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.

2/25/15 (Part Two): The Tin Man Rides Again

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'90s films, 1990s films, action films, action-comedies, Belinda Bauer, cinema, cyborgs, Dan O'Herlihy, Delta City, Detroit, drug epidemic, dystopian future, evil corporations, fake commericals, Felton Perry, film franchise, film reviews, films, Frank Miller, Gabriel Damon, Irvin Kershner, man vs machine, Movies, Nancy Allen, near future, Never Say Never Again, OCP, Officer Murphy, Paul Verhoeven, Peter Weller, Robert DoQui, RoboCop, RoboCop 2, sci-fi, sequels, set in Detroit, street drugs, street gangs, The Empire Strikes Back, Tom Noonan, Willard Pugh

After RoboCop (1987) became a box office hit and a bit of a pop culture phenomenon, it was only inevitable that we’d be graced with a sequel, sooner or later. Enter Irvin Kershner’s RoboCop 2 (1990), a movie that manages to up the ante in every way possible, as befits pretty much any action/sci-fi sequel you might care to name. As the director behind such blockbusters as The Empire Strikes Back (1980) and Never Say Never Again (1983), Kershner was a much different filmmaker than the scrappy, sardonic Paul Verhoeven and it shows: RoboCop 2 is a much goofier, sillier and more over-the-top film than its predecessor…not surprisingly, it’s also a whole lot of fun.

We’re now a few years past the original film and nothing seems to have really changed: OCP is still in charge of Detroit’s police department, who are still threatening to strike; Delta City is still on the horizon as the ultimate “beautification” project; the streets are still over-run with crime and marauding gangs; and Officer Murphy (Peter Weller), aka RoboCop, is still partnered up with Officer Lewis (Nancy Allen). The big issue this time around is the emergence of a lethal, ultra-addictive new street drug called Nuke: the drug is being pushed onto the streets in mass quantities by Cain (Tom Noonan), a religious fanatic/drug dealer/wannabe-messiah who holds the city in the grip of fear thanks to his numerous bombings and terrorist activities…think of Jim Jones and The Joker mashed into one roiling ball of lunacy and you’re in the right neighborhood.

Turns out that OCP engineered the Nuke epidemic and resulting crime wave as a way to stretch Detroit’s resources and force them to default on a huge loan: if the city misses a single payment, OCP gets to swoop in and take it all, free of charge. Bastards! They’re also developing a new type of cyborg, an “improved” version that OCP’s scientists have cleverly dubbed “RoboCop 2.” The only problem with the new cyborgs are that they’re a little…well, a little…glitchy: in a bravura moment, one prototype blithely guns down an entire room of onlookers while another one rips its one face off, screaming in (literal) blood terror. The problem, as any good Frankenstein could tell you, is the brain: the project’s head researcher, the sinister Dr. Faxx (Belinda Bauer), has yet to find a brain that can survive the automation process…but you better believe it’s not for lack of looking.

After RoboCop disobeys a direct order (thanks to more of those pesky residual memories of his), OCP decides to make him more “obedient”: Dr. Faxx inputs several dozen new directives into his hard-drive, changes which, effectively, turn RoboCop into a big weenie. Once the stoic face of criminal ass-kicking, RoboCop is now a grinning, puppy-hugging, rule-following, bureaucratic wuss: as can be expected, he’s also a much less effective police officer now that he’s pathologically “nice.” As Cain and his crazy gang ramp up their assault on the city, Officer Lewis and the rest of the force must, somehow, snap RoboCop back to his old self. At the same time, Dr. Faxx approaches Cain with a once-in-a-lifetime offer: the genuine chance to become a god…or at least as close to it as he’ll ever get. Will RoboCop be able to get his mojo back in time to duke it out with the new-and-improved Cain or does OCP finally hold the fate of Detroit in its greedy, little hands?

While the majority of the humor in the first film was more subtle and blackly comic (aside from the glorious scene where RoboCop drags Leon out of the “punk” club by his hair, of course), all of the humor in the sequel is much more overt and front-and-center. This extends to the numerous fake commercials which break up the action, much as they did in the original film: this time around, the commercials are much more over-the-top and function less as cutting satire than as broader buffoonery. In some ways, the tone of the film is much closer to the sequels to Lloyd Kaufman’s Toxic Avenger (1984) in their depiction of a dystopic world gone wildly, giddily off the tracks. Like the first film, the world-building in the sequel is strong, forging a good bond between the two films. At one point, a commercial for “Sunblock 5000” casually mentions that the ozone layer is gone, while a throwaway news bit discusses a rogue satellite frying Santa Barbara in the same way that one might ask someone to pick up their dry cleaning. The details are all quite fun (if more than a little silly) and help to make the film that much more immersive.

If I really have a complaint with the film (other than the fact that it’s a solid half-step down from the original), it has to be with the main villain: while Tom Noonan really sinks his teeth into the role of Cain and runs with it, he’s absolutely no match for the inspired insanity of Kurtwood Smith’s iconic Clarence Boddicker. In many ways, Noonan is constantly upstaged by Gabriel Damon’s Hob, the ridiculously foul-mouthed kid who slings Nuke for Cain’s gang: by the latter half of the film, Hob has become the defacto leader (albeit briefly) and that’s when the villains really seem to take off. In an action film like this, you really need unforgettable, hateful villains and RoboCop 2’s just pale to the originals, unfortunately.

Cast-wise, the film brings back many of the original actors, including Weller, Allen, Dan O’Herlihy, Felton Perry and Robert DoQui (as the ever-suffering Sgt. Reed). This, of course, has the effect of creating an even stronger connection with the first film, a connection that’s reinforced by the production design: while many sequels have a “more of the same” feel, RoboCop 2 definitely feels like a continuation of a longer narrative, even if that narrative feels a bit unnecessary, by the end. In fact, it’s easy to see this sense of “continuation” as intentional, since the film has a completely open ending that not only doesn’t fully resolve the action but also directly sets up another film (a set-up which the third film, unfortunately, doesn’t make good on).

Even though RoboCop 2 is a much sillier, more weightless film than the first, there’s still a lot to like here: the more overt comedy leads to some great scenes like the ridiculous telethon where Mayor Kuzak (Willard Pugh) desperately tries to raise the funds to save Detroit (with the help of a fiddle-playing contortionist, no less!) or the giddy setpiece where a gang of Little League players commit a violent robbery and are let loose by the newly “nice” RoboCop, since they’re just kids. One interesting aspect of the film is how often we get treated to some rather eyebrow-raising moments involving the numerous child actors: they’re all saltier than a pack of sailors, with a particular favorite line being “Go fuck a refrigerator, pecker-neck!” To be honest, I don’t think I can recall a film where kids swore this much (there are plenty of films where kids engage in violent behavior, so that was considerably less surprising) and it made me bust out laughing more often than not.

Weller handles the new comedy angle with aplomb (his “nice” scenes are genuinely funny), which has the effect of humanizing Murphy to a much greater extent than the first film ever did. It’s great to have Allen back, as well, although it doesn’t feel as if she gets as much to do as she did the first time around. And, above complaint notwithstanding, Noonan is always a reliably unhinged performer: if he didn’t have such big shoes to fill, I doubt if I would have anything bad to say about his performance, to be honest.

While the sequel is a great deal goofier than the original, it’s not necessarily any less gratuitous: this time around, we get treated to an incredibly graphic brain transplant scene, along with the goofy “brain stem with googly eyes” bit that triumphantly ends the final battle. Since the film is pitched at such a comic-book level, however, the whole thing actually feels less violent than the original, which managed to ground everything in a more realistic, if still fantastic, milieu.

For the most part, I thoroughly enjoyed RoboCop 2, even if it was distinctly inferior to the original. There’s plenty of great action sequences, some genuinely funny comedic bits and a strong connection to the first film, making it pretty much essential viewing for anyone who enjoyed Verhoeven’s original. While this is nowhere hear the follow-up that either Terminator 2 (1991) or Aliens (1986) was, RoboCop 2 is a perfectly decent continuation of the franchise and a good way for fans to another dose of some good old-fashioned, cyborg law and order.

10/25/14 (Part Two): Wolfman’s Got Nards!

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'80s films, 31 Days of Halloween, Adam Carl, Andrew Gower, Ashley Bank, auteur theory, Bradford May, Brent Chalem, Carl Thibault, co-writers, Count Dracula, creature feature, cult classic, Dracula, Duncan Regehr, favorite films, fighting monsters, Film auteurs, Frankenstein's monster, Fred Dekker, horror films, horror-comedies, influential films, Jack Gwillim, Jason Hervey, kids in peril, kids vs monsters, kids' movies, Leonardo Cimino, Mary Ellen Trainor, Michael Faustino, Michael MacKay, monster hunters, Monster Squad, Night of the Creeps, Robby Kiger, Ryan Lambert, scrappy kids, set in the 1980's, Shane Black, special-effects extravaganza, Stan Winston, Stephen Macht, the Creature From the Black Lagoon, The Monster Squad, The Mummy, the Wolfman, Tom Noonan, Tom Woodruff Jr., Universal monster movies, Van Helsi, Van Helsing, writer-director, young adult films

At the risk of sounding like a complete grump (“Please get off my lawn, if you don’t mind too terribly”), kids/young adult movies were a lot better in the ’80s. I know, I know…everything was better back in the day, right? Far from being a knee-jerk condemnation of anything new and au courant, however, I actually have some solid reasoning behind my opinion (mixed with plenty of good, old-fashioned personal prejudices, of course). Sure, there was plenty of awful, commercial, soulless bullshit out there, just like there always is, but there was also a pretty unbeatable string of absolute classics that came out between 1981 and 1987: Time Bandits (1981), E.T. (1982), Something Wicked This Way Comes (1983), Gremlins (1984), The Goonies (1985), Explorers (1985), Fright Night (1985), Labyrinth (1986), Stand By Me (1986), The Gate (1987), The Lost Boys (1987) and, of course, Fred Dekker’s amazing The Monster Squad (1987).

If there’s one commonality that these decidedly disparate films share, it would have to be the understanding that children are neither angelic cherubs nor empty vessels for adult motivations: like adults, kids have their own personalities, foibles, quirks, ways of talking and notions of “good vs evil.” The best kids’ movies, as far as I’m concerned, are the ones that allow children to be genuine and act like real kids: they swear like sailors, use non politically correct language, think the opposite sex is completely gross (up until the moment those hormones kick in), are smarter than we give them credit for and think that adults who talk down to them are dumb-asses. The very best kids’ movies don’t sugarcoat or sanitize everything: there have to be real stakes because that’s the way life really is. Think back to films like E.T. and The Goonies: despite their status as “kids’ movies,” both films feature genuinely scary, dangerous moments. The aforementioned ’80s kids’ films all feature death as a very real consequence, which makes them successful as both kids’ movies AND genre films. As far as I’m concerned, the very-best kids’ movies, just like the very best animated films and cartoons, should be able to be appreciated by adults, as well. Dumbing down entertainment does no one any favors.

All of this, of course, is a roundabout way of saying that The Monster Squad is one of the most kickass films in the long and legendary history of the modern cinema. This is pure opinion, of course, but I’m also fairly sure that it could be proven scientifically, if necessary. I can’t actually recall the first time I saw the film, although I’m fairly positive I was no older than my early teens, if that. Since that time, however, I’ve fondly returned to Dekker and scribe-supreme Shane Black’s ode to growing up in the era of Famous Monsters of Filmland and Fangoria magazines time and time again. Like the best films of that era, I never get tired of re-visiting the movie: each time, it’s like taking a little trip back to my childhood, a time when monsters were real, adults were lame and kids had all the answers, even if no one was asking them the questions.

Kicking-off with a supremely fun setpiece set “100 years in the past,” we’re introduced to that most famous of monster hunters, Abraham van Helsing (Jack Gwillim), as he and his “freedom fighters” attempt to rid the world of vampires and monsters. “They blew it,” as the on-screen text tells us, but we already knew that: otherwise, what would be the point?

In the here and now, we meet our two main protagonists: Sean (Andrew Gower) and Patrick (Robby Kiger). They’re the kind of kids who are totally obsessed with all things monster and horror-related: they get sent to the principal after they’re caught drawing monsters in class and even have their own “official” monster club: the Monster Squad. The other member of their group is Horace (Brent Chalem), the wise-beyond-his-years outcast who gets saddled with “fat kid” by school bullies E.J. (Jason Hervey) and Derek (Adam Carl) and is pushed around so much that he’s always just one pivot away from a pratfall. The worm turns, however, when E.J. bullies Horace once too many times and incurs the wrath of Rudy (Ryan Lambert), the resident “bad kid.” Rudy’s in junior high, wears a leather jacket, smokes cigarettes, peeps on girls through bedroom windows with binoculars and doesn’t take kindly to bullies: the triumphant scene where he forces E.J. to eat Horace’s candy bar off the ground sets the stage for what’s to come…these misfits are about to shine!

But where would a Monster Squad be without monsters to fight? Luckily (or unluckily), the gang is going to have plenty of monsters to take a swing at. Seems that ol’ Count Dracula (Duncan Regehr) has hatched a plot to take over the world with the help of some old cronies: Frankenstein’s monster (Tom Noonan), the Wolfman (Carl Thibault), the Gillman (Tom Woodruff Jr.) and the Mummy (Michael MacKay). When the adults around them, including Sean’s policeman father, Del (Stephen Macht), fail to connect the dots on the bigger scheme, it’s up to The Monster Squad to stop Drac’s plot. Lucky for them, they just happen to have their hands on Van Helsing’s diary, which might have a tip or two on how to stop the unholy fiends. Unluckily for them, however, Dracula is on to them and will stop at nothing until all impediments to his progress have been destroyed, be it man, woman or child. Things are about to get awful hairy but never fear…the Monster Squad is on the case!

From start to finish, Dekker’s The Monster Squad is just about the most fun someone could have at the cinema, especially if you happen to be a horror fanatic likes yours truly. The cast is phenomenal, highlighted by totally fist-pumping performances by Chalem and Lambert as, respectively, Horace and Rudy. Horace, in particular, is a totally awesome character: he’s a completely three-dimensional character who’s the furthest thing from the odious “fat kid” stereotype in youth movies. In fact, Horace’s progression from picked-on outsider to ass-kicker is subtle because he already kicks ass when we first meet him…by the end, he’s just received enough self-assurance to be proud about it. One of the greatest parts of this film (or any film, for that matter) is the epic moment where Horace’s former bullies look on in admiration as he helps mop up the monsters. “Hey, fat kid…good job,” says E.J., looking suitably awed. Horace’s response? “My name (cocking his shotgun) is Horace!” If you don’t jump up from your seat, cheering, you were probably never young, to begin with.

As I mentioned earlier, the kids in The Monster Squad actually look and sound like real kids: they swear, discuss “wolf dork” as the reason for the Wolfman wearing pants (which leads to the legendary moment where Sean tells Horace to kick the Wolfman “in the nards.” Horace complains that he “doesn’t have them,” before being proven wrong once he actually kicks him and the monster doubles over in pain. “Wolfman’s got nards!,” Horace triumphantly proclaims, as if he just discovered the cure for cancer), say “Bogus” a lot, roll their eyes at authority figures and are casually cruel and sexist. They’re pretty much the furthest thing from sanitized “Disney” versions of kids and are all the more indelible for it.

Despite having only three films under his belt (Night of the Creeps (1986), The Monster Squad and RoboCop 3 (1993), Fred Dekker is easily one of my favorite filmmakers in the entire world. Night of the Creeps is an absolutely perfect ’80s B-movie (one of the film’s best jokes is even repeated in The Monster Squad, as Del notes that dead bodies don’t walk around, only for us to witness the Mummy doing just that), as is The Monster Squad: I must admit to remembering nothing whatsoever about RoboCop 3 but I’m willing to wager that must have been pretty swell, as well, if Dekker was involved. For my money, he’s one of the most successful, effortless combiners of horror and comedy in the business. Dekker also populates his films with dynamic, fascinating characters, whether main or supporting: no one in a Dekker film is just cannon-fodder, regardless of how much or little screen-time they get.

One of The Monster Squad’s secret weapons, of course, is screenwriter Shane Black.  Beginning with his script for Lethal Weapon (1987), Black has been responsible for some of the best, smartest and most interesting action scripts in the business: he wrote The Last Boy Scout (1991), The Long Kiss Goodnight (1996)and Kiss Kiss Bang Bang (2005), all of which flip the genre on its head in some interesting, fun ways. Co-scripting with Dekker, Black comes up with one of his best, tightest scripts: the film is full of not only great scenes but plenty of awesome dialogue, as well. There’s a great moment where Rudy tries to kick in the door of a locked church, only to be told, “Don’t kick the church: it’s religious.” His response? “It’s locked, is what it is.” Classic. There’s also a really great, subtle moment where the kids remark that the “Scary German Guy” (Leonardo Cimino) who helps them translate Van Helsing’s diary must know a a lot about monsters. “I suppose that I do,” he replies wistfully, as the camera lingers on his concentration-camp tattoo. It’s the kind of real moment that happens all too little in most kids’ movies: The Monster Squad is full of them, however, and all of that credit is due to a tremendously good script.

Ultimately, even after studiously looking for flaws, I can only find minor quibbles with The Monster Squad: despite being designed by Stan Winston, none of the monsters are really a patch on the originals (the Mummy, in particular, is rather scrawny) and the film can also, upon occasion, get a little silly. It is a kids’ film, after all, so at least some measure of silliness is to be expected. For the most part, however, The Monster Squad, like Night of the Creeps, is just about as flawless as they come: action-packed, full of great humor and a real love letter to the Golden Age of Monsters, Fred Dekker’s film is an unmitigated classic. If there were any justice in this world, The Monster Squad’s promise of further adventures would have been fulfilled ten-fold. As it stands, however, we’ll just have to settle for what we got: one of the very best kids’ movies of all time.

 

1/1/14: A New Year Dawns

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Alexis Diaz de Villegas, Australia, bats, Bob Byington, George Romero, horror films, House of the Devil, indie comedies, Michel Gondry, Movies, Nick Offerman, road trips, Roost, Seth Rogan, Somebody Up There Likes Me, The Guilt Trip, The Sapphires, Ti West, Tom Noonan, Vietnam War, zombies

Welcome to the first actual installment of The VHS Graveyard. This post will concern all of the films watched yesterday, beginning with the pair that I started at midnight. Future posts should keep us on a better schedule but the holidays are always a bit tricky. Without further ado, then…

To be honest, I have a rather love/hate relationship with Ti West. On the one hand, I think that House of the Devil is just about one of the best “modern” horror films out there, particularly that incredible jump scare involving the best friend in the car. On the other hand, I’m having a hard time relating the Ti West of that film to anything else in his oeuvre. The follow-up that wasn’t Cabin Fever 2 was the (for me, at least) ultimately disappointing The Innkeepers. This was followed by a decent segment for the V/H/S anthology film, as well as a wretchedly stupid, lazy short for The ABCs of Horror. All signs would seem to indicate that West came out of the gate strong only to suffer a pretty severe slump. After watching his debut, The Roost, however, I’m more inclined to believe that House of the Devil was the rare bright spot in his catalog.

By all intents and purposes, The Roost is a bad film. Bad for many, many reasons but mostly because it’s peculiarly tone-death and unsure of itself. On one hand, it’s about vampire bats attacking a small town. It’s also about zombies, since those attacked return as the living dead. But not as vampires, mind you: as traditional zombies. This, in itself, is such a strange wrinkle that I can only be led to believe West figured vampires were too cliche in this situation yet he still needed another threat: enter the zombies.

Part of this “everything to everyone” approach also involves the film’s framing device. The Roost runs for a total of 80 minutes but that’s a little deceiving. You see, West conceived this film as part of an imaginary Saturday TV fright film showing, complete with stock horror host (played by poor Tom Noonan, so good as the evil patriarch in House of the Devil, so wasted as Zacherle-lite). This horror show footage takes up at least 15 minutes of the film’s running time, cutting the actual feature to about an hour after the credits. Even odder, the actual film peters out with a completely abrupt ending, only to return to the wraparound segment for the true finale. This, in effect, makes it seem as if West couldn’t really be bothered to even finish the actual story. If he couldn’t be bothered, perhaps you shouldn’t be, either.

This, ladies and gentleman, is why I still bother to watch new films. Despite the less than inspired title (cuz it’s a Latin-American take on Shaun of the Dead! Get it?), I’ve been eagerly anticipating this film for some time. It was well reviewed and, from many indications, was something of a revitalization for the stagnant zombie genre. Did it come through? And how.

Juan of the Dead is the absolute best kind of zombie film because it’s only nominally a zombie film. George Romero, the godfather of gut-munchers, knew this better than anyone else. Remove the zombies from Dawn of the Dead and you have a vicious satire about consumerism and good ol’ American greed. Remove the shopping mall and you have a rousing B-movie. Similarly, Juan of the Dead is really about the state of modern Cuba, the fates and fortunes of those living there and the tendencies of the Cuban government to blame any problems on outside forces: these aren’t zombies, according to the state-run TV broadcasts…they are dissidents and they are most certainly sent by Uncle Sam. Removing the zombies from the film would remove some of the fun but none of the core message.

There’s so much to love about this film that I fear to say too much, lest I spoil any of the film’s myriad happy surprises. Tonally, this is a masterpiece of horror-comedy, balancing both with deft skill, although the film definitely comes down more on the side of satire than heart-pounding fear. The acting is superb, especially from Alexis Diaz de Villegas as Juan. He manages to make a character that could seem selfish and slightly misanthropic on paper into a completely lovable, three-dimensional character. I was so invested in Juan’s struggle – and he assumed the mantle of hero so capably – that I can’t help but mentally include him in the role call of great genre heroes like Ash, Tucker and Dale and, yes, the ubiquitous Shaun. The action is well-staged, the locations are gorgeous, the gore is plentiful and (mostly) practical and there are several very astute observations about the cliches of zombie films. Top this off with a truly great ending and you have a minor classic. Essential viewing, especially for anyone with zombies on the brain.

Chalk this up as a case of truth being stranger than fiction. During the Vietnam War, four young Aboriginal women (two sisters and two cousins) from a small Outback town in Australia decide to try their luck as USO entertainers for the troops overseas. They hook up with a scraggly white piano player and, ditching their love for country & western ballads, become the soul powerhouse known as The Sapphires. Danger, unexpected love, racism, classism: it’s all here.

This was definitely one of the most feel-good films I’ve seen in quite some time. Anchored by five very convincing performances, this was a masterclass in how to touch the heartstrings without being too manipulative. In many ways, this is a very well-made version of The Committments, with an Australian focus. The juxtaposition between Australia and Vietnam was quite interesting and the period details seemed pretty authentic.

Ultimately, there’s nothing really surprising or groundbreaking about The Sapphires: if you have seen one rags-to-riches story like this, you’ve probably seen a hundred. The joy, however, comes in the many small details: the constant in-fighting between the ladies; the burgeoning love affair between the gruff piano player and the hard-as-nails eldest sister; the development of the group from George Jones-loving cowboys into sparkle-dress-bedecked soul sisters. The greatest compliment that I can pay the film is that it honestly earns all of its emotional beats, including a truly lovely ending. Uplifting and inspirational, this is one to add to the roll-call of great “band movies.”

Nowadays, you can’t swing an ironic Motley Crue t-shirt without hitting at least a bakers’-dozen indie dramadies. When they’re done right, they can provide some real moments of insight along with the smirking cynicism. Of many recent offerings, I definitely feel that Somebody Up There Likes Me has the best chance of being remembered years down the road.

Featuring 35 years in the life of two “best friends” (the relationship between Nick Offerman’s Sal and Keith Poulson’s Max is too complicated to not require the quotation marks), the film takes a droll, rather unemotional look at love, marriage, friendship, fidelity and mortality. The film jumps forward in five year increments, showing us how Sal and Max move around each others orbits for the better part of a lifetime.

Despite my growing frustration with the kind of indie film that I’ve mentioned above, I find myself constantly chasing them, always hoping to fall into the next Wes Anderson or Michel Gondry. While writer/director Bob Byington isn’t in that lofty company yet, he’s definitely got some tricks up his sleeves. In particular, the dialogue is very sharp and rather quote-worthy. I also like how every character in the film approaches issues like infidelity, death and romance with as little emotion as possible. It’s almost as if Byington decided to make his principals into actual quip-spewing robots, turning generational angst into something almost poetic. Extra points for the fact that the only character who seems to physically age over the course of 35 years is Sal: Nick Offerman is always the realest person in the room, anyway.

Remember the key tenet of the VHS Graveyard: any movie at any time? Well, I live by those words and so, a day that began with Ti West and zombies ended with Babs and that guy from Freaks and Geeks. Just part of my universe, folks.

In reality, this was actually a cute, fun and inoffensive little road picture. Big-screen multiplex fare like this really isn’t my bag and I often find myself getting burnt (I positively hated Due Date and I really like Robert Downey, Jr.) but there was something about this that said “Take a chance on me” (or maybe it sang it…not sure).

I expected Streisand to be completely over-bearing as the stereotypical clingy mom but there were some surprising beats and depth to her character. She made my skin crawl a few times (there were a few moments that reminded me of Liza Minnelli’s Lucille Austero) but I really found myself pulling for her. I expected Seth Rogan to be manic and smarmy but he actually downplayed his role pretty well and was incredibly likable. More importantly, Streisand and Rogan worked well together, coming across as an actual mother and son. The script was fairly nimble and the resolution was well-earned. All in all, not bad, and a pretty good way to end the day.