11/3/15: He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother

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Adam Chernick, adopted siblings, brothers, Charles Manson, cinema, comedies, dark comedies, Davie-Blue, dramas, estranged family, estranged siblings, feature-film debut, feuding brothers, film reviews, films, first-time director, independent films, indie comedies, J. Davis, Jay Duplass, Leonora Pitts, Linas Phillips, Manson Family Vacation, Movies, road trips, Sean McElwee, Tobin Bell, writer-director-producer

What does it actually mean to be someone’s “brother”? Is it a purely genealogical notion, a biological distinction marked by nothing more than one’s parentage: the male offspring of your mother and father is your brother, nothing more or less? Is it a societal notion connected to a sense of deep kindred and mutual reliance: the soldiers that you live, train and die with are your “brothers,” regardless of whether you’re blood-related or not? Does biology always guarantee kinship, at some level, or do you have to actively work to achieve that kind of relationship?

What about adopted siblings? Society tells you that your adopted brother is just as much kin as a blood relation, a bond which is doubtlessly reinforced by each and every family that welcomes adopted children into their homes. But is he? Can adopted siblings ever develop the deep-seated bonds of blood relations? Can someone ever truly and unconditionally embrace their adopted sibling, take them into their heart and call them “brother” with the complete and utter conviction of one that they actually share genetic material with? At the end of the day, what does it really mean to call someone “brother”?

First-time writer/director J. Davis’ Manson Family Vacation (2015) takes a stab at this question via two brothers: straight-laced family man/contract lawyer, Nick (Jay Duplass) and his restless, nomadic, uber-hippy, adopted brother, Conrad (Linas Phillips). After Conrad suddenly pops back up in Nick’s life, while en route to a new job in Death Valley, the two brothers get a chance to reconnect and work on their often contentious relationship. At his wife’s urging, Nick swallows his own misgivings and attempts to reconnect with his estranged sibling.

When Conrad’s obsession with Charles Manson and his cult leads to the brothers touring various “murder houses,” however, Nick finds it harder than ever to see eye-to-eye with his “weirdo” brother, especially since he’s now dealing with antisocial behavior from his own teen son, Max (Adam Chernick), and is worried that Conrad is going to provide the worst sort of role model possible. When he comes in to find Conrad gleefully showing Max his favorite grisly crime scene photos from Helter Skelter, it kinda seems like he may have a point.

As the brothers check off “must-sees” on Conrad’s list, though, they find themselves settling into an uneasy balancing act that might, given time, actually blossom into something approaching “love,” if not quite “respect.” Nothing is ever quite as it seems, however, and a secret regarding Conrad’s real parents threatens to tear apart the brothers’ tentative relationship before it’s had a chance to fully heal. Will Nick and Conrad be able to put aside their differences and embrace one another or is it finally time for them to cut ties and burn all their old bridges to the ground?

Despite a gloriously goofy presence and some delightfully comic setpieces (the scene where Nick and Conrad finagle their way into the old Labianca house, under very false pretenses, is a minor comic masterpiece, for one), there’s a big, dramatic heart that beats at the center of Manson Family Vacation and some genuine emotional resonance to the scenario. This is a film that could have easily devolved into pointless whimsy and sub-Andersonian dramatics but manages to effortlessly balance the lighter and darker aspects with a particularly deft hand.

While writer/director Davis deserves no end of credit here (the script, for one, is exceptional), especially considering his first time status, Manson Family Vacation is an acting showcase, first and foremost: the film wouldn’t have nearly the impact without the combined power of Duplass and Phillips’ extraordinary performances. Watching Nick and Conrad feint around each other, coming cautiously closer and sniffing around before bolting back to the safety of their respective hard-set world views, is a pure and unmitigated pleasure, perhaps the greatest since Matthau and Lemmon made such a memorable odd couple on the silver screen.

In other hands, either character could have become a one-dimensional cliche: hell, “uptight, married lawyer in need of cutting loose” and “hippy burnout with dreams of making an impact” are practically commedia dell’arte stand-bys in the modern cinematic world. Duplass and Phillips don’t stop with the short description, however, imbuing their performances with enough nuance and shading to make them seem like real people, not production notes in the margin of a film pitch.

There’s an authenticity to their interactions that’s not only refreshing but infinitely more interesting than the usual cookie-cutter treatment of the same: while the relationship (and film) hit plenty of the expected beats, it does so organically rather than as carefully delineated points on a plot breakdown. When Nick rips the phone from Conrad’s hand during his welcome party with “the Family” and ruins his “reunion” with his father, the combined sense of jealously, pain, anger and the terrible need to lash out against someone, anyone, bursts out of the screen like heat from a blast furnace. Ditto the incredible, subtle moment where Conrad finally gets to witness his tireless devotion to Charles Manson from the inside and doesn’t seem to like it one little bit. They’re the kinds of scenes that would be standouts in any film but, here, they have plenty of good company.

Ultimately, what J. Davis and his exceptional cast (including the single most restrained performance by Tobin Bell since his delightful surprise appearance in the U.S. version of Wilfred) have done is created a cinematic Trojan horse: Manson Family Vacation’s goofy, lighthearted and slightly silly exterior hides a surprisingly powerful, deep and thought-provoking interior. While the comedic material is constantly fun and frequently laugh-out-loud funny (Conrad’s description of his travel memoir as “On the Road: Part 2” is a real gem), the dramatic material has real bite to it.

As Nick and Conrad lay their relationship out bare, rehash childhood wrongs and debate what it actually means to be someone’s “brother,” as Conrad comes closer to the father that he never knew and as Nick finally realizes the responsibility that he bears regarding his relationship with his own son, Manson Family Vacation manages to do something quite difficult and equally wonderful: it makes you absentmindedly wipe away the tear that’s traveled down your cheek, even as you guffaw at the next ridiculous situation. J. Davis’ Manson Family Vacation has real heart and I’ll take that any old day of the week.

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7/5/15 (Part One): Home is Where the Haunt Is

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Barbara Niven, cinema, dead children, father-son relationships, film reviews, films, ghosts, grown children, haunted houses, horror-comedies, Housebound, Jack Plotnick, Jeffrey Combs, John Waters, Kat Dennings, Lucas Lee Graham, Mackenzie Phillips, Mark Bruner, Matthew Gray Gubler, McKenna Grace, Mel Rodriguez, Michl Britsch, Movies, multiple writers, Muse Watson, Odd Thomas, paranormal investigators, racists, Ray Santiago, Ray Wise, Richard Bates Jr., Ronnie Gene Blevins, Sally Kirkland, scatological humor, seances, seeing ghosts, Sibyl Gregory, silly films, Soska Sisters, Suburban Gothic, suburban homes, suburban life, suburbia, The Frighteners, Under the Bed, writer-director-producer

Ah, suburbia: endless rows of identical houses, with identical lawns, with identical Suburbans parked in identical carports, tended to by identical suburbanites as they go about their virtually identical lives. For many people, suburbia is the very picture of success: after all, what really says “You’ve made it” more than your own house, family, steady job and reliable source of transportation? For the outsider, misanthrope and loner, however, the very concept of suburbia can be a kind of hell on earth: the place where all dreams go to become pureed into easily digestible slop. As the Descendents so aptly put it: “I want to be stereotyped…I want to be classified…I want to be a clone…I want a suburban home.”

For filmmakers, the concept of the dark underbelly of suburbia is nothing new: after all, films like The Stepford Wives (1975), The Amityville Horror (1979), Neighbors (1981), Parents (1989), The ‘Burbs (1989),  American Beauty (1999) and Donnie Darko (2001) have been equating cookie-cutter neighborhoods with existential dread for decades now. To this storied tradition we can now add writer-director Richard Bates Jr’s Suburban Gothic (2014): proving that there’s nothing wrong with ambition, Bates Jr takes the aforementioned suburban angst films and throws in elements of “I see ghosts” films, ala The Frighteners (1996) and Odd Thomas (2013), as well as “grown children moving back home” films, such as the instantly classic Housebound (2014) and the less successful Under the Bed (2012). If Suburban Gothic never comes close to reaching the heady heights of Housebound, there’s still enough silly, funny and outrageous material here to give genre fans a grin from ear to ear. Plus, it’s got Ray Wise: any film with Ray Wise is, of course, automatically better than any film without him…that’s just basic math, amigo.

Poor Raymond (Criminal Minds’ Matthew Gray Gubler) is in a bit of a pickle, the same conundrum that might befall many twenty-to-thirty-somethings: he’s over-educated and under-employed. Despite having his MBA, Raymond must swallow the bitterest pill of all and move back in with his over-protective, smothering mother, Eve (Barbara Niven), and obnoxious, disapproving and casually racist father, Donald (Ray Wise, swinging for the rafters), an event which is sure to put a crimp in any attempt he can make to take control of his life.

You see, Raymond is a bit of a mess: bullied as a child about his weight and “gifted” with the ability to see ghosts, he escaped his one horse town as soon as he could, hoping to put as much distance between him and the past as possible. Given to wearing outrageously showy clothes (his bright, purple scarf is a definite highlight), Raymond couldn’t be more out-of-place in his old hometown, especially once he ends up back in the sights of former bully Pope (Ronnie Gene Blevins) and his small crew of miscreants. Everyone in town is glad to see that Raymond failed at life, since it (somehow) validates their own humble existences. Everyone, that is, except for Raymond’s former classmate, Becca (2 Broke Girls’ Kat Dennings), who now tends bar at the local watering hole. To her, Raymond was always the only interesting person in town and she’s mighty glad to have him back, even if she has a snarky way of showing it.

Just in time for his homecoming, however, some truly weird shit has started to happen, seemingly centered around the makeshift childs’ coffin that Donald’s gardeners have just dug up in the yard. Before he knows what’s going on, Raymond is experiencing the same ghostly visions that he used to have, this time involving a sinister little girl. As the occurrences become more pronounced, Raymond and Becca are convinced that a wayward spirit is in need of a peaceful journey into the light, while Donald and Eve are convinced that their son is losing his ever-lovin’ mind. As Raymond and Becca dig deeper into the history of the house, however, they begin to realize that the spirit in question might not be that of a little lost girl: it might just be something a bit more on the “extreme evil” side of things. Will Raymond and Becca be able to set it all to rights or will this humdrum slice of suburban life end up destroying them all?

My anticipation level for Suburban Gothic was pretty high, right out of the gate, for one very important reason: I pretty much adored writer-director Bates Jr’s debut, the outrageous Excision (2012), a slice of high school life that managed to combine Grand Guignol gore with fanciful dream sequences and arrived at a wholly unique, if often repugnant, place that wasn’t so far removed from what the Soska Sisters did with their stunning American Mary (2012). Excision was the kind of debut that puts a filmmaker firmly on my radar, which leads us directly to the sophomore film, Suburban Gothic. If his newest possessed a tenth of the gonzo energy of his first, this seemed like a pretty sure-fire no-brainer.

In reality, Suburban Gothic is a good full-step (certainly at least a half-step) down from Bates Jr’s debut, although it’s still a thoroughly enjoyable romp on its own terms. The big difference ends up being tonal: unlike Excision, which buried its blackly comic sensibilities under a lot of very unpleasant material, Suburban Gothic is a much sillier, goofier affair. Nowhere is this made more explicit than the impossibly silly scene where Raymond watches his toenails rise and fall to the tune of the old chestnut “Let Me Call You Sweetheart.” Shoddy CGI aside, the scene has the feel of something truly slapstick and goofy, perhaps closer to The ‘Burbs than anything in Bates Jr’s debut.

This “silly” elements end up seeping into almost every aspect of the film: John Waters shows up as the blow job-obsessed head of the local historical society, the medium’s daughter is named Zelda (et tu, Poltergeist (1982)?), Raymond and Becca dress up in the most ridiculous ghost costumes ever (think Charles Schultz), anonymous hands grab Raymond from every-which direction and there’s more mugging going on than a thug convention. In one of the film’s most notable bits, Raymond masturbates while checking out his favorite site, “Latina Booty,” as an overhead light slowly fills with “ghostly” semen: at the “appropriate” moment, the light shatters, showering poor Raymond in about fifty gallons of spooky spunk. Disgusting? You bet yer bottom dollar! Terrifying? Not quite.

The aforementioned example, however, is also a good example of Suburban Gothic’s ace-up-the-sleeve, as it were: for all of the film’s silliness and scatological humor (along with the jizz, we get a lovingly filmed vomiting scene and a nice, long shot of a turd in a toilet), there’s also genuine intelligence and love for the genre. The light gag might be an easy-shot gross-out joke but it’s always a subtle, kind of brilliant nod to Sam Raimi’s original Evil Dead (1981). There’s also a not-so subtle reference to del Toro’s Pan’s Labyrinth (2006), lots of visual ques for The Amityville Horror and Poltergeist and plenty of cameos by genre royalty (the legendary Jeffrey Combs gets to play a bugshit-crazy doctor (natch), while the Soska Sisters pop up in a crowd scene).

While the actual plot is nothing revolutionary, Suburban Gothic is such a good-natured, eager-to-please popcorn flick that it’s never painful to watch: the CGI is fairly well-integrated (save that rather dreadful toenail bit) and if the color-timing on the cinematography seems constantly off (the film has an odd red cast that’s pretty noticeable), cinematographer Lucas Lee Graham (who also shot the much more striking Excision) serves up plenty of nicely composed, evocative images.

On the acting side, Gubler is pitch-perfect as the sarcastic, quietly suffering schlub who must swallow his distaste for everything in order to save his (decidedly undeserving) childhood home. Gubler has a rare ability to mix wiseacre dialogue delivery with Stoogian physical comedy, an ability which serves him well here: one of the film’s easy highlights is the hilarious scene where Raymond accidentally drops an ice cream cake, over and over, until he finally stamps on the damn thing in an abject display of childish tantrums writ large.

While Dennings takes a little longer to get revved up (her early scenes have a rather distracting “I don’t give a shit” quality that’s off-putting), she fully comes into her own by the film’s final reel and her and Gubler make for a believable enough couple. Although she’s never as consistent as Gubler, Dennings shows enough steel, here, to make me interested in her next move: here’s to hoping she spends a little more time in the horror genre…we could use a few fresh faces!

While Niven is fun as Raymond’s mom, Wise really gets to run roughshod over the proceedings: whether he’s proclaiming that all of his Latin American workmen are “Mexicans,” telling his son to “take a knee” as he rolls up to him in a squeaky office chair or apologizing to his black football players for his lack of “grape pop,” Wise is an absolute blast. If anything, his performance as Donald makes a nice comparison to his role as Satan in Reaper, albeit tempered with more than a little lunk-headedness. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: if there’s ever a Mount Rushmore for iconic genre personalities, Wise is guaranteed to be there.

Ultimately, Suburban Gothic is a thoroughly entertaining, amusing and mildly outrageous horror-comedy: fans of this particular style will find no end of delights, I’m willing to wager, although I still found myself slightly disappointed by the time the credits rolled (the less said about the ridiculously sunny coda, the better). Perhaps I’ve been spoiled by standout films like Housebound and The Frighteners, a pair of horror-comedies that are pretty much the first and last word on this particular subject…perhaps I was hoping for something with a little more bite, ala Excision. Whatever the reason, I have no problem whatsoever recommending Suburban Gothic (provided, of course, that potential viewers are prepared for the often rude humor), although it’s not quite the Richard Bates Jr joint that I hoped for.

I have a sneaking suspicion, however, that Bates Jr is going to become a force to reckon with in the next several years. If that doesn’t blow yer toenails back, pardner…well, I don’t know what will.

6/7/15 (Part Two): The Heart and the Loneliest Hunter

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A Girl Walks Home Alone At Night, addicts, Alex O'Flinn, Amirpour, Ana Lily Amirpour, Arash Marandi, atmospheric films, Bad City, based on a short, black and white film, black-and-white cinematography, cinema, death, Dominic Rains, dramas, drug addiction, drug dealers, evocative, fantasy, father-son relationships, feature-film debut, film reviews, films, French New Wave, ghost town, horror films, Iranian-American, isolated communities, Jim Jarmusch, John Hughes, loneliness, Lyle Vincent, Marshall Manesh, Milad Eghbali, moody films, Movies, Mozhan Marnò, romances, Rome Shadanloo, Sam Kramer, set in Iran, Sheila Vand, skateboarders, spaghetti Westerns, street urchin, stylish films, vampires, writer-director-producer

Billed as “the first Iranian vampire Western,” writer-director-producer Ana Lily Amirpour’s A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night (2014) is an endlessly fascinating debut, a thoroughly confident horror-art piece that manages to turn its grab-bag of cinematic influences into something effortlessly cool. More Dead Man (1995) than Only Lovers Left Alive (2013), Amirpour’s film throws gorgeous black and white cinematography, nods to the French New Wave, German Expressionism, the holy trinity of Jarmusch, Bergman and Jeunet and the ’80s youth flicks of John Hughes into a blender and hits “puree.” While the results aren’t perfect, AGWHAAN is still a stunning feature-film debut from an amazingly talented new filmmaker and a necessary addition to the existing bloodsucker canon.

Amirpour’s debut (based on an earlier short) concerns the various residents of the Iranian town of Bad City. A virtual ghost town, Bad City appears to be inhabited solely by drug addicts, prostitutes, pimps/pushers, hustlers and the odd street urchin, here and there. Our humble hero, Arash (Arash Marandi), is a hustler who looks like he stepped straight out of East of Eden (1955): with his white t-shirt, blue jeans, omnipresent sunglasses and vintage muscle car, he’s a classic rebel without a cause. His father, Hossein (Marshall Manesh), is a pathetic junkie who owes a wad of cash to the local pimp/dealer, Saeed (Dominic Rains). For his part, Saeed is a philosophical, if thick-headed, thug who isn’t above taking Arash’s car as partial payment for his dad’s debt, while ruling his “girls” with an iron fist. One such “employee” is Atti (Mozhan Marnò), the sad-eyed, thirty-year-old prostitute who plies her trade on the barren, empty streets of Bad City, overshadowed by the towering oil derricks in the background.

As these various sad-sacks go about their repetitive routines, a new force emerges to shake up the status quo: a mysterious, silent young woman (Sheila Vand) has taken to stalking the streets, doling out death to any who cross her path. When the vampiric girl puts a permanent end to Saeed, Arash seizes the opportunity and attempts to fill the void left by the drug dealer. As Atti and the mysterious girl form a bond, however, Arash finds himself similarly drawn to the enigmatic figure. What does the young woman really want? What does the future hold for Bad City and its shadowy residents? One thing’s for certain: if you have to be out after dark, be sure to stay far, far away from the girl walking home alone…your very life may depend on it!

Lush, hazy, hypnotic and vaguely hallucinatory, A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night is the kind of film that you wrap around yourself like a cozy blanket, consciously giving yourself up to its warm embrace. While the pacing and visuals often bring to mind a perfect synthesis of Jim Jarmusch and Ingmar Bergman’s respective styles (the scene where the Girl skateboards down the center of the deserted street is framed in a way that turns her into the spitting image of Death from the iconic Seventh Seal (1957), while the film’s numerous long takes and relative lack of forward momentum handily recalls the aforementioned Dead Man), Amirpour’s influences are far more wide-reaching than something as simple as “Indie 101.”

Rather, Amirpour has taken a range of different styles and influences and made them all work towards a common goal: in this case, the goal being the film’s all-encompassing sense of foreboding atmosphere. Along with the more traditional indie influences, there are several strong, direct nods to the ’80s youth films of John Hughes (the lovely scene involving Arash, the Girl, a mirror ball and the White Lies’ song “Death” is one of the best examples but certainly not the only one), as well as a strong Spaghetti Western undercurrent (the wonderfully evocative score, locations and sense of big, empty spaces is pure Leone, through and through). On paper, Amirpour’s debut might sound like a rather head-scratching gumbo but the results speak for themselves: thanks to the Iranian-American filmmaker’s deft touch, everything comes together beautifully, giving the film the sort of unifying style befitting something like Jeunet’s exquisitely-crafted fantasias.

While the evocative score and beautiful cinematography (Lyle Vincent, who also shot the upcoming Cooties (2015), is an absolute wizard with a camera) help to give the film a sense of dreamy unreality, the acting keeps everything from dissolving into just another morass of pretty images. Marandi is a suitably cool, aloof “antihero,” while Manesh brings enough genuine regret to his portrayal of the sad-sack, aging junkie to make his character decidedly more complex than he might have been. Rains brings an interesting, almost empathetic quality to his portrayal of the sleazy pimp/dealer, calling to mind a less outwardly insane version of Gary Oldman’s iconic Drexl.

Most impressive, however, are Mozhan Marnò as the melancholy Atti and Sheila Vand as the titular vampire. In both cases, the actresses do a tremendous amount with as little as possible: Marnò is able to express entire worlds of sadness and sensuality with nothing so much as a half-smile and a look from her piercing eyes, while Vand’s portrayal of the Girl is nothing short of ethereal and completely alien. In many ways, Vand’s Girl is similar to Scarlett Johansson’s Female in the similarly eerie Under the Skin (2013): other-worldly, curious, nearly mute and of constant interest to the males around them, the Girl and the Female could certainly share a common bloodline, even if their ultimate goals differ wildly.

Amirpour’s hazy film is many things (seductive, sad, odd, cool and hypnotic being but a few) but it also manages to nail one of the most important aspects of any horror film: when necessary, the film is also genuinely scary. Although the Girl’s attacks have a tendency to rely on some decidedly stereotypical musical stings and old-as-the-hills “scary voices,” the pacing, framing and sense of impeding dread are all masterfully executed, resulting in some great, unique scares. The scene where the Girl stalks a young street urchin is a virtual master-class in how to build and execute: the fact that Amirpour also manages to throw in a clever reference to Fritz Lang’s child-killer classic M (1931) is only frosting on a very tasty cake.

Despite being thoroughly impressed by A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night, there were a few elements that let a bit of air out of the proceedings. The aforementioned vampire stereotypes are problematic only because the rest of the film is so clever: at times, relying on the same stock clichés as other vamp films does more to pull Amirpour’s film down than it does to unite it with a common cinematic sensibility. I was also less than on board with the more verite, handheld-shaky-cam style of certain scenes, usually those involving Hossein’s drug use and withdrawal pains. Not only was the handheld style a distinct step-down from the gorgeous cinematography but the “drug scenes” had a different flow and pace that jarred against the rest of the film’s more dreamy atmosphere. In truth, all of these moments could have been cut without damaging the rest of the meticulously crafted narrative.

All in all, Amirpour’s debut feature is a real showstopper, the kind of film that kicks in the door and practically demands your undivided attention. While her debut was set in Iran (although filmed in California), Amirpour’s next film will, apparently, be a “dystopic love story, set in a cannibal compound, in a Texas wasteland,” featuring the combined talents of Keanu Reeves, Jim Carrey, Giovanni Ribisi, Jason Mamoa and the always amazing Yolonda Ross. In other words, it looks like Amirpour is going to continue her fearless genre-splicing. I’m willing to wager that her next feature will grab the world by the scruff of the neck and shake it silly. If it’s half as impressive as her debut, I’ll be the first person in line.

1/25/15: The Man With Nothing Has Nothing to Lose

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Animal Kingdom, anti-hero, Antony Partos, Australia, Australian films, brothers, car chases, cat-and-mouse chase, cinema, David Field, David Michôd, dramas, dysfunctional family, film reviews, films, foreign films, Gillian Jones, Guy Pearce, Jamie Fallon, Joel Edgerton, Keri Hilson, Mad Max, Movies, Natasha Braier, post-Apocalyptic, road trip, Robert Pattinson, Scoot McNairy, set in Australia, stolen car, Tawanda Manyimo, The Rover, The Way of the Gun, writer-director-producer

Midway through David Michôd’s post-apocalyptic The Rover (2014), Rey (Robert Pattinson), a possibly mentally disabled young man, relates a rambling, seemingly pointless story to Eric (Guy Pearce), his captor: as Rey yammers on and on, we watch as frustration and boredom wage war across Eric’s sun-bleached, weathered face, his quick-set lips constantly suppressing some sort of cranky comeback. After Rey finishes his story, Eric regards him with something approaching contempt and snaps, “Why’d you tell me that?” The young man shrugs and nonchalantly states: “It was interesting and I remembered it…not everything has to be about something.”

In a way, that’s as good a micro-philosophy for Michôd’s film as any: indeed, if one boiled The Rover down to its essential parts, one would get a narrative that consists entirely of a man pursuing another group of men in order to retrieve his stolen car. This is overly reductive, of course, since there’s a bit more going on here than that (The Rover is definitely about “something”) but Australian writer-director Michôd, who first hit the public eye with his brutal Animal Kingdom (2010), is a master of economy and the whole thing buzzes along with the extreme focus of the best single-minded revenge flicks. Think of this as a moodier Mad Max (1979) minus the tricked-out cars, intense action setpieces and over-the-top characters and you’re definitely in the right vicinity.

We begin in Australia, ten years after some sort of ill-defined “collapse” has led to some pretty miserable conditions: everything seems sun-baked and cracked, food and water are now luxury items and every single person packs as much heat as they can possibly carry. Into this heat-mirage of failure steps Eric, as beaten-down and weathered as the landscape around him. While stopping at what appears to be a nearly empty “water saloon,” Eric kicks back for a moment of peace and quiet, during which absolute disaster strikes: his one and only possession, his beat-up car, is stolen by a trio of thieves on the lam, Caleb (Tawanda Manyimo), Archie (David Field) and Henry (Scoot McNairy). The trio have just crashed their truck and jack Eric’s before he can stop them.

Jumping into their abandoned vehicle, Eric gives chase, on the thieves’ tail like flies on cow-shit. After a suitably thrilling cat-and-mouse chase, Eric gets out to confront them, at which point he’s cold-cocked and left to wake up in the dirt. As he continues his pursuit, Eric runs into Rey, Henry’s gut-shot brother. Seems that Rey was injured in whatever heist the group was involved in and the others just left him there, rather than dragging his soon-to-be carcass around. Since Rey claims to know where the group is headed, Eric takes him along, with the stipulation that he’ll slit his throat if Henry and the others aren’t where Rey says they’ll be. From that point on, Eric and Rey travel in uneasy companionship, their relationship never as simple as “captor and captive” or “traveling companions,” but never quite as cold-blooded as Eric’s relentless pursuit of his car. As the duo get closer and closer to their destination, Rey will have to make some awfully difficult decisions about family, loyalty and doing the right thing, even as Eric continues to shave his own humanity down to the bone, turning himself into a killer as remorseless and barren as the landscape around him.

For the most part, The Rover is well-made, heartfelt and consistently interesting, albeit  a tad confusing, from time to time. The script, based on an idea that Michôd developed with actor Joel Edgerton, is lean and mean, wasting as little time as possible on anything that doesn’t propel the story (and the characters) forward. Due to this economy, we don’t get much in the way of character development whatsoever (the only backstory we receive regarding the protagonist is one extremely confusing tidbit related after he’s been captured by the military and the film’s twist ending), which tends to give the various people we meet a rather “half-formed” nature.

In particular, the scenes involving Grandma (Gillian Jones) and the strange, old man at the film’s conclusion are enigmatic precisely because they’re sort of dumped on us with no explanation as to their significance. The bit involving the old man is particularly frustrating, since it seems to involve a fundamental emotional beat with Eric that never makes much sense: he seems to have an emotional reaction to someone he’s never met, for no perceptible reason, when he’s been largely emotionless before that. There’s also zero development with the trio of thieves, although McNairy and Pattinson do get a nicely emotional bit during the climax: Caleb and Archie are never anything more than generic types, however, giving their ultimate fates next to no real importance. While many films are filled with faceless villains, this seems an odd tact to take for a film that only features a small handful of actors: a little more depth would have opened up the film immensely.

From a production-standpoint, The Rover looks and sounds great: Natasha Braier’s cinematography perfectly captures the sun-bleached desolation of the uncompromising landscape and the occasional nods to an “artier” style (the slo-mo car flying by the window as Eric sits at the bar, drinking water and listening to an Asian pop song on the radio, for example) prevent the film from ever looking too “utilitarian.” The moody score, by Antony Partos, is particularly good: there’s one supremely cool driving sequence where the score approximates the sparse keyboard squelches of No-Wave legends Suicide and I, for one, could not stop grinning. I also got a kick out of the way Keri Hilson’s “Pretty Girl Rock” (you know, the “Don’t hate me ’cause I’m beautiful,” song) scores a key setpiece: while the film is never less than dour, it’s pretty obvious that a subtle (very, very subtle) stream of dark humor runs through everything.

Performance-wise, I was quite taken by both Pearce and Pattinson: Pattinson, in particular, turns Rey into the kind of twitchy, fidgety weirdo that seems a million miles from his usual roles and I agreed with almost all of his acting choices, although his odd, slightly slurred accent is often more than a little hard to parse. Pearce, for his part, can pretty much do these kinds of roles in his sleep and his world-weary, defeated but determined take on Eric is sturdy and feels authentic. One of the most interesting aspects regarding the character of Eric is just how poorly he fits the role of “hero”: hell, even “anti-hero” seems a bit of a stretch, at times. For much of the film, Eric is violent, uncompromising and kills at the drop of a hat, often with as little provocation as possible. The final twist makes his character more sympathetic (barely) but the road leading there is paved with plenty of “questionable” activities, as it were. It’s to Pearce’s great credit that we’re always on Eric’s side, even if it’s not always easy (or possible) to agree with his actions.

Ultimately, I enjoyed, but didn’t love, The Rover. On the plus side, the film stakes out a claim as a reasonable neo-Western, ala The Way of the Gun (2000) and that will always receive my stamp of approval. Michôd’s film looks and sounds great, slotting in nicely with similar Australian fare, such as the aforementioned Mad Max, as well as “arty” post-apocalyptic films like Bellflower (2011). There are also plenty of good performances here, including an above-average turn by Robert Pattinson in a rather non-typical role. On the downside, the film feels a little long, especially for such a streamlined narrative, and I never felt emotionally engaged with it until the final revelation, which does end up packing a bit of a punch. That being said, fans of low-key post-apocalyptic tales should find plenty to approve of, even if the final result is decidedly less than a game-changer.

12/25/14 (Part Two): Listen All of Y’all, It’s a…Mess

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action film, action films, Arnold Schwarzenegger, cinema, co-writers, corrupt law enforcement, David Ayer, DEA agents, drug cartel, drug dealers, dumb films, End of Watch, film reviews, films, hambonin', Harold Perrineau, Jerry Bruckheimer, Joe Manganiello, Josh Holloway, Kevin Vance, Mark Schlegel, Martin Donovan, Max Martini, Mireille Enos, Movies, Olivia Williams, Sabotage, Sam Worthington, stolen money, Terrence Howard, writer-director-producer

When we’re talking about action films, there isn’t necessarily anything bad about loud, dumb movies: as someone who worked his way through a veritable mountain of cheesetastic ’80s flicks (picture the ones where the hero takes out the bad guy with a close-range rocket launcher to get the full effect), I can attest that the stupidest films are, quite often, the most thrilling. After all, when we’re bombarded by so much chaos, conflict and real-world violence, sometimes it’s nice to just pop the cap on a cold one, turn off your brain and thrill to explosions, sneered badassitude and black-and-white concepts of good and evil, no?

There is, however, a limit, a tipping point, if you will: invisible to the naked eye, there is, nonetheless, a fine line between stupid and clever (thanks, Tap). David Ayer’s big, loud, Schwarzenegger vehicle, Sabotage (2014), has to see the line, since the whole film seems like a conscious effort to craft the biggest, dumbest, loudest action film possible: the film’s mantra seems to be “bigger is always better” and let me tell ya…this film ends up riding a giant, turbo-charged rocket straight into the heart of stupid, boldly going where few have dared to tread. Existing in a cinematic universe where Antoine Fuqua and Jerry Bruckheimer are the alpha and omega of existence, Sabotage is the ultimate fizzled bonfire: all smoke, precious little actual fire.

Sabotage concerns the various (very bad) activities of a group of rogue DEA agents, the kind that are de rigueur for Hollywood but don’t really paint the rosiest picture of our nation’s continued war on drugs. Led by the leather-faced, oddly-coiffed John “Breacher” Wharton (Arnold Schwarzenegger), the crew look (and sound) like various rejects from several seasons of American Gladiator: Monster (Sam Worthington), Grinder (Joe Manganiello), Neck (Josh Holloway), Sugar (Terrence Howard), Pyro (Max Martini), Tripod (Kevin Vance), Smoke (Mark Schlegel) and Lizzy (Mireille Enos, so amazingly over-the-top that she doesn’t need a cool nickname…she just “is,” dude). Their modus operandi is pretty simple: blow the ever-loving shit out of the bad guys, steal their money, blow up as much stuff as possible, get fuckin’ craaaazy, man…lather, rinse, repeat. It all works splendidly because, well, they’re badasses, man…aren’t you listening?

A fly enters the ointment, however, when one of their “jobs” results in the death of Smoke and the loss of $10 million in stolen drug money. The crew start falling out because agitated shouting is required (along with some good, ol’ character building, don’tcha know?) and, as we all know, you can’t trust a thief…especially if you’re a crooked, bloodthirsty fellow thief, I’m imagining. Things really get complicated, however, when members of the squad start to mysteriously die, one by one. When one guy wakes up to find his RV on the railroad, moments before impact, local police think it could possibly be a case of too much spiked eggnog. After lead detective Carolyn Brentwood (Olivia Williams) slips in a slick of blood the size of Michigan when her and Breacher go to interview another team member, however, her spidey sense is definitely tingling: when she looks up and sees the poor guy nailed to the ceiling, eviscerated, she definitely begins to think that these may be more than simple household accidents.

Working with the overly cagey, withdrawn Breacher, Brentwood tries to gather information from the others, yet meets with nothing but cold resistance: the troops have circled the wagons and no strangers are getting through. As more and more of his squad end up dead, however, Breacher is suddenly faced with the shocking idea that the killer may not be a cartel hitman…it may be someone a little closer to home…dun dun duuunh!

Alright, here’s the thing: I was more than willing to give Sabotage as much slack as it needed, mostly because I was duly impressed with director Ayer’s previous effort, the Jake Gyllenhaal-starring End of Watch (2012). I was able to look past the film’s overly kinetic, restless action sequences, even when said restlessness began to extend into non-action, “quiet” parts of the film. I didn’t care for the shaky camera or odd, overly-saturated color palette but I’d seen plenty worse. I didn’t really even mind the on-the-nose, endlessly posturing dialogue: you have to expect a certain measure of shit-talking in films like this, after all, and who doesn’t love a badass ass-kicker?

At a certain point, however, all of Sabotage’s dead weight ends up dragging the film straight to Davy Jones’ locker, my patience be damned. Perhaps it was the unbelievably douchy scene where Brentwood comes by to speak to the crew during a pool party and the whole thing devolves into ridiculous chest-thumping and frat-boy innuendos: I can’t tell you how bad I wanted to slap the fucking smirk straight off Joe Manganiello’s dumb mug right about the time he got up in the detective’s face and started hambonin’ her (thanks, Regular Show). Maybe it was the insultingly obnoxious “banter” between Brentwood and her partner, Jackson (Harold Perrineau), scenes which reminded me of the cringingly bad interplay between Jay Leno and his ever-suffering band-leader, Kevin Eubanks. Perhaps it was the climatic chase scene that involved one of the characters blasting away at the good guys from a car trunk, chewing and swallowing so much scenery that you can feel the film’s world unraveling from the massive gravitational pull of it all.

One thing’s for certain, however: the acting on display here does no one any favors. Schwarzenegger comes off the best, unsurprisingly, although that damned dead marmot on his head makes it patently impossible to take him completely seriously. His world-weary, “I’m too old for this” schtick actually works, much of the time, and he even gets a few “relatively” reflective moments to do a little modest acting…nothing that will make folks forget his glory days, mind you, but a decent enough continuation of his un-retirement. Other than that relative high point, however, the rest of the cast is pretty much a wash. While all of them are patently ridiculous, I must reserve a special amount of scorn for Enos and Manganiello: at no point in the film are either character anything approaching realistic, likable or even interesting…they’re just unbelievably loud, crude, obnoxious and rather hateful little cliches (Manganiello the huge, unstoppable Cro-Magnon, Enos the “tough chick with bigger balls than the whole combined crew”). As someone who’s a huge fan of Enos’ work on the cable series The Killing, I must admit to being completely flabbergasted by her film work: her previous performance, in Devil’s Knot (2013), was pretty awful but her work as Lizzy vaults her into a whole new realm of terribleness. If the only requirement for portraying a badass character is to shout til your veins pop, Enos’ Lizzy is our new gold standard.

And there, in a nutshell, is pretty much Sabotage’s problem: it’s a thoroughly average action film that’s completely undone by the constantly shifting tone, terrible characters/acting and patently ridiculous situations. One of the most puzzling aspects of the film, for me, was the way in which it almost seemed to have a foot in the horror world: between the splattery aftermath of the great train kapow and the evisceration scene that’s fully Hannibal Lecter approved, Sabotage often feels like a slasher film in action clothing, ala No One Lives (2012). While the gore is well done, it also feels completely out-of-place, similar to how the occasionally intentional comic beats fail miserably.

Despite how it sounds, I didn’t hate Sabotage, although I will freely admit to hating many of the performances. Rather, the film reminded me of any number of bottom-of-the-barrel actioners that I used to gorge myself on during rainy weekends as a kid. Without all of the critical injuries, I don’t see any reason why Ayer’s film couldn’t limp into the finish line. As it stands, however, I can’t help but feel that someone should have done the noble thing and just taken it out in the field to be shot, instead.

6/10/14 (Part One): The Men Who Make the Nightmares

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behind-the-scenes, blood-button effect, Bob Kurtzman, Day of the Dead, Dick Smith, documentaries, documentary, Donna Davies, Elijah Wood, Frank Darabont, George Romero, golden age of special effects, Greg Nicotero, Gross Anatomy, Howard Berger, Jack Pierce, John Carpenter, John Landis, KNB Effects, Kurtzman, Lon Chaney, Nightmare Factory, practical effects, Quentin Tarantino, Ray Harryhausen, Rick Baker, Robert Kirkman, Robert Kurtzman, Robert Rodriguez, Sam Raimi, special effects, special effects pioneer, Tom Savini, visual effects, writer-director-producer

When one is discussing the most influential special effects/make-up/visual effects artists in the business, there are a few names that always seem to come up: Tom Savini…Rick Baker…Stan Winston…Ray Harryhausen (RIP). Look closely, however, and you’ll notice another trio of names that seem to pop up in every other end credit scroll for the past several decades: Greg Nicotero, Howard Berger and Bob Kurtzman. Although they have plenty of individual credits to their name, the three would go on to form KNB Effects, one of the most influential and omnipresent effects studios to emerge since Lucas’ groundbreaking Industrial Light and Magic. Donna Davies’ fun and informative documentary, Nightmare Factory, takes an up-close-and-personal look at KNB Effects, with particular emphasis on co-founder Greg Nicotero, sfx godfather Tom Savini’s protegé.

Kicking off with a “greatest-hits” highlight reel that amounts to a fan-pleasing gore clip show (complete with pounding metal soundtrack), Nightmare Factory makes one thing abundantly clear: this one is aimed right at the genre fans who geek out on fantastic monsters, severed limbs, spurting blood, explosions and puppetry. We go through the history of KNB, which begins with the history of its key players: Greg Nicotero, Howard Berger and Bob Kurtzman. While we don’t get a whole lot of Kurtzman, who left the company a decade into its existence, we do get a whole lot of Nicotero and quite a bit of Berger. Luckily, Nicotero is an absolutely fascinating person, a life-long film and genre fan who’s devoted his entire life to making the impossible real. Long before KNB Effects was a twinkle in anyone’s eye, Nicotero and his younger brother, Bryan, were making their own movies, perfecting stunts, devising effects and props and, in general, being pretty amazing. A chance encounter with George Romero (during a family vacation in Rome, no less) led the 16-year-old Greg to a tour of Romero’s Dawn of the Dead (1978) shopping mall set and an offer to work on his next film, Day of the Dead (1985). This, in turn, led to Nicotero meeting effects god Tom Savini and the rest, as they say, is history.

After meeting and becoming friends on the set of Day of the Dead, Nicotero and Berger ended up moving in with a friend of Berger’s named Robert Kurtzman. The three became fast friends on the set of Sam Raimi’s Evil Dead 2 (1987) which led to the realization that they might be able to make something bigger of this. KNB Effects was born and, within short order, became a powerhouse in the world of movie special effects, particularly in the effects-heavy era of the late-’80s and early-’90s. KNB Effects reach was so widespread, in fact, that it extended to decidedly non-genre offerings like Gross Anatomy (1989) and Oscar-winner Dances with Wolves (1990). In fact, you’d be pretty hard-pressed to find a film with any kind of practical effect within the past 30 years that didn’t bear the mark of either KNB Effects, Nicotero, Berger or Kurtzman: the guys were just that ubiquitous in the industry! Some of the best parts of the film involve the footage of KNB Effects heyday in the late ’80s, where the studio had a wild, rock ‘n roll, party-hard attitude: most of the effects artists were also in rock bands, hung out together constantly, partied the night away and made monsters during the daytime. For a guy like me, this looked like pretty much the best place to work in the entire world. Fuck crazy Wall Street firms: the shenanigans at KNB looked like a whole lot more fun!

Although KNB Effects is just about as important as effect studios get (they even created the “blood-button” effect that has allowed generations of indie filmmakers to create gunshots on the cheap), the times are always changing and we feel the effects of this within the doc. Studios now want effects as quickly and cheaply as possible: there’s no longer time to lovingly craft effects in the same way that the artisans did twenty years before. While computer-generated imagery is a valuable tool when used hand-in-hand with practical effects, the tendency these days is to heavily rely on CGI, which can be much quicker and cheaper to utilize than practical effects but tends to have a disarmingly glossy hyper-reality that is no patch on the oftentimes rougher practical effects of bygone eras. It’s certainly a devil’s dilemma: filmmakers are always in a desperate need to save money, which makes CGI the only feasible reality for many low-budget productions, yet cheap CGI makes any film look bad, regardless of the general quality of the production.

There’s also the sad revelation, late in the film, that Nicotero doesn’t really think anyone will come around to replace them: no one has a burning desire to just make monsters these days, he says, at least not like in the days of Famous Monsters of Film Land, Ray Harryhausen and Tom Savini (at 68, Savini is now the elder statesman who used to be the infant terrible…he even has his own special effects training school). We do get to see a few members of the younger generation who were influenced by the ’70s-’80s pioneers, such as Edgar Wright, Simon Pegg and Robert Rodriguez, although we don’t really get to meet any of the new generation to whom Nicotero and the others will be passing their torch.

While Nicotero certainly has a history and perspective on the situation that I’ll never possess, I can’t help but feel that he’s dead wrong in that aspect: there will always be kids around who want to make monsters. As long as there are geeky outsiders who spend their childhoods reading monster magazines under the blankets, there will be special effects people. As long as there are kids who create backyard zombie epics featuring the contents of their fridge and an ocean of passion, there will be special effects people. We may very well come to a time when practical effects are no longer utilized in mainstream cinema, where CGI has become the all-encompassing cinematic creative force and where model-makers are as quaint as town criers. Hell, we may already be there. As long as there are still kids who grow up with the burning desire to make the magic themselves, however, to mold the clay and set the fuses and paint the models, to bring life to dead objects in the same way that Dr. Frankenstein once did…as long as these kids are still around, there will always be someone to carry on the flag. Nightmare Factory serves as a wonderful reminder of just what an important tradition this really is and a truly loving salute to those who continue to keep the tradition alive.

5/30/14 (Part Two): Sex = Death

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Alice Macdonald, body horror, Caroline Williams, Charley Koontz, cinema, Contracted, Deadgirl, decomposing, drug abuse, dysfunctional family, Eric England, film reviews, films, homosexuality, horror film, horror films, horror movie, independent film, indie dramas, Katie Stegeman, Matt Mercer, Movies, Najarra Townsend, necrophilia, rape, self-abuse, sexually transmitted diseases, Simon Barrett, special effects, writer-director-producer, zombies

It’s no secret that sex and death have always been intrinsically intertwined in horror films, although some films have made it more of a context than a subtext. The figure of Count Dracula, after all, is an explicitly sexual one, as are Clive Barker’s Cenobites. Slasher films have always been focused on sex: we could fill up pages discussing the various phallic symbols in everything from Halloween (1978) to Friday the 13th (1980) to Maniac (1980) but it would be just as easy to point out that the quickest way to get killed in any given slasher is to have sex. As soon as ol’ Jason or Michael Myers get a hint that horny teens are in the vicinity, we can assume that the bloodletting will follow. Some films even manage to flip the script on the whole “have sex and die” philosophy: Andy Warhol’s Blood for Dracula (1974) features a hunky gardener who attempts to deflower virgins as fast as the toothy Count can identify them, while Cherry Falls (2000) features a serial killer who only targets virgins. Fastest way to survive in those instances? Toss on some Barry White, cuz things are about to get romantic in here.

While sex and death have always shared a connection in horror films (after all, haven’t the French always referred to the orgasm as “the little death”?), most of the connections have revolved along the lines of “Have sex and die.” As our modern era keeps chugging along, many of the familiar tropes and archetypes of horror have, likewise, been in a state of near constant flux. As “traditional” slasher films have fallen largely by the wayside (especially when compared to their late-’70s-mid-’80s heyday), examinations of the natural connection between sex and death have changed from “maintaining purity at all costs” to the grimmer, more bleak realization that “sex kills.” With the “free-love” era well in our rearview mirrors by this point, the threat of sexually transmitted disease and sexual violence have taken the spotlight. In the old days, the kids looked like they were having fun…at least until the inevitable spear or machete, of course. In these modern times, however, no one is having much fun. Writer-director Eric England’s most recent film, Contracted (2013), makes the explicit point that not only can sex kill but it can turn one into a killer. If the final destination on this trip ends up being a familiar and largely cliched one, the journey itself is unpleasant, tense and just disquieting enough to make the whole thing worthwhile.

We first meet our protagonist, Sam (Najarra Townsend), as she makes an entrance at one of those ubiquitous “indie-movie-parties” where everyone drinks out of red cups and stands around chilling underneath assorted backyard Christmas lights. She’s rolling stag to the party, since her girlfriend, Nikki (Katie Stegeman), has to work late. We get a hint of some conflict here, since Nikki never answers Sam’s repeated calls and Sam seems to get progressively drunker and more unhappy as the night continues. We also meet her “best friend,” Alice (Alice MacDonald), a thoroughly unpleasant, loud-mouthed troublemaker who pressures Sam to get wasted (despite her continual protests) and makes a public mockery of Riley (Matt Mercer), a stereotypical “nice guy” who pines in not-so-secret for Sam, even though Alice’s boyfriend, Zain (Charley Koontz), tells him that it’s no use, since Sam doesn’t “swing their way anymore.”

While at the party, Sam is approached by a creepy guy named B.J. (Simon Barrett) who hands her an obviously drugged drink. We can assume this pretty decisively, since the opening of the film strongly insinuates that B.J., who works at a morgue, has just had his way with a corpse. Obviously, we’re dealing with a pretty sick individual and these fears are confirmed once we witness B.J. raping Sam. The very next scene begins with a “Day One” intertitle and we’re off to the races. As we follow Sam around, we gradually get to know a little more about her: she’s an expert floral arranger and has entered some kind of prestigious competition; there are conflicts with her mother (Caroline Williams) who seems to disapprove of Sam’s “choice” of lifestyle, as well as her previous inclination to hurt herself; her girlfriend, Nikki, is a cold, manipulative and possessive person who seems to care little for Sam and dislikes straight men with a passion; and Riley has been stuck on Sam for quite some time, to the point where he’s a regular at the restaurant where she serves. We also notice that Sam is looking worn-down and tired. By the time Day Two rolls around and Sam wakes up in a bloody bed with strange, prominent blue veins popping out on her body, we have a good idea that this won’t end well.

As Sam’s condition gradually worsens, no one seems to be able (or willing to help her): her doctor is baffled, considering this to be some sort of cross between a sexually transmitted disease (Sam tells him that she’s only had sex with one guy in quite some time but can’t recall if they used protection) and “female troubles.” He prescribes moisturizer to help with the dead skin that he notices while examining her but seems genuinely confused. Sam’s mom thinks she’s either back on drugs, hurting herself again or both, while Alice comes to believe much the same thing. Sam knows that somethings wrong, even if everyone else doubts her. And she’s right, of course, but the realization will do nothing to help her or her loved ones. In the world of Contracted, there is no such thing as love: there’s only the face of Death, whether grinning or solemn.

For most of its run-time, Contracted is a fairly unpleasant but bracingly original film about a young woman who is, literally, falling apart. Propelled by an outstanding performance from Townsend, the movie wrings a tremendous amount of pathos out of her struggle. Unlike more generic characters in horror films, Sam is dealing with an almost overwhelming amount of baggage: she’s an ex-junkie/cutter who’s just been raped at a party, is in a loveless relationship and faces constant condemnation from her own mother over her sexuality. At one point, Sam’s mother is about to say something and Sam fills in the blank with “dyke”: it’s obviously not the first time she’s heard the slur coming from her mother. She’s being stalked by a male acquaintance and her only “friend” appears to have nothing but ulterior motives. In any “normal” film, this would be enough to crush a character. Toss a degenerative disease into the mix that can best be described as a female-centric form of leprosy and Sam suddenly resembles that fabled sad-sack Job.

Unfortunately, writer-director England ends up taking a fairly unique, female-centric viewpoint on horror and ends up at a thoroughly predictable location. Like similar films such as Deadgirl (2008) or The Woman (2011), Contracted works elements of feminism into its central framework but, unlike the aforementioned films, the feminist angle ends up being largely a MacGuffin. By the time we get to the finale, we end up seeing Sam’s “condition” from a wider perspective and it’s one that any horror fan should be more than familiar with, by the point in film history. It’s a shame, too, because Contracted seems to have quite a few interesting tricks up its sleeve, yet we end up with a film that is, more or less, just a zombie movie. Compared with Deadgirl, which actually featured real zombies yet used them as “props” to discuss the poisonous nature of rape culture and patriarchy, Contracted ends up feeling unnecessarily slight. It’s the classic case of a strong film which peters out by the end, limping into the finish line. Although Contracted’s most nauseating moment is its penultimate one and fairly original (If you’ve ever seen Cabin Fever (2002), this will seem familiar) , what follows is the most basic, by-the-book ending possible.

For the most part, Contracted looks great. Early on, particularly at the party, the cinematography is actually quite beautiful and evocative. There’s a slow-paced elegance to the first half of the film that comes across like a rather unholy melding of the aforementioned Deadgirl and American Beauty (1999): even the necrophilia scene that opens the movie is shot in a way that speaks more to brittle beauty than to in-your-face exploitation. As Sam’s condition progresses, the look of the film gradually changes: the vibrant colors from the beginning and Day One fade in intensity until we get to the ugly, green-tinged look of the final day. It’s a smart, simple effect and one of the strongest in the film. Likewise, the sound design is exceptional and does wonders to make the film, by turns, feel both overwhelmingly lonely and overly kinetic.

The acting is pretty strong across the board, with Townsend being a near revelation as Sam. I wasn’t as taken Katie Stegeman’s offhand, bored portrayal of Nikki: there’s a big difference between acting bored and “being” bored and it doesn’t seem that Stegeman lands on the proper side of that equation. In particular, the scene where she rebuffs one of Sam’s would-be male suitors is extremely awkward and tone-deaf. Although his part isn’t more than a cameo, genre writer Simon Barrett (the scribe behind Dead Birds (2004), A Horrible Way to Die (2009) and You’re Next (2011)) does a superb job as B.J., the terrible human being who kickstarts the whole bloody mess.

Effects-wise, Contracted is pretty exemplary: weak stomachs or those averse to the sight of blood are advised to stay far, far away. While this isn’t the same kind of “melting person” film as The Incredible Melting Man (1977), it’s a much more realistic, biology-based approach and pretty strong stuff. In particular, the penultimate scene is a real corker, even though it’s noticeably less explicit than previous scenes in the films: sometimes, the idea is worse than the image (actually, all the time).

On the whole, Contracted is a really well-done, intriguing and surprisingly female-centric take on the body horror subgenre. If I wish that the destination had been as original as the journey, I suppose that’s a small price to pay. Ultimately, Contracted ends up being “feel-bad” horror at it’s (almost) best: put this on a double-bill with The Incredible Melted Man and bid those unwanted house guests farewell!

4/2/14: Man Behaving Very Badly

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Andy Sidaris, Antonia Dorian, auteur theory, B-movies, bad movies, Chopping Mall, cinema, Clay Westervelt, Deathstalker II, documentaries, exploitation films, Film auteurs, film reviews, filmmaking basics, films, Glori-Anne Gilbert, Jim Wynorski, Julie K. Smith, Julie Strain, Lloyd Kaufman, Louis Jourdan, misanthropic, misogyny, Monique Parent, Movies, Popatopolis, Roger Corman, scream queens, soft-core, The Bare Wench Project, The Haunting of Morella, The Witches of Breastwick, writer-director-producer

When I was a young’un, I received my cinematic education from the same sorts of places from whence this humble blog is named: the video stores (both corporate and mom-n-pop) which once used to dot this great land of ours. In those bygone days before the internet, movie blogs or Netflix, anyone interested in trashy, exploitational or out-there films had one good option: hit up your local video store and browse the stacks. How did you know if you’d found a good one? Well, in the days before identical box/poster art swept through film-land like a wildfire (standing figure, semi-profile pose, back to the camera, red and yellow color scheme, floating faces on the horizon, yadda yadda yadda), you usually knew you had someone worth watching because the box-art would make your young brain explode with possibilities.

I can’t count the number of times that I walked up and down those endless, identical rows of endless, identical little rectangular cases, picking up one after the other until I finally found an image that sent my reptilian senses soaring. Taking my treasure home, I would often be confronted with one of my first real lessons as a kid: never judge a VHS tape by its cover. Just as often, however, I would be presented with something that actually lived up to the promise of its cover. One of these early discoveries was a brilliant little film called Chopping Mall, which bears the distinction of having one of my favorite “old school” covers (as well as one of my favorite taglines): a robotic hand holds a brown-paper shopping sack full of various body-parts, while the tagline reminds us that “Shopping costs an arm and a leg.” Indeed!

 

This little gem ended up being full of all the things that a growing young boy needs: copious T & A, lots of gratuitous gore, killer robots and tons of dumb action. Who was the genius behind this inspirational little film? Why, none other than one of the undisputed masters of trash/exploitation cinema: Jim Wynorski. Over the years, I’ve seen many, many Wynorski films, some without even realizing they were his, thanks to his various pseudonyms (one of my favorites being “HR Blueberry”). I’d never seen any behind-the-scenes or documentary footage of Wynorski, however, until I viewed Clay Westervelt’s Popatopolis. This look into how Wynorski makes one of his old-fashioned exploitationers in this modern-day and age is a warts-and-all look at a filmmaker that I’ve enjoyed quite a bit over the years. The unfortunate takeaway, however? Sometimes, it’s better not to peek at the wizard behind the curtain.

Westervelt’s documentary, which takes its name from Wynorski’s frequent request of actresses that they “pop those tops,” follows the no-budget auteur as he sets out to do something he’s never done before: shoot a complete film in only three days with just a couple of crew members. The film in question is The Witches of Breastwick, however, so the deck already seems pretty stacked in his favor. Wynorski’s films since the 2000s have tended to favor porn actors/actresses over actual actors/actresses, which is a good thing since his directorial style has tended towards “point-and-shoot.” Combined with his tendency to shoot one-take of everything, Wynorski tends to put quite a bit of film in the can (metaphorically speaking), so finishing a no-budget, crappy film parody in three days doesn’t seem particularly impossible. And it’s not, as we see over the course of the film. From what we can see, however, it’s also not particularly pleasant, least of all for the poor performers stuck with Wynorksi for those three days.

The film is composed of two separate but intrinsically linked parts: talking head interviews with Wynorski peers like Andy Sidaris, Roger Corman and Lloyd Kaufman and the actual behind-the-scenes footage of the Witches of Breaswick shoot. The talking head portions are definitely the highlight of the film (at least for me) since they give an interesting perspective into where Wynorski started (as a Production Assistant for Corman) and where he’s (presumably) going. Kaufman’s bit is hilarious and way too short, but Corman’s parts are pure gold: there’s something really neat about seeing Corman sit there, the grand poobah of low-budget cinema, waxing philosophically like someone’s ultra-hip granddad. You can tell that he’s got genuine affection for Wynorski and pays him the film’s best, most sincere compliment when he says that Wynorski could do bigger and better projects if he would only take more time and care.

And that, in essence, becomes the depressing rub of the film: modern-day Wynorski just doesn’t seem to give two shits about anything. He’s been making films since the mid-’80s and many of his ’80s-’90s output are considered to be minor exploitation classics: Chopping Mall (1986), Deathstalker II (1987), Not of This Earth (1988), The Return of Swamp Thing (1989), The Haunting of Morella (1990). None of his films are what one could reasonably call “good” and none are what anyone would consider to be particularly well-crafted but, up until the 2000s, Wynorski’s movies were still essentially good ol’ fashioned B-movies. Since the 2000s, however, Wynorski seems to have found a new calling making soft-core, “Skinmax”-esque “films,” including such…product…as The Bare Wench Project (2000), Busty Cops (2004), The Witches of Breastwick (2005), The Breastford Wives (2007), The Devil Wears Nada (2009) and what one can only assume is complete truth in advertising: Busty Coeds vs Lusty Cheerleaders (2011). Whereas Wynorski used to work with the likes of Louis Jourdan, he now works almost exclusively with porn stars, the vast majority of which aren’t necessarily known for their skills as thespians. Breast size, not acting ability, are key indicators to Wynorski’s filmmaking mindset.

Once we dive into the actual shooting of The Witches of Breastwick, Wynorski is revealed to be a short-tempered, highly irritable, crude and decidedly sexist individual. His script includes the written descriptor “cow” to describe several female characters; he doesn’t say “action,” “roll camera” or any other filmmaking commands, leading to continual confusion between him and his cameraman and sound-guy; his catch-phrase appears to be “I hate it” and Wynorski makes his actors repeat their lines endlessly until they say it exactly as he wants: there’s no sense of “directing” or “coaching,” merely brute force repetition. In one of the most telling moments of the entire film, Julie K. Smith, one of Wynorski’s longtime actresses and a bit of a dramatic foil for him, says that the “Jim W” of the old days would always work extensively with his actors, pulling them aside and working them through the emotional beats of a scene. The current “Jim W” just has them repeat lines until he likes what he hears: there’s no attempt to actually get into a character, since he clearly doesn’t care about that anymore. It’s particularly illuminating to hear this from one of Wynorski’s longtime collaborators, no more so than when she states, “Good Jim is amazing…you love him. Bad Jim…I don’t use the term ‘hate’ often but…you don’t like him.”

As a look into indie filmmaking, Popatopolis is fun and quick, if more than a little depressing ala American Movie. Wynorski, however, really comes across as a repressed man-child and the rampant sexism and misogyny becomes tiring very quickly. I’ve always had a soft-spot for B-movies and exploitation cinema but there should always be basic levels of decency maintained between filmmaker and cast/crew. Too often, Wynorski comes across as a sexist bully and I just can’t get behind that, no matter how much I love Chopping Mall or Dinosaur Island. While his older films may be crude, Wynorski’s last 15 years of product has been pretty much soft-core garbage: at this point, I’m beginning to feel like the goodwill he’s earned may be used up. At the very least, the scene involving Wynorski and his elderly mother is quite charming and very cute. Mother Wynorski goes on and on about her love for Chopping Mall, with one major complaint: she hates the gratuitous nude scene, feeling it unnecessary and detrimental to the film. Maybe it’s time to start listening to your mom, Jim: after 96 films in 29 years, I’d sure love to get another Chopping Mall before you finally hang up the ol’ megaphone.