still, you really can’t beat the anthology-short format when it comes time to program a little spooky viewing.

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Wendigo

When it comes to indie filmmakers, writer/director/actor/producer/studio-head/all-around maven Larry Fessenden is easily one of my all-time faves. Ever since bursting onto the scene in 1982 with his vampire/junkie parable Habit, Fessenden has dedicated his life to indie cinema. His Glass Eye Pix is responsible for releasing more quality genre flicks than any company this side of A24 (I Sell the Dead, House of the Devil, The Innkeepers, Stake Land, Late Phases, and Darling, to name just a few) and he’s the kind of character actor who can handily steal the film from the leads.

As a director, Fessenden has been responsible for one of my very favorite horror films of the last 15 years (The Last Winter) and one of my very least favorite (Beneath). His follow-up to Habit, Wendigo (2001), manages to sit square between those polar opposites. This icy tale of city folks running afoul of backwoods evil (both human and otherwise) is long on atmosphere and features one of the most nightmarishly memorable creatures I’ve ever seen in a film. It owes an obvious debt to Stan Winston’s classic Pumpkinhead but pays it back in some pretty unique ways. It also features one helluva cast: Patricia Clarkson, Jake Weber and Malcolm in the Middle’s Erik Per Sullivan…now that’s an ensemble!

Larry Fessenden approaches the genre from a fan’s perspective and that genuine love shows through in everything he does (including the odious Beneath). Although it misses the high-water mark set by the follow-up, Wendigo is still a fascinating slice of indie horror-psychedelia and handily shows why the filmmaker deserves a lot more acclaim than he gets.

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That does it for Week Three of the 31 Days of Halloween: stay tuned for next time, as we screen another batch of new films (including a few that we’ve been looking forward to) and lots of old favorites.

 

6/2/15: Grand Theft Mariachi

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action films, auteur theory, bounty hunters, bounty killers, Bring Me the Head of the Machine Gun Woman, Chilean films, cinema, dark comedies, El Mariachi, Ernesto Díaz Espinoza, exploitation films, Fernanda Urrejola, Film auteurs, film homages, film reviews, films, foreign films, Francisca Castillo, gangsters, Grand Theft Auto, Guillermo Saavedra, independent films, indie films, Jaime Omeñaca, Javier Cay Saavedra, Jorge Alis, Kill Bill, low-budget films, Matías Oviedo, Mauricio Pesutic, Movies, Nicolás Ibieta, over-the-top, retrosploitation, Robert Rodriguez, Rocco, romances, Scott Pilgrim vs the World, Sofía García, stylish films, The ABCs of Death, unlikely hero, video games, writer-director-editor

Homage is a tricky thing: it’s no mean feat getting the perfect balance between exacting reproduction and unique perspectives. The original era of grindhouse and exploitation films weren’t really setting out to create a singular aesthetic: this was more the result of budgetary concerns, current events, audience expectations and the technology of the time. When modern filmmakers attempt to emulate the late ’60s-’70s grindhouse aesthetic, it’s always filtered through a modern sensibility, usually the hyper self-awareness that’s plagued us since the days of Pop-Up Videos. Adding fake film grain and scratches to a modern film doesn’t automatically make it a genuine grindhouse film any more than donning fake fangs makes one a genuine vampire.

That being said, many modern films have managed to emulate the grindhouse/exploitation aesthetic to varying degrees of success. Filmmakers like Quentin Tarantino, Robert Rodriguez, Eli Roth and Rob Zombie have all mined the drive-in days of old for films that manage, in one way or the other, to add another few brushstrokes to the overall mural. Chilean auteur Ernesto Díaz Espinoza certainly isn’t the first filmmaker to make us check the wall calendar: while his Bring Me the Head of the Machine Gun Woman (2012) is far from perfect and quite a ways from obvious influence El Mariachi (1992), it’s not without its charms and possesses a gonzo sense of energy and invention that often helps to smooth over the rough spots. When it’s firing on all cylinders, the film is nearly as lethal as its titular badass.

Like Rodriguez’s debut, BMTHOTMGW is about the path that an unlikely sad-sack takes from meek acceptance to ass-kicking independence. Our hero, in this case, is Santiago (Matías Oviedo), a small-town DJ who still lives at home with his mother (Francisca Castillo), plays way too much Grand Theft Auto and makes money, on the side, from mob boss Che Longana (Jorge Alis). Longana is the kind of bat-shit crime lord who’s surrounded by topless ballroom dancers, thinks nothing of wasting his own henchmen for the slightest infractions and rules by complete and absolute fear.

Poor Santiago runs afoul of his boss after he happens to overhear Longana discussing a hit on his former girlfriend, the legendary bounty-killer Machine Gun Woman (Fernanda Urrejola). MGW is the kind of person who struts around in a barely-there leather lingerie and fur coat ensemble, mercilessly blasting anything that moves before sawing off heads in order to collect the attached bounties: in other words, not the kind of person you normally want to fuck with. In order to save his own skin, Santiago promises to deliver MGW to Longana, come hell or high water.

From this point on, Santiago enters his own version of the beloved Grand Theft Auto, each new step along his path of personal growth designated by such video game friendly titles as “Mission 01: Get a Clue With Shadeline Soto” or “Mission 03: Get a Gun.” Along the way, Santiago must avoid the other bounty killers, each with their own quirks and Warriors-approved outfits (the lethal chinchinero and his mini-me son were personal favorites). When he finally comes face-to-face with the deadliest killer of them all, Santiago faces a feeling altogether different from fear…love. Will the humble DJ face his fears and double-cross the most feared man in Chile or will he crack under the pressure and turn his back on true love? Unlike his video games, Santiago is only going to get one chance to get this right…will it be love or the head of the Machine Gun Woman?

Despite a few glaring issues and the overridingly gimmicky core concept (the Grand Theft Auto angle wears out its welcome quickly), Bring Me the Head of the Machine Gun Woman ends up being a breezy, painless watch, not terribly far removed from the films with which it bears allegiance. The retro-visualization works well overall (the credits are spot-on and the musical score, by eponymous Rocco, is great), although the look is let-down quite a bit by the generally flat lighting: at times, BMTHOTMGW very much looks like a modern, low-budget film gussied up with film grain and random scratches.

Acting-wise, the film tends to be broad, which suits the overall vibe to a tee. Oviedo is likable as the hapless Santiago, although the film has a distressing tendency to make him more of a passive observer to the events than an active participant: it isn’t until the climax that he really gets a chance to let loose. Urrejola does a fine job as the almost mythically lethal Machine Gun Woman, although it’s worth noting that her character is just about as one-note as they come: MGW is an asskicking sexpot, nothing more, nothing less. She belongs to the same video game traditions that spawned similar characters like Lara Croft, traditions that dictate female action stars must show as much skin as possible and act lasciviously whenever the plot needs a little jolt. It’s no more (or less) offensive a representation than many others in the past but BMTHOTMGW does a pretty good of fetishizing Urrejola to an almost distressing degree.

The villains are all nice and slimy, which befits a film like this, with Alis having the biggest blast as the scenery-chewing, howlingly-mad mob boss. In many ways, Alis’ Che Longana hearkens back to the glory days of films like Andy Sidaris’ classic Hard Ticket to Hawaii (1987) and his ludicrously over-the-top death scene is truly one for the ages. There’s also the aforementioned variety with the various bounty killers (let’s hear it, again, for that father-son duo and the really smart riff on Kill Bill (2003)), which not only helps to play up the video game aspect (at times, the film definitely reminded me of Scott Pilgrim vs the World (2010), although that was more structure-related than visual) but also injects much-needed originality into the premise.

While too much of the film seems to fall into generic indie-action territory (lots of noisy shootouts and gratuitous slo-mo), Espinoza finds plenty of new ways to riff on old motifs. The garage “oil check” scene is bracingly original, if thoroughly unpleasant, while the scene where Santiago’s iPod (it has 30,000 songs on it) is treated as if it were Marcellus Wallace’s fabled briefcase is patently great. It’s quite clear that Espinoza (who also scripted the film) has a few new wrinkles to add, whenever he steps away from the more well-trod path.

In the end, the well-trod path is what, ultimately, keeps Bring Me the Head of the Machine Gun Woman from having the impact it might have had. The film is lots of goofy fun, no two ways about it, but it never approaches the zany abandon of something like classic Troma or even Jason Eisener’s neo-classic Hobo With a Shotgun (2011). This, of course, is exactly what a film like this really needs: when you have a fur-coat-and-bikini-bedecked assassin spraying bullets every which way but loose, restraint should be the last thing you’re thinking about.

When Espinoza’s film works, it provides more than its share of pleasures (guilty and otherwise), although it never hits the consistent highs of El Mariachi. Here’s to hoping that Ernesto Díaz Espinoza continues to sharpen his blade: if he can make match his explotiation-leaning aesthetic to a genuinely subversive edge, I have a feeling that filmmakers might be paying him homage in the not-to-distant future.

6/1/15 (Part Two): The Mournful Cry of the Lone Wolf

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absentee father, Adrian Garcia Bogliano, Alex de la Iglesia, auteur theory, blind, blind protagonist, Caitlin O'Heaney, cinema, Cold Sweat, Eric Stolze, Ernesto Herrera, Ethan Embry, father-son relationships, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, Here Comes the Devil, horror, horror movies, Karen Lynn Gorney, Karron Graves, Lance Guest, Larry Fessenden, Late Phases, Movies, Nick Damici, old folks home, Penumbra, practical effects, retirement communities, Robert Kurtzman, Rutanya Alda, The ABCs of Death, Tina Louise, Tom Noonan, Under the Bed, Vietnam vet, war veterans, werewolves, Wojciech Golczewski

In the modern world of cinematic monsters, werewolves sure do seem to get the short end of the stick. Sure, they may have factored into the mega-colossi that were the Twilight and Underworld franchises and they’ll never be able to take Lon Chaney, Jr. away from us but, to quote the parlance of the time, “What have they done for us lately?” Compared to peers like zombies, vampires and space aliens, there’s a notable shortage of lycanthrope films to choose from but, ironically, some of the best werewolf films have also been some of the best horror films, period: the aforementioned classic The Wolf Man (1941), An American Werewolf in London (1981), The Company of Wolves (1984), Ginger Snaps (2000) and Dog Soldiers (2002) are not only shining examples of tortured folk howling at the full moon but they also hold fairly esteemed ranks within the horror genre, as a whole.

While it’s been some time since I’ve seen a werewolf film that’s good enough to howl about from the rooftops, it looks like the dry-spell has finally been broken: not only is Spanish auteur Adrián García Bogliano’s Late Phases (2014) the best werewolf film to come out in over a decade, it’s also one of the very best horror films I’ve seen this year. While it’s tempting to say that I’m surprised, I’m really not: with a track record that includes such essential cinema as Cold Sweat (2010), Penumbra (2011) and Here Comes the Devil (2012), I fully expect any and all Bogliano films to kick major ass over and above their daily allotted allowances. Truth be told, I can’t think of a better filmmaker to tell the story of a legally blind Vietnam vet who goes to war with the werewolves terrorizing his seemingly serene retirement community. In the simplest way possible: Adrián García Bogliano has done it again.

The fearless, tough-as-nails protagonist of our little tale is Ambrose McKinley (the always amazing Nick Damici), the aforementioned blind war veteran who has just been moved into a retirement community by his disapproving, micro-managing son, Will (Ethan Embry). Ambrose is a difficult guy, no two ways about it: with a perma-scowl affixed to his face, Ambrose’s unseeing eyes seem to peer right through everyone he meets, cutting through any societal pleasantries and exposing the rest of us for the bullshit artists we really are. Call him the AARP Holden Caulfield, if you must, but for god’s sake, don’t do it to his face.

As Ambrose settles into his new home, he immediately meets some of his new neighbors: his next-door-neighbor, Delores (Karen Lynn Gorney), and the local “welcoming committee” of Emma (Caitlin O’Heaney), Gloria (Rutanya Alda) and Clarissa (Tina Louise), as well as local preacher Father Roger (genre vet Tom Noonan) and church benefactor James Griffin (Lance Guest). As befits his nature, Ambrose does absolutely nothing to curtail favor with anyone, leading Delores to view him with something approaching puppy-dog infatuation, while the others react in ways ranging from extreme amusement to extreme suspicion.

Practically before he’s completely unpacked, however, Ambrose finds himself knee-deep in a grisly mystery: as he listens, helplessly, from his room, he hears Delores being savagely attacked on the other side of the wall. The local authorities blame it on vicious dogs, saying that “old people make good targets” and should be more aware of their surroundings. Ambrose is the furthest thing from stupid, however, and none of this makes sense to him, especially after he finds himself under attack from the same monstrous creature that mutilated his neighbor. Once he discovers that these attacks seem to occur once a month, around the full moon, Ambrose launches into his own investigation, much to the dismay of his put-upon son.

As he pokes around the retirement community, Ambrose begins to uncover the threads of a larger conspiracy, one that may or may not include the community’s quiet, slyly watchful man of God. Despite being blind, however, Ambrose can actually “see” better than anyone around him: he’s also a pretty damn good shot, a fact which certainly comes in handy when you’re hunting monsters. Before it’s all over, Ambrose, armed with a sharpened shovel, more moxie than a mob of Eastwoods and a studied disdain for morons, will become a one-man army. He’d better move fast, however: there’s another full moon on the horizon and it’s bringing a very hairy, very hungry beast with it. As Ambrose knows all too well, you don’t come to places like the retirement home to live: you come to places like this to die.

For his English-language debut, Bogliano turns in his most streamlined effort to date: not surprisingly, Late Phases ends up being the best film (thus far) in an extremely impressive body-of-work. Gone are the occasionally tedious flourishes and unnecessary camera zooms of his previous effort, the otherwise excellent Here Comes the Devil. Bogliano also minimizes the darkly humorous elements of previous films like Penumbra and Cold Sweat, making Late Phases seem more like a serious cousin to Don Coscarelli’s Bubba Ho-Tep (2002) than the natural successor to his earlier works. Despite being his most straight forward film, however, Late Phases is a virtual embarrassment of riches, thanks in no small part to a great script, fantastic performances and some truly amazing werewolf effects, courtesy of legendary SFX guru Robert Kurtzman.

One notable difference between Late Phases and Bogliano’s previous films is that he relinquishes the pen here, handing writing duties over to Under the Bed’s (2012) Eric Stolze. At first, this change carried the most potential for disappointment: after all, Bogliano’s earlier films were tightly plotted and often rather ingenious, whereas Stolze’s prior genre effort was disjointed and, frequently, kind of a mess. As it turns out, however, I had very little to fear: short of one completely unnecessary and confusing red herring involving certain characters coughing, the script and plotting for Late Phases is air-tight and easily comparable to Bogliano’s scripts, albeit without his (usually) overt political sensibilities.

From a technical aspect, Late Phases looks and sounds great: frequent Bogliano cinematographer Ernesto Herrera turns in some beautifully autumnal imagery, even managing to imbue the film’s frequent gore with a lovely, burnished quality that makes the entire film feel almost impossibly lush. He does some truly great things with light and shadow, not least of which is the quietly powerful scene where Ambrose slowly moves backwards into darkness, his craggy features slowly subsumed by inky nothingness. The gorgeous imagery is handily tied together by Wojciech Golczewski’s understated score: each aspect helps to elevate the film past its simple indie horror roots, taking it into the territory of something like Jim Mickle’s classic Stake Land (2010).

One of the main issues with any creature feature, dating all the way back to the Universal originals, is the actual depiction of said creature. In many cases, monster movies are inherently disappointing because whatever promise is set up by the movie’s mythology is usually dashed once we actually get to see the creature: anyone who grew up on old horror flicks will be more than familiar with that reliable old game of “spot the zipper.” Not so here, in any way, shape or form: Late Phases’ lycanthropes are brought to roaring, terrifying life by SFX pioneer Kurtzman (if you’re a horror fan and aren’t familiar with KNB, you need a refresher course, stat) and they’re easily the equal of any werewolves that came before, including Rick Baker’s iconic American ex-pat wolf man. Equally important for werewolf films are the obligatory transformation scenes: as expected, Late Phases knocks this out of the park with one of the goopiest, most painful-looking transformations ever put to film. If you’re not gritting your teeth by the time our monster rips his own skin off, like a snug t-shirt, well…you have more iron in your blood than I do, neighbor.

As a werewolf/horror film, Late Phases meets and exceeds pretty much every requirement: what really sets the film into its own class, however, is the high-quality performances that ground everything, starting with the film’s protagonist, Ambrose. Quite simply, Nick Damici is one of the greatest, unsung treasures of our modern era and Bogliano uses him to spectacular effect here. Ambrose is easily the equal of Damici’s iconic Mister (from Stake Land) and ends up being one of the most effortlessly cool, kickass heroes since Eastwood lost his name and donned his serape. The concept of a blind protagonist always brings issues with it: in many cases, plot developments like this are usually just ways for filmmakers to shoehorn in gimmicks involving dark rooms, night-vision, what have you. In Late Phases, however, Bogliano and Stolze do the best thing possible: they just establish Ambrose and then let Damici sell us on the character. In the best example of “show don’t tell” I’ve seen in years, he does just that. If there were any justice, Nick Damici would be a household name along the lines of Jason Statham or Scott Glenn.

Ably supporting Damici are a handful of some of the most accomplished character actors currently treading the cinematic boards: indie MVP Larry Fessenden has some nice scenes as a slightly bemused headstone salesman; Ethan Embry does great work as Ambrose’s son, with some genuinely touching moments between the two; Tom Noonan gets to don a priest’s collar, again, and his performance is his typically assured combo of quietly reptilian intelligence and paternal concern; and, of course, genre fans should recognize Lance Guest from more things than they can shake a stick at, including Halloween II (1981), The Last Starfighter (1984) and any number of ’80s and ’90s-era TV shows. We also get the phenomenal tag-team of Tina Louise (Ginger from Giligan’s Island), Rutanya Alda and Caitlin O’Heaney (who also appeared in the ’80s-era cult classic Wolfen (1981): between these three actresses, you’ve got more amazing horror and genre history than most films have in their entire casts.

Ultimately, there’s one big thing that separates Bogliano’s Late Phases from any number of pretenders: genuine passion. At no point in the proceedings is there ever the notion of “phoning it in” or “making do.” Unlike Álex de la Iglesia’s severely disappointing English-language-debut, The Oxford Murders (2008),  Bogliano’s film feels like it belongs squarely in his canon: it’s a natural progression from what came before, not a watered-down reminder of what worked better in the native tongue. At this rate, Adrián García Bogliano is quickly establishing himself as one of modern horror cinema’s foremost artists: with another potential masterpiece, Scherzo Diabolico (2015), on the horizon, I have a feeling we’re going to be seeing a lot more of Bogliano in the future. I, for one, can’t wait.