3/2/14: Do Not Look Away (Oscar Bait, Part 13)

Tags

2013 Academy Awards, 86th Annual Academy Awards, Adi Zulkrady, Anwar Congo, atrocities, Best Feature Documentary nominee, cinema, death squads, documentaries, documentary, Errol Morris, film reviews, films, gangsters, genocide, Herman Koto, Indonesia, Joshua Oppenheimer, junta, mass killings, military dictatorship, Movies, murder, Oscar nominee, Pancasila Youth, paramilitary groups, snubbed at the Oscars, Syamsul Arifin, The Act of Killing, Top Films of 2013, torture, Werner Herzog

Very rarely, if ever, would I call any film “required” viewing. Humanity is just too fundamentally diverse to ever see eye-to-eye on issues like housing, health care, religion, government, child care and equitable living wages, so asking everyone to agree on entertainment seems like a pretty silly pursuit. I think that Dawn of the Dead is one of the most amazing films ever created: if you don’t like horror movies, the conversation is over. Some people listen to EDM and hear the new noise of a generation: others might hear a modem connecting. There are masses of people who swear that The New Girl is funny, while I agree to respect their opinions. At the end of the day, it really is all just a matter of taste and perspective: like what you want to like, watch you want to watch. In a world where everything is essential, nothing can truly be essential.

The Act of Killing, Joshua Oppenheimer’s Oscar-nominated documentary about the Indonesian killing fields, is required viewing. I say this with no hyperbole whatsoever and with full acknowledgement that it completely contradicts my earlier statement. Up until now,  for one reason or another, I had never seen a film that I felt needed to be seen by everyone. I’ve seen plenty of films that I felt all film fans or film students or music fans or (insert favorite niche here) fans needed to see but never a film that all humanity needed to see. The Act of Killing, however, is that film. This should be given away to everyone (Alamo Drafthouse, the doc’s distributor, already set up ways for the film to be freely viewed and screened in Indonesia, where it’s also been banned), taught in school curriculum and made a part of international dialogue. Otherwise, there is the very real risk that the atrocities portrayed within the film will be forgotten by the world at large, something which must be prevented at all costs. There is a lesson for the whole world to learn here, a terrible lesson that very few will want to hear.

In the mid-1960’s, the Indonesian government was overthrown by the military, resulting in a brutal junta that ruled by fear, violence and the trumped-up threat of “Communism” sweeping into the area. Using local gangsters and paramilitary units, the military rounded up, tortured and murdered any and all opposition/undesirables, including  union members, farmers, intellectuals and ethnic Chinese. Within a year, these massacres had claimed the lives of over one million Indonesians. To this day, almost 50 years later, the military is still in power and the men responsible for all of the killing are still extolled as national heroes and civic leaders. Imagine a case where Hitler grew old and was allowed to retire to a quaint, rural Polish village, a village where he was routinely celebrated as not only a hero but as a kindly, grandfatherly gentleman. This, in a nutshell, is the situation in Indonesia.

When Oppenheimer and his courageous crew traveled to Indonesia, they had the great fortune to find two of the most notorious – and most celebrated – local gangsters: Anwar Congo and Herman Koto. Not only were Congo and Koto unrepentant regarding their past crimes: they were openly proud and had nothing but fond memories of the murders. Under the guise of allowing Congo and Koto to further their own propagandist notions, the filmmakers offered the two men the opportunity to film their best “activities” using the mannerisms and styles of the American films that they love so much: musicals, gangsters pics, film noir, etc. At first, the two men are overjoyed at this chance to fully portray and laud their “heroic” activities, offering future generations the chance to learn from their initiative. Along the way, however, something quite surprising happens: when presented with the never-ending tidal wave of his past atrocities, crimes which have gone not only unpunished by celebrated, Anwar Congo begins to crack. By the time the film is over, this smirking charlatan, this two-bit street thug turned defacto robber-baron, will lose the only thing that could ever truly matter to him: his own sense of self-worth.

The Act of Killing is, for lack of a better word, crushing. There are few words that can accurately describe just how powerful, how unbearably nihilistic, the film is. In one scene, Koto moves through a slum neighborhood and attempts to enlist the services of the locals to play the part of “Communists” in their staged production. The locals agree (what else could they possibly do?) and even participate somewhat enthusiastically (if rather confused) but they are still participating in the re-enactment of things that happened to them as directed by the men who originally committed the acts. It’s akin to forcing a rape victim to reenact the crime for the sole enjoyment of the perpetrator. At another point, one of Congo’s men fondly recalls how raping young girls was one of his favorite things to do: “I would always say this is going to be hell for you but heaven on earth for me.” Adi Zulkadry, one of Congo’s fellow executioners in the ’60s, happily discusses the “Crush the Chinese” campaign where he, personally, stabbed dozens of Chinese Indonesians in the street, including the father of his own Chinese girlfriend. The list of atrocities is seemingly endless, many of which Congo and his goons gleefully reenact as splashy, Golden-Age-of-Hollywood” vignettes, complete with singing, dancing, costumes and surreal sets.

Far from serving as a glorified snuff film, however, The Act of Killing has a much more subversive intent. Since the people who Oppenheimer and his crew intend to target are still very much in power and “beloved” by their countrymen, shedding light on their heinous actions isn’t quite as easy as sitting down for a traditional interview. As one of the soldiers says, regarding the Geneva Conventions definition of war crimes: “War crimes are defined by the winner and I am the winner.” When the vice-president of the country is speaking at one of your rallies, you have to assume that your group has official government support. In order to “hang” these criminals, Oppenheimer needs to give them enough rope: the result will speak to the whole world.

Since so much of the world seems to either turn a blind eye to the massacres in Indonesia or was actively supporting it (Western governments threw their support behind the cleansing under the guise of “stomping out Commies”), The Act of Killing may serve as the first real glimpse into that past history. Even more importantly, this comes directly from the mouths of those who committed the crimes: an unwitting digital confession, as it were. When Congo takes the filmmakers to the area where they conducted mass executions and describes, proudly, how he made the killing more efficient by switching from beating to a wire/strangulation technique, he’s doing something very important: documenting for the entire world his complicity in the crimes. Perhaps I’m being unduly optimistic, but if Congo and his cronies are ever actually brought to justice, it will probably be from evidence like this. Rather than relying on the eye-witness testimony of survivors, this is straight from the horses’ mouths, as it were: the killers aren’t denying the events, they’re describing them in gory detail.

The whole film is wretchedly, terribly powerful, the kind of movie that becomes instantly unforgettable, for better or worse, the moment you watch it. You will be changed by this: maybe a little, maybe a lot…but you will be changed. There’s something about seeing events this terrible, this real, that brands your soul. We’re used to seeing the face of evil, by this point in humanity’s history, but I don’t know that evil has ever looked this happy, this complacent and at peace with the world. Up until the end, viewing so much grinning depravity, so much hopeless oppression, made me lose hope: this wasn’t a story where the good guys won…where there even were good guys, to be honest. This was the story of terrible, amoral people committing heinous acts to innocent people.

But then, towards the end, something happens. Congo, whether through the constant reminder of his past or through his own portrayal of various murder victims, seems to change. He begins to grow wearier, smiles less. He seems to be troubled, instantly, as if he’s aged 30 years overnight. Could it be that he has finally come to realize the weight of his actions, that he sees the inherent evil of a massacre perpetuated because he and his young friends, in their words, “would do anything for money and wanted new clothes?” He seems to be more thoughtful but Congo is a cagey guy: could this be some sort of attempt to hedge his bets, to straddle both sides of the fence? Congo makes a statement that seems to confirm this: watching the footage has made him feel what the victims felt. He seems genuinely sorry but then the filmmakers land the killing blow: as Oppenheimer gently reminds him from off-camera, what happened to his victims was actually real, not a film. For the first time in the entire film, the light goes out of Anwar Congo’s eyes and the aging gangster/torturer/mass-murderer/statesman/grandfather seems completely speechless. This is not about Congo receiving redemption: he doesn’t deserve it. This is, however, about finally admitting (even if only to himself) that what happened was actually wrong.

The 1965-1966 massacres in Indonesia are a terrible dark stain on humanity’s blood-spattered history and have been largely over-looked and downplayed in the 50 years since. The film begins with a terrible, but true, quote from Voltaire: “All killing is prohibited and punished unless done in large number and to the sound of trumpets.” This is true and only another reason why The Act of Killing should be required viewing: it refuses to let this pass into the gauzy fog of time, obscured from the prying eyes of the world. This was a film that hit me hard, as if someone had punched me right in the gut. I’m willing to wager that it will hit you equally hard, if you give it the chance.

2/9/14: Here There Be Monsters

Tags

A Field in England, absurdist, Alejandro Jodorowsky, auteur theory, Ben Wheatley, black-and-white cinematography, British films, cinema, Down Terrace, England, English Civil War, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, horror films, Jim Jarmusch, Kill List, Michael Smiley, Movies, mushrooms, Nicholas Winding Refn, Peter Ferdinando, psychedelics, psychological horror, Reece Shearsmith, Richard Glover, Ryan Pope, Sightseers, Top Films of 2013, Waiting for Godot

Even though this particular Sunday featured the first double-header in quite some time (and the last for at least a week, sadly), I still found myself having to split the reviews in half. The reason? The first screening on that particular day was Ben Wheatley’s eye-popping, amazing new film A Field in England. Suffice to say, I had more than enough praise to fill up its own entry. We’ll get to the second film, Walker, in the next installment.

When it came time for me to sit down and actually A Field in England, I found myself inexplicably thinking of the Sound of Music chestnut “Maria.” Specifically, I found myself running the line “How do you solve a problem like Maria?” through my head over and over again. You see, I had my own little problem here: how, exactly, do you review a film like A Field in England? Would it be possible to explain my complete and total love for a film that I only partially (and, most likely, imperfectly) understand? Will anyone but a complete and total weirdo like myself even care about this crazy, absurd, brilliant little bit of madness? I like to think that true quality will always shine through, however: if something is good enough, it will always make itself known, even if it can’t make itself popular. In that spirit, I feel that it’s my duty to help make A Field in England as visible as possible. You’ve been warned, fellow travelers…you’ve been warned.

There is a plot to A Field in England, of sorts, but the film really functions more as a visceral, emotional experience than as a narrative, intellectual one. Truth be told, there were so many points in the film where the visuals and ideas completely overwhelmed my senses (especially in the colossally mind-melting “psychedelic freakout” scene) that any attempt to follow a traditionally linear story-line was pretty much given up as a lost cause. I intend to watch the film many more times before I die and hope, with each viewing, to understand it a little more: by the time I’m 90, I may just have it figured out…although I doubt it.

The film opens on a chaotic battle, during England’s 17th century Civil War. Our “protagonist,” Whitehead (Reece Shearsmith), has just seen his abusive commander get speared right before his eyes and, as skittish as a deer crossing a four-lane-freeway, hightails it for freedom. Whitehead meets three other deserters, Jacob, Cutler and Friend (Peter Ferdinando, Ryan Pope and Richard Glover, respectively) and the four set out to find some way out of the madness…or, at the very least, some place to grab a beer. What they find, unfortunately, is an express route directly into the gibbering maw of insanity.

Eventually, the group comes across the titular field. The field is covered in mushrooms and one of the men makes a tasty mushroom stew, which everyone but Whitehead partakes in. Continuing their trek across the seemingly endless field, the group finds a huge rope running down the center of the field. As anyone would do when confronted by a giant rope, the group digs in their heels and gets to pulling. The rope, it turns out, is tied to a strange man laying in the middle of the field: this man, O’Neil (Michael Smiley), just happens to have stolen some important documents from Whitehead’s master, who just happens to be a powerful alchemist.  Whitehead wants the documents back but O’Neil has other plans: you see, he’s positive that there’s…something…buried in the field and he forces Whitehead and the others to help him find it. As the situation becomes more and more bizarre and otherworldly, everything comes to a head as the men are faced with a terrifying realization: either the world has gone completely mad…or they have. Either way, they’re now stuck in a very strange situation with a very dangerous individual. Will any of them, Whitehead especially, be able to retain their humanity? Will O’Neil ever find his “treasure?” And what are we to think of the black sun that seems poised to swallow the entire world?

If ever there was a film that could be done no justice whatsoever by a plot summary, than A Field in England is that film. At first glance, a black-and-white period-piece about a group of men digging in a nondescript field would seem to be just about as interesting as watching paint dry. Don’t make the mistake of assuming this is any regular film, however: this is another species of beast altogether, much more akin to the glory days of transgressive cinema than anything more modern.

A Field in England is a brilliantly constructed puzzle box, one of those seamless head-scratchers that depends not so much on 3rd Act twists and misdirection as on an omnipresent sense of skewed reality and insanity. It may seem strange for me to compare such a singular film to existing movies but I think there are at least a few that do bear mentioning. The films of Jodorowsky, particularly Holy Mountain, are a big reference, as are the films of Kurosawa, thanks in no small part to A Field in England’s beautiful, evocative black-and-white cinematography. There were many points were the film explicitly reminded me of The Hidden Fortress, particularly with the (occasionally) comic interplay between the deserters and Whitehead. Jarmusch’s Dead Man seems to be a huge point of reference, not only for the sense of absurdity that runs through it but also for the mystical, dream-like atmosphere that permeates every shot. I’d be remiss if I didn’t also mention Refn’s Valhalla Rising, which often seems like a spiritual twin to Wheatley’s film. Toss Eraserhead into the mix, for obvious reasons, and mix in ample amounts of Waiting for Godot and voila: you get about as close to a good description of A Field in England as you possibly could.

Although I may not understand the film completely, I enjoyed it absolutely. In fact, A Field in England was both one of the most best and most infuriating cinematic experiences I’ve had in some time. On a purely technical basis, the film is flawless: the cinematography really adds to the overall experience (some of the still, tableau-like shots of the actors were truly haunting), the sound design is amazing and the script is very sharp: one of my favorite lines in quite some time has to be, “I just figured out what God is punishing us for: everything.” The dialogue manages to nail the absurd, nonsensical quality of writers like Beckett and Ionesco without sounding like a bunch of random sentences thrown together: there’s a disquieting but tangible sense that comprehension is just around the corner…if we allow ourselves to understand, that is.

The film opens with a warning about the use of stroboscopic images and, for once, the warning isn’t a bit of mood-setting fluff: when the film really kicks into gear, during the jaw-dropping psychedelic scene, the combination of sound, strobing images and bizarre visuals nearly overwhelmed me. For one of the first times in my life, I felt physically assaulted by a film…and it was amazing! Similar to coming out of the dead-man’s-drop on a rollercoaster in one piece, emerging from the other side of A Field in England with my psyche intact felt like some kind of a special achievement: woe to any who might try to view the film with chemical enhancement, since I could easily see that leading to a mental breakdown. Think that’s a little hyperbolic? Turn the lights off, turn the sound up and try to keep from turning away during the scene in question. That weird sound you hear? That just may be your brain crying for help.

Over the course of four full-lengths (Down Terrace (2009), Kill List (2011), Sightseers (2012) and A Field in England) and one anthology segment (in the ABCs of Death), Ben Wheatley has quickly become my favorite 2000s-era filmmakers, next to Nicholas Winding Refn. I’ve never seen a Wheatley film that didn’t blow me away and I’ve noticed the absolutely delightful trend that his films just seem to keep getting better as he goes along: Kill List devastated me, only to have Sightseers top it, only to be bested, in turn, by A Field in England. With this kind of track-record, Wheatley is set to be one of the single greatest filmmakers since the glory days of the ’70s. Fitting, then, that his new project will be the first film version ever of JG Ballard’s seminal High Rise.

Wheatley’s ability to blend kitchen-sink British drama with absurd, horrifying situations has been honed into a razor-sharp point. There are some films that flirt with the strange and absurd (Donnie Darko, Dark City) and there are some films that ARE strange and absurd (Lost Highway, Eraserhead, Holy Mountain): A Field in England is definitely the latter. My early comparison to Waiting for Godot is particularly apt: until the introduction of O’Neil, when the film takes a decidedly dark turn, it’s nothing if not reminiscent of British absurdities like The Bed Sitting Room or, perhaps, a particularly low-key Monty Python. Anyone familiar with Wheatley’s other films will definitely recognize his M.O: begin in a familiar, blue-collar-setting/style before gradually drowning the proceedings in nightmarish insanity and uncertainty. A Field in England seems even more capable of throwing us off-kilter thanks to its quasi-fantastical, period setting, which automatically makes it seem stranger than Wheatley’s other “modern” films.

At the end of the day, A Field in England is that rarest of things: an honest-to-God experience in a day and age where such things, at least as far as films go, are all too rare. Even Martin Scorcese thinks so: the film’s poster prominently features a pull-quote from the iconic director that says, simply, “A most original and stunning cinematic experience.” There ya have it, ladies and gentlemen: if A Field in England is good enough for Marty, it damn sure better be good enough for you. If you haven’t joined the Wheatley fan club, now seems like as good a time as any to send in your membership.

1/24/14: The Right (and Wrong) Way to Bleed

Tags

A Band Apart, Adam Wingard, Angela Jones, animal masks, auteur theory, Barry Corbin, booby-traps, cinema, Curdled, dark comedies, Film, Film auteurs, final girl, forensic-cleaning, Funny Games, Gecko Brothers, home invasion, horror films, Joe Swanberg, masked intruders, Movies, Quentin Tarantino, Reb Braddock, Reservoir Dogs, serial killers, Simon Barrett, The Strangers, Top Films of 2013, William Baldwin, You're Next

Becoming so irritated after viewing The Comedy that I thought I might develop hives, there was nothing for me to do but retreat back to the loving arms of a horror film: in this case, You’re Next. Turned out to be a wise move, since it made me completely forget about the previous dud. Had I not followed it up with the distressingly limp Curdled, this might have been game, set, match.

Sometimes, you just know a film is going to be good. Maybe you’ve read some reviews by critics you really trust. Maybe the film is made by one of your favorite directors, a filmmaker who’s never let you down (I’m lookin’ at you, Refn and Wheatley, you big, wonderful filmmakers, you!). Perhaps you’ve seen a great trailer or have been teased by some really cool promotional material. Whatever the reason, there are always a small group of films that we, the discerning viewer, are absolutely certain have to be amazing. When these films disappoint, there can be no worst feeling in the world: a massive buildup to nothing at all, months (or even years) of anticipation flushed down the can. When these films meet (or even surpass) our expectations, however, there is a very specific thing that is created: magic. I’ve been lucky enough to experience plenty of movie magic in my life and Adam Wingard’s You’re Next wears the wizard cloak loudly and proudly.

Quality films don’t just appear out of thin air, gift-wrapped and ready to blow our minds. Rather, they emerge organically, composed of quality ingredients, in the same way that a chef might prepare a gourmet meal. You have to have a great script, for thing, and an original (or, at least, semi-original) idea. You need great camera and sound work and an interesting production design. You, of course, will need good actors (extra points for great actors). Most importantly, however, you will need a unified vision to tie everything together. You can have a really good, fun, interesting film with only a few of these ingredients, don’t get me wrong: I’ve seen plenty of ’em. You cannot, however, have a magical film with any of the above mentioned items missing: it just can’t happen.

As far as individual pieces go, You’re Next is already looking like prep-time in a five-star restaurant. We have director Adam Wingard and writer Simon Barrett, the lethal team responsible (either together or apart) for Pop Skull, A Horrible Way to Die, segments in V/H/S, V/H/S 2, The ABCs of Death and Dead Birds. We get a pretty original idea: a bitchy, backstabbing family are celebrating a wedding anniversary when be-masked home invaders begin to slaughter them, only to have the tables turned as the hunters become the hunted. We have gorgeous cinematography by Andrew Palermo (according to his CV, You’re Next is one of only three features he’s worked on…someone get this guy some consistent work!) and excellent sound design. There’s a wicked sense of humor that permeates the proceedings but this is no horror-comedy. The violence is intense, memorable and visceral while avoiding the pornographic tendencies of films like Saw or Hostel: it also appears to be largely practical effects, which warms my heart.

At the risk of sounding like a swooning fanboy, there really isn’t much I can ding You’re Next for. In fact, there are several scenes in the film that have actually rocketed to the upper echelons of my “Baddest Ass Scenes Ever” list, including the one where Lamb Face takes a seat next to Larry Fessenden’s corpse on the couch: everything about the scene, from the lighting, to the score, to the slight way that Lamb Face cocks his head to the side are purely magical, a bracing example that the true power of cinema will always rely on the image.

The cast, featuring a quadrilogy of modern indie/horror mainstays (directors Ti West, Joe Swanberg, Larry Fessenden and writer Simon Barrett), is exquisite, with special praise due lead Sharni Vinson and Swanberg. Vinson is pitch-perfect in the role of, ostensibly, the clichéd “final girl.” She brings such an amazing sense of reality to the role, however, that she kicks the character up into high gear. Even better, Vinson’s Erin is not posited as some sort of invincible ass-kicker: she’s vulnerable, feels fear and is frequently unsure of herself. It’s just that, in times of strife, Erin can pull together the fortitude to stick a knife through someone’s skull: we’d all like to think we’d be so handy in a crisis. Swanberg, on the other hand, is an acid-etched delight as Drake. Playing the character as the height of crude, obnoxious, sarcastic, privileged assholery, Drake might seem like a refugee from The Comedy. Luckily, Swanberg is way to good an actor (and Barrett is way too good a writer) to let that happen. Hard as it is to believe, I found myself grudgingly liking this dickhead, over time: truth be told, I found myself liking almost all of the characters, including the masked killers. Swanberg, however, attacks his character with such lustful zeal that it truly is a joy to behold.

I won’t reveal any actual details of the film, since its many twists, turns and surprises are all part of its endless joys. Suffice to say that the opening is awesome, the ending is a stunner and everything in between is as hardy and robust as Charles Atlas on a good day. There’s even a great gag that pays homage to the “window trap” scene in Death Wish 3 (if you’ve seen DW3, you’ll know exactly what I’m talking about). This is the kind of film that upends every genre convention it comes across, from the obligatory “pot of water boiling on the stove” bit to the reveal of the true nature of the killers. In some ways, You’re Next is like a bizarro-world mashup of The Strangers (masked intruders trying to get in) and Funny Games (unmasked intruders are already in), although this leap-frogs way over The Strangers.

Endlessly inventive, exceptionally well-made and infinitely fun, You’re Next isn’t just the best genre film I’ve seen since Stitches, it’s also one of the best films of 2013, even if I didn’t manage to see it until this year. Time to go make room on the shelf for a new classic: Wingard and Barrett did it again.

And then we have Curdled. Perhaps there’s no way that this film could grab my attention (and heart) after the phenomenal experience that was You’re Next. By the same token, I’m pretty sure there was no way this could be nearly as odious as The Comedy. Turns out I was right on both counts: this was nowhere near the quality of You’re Next and too (relatively) inoffensive and meek to be anywhere near as obnoxious as The Comedy.

Curdled begins in 1977, in Columbia, with young Gabriela. She’s a child who’s just witnessed the aftermath of a gory crime, beginning her life-long obsession with death. Flash-forward several years and Gabriela is now living in Miami and working for a forensic-cleaning crew: the folks who get to go into a crime scene and clean up the blood (and other bodily fluids) left over after the bodies are removed. She enjoys her job but becomes obsessed with a serial killer known as The Blue Blood Killer (he only kills wealthy women), especially after she finds a clue at a scene she’s cleaning. This all leads to a conclusion that seeks to answer the previously asked question: can a head talk after it’s been severed? The answer may (but probably won’t) surprise you.

Here’s the thing: Curdled, at least on paper, has a lot going for it. The film was discovered by Quentin Tarantino during a promotional tour for Reservoir Dogs and he was so taken with it that he decided to release it under his A Band Apart production company. The film actually features a couple of references to QT’s cinematic world (Gabriela is played by Angela Jones, the cab driver who picked up Bruce Willis in Pulp Fiction; a TV news report mentions the Gecko Brothers of From Dusk Till Dawn fame): unless these were added post-QT’s involvement, it seems fairly safe to say that writer/director Reb Braddock is a fan. There’s a decent turn by William Baldwin as the serial killer (no spoiler here since we learn this pretty early in the film) and a pretty great performance by character-actor-extraordinaire Barry Corbin as the owner of the forensics-cleaning company. The score is great and the opening credits sequence (various grisly deaths depicted as children’s sketches) is pretty genius.

Unfortunately, Curdled takes all of these various elements and doesn’t find much to do with them. The film is slow-paced, almost to the point of seeming inert, and wastes way to much time focusing on Angela Jones and her (admittedly) very expressive eyes. While Jones, Baldwin and Corbin are good, the rest of the cast really isn’t, with one of the most obnoxious characterizations courtesy of Mel Gorham as Gabriela’s cleaning partner, Elena. Gorham has a particular ability to make any line she delivers as flat as a pancake and I found myself wishing she would end up a victim awfully fast: alas, she survives.

There are certain elements and scenes that seem completely unnecessary, such as Gabriela’s reenactment of a murder scene via salsa dance. Let’s ponder that for just a moment. In a similar film/TV show, the reenactment would be a way for the investigator to gain new insight into the case (think Crossing Jordan). In Curdled, however, Gabriela learns nothing by dancing her way through the various positions of the body: it’s simply an excuse to have her twirl and flounce around for a bit. This idea, the notion of style for style’s sake, is the film’s fatal flaw: everything in Curdled is weak artifice and the entire film seems as substantial as cotton candy. By the time we reach the end and realize that the film has actually just been one long setup for a punch-line (remember the question earlier about the talking head? That’s the joke that the film spends almost 90 minutes answering).

At the end of the day, aside from some serious pacing issues and some questionable style choices (cutting back and forth between The Blue Blood Killer’s storylines and Gabriela’s tends to short-sheet both, to be honest), there isn’t much discernibly wrong with Curdled. It’s pretty much the definition of an average, middle-of-the-road indie flick, a film that probably wouldn’t have seen the light of day in 1996 without the support of Quentin. As it stands, you could watch worse films (like The Comedy or The Last Rites of Ransom Pride) but why don’t you just go watch You’re Next, instead?