Quiet Cool

Una libélula para cada muerto (A Dragonfly for Each Corpse) (1973)

2012-01-30T17:40:00.001-06:00

If the title didn't influence you, Una libélula para cada muerto (A Dragonfly for Each Corpse) (1973), then Paul Naschy, who wrote and stars in the film, was doing something wrong. Naschy writes, "I also appeared in a giallo style thriller called Una libélula para cada muerto (1973), with Erika Blanc. It was shot mainly on location in Milan by León Klimovsky and I think it turned out to be a fairly decent detective story. I enjoyed playing the exuberant Italian police inspector Paolo Scaporella." (from Memoirs of a Wolfman by Paul Naschy, translated by Mike Hodges, Midnight Marquee Press, Baltimore, MD, 2000, p. 121) These scant words are about all Naschy has to say about this production in his autobiography, and this is a shame. Despite the fact that I've had a real Naschy itch lately (rimshot), Una libélula para cada muerto (A Dragonfly for Each Corpse) is a real showcase for Erika Blanc.
Una libélula para cada muerto begins with a young man going to a clandestine location to purchase some narcotics. He proceeds to his home and enjoys his narcotics. An uninvited guest enters his home (while the camera obscures his identity) wearing black gloves. He kills the young man and places a replica dragonfly near his corpse. Inspector Paolo Scaporella (Naschy) is assigned the case by his superior. More murders continue and more corpses show up with the signature dragonfly near his/her corpse. Is the killer part of the “underworld,” preying upon the drug addicts and prostitutes? Is the killer a kinky sadist who enjoys killing “deviant” people, because the killer is a deviant also? Or is the killer from high society, someone from Scarporella and his girlfriend’s, Silvana (Blanc) circle of friends? Cue dramatic music.

Three of the most obvious superficial qualities of a giallo film are 1) black gloves, 2) overt sexuality (read, female nudity), and 3) the killer must suffer from a psychological affliction resulting from a childhood trauma. Typically, this childhood trauma involves the killer witnessing the murder of someone in a sexual situation. Armed with this knowledge, anyone can make a film which could be termed “a giallo.” It seems Naschy, when he penned the script for Una libélula para cada muerto, knew the motifs and labored to work them in to his script. Too much labor in making this film a giallo ends up making this film too contrived and too rigid in my opinion. However, there is much to love in Una libélula para cada muerto for prospective viewers.

The sequence which introduces Blanc’s character to viewer is precious. Naschy is in the kitchen and cooking pasta, chomping on his cigar and mean-mugging for the camera. Gorgeous Blanc strolls into the kitchen and chides Naschy’s character for his poor cooking habits. The two actors have an immediate chemistry, and the inclusion of this domestic scene in the film goes a long way towards establishing an intimacy between Scarporella and his girlfriend, Silvana. Scarporella shares all the details about the “dragonfly” case with Silvana and seeks her input. I initially thought with Naschy and Blanc’s first few scenes together that Una libélula para cada muerto would have the two as an investigative team who would solve the murders together. Given their chemistry together and Erika Blanc’s amazing charisma, I thought Una libélula para cada muerto had the potential to be one of Paul Naschy’s finest moments in cinema. While Blanc’s Silvana is integral to solving the mystery, Naschy wrote the script in a wholly perfunctory manner and Una libélula para cada muerto plays out like a perfunctory giallo. Blanc’s character stays at home while Naschy’s inspector character hits the streets.

Naschy went out of his way to establish a credible “underworld” to host a class of victims for his killer. In the English dub of the print that I viewed, the first victim is referred to as a “professional drug addict.” Really, a professional? So is there an amateur class which one must work up through? In another murder sequence, the killer enters the apartment of some young people who are passed out about the floor and furniture. A nude female is passed out on the floor with her arm draped upon a nude young man while another young man in his briefs sleeps in a sofa chair. Clearly, with this adept character positioning, these characters have engaged in promiscuous sex with multiple partners while indulging with mind-altering substances. These sequences are too paint-by-numbers for me and there is too many of them to make Una libélula para cada muerto not worth revisiting.

Klimovsky includes some striking compositions. For example, in one a burlesque dancer rests in a coffin while eating a green apple. Without a context, this composition makes no sense (and is interesting) but with a context, this scene becomes as perfunctory as the rest of the film. All of the scenes with Erika Blanc are amazing. Completely radiant. One of my favorite sequences occurs after Scaporella and Silvana learn that one of their friends has been murdered. Blanc sits in bed, completely nude, staring at photos (which she believes are relevant to the mystery). Scaporella comes in saddened by his friend’s death and the poor state of his investigation but becomes aroused at the sight of his girlfriend. In a bout of physical intimacy, these two can take comfort in each other. It’s an endearing sequence. As I’ve said, the two have a strong chemistry, and it should have been capitalized upon in the film.

Finally, Una libélula para cada muerto is the second film of my recent memory where Naschy is bathed by a beautiful woman. I’m totally jealous. It is very good, sometimes, to be both the screenwriter and the leading actor.
Una libélula para cada muerto is for Paul Naschy completists and Erika Blanc enthusiasts.

El gran amor del conde Drácula (Count Dracula's Great Love) (1972)

2012-01-26T18:50:00.001-06:00

"For this Gothic tale," writes Paul Naschy, "I transformed the terrifying Transylvanian Count into a Romantic vampire who destroys himself for the love of a beautiful woman." (from Memoirs of a Wolfman by Paul Naschy [hereinafter, MW], translated by Mike Hodges, Midnight Marquee Press, Baltimore, MD, 2000, p. 111) Naschy writes that El gran amor del conde Drácula (Count Dracula's Great Love) (1972) is "[a] claustrophobic film where, for the first time in the history of cinema, Dracula actually falls in love. His love, which is greater than even his will to survive, ends in his self-destruction. This is the central idea of the film." (from "Filmography," by Paul Naschy, Videooze, No. 6/7, edited by Bob Sargent, Alexandria, VA, Fall 1994, p. 27; hereinafter, VO)
El gran amor del conde Drácula is an unofficial Waledmar Daninsky film. Naschy, who penned the script with director Javier Aguirre and Alberto S. Insúa, transforms his most successful character into the Count. One of the aspects which Naschy found so appealing about the werewolf character (very obvious in La noche de Walpurgis) is the inherent tragedy of his monster's condition: one character with two consciousnesses: one, a normal man attempting to live a normal life, and two, a ravenous and ferocious creature who appears involuntarily, bent upon killing the innocent. While Naschy's characterization is a little clunky in its transition, I have to admit, Naschy successfully makes Dracula a dual character...and a tragic one, as well.
Four ladies are on a coach accompanying Imre Polvi (Víctor Alcázar). The group travels through the Borgo Pass where, as Imre notes to the ladies, Count Dracula, the notorious vampire, was successfully subdued by Dr. Van Helsing. He notes also that there is an abandoned sanatorium, located on a nearby hill. It was recently purchased by Dr. Wendell Marlow (Naschy). As soon as Imre completes the film's exposition, the coach loses a wheel. Imre and Marlene (Ingrid Garbo) go and look for help. Senta (Rosanna Yanni), Karen (Haydée Politoff), and Elke (Mirta Miller) remain with coach and witness the coachman's death--a horse kick crushes his skull! Imre and the ladies have no other choice but to head to the sanatorium and hope Dr. Marlow is there. He is. SPOILERS ahead.
Naschy doesn't appear as Count Dracula until almost the third act. It's quite obvious when he makes the transformation--he dons the stereotypical Dracula outfit, complete with the slick-backed hair. Naschy writes, "It has been said that my physique wasn't suited to the role of Dracula. But I think what worked against me was merely the stereotypical image of Dracula, because according to legend wasn't Dracula able to convert himself into whatever he wished?" (VO, p. 27) It doesn't appear, however, Naschy did much to fight that stereotype. Nonetheless, for the first two thirds of El gran amor del conde Drácula, Naschy is Dr. Marlow, hospitable host to his guests and hero to the ladies. How is he the hero? Imre and most of the ladies are stalked by a delivery driver, now a vampire, who was attacked by Dracula in the film's opening minutes. He's roaming around the castle and making attacks at night. Naschy as Marlow successfully subdues him on more than one occasion (and saves a female character), eventually he stakes the man. I'm fairly absent-minded when I watch movies, but it is hard to forget who turned this man into a vampire.
Another interesting sequence occurs after Elke is turned into a vampire. In one of the signature slo-mo sequences, Elke floats down the hall and encounters the delivery man-cum-vampire in the catacombs. Elke attacks the man and quickly gives up and runs away. The inclusion of this sequence, besides looking really cool, is to establish the newly-turned vampires as feral creatures, lacking reason. The vampires attack anyone (or anything) that moves. This is important exposition for Naschy's character for when he turns into Count Dracula. Like the werewolf, the viewer needs to know that Dracula is a monster, capable of committing horrible acts upon innocent victims. By the way, the ridiculous English-language voice over hammers this point home. C'est la vie.

Dr. Marlow fully becomes Count Dracula when he finds a virgin who, by her own free will, expresses her love for Dracula and gives her blood to Dracula's daughter, the Countess. Of course, one of the ladies fits the bill and does fall in love with Dr. Marlow. I love this complex ritual, but it's wholly not needed for the plot. It's only needed for Naschy's character. When Dr. Marlow decides to have sex with one of the ladies, the English-language narration reminds the viewer that Dracula needs a virgin to complete the ritual. Brilliant. I don't know why I needed to know this information during this specific scene, but thank you for letting me know.
Besides Naschy being cleverly deceptive with his characterization, El gran amor del conde Drácula is quite the entertaining exploitation film with quite a few flourishes. The third act really lets its vampires go. In one scene, an elderly farmer gets his leg caught in a hunter’s trap. He begs for help only to have Naschy’s Dracula emerge from the shadows to overtake him. (It’s doubly funny, because Dr. Marlow is “an avid hunter” who spends most of the daytime, setting his traps.) The imagery of the female vampires is very sensual. Aguirre exhibits quite a bit of relish with his camera. They look stunning in slow-motion, almost floating towards the frame.

“I look back on the film with melancholy,” writes Naschy. (MW, p. 112) Several accidents and “mishaps” happened on the set of El gran amor del conde Drácula, as well as Naschy not getting along with his leading lady, Haydée Politoff (MW, p. 111) Despite his memories towards the production, Naschy writes that, “El gran amor del conde Drácula is a little gem.” (VO, p.27) I get tremendous joy out of all of Paul Naschy’s cinema, but I especially admire El gran amor del conde Drácula. Instead of making an imitation of one of the more successful Hammer films or simply filming again Bram Stoker’s novel, Naschy wrote and performed in a Dracula film which adapted to him. It’s obvious but it’s important to note: El gran amor del conde Drácula is remembered today as a Paul Naschy film, not simply another vampire film. It’s a perfect introduction to Paul Naschy or as a celebration of the man’s work.

La noche de Walpurgis (The Werewolf vs. The Vampire Woman) (1970)

2012-01-24T19:40:00.002-06:00

"Despite my reservations," writes Paul Naschy, "La noche de Walpurgis was a worldwide box-office sensation and went on to become a movie legend and a genuine social phenomenon...This modest production marked the high point of Spanish horror fantasy and revitalized the genre throughout the world." (from Memoirs of a Wolfman by Paul Naschy [hereinafter, MW], translated by Mike Hodges, Midnight Marquee Press, Baltimore, MD, 2000, p. 107) As for this Naschy classic, La noche de Walpurgis (The Werewolf vs. The Vampire Woman) (1970), it would appear that we have the Germans to thank. Naschy writes:

"After the success of La marca del hombre lobo, the Germans decided to do another werewolf picture. They contacted Alberto Platar, the producer who had purchased Los monstruos del terror, for the purpose of doing another co-production. Platar had the idea of using another actor to play the Wolf Man. When he proposed this to the Germans they wouldn't hear of it...if Paul Naschy wasn't playing the role of the Wolf Man, they weren't making the film. Naturally, Platar had to change his mind and I was the protagonist." (from "Filmography," by Paul Naschy, Videooze, No. 6/7, edited by Bob Sargent, Alexandria, VA, Fall 1994, p. 24; hereinafter, VO)

Two young women, Elvira (Gaby Fuchs) and Genevieve (Barbara Capell) are traveling through the French countryside. They are searching for the tomb of the Countess Wandesa Dárvula de Nadasdy (Patty Shepard) in order to complete their scholastic essay. They become lost and encounter Mr. Waldemar Daninsky (Naschy) who invites the two ladies into his secluded home. Daninsky agrees to help the young ladies find their tomb, as Daninsky is looking for the crypt, also. The tomb houses a silver cross, which is, according to legend, piercing the heart of the Countess, keeping her vampiric soul at rest. Daninsky believes the silver cross can effectively end the werewolf’s curse, if plunged into the werewolf’s heart by someone who loves him on a full moon...

La noche de Walpurgis is an effective and beautiful fantastic film. Its screenplay, penned by Naschy (under his real name Jacinto Molina) and Hans Munkel, is a fairy tale. There’s innocence, tragedy, love, violence, death, hope, coincidence, and the supernatural, for example. Fantastic cinema is wholly unique; and if fantastic cinema didn’t die with Paul Naschy, then it most certainly did with the death of Jean Rollin.

One of the wonderful aspects of fantastic cinema is the use of slow motion, often creating ethereal and dream-like sequences. Naschy writes, “The film had the characteristic ups and downs of León Klimovsky, but I believe that the positive elements stood out above the errors or flaws it might have had. One of those positive elements is the way in which it treated the world of the vampires; I think the movement of vampires in slow motion is quite successful.” (VO, p. 24) Klimovsky is successfully able to channel the vibe that the vampires exist out-of-time. It’s as if they are real yet not real. In addition, they provide an excellent foil to Naschy’s quick and intense wolf man attacks. When the characters of the English-language title meet, Klimovsky mixes the two styles so well that it appears seamless.

La noche has the most simple of narratives. It’s a story where the strength comes from the images. Exposition, especially when it comes with dialogue, is especially laborious and cumbersome. The narrative of La noche obviously meant something to Naschy, as he penned the script, but I believe it meant little to any of the other participants. In an interesting yet odd touch, the performer who receives the best treatment with Klimovsky’s camera is an actress in a supporting role, Barbara Capell as Genevieve.

SPOILERS

Despite Gaby Fuchs as Elvira becoming Naschy’s love interest in the film and Patty Shepard’s performance as the main antagonist, Capell receives the juiciest close-ups and dominates most frames. Unsurprisingly, Genevieve is attacked and becomes a vampire by the Countess. Surprisingly, it is Genevieve who gets to make two vampire seductions solo; and when Genevieve attacks with the Countess, it is Genevieve who takes central notice, as Shepard’s character wears a black veil which covers her face for the overwhelming majority of her performance.

END SPOILERS

Naschy notes that Patty Shepard, as the Countess, “in the beginning didn’t want to do the film (VO, p. 24)” and later “regretted having accepted the role (MW, p.107).” If I had to speculate as to why, I can understand Ms. Shepard’s regret. As noted, her character has little dialogue and shows almost no emotion. In addition, her face is almost completely obscured by a black veil for almost the entirety of La noche. Patty Shepard is undeniably a gorgeous woman and a talented actress (see El Monte de las brujas (1972) as clear evidence of this statement). As a visual motif, the look of the Countess is sometimes effective, but overall, not utilizing Shepard in her role is a missed opportunity.

La noche de Walpurgis is primal and is essential fantastic cinema. This film is one of my favorites starring Paul Naschy. The BCI Eclipse DVD is a must-have.

Kiss Kiss... Bang Bang (1966)

2012-01-23T19:13:00.010-06:00

I've been hunting for this film for years, despite not having an affinity for the spy genre. In my opinion, this is a genre dominated by a character whose initials are three numbers and who introduces himself by his last name, then his first name, and then his last name, again. I'm a huge fan of super-sexy double agents and super-cool spy gadgets, but in all truthfulness, it's hard for me to get excited about this cinema. Kiss Kiss... Bang Bang (1966) has been recently released on DVD by essential DVD label, Wild East, in a double feature with Alive or Preferably Dead (Vivi o, preferibilmente, morti) (1969). Both star Giuliano Gemma and both are directed by Duccio Tessari. Kiss Kiss, in particular, reunites many of the participants from two Euro-Western masterpieces, A Pistol for Ringo (Una pistola per Ringo) (1965) and The Return of Ringo (Il ritorno di Ringo) (1965): director Duccio Tessari, actors Giuliano Gemma, Nieves Navarro, and Lorella De Luca, for example, producers Luciano Ercoli and Alberto Pugliese, and writer Fernando di Leo (who pens Kiss Kiss with Tessari and Bruno Corbucci). These participants are also why I've always wanted to see Kiss Kiss. Wild East has made it possible. Kiss Kiss... Bang Bang, finally, isn't just a spy film...it's a spoof.
Kirk Warren (Gemma) is in prison about to be executed at the gallows when he receives a last second reprieve by a British colonel with the Secret Service. The Secret Service wants Warren to steal a secret formula from a vault in Switzerland before the nefarious Mr. X gets his hands on it. Once Warren gets his hands on the formula, he attempts to sell the formula to Mr. X for a large sum while humorous events accompany the would-be transaction. The Secret Service, of course, isn’t happy about this, either.
I think deep down I wanted Kiss Kiss... Bang Bang to be more like the Ringo films in a spy setting. I knew that screenwriters di Leo and Corbucci could pen a smart aleck character like Ringo, Nico Giraldi, or Johnny Yuma, for example, who always has the upper-hand on the big guys, despite being poorly resourced and underestimated. To some extent, Gemma's Kirk Warren is a character of this mold but unfortunately, Gemma's character seriously yields to the spy plot--such as a meticulous plan to enter into the Swiss vault and its execution to the myriad double crosses at appointed meetings that result in action sequences. The comedy, above all, dominates and above all, it is very hit and miss. When I take a step back and think about it, I'm almost certain Gemma and Tessari wanted a break from Western cinema. In addition, I don't think that Ercoli and Tessari minded having Navarro and De Luca, respectively, on the set. Kiss Kiss... Bang Bang is light entertainment and seemingly intended to be so.

Kiss Kiss has a lot of big set-pieces in international locations like London, Switzerland, and Rome, for example, but the best moments of the film feature Gemma with the actresses. In a ridiculously human touch, after his reprieve, Warren makes his way to the home of Hilary Shakespeare (Nieves Navarro). Spending quite a few months in prison has made him randy. Navarro giggles a little bit at his reprieve but is more than willing to go to bed with him. Before getting into bed with Shakespeare, Warren tosses his hat at the rack across the room. He completely misses the rack and the hat falls to the floor. Super-cool spy could probably make the shot, but Gemma's character doesn't care: he just wants to get laid. Likewise, when Gemma's Warren attempts to negotiate with Mr. X, he meets Lorella De Luca. She's a cute and bubbly wannabe spy who takes almost every moment to catch Gemma off his feet to shower him with kisses.
Most of the action sequences involve some serious slapstick comedy. For me, I will admit, I have to been in the mood to watch this type of comedy. It gets tired after a few minutes. There is only one super-cool spy gadget and it's a gun that shoots a gas which incapacitates its victim by inducing a laughing fit. If it sounds weird, it's because it is. Gemma uses the weapon, once, and it's not that important. Tessari's compositions are really playful and contribute to the film's loose vibe. Had there been something just a little compelling within Kiss Kiss, then maybe it would be more successful.
Kiss Kiss... Bang Bang is one of those real cult films that would have completely disappeared had Wild East not released it on DVD. It's an important film for serious students of the genre for the participants and, of course, for the seriously curious. For all others, the two classic Ringo films are more than adequate substitutes.

Drive (2011)

2012-01-21T09:56:00.006-06:00

Drive (2011) is the best arthouse exploitation film that I’ve seen in a very long time. It’s hard for me not to like a film about a socially-inept, mentally-ill stunt car driver who falls in love with his timid, sweet single-mother neighbor. The first act of the film boasts some of the sweetest romance in recent cinema history, and amazingly, Drive also boasts some of the most sadistic and over-the-top violence, rivaling only Sylvester Stallone’s Rambo (2008) in its bloodlust. The performances are uniformly excellent; the script by Hossein Amini is charged and judicious in its dialogue; and finally, director Nicolas Winding Refn delivers some truly sumptuous audio and visuals.

The driver, played by Ryan Gosling, works legitimately in show business as a stunt car driver and as a garage mechanic for his down-on-his-luck buddy, Shannon (Bryan Cranston). The driver works evenings as a wheelman for robberies. Gosling’s driver is a loner and through a series of fortuitous, small events, his pretty neighbor, Irene (Carey Mulligan) steals his heart. Irene has a young son; and right before it appears that Gosling’s driver and Irene are about to be together and happy, Irene’s husband is released from prison. Meanwhile, Shannon gets a loan from mobster, Bernie (Albert Brooks) and his associate, Nino (Ron Perlman), to purchase a stock car for racing. Shannon sees immediate success with Gosling’s character as his driver. Less than a week out of prison, Irene’s husband gets effed up by some mobsters. Directly in the face of common sense but in the name of love, the driver agrees to help Irene’s husband, so Irene and her son can have a stable life, with a small, pawn shop robbery.

I’ve watched Drive twice, now, and am damn impressed with two subtle scenes. Both of theses scenes are impressive displays of doubletalk and charged emotion. This is a compliment to both Amini’s script and the actors’ performances. The first scene is Gosling's first meeting with Irene’s husband, played by Oscar Isaac. With Mulligan’s Irene watching the two men, Refn plays out the classic scene of the two males, vying for the title of alpha male. In less adept creative hands and with less adept performers, this scene would come off as stagy and melodramatic. Since there is little dialogue, the three actors have to carry the emotion and they carry it very well. The second scene involves Albert Brooks and Gosling. While Gosling gives a wonderful performance, Brooks displays his veteran ability and wonderful talent throughout Drive. I love Albert Brooks’s films. He plays some of the funniest and sweetest men in films like Defending Your Life (1991) and Mother (1996), for example. In his early scenes in Drive, Brooks appears like a lovable, sweet guy. His character makes a dramatic turn in Drive. During a second viewing of Drive, I noticed that those initially sweet scenes with Brooks are actually imbued with a venomous intensity. In a particularly well-done scene, he appears to be encouraging Gosling’s character, but during a second viewing, it is evident that he is really trying to scare the shit out of him. A masterful scene.

Refn’s cinema has its own look. His criminals, as in his masterful Pusher trilogy, don’t look like magazine models or recording artists. They don’t dress in the latest trends. For example, what’s up with the Smokey-and-the-Bandit jacket with the Golden Scorpion? What about the thirty-year-old Puma track suit? Drive is filled with these little shabby yet meticulous details. In the best scene of the film, Gosling with hammer in hand interrupts a gangster in the dressing room of a group of strippers. Visually, it’s brilliant: wall-to-wall mirrors while voluptuous dancers sit coolly, watching Gosling threaten the thug. It’s so gleefully exploitative: sex and violence, married together blissfully. Look closely and one of the strippers has a cup of red rope licorice sitting at her dressing stand. It’s a small little visual cue that these ladies have lives outside of this scene. Like this scene and most of Drive, Refn is able to make surreal and audacious people and scenes completely believable and intimate.

Drive is the best film of 2011. There’s so much more to talk about but a viewing will do it better justice. See it.

L'etrusco uccide ancora (The Dead Are Alive) (1972)

2012-01-19T13:55:00.004-06:00

Alex Cord is Jason, an archaeologist who has uncovered an Etruscan burial ground which has been undisturbed for a couple thousand years. Jason is having an affair with Myra (Samantha Eggar) who is currently living with Nikos (John Marley), an elderly and world-famous orchestra conductor. Nikos has son named Igor (Carlo De Mejo). There are other characters who populate the narrative of L'etrusco uccide ancora (The Dead Are Alive) (1972) but these are the main characters. Since L'etrusco uccide ancora is a giallo/mystery, the collateral characters are red herrings and the like. By the end of the first act, a young couple has been murdered in the Etruscan tomb, and their corpses have been placed to mimic an Etruscan sacrificial rite.
The first act of L'etrusco uccide ancora is strong. There is no clunky exposition and the pacing is swift. The first act is effectively concluded with the young couple’s murder. The second act, however, is the complete undoing of the film: here comes the melodrama; here comes the stereotypes; and here comes mechanical narrative. Virtually every character is a stereotype. Jason appears an alcoholic womanizer; Myra is an emotional young trophy bride; and Nikos is a controlling older man, eager dominate most in front of him. Most of the character interaction is cringe worthy. For example, when Nikos catches Myra leaving their mansion to rendezvous with Jason, Nikos chides her and admits to her that he knows where she is going and with whom she is meeting. Nikos doesn’t stop Myra from leaving. Instead, he pulls her close to him and gives her a forceful and strong kiss. In the subsequent scene, equally mind-boggling, Myra and Jason meet. The dialogue is precious in its stupidity: Jason’s seduction involves asking Myra if an Etruscan tomb turns her on. Way to go, Jason. As for the narrative, there is way too much labor expended to establish red herrings and then too much labor to exclude those red herrings. At the end of the film, there are only three real clues, and little of the narrative focuses upon them. This is a shame but this is also expected.
The third act has inspired moments, but it’s very conventional. The police discover who the killer is; the police are wrong; the real killer is still loose; and the remaining character(s) confront the killer. Familiar stuff, all around.
Armando Crispino is a unique Italian director. He is perhaps best known for his excellent film Macchie solari (Autopsy) (1975). In that film, Crispino showed an adept eye with the subjective shot. Color, film speed, light, and composition, for example, are all effectively manipulated and contrived by Crispino, creating some brilliant disorienting sequences. Some of that ability is present in L'etrusco uccide ancora. For example, the murder of the young couple at the Etruscan tomb is unique (and come to think of it, really only Lucio Fulci rivals Crispino, here). The killer, of course, is never shown. The audio and the editing of the murders are seemingly out of sync. The murder appears like a bloody montage of screams and literal cuts. There is also an effective shot of the two corpses, placed upon two altars. One of the essential clues to the mystery is an orchestral composition that plays whenever the killer is about to strike. It’s a rousing and intense composition. (I wonder if it is the work of Riz Ortolani who scored the film. Ortolani’s film score is brilliant.) Despite the mechanical nature of the narrative, this orchestration is always effectively used. In addition to his use of audio, Crispino dominates his visuals, especially his use of shadows. There is little to praise in L'etrusco uccide ancora but of what little there is, it deserves very high praise.
“L'etrusco uccide ancora was intended to be an enigmatic, magical and evocative film,” says Crispino. “If I’d had my way, I’d have taken the film even further into fantastic dimensions, but, unfortunately, I was prevented. The idea came to me, one day, during a casual visit to the Etruscan tombs at Cerveteri, where, as I was walking around among the tombs, I began to have the strangest feelings--it was almost as though I could feel tangible ‘presences’ hovering about me.” (from Spaghetti Nightmares, edited by Luca M. Palmerini and Gaetano Mistretta, Fantasma Books, Key West, FL, 1996, p.39) I wish that Crispino had his way, also. The Etruscan imagery and setting in L'etrusco uccide ancora is woefully underused. The film ends up becoming a conservative and mechanical thriller/mystery/giallo. For die-hard fans of the genre, only. Code Red released this film on DVD about a year and a half ago, and it seems as if it is already out of print. Screenshots are taken from my old DVDr of an original VHS release of L'etrusco uccide ancora.

Naschy. Paul Naschy.

2012-01-16T07:15:00.001-06:00

I had a Naschy itch this weekend, so I watched a bunch of his flicks. Here are some quickie reviews.

Tomb of the Werewolf (2004)

Woe to the Temple of Waldemar Daninsky.

If modern cinema truly is product, however, then I cannot fault Paul Naschy and the ignominious ending for his legendary character in the direct-to-video opus, Tomb of the Werewolf (2004). Why not, right? A low-budget horror film with a healthy amount of softcore sex, helmed by one of the cinema’s pioneers, Fred Olen Ray. In addition, cult icon, Michelle Bauer appears as Elizabeth Bathory with a bevy of young attractive people in the cast to provide a little skin or a body count. For all practical purposes, Naschy’s inclusion seems a marketing ploy--drawing in his small yet very strong base of fans (of whom I am a proud member). Yes, I am very cynical and yes, I was hoping for a more romantic end to Naschy’s Daninsky character. However, I did have a smirk on my face throughout most of the film, so I’m not nearly as uptight as I should be, in order to be a proper critic.

Waldemar Daninsky (Paul Naschy) has a wife, Eleanor (Stephanie Bentley), who is dying of the plague. Daninsky wants to save his wife. Elizabeth Bathory (Michelle Bauer) is in league with Satan and as compensation for doing evil shit for him, she is granted eternal youth after she bathes in the blood of young women. Bathory is also the broker for a deal between Satan and Daninsky--Daninsky’s wife may be saved but Daninsky will be cursed as a werewolf. Almost as soon as Daninsky is cursed and turns into the werewolf, he slays his wife as his first victim. This is a problem.
Cut to 2004 and Richard Daninsky (Jay Richardson) has inherited his ancestor’s estate, once belonging to the nobleman Waldemar Daninsky. Richard is a little bit of a shady character. He hires a television crew who makes paranormal investigations to document a medium (also played by Bentley) at his estate. This medium will help him find some hidden treasure. Bauer’s Bathory is the servant at the estate, and of course, she looks exactly the same.
O.K. Naschy appears in this one briefly and in addition, I do not believe he utters a single line. In fact, I highly doubt that it is the elder Naschy under the werewolf makeup, jumping out of bushes onto unsuspecting couples. This, however, is not a major issue. The highlight of Tomb of the Werewolf is its array of attractive women all of whom I enjoyed watching very much. The downside of Tomb of the Werewolf is everything else. The film did afford me a wonderful daydream, however. There is a bar sequence early in the film where Richardson’s Daninsky completes the contract with the paranormal television crew. It appears as if the actors in the scene have quite the buzz going on while performing. Wouldn’t it be nice to be able to drink alcohol at work and get paid while drinking? That would be cool.

School Killer (2001)

School Killer is a post-Scream, Spanish horror film where Naschy is the killer of the film’s title.

Six young adults, three males and three females, arrive at an abandoned school during a spooky evening to spend a weekend. They are led by Ramón (Carlos Fuentes) whose father has recently died. Ramón’s father left Ramón his diary, detailing a fateful evening he spent in the abandoned school with five friends in 1973. This diary was the impetus for Ramón bringing his friends to the location during the present time.
School Killer is talky, and being a film of the post-Scream era, a lot of the dialogue is meta. Although the characters explicitly reference films like Scream 3 and The Blair Witch Project in their dialogue, I do not believe the film makers wanted to make an American-style film in a Spanish setting with Spanish actors. Is School Killer successful? Is it derivative of its American predecessors? In my opinion, yes to the latter question and “kind of” to the former question. There are creative sequences, indeed, but there are also myriad problems: School Killer is too talky, poorly paced, and has a very unsatisfying ending.

The best scene of School Killer, unsurprisingly, involves Naschy. Its setting: the toilet. Naschy plays a psychopathic killer and he confronts a young woman in a toilet stall in an unsuspecting manner. Naschy delivers ridiculous dialogue in a straight-faced, intense manner. One can easily see in the elder Naschy the same energy and charisma that drove his previous roles. This scene, alone, is worth multiple viewings.

Latidos de pánico (Panic Beats) (1983)

Panic Beats is a gem. It was written and directed by Naschy who also stars. “Latidos de pánico,” writes Naschy, “is a revisitation of the claustrophobic, phantasmagorical world of the most characteristic Naschy works. (from Memoirs of a Wolfman by Paul Naschy, translated by Mike Hodges, Midnight Marquee Press, Baltimore, Maryland, 2000: p.168.)

Paul (Paul Naschy) is a descendant of Alaric de Marnac, a medieval knight who murdered his unfaithful wife in cold blood. Paul is married to an ill woman, Geneviève (Julia Saly) and in order to help her recuperate, Paul moves his frail wife to the country into the ancestral home of the ruthless knight. A faithful maidservant, Maville (Lola Gaos), and her wayward niece, Julie (Pat Ondiviela), are in attendance at the home and will care for Paul's ailing wife. Soon after arrival, however, Geneviève begins having sinister visions, especially of Alaric de Marnac, and her health condition plummets.
Naschy returns Alaric de Marnac from El espanto surge de la tumba (Horror Rises from the Tomb) (1973) to cause havoc in Panic Beats. “Its the return of Alaric de Marnac,” writes Naschy, “this time in a plot of sex and violence set in a large house which appears to be lost in time, and in which the more modern parts are mixed with the most terrible of medieval traditions.” (“Filmography by Paul Naschy,” Videooze, Fall 1994, No. 6/7, ed. Bob Sargent, Alexandria, VA, 1994, p.39) As Naschy describes, Panic Beats is clearly a film of the fantastic but also a morality tale. The following paragraph has SPOILERS:

The best scene in Panic Beats has Naschy in the bathtub. He is smoking a cigar while bathing. Poor Geneviève is dead. Paul and young Julie have concocted a plan to kill Geneviève and were successful. The dialogue between Paul and Julie is precious: Paul openly acknowledges to Julie that both are wicked people and both should be grateful that they love each other. I love the sentiment: wicked people deserve to love each other or wicked people deserve love, too. Pat Ondiviela nearly steals this film.

Mondo Macabro released Panic Beats on DVD. Image Entertainment released School Killer on DVD. Tomb of the Werewolf is also available on DVD.

(Blue Jean Monster) Jeuk ngau jai foo dik Jung Kwai (1991)

2012-01-12T02:03:00.008-06:00

I love Shing Fui On. If I had to speculate, then I would imagine his most famous role to Westerners would be his villainous turn in John Woo's The Killer (1989). His role in Woo's masterpiece may also be representative--Shing Fui On was a seriously credible badass on screen. He oozed intimidation and induced fear. Like many Hong Kong actors, Shing Fui On acted in a lot of films, many times as a villain, but also like many Hong Kong actors, his roles were often diverse. Shing Fui On was an exceptionally funny actor, as well. I sought out (Blue Jean Monster) Jeuk ngau jai foo dik Jung Kwai (1991) on DVD, because 1) it sounded like some wacky shit and 2) if the IMdB is correct, then Blue Jean Monster is the only leading role for Shing Fui On.
Shing Fui On plays cop, Tsu, who is about to be a parent with his expectant wife, Chu (Pauline Wong). Tsu and Chu go and seek blessings from Buddha, and unfortunately, Tsu receives an ominous one. Chu goes to the clinic for a checkup while Tsu goes and investigates a bank robbery. Tsu arrives at the bank and interrupts the bandits (led by popular cinema villain Jun Kunimura who appeared also in Woo's Hard Boiled (1992) and Miike's Ichi the Killer (2001), for example). After confronting the gang at a nearby junkyard, Tsu almost subdues them. Unfortunately, a large amount of scrap metal falls upon Tsu and kills him. The gang escapes and mistakenly leaves a witness, super-cute Gucci (Gloria Yip). A little bit of accidental mumbo jumbo combined with a bolt of lighting, and BAM! Tsu resurrects. Despite having his original consciousness, Tsu operates as a reanimated corpse--his body can last just long enough to catch the bad guys and see his child born into the world.
In 2012, I've seen way too many Hong Kong films and way too many insane ones to boot. Blue Jean Monster has moments of good old-fashioned political incorrectness and seriously bloody violence, so pervasive in Hong Kong cinema before the handover; yet there are few standout sequences or jokes worthy of making the film memorable. The best sequence involves buxom actress, Amy Yip (and for the record, in nearly every film in which I've seen her appear, there is at least one or two jokes regarding the size of Ms. Yip's breasts). Yip attempts to seduce Tsu, but Tsu refuses to have sex with her, because he loves his wife. One of the sicker side-effects that resurrected Tsu suffers from is that from time to time, Tsu's eyes become opaque, and he becomes possessed (and is the monster wearing blue jeans that the English-language title suggests). In order for Tsu to snap back into his original consciousness, he must be shocked--literally with electricity or with a splash of cold water. Well, during his meeting with Ms. Yip, Tsu becomes possessed and in a rage grabs Amy Yip's breasts and gives them a monstrous squeeze. Her breasts expel milk all over his face, and Tsu snaps back into consciousness. This scene is classic Hong Kong cinema political incorrectness, and unfortunately, there are not enough "holy shit"-type scenes, like this, to make Blue Jean Monster memorable.
Blue Jean Monster is surprisingly restrained, even more so considering its director is Ivan Lai, who would go on to helm some truly nasty Category III exploitation flicks, like Chik juk ging wan (The Peeping Tom) (1997). Blue Jean Monster is primarily of interest for fans of Shing Fui On. He's especially endearing in this role as an expectant father, caregiver, and diligent cop. Those familiar with early-90s Hong Kong cinema know this formula and whether of he/she wants to visit this film. I love the cinema and love its participants, so it's worth seeing in my opinion but perhaps it’s not one to go out of the way to see, however.

Incubo sulla città contaminata (Nightmare City) (1980)

2012-01-10T07:30:00.003-06:00

Essential European cult cinema. I own the landmark 2002 Anchor Bay Entertainment DVD release of Incubo sulla città contaminata (Nightmare City) (1980) and per my usual viewing habits have left the disc in my player and watched it over and over during successive nights. The Anchor Bay Entertainment DVD release not only made Nightmare City more accessible to viewers but marked it as an important film of its era. While the film’s director, Umberto Lenzi, grants the film much more import during his video interview included as a supplement on the Anchor Bay Entertainment DVD, I found this print statement from the director, dated prior to the DVD release, very revealing. Perhaps it is just me, but I find the following statement kind of sad:

In response to the question, “In between MANGIATI VIVI! and CANNIBAL FEROX, you also made the Romero-esque INCUBO SULLA CITTA CONTAMINATA. How do you look back on it?”, Lenzi responds:

“When I shot it, it didn’t really seem to be mine, but now, seeing it again ten years later I think differently about it. Certainly I don’t much like the special effects and the blood flowing in torrents, but, in the film, the whole thing was achieved with a certain style; even Tullio Kezich spoke well of it in issue No. 799 of Panorama, published on 10/8/1981, and Leonard Maltin did, too, in his Movie Guide 1988, while the American Video Movie 1990 publication gives it two and a half stars, in other words, fairly good.” (Spaghetti Nightmares, edited by Luca Palmerini and Gaetano Mistretta, Fantasma Books, Key West, FL, 1996, p, 69.)

Nightmare City is the chronicle of a crisis, the end of humanity via radioactive zombies (d’oh!), told through the eyes of three couples. I have no proof of this but I believe the characterization is the contribution of co-screenwriter, Piero Regnoli, who is certainly the most sensitive and underrated screenwriter in Italian genre cinema. Regnoli masterfully writes dysfunctional characters and often imbues a rich complexity to a narrative. On its surface, Nightmare City is an episodic narrative, like a war film, and each episode is a battle in a different location: in an airport, in a television studio, in a hospital, at a gas station, and at an amusement park with a minor skirmish in a church. Finally, make no mistake, Nightmare City is definitely a horror film.

Dean Miller (Hugo Stiglitz) is a journalist assigned to interview Professor Hallenback (whose work is tied into nuclear energy). There is a malfunction at the state’s nuclear power plant and an alert has been issued regarding radioactive contamination. Miller arrives at the airport with his cameraman (Antonio Mayans, aka Robert Foster) to interview Professor Hallenback. A large, unmarked military plane (large enough to carry a squad of troops, hint, hint) makes an emergency landing on the runway. The police and military arrive to investigate. Professor Hallenback emerges from the plane...

What ensues is one of the greatest sequences in European cult cinema. With amazing energy, contaminated men jump out of the airplane and with knives and guns, they dispatch the military!

Stiglitz’s Miller knows this is bad news. He makes an attempt to warn the public but is thwarted by General Murchison (Mel Ferrer, an excellent actor giving an excellent performance). Miller abandons his duty as a journalist and seeks out his wife, Anna (Laura Trotter), a doctor at the local hospital. Meanwhile, Murchison summons his daughter, Jessica (Stefania D'Amario) and (presumably also) her husband, Bob (Pierangelo Civera) into the safety of the military bunker, where Murchison is formulating a counterstrike to combat the strategic movements of the radioactive raiders. Major Warren Holmes (Francisco Rabal) is summoned by Murchison to help on his day off. Holmes, unwittingly and unfortunately, leaves his beautiful artist wife, Sheila (Maria Rosaria Omaggio) all alone at home.

Nightmare City has quite a bit of bloody violence. In an almost Fulci-esque touch, Lenzi serves up the really sadistic violence towards the women. Almost every naked female breast exposed is one which will be traumatized brutally. This offensive aspect is not uncommon to the genre and is expected. However, horror cinema is not exclusively its violence. A brilliant sequence occurs later in the film when Rabal’s Major Holmes becomes aware of the severity of the crisis. He makes a feeble attempt to call Sheila and warn her of the danger. He commands her to lock her doors but has no idea whether Sheila will be safe. Sheila walks outside to encounter the ridiculous sight of a lawnmower, propelling itself slowly across the lawn. The image of the lawnmower makes no logical sense but that is why the image is so creepy: is everything just out of order?
The episodic structure of the narrative works well towards the pacing. While Dean and Anna engage in quite a bit of ridiculous dialogue regarding a deep-seeded fear towards science and technological progress, most of it can be forgotten. The quiet moments, such as Dean and Anna in a small gas station, are the perfect set-ups for Lenzi’s explosive battle sequences. Stelvio Cipriani’s score for Nightmare City ranks with the best of Fabio Frizzi and Goblin.

What I love about Nightmare City is that it is so ridiculous, so excessive, and so incredibly focused and well-made. Beyond the meticulous and exciting battle sequences, I love the quirky standout sequences. For example, Jessica and Bob ignore General Murchison’s order to come to the bunker. They take a trip in their camper to the countryside. In a single and effective sequence, Bob and Jessica realize the impending crisis and have a fateful encounter with another couple. In another, Sheila, the artist wife of Major Holmes, is making a sculpture. It haunts Warren the first time that he sees it. The second time that he sees it, the sculpture becomes a profound irony, a sequence rendered masterfully by Lenzi in the final act.
Umberto Lenzi is a fantastic film maker. In my opinion, he will always be overshadowed by his cannibal flicks. He made some excellent gialli, especially those with Carroll Baker. In terms of pure entertainment, however, European cult cinema does not get any better than Nightmare City.

The Innkeepers (2011)

2012-01-07T02:07:00.001-06:00

I like Ti West. A lot. I think that he's one of the most creative American film makers working today. I watched his recent film The Innkeepers (2011) as an on-demand rental via the Zune application on XBOX Live Marketplace. Twice.

Claire (Sara Paxton) and Luke (Pat Healy) are the sole workers on shift during the last weekend of business for the Yankee Pedlar Inn. An ex-actress, Lea Rease-Jones (Kelly McGillis) is a guest in the hotel. The inn appears very old, and like most old American buildings and institutions, this inn houses a ghost story. There once was a young woman named Madeline O'Malley who suffered a poor fate at the inn. Her corpse was hidden in the basement. Luke has created a website to document the paranormal activity at the Yankee Pedlar Inn, and Claire has agreed to help him this weekend, before the inn closes and everything shuts down.

Today, most horror genres are tired. Supernatural horror is especially tired. This is not to say that viewers do not get enough of it: television shows like Ghost Adventures and film series, like Paranormal Activity, are certainly strong evidence that the supernatural genre can generate a vast amount of income from the populace. There is, however, certainly a dearth of creative and innovative supernatural horror cinema. Is The Innkeepers innovative and creative supernatural cinema? Yes and no. Creative, yes, but innovative, no.

The Innkeepers is really buttressed by Sara Paxton's leading role as Claire. To me, she is a classic 'slacker' from the mold of the early to mid-nineties (trust me, as it takes one to know one.) As an incidental side note, I have no idea what year The Innkeepers is set but am fairly certain that it isn't 2011. It is so refreshing to watch someone so young and so not corporate. Claire tells Lea that she works in the hotel and beyond doing that she has no idea what her future holds for her; and she later asks Luke why does everyone have such high expectations? Today, one would intuitively think that she would be full of fear; and she better start networking, filling her CV with internships and the like, if she wants to have a successful career. She's positive and happy, however, with her station in life. Claire is even kind of goofy.

Hence, connecting with Claire is the key to enjoying to The Innkeepers. If you do not find her endearing, then The Innkeepers will be a chore to sit through, as this is pretty much Claire's film from beginning to end. I have never seen Paxton in any other film nor one that I can remember. She's wonderfully sweet as Claire and I found her energy infectious--so much so that if The Innkeepers were a straight comedy, then she would sell it for me. There's quite a bit of humor in The Innkeepers with a lot of it at Claire's expense. Paxton balances both the humor and the horror fairly adeptly.

I watched The Innkeepers twice in an attempt to resolve its ambiguities. Quite a bit of the film is vague: there are a lot of clues in the dialogue and elsewhere but there is little revelation. I'm curious as to whether The Innkeepers actually has an overall, unifying theme and I cannot say with certainty that it does. There are lots of interesting ideas within but no persuasive dominate theme stands out. What follows in the next paragraph are undeniably SPOILERS, so discontinue reading now if you have not seen The Innkeepers. During the following paragraph is also where I reveal how The Innkeepers is not innovative supernatural cinema.

After speaking with my brother, who watched the second viewing with me, we are both certain that The Innkeepers is a derivation of the “dead hate the living” theme. The dead harbor a grudge towards all that are still living, a la Takashi Shimizu’s Ju-on. In the pivotal scene where McGillis’s Lea reveals to Claire that she’s a healer (and a medium), the dialogue supports this. My brother and I believe that the spirits are talking to Lea revealing their plan to kill Claire and that “she,” meaning Lea, cannot help her. Claire, of course, erroneously interprets Lea to mean that Claire cannot help Madeline O'Malley. The only thing that Lea can do is to tell Claire not to go into the basement...of course, Lea doesn’t listen. Twice. Also, Claire’s overwhelmingly positive attitude makes more sense in this regard as a target for vengeful spirits. She’s living life regardless of its future. As interesting as this theme and related ones are, they are ultimately unsatisfying. Ti West makes low-key, slow-burning, and intense films. I think that some film maker in the future is going to have to really kick supernatural cinema in the ass for it to be innovative.

Anyway, I enjoyed The Innkeepers quite a bit and I’m certain that I’ll purchase the eventual Blu-Ray or DVD release. I’d love to hear a Ti West commentary. In any case, I would classify The Innkeepers as light, but it’s still way better than most films of its elk out there.

The Hole (1998)

2011-09-26T05:45:00.001-05:00

The Hole (1998) is Tsai Ming-liang's beautiful little film about a small part of the world at the millennium, ending not with a bang but with a whimper. The Taiwanese filmmaker sets his film presumably in a Taipei apartment building in an area where the government has encouraged its residents to evacuate. There is an epidemic in the area which is only second to a water shortage. "People cannot live on rainwater, alone" says a radio voice, mildly, over the opening credits. Two residents, however, have chosen to remain in the area and in the apartment building. Upstairs neighbor, portrayed by Lee Kang-sheng, is visited one day by a plumber who tells him that the downstairs neighbor, portrayed by Yang Kuei-mei, is experiencing a water leak. In order to discover if the leak is originating in the upstairs apartment, the plumber destroys part of the floor to expose the piping, creating a hole in the floor where the two neighbors are able to interact. Allegory is rare in Post-Modern art, because of its often transparent and focal nature. Fortunately, I rarely pay attention to it when its present in either film or fiction, for example, and surely, by reading the short plot set-up above, one can glean, at least superficially, some of the allegory within The Hole. As Tsai Ming-liang has emerged as one of cinema's finest filmmakers, it appears any allegory is wholly created by its viewer. The lithe film is deeper in its emotion and creative rendition, closer to Surrealism or Romanticism than any other school of art. The Hole is an apocalyptic film set in an alternative modern times which, save creative flourishes, looks exactly like our own. In one of the most humorous sequences, the upstairs neighbor goes to work at his stall in a market. The market, which one could presume is extraordinarily busy on any given day, is dead quiet. Kang-sheng's character is not deterred, and he resumes his routine: he opens his stall, prepares his wares, and before the customers hit the market, he feeds a stray cat that haunts the area. Littered around the empty stalls are myriad cans from previous days' feeding. The cat eats heartily. A customer arrives at Kang-sheng's stall and asks for a particular brand of bean sauce. Kang-sheng's character tells him that the brand has been discontinued for some time. The customer is disappointed and chooses to exit Kang-sheng's stall and find another vendor. For minutes, the customer wanders around the empty stalls, like a maze, before exiting the market area into the daylight.
This scene, like many in The Hole, reminds me of a celluloid painting and it makes sense only within its own context. Two later scenes in the market are more affecting as each builds on the other. Kang-sheng's character discovers another vendor within the market whose behavior involves not speaking and crawling on the floor like an animal. When Kang-sheng's character gives chase, the vendor retreats into a dark hole in the wall where Kang-sheng's character lets him stay. (The vendor's behavior is a symptom of the epidemic.) In the following market sequence, a hazmat crew arrives to fumigate the market, unaware or uncaring as to whether anyone is still present in the market. In a foreground, low-key composition, Kang-sheng appears in frame carrying the cat and like a cat, Kang-sheng is scurrying to leave the area. In a particularly sad touch, Kang-sheng loses hold of the cat and is forced to abandon it as the hazmat crew fills the stalls with its chemicals.
The downstairs neighbor, portrayed by Yang Kuei-mei, is incensed by her upstairs neighbor. From the first frame from within her dwelling, Kuei-mei mops up the leaking water in her apartment with dirty rags. The wallpaper is soaked and peeling, and it is quite evident that her dwelling is nearing complete ruin. Yet she stays. In subsequent sequences, Ming-liang shows the two neighbors engaging in similar behavior simultaneously in separate dwellings. In a signature Tsai Ming-liang touch, there is little dialogue within The Hole. In an almost literary touch, Kuei-mei's consciousness is rendered through musical sequences, as Kuei-mei performs song and dances to the music of Grace Chang. Not surprisingly, Ming-liang is able to take the antique songs and their lyrics and wholly and effectively weave them into his narrative. Like many other scenes, these sequences make their sense in their own context. Like Grace Chang's musical style, The Hole is pure and a throwback to cinema before, yet it's firmly rooted in its Post-Modern era. The Hole is the type of film that makes me not think of cinema as a product and instills the belief in the me that there are still artists making films. The Hole, and Tsai Ming-liang cinema in general, shows the beauty of subjectivity. (At the time of this writing, subjectivity in cinema is my current obsession, and films which take subjectivity as its focus are the only ones really getting my attention). The Hole is a lithe, playful film with a very carefree sensibility yet amazingly affecting without ever seemingly intending to be so.

Mad Max (1979)

2011-09-05T00:29:00.001-05:00

It had been years since I have watched Mad Max (1979), and thanks to Netflix Instant Viewing, I was able to revisit it. I originally saw the film close to the North American VHS release of its sequel, The Road Warrior (1981), which would have made me a lad of six or seven years old. Needless to say, I missed quite a bit of the text of the film, as I was mostly enthralled with both films' kinetic action sequences. My parents never censored anything from me, and for that, I am grateful. In any case, seeing Mad Max, today, it is the quintessential Post-Modern film, before being Post-Modern was hip. It's clearly a fantastic exploitation picture, rooted firmly in its genre, and clearly a milestone in "Ozploitation Cinema," the unique brand of genre cinema from Australia, which is now enjoying a renaissance. Mad Max is also a brilliant science fiction film which owes a clear debt to Stanley Kubrick's A Clockwork Orange (1973), for example, and provocative science fiction literature, such as the work by J.G. Ballard. In terms of visuals, director George Miller's seminal film was really only topped by Miller, himself, with the film's sequel.

Almost all science fiction, whether literature or film, needs a context. The viewer or reader needs to know what are the rules of the world: what is the year? how has technology advanced? And how has it affected the culture? In a brilliant subversive touch, Miller dispenses with the comforting science fiction exposition. "A few years later," as on-screen text, is all that is delivered. So what is shown? A suicidal, psychotic madman, known as the Nightrider (Vince Gil) is blazing through the countryside in his suped-up muscle car. Leather-clad men, who operate with methods a lot like the police, are bored. Over their walkie-talkies, they hear of the Nightrider's escapades. A leather-clad pair starts their vehicle. The vehicle is eerily similar to a modern NASCAR model. Jim Goose (Steve Bisley) interrupts his meal to hop on his motorcycle and join in on the action. One of their number remains silent in his vehicle, waiting for the Nightrider to pass his way on the road. If this leather-clad group is the police, one would intuitively think that they would attempt to subdue the Nightrider and end his reign of terror. Nope. They're going to kill him. The silent one, waiting in the shadows, is Mad Max (Mel Gibson), and he kills the Nightrider. The Nightrider's death becomes Mad Max's Pandora's Box: it invites the Toecutter (Hugh Keays-Byrne) and his violent crew and their wrath. Whoops.

The first act of Mad Max is totally disorienting. If the action sequences weren't enough, that is. There is almost nothing for a contemporary audience to reference to their own world. In a humorous touch, the leather-clad crew of enforcers reside in a decrepit and littered building, titled "Hall of Justice." However, they act like a crew hanging around a motor pool. The local mechanic, in one scene, shows Goose and Max the car that he built piecemeal. It's called an Interceptor, and it's decked-out to the max. Like little kids, they just want to joyride. The small towns that litter the countryside look like old Western towns, with dusty streets, tumbleweeds, and saloon-doors swinging in the wind. The Toecutter and his motorcycle gang pull their bikes up to the building, like they are hitching their horses. Hospitals are like garbage dumps, and ambulances are like tow trucks. WTF?

The essential premise of Mad Max is that men are violent creatures, and they quite enjoy their violence. Chaos is the norm, and civilized behavior is precious and rare. In melodramatic scenes, with accompanying melodramatic music, perfectly appropriate for an exploitation picture, maternal Jessie (Joanne Samuel), Max's wife, shows Max nothing but love. She attempts to sway Max out of his lifestyle. She's very patient, and eventually, Max sees the grotesque end result of violence. When Jessie is out of his life, however, Max returns to the life to which is he familiar. With excellent exploitation results. The final twenty minutes of Mad Max are exhilarating and totally satisfying.

There are also myriad, beautiful surreal sequences in Mad Max. In one scene, Goose has a wince-inducing, high speed crash on his motorcycle. Clearly disoriented (I'm guessing serious head trauma), he calls for help on his CB, but it is not connected. Goose begins to wander on the road as if being on the road gives him comfort. He commandeers a pick-up truck from a local to haul his bike back into town. Is he all right? No. In a charming way, he's bent and crazy.

In a hundred-and-eighty degree turn, Miller can also be haunting. When the Toecutter and his crew hound a couple down the road and subdue their vehicle by force, Miller cuts away from the inevitable carnage. Max and Goose hear of the exploits and go to investigate. When they arrive at the accident scene, they see the male of the couple running in a wind-shook field, half-naked and full of fear. One of the Toecutter's crew, Johnny (Tim Burns) is still at the scene, completely inebriated. Johnny has lassoed the female of the couple with a long steel-link chain, like an animal. She's been traumatized beyond belief. Later a local remarks that the couple's car looks like "it's been chewed up and spit out." Miller's aftermath scenes rival in power most filmmakers' depiction scenes. These surreal, trippy sequences are the heart of Mad Max: they flow from their own logic and are their own chaos.

Mel Gibson, regardless of what one thinks of him today, was immediately captivating and charismatic from his first scene. The youthful Gibson is amazingly handsome and virile. He's a very credible badass as Mad Max. Gibson plays Max as youthful, playful, and innocent, especially in his scenes with Jessie, and when he's behind the wheel, he's like a man possessed. The rest of the cast deserves further praise, as all are quite good. Miller's action sequences are all about speed. The viewer really feels as if he/she is literally riding shotgun on the action. Cars are presented as powerful tools of breathtaking violence. Is Mad Max thought-provoking? Certainly. However, it's one of those films which takes center stage here at Quiet Cool: it's too playful to be taken seriously, yet it's too serious to be taken lightly. Mad Max has many allusions and influences, too many to name here. A definite must-see for all serious thrill-seekers of cinema.

Diabolicamente... Letizia (1975)

2011-08-26T11:45:00.001-05:00

Diabolicamente... Letizia (1975) arrived at my doorstep on DVD, unexpectedly. The film, released under English-language title, Sex, Demons and Death, is a One 7 release. I must have dumped the film into my Amazon basket, ordered it, and forgot about it. I’ve given it a spin and am here to tell you all about it.

Architect Marcello Martinozzi (Gabriele Tinti) is married to Micaela (Magda Konopka). They are unable to conceive a child, and as a result Micaela suffers from depression with occasional bouts becoming severe. Micaela wants to remove her sister’s daughter, Letizia (Franca Gonella), from her boarding school and locate her to Marcello and Micaela’s villa. Micaela wants to raise Letizia as their daughter, despite Marcello noting that Letizia is no longer a child. The teenage girl arrives as the Martinozzi ward to the villa, and immediately, the entire household embraces an open dysfunction—everyone, including the servants, have almost sex (a term explained below), and Micaela’s depression worsens to madness.

Diabolicamente... Letizia seems a hybrid of two films which take aim at boo-gee values, The Exorcist (1973) and Pasolini’s Teorema (1968). Letizia becomes a willing catalyst for destruction of the family, exposing middle-class values as a house of cards. Unfortunately, Diabolicamente... Letizia does not have quite a film grasp on its own execution. The film is not campy nor is it sensational (unless nudity bothers the viewer). All of the would-be sensational material results in teasing: Letizia possesses a diabolical power which allows her to control others. She only uses this power temporarily. Her typical scheme is to engage say the manservant, Giovanni (Gianni Dei), or the maid into a sexual scenario with Micaela. When the two are about to have sex, she ends her power. Micaela pushes the other way, incensed, and summons the other away. Letizia does this herself with Giovanni and the maid (I apologize I do not know this actress’s name). She begins to seduce one or the other and immediately stops and scolds the other for trying to take advantage of her. I do not understand director Salvatore Bugnatelli’s motivation in this regard. It appears as if he wants to make an erotic film yet does not want to make Diabolicamente, a film of the erotic ghetto. I believe Bugnatelli admired Friedkin’s film in its ability to show shocking sensational material yet still retain its credibility as a drama. Pasolini, of course, was not concerned with such labels. Save Tinti, none of his actors are quite capable of making Diabolicamente the drama that Bugnatelli wants it to be. To the actors’ credit, the script is poor. So the almost sex makes it an almost genre film, and the lack of direction and poor script make it an almost drama.

Gabriele Tinti, as Marcello, is the only actor with whom I am familiar. Despite the fact that I must have seen hundreds of Italian genre films, none of the other participants are as memorable as Tinti. The handsome actor left quite a legacy in film. Within Diabolicamente, he shows his obvious talent and charisma, despite the ridiculous scenario. Not surprisingly, his character arc is the most interesting. Letizia is able to successfully seduce Marcello (they do not have almost sex). Not only does she seduce his body, but Letizia is able to influence his spirit. She convinces him to rethink his conservative lifestyle: she drags him to a dance club to his dismay and convinces him to purchase a prize of male virility, a hot motorcycle. By the beginning of the third act, it appears that Marcello is ready to embrace the coquettish young lady and forget his ailing wife. Of course, the plot of Diabolicamente will not let him do so, because the young lady is actually diabolical, and Marcello genuinely loves his wife.

Diabolicamente is quite boring, because it exists on a liminal plane: it’s too afraid to be erotic and not capable of being dramatic. The filming style does not appear to be professional, either. However, this is not a deterrent. Despite the fact that most of the compositions are not classical, some arresting ones are included. Of note are the compositions which play with the foreground and background. Overall, the visual style flows more from fear or conservatism, just like its narrative.

I have to give kudos to One 7 for releasing Diabolicamente on DVD. If I had to speculate, the lack of English audio on the disc makes me believe an English audio track was never recorded. Perhaps the film saw no export sales which led to its obscurity. Perhaps, also, the lack of notable participants, save Tinti, led to its obscurity. Perhaps, finally, Diabolicamente is just shitty and no one wanted to see it. Except me. However, anyone that reads Quiet Cool regularly knows that I like to take risks on curious cinema. It just didn’t pan out successfully this time.

L'alcova (1985)

2011-08-23T22:11:00.001-05:00

If La chiave (1983) is D.H. Lawrence, then L'alcova (1985) is Henry Miller. Well, not quite. Joe D'Amato's L'alcova found its commercial inspiration in Tinto Brass's film, and while the film lacks poetry, it certainly does not lack a charming vulgarity, visual beauty, and purity in an exploitative sense. L'alcova oscillates from latent offensiveness to patent offensiveness with the film being continuously offensive. Joe D'Amato's period piece begins in holy-shit territory and never leaves. For this film to exist and to be one of his most successful films (Spaghetti Nightmares, edited by Luca M. Palmerini and Gaetano Mistretta, Fantasma Books, Key West, Florida, 1996, p. 80), I am simultaneously offended and impressed. Whenever these conflicting emotions from me are elicited from art, I don't fight it. I also relish the opportunity to see my favorite Italian actress, Lilli Carati, in just about anything.L'alcova stars four titans of European Cult Cinema. Elio (Al Cliver) returns home to his indulgent wife, Alessandra (Carati), after a military campaign. Having won a victory over a tribe during his campaign, the tribal leader awarded Elio his daughter, Zerbal (Laura Gemser) as a prize. (Yes, you're reading this correctly.) Elio has brought Zerbal back to his lush villa to live. While Elio was away Alessandra kept herself busy with secretary, Velma (Annie Belle). Neither Alessandra nor Velma are happy to see Zerbal. Elio begins to produce income for the household by writing a book. He gives Zerbal to Alessandra as a servant, much to the disapproval of Velma.

D'Amato dispenses with lofty ideals for his narrative of L'alcova and employs various soap-opera trists. Someone is having sex with someone during almost the entire duration of the film, and D'Amato stayed with his strengths--handsome photography and production while delivering quite a bit of sensational material. L'alcova's singular setting, the villa, intensifies the action, so these characters are going to create their own traps and pitfalls. The notable character arc is with Gemser's Zerbal and Carati's Alessandra. Indulgent Alessandra enjoys being dominant, but as the film unfolds she becomes more seduced by Zerbal. By the end of the second act, it is Zerbal who is in command and Alessandra who is doing her bidding. L'alcova has a genuine point of no return. Elio's book plans to produce income do not come to fruition. Therefore, he embarks upon a journey to see a woman whose identity Elio learned from a man within his company. This woman is in possession of two films, what modern audiences would later call "stag" films. Elio negotiates a price and takes them. He also purchases a camera and tells Velma and Alessandra upon arrival at the villa, that they are "going into the motion picture business." With Elio's statement, D'Amato begins his third act with all the participants collecting together to watch the films, become aroused, and convinced that they can make a better one. The film becomes, unsurprisingly, more outlandish and patently offensive.

D'Amato had just finished filming Anno 2020 - I gladiatori del futuro, The Blade Master, and Endgame, and seemingly, he still had action movie mentality running through his veins. The plot of L'alcova is like an action film, building upon its action sequences, leading to bigger and better explosions. No pun intended, L'alcova works in the same way: the plot is a vehicle for a series of sexual escapades and episodes, each growing a little steamier or a little kinkier along the way. Unfortunately, all of the characters are rather repellent, so what the viewer is left with is a soft-to-hard core film. It's sensational, exploitation cinema, handsomely filmed, and filled with participants, each giving especially erotic performances. Lilli Carati gave one of my favorite performances in Fernando di Leo's Avere vent'anni (1978). In that film, she radiated energy and beauty. Her character personified the themes of the film and without her performance, it would not rank as one of di Leo’s best. Seeing her in L’alcova is quite different. Carati seems very cold and sophisticated and detached. This role almost appears as the beginning of the end for Carati’s career. When I watch her adeptly draw a line of cocaine to share with Gemser’s Zerbal, I shudder a bit. She would never replicate the energy from Avere vent’anni, again. Cliver and Gemser give perfunctory performances. Belle stands out from the others. She seems to have embraced her role of Velma. In all of her scenes, she imbues her performance with emotion and she works the dramatic range. Unsurprisingly, Belle gives the best performance. To D’Amato’s credit, L’alcova is a pretty hot film. It’s memorable for its participants and its overtly non-”politically correct” stature. D’Amato’s photography is in its top form. L’alcova would be followed by three films, all period pieces, and each features Carati. As L’alcova stands, it’s only for fans of its participants.

La chiave (1983)

2011-08-22T00:47:00.001-05:00

Despite its "erotic" moniker, Tinto Brass's La chiave (1983) is about freedom inasmuch as it is about sex. Based upon the novel, The Key, by Junichiro Tanziaki, La chiave is about a husband and wife who explore their sexual relationship through each other's diary. One spouse reads the other's and vice versa, leading to an awakening for both. Brass sets his film in 1940s Venice (for reasons that he states in his interview included as a supplement on the Cult Epics DVD release) to imagine a time when there was formalism in a marriage. That is to say, Brass sets his film during a time when sexual matters were not spoken of openly between spouses. Second, and most interestingly, Brass was intrigued by the idea of this matter of privacy between a husband and wife set during a very public moment. The resulting intimacy of the film is heightened, and the quest for freedom, undeniably, takes on more power. The professor (Frank Finlay) is married to Teresa (Stefania Sandrelli). They have a daughter, Lisa (Barbara Cupisti), and their close friend is Laszlo (Franco Branciaroli). Lisa is taken with Laszlo, but by all appearances, Laszlo is attracted to Teresa. The professor is very attracted to his wife, yet he cannot create a satisfactory sexual life with her. He begins to imagine her and create her in a different way: with the aid of Laszlo's camera, the professor begins photographing his wife in various positions. This leads him no closer to any intimacy yet only fuels his imagination. Subsequently, he fills his diary with his desires and leaves the key to his locked desk in the open. Teresa finds his diary and reads it and is in turn inspired to open up her life. Teresa begins a courtship with Laszlo, much to the dismay of her daughter, Lisa. Teresa awakens sexually while the professor grows ill.One of the key aspects of La chiave is that there are risks, limits, and sacrifices in attempting to obtain freedom. The professor does eventually reach an emotional intimacy with Teresa at the cost of the realization that he always loved her intensely yet was never going to be able to express those emotions towards her physically. The end result is that Teresa, upon her sexual awakening, finds love in the arms of another with Laszlo. As the professor grows ill and wastes away, Teresa comes to terms with the love for her husband. By the end, she has a new life waiting for her with Laszlo. Intuitively, one must think that the result is irony, but perhaps not. Freedom is presented in La chiave as a foreign concept with its results being unknown. This uncertainty is borne from fear. In one scene, Lisa, Laszlo, and Teresa are spending an afternoon together and decide to stop in a cafe to wait out the rain. Lisa is summoned away so Laszlo and Teresa are left alone. Teresa becomes frightened and wants to go home. Why? She's afraid of her desires which have now become stronger. She's afraid to let go. Likewise, as the professor grows ill (Finlay gives a very tragic performance), he realizes that his attempts to create his wife into someone she is not, he has lost precious time in appreciating and loving who she is. There is a particularly tender moment after the professor suffers a seizure. One of the reasons that Tinto Brass's cinema, especially his erotic cinema, is appreciated is that, like a horror author who indulges his/her own fear, Brass is in touch with what he finds sexy. In his interview included as a supplement on the Cult Epics DVD, Brass reminisces on the 1940s and why they are an important period in his cinema. There's an innocence and secretive nature to sexuality, almost incidental. Garters and stockings and high heels are some of his fetishes. In the film's best erotic scene, the professor is imagining a coupling between Laszlo and Teresa. While Laszlo undresses, Teresa teases Laszlo with a series of poses. None of Teresa's positions are vulgar, and if one looks closely, she is mimicking many a classic pose of paintings of centuries past. The professor grows jealous of Laszlo seeing a private and intimate moment of beauty from his wife. All of Brass’s trademark fetishes are present. The viewer gets very close to the intimacy of the film, and perhaps this is where Brass is most successful with La chiave. Cupisti as Lisa gives a subdued and sad performance, as her character eventually watches her father succumb to his illness and also watches her mother steal the heart of the man whom she loves. In the hands of a less adept actress, this role might be over shadowed, but Cupisti shines. Finlay is perfect as the professor. At times he seems a dry and staid academic, while at others, Finlay is animated and vibrant. He has a wonderful expressive face, so those Tarkovsky-ian tragic moments, like the professor sitting alone in a cafe, are really felt with his performance. Sandrelli literally and figuratively bares all in La chiave in a high risk performance which she executes with the utmost certainty. She is undeniably amazingly beautiful and she easily conveys her inner beauty and transformation as La chiave unfolds. La chiave is a turning point in Tinto Brass cinema and an important film in the evolution of erotic cinema.

Amore sporco (1989)

2011-08-20T09:09:00.009-05:00

Valentine Demy ("l'italianissima Marisa Parra") is Terry Jones, a young woman who wants to turn her passion for dancing into a career. She leaves her family and treks to Richmond, Virginia to enroll in a dancing school to learn the needed skills. Once in the big city, Terry realizes that the path towards her dream is littered with some shitty people, some decent people, quite a few erotic adventures, and tough decisions. Did I mention dancing? Lots of dancing, too. Joe D'Amato's Amore sporco (1989) seems borne from Adrian Lyne's Flashdance and the sequel to Saturday Night Fever (1977), Staying Alive, both from 1983. The script of Amore sporco is a mishmash of the narratives of the two dancing films with the softcore spice that only D'Amato could deliver. Ultimately, then, would Demy and D'Amato be able to transcend this film's Skinimax-cal roots and deliver memorable erotic sequences; or would Amore sporco languish in its dated 80s-ness, dance scene and light narrative? In other words, is Amore sporco sexy and is it worth sitting through? Let me openly be an asshole, today, and employ a risk versus benefit analysis towards Amore sporco.

There is no doubt that Ms. Demy is sexy, and D'Amato doesn't hide it. The opening sequence of Amore sporco is Terry being driven to the train station by her boyfriend. In a montage credit sequence, one can easily tell that he loves his girlfriend and wants to encourage her hopes and dreams. He is so full of happiness towards Terry's bold move towards her dancing dream that he is going to take the opportunity during the car ride to fondle her breasts and caress her inner thighs. "Don't betray me, Terry," he says as he drops her at the train station. Terry won't betray her boyfriend but she will forget that he exists (which is understandable). Terry misses her train, and the next two assholes that pick her up while she is hitchhiking also take to caressing her inner thighs. This is how D'Amato sets his exposition for his heroine: this is how the world sees her and this is her obstacle to overcome. In the hypocritical exploitative sense, this how D'Amato wants you, the viewer, to see his heroine yet he also wants you to sympathize with her, too. During her first evening in the big city and after dancing class, Terry is walking through a dark alleyway where two assholes, donning some serious heavy-metal attire, attempt to assault her. She is rescued by yuppie, Robert (Cully Holland), who takes her to his townhouse. He tends to her wounds, and despite taking a peek or two at Terry's crotch, Robert in gentlemanly fashion takes her home. After a series of assholes are introduced into Terry's life, is this yuppie going to be a saint? Probably not. Terry becomes taken with Robert and near the end of the first act, Terry and Robert consummate their attraction in the elevator in quite an erotic sequence. D'Amato employs some bold compositions in Demy-centric fashion. The actress with whom D'Amato is quite taken, especially Ms. Demy's legs and derriere, become even more focal in the subsequent two acts of Amore sporco. In two sequences where Terry is exercising and dancing alone in the studio, the compositions of the actress become the height of inappropriate. Well, inappropriate compositions in another film. These two sequences are unabashedly ogling time for the viewer, and Demy's irresistible. Interestingly, Amore sporco introduces a series of male assholes who take advantage of Terry. However, when dancing colleague, Michael (Jeff Stryker), recommends that Terry get a massage with his friend, Terry is cool when the masseuse becomes inappropriate. Why? The masseuse is portrayed by Laura Gemser, of course. I have never witnessed a massage where there is so much fondling of the buttocks. The sequence goes beyond unbelievable when Gemser's character introduces a foreign object into the proceedings. I was offended, but in hypocritical, exploitation-film-fashion, I was also amazed by this sequence. Unsurprisingly, Amore sporco does become overtly offensive with a political/sexual scenario, ending in scandal. By this point, the film could continue to unfold in this manner, but the narrative is intended to be inspiring: Terry's a dancer with hopes and dreams after all. As with most D'Amato narratives, Amore sporco suffers from a lack of focus. A couple of hallway dance sequences become tired very quickly. Way too much time is devoted a Chippendale-like dance club scene which ends, unintentionally, very funny at its attempts to be tragic. As an overall narrative, Amore sporco wants to celebrate dancing culture, in general, instead of chronicling Terry's dancing career. Then again, Terry's dancing sequences are sequences objectifying her body, so really the narrative is a vehicle for more sexy sequences. Valentine Demy is pretty hot in a leotard. Amore sporco has enough filler for the fast forward button and enough to deter most casual fans. As a Joe D'Amato experience, Amore sporco is kind of fascinating. I've always wondered what he values. A commercial impetus for most films, like Amore sporco, is certain, but there is always an overwhelming sense that there is someone with an intense love for the craft of cinema is behind the camera. With quite a bit of talent to boot. However, certain sequences, again as in Amore sporco, are sweet and then, within a moment's notice, the film takes a turn into holy-shit territory. Often I'm offended by exploitation cinema, but I'm never ready for when D'Amato pulls his shocking twists. This is an indefinable, amazing quality, and perhaps unique to D'Amato and a few choice filmmakers of his class. Joe D'Amato really excelled at softcore, erotic cinema, so see Amore sporco if a fan of the genre or a fan of D'Amato.

Sangue negli abissi (1989)

2011-08-19T16:08:00.012-05:00

Inasmuch as I love films made in the commercial wake of Jaws (1975), Sangue negli abissi (1989) is an incredible piece of tedious cinema. It's cinema done paint-by-numbers style--a little drama here, a little action there, and a big dorsal fin sticking out of the water, here. Sangue negli abissi has no energy in its pacing nor in its impetus. Sangue is a Joe D'Amato production, and the former statement is perhaps the most offensive aspect of it. Sangue is almost wholesome--a film about fraternal loyalty in the face of adversity. Huh?Four young boys are on the beach in Florida, enjoying the sun setting. A Native American approaches the young four and warns them of a monster, steeped in legend from when he was a boy. The monster resides in the water, and if ever the day the monster returns, the four boys make a blood pact to unite and fight it. Cut to present day, and the four are recent high-school graduates--one is the mayor's son, prepped for a military career; one has a father who was once a fisherman but is now scared of the water; one has lost his mother and is living a slightly wayward life with a distant father; and the final young man is happy-go-lucky with conspicuously a lack of a back story comparable to the other three. They all have names, yet I do not remember them. Not to be disrespectful towards this production, but I believe their names are not important. The happy-go-lucky of the four gets attacked and killed by a shark while his slightly-wayward buddy looks on. Cue the small seaside town shenanigans: enter sheriff, enter collateral drama, and enter plan to stop the shark. Let's get some of these characters into the water. Transition is the primary flaw of Sangue negli abissi. The script of the film is too short and too complicated, so ordinary scenes which would be cut out for pacing are included to its detriment. Sangue needed to decide which film it wanted to be--small-town drama or adventure. Unlike Jaws, the script (and the budget) of Sangue pulls in opposite directions--the drama hurts the adventure and vice versa. Surprisingly, scenes like the sheriff visiting the shark expert get little serious treatment in the narrative, but scenes like one of the young men having a heart-to-heart with his returning-home girlfriend get included. I don't even understand why the girlfriend is in the film. She's included as if Sangue needed someone to worry about the main characters. Someone needed to be at the foot of the pier when the young men returned from the shark hunt ready to say "I'm glad to you're safe."

All the locations appear genuine. Joe D'Amato says Sangue negli abissi was filmed "[i]n Florida mostly, though we did do a small part along the Mississippi River, which proved very awkward because the water there is very dark and murky. The actual underwater scenes, though, were shot in various places: at Venotene, in a Roman swimming-pool and in a New Orleans aquarium." (Spaghetti Nightmares, edited by Luca M. Palmerini and Gaetano Mistretta, Fantasma Books, Key West, Florida, 1996, p. 79). Sangue appears recorded with direct sound with little clean-up in post-production, as voice echoes in big rooms are heard, for example. During a night beach scene, however, where the local bartender decides to take a swim into the ocean for a slo-mo shark attack scene, her voice audio seems inserted to cover for the loud sounds of the wind and crashing waves. In addition to the genuine locations, all the actors appear to be its residents. That is to say, Joe D'Amato and company showed up to shoot Sangue and asked people, "May we shoot a film in this home? And would you be willing to act in a scene here? We're making a Jaws-like film."

Raf Donato is the credited director. Joe D'Amato explains: "Raf worked with me in Giubbe rosse as dialogue coach, taking care of the actors' English diction. He's Italian-American and lives in New York. He works for Martin Scorsese as diction secretary. ¶ When I met up with him again after ten years, he revealed to me that he wanted to start up as a director, and so I went along with the idea. However, after shooting the scene where the kids gather to seal their blood pact, he realized that he didn't feel up to directing the film through to the end, and since I was on the set anyway as producer and director of photography, he agreed that I should take over." (Spaghetti Nightmares, pp.78 -79) Take over he did, and Joe D'Amato went into professional mode keeping Sangue clean with classic shots, such as close-ups, mediums, and wides. D'Amato shoots Sangue in a wholly uninteresting style, save the underwater scenes; yet he takes a flawed script and wrangles a coherent narrative. It's a palatable package in an established commercial market for buyers and distributors. "It was very successful abroad," says D'Amato, "it even sold well in Japan." (Spaghetti Nightmares, p. 79)
The best scene of Sangue negli abissi comes in the third act at an underwater wreckage, where the young men engage in the laborious, ridiculous, and complex task of killing the shark by detonating the wreckage (and hoping to kill the shark with the blast). The scenes of the wreckage are brilliant and made me wish the whole film was set down there. The dark shadows and corners of the wreckage are merely a plot device for Sangue, but the mystery that D'Amato creates with his visuals are enough to see this talented director working on something not worthy of his time. Sangue negli abissi is the very definition of tedium and is recommend for those who enjoy tedium. I presume, perhaps unwisely, that there are few who enjoy such. With a "mechanical shark's head and the rest we used [from] stock footage shots that we bought from National Geographic," (Spaghetti Nightmares, p. 79) Joe D'Amato pulls another cinematic prank at the expense of all. Including the shark. Rock on.

Stake Land (2010)

2011-08-03T20:35:00.001-05:00

Three of my all-time favorite horror novels stem from the premise that the vampire is an invasive specie, leading to an epidemic of catastrophic proportions: I Am Legend by Richard Matheson; 'Salem's Lot by Stephen King; and Midnight Mass by F. Paul Wilson. Unfortunately, the screen adaptations that I have seen have rarely been satisfying. The Last Man on Earth, starring Vincent Price, and The Omega Man, starring Charlton Heston, both adaptations of Matheson's novel, are entertaining because of their leads; yet both lacks something special making them truly great. Both television adaptations of King's novel have their strengths: Tobe Hooper's 1979 version has better casting of the leads and stronger performances by David Soul, Bonnie Bedelia, and James Mason, for example; but the mini-series suffers from poor pacing and structure. It's biggest flaw is with its rendition of the villain, Barlow. The 2004 version is better-paced and the collateral characters are better cast: Rutger Hauer plays an excellent Barlow, and while I enjoy Mason's performance in Hooper's version, I much prefer Donald Sutherland as Straker. James Cromwell was particularly affecting as Father Callahan. The 2004 version of 'Salem's Lot, however, suffers on all other fronts with its biggest flaw being its modern-day setting. There is also an adaptation of Midnight Mass which ranges from the occasionally brilliant to completely fucking up the source material. I would be curious yet reticent to see another film which had as its premise a vampire epidemic, leading to an apocalyptic situation. When the recent Stake Land (2010) was announced with a DVD release, my curiosity was piqued, yet I wasn't interested enough to give it a gander. I gave in when I learned that its director and co-writer was Jim Mickle and its star and co-writer was Nick Damici: the same duo who made Mulberry St. in 2006. Mulberry St. was unique in the fact that it was a modern-horror film which created a real sense of community, buttressed with likable characters with good performances. I have a rule when I watch horror films (really any film but especially horror films): if any character within the first fifteen minutes of the film annoys the shit out of me, I cut it off and go do something else. I didn't even think of my rule while watching Mulberry St. The atmosphere of the film was adeptly-drawn, and the visuals were extremely creative. So with a creative team of filmmakers and a very intriguing premise, I gave Stake Land a spin.

At the beginning of Stake Land, the vampires have taken over the world, and survivors are few. Most humans have banded together in makeshift towns, scattered throughout the country side, away from the big cities. One evening, a young man, Martin (Connor Paolo), and his parents and infant sibling, are taking shelter in a farmhouse. The family is attacked by vampires, but Martin is saved by an older man whom he calls "Mister" (Nick Damici). Now alone, Martin accompanies Mister on a trek to a place called "New Eden," a community in Canada where vampires have not been seen. During their journey, Mister teaches Martin how to take care of himself in this new world. The two also make new friends along the way who become traveling companions: a nun (Kelly McGillis), a pregnant young woman (Danielle Harris), and a young marine (Sean Nelson). In addition to the vampires, who are feral and animalistic, there is a violent cult called the Brotherhood who are kidnapping and murdering their fellow survivors. Stake Land is going to be an adventure.There are grander philosophical ideas within Stake Land about humanity, but they reside in the background and really only take focus in reflection. The human drama is focal in Stake Land, and Mickle and Damici are able to recreate that strong kinship from its characters, so evident in Mulberry St. Dialogue is sparse, and the character motivations are surprisingly simple. Mister and Martin help people without asking for anything in return. It is so refreshing, because the modern character is drawn as if he/she has to earn the audience's trust. It lacks the post-modern irony that every relationship is built around power: you must want something, don't you? Mister and Martin do not. Likewise, the Brotherhood characters appear as despicable characters, especially a leader named Jebediah Loven (Michael Cerveris). Their single motivation is that they are the few to be saved while the other survivors are food for the vamps. With the simplicity of the focus of Stake Land, human drama, and the simplicity of each character motivation, Mickle and Damici can add depth to details. For example, when Danielle Harris's character is introduced (named Belle), she is singing in a bar in one of the makeshift communities. It's a sweet performance and quite endearing. With the subsequent images, not with some trite dialogue, the viewer realizes that her performance bought her a meal that night. There is not a lot that a pregnant young woman can do in this new society to earn her keep. She is going to have to depend on others' kindness, at least a little. Stake Land is full of these enriching yet subtle scenes. Visually, the duo of Mickle and Damici top their work from Mulberry St. Ryan Samul, who also lensed Mulberry St., captures some arresting compositions. Post-apocalyptic imagery and images of destruction are often affecting, and Samul makes many of these images beautiful. None are overt and none are designed to be shocking. Later, Martin in voice-over, after a vampire attack, relates his feelings about the carnage. The victims are piled together in the center and covered with blankets. A child victim is amongst their number. Her small feet protrude out from the blanket. It is this image that affects Martin, and he comments upon it. Likewise, there are many such images within Stake Land which have a similar effect upon the viewer. In addition to the visuals Graham Reznick did the sound design. He is responsible for work on Ti West's The House of the Devil and Trigger Man, for example. With his body of work as it stands now, Reznick is one of cinema's finest technicians. The sound design of Stake Land is wonderfully layered from echoing screams to the effective use of music throughout the film. The vampire sequences are particularly intense with a standout sequence occurring at the beginning of the third act. It's survival horror. Period. Veteran actress Kelly McGillis gives an outstanding performance. She has such an inherent beauty and vulnerability that is as evident in Stake Land as in say, Witness. Danielle Harris has blossomed into a fine young actress, and it is very easy to fall in love with Belle. Cerveris as Loven almost steals every scene that he is in, and Damici plays Mister as a kind-hearted and wounded warrior. He brings a tragic quality to his role. Connor Paolo has to carry the film as the proverbial heart of Stake Land: wide-eyed and innocent, it is though his eyes that the viewer takes this journey. After Mulberry St. and Stake Land, I'll see anything that the duo of Jim Mickle and Nick Damici make. Like Ti West, the two are clearly superior to their contemporaries in the genre. So, Stake Land gets a hearty recommendation, cool cats. See it.

Docteur Jekyll et les femmes (1981)

2011-07-14T10:34:00.001-05:00

Walerian Borowczyk's Docteur Jekyll et les femmes (1981) stands as one of his crowning achievements in his career: playful, transgressive, subversive, erotic, and beautiful, inside and outside of the film: Borowczyk attempted a ruse at a skeptical public: the authors of Immoral Tales write, “At one time Borowczyk stated that he had based his film on the original Stevenson manuscript--which was supposed to have been destroyed by Stevenson’s wife because of its sexual content. He claimed to have discovered a copy in the Bodleian library in Oxford. He confessed later, to film critic Tony Crawley, that this was all just a stunt, but still maintained that his version was truer to Stevenson’s conception than any of the earlier films. Dr. Jekyll wants to be Mr. Hyde; he uses the transformation as a way of letting his unspoken desires have free reign.” (Immoral Tales: European Sex and Horror Movies: 1956-1984, by Cathal Tohill and Pete Tombs, St. Martin’s Griffin Press, New York: 1995, p.226) Borowczyk even had the help of novelist and collaborator, André Pieyre de Mandiargues, who writes in his preface to Borowczyk Cineaste Onirique, “Walerian Borowczyk a-t-il vraiment retrouvé, à Londres, quelques vestiges de la version initiale, ce n’est pas impossible.” (Collection La Vue, Paris, France: 1981, p.7) This stunt by Borowczyk, by its appearance, seems a just a joke, played for the fun of playing a joke. I suppose he needed to play one somewhere, somehow, as there is little intentional humor in Docteur Jekyll despite its playful nature. Docteur Jekyll et les femmes is an ambient film, designed to be disorienting. To accompany Borowczyk’s impressive visuals, composer Bernard Parmegiani creates a dissonant score which effectively haunts the film and creates its own moods. As a composer of images, few compare to Walerian Borowczyk. Often his compositions are compared to still paintings in their striking quality. Borowczyk did the set design for Docteur Jekyll et les femmes, and unsurprisingly, the film has myriad beautiful set-pieces. Of specific interest, however, is Borowczyk’s use of point of view with his camerawork in Docteur Jekyll. Borowczyk effectively mixes the subjective and the objective point of view with his camera in both subtle and overt fashion. This style becomes its most affecting (enhanced by Parmegiani’s score) as the film reaches its climax. Let’s start at the beginning first.

Doctor Jekyll (Udo Kier) is engaged to be married to Fanny Osbourne (Marina Pierro). To celebrate this engagement, a party is being held at the Jekyll home. In attendance are Jekyll’s mother and Osbourne’s mother (no fathers?), an eccentric general (Patrick Magee) and his indulgent daughter, a reverend (Clément Harari), and Jekyll’s long-time friend and academic rival, Dr. Lanyon (Howard Vernon), amongst others. In the film’s meticulous first-act sequence, following a murder on London’s streets, the guests arrive in staggered fashion to the party. As each arrives, he or she signs a commemorative guest book. Of course, this is classic character exposition, but Borowczyk concludes his first act effectively--the last, late guest to arrive, in a darkened foyer, is Edward Hyde. His signature more than announces his arrival: it begins the second act of terror as he has his way with the party guests.

The underlying theme of Borowczyk’s take on Stevenson’s story is personified in the relationship between Jekyll and Lanyon. Jekyll is an advocate of transcendental medicine while Lanyon is an empiricist. Lanyon sees life as limited by what is perceived by human senses. Jekyll intends to prove during this evening’s events that there are senses and awareness beyond the scope of human perception. This awareness can be achieved and realized.

The philosophical theme of Docteur Jekyll isn’t belabored with dialogue: it comes only as dinner conversation. Borowczyk’s visual style is the real commentary. Think of the classic, “objective” film style: wide frames (often used as establishing shots), medium shots (primarily focuses on character action), and close-ups (which focus on characters’ faces and highlight emotion). Now think of the subjective shot. This camera positioning is to substitute for the point of view of another character. The subjective composition is designed to be unique, so what is shown in the frame is to expose something about who is doing the seeing in as much as it is about what is being shown. The framing of a subjective shot differs from the classic, “objective” style: off-kilter framing is typical and handheld work of the camera is frequent. What is so interesting about Docteur Jekyll et les femmes is that it is composed primarily of subjective shots. At first glance, I thought that Borowczyk’s style was arbitrary framing, but that thought gave way with subsequent viewings. The reason that I thought the style was arbitrary was that there were myriad shots composed as if they were glances around corners, through doorways, and down hallways. There was an overtly voyeuristic quality to these sequences, yet there was no character to reference these subjective shots. In one sequence, for example, Jekyll has handed his last will and testament to his lawyer in which he disposes all of his property to Edward Hyde. The scene is covered with primarily one composition of Kier standing in his laboratory with the camera from behind a door’s threshold and partially obscured from a corner. This is clearly not a shot from the point of view of Edward Hyde, lurking in the darkness, as the viewer is “looking” at Hyde in his form as Jekyll. This is a subjective shot with no character reference: a subjective shot from no character, subjectivity beyond a human perception...very nice.

As masterful, meticulous, and playful Borowczyk’s film appears, according Howard Vernon, who plays Dr. Lanyon, perhaps it was more chaotic on the set:

“I can remember a German actor named Udo Kier in this picture. He was also very nice but became quite angry during filming because Walerian had to finish the picture earlier than planned. He had some money problems and so many, many nice and important scenes had to be cancelled. He also cancelled a very interesting scene with me. I played a doctor who does an autopsy on a young murdered girl...[Vernon’s response edited by me for “spoilers” here]...Borowczyk was very much in love with the leading actress, Marina Pierro, an Italian girl.” (European Trash Cinema, Vol. 2., No. 5, ed. Craig Ledbetter, Kingwood, TX: 1992, p.42)

Vernon’s final statement is a truly an understatement. Any casual or cursory stroll through Borowczyk’s cinema involving Marina Pierro will instantly see his worship for the actress. As Fanny Osbourne, her character is objectified as Jekyll’s fatal flaw: as much as Jekyll wants to merge his old self completely into his new self as Hyde, the only vestige of his old life which he wishes to keep is his love for Fanny. The film’s most famous sequence comes from Fanny’s point of view, where she witnesses Jekyll’s transformation. It’s a low-key sequence in terms of action but it’s hypnotic in its rendition, with appropriate dim lighting, Parmegiani’s score perfectly punctuating the action at key moments, and its languid pace. The transformation sequence perfectly sets up Fanny’s later decision in the final act where the film escalates to its violent and chaotic conclusion. The compositions of Pierro in the third act, especially, are marvelous. Haunting and beautiful.

I would be remiss to not add how nasty Docteur Jekyll et les femmes is. There are few filmmakers that I can think of who love to upset and disturb conservative viewers more than Borowczyk. In terms of erotic content and flesh display, Docteur Jekyll pales to other Borowczyk cinema (although quite erotic sequences are included). The lack of erotic sequences may make Docteur Jekyll more accessible to conservative viewers, as erotic sequences tend to divide and disturb those viewers more than violent scenes. While Docteur Jekyll has more grisly aftermath scenes of victims than of scenes of graphic violence, they are, in my opinion, equally affecting. So prospective viewers are forewarned. I have never watched Docteur Jekyll et les femmes just once. When I view the film, I have to watch it again. It’s a mesmerizing experience, as it’s just one of those films which takes everything that we hold dear in our culture and turns them on its head. Playful and perverse, beautiful and disturbing, creative and innovative: that’s Docteur Jekyll et les femmes and Walerian Borowczyk cinema.

Il Decameron (1971)

2011-07-06T08:05:00.003-05:00

The Decameron (1971) was the first in a trilogy of films by Pier Paolo Pasolini, all three based on classical works of literature, borne each from different cultures. The Decameron is adapted from the work by Giovanni Boccaccio; and in his own words, Pasolini relates his desire to make the trilogy of films:

"But more than one 'ideological' element is hidden in these three films I have made. The main one is the nostalgia for the past era which sought to recreate on the screen...to me [making the Trilogy] represents an entry into the most mysterious inner workings of the artistic process, an experiment with the ontology of narration, an attempt to engage with the process of rendering a film filmic, the kind of film one saw as a child." (573)

Nostalgia and narration, perhaps linked together:

"Never was cultural analysis more wed to everyday life, nor more self-revelatory; Pasolini found himself in everything, and everything flowed back to his selfhood. For him, the ancient playwright codified human realities, those deep-seated characteristics of man that predate politics. These are tied to the 'uterine experience'--to Susanna, to whom all loyalty went--and were 'irrational,' the material of dreams and poetry. Fighting for the place of the irrational in politics (that is, in rationality) was fighting for himself and for her, for his commitment to her and thus his most profound identity. But he was going to fight without losing what the ancient Greeks called sophrosyne (self-control).
"He was never to abandon this theme. The mysterious visitor in Teorema is this irrational god, this Dionysius of the post-Revolution. The Trilogy (1971-1974) based in fable appealed to him because what he called 'archaic' societies--those societies preliterate, preindustrial, without sexual inhibition or class manipulation--had the wisdom (not to be confused with science or progress) to give the Eumenides their due. The worlds of the Decameron and Canterbury Tales and Thousand and One Nights had not lost touch with the irrational, not fallen into 'conventionality, conformism, standardization,' which he saw growing at an alarming rate in Italy in the summer of 1960. That they existed only in his creation hardly mattered: If the artist cannot create, God-like, what distinguishes him from other men?" (370,371) Pasolini appears as Giotto, an artist painting a fresco upon a cathedral’s wall, during the second half of The Decameron. His appearances, interestingly, segue the episodes of the second half of the film and also serve as commentary. The three-act structure of the traditional narrative for film, which to some viewers wholly defines “film,” is dispensed. The non-classical style of filming, with its photography by Tonino Delli Colli, is far from arbitrary but doesn’t necessarily seem organic. The energy derived from the locations, the performers, and their ancient stories create The Decameron, indisputably, into an affecting and enduring work of art.

Two of the most famous episodes from The Decameron are its best and are easily contrastable. In the first episode of the two that appear, at a villa, a family is celebrating over dinner. The young daughter of the household is confronted in the forest by a young male guest who proclaims his love for her and his desire to be with her. She shares the same feelings yet does not know any possible way that the two can be together. The young man plans a scheme: he tells the young lady to sleep on her balcony during the evening where he will visit her. The young woman tells her mother that she desires to sleep outside, so that she can hear the nightingales sing while she sleeps. The parents agree, and the young woman is visited by her lover. The two spend the night together, and in the morning, the father awakens to find his daughter with the young man. He awakens his wife, and the two conspire to arrange a beneficial wedding between the two young lovers. Of course, the threat of death to the young man is a strong inducement to the wedding. The father and the mother awaken the young couple and deliver their proposal to the young man. Without hesitation, he accepts the proposal unequivocally and will marry the young woman. In the later sequence, three brothers share a home with their sister. One morning, one of the brothers sees a young man leave their sister’s bedroom. The three brothers ask their sister’s lover to accompany them on a walk into the countryside. They murder their sister’s lover and bury him in the field. The lover appears to the young sister in a dream and reveals the whereabouts of his corpse. The next morning, accompanied by her maid, she finds her lover’s body. Unable to move his body, the maid helps the young woman remove his head, and she takes it home, washes it, and places it in a large pot. The pot is covered in basil and rose water and placed on the window sill of her bedroom. In their most comfortable categories, here is comedy, ending in marriage, and here is tragedy, ending in death, respectively. If there is any consistency in Pasolini’s visual style in The Decameron, then it is with powerful use of the close-up on his performers. Uncannily, Pasolini is able to capture (and/or generate) such unforced emotion from his participants. Like his character of Giotto, who finds inspiration for his religious fresco from the faces of the populace, Pasolini sees in his performers’ expressions genuine emotion. The life and energy that Pasolini wanted to capture of a people of his youth (or for a people that never really existed) are translated through The Decameron. It is easy to see that Pasolini’s attempts at “filmic purity” are an attempt at trying to capture something essential in humanity. A bold endeavor, indeed, and at the present moment, I believe that Pasolini comes very close to succeeding.

The Canterbury Tales (1972) would follow The Decameron and it shows a more confident Pasolini. The Canterbury Tales is also a lot more playful and certainly more willful than The Decameron. There is an innocence to the style of The Decameron which only enhances its impact. A personal favorite. All parenthetical notations which follow quotes are citations to pages from Pasolini Requiem by Barth David Schwarz, Pantheon Books, New York: 1992.

Jeunes filles impudiques (1973)

2011-07-05T01:02:00.001-05:00

Jeunes filles impudiques (1973) is a very shy piece of erotica."Lionel [Wallmann]," says director Jean Rollin, "obliged me to put some sex scenes in Requiem...during that dungeon sequence. I told him that I wasn't too fond of that kind of thing, and he answered: 'But you do that kind of thing very well. If we make an entire film like that, I bet it would be successful. You may not like it, but you know how to do it.'" ¶ I said, 'Okay, I'll do it, but I won't invest any of my own money to do it.' Well, he raised the money, we made the film [Jeunes filles impudiques], and he was right. The two sex films I made, this one and Tout le monde il en a deux (1974) were very successful.” (Virgins and Vampires, editied by Peter Blumenstock, Crippled Publishing, Germany: 1997, p. 148)

Jeunes filles impudiques is shy in two ways. One, the film was made during a liminal period in cinema, not just in France but elsewhere. Pornography was not yet legal in France, although it would be at the time his Les demoniaques (1973) opened in her theatres. (Virgins and Vampires, p.149) Erotic cinema, prior to the legalization of pornography, had a clear boundary. How far filmmakers were willing to push their content, in terms of explicitness, towards that boundary, varied. Cultures were changing in their attitudes towards depictions of sex, and hence, perhaps, producer Lionel Wallman’s desire to enter into the sex-film market was a direct result of these cultural changes. The second way that Jeunes filles impudiques is shy, Jean Rollin explains: “It’s strange, but it was more embarrassing for me to shoot my first softcore film, Tout le monde...; I walked off the set one day because I couldn’t direct phony lovemaking. When it became real, I had no problem at all. I really don’t know why. Maybe because in softcore films, the only person revealing his obsession is the director, because he has to call the shots while the actors simply do as they are told. In porno, both the actor and the director are in the same position. One reveals his obsession, and the actors live them out, so there is nothing to be ashamed of.” (Virgins and Vampires, p.148)

Jeunes filles impudiques is about Monica (Joëlle Coeur) and Jackie (Gilda Arancio), two friends who are making a camping trek through the countryside. The two, while wandering, come upon a maison, and from all appearances, it is empty. They decide to spend the night there. A jewel thief (Willy Braque), however, is using the maison as a hideout. When Monica discovers the jewel thief, all three spend the night together, and in the morning, Monica and Jackie leave. The jewel thief’s two associates (Marie Hélène Règne and Pierre Julien) arrive to split the stolen jewelry, and it is revealed that the loot is gone. The trio decides that either Monica or Jackie must have taken the loot, and they go off to find them.

The story of Jeunes filles impudiques plays out like an adolescent detective story. (Interestingly, in Immoral Tales in a footnote, Jacques Orth is revealed as “[t]he sex-film maker Jack Regis, who had also written the script for Rollin’s pseudonymous sex film Jeunes filles impudiques (1972) (Immoral Tales: European Sex and Horror Movies, Cathal Tohill and Pete Tombs, St. Martin’s Griffin Press, New York: 1995, pp.158, 176); whereas in a filmography, compiled by Mark Brusinak with Peter Blumenstock, Christian Kessler, and Lucas Balbo in European Trash Cinema Volume 2, Number 8, Nathalie Perry is the credited screenwriter. (edited by Craig Ledbetter, Kingwood, TX: 1993, p.27)) The kindest way to describe the story is to say a youthful energy and curiosity wisp the tale along; while one could also describe the film as tediously episodic and tenuously linked. Take your pick.
Jeunes filles impudiques is a curiosity in Rollin’s curious filmography, of interest for the charismatic presence of Joëlle Coeur and a look into how Rollin would broach the sex-film genre. As to the latter, the first sex scene is revelatory, as is a later scene (which would contain repeated imagery from Rollin’s other cinema.) When Coeur and Arancio arrive at the maison, they find the bedroom upstairs. At a leisurely pace, the two fold down the bed and put slipcovers over the pillows. The two get into bed after undressing and begin cuddling and kissing. The scene never really changes in its energy. Rollin then pans from an ecstatic look from Arancio to a shot near the floor (a finishing or climatic shot, rather than a transition). The scene resumes again, and the sheets are definitely off of the actresses. The flesh is much more on display, and the writhing is pronounced. Seeing the sex scene in two parts, like this, is as if the first wasn’t satisfactory and the second was perfunctory. In a humorous final shot to the scene, Coeur stands at the bedroom door while the camera sits in the hallway. Coeur’s Monica slams the door upon the camera, as if a third scene will play out but not for the viewer. In the film’s best visual sequence, a gazebo is located somewhere near the maison. The gazebo is covered with stained-glass windows of varying colors (which Rollin plays with in a voyeuristic sequence later with Marie Hélène Règne). After Braque’s jewel thief captures Monica and Jackie, Jackie is the first to be interrogated. She is located to the gazebo and bound by her wrists to the ceiling. This is clearly an exploitative scene. Little questioning is done, as Braque takes a small whip to Jackie. Arancio’s nudity is focal as is the kinky bit with the bondage and the whipping. These images do not last long. Rollin cuts to the camera’s point of view, substituting for Jackie‘s. Marie Hélène Règne circles her victim as the camera makes a circular pan. Her ultimate act of torture is trimming Jackie’s hair with scissors. However, the scene concludes with a nasty act by Règne, but it just appears as perfunctory exploitation fare.

Joëlle Coeur was a painter who was suggested to Rollin for the role of Monica by a mutual friend. (Immoral Tales, p.150). She also stars in Tout le monde and Les demoniaques. Coeur is amazingly beautiful, and it is quite evident that Rollin was completely taken with her charisma. In several scenes, it appears as if she is just doing what she wants, and Rollin has no problem with that. Her absence is felt when she is not on screen.

I am certainly glad that I was able to see Jeunes filles impudiques in an English-language version via the DVD released by Redemption. It ultimately comes off as uninspired straight sex film, although there is Rollin’s sweet sensibility and shyness carrying the film. Jeunes filles impudiques is ultimately of interest to Rollin’s fans and is definitely worth a peek.

Sucker Punch (2011)

2011-07-04T03:02:00.008-05:00

The younger brother and I had a steak dinner via the stove top, as it was a hundred degrees outside, far too hot to do the holiday-grilling routine. After dinner, he had an espresso, and I settled in with a mug of coffee. I asked him if he wanted to watch a movie, maybe something off of Video on Demand, and he did. I perused the selection and narrowed my picks. I asked him to finalize my pick by choosing one to watch. Here is how I presented them:

1. Did he want to watch a Norwegian movie about trolls?

2. How about a German zombie flick? Or, it could be a viral-outbreak flick?

3. Did he want to see a Quarantine sequel sans Ms. Jennifer Carpenter? Maybe set on an airplane?

4. Sucker Punch. I heard it sucked and I've only seen one Zack Snyder film.

"Let's watch Sucker Punch," he said. So we did.

Within the first few minutes of Sucker Punch, I quickly realized that at thirty-six years old, I am three times older than its target audience. I had heard the Eurythmics song during its original incarnation as a child in the eighties, heard the Manson redux, and am certain that at least once more I will hear it again redone before I die. When I heard "Army of Me," I thought Tank Girl? And again later, was that the song from The Craft that played over its credits? From time to time, my brother paused the film, appropriately via the XBOX controller, and we bullshitted about movies.

Above all else, I value imagery in cinema. One striking composition can become memorable while a string of them can create lasting memories. At some point, those images become affecting, and the story that they tell can touch strong emotions and evoke deep thought. Likewise, cinema can just be beautiful scenes flickering along--that's cool, too.

Sucker Punch has narration, has emotion, and has a story. In order for me to grasp any of the mentioned three, I am going to have to watch Sucker Punch, again. Sucker Punch is a "theatre" movie. You're definitely looking at it.

During Dave Chappelle's brilliant run on Comedy Central on his sketch show, he had a skit where he presented a scene of himself entering into a laundry mat with a sack of dirty clothes over his shoulder. He sat down his laundry and said hello to an elderly woman folding her clothes. That was it, the whole scene, mundane and boring. Chappelle then presented the same scene again to his audience. This time Chappelle strolled into the laundry mat in slow-motion with an accompanying beat as the soundtrack. A wind machine blew his attire around, and the elderly woman folding her clothes appeared as a young woman, dancing to the soundtrack. Persuasively, Chappelle proved slow motion made everything look very cool.

Who doesn't love the scene of a snowy Japanese temple with a courtyard, imposing mountains looming over its walls while soothing soft light emits from candles within?
Whether it's Meiko Kaji, Lucy Liu, or Emily Browning in the frame, this imagery is a cinematic battle arena. It's live-action anime and gatling-gun crazy. Around the time dragons appeared within Sucker Punch, however, I was ready to watch something else or nothing at all. I flippantly told my brother that I would have loved this film when I was twelve.

"What movies did you love when you were twelve?" asked my brother. That espresso must have been jet fuel, because he was really alert.

Die Hard. Rambo. Robocop. The Lost Boys. As we bullshitted further, with the explosions in the background, we talked about how the best escapist movies were about escaping. The underlying trauma and situation from where the young women from Sucker Punch are escaping, when you stop to think about it, is quite horrible. If their situation was presented in any other way, then I wouldn't be writing like this. Who wants to travel across country to see his wife to whom he is separated and decide whether or not to stay together? Killing a bunch of terrorists in a high rise fills the void. Who wants to revisit a country on whose soil a major conflict took place with a highly unfavorable outcome? Well, just one man, who fucking kicks everyone's ass by himself. Who wants to go to a quickie mart at eleven o'clock at night only to encounter an armed robbery? Anyone, because there's a badass cyborg roaming the city as law enforcement. Who wants to move to a new town and make new friends? How about meeting vampires?

Sucker Punch is in the same vein of the cinema of my youth. Somewhere, I'm certain, there is someone echoing my original sentiments about The Lost Boys: "Man, that was so fucking cool." Lost Boys has some serious subtext, too. When I got older that Rob Lowe poster made a lot more sense to me. Sucker Punch is cinema which belongs to someone else, just as The Lost Boys belongs to me.

Beyond any criticism of the film, already espoused by professional critics, Snyder's film is a little too serious for me. Sucker Punch could have taken at least a minute or two of its nearly two-hour runtime to loosen up and do something unexpected. I actually love the fact that Snyder made Sucker Punch so unabashedly. It's like a primer for a whole generation of filmmakers with new cinematic tools.

Anyway, this blog entry on Sucker Punch turned out to be more musing than substantive review or criticism. I enjoyed hanging out with my brother, having dinner on a holiday weekend, and bullshitting about movies. Quiet Cool needed to loosen up anyway. I also watched the Norwegian film about trolls. It was quite funny. Happy Fourth.

Kamikaze '89 (1982)

2011-07-01T23:37:00.001-05:00

Kamikaze '89 (1982) is one of Rainer Werner Fassbinder's last artistic endeavors. Subsequent to the release of his Lili Marteen (1981), Fassbinder was offered the lead role by producer Regina Ziegler who was developing the project for her husband, director Wolf Gremm. (175) Robert Katz, co-screenwriter of Kamikaze and author of Love is Colder Than Death: The Life and Times of Rainer Werner Fassbinder, describes Gremm as the director who held the record for winning the German film critics' Sour Lemon award more than any other director. (175) The Sour Lemon is awarded to the director who made the "worst film of the year." (175) Fassbinder was not deterred by Gremm's reputation and accepted the part but would back out of the role when he read Gremm's script. (175, 176) Katz was subsequently hired as a screenwriter to rewrite Gremm's script "in order to broaden the film's appeal and tap the English-language market." (176) Katz suggested that the source material, from the novel Murder on the Thirty-first Floor by Swedish author, Per Wahloo, set in the 1960s, be "projected into the near future of the 80s." (175, 176) Juliane Lorenz suggested the title Kamikaze while Gremm added the "'89" to "connote the future." (176) (All parenthetical notations previous to this statement are citations to pages from of Love is Colder Than Death: The Life and Times of Rainer Werner Fassbinder, by Robert Katz and Peter Berling, Jonathan Cape, London: 1987.)

Kamikaze '89, today, is little-seen and little-discussed. When the film is discussed, Fassbinder attracts the majority of the attention. Although it should be noted that Kamikaze's soundtrack by Edgar Froese and Tangerine Dream has developed quite a cult following. Cinematographer, Xaver Schwarzenberger, who shot Berlin Alexanderplatz and Fassbinder's subsequent directorial efforts until his death, lensed Kamikaze; and Fassbinder regulars, such as Brigitte Mira, who appears in a small role, and Günther Kaufmann, who appears in a fairly substantial role, for example, fill the scenery. Above all, however, Kamikaze '89 is perhaps notable or notorious, even in its obscurity, for Fassbinder's attire. Director Wolf Gremm explains:

"When I plan a film, I often think in terms of animal images for the characters. In conceiving Kamikaze '89, I always had Fassbinder in mind as a leopard, but I never told him this. At the first costume fitting I showed him fifteen possible futuristic detective and police costumes of very different styles. It happened like this: He came in. I was smoking a cigar. I offered him a Camel cigarette. He looked over the costumes. I smiled. Then he looked at me and smiled too. He said, 'You like this leopard one.' And I said, 'Don't you?' And he said, 'Let me try it on.' He looked at himself in the mirror and said, 'I love me. Now I'm Lieutenant Jansen.' From this point on, we never had to discuss the style of the film." (Love is Colder Than Death, p.177)

I wish that I could grab screenshots of Fassbinder in his leopard suit, but unfortunately Kamikaze '89 is only available on VHS in the U.S. (There is, however, a DVD released in Germany.) The leopard suit that Fassbinder wears throughout Kamikaze forms a part of an ensemble: his dashboard of his police vehicle is covered in the material; his exercise outfit with matching headband that he wears at the police club is also leopard skin; and even the handle of Jansen's revolver is covered with the soft material. According to Katz, Fassbinder liked the "phony leopard-skin" suit so much that he kept it and wore it from time to time in the remaining months of his life. (Love is Colder Than Death, p.178)

Germany. 1989. Society has solved all of its problems. For example, there is no unemployment and no pollution. Society runs like a machine with everything having its essential place. Mass-media is controlled by one powerful group, the Combine, who are located in a high-rise tower (which from the film appears that it can be seen from anywhere in the city.) One day, the group receives a bomb threat, and Police Lieutenant Jansen (Fassbinder) is dispatched to the Combine building to investigate. A note was sent to the Combine on particularly unique paper revealing the bomb's presence in the building. Jansen evacuates the building, and the bomb threat turns out to be false. Jansen's superior commands him to find the suspect behind the would-be bombing within four days.

In my view, knowing that Fassbinder would die soon after the completion of Kamikaze '89 (and prior to its release) gives the film a more tragic air. It is difficult to take any character seriously donning a leopard-skin suit, surrounded by neon motifs of the 1980s with accompanying colors such as hot pink and turquoise. The future, at least in cinema, is more palatable and hence believable when the color scheme is somber or dark, such as in Minority Report (2002). The costumes and set design of Kamikaze '89 are stimulating and are supposed to evoke feelings (echoing Ms. Lauper) of fun, but Fassbinder plays Jansen as a police officer floating through a completely mechanical and predictable society. Jansen holds a streak of forty-plus cases where he has successfully solved a crime. The successful completion of a case is the only thing that he has to look forward to. Jansen often tells the other characters "avoid asking unnecessary questions" or "avoid saying unnecessary statements": in his view, any attempts to be anything other than predictable is futile. The most popular show on television, pushed upon the masses by the Combine, is the Laughing Contest: twenty-four hours a day, a contest is shown where its participants laugh. The one standing last and still laughing wins. Demoralizing imagery just about everywhere in the city.

The traditional investigation with Kamikaze '89 isn't particularly viewer-friendly. Often my cinematically-trained mind passively watches the story, waiting for specific lines of dialogue or cues of dramatic music in order to recognize that a clue has been found or a breakthrough in the mystery has been had. For example, the paper upon which the note detailing the bomb threat is the second half of an award, handed out by the Combine to specific individuals. Hence, the paper is rare, since the award has only been given to about twenty-five people (a manageable list of suspects). Of importance is that the half of the letter was hand-torn and not cut with scissors. During a later scene, when Jansen is questioning the head of the Combine's nephew, who is now confessing to sending the letter, Jansen asks him where are the scissors that he used to cut the award in half. The nephew responds by saying that they are in his desk and that he has many pairs. Jansen, by this admission by the nephew, knows that his confession is false. No revelatory, contradicting dialogue comes from Jansen to impeach him; no dramatic music plays over this damning admission; and no cross-cut to an earlier scene as reminder come at all. I watched Kamikaze '89 several times over the past week, and it took me a while to identify this change in the investigation. Yes, I am that vegetative when I watch films. When Franco Nero appears near the end of Kamikaze '89, his character provides the most important information towards the plot and the investigation. However, despite Nero and Fassbinder giving very good performances, the impact and weight of Nero's dialogue are only really felt (and the viewer subsequently made aware) with subsequent viewings. I suppose Gremm wasn't that adept as a director.

One of the saddest scenes in Kamikaze '89 is Fassbinder alone in his apartment. He pulls a whitebread sandwich from the microwave and takes a bite. Its flavor must be quite disappointing according to his reaction. He leans against a table and eats the sandwich anyway. He arms himself with his camera (a futuristic police tool) and his gun and stares into space. Fassbinder looks like a bloated and fat drunk, dejected about what the future holds for him. The ending of the investigation is all that he has to look forward to, and his prospects are somewhat grim. There has to be something of value to carry him along. At the end of Kamikaze '89, Jansen stands alone, looking at the camera and laughing as the credits roll.

Môjû tai Issunbôshi (2001)

2011-06-28T12:38:00.001-05:00

Môjû tai Issunbôshi (2001) is Teruo Ishii's final film. Monzô Kobayashi (Lily Franky) writes detective stories and one evening, he attends the performance of cabaret singer and star, Ranko Mizuki (Mutsumi Fujita). The audience is quite taken with her performance, but Monzô notices one patron who cannot look at her at all. Later that evening, Monzô takes a stroll in the park and among the prostitutes and peddlers, he sees a diminutive man hurry from the park. Monzô decides to give chase to the man and follow him. Surreptitiously, Monzô sees the diminutive man enter into a temple and he decides to uncover the small man’s identity. The following day Monzô has an encounter with an acquaintance from his small village, Ms. Yurie Yamano (Reika Hashimoto) who asks him to introduce her to famous detective, Kogorô Akechi (Shinya Tsukamoto). Yurie’s step-daughter has gone missing and she would like Akechi’s help. Monzô approaches his friend Akechi and pleads with him to help Yurie. Akechi reluctantly agrees, because he is more interested in the disappearance of cabaret singer, Ranko Mizuki for whose final performance Monzô was in attendance. I have quite a fondness for the cinema of Teruo Ishii. I’m a huge fan of his later work, specifically, for example, Neji-shiki (1998) and Jigoku (1999) and I also enjoy his earlier cinema, such as Kyôfu kikei ningen: Edogawa Rampo zenshû (1969) and Kaidan nobori ryu (1970). Of his cinema that I have seen, his stories are grounded in “reality” (or at least, one of his characters is grounded in “reality.” I have put reality in quotation marks, because at the time of this writing, the word is too fluid as a concept for me to adequately define.). Môjû tai Issunbôshi (2001) is based upon the stories of Japanese author, Edogawa Rampo, whose mysteries and horror tales have made him a legend in his home country. Having never read the man’s work and having only seen film adaptations of them, his work appears to put him in the same league as other brilliant and pioneering pulp writers, such as Gaston Leroux and Bram Stoker, for example. Ishii’s adaptation of Rampo through Môjû tai Issunbôshi is a traditionally-styled mystery with traditional results (e.g. investigators gather clues, make their case, and solve their cases). Ishii’s visual style, as in his previous works that I have seen, is completely untraditional and unique. His characters and scenarios, as in Môjû tai Issunbôshi, are credible and believable and approach the world in like fashion. However, Ishii punctuates his films loudly with trips “through the looking glass”: the mise en scène becomes overtly theatrical and wild. These scenes are not everyday occurrences, to put it mildly. In any case, a description of a scene would do better justice than a description of his style, but a viewing of the scenes would trump both verbal descriptions. The English title of Môjû tai Issunbôshi is Blind Beast vs. Killer Dwarf who are the two antagonists of the two mysteries within the film. In the film’s opening sequence, hands are seen feeling an art sculpture while Mutsumi Fujita, as Ranko Mizuki, screams at the person touching the sculpture. She is the model for the sculpture and believes that anyone fondling the sculpture is like fondling her. The person touching the sculpture is a blind man, and the only way for him to appreciate and understand the sculpture is to feel it. When he learns that the flesh-and-blood model is standing in front of him, he becomes animated. When Ranko is kidnapped, the film reveals that the blind man is her kidnapper. In his home, the “Blind Beast” has a lair where he houses Ranko. His lair is comprised of constructed body parts made seemingly from poor plaster casings. Arms, legs, torsos, and faces protrude from the walls. At nearly every bit of space, one could reach out and touch and feel one of the objects. The blind man sees Ranko as living art and with his perverted sensibilities, he wants to capture her essence and make her his. Ishii’s style compliments this wildly and literally theatrical scene. He shoots actress Fujita in a completely sensational fashion. She’s very attractive, and Ishii cannot resist more than one audacious composition while she scrambles around the lair solely in her panties. Ranko and her captive’s relationship becomes closer as the film progresses, and Ishii pushes both his visual content and style. There are a few sequences which are jaw-dropping-ly amazing occurring in the “Blind Beast’s” lair, and it would be a disservice to describe them here. They are moments where instant rewind is necessary, because believing they were seen has to be confirmed. The lair sequences are just an example, as Môjû tai Issunbôshi has many of them. Despite the fact that Môjû tai Issunbôshi has a very creative visual style and a traditional narrative, there is sensitivity. However, this sensitivity comes at the cost of contradiction. Môjû tai Issunbôshi (and the other Ishii cinema that I’ve seen) can be comfortably labeled as sensational or exploitation cinema. If the viewer believes there is nothing behind the sensational veneer, then he/she will find nothing. However, really interesting cinema, like Môjû tai Issunbôshi, will challenge that belief. For example, the two antagonists, the “Blind Beast” and the “Killer Dwarf” can be understood in two ways: one can look at these two characters’ rendition and see them as freakish, grotesque, and other. Ishii does not deter this mode of viewing: they are perverts, kidnappers, and deviants with their criminal behavior. However, Ishii also affords the opportunity to see his antagonists as physically-disabled people who have been, as a result of their disabilities, treated poorly by others. Ishii shows two scenes, one a flashback and one in the present, involving the diminutive man and the blind man, respectively. They are both scenes of degradation and ridicule at the expense of the antagonists, and each scene ends with revenge. Each scene of course is visually-creative, sensational, and ridiculous, but the emotions within each scene are genuine. A viewer can continue to laugh at these characters or see them in another perspective...take your pick. I can find no fault with any of the performances within Môjû tai Issunbôshi. In addition to the titular characters, writer Lily Franky deserves mention as Monzô; drop-dead gorgeous Reika Hashimoto is very good as Yukie; and filmmaker Shinya Tsukamoto, as the detective Akechi, is always fun to watch. Môjû tai Issunbôshi shows a veteran filmmaker still being progressive (the film was shot on DV) yet still retaining his visual obsessions which have made his work so unique and interesting. As I have said numerous times here at Quiet Cool, those seeking the offbeat and different will certainly find Môjû tai Issunbôshi of interest. It’s a perfect introduction to Teruo Ishii or a wonderful capping to an amazing career.

Night Moves (1975)

2011-06-15T08:06:00.001-05:00

"Take a swing, Harry, the way Sam Spade would."

Harry Moseby (Gene Hackman) confronts Marty Heller (Harris Yulin), the man who is sleeping with Moseby's wife, Ellen (Susan Clark). Moseby is understandably hurt at his wife's infidelity yet he has not confronted her. If this were a traditional cinematic confrontation, then Heller would be getting a beating at the hands of Moseby, as Heller's line of dialogue (above) relates. Moseby, the ex-pro-football player turned private eye, would probably have little trouble with Heller in a squabble, as Heller needs the help of a cane in order to walk. The confrontation does not end in the traditional sense. Harry Moseby is a traditional private eye about to become embroiled in a classic noir case. However, Harry Moseby and his performance by Gene Hackman are not going to be given a traditional rendition.

Night Moves (1975) is directed by Arthur Penn, who previously directed Hackman in his excellent Bonnie and Clyde (1967), and is written by Alan Sharp. It's a clever script and in some ways, its spiritual kin is Robert Altman's The Long Goodbye (1973). Here's a quick plot synopsis:

Harry Moseby is an ex-football player now a private investigator. He is referred a case by a colleague, and the case involves a former actress of mild success, Arlene Iverson (Janet Ward), whose sixteen-year-old, wayward daughter, Delly (Melanie Griffith), has taken a flit. From Los Angeles, Moseby tracks Delly from a movie set in New Mexico to the southern tip of Florida in the Keys where she has holed up with her stepfather, Tom (John Crawford), and pretty Paula (Jennifer Warren). After a short stay in the Keys, during which a corpse is found in the bottom of the ocean by Delly, Moseby brings Delly back to Los Angeles to reunite with her mother. This reunion turns out pretty bad for all involved.

Alan Sharp's script and Arthur Penn's direction admirably strive for an engaging plot-driven thriller buttressed by strong character drama. My chief complaint about Night Moves results from this attempted balance between the plot drive and the character drama. At the film's conclusion (which is quite exciting), inexorably I was left with the feeling that I've watched a familiar noir story. Its strengths were clearly in its characters and their performances. There were nuances to each character that were so adept and intriguing that I almost wished that these characters would have stepped out of their conservative story and just roamed free to make their own decisions.

Moseby engages in three intimate relationships within Night Moves: one with wife Ellen, the second with Paula, and the third with young Delly. Hackman's relationship with Clark's Ellen is clearly a depiction of 1975 sociology: Moseby is the "new male": sensitive and ready to be vulnerable with his feelings. Moseby's silent brooding hides childhood fears and insecurities, instead of the traditional male depiction: stoic, a man of few words and almost completely of action. As Heller remarked to him during their confrontation, "Take a swing, Harry, the way Sam Spade would." Moseby and Ellen's relationship is defined by this conflict: Ellen really only wants Moseby to open up to her, and through his vulnerability, they'll achieve a real emotional intimacy. Despite the fact that Ellen and Moseby have an affecting and endearing scene later, where Moseby opens up to Ellen about his insecurities, the entire depiction of their relationship feels so transparent. In other words, there is this overwhelming sense that their relationship is defined by their "new" roles and confined to them. Save their endearing scene later, each never able to step out of their sociological models. Too much textbook, I guess.

Jennifer Warren gives quite a performance as Paula. At the end of the film, she is the character about whom I wished I knew more. Moseby and Paula have an instant attraction at their first meeting, and as Night Moves progresses, from all appearances, Paula is the character most like Moseby. It's fairly evident that she's reticent to share anything with Moseby about her life, and it's easy to tell she wants to open up to him but is scared. Every time that Moseby queries her, Paula immediately puts up her defenses: she wants to know if Moseby is asking about her as an investigator or asking about her as someone who might actually care to know about her. The relationship had such a charged potential and had it been developed further (to accompany Hackman and Warren's strong performances) undoubtedly the film would have elevated monumentally. Unfortunately, a lot of the mystery behind Paula's character doesn't hide anything of substance: Paula's mystery yields to the plot and by the final act, the character of Paula has more importance as a plot device. This is a shame, and it shouldn't take away from Warren's excellent performance. She's so sexy and so charismatic that she arguably commands every scene that she's in. In small but representative scene of how good Warren's performance is, Moseby is peeking through the blinds of Tom's shack down by the shore line on the Coast. He is clearly staring at Paula. Paula is wearing a sock cap and after noticing Moseby's gaze, she removes her cap and allows her golden blonde hair to fall out. It's a "stand at attention" moment. Melanie Griffith's young performance as the nymphet, Delly, attracts a lot of attention in conversation about Night Moves. I am only speculating, because in addition to her very provocative scenes, her character seems eerily similar to Griffith in her own personal life. Penn puts some real care into her depiction: clearly, he is attempting to show Delly's seductive charm yet he also adeptly balances showing that she's really just a child. Of all the characters, Delly has the most similar life to Moseby. Later when Moseby's past is revealed, one can see why he felt such sympathy for the wayward young woman. When Moseby completes his case and sends her home, the regret that Hackman shows on his face is felt immediately. Griffith has always been an interesting actress and has given some truly memorable roles, such as in Something Wild (1986). Griffith's emotion is always genuine and her charisma and beauty are undeniable. I would recommend Night Moves very highly as a character drama and would recommend it modestly as a thriller. Gene Hackman, one of the best actors of his generation, is at his peak of his abilities. He is absolutely brilliant as Harry Moseby. Night Moves has undeniable creativity in its character development but unfortunately has way too much conservatism in its plot rendition. There's too strong a desire to connect the dots to create a meticulous and organized picture where a looser more organic structure is needed. The plot hampers its rich and memorable characters and their accompanying performances.

The Passenger (1975)

2011-06-10T14:50:00.001-05:00

Jack Nicholson is David Locke, a British-born, American-raised journalist, working in Africa, covering a bourgeoning rebellion. Despite the fact that Locke was respected and successful in his profession, his heart was never into it. Unsuccessful in his attempts to make contact with the rebels on his current assignment, upon return to his hotel, he finds the corpse of fellow Briton, David Robertson (Chuck Mulvehill). Locke had a brief but affecting conversation with Robertson a few nights before and Locke has decided to literally trade places with the dead man. Locke will assume the identity of Robertson, and as far as the world is concerned, the corpse of Robertson will become the corpse of David Locke. With his new identity, Locke, now Robertson, locates to Europe where he casually pursues the future appointments of the dead man. Hoping to create a new life for himself, Locke, now Robertson, becomes embroiled in the drama of the dead man's life; and the past which he desired to escape is now becoming impossible. Michelangelo Antonioni "was revered by [Dennis] Hopper and [Jack] Nicholson," and "he was one of the first outsiders invited to see" Easy Rider (30). It was during this time that Nicholson agreed to be in a film for Antonioni, and Nicholson "owed" a film to the Italian director "on a handshake." (245). Likewise, Antonioni owed MGM the final picture of a three-picture deal with the previous two being Blowup (1966) and Zabriskie Point (1970). (245) Producer Carlo Ponti backed out of the original feature that was to star Nicholson and Maria Schneider to be helmed by Antonioni entitled Technically Sweet. (246) Instead, Antonioni took some ideas from the failed project and from a story sketch by Mark Peploe, and The Passenger (1975) was born. (246) Author Patrick McGilligan astutely relates the following facts, prominently evinced in the finished film: "MGM gave Peploe's treatment the green light. Cast and crew arrived on location in Algeria, however, without a finished script. This was preferable to Antonioni and only one of the unorthodox aspects of his working method...¶The director prided himself on being 'the outside pole of filmic idiosyncrasy,' in Nicholson's words. MGM was under the impression that Peploe's treatment augured a suspenseful thriller. But in Antonioni's hands The Passenger would become antidrama, a pseudo-thriller, 'a very long and elaborate and elusive chase,' according to Nicholson." (Jack's Life: A Biography of Jack Nicholson, W.W. Norton and Company, New York, 1995. p. 246. This is also the source for all previous parenthetical notations and all future ones.)

Michelangelo Antonioni is indisputably one of cinema's masters. Despite the wealth of intellectual ideas and accompanying artistic creativity with those ideas, I have always valued Antonioni first and foremost as a divinely gifted creator of images and one of the most sensual filmmakers that history has ever seen. Some of the most affecting and beautiful and powerful compositions that I have ever seen have come from Antonioni. From L'Avventura (1960), for example, my mind always hearkens to the image of the young woman's legs, tickling the paper bills at her feet with her toes. His cinema is seductive and emotionally infectious. I could care less that the following sounds pretentious, but I cannot say that I haven't been changed and affected in a monumental way by seeing Antonioni's cinema.The Passenger is dialectical. Most of the substance and the overwhelming themes of the film are in a tape-recorded conversation between Locke and Robertson that Locke plays while he sits in front of two passports about to make the symbolic gesture of swapping the two photos. (Not surprisingly, critic and theorist Peter Wollen, author of the Signs and Meaning in the Cinema, contributed to the script of The Passenger. (246)) In addition to its dialogue the Locke-Robertson recording affords Antonioni the opportunity to deliver one of the film's most heartfelt sequences. The Algerian imagery, which begins the film almost in silence, as Locke attempts to make contact with the rebels, informs the loneliness that brings Robertson and Locke together. Robertson, during that fateful evening, offers Locke a drink and from all appearances, Robertson only wanted some temporary and intimate company for the evening. The two did achieve an intimacy and a strong bond, but not quite what Robertson wanted. Both are "globe-trotters," and each remarks upon their mode of travel: Robertson believes that everywhere is essentially the same with the same formalities despite the outsider; whereas Locke believes the opposite--the individual traveler is the one who is the same and is constant, and his worldview is what clouds his surroundings. Hidden in this dialogue is Locke's impetus, and Antonioni's whole rendition of the sequence is masterful. A spiritual connection is forged between the two, and the viewer can actually feel it while watching. When Nicholson has a "chance" meeting with Maria Schneider, who is known only as "Girl" in the credits, about halfway into The Passenger, Antonioni quietly invigorates like Locke's character. By far my favorite portion of the film, beautiful Schneider steals the remainder of The Passenger. Gorgeous Antoni Gaudí architecture introduces the two, and the rooftop meeting where Locke enlists the help of Schneider's character is memorable. One of the most famous sequences from the film comes when Schneider asks Locke, now as Robertson, "one question": What is he running away from? He responds to her by asking her to turn around in their convertible where she sees the road behind them speeding past. In less adept hands, it wouldn't seem as affecting and beautiful. The Passenger is an Antonioni mystery, and anyone familiar with the filmmaker's work knows how Antonioni treats mystery and what he values. The Passenger was lensed by Luciano Tovoli, and it is a triumphant achievement in his acclaimed career. Like most of his cinema, there are more questions at the end of The Passenger than there are answers, but like most of his cinema, The Passenger is always worth revisiting, as Antonioni is always revealed as a true and affecting artist. Essential.

Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia (1974)

2011-06-09T05:15:00.001-05:00

In 2011, I'm surprised that Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia has not enjoyed a renaissance of sorts, with the least being a remake. With some very notable exceptions, Sam Peckinpah's 1974 film is remarkably modern: outlandish, over-the-top, offensive, and hyper-violent. I can imagine sitting in an audience today and hearing the chuckles of its members while Benny, portrayed by Warren Oates, drives his beat-up convertible on a Mexican highway taking intermittent swigs of tequila. "Have a drink, Al," he says as he pours some alcohol on the rotting head of Alfredo Garcia, covered in flies and resting on the passenger seat. Benny's a lovable loser, isn't he? Don't you want to cheer when he empties a clip into a bad guy (who falls down dying in a signature, slow-motion Peckinpah shot)? Like any modern action hero or any modern anti-hero, Benny has the witty one-liner--as he shoots a corpse on the ground, he quips, "Why? Because it feels so damn good." Here is a plot synopsis:A wealthy businessman, El Jefe, has an unmarried, pregnant daughter on the threshold of delivering. He demands that she reveal the father of her unborn child. Under duress, she reveals the name--Alfredo Garcia. Incensed, El Jefe makes a supreme command to his henchmen--"Bring me the head of Alfredo Garcia!" A ridiculous amount of money serves as the reward. Like sharks in a frenzy, his henchmen hit the street, looking for Garcia. Some of El Jefe's gringo henchmen create a local network, and two associates, portrayed by Gig Young and Robert Webber, find American piano player, Benny (Warren Oates) working at a tourist trap in a small village. In exchange for information on the whereabouts of Alfredo Garcia, they will pay Benny. Benny learns the location of Garcia from Elita (Isela Vega). Elita is the woman who Benny loves and she reveals that Garcia has died in a drunken auto accident. He is buried in a cemetery in a small town. Armed with this information, Benny confronts the local gringo network and makes his own demand: ten-thousand dollars in exchange for the head of Alfredo Garcia. It's a deal. The plot of Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia could be found within the leaves of any American pulp fiction novel. By its plot synopsis alone, Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia seemingly sits comfortably between Peckinpah's previous pulp adaptation, The Getaway (1972), from the novel by Jim Thompson, and Cockfighter (1974), starring Warren Oates, from the novel by Charles Willeford. Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia is composed of the same type of criminal scheme that intuitively every reader (or viewer) knows is too easy to pull off without a hitch. As the events of the story grow from bad to worse, intuitively also the viewer (or reader) knows that the greatest toll is taken upon the characters' psyche. A quick death is welcomed but not forthcoming. It is within this latter sentiment where Peckinpah's film stands out from his contemporaries. In my opinion, Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia is easily Peckinpah's most tragic and heartfelt film. There is no character more tragic than Elita, portrayed by Isela Vega. Her character is the thematic sister to Karen Black's Rayette from Five Easy Pieces (1970). Their characters and their portrayals are notable, because most often, they are seen with Post-Modern eyes: often cited as ironic characters, because both adhere to an ideal of love. So in the end, they appear tragic, because they're naive (instead of wholly genuine). Like Rafelson with Five Easy Pieces, Peckinpah's characterization is much more complex than its surface implies. One of the interesting questions within Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia which is never directly confronted is Elita knowing the exact whereabouts of Alfredo Garcia. Benny is surprisingly forgiving at Elita's answer: the last "three days and three nights" of Alfredo Garcia's life were spent with Elita. The time that the two shared were as lovers. Peckinpah's answer comes in the depiction of Elita's character and relates to ancient ideas of Fate or more modern, philosophical ideas of Determinism. Peckinpah's depiction of the world's treatment towards Elita is that of a prostitute. The famous scene of Kris Kristofferson and his buddy, as biker bandits, who raid a peaceful campfire scene of Benny and Elita, is made more powerful juxtaposed with its following sequence: at the desk of a local motel, the innkeeper attempts to refuse service to Benny and Elita, because he thinks Elita is Benny's prostitute and the two have come to use his hotel for business. The biker-bandit rape/revenge sequence and the innkeeper sequence follow from the same sentiment into wholly different and polarized scenarios: one, violent and primal, and the other, civilized and corporate. The message is the same--Elita has one identity according to the world and it's completely unfair. Unsurprisingly, Benny treats her the same way: if Elita had never spent three days with her lover, then Benny would have never known his whereabouts. If Elita never had Garcia as a lover, then Benny couldn't collect on his ten-thousand dollars. Benny's more immediately forgiving when the woman he loves is access to money. The irony, of course, is Benny not recognizing what is certain with Elita: her love for him. This theme by Peckinpah is amazingly resonant. One would never question that Peckinpah is intimately familiar with the depiction of traditional male virility and its flaws and attributes. Likewise, it is difficult to question his depiction of traditional male attitudes and their impetuses and results.Hence, it is easy to see why Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia is essentially unique in Peckinpah's filmography and how influential it would become to subsequent pulp adaptations for the screen, such as James Foley's excellent After Dark, My Sweet (1990) and George Armitage's equally excellent, Miami Blues (1990), for example. Instead of typical pulp melodrama, Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia delivers genuine emotion, and no tragedy would be complete without it. Understandably, it is a little too real to fit into today's ultra-hip, wink-wink cinema. Although I have to admit during the final sequence, no matter how many times that I see it, I still give a big smile when El Jefe's unmarried daughter, now a new mother, gives Benny a supreme command as he is pointing his pistol at her father. Seen in context of the whole film, it is the quintessential and ultimate sequence. Despite Warren Oates giving one of the best performances of his career, Isela Vega steals the film. While Peckinpah's slow-motion and meticulous action sequences often attract attention from his cinematography, these scenes do not over shadow Álex Phillips Jr.'s work in Garcia. Some of Peckinpah's most affecting and beautiful compositions come from this film. If Sam Peckinpah had made only one film or had made only one good film and that film was Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia, then he would still be a patron saint here at Quiet Cool. Essential.

Orgy of the Dead (1965)

2011-06-04T18:25:00.001-05:00

In 1965, if someone really had a hankering to see a burlesque show and didn't want anyone to know about it but really had no way of seeing an actual live one, then seeing Orgy of the Dead might punch his ticket. I don't know how one will fill this void, today, alas. According to Rudolph Grey, author of Nightmare of Ecstasy: The Life and Art of Edward D. Wood Jr., "Orgy of the Dead began life as an eighteen page script called Nudie Ghoulies. It was to have been composed of ten dances (approx. 42 min.), with twenty minutes reserved for the story." (Feral House, Portland, OR: 1992, p.209) The script of Orgy of the Dead is, of course, by Edward D. Wood Jr., based on his own novel. Grey continues, "The novel of Orgy of the Dead was issued after the movies release [1966]. According to director Steve Apostolof, Wood was paid $600." (176) The film's director, Stephen Apostolof, according to his interview included as a supplement on the Rhino DVD of Orgy, says he met Wood at legendary Los Angeles landmark, The Brown Derby (a meeting set-up by a mutual friend). The two had hopes of working together, although Apostolof was slightly reticent when he saw Wood's appearance: mini-skirt, wig, angora sweater, a moustache, and three-day beard stubble. Apostolof was ready to move into exploitation pictures (Rhino supplement) and hired Wood as production manager and had him help with casting. (Nightmares, 129) Criswell was cast as the "Emperor of the Dead," and "[t]he cape that Criswell wore was Bela' Lugosi's cape from Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein." (Nightmares, 209) Ted V. Mikels worked as a gaffer on the production. (Nightmares, 128) A writer (William Bates) and his girlfriend (Pat Barringer) are driving at night in a secluded countryside. They are looking for an old cemetery where the writer wants to go for inspiration for a horror novel. They crash and awaken in a cemetery where the "Emperor of the Dead" (Criswell) presides with his consort, the Black Ghoul (Fawn Silver). The Mummy (Louis Ojena) and the Wolfman (John Andrews) are there, too. The Emperor wants to be entertained this evening, and the entertainment will be several female dancers. Okay, this plot synopsis sucks, I know. I hate writing plot synopses. Here is Ed Wood's synopsis:

The night is dark, a deep darkness only produced by a threatening storm--a blackness cut at brief intervals by the crisscross of violent lightning flashes. The torrents of rain hit with resounding force.
Into this pressure of blackness and the foreboding mountain roads cuts another shaft of light--that of a set of automobile headlights.
A young writer and his fiancé drive the perilous dirt road in search of an ancient cemetery, necessary in his research for a new novel...They have been lost for some hours, unable to find their quest, or to find their way out of the mountains...When the storm hit, it gave them little chance of turning back...They could only continue on...
Then...the accident...a lightning-felled tree across the road--the squeal of brakes--the scream of injured tires--the crash!!!
A full moon flooded the ancient cemetery with light, even though a heavy fog lay over the entire area--the Master of the Dead and his equally infamous Princess of Darkness left their tomb to seat themselves on marble thrones, once again ready to judge those, the newly dead, brought before them...THE JUDGEMENT DAY...
The young writer and his fiancé, gaining consciousness after the crash, stumble, accidentally, upon these fantastic happenings...these horrifying rites...and are soon captured by the "Things" of the Night who take them before the Master, which orders them tied to ceremonial posts so they may watch the proceedings before they too join the others.
The Emperor hears, through interpretive dancing, the pleas of the many newly dead...The Main Street Prowler who lured men to her apartment and then fleeced and killed them...The Slave Girl who once was a princess and is now beaten by those who had been the slaves she had beaten...The Bride who murdered her husband and now must reside with his skeleton...The Indian Girl who tossed her lovers into the fires...But for an eternity now must toss herself into the fires continually...The Island Girl who loved snakes--used them to dispose of her lovers, and who now forever will live with snakes...The Girl who loved cats, and will remain a cat...and the One who worshipped Gold above all else--thus she is turned into solid gold.
The Princess of Darkness is about to take the young girl as her own slave when the first rays of the morning sun glisten upon the shiny blade of the knife. The Princess of Darkness, as all the others, are turned back into the skeletons and dust that they really are...
The young writer and his fiancé are then rescued from their wrecked car. Was it a dream?
Only the Night People know.
(Nightmares, p. 209)

Had Apostolof's film had just a little of Wood's enthusiasm, sensationalism, and innuendo, so evident in his writing, then Orgy of the Dead might have been a 60s kitsch classic. Unfortunately, it is not. As a finished film, it appears almost wholly devoid of energy. Yes, I understand that exploitation pictures are a market; their primary attraction is female nudity; and the window to draw a successful dollar from such a picture is limited. However, like most artistic endeavors, when the artist is lacking enthusiasm in the creation of his/her work, then his/her audience is going to recognize that. Most of the film is the dance sequences, punctuated by Criswell giving an over-the-top monologue or engaged in ridiculous dialogue with Silver's Black Ghoul. Nearly every dance sequence is shot in the same manner: typically, an overhead shot panning from side to side to cover all the action with medium close-ups edited in to break the monotony. The filming style has a more documentary feel, despite the theatrical set-up. At times, I felt as if I could talk to Apostolof while he was filming Orgy, then I would have said, "You know, it's okay if you find these women attractive. You could probably loosen up a bit and indulge your erotic artistic sensibility. Try to capture what you find attractive about each dancer." The final dance sequence really stands out, as it's quite different from the ones that preceded it. Like all of the dancers, she's quite attractive, and Apostolof changes his filming up a bit, like when she shakes her hips Apostolof goes for an interesting close-up. Texas Starr, who performed the kitty-cat dance sequence, is super cute. She has a fluffy feline outfit on that looks like loose pajamas, complete with cat ears. The outfit is cut open at her chest and at her bottom, making her a surefire Halloween Costume Party winner. She has such a pretty face, and like most of the dancers, it is evident that she put a lot of time and detail into her routine. Unfortunately, Apostolof shoots Starr's dance sequence in that boring overhead static shot. Her facial expressions, the little nuances in her dance, maybe a pretty smile--all of that is hidden.

Anyway, it doesn't matter. Like most of the cinema involving Edward D. Wood Jr., the most interesting facets involve Wood, himself. A larger picture of the artistic career of Edward D. Wood Jr. is beyond the scope of this blog entry, but for purposes here, it is suffice to say that Wood was one of cinema's truest outsiders. Apostolof notes that during the production of Orgy that Wood's drinking had gotten bad, and once he had to send Wood home to sober up. (Nightmares, p. 129) Wood had not directed a film since The Sinister Urge in 1960 and he would not direct again until the seventies. One of his later films is the infamous Necromania (1971), where most would experience their heart skipping a beat at the sight of Rene Bond. Save Criswell, I'm certain that the other performers in the film, like Fawn Silver and Pat Barringer, became part of Los Angeles' eight million stories and got lost in the shuffle. I highly recommend Grey's Nightmares for further reading on Wood and for those still curious about Orgy of the Dead. As it stands, Orgy of the Dead could have been a time-capsule gem but in the end, it is just tedious and cold.

Hardware (1990)

2011-06-01T23:23:00.001-05:00

I never really appreciated Hardware (1990) until very recently. I saw it in its original theatrical run when I was fourteen, but that run was clouded by the film's losing bout with the MPAA. Magazines like Fangoria and Gorezone championed the film, and by this point, most of its writers and genre film fans were sick of the censor's scissors. The Hardware that I saw in theatres was a trimmed version, cut for an "R" rating. The Hardware release was an outlet for horror-film-fan angst and it became a soapbox for every fan to rip on the MPAA. Substantive discussion about the film was neglected or hidden, although the film had its fans and those who thought it sucked. The film's director, Richard Stanley, would follow Hardware with his more daring, lesser-known, Dust Devil (1992), and then, for lack of a better word, disappear. Hardware had a subsequent VHS release of its theatrical version and was MIA on DVD (in a proper version, that is) until 2009 when Severin Films released a two-disc set of Stanley's director's cut. Today, the MPAA is more a formality than an actual force; according to his IMDB credits, Stanley has some feature-length projects cooking; and I can safely say that I've never really seen this film. As per my usual viewing habits, when my Severin disc(s) arrived, I popped it into its player and left it in, watching it several times over successive nights.Jill (Stacey Travis) is a real artist, living alone and working on Christmas Eve. Her sometimes boyfriend, Mo (Dylan McDermott), comes into town and wants to stay. He brings her a gift. He showers. The two fuck and go to sleep. Jill wakes up, works on her art piece, smokes some dope, and goes back to sleep. Mo gets a phone call and leaves the apartment. Jill wakes up to find Mo gone, and the gift that Mo brought Jill tries to kill her. Yes, this is a skeletal plot description, but I believe that it adequately describes the dramatic action. The flesh of Hardware is all the good stuff: sex, politics, art, religion, love, and violence. I always wondered what relationships in a post-apocalyptic society would be like and I suppose Hardware serves as a primer. [Incidental joke, Hardware is set in a post-apocalyptic society.] Post-apocalyp-tia would more than likely equal shitty living for most. In a harrowing image, as Mo and his friend, Shades (John Lynch) trek to Jill's apartment, Stanley shows in the foreground a baby tied to its parent who is either sleeping, incapacitated, or dead in the street: it's a perverse rendering of the concept of the latchkey kid. Radio DJ, Angry Bob (Iggy Pop), provides commentary over the proceedings and delivers one of the film's most memorable lines: "There is no fucking good news! So let's rock!" Shades is trying to convince Mo to go and scavenge in New York City to strike it rich, the dream of any American prospector; but Mo prefers his job in the "corps." It's steady work and steady pay for Mo with its only downside being away from Jill for long periods of time. Humorously, the combat isn't an issue for Mo, as Angry Bob relays over the radio that minor skirmishes and battles have very high death tolls. Jill lives isolated in her apartment, secured like a bunker, and does contract work with welfare support as her income. She doesn't necessarily like being alone all the time, but it's so fucked up outside there is really nowhere to go. Motorhead frontman, Lemmy, plays a cabbie, and he reminisces to Mo and Shades about the good ole days: at one point, you could go downtown with just some brass knuckles, a piece of pipe or a piece of wood or something--now, you need a gun. Fucking savages. Stanley's visual style throughout Hardware is amazing, but his introductory footage during the first third of Hardware is masterful: Stanley's images don't need his literate script as they are powerful enough on their own. Stanley does not falter on his characterization. Jill is one of the best female characters to emerge from a genre film in a very long time. She is a real artist, and by that, I am not referring to the quality of her art but to her personality. Anyone that has ever lived with or intimately known a real artist knows that they are intolerable people. More often than not, they are described as "egomaniacal" or "egocentric," as they are more self-centered than the normal self-centered person. Often consumed and obsessed by the creative process, their way of life revolves around it, shutting off the entire world around them, including the ones who love them. Jill is in this class and she deeply loves Mo. She is understandably angry that he is gone a lot, but ironically, her loneliness fuels her art. In a very adept touch, Stanley has Jill create a large web-like metal collage that is missing its center piece. Jill is taking inspiration for her work from a spider who is building a web in a nook in her apartment. She is feeding and caring for the arachnid, and the sensitivity that Jill is showing to the creature can only mean that natural life is rare in this society. In a very subtle yet powerful scene later in Hardware, the spider meets its fate. Its killer is a very satisfying and playful joke on Jill's art and this society. Poor Mo tells Jill that he's going to be around a lot more, and she doesn't believe him. However, the viewer gets the idea that it's true: he stops at the top of a flight of stairs and starts coughing like a sixty-year-old smoker. The discrepancy between Mo's life and Jill's is powerfully rendered in their shower sequence: Mo is so filthy that it looks as if he has dirt permanently ingrained into his skin. Jill has pale, pearl-white, and unblemished skin. You have to love the shot of Mo's metallic, prosthetic hand caressing Jill's bottom: a wonderful composition of metal and flesh: Stanley's main motif. Looming over Christmas Eve and hovering over the entire story in Hardware is the background story about the government on the verge of passing the "Population Control" Bill. The film's dialogue never gives any real depth into the Bill, yet Stanley weaves it into his dramatic action adeptly. Jill's collage and her relationship with Mo center around this historic bill, as having a child would change the dynamics of their relationship. One wonders how it would affect sexual relationships. Jill's neighbor, Lincoln (William Hootkins), is a lecherous pervert who takes to spying on Jill with his camera. He's a wholly repulsive person. When he and Jill have an encounter later in the film, I loved it when Jill said to him, "Okay, you can stop talking now." I think she was speaking for the whole audience. Still, Lincoln's character is a product of this society. His inclusion is eerily reminiscent of Rinse Dream's seminal (pun intended) Cafe Flesh (1982) about a post-apocalyptic society where is sex is reduced to voyeurism. Lincoln also becomes a de facto poster child for the advocates of the "Population Control" Bill. Travis shines in her scene with Lincoln. The second act of Hardware dominates most discussion of the film. The gift that Mo brought Jill for Christmas tries to kill in her in her small apartment, and plenty of praise has been heaped upon Stanley for creating some excellent claustrophobic horror. I need not repeat it. I've said so much at this point in the review and I haven't even remarked upon Stanley's effective use of religious iconography, Mo's psychedelic sequence in the third act, or the dreamy desert imagery with the "Zone Tripper." I could easily bang out another twelve-hundred words on these three, but I won't. The most important thing to mention is that Hardware is beyond an excellent, low-budget film; and the Severin disc set is well worth seeking out for those who like alternative cinema. Repeat viewings only strengthen the film, and Severin's package presents the film in a beautiful print with a wealth of supplements. Essential.

The Ring (2002), Ring (1998)

2011-05-20T00:20:00.004-05:00

Now, almost a decade removed, it is fairly certain that The Ring (2002) stands at the pinnacle in the West of a brief cinematic movement, which the West dubbed as, J-Horror. Gore Verbinski's film, starring Naomi Watts and Martin Henderson, would, to most Western viewers, eclipse the influential film that it remade: Ring (1998), directed by Hideo Nakata and starring Nanako Matsushima and Hiroyuki Sanada. Both films share an exceedingly yet effectively simple premise: a VHS cassette, once viewed, causes its viewer to die in seven days. Watts and Matsushima play investigative journalists who witness the VHS cassette and are forced to investigate the circumstances surrounding its creation. Why? It is the only way to find a solution, they believe, to stave off the impending death at the end of seven days. To compound matters, the only clues to begin the investigation are the images from the cassette, which, at first blush, appear nonsensical and incoherent. Watts and Matsushima eventually elicit the help of their exes, played by Henderson and Sanada, respectively, who, in turn, also witness the tape and become entangled in the mystery. I watched both films recently several times and find neither wholly satisfying. They are a lot more interesting to watch in close proximity to each other, because each polarizes the differences of the other. The differences between each reveal the other's uniqueness, where the artistry within each resides.For two films with nearly an identical plotline, the discrepancy between the two films' run times is notable: The Ring runs closer to two hours in length while Ring runs closer to ninety minutes. The discrepancy results from the rendition of the investigation. From a script from Ehren Kruger, Verbinski's film presents a much more traditional investigative narrative. The images from the VHS cassette within The Ring are much more accessible to both Watts's and Henderson's characters. Each is capable of dissecting an image and creating a lead out of it to further the investigation. Watts's Rachel can pinpoint a location of interest from an image whereupon she can learn the identity of a person of interest, etc. The video cassette in The Ring is really a puzzle and the subsequent film plays out like a mystery. Watt's Rachel is more than quite capable of making logical associations and identifying relevant clues. Assuming, also, that the seven-day time limit is also motivating her, she is truly diligent. A first viewing of The Ring is compelling, and Kruger and Verbinski deserve praise for their well-structured, meticulous story: it's an engrossing mystery. During subsequent viewings, however, the story reveals itself as tired: lots of characters populate this mystery, and the actors giving the performances range the spectrum: Brian Cox is a fine actor and shines. Most of the other actors, save the leads, range from competent and effective to holy-shit bad. For those in the latter of this spectrum, to their credit, their dialogue is often clichéd and comes off as grating.

To be fair, I must reveal after a couple of viewings, I stopped paying attention to the myriad characters, their dialogue, and the story; and I still found The Ring compelling. Gore Verbinski is, along with Ronny Yu, one of the most underrated commercial film makers who is innovative and creative visually. (I believe that Freddy vs. Jason (2003) is an amazing film on a visual level: daring, audacious, and intoxicating.) The lengthier script from Kruger allows for Verbinski to paint a picture of a dead America. A green hue clouds the entire film as a background color (and evokes the associated negative feelings, like pain and sickness.) The Ring is littered with imagery of old technology, old architecture, and other knick-knacks, like toys, of another era. All of this imagery seems organic within the film, whether it's images from the VHS cassette, events of the past in flashback, or the present world of Rachel and Henderson's Noah. Words like "ghost" or "curse" rarely, if ever, come from the lips of characters. I don't know how to adequately explain it, but a VHS tape that kills people in seven days seems quite appropriate for this world. In The Ring's best visual sequence, Rachel is riding upon a ferry from the mainland to an island (to investigate a clue.) The following scene initially seems nonsensical, although a shot of a newspaper clipping before the sequence and one line from actor Brian Cox both tie this sequence into the narrative. Rachel walks towards the cars and sees a horse carrier, hitched to a vehicle. She chooses to touch the horse within, and it becomes agitated. She attempts to touch it a second time, and the horse becomes animated. With a third and final attempt to touch the horse in an effort to now soothe it, the horse breaks free on the ferry and races between the cars. Rachel backs up to the ledge of the ferry and the horse darts towards her. She ducks, and the horse attempts to hurdle over the ferry's ledge. It violently knocks its legs mid-jump and tumbles into the water. Rachel looks over the ledge, and from her p.o.v., the horse is shown drowning amongst the white-capped waves. It's a horrible image but a beautiful composition, like a Salvador Dalí painting.

At seemingly the opposite end of the spectrum, Nakata's Ring is a humble and quiet production. If The Ring is a superior mystery to Ring, then Ring is superior to The Ring in horror. Both films have their main characters acknowledge the fact that despite an investigation into the creation of the VHS cassette, learning who created it or why it was created does not necessarily mean that anyone can stop the impending death after seven days. This sense isn't felt in The Ring. In addition to its longer run time, The Ring shows Rachel and Noah interact with so many people and go to so many places and are able to complete so much research. You'd think they had a month to work on it. Matsushima's Reiko and Sanada's Ryuji appear a desperate couple straight from the start. Aiding this sense of dread is an absence of exposition and the inclusion of sparse dialogue. Nakata only uses dialogue seemingly to advance his plot. Perhaps this technique, at times, makes Ring seem cold. Perhaps not. Take for example this composition from Nakata and compare it with Verbinski's reproduction:Nakata's composition is simple and is pure visual storytelling. Notice the symmetry between the two males, each holding an umbrella, with the only difference being their height. It's a peaceful meeting but a confrontational one. No words are spoken and none are necessary--this entire relationship is defined by this frame. It's a powerful sequence, and it's obvious why Verbinski wanted to reproduce it for his film. In The Ring, emotion comes from the characters and the actors' performances and the dialogue. Within Ring, emotion comes from the composition. How close or how far apart Reiko and Ryuji are from each other in the frame reveals their feelings. Undeniably, these characters grow closer towards the end of Ring, and it's just as effective as Verbinski's rendition. Static shots and natural lighting dominate Ring, and ghosts and curses are real within this world. It's the opposite effect of Verbinski's world: the idea of day-to-day living, loudly disrupted by an idea, a VHS cassette that kills after seven days, which becomes a frightening reality. How would you take care of your child? This is what Reiko has to face. Sanada's Ryuji dispenses with any regret over his former relationship to Reiko, and whole-heartedly attempts to help her. The ending in Ring is a lot more powerful than in The Ring, because it's more tragic. Also, Ring shows its viewer how short seven days truly are. I first fell in love with Naomi Watts in John Duigan's wonderful Flirting (1991). (I also fell in love with Thandie Newton and Nicole Kidman from the same film. This trio was a little too much for fifteen-year-old me.) With roles in Mulholland Dr. (2001), 21 Grams (2003), and Eastern Promises (2007), for example, Watts has become one of the finest English-language actresses currently working. Her talent is immediately visible during her first sequence in The Ring, and even when bad dialogue is served to her, she still shines in her performance. I anticipate, despite what I've written today, that The Ring will be memorable far into the future, because of her performance. As for Ring, it has certainly earned its memory with film buffs, as it not only kicked off a brief film movement but also became influential for that movement. Ring is not Hideo Nakata's best film, as Chaos (2001) currently holds that title. Ring is also not the best film to come out of this period of Asian cinema, as Kairo (2001), directed by Kiyoshi Kurosawa, holds that title. Both The Ring and Ring aren't perfect, but they are perfect for each other: The Ring shows how remakes should be done (with some creativity), and Ring shows a willingness to be creative, innovative, and risk-taking, despite the result.

Flesh + Blood (1985)

2011-04-29T17:07:00.006-05:00

Flesh + Blood (1985), directed by Paul Verhoeven, is a film which has absolutely no faith in humanity but overflows with a tremendous love for humanity. It is also a film which invites pizza, beer, and like-minded friends for cult-movie night, as its excessiveness and sensationalism invites hearty jeers and laughter. There are enough themes, tropes, and innovations during the opening siege sequence of the film alone to satisfy the most conservative traditional film critic. For the arthouse intellectuals, Flesh + Blood is full of popular themes such as politics, religion, gender, and identity.

If this short introductory paragraph makes me sound like more of a pretentious, pompous asshole than I normally appear, then perhaps it is intentional and merited. This review has gone through many drafts, many in my head with a few on paper. While I was researching information on Flesh + Blood I found myself drawn to Paul Verhoeven by Rob van Scheers (translated by Aletta Stevens, Faber and Faber, London, Boston: 1997.) Van Scheers’s work is by far the best writing on Verhoeven to be found anywhere and it comes with my highest recommendation. However, as I was reading and collecting its data by making notes on the production history and collecting quotes from the film’s participants, I found myself making notes in the book’s margin, attacking Van Scheers’ criticism: Van Scheers is a critic firmly-rooted in the Marxist school of philosophy. Michel Foucault is a personal hero and I often find myself aligning myself with this school of thought. However, like any school of thought, this philosophy has serious limitations. One of the reasons why Foucault was so influential is because not only did he espouse philosophy, he continually questioned it. By recognizing a philosophy’s limitations, it actually liberates it. Van Scheers is a very strict adherent to his philosophy, and in my opinion, it hampers his criticism. Nonetheless, it is still very persuasive and fine writing, and I again urge all interested to seek it out. This will be the last that I mention of it. The end result of my research has fueled me to again attack film criticism, instead of write my own. As I’ve always been in the strict minority in my views on cinema, I believe that this flame within me will never go away. After two years of writing, I believe that Quiet Cool is just my attempt to affront the majority and enjoy myself while doing it. I surrender and openly admit this notion, now. I would like to thank Paul Verhoeven and Flesh + Blood for facilitating this admission and now back to me being pretentious and pompous asshole in a more focused direction.

Time to get medieval: the nobleman Arnolfini (Fernando Hilbeck) sits outside of his castle while his opponents hold the throne. Desperate, Arnolfini promises a rag-tag group of mercenaries, from whom Martin (Rutger Hauer) and Hawkwood (Jack Thompson) stand out, the opportunity to loot the kingdom’s wealthy inhabitants in exchange for putting Arnolfini back on the throne. The mercenaries heartily agree and are successful. When his power has been restored, Arnolfini reneges on his promise and he successfully persuades Hawkwood to exile his own companions from the castle. The rag-tag group leaves under duress with no loot and no hope. They band around Martin as leader and plot revenge against Arnolfini. Arnolfini’s son, Steven (Tom Burlinson) is promised a young bride, Agnes (Jennifer Jason Leigh), who is arriving forthwith to the castle. Martin and his motley crew of bandits intercept Agnes’s caravan and kidnap her. Martin’s crew also seriously injures Arnolfini in the raid. Steven becomes incensed at both his father’s injury and Agnes’ kidnapping, so he recruits Hawkwood to help him track down Martin and get revenge.

Let’s do the nasty, first. “We all have the strange idea that the Middle Ages were romantic, but that is nonsense,” says Verhoeven (apparently in his pitch to American production company, Orion). “This is due to heroic stories such as King Arthur, but that is literature, a feigned reality. Flesh + Blood is going to be a counter-fairytale.” (166) Rock on. What does a counter-fairytale look like? Here is a possible representative scene:

During the initial siege of the film, Hawkwood enters a bedroom chamber with his longsword in his hand. He notices that someone is hiding behind a curtain and he strikes the person with his sword. The victim falls out of the curtain and she is revealed to be a young chambermaid. Hawkwood has pierced her skull and caused a massive injury. He summons the doctor and begs the doctor to save her. She is removed to a bed for treatment. In order to treat her head injury, the young chambermaid is stripped completely nude. “What a pretty little thing,” muses Arnolfini in an absolutely lecherous tone. (Hilbeck gives a fantastic performance.) The doctor is able to treat her injury, and the young chambermaid survives. Unfortunately, she will be simple-minded when she completely heals. Arnolfini sees the young chambermaid as his inducement for getting Hawkwood to help him remove the mercenaries: the nobleman gives Hawkwood the deed to a remote property in the kingdom, where Hawkwood can begin a peaceful farming life. More importantly, the young and attractive and now simple-minded chambermaid may accompany Hawkwood to his remote location. Wink, wink.

However, while watching Flesh + Blood one questions how much “counter” and how much “fairytale” Verhoeven actually displays. For all of the film’s nastiness and brutality (of which there is quite a bit), there is a tremendous amount of romanticism and heart within. When Jennifer Jason Leigh appears as Agnes in the film, she becomes the main character. Leigh is indisputably one of the best actresses of her generation. She chooses diverse roles which are always interesting and her performances are frequently amazing. I always admire her bravery and her vulnerability with every role. Orion, the American production company who co-financed Flesh + Blood, wanted either Nastassja Kinski or Rebecca de Mornay for the role. (168) Verhoeven wanted Leigh after seeing her impressive performance in Fast Times at Ridgemont High. (168) Verhoeven won his casting decision when de Mornay made her acceptance of the role conditional on the acceptance of her then boyfriend, Tom Cruise, being cast as Steven. (168) Leigh not only brings the heart into Flesh + Blood but she imbues the film with its humanity. Although it is never stated in the film how old Agnes is, it is safe to presume that she is a teenager (the film is completely explicit in noting that she is a virgin and was raised in a convent). Like any teenager, she has a burgeoning sexuality and is in the formative years of her identity. Questions about sex and love are completely natural, and Verhoeven doesn’t hide these sentiments: in his lengthy exposition sequence of Agnes’s character, he devotes his screen time to Agnes and her maid. Agnes’s questions are about sex and love, as she knows nothing of them. (In a humorous yet kind of creepy but sweet sequence, Agnes commands her maid to fuck one of the attractive caravaners in the bushes, so Agnes can watch.) In one of the film’s oddest sequences, which is the complete rendition of a “counter-fairytale,” Steven and Agnes have a sweet and flirtatious encounter. It’s their first meeting and both are talking about love. The setting, however, dominates the would-be tender moment: under a tree where two rotting corpses are hanging, Agnes kneels in the shade. They have an endearing conversation about love potions, yet neither appears rattled by either the appearance or presumably offensive odor the two corpses are emitting. I suppose that Verhoeven is saying that death and putrid flesh is common during this period, and people adapted quickly to its commonality. By attempting to create some emotional intimacy between Steven and Agnes, I further suppose that Verhoeven is saying that the culture has not lost its humanity despite this attitude towards death and the like. The sequence is too visceral to really convey that sentiment, like most of Flesh + Blood.

Agnes learns about love with Steven and with Martin. Steven is young and soft, smart and sensitive, and kind and caring. Burlinson is also very handsome. Martin is older, experienced, impulsive, passionate, and extremely virile. I have to admit Rutger Hauer is damn sexy in Flesh + Blood. He has a gorgeous body and has never looked more handsome. As the story of the film unfolds, with whatever traditional narrative it possesses, Steven and Martin are pitted against each other. Neither appears as completely as a hero or as a villain, but they are clearly depicted as opponents. Are they fighting for Agnes’s affection and love? It’s unknown. At times, Steven appears wholly driven by a desire for revenge for Martin’s actions against his father. Martin’s character oscillates with his intentions. In a dinner sequence, after Martin and crew raid and pillage the home of a noble family, Martin sits at the table devouring his food with his hands. He stares across the table at Agnes who is using her knife and fork to eat, and Martin is enamored with the elegance of Agnes’s technique. He becomes more enamored when she begins to discreetly flirt with him: she rubs his crotch with her foot under the table. Hauer’s reaction to Agnes’ action is precious: one can easily tell by the expression on Hauer’s face that he finds Agnes’ affection completely sexy. Martin’s having different feelings, as Agnes is a woman to whom he is unaccustomed. The woman who comprise his crew, like tragic Celine (portrayed by Susan Tyrrell in an affecting performance), are like Martin: unrefined, impulsive, and overt. Does Martin fall in love with Agnes or the idea of Agnes? It’s unknown. There is ample evidence to support either view. I do believe that Agnes falls in love with both men (the final sequence of the film confirms it for me). As there is a lot of conflicting emotions within Flesh + Blood, there is also a lot ambiguity and uncertain answers. Is this uncertainty about the characters’ emotions a commentary on humanity? Is it a representation of humanity? I don’t know. The emotions might be conflicting and might be complex but they are definitely realized and true emotions.

Any viewer is truly going to labor through Flesh + Blood to find the heartfelt sentiments, however. Agnes’s rape scene is brutal. Later in the film, Hawkwood executes a brilliant and effective attack upon Martin and his company. It is also completely unorthodox and its rendition is vomit-inducing. In arguably the film’s most affecting scene, after Martin and his crew raid the noble family’s home and begin to pillage, the nursemaid of the family takes the young daughter in her arms. During the chaos of the raid, only Agnes notices the maid and the child running away. Agnes gives chase only to witness the maid jump off of the top of one of the castle’s towers. The maid’s intention was to kill herself and the child. It’s obvious that the maid feared for the child’s fate which she believed would be worse than death. Verhoeven had previously shown the depravity and violence that the bandits were capable of. Flesh + Blood has no real heroes, no real romance, and no clear answers. The film appears raw and unformed, and there is no tonal nor thematic consistency.

Subsequently, Flesh + Blood makes it appear as if Verhoeven has no idea what is he doing or he is a complete genius. I can say, however, with certainty that I absolutely love this type of cinema: arthouse aesthetics and ideas combined with sensational sequences. Flesh + Blood is at times completely offensive and at other times, it is genuinely heartfelt and real. There is some aspect within which appeals to every critic and viewer, but its end result is an appeal really to no audience. However Flesh + Blood is approached, it is undeniably compelling. So, of course, Verhoeven will always get love here.

All parenthetical numbers following sentences are references to facts and quotes taken from van Scheers’s book on Verhoeven as noted above.

Santo High Spots

2011-04-21T01:38:00.001-05:00

The last time that I had written upon cinema's greatest superhero, El Santo, I was suffering. I either had an intestinal virus or food poisoning or something like that. I was only capable of writhing in my bed. gripping my stomach in the fetal position, and while in between bouts of writhing, I'd run to the bathroom. For two days or so, this shit went on. I have a stack of Mexican wresting films on DVD and I watched a bunch during this period. During the last night of my illness or so, I wrote an entry on Santo en el hotel de la muerte (1961) and Santo en el museo de cera (1963). I never published it, and it is still saved as draft on my account. It is an absolutely terrible post. This was from July of last year. Since then, I have not revisited the cinema but a few days ago, I developed what I can only describe as a "crick" in my back. Every time that I would move my back, I would feel a sharp pain and then yell the F-word multiple times. I sought solace in the cinema of El Santo, again, and I watched a lot of them. I am better, now, and I am certain that I have Santo to thank. By the time the 1970s came around, Santo was in his fifties and was still wrestling and making films. In his fifties, Santo possessed an agility and athletic prowess equal to someone half his age, but intuitively, I knew that this man had a lifetime of wrestling bumps and bruises under his skin. Undeniably, he woke up everyday feeling the aches and pains of a real working wrestler. It took little to convince me that Santo was cinema's greatest superhero, but perhaps he was a real-life superhero, too. In any case, it was inspirational and a key to my recovery. Since I watched so many over the last few days, I'm not going to post any traditional reviews. Instead what follows are "high spots," to borrow a wrestling term, of many films: beautiful touches of sublimity in a cinema of grandeur of El Enmascardo de Plata, the multitude's hero, El Santo.

Santo vs. las lobas (Santo vs. The She-Wolves) (1972)

A personal favorite. Santo vs. las lobas can stand on its own as a traditional horror film. Its atmosphere is more Euro than American. It appears that no sets were used, and the authentic locations really enhanced a sense of small-village dread. Here is the set-up for the scene which always makes me audibly cheer when I witness it. This is the ending of the film, by the way; and if you have any intention of seeing this film, then it's best to stop reading. Licar, the Transylvanian head of las lobas, has come to the village to fulfill destiny. The pack needs a new queen, and she is down in the village, so they decide to raid the village during the Red Moon. They also plan to kill El Santo, The Man in the Silver Mask. Werewolves have this thing against silver, apparently. Santo intends to protect the women and children and defend the village from the attack (along with the men of the village). The wolves attack, and the village succeeds in repelling them. In the final minutes of Las Lobas, Santo must chase down Licar and destroy him to end the wolves' curse. In a day-for-night sequence at sunset, El Santo chases Licar to the top of a mountain. At the mountain's summit, with the Red Moon shining brightly in the background, the two fight in shadow. A few brutal punches ensue from each, until Santo picks up Licar onto his shoulders. In a rare power move, not normally seen from Santo in the ring, Santo tosses Licar off the side of the mountain. Santo stands with the Red Moon shining brightly behind him at the apex: victorious again, and silently, the word, "Fin" appears. If there is one frame from El Santo's cinema I could keep forever, then it is this one:

Santo vs. la hija de Frankestein (1971)

Gina Romand is la hija de Frankestein. She is continuing her ancestor's work by making monsters and the like. Her primary scientific triumph is, however, the creation of a serum that completely retards the aging process. She shares this serum with her henchman and because each covets his eternal youthfulness, she has earned their devoted loyalty. Each henchman must receive doses every three months to sustain his youth. Freda Frankenstein, however, has been using the serum longer (she is well over a hundred-years-old). As a result of the serum's long use, it has lost its potency. She must take the serum more frequently and she fears that eventually the serum will cease to work completely. Freda saw Santo wrestle years ago and noticed recently that Santo is still as virile and athletic as ever. She surreptitiously stole a sample of Santo's blood and with testing has concluded that it is the key to a new youth serum. In the film's most provocative and rich scene, Freda has successfully caught El Santo. She has chained him in a chamber in her underground lab. Shirtless, sweating, and bound, Santo is confronted by Freda. At first she teases. Look at me, she says, a fragile woman standing in front of El Santo. "You are not fragile nor are you a woman," says Santo. This is a bluff on Santo's part, as the latter is clearly not true. Gina Romand is mad crazy sexy. She has a head full of beautiful blonde hair: it is reminiscent of Rapunzel, as if she is vulnerable like the maiden of the German fairy tale. However, Freda Frankenstein is quite powerful: intelligent, adept, and sensuous. El Santo must resort to bluffing to counter her power. Although Santo's words pierce her heart, Freda does not waver. She offers to share her power in exchange for Santo's blood. To this offer, Santo refuses. In a brilliant sequence, she removes Santo's mask and gazes upon him. Santo is obviously amazingly handsome, according to Romand's reaction (she gives an excellent performance), and she laments that she cannot have him. She steals a long kiss from Santo. These two acts, the mask removal and the passionate kiss, earn Romand's Freda Frankenstein serious notoriety as one of Santo's greatest villains. Despite however Santo vs. la hija de Frankestein plays out, Santo has clearly lost this battle.Santo y Blue Demon contra el doctor Frankenstein (1973)

No one scene truly stands out in this one. Several fragments tell the tale. Blue Demon is relegated to sidekick status, which is a shame. Santo has a gorgeous girlfriend, played by Sasha Montenegro, and she has been kidnapped by Doctor Frankenstein. Doctor Frankenstein's intention by kidnapping Santo's girlfriend is to lure Santo into his compound. After Doctor Frankenstein captures Santo, he will remove his superior brain to implant into his own hulking monster, making a super creature. Montenegro's character gets kidnapped very early into the film. She is missing well over twenty-four hours before her boss at work reports her disappearance to the police. The police are the ones who inform Santo that his girlfriend is missing. By the time Santo figures out what is going on, at least thirty-six hours have past. El Santo is appearing at this point as kind of a shitty boyfriend. More evidence appears to support this theory. Two very attractive female police officers head the investigation of the disappearance of Santo's girlfriend and other missing female victims. Blue Demon and Santo accompany the two on the investigation, and in an odd directorial touch, these scenes match previous ones of Santo and Blue Demon on a double date with their girlfriends. The two police officers later attend Santo and Blue Demon's tag team match during the investigation. They sit at ringside. One gives a cute smile and a wave to Santo while he stands at the ropes. Santo waves back. Well, Santo's girlfriend is out of sight and out of his mind. He is going to have some serious explaining to do when he rescues her, one would intuitively think. Perhaps also, she is going to whip his ass after he explains. Check this out, though: after Montenegro's character is rescued, she is seen at ringside with both female police officers. Each is giving a cute smile and waving. El Santo, a man of the people, and probably a very happy man later that night after his bout. I could probably ramble on more about cinema's greatest superhero, El Enmascardo de Plata, El Santo, but I will not. I will certainly revisit this cinema, again, and hopefully, I will not be in such poor shape to begin with. Viva El Santo!

The Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call - New Orleans (2009)

2011-04-14T20:29:00.006-05:00

One evening, during my youth, I was living in New Orleans and I came home completely inebriated. I lived in an old house in a bad neighborhood and am fairly certain that I was stumbling and shuffling to bed rather than walking. I remember turning on the light in my bedroom; and it must have been cold outside, because inside, there were two gigantic spiders, one each on a separate wall. As a testament to how fucked up I was, I have either exaggerated how big the spiders actually were or the spiders were so large that I was shocked into temporary sobriety...for at least a second. In any case, I passed out on the bed amongst my new neighbors. I came to in the morning with a massive hangover but I was spider-bite free. I rarely hallucinated when I was fucked up on non-hallucinogens, so I'm fairly certain that the spiders were there the night before. While my cottonmouth was subsiding that morning, I imagined that the two spiders had a dialogue over my unconscious body the night before. After discussing whether or not to envenom my body and drink my blood, they concluded to not do so, as drinking my blood would, ironically, cause toxic shock to their own systems and instantly kill them. They decided to peacefully squat in my bedroom, rent-free, for the evening and at dawn, the duo slipped out of the house and back out on to the streets.

There is a moral or a lesson to the above story, I'm certain; but I could care less what it is. There are two reasons why I relate that story now: 1) I like stories; and 2) I recalled this memory while watching The Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call - New Orleans (2009) and felt it was appropriate to relate in this review.

Nicholas Cage is Terence McDonagh, a New Orleans police officer who suffers a back injury in the line of duty; and as a result of his injury and courageous (?) act, he is promoted to Lieutenant in the police force. His back injury is only treatable by pain management, and McDonagh develops a fondness for narcotics. This burgeoning fondness for narcotics has enhanced rather than retarded his corrupt police nature, which includes gambling, shaking down citizens for the drugs on their persons, blackmail, and other related activity. He has a soft spot for gorgeous, high-class prostitute, Frankie Donnenfield, portrayed by Eva Mendes. After his promotion, the dramatic action of the film begins.

German filmmaker, Werner Herzog, directed The Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call - New Orleans, who was, by 2009, a veteran filmmaker whose work often surpassed both his contemporaries and predecessors. His work is so unique that while viewing one realizes that only Herzog could create the images shown. There are few whose work is this unique. What is so beautiful about Bad Lieutenant is that there is evidence of an older filmmaker’s conservatism and staid technique combined with his youthful vibrancy and playfulness. Let’s start with an example of the crazy shit, first.

Reptiles. I can only imagine hearing that familiar German accent tell his film crew that he wants to shoot the P.O.V. of an actual alligator. No, he is not going to use the camera’s point of view to substitute for the alligator’s point of view. The director, with the technological tools at his disposal, is going to affix a camera near the alligator’s head and shoot footage. I wonder if the alligator was cool with that. Probably not. I wonder whom in the crew would perform this daring act for his director and further wonder if that person was cool with it. The answer to the latter question is moot, because Herzog actually includes that daring shot within Bad Lieutenant. I suppose the alligator P.O.V. inclusion kind of goes with the tone of the story: dreamy and funky and drug-addled. Cage’s McDonagh probably has narcotics in his system throughout the whole picture, and the world must look this way to him from time to time. Then again, is Herzog just having fun? The reptilian P.O.V. continues in a later scene with two lizards, and Herzog literally puts on the ritz with the lizards. The lizards are obviously scared having a camera in their face (and being manipulated by crazy humans), so they hiss and shiver during the scene. Herzog plays a jazzy tune during this sequence, and it appears as if the lizards are dancing. In one shot, while one lizard hisses, it appears to be crooning along with soundtrack. This is just funny and playful and quintessential Herzog.

Behind all the wonderful visuals and the sensational scenes of drug use and violence and related insanity, there is a really affecting story. The primary relationship in the film is between McDonagh and Frankie. Initially, I thought that Mendes would replicate her role from Training Day and be the sexy girlfriend to the crooked cop, making a short appearance. Wrong. In a masterful scene, three thugs come hunting for McDonagh at Frankie’s apartment. The main goon demands fifty-thousand dollars in cash from McDonagh as compensation for an earlier disrespectful act. In addition to the fifty thousand, the two sub-goons want to fuck Frankie. McDonagh tells the main goon that Frankie looks like shit, so it would be best to let her clean up first and he summons Frankie to the bathroom. While Frankie is out of the room, McDonagh buys himself two days to come up with the fifty-thousand dollars and persuades the main goon to agree to let his cronies fuck Frankie during that later date. Alone in the bathroom, Mendes stares into the mirror putting on eye liner. She looks as if she is about to cry. As an endearing touch, she highlights with her pencil her beauty mark on her right cheek. After the thugs leave, McDonagh comes in to comfort her. It’s bittersweet, because she cannot tell if McDonagh was being serious or bluffing. Would he really let those two thugs fuck her right then and there? Does he really care about her? The answers come later in the film. Needless to say, Mendes is pretty terrific in the film, and I was quite impressed with her performance.

Cage deserves kudos as well. He really looks like a monster in Bad Lieutenant. He is always grinding his teeth and always oscillating in tone, from tired to animated. The back injury that he suffers at the beginning of the film is always present to the viewer. It’s a clever and subtle touch--this is a character who always has to be quick on his feet to come up with a lie or get out of a potentially dangerous situation. Yet, Herzog has his main character shuffling and limping throughout the whole picture.

I’m glad that I saw Bad Lieutenant far removed from its premiere. I initially regretted missing an opportunity to see it at a New Orleans film festival but now am not. I cannot remember anything that I originally read about it, and the hype wasn't present to cloud my viewing. Bad Lieutenant was refreshing and unexpected during its whole runtime. Most importantly, Bad Lieutenant made me think Herzog thoughts and recall Herzog-ian memories. What a filmmaker.

Jennifer Eight (1992)

2011-04-07T14:33:00.005-05:00

Jennifer Eight (1992) is really two films. One the one hand, it is a mystery. John Berlin (Andy Garcia) is an ex-Los Angeles police officer, recently relocated to Northern California, where he begins his first investigation. He believes that there is a serial killer targeting young, blind women. During his investigation, he meets a potential witness to the identity of the killer, Helena Robertson (Uma Thurman), who is also young and blind. After she is interviewed by the police, Helena catches someone spying on her while she is in the bathtub. Berlin believes that she is the next target for the serial killer and attempts to protect her during the course of his investigation.

On the other hand, Jennifer Eight is a drama. John Berlin's relocation to Northern California is the beginning of a new life. Back in Los Angeles, his marriage ended very badly. This fueled a bout of alcoholism. Berlin has never let go of these old feelings even in his new surroundings. He begins an obsessive investigation of murderer who may not even exist. With the smallest pieces of evidence, Berlin makes very tenuous links to build his case. He can find no support for his investigation, not even from his closest friend on the police force, Freddie Ross (Lance Henrikson). Beyond the lack of support, all of Berlin's colleagues eventually turn their back to him, as each believes that not only has John gone too far but is becoming completely incompetent as an investigator. Everyone sees Berlin's attachment to Helena as Berlin trying to control a woman who cannot leave him: Berlin scares Helena into thinking that someone is actually targeting her; and because she is blind, she becomes dependent on Berlin to protect her, creating a false intimacy between the two--a relationship fueled wholly by dysfunction.

Beautifully weaved, these two narratives could create at its conception at least a minor classic film with Jennifer Eight. From his own script, director Bruce Robinson, who had previously written and directed the prestigious Withnail & I, would be aided by two actors, Andy Garcia and Uma Thurman, who appeared on the verge of becoming breakout stars. Jennifer Eight never lived up to its potential and as a result it is almost forgotten today. Instead of two narratives beautifully weaved, Jennifer Eight is two films fighting each other: the dramatic narrative hurts the mystery and vice versa. As an amateur critic, I have two films' worth of flaws to critique, and I ain't doing that. Here's a representative problematic scene:

As a follow-up interview, Berlin visits the institute for the blind, where Helena lives and works, to see if Helena remembers anything since their last meeting about the identity of the killer. As a kind gesture and perhaps as a romantic one, Berlin invites Helena to a seaside diner for lunch. After her interview at the institute during which Berlin gathers little in the way of concrete evidence, Helena asks, "If I go to the diner with you, would you bring me back?" This line doesn't convey Helena's distrust of Berlin as a stranger: it's designed to engender pity for Helena. Obviously people have treated Helena poorly in the past, and she's scared. Berlin says he would, and Helena accompanies him. At the diner, Helena opens up and becomes vulnerable. She tells Berlin that she feels as if she is sitting in the middle of the restaurant and everyone is staring at her. Confidently, Berlin tells her that no one is looking at her, except him. Thurman's Helena is immediately warmed by Berlin's words. Conversation resumes. Helena asks Berlin if he was once married. He says he was and prefers not to talk about it. So, Helena talks about poetry and then prayer. When she brings up prayer to Berlin, Garcia's Berlin goes into intense mode and begins an "abandonment by God" diatribe. Director Robinson begins a slow close-up on Helena's reaction, and Berlin's words are obviously scaring the shit out of her.

The end result of scenes like this have the viewer sitting there thinking maybe Berlin has really lost it. How can the Berlin investigation scenes begin again? These scenes are played in earnest, like any investigative mystery. In other words, the viewer is watching a traditional investigative, deductive mystery with the expectations of a traditional pay-off: a conclusion which includes the revelation of the identity of the killer. Inherently, that presumes that there has to be a killer. The viewer doesn't question Berlin because of his flaws. The viewer questions Berlin. Garcia's Berlin doesn't always come off as obsessive and intense. Often, he appears unhinged or creepy. The viewer can follow Berlin as sleuth and pick up the clues with passive complacency. When dramatic scenes ensue, the viewer can watch Berlin lose his shit with an active, critical objectivity. Viewer sympathy, and then viewer repulsion.

One of the other problems is Berlin and Helena's relationship. It's clearly intended to be a romance, but it comes off more as a protective parent/child relationship. In one scene, Berlin locates Helena to his own home to protect her. While sweet classical music plays on the stereo, the two sit silently by a fire. Berlin is looking at Helena on the couch. His gaze, I suppose, is an attempt to be evocative of a growing love (aided by the mood created by the music). I don't know about anyone else, but when people stare at me, eventually I begin to grow uncomfortable. Helena is blind, so Berlin can stare at her without her feeling discomfort. Staring blankly at people is creepy. Staring blankly at an attractive blind woman is creepy. If Jennifer Eight is seeking to demonstrate the fine line between sweet and creepy, then the participants have wholly succeeded. However, I doubt that was their intention.

There are other seriously detracting flaws within Jennifer Eight, but they do not matter. What is so unfortunate about the finished film is the evident creative talent both in front of and behind the camera. In my opinion, Jennifer Eight needed a lot more work at its conception, as the execution just never works. I discovered today, however, that Bruce Robinson's latest film, an adaptation of Hunter S. Thompson's novel, The Rum Diary, starring Johnny Depp, is premiering in theatres later this year (according to the IMDB). Sweet and creepy certainly has a lot more potential with Thompson and Depp thrown into the mix.

I Love You Phillip Morris (2009)

2011-04-05T21:27:00.005-05:00

One of the aspects that I greatly admire about Jim Carrey is his diversity. There are few actors who genuinely take risks with their roles. Jack Nicholson's work in the 1970s is a prime example. Often those artistic risks are defined by whether they are successes or failures, but that misses the point. The act of taking a risk is an essential part of the creative process. A lot of people who would identify themselves as creative are extremely afraid of taking a risk, as taking one can end a career as much as totally elevate one. Artists who take risks will always get love here, and what do we talk about when we talk about love? One of Jim Carrey's latest films, I Love You Phillip Morris (2009).

Jim Carrey is Steven Russell, an adopted son, who grows into a law-enforcement officer with a wife (Leslie Mann) and a daughter. After a near-fatal car accident, Steven decides to stop living that life: he only became a law-enforcement officer to learn the identity of his biological mother and he has also decided to be openly gay. "Being gay is expensive," Russell quips in voiceover, so in order to maintain his opulent lifestyle, Carrey's character begins a life of fraud. This behavior lands Russell in prison where he meets the love of his life, Phillip Morris (Ewan McGregor). After his release from prison, Russell frees his lover by fraudulent means. Russell graduates to becoming the CFO of a Fortune 500 company, and he and Phillip are able to live a very comfortable wealthy life. Of course, Russell earned his position and his money the old-fashioned way: he cheated and stole most of it.

From the book by Steven McVicker, directors John Requa and Glenn Ficarra pen the most literate script. As a testament also as to how charismatic Carrey is in his performance, I had to recall some of my old Literary Theory courses (in reflection, however) in regards to first-person narration and reliability and credibility. It is very easy to forget who is telling this story in voice-over: a criminal with an exceptional specialty in fraud. I was instantly charmed by not only this character but by Carrey: he could have sold me sand at the beach. In a brilliant sequence, Requa and Ficarra show Carrey’s character, as a CFO, tell a very simple joke to his secretary, who immediately turns to her assistant and tells the same joke and begins to flub it. In a subsequent montage sequence, Carrey hears his joke from myriad different lips, and each time the joke is more distorted and corrupted (in escalating ridiculous fashion). The real joke is that it shows how Carrey’s Russell was able to perpetuate his fraud on almost everyone: people hear what they want to hear, see what they want to see, and believe their own versions. Carrey’s Russell became what people wanted to see and none was the wiser.

I Love You Phillip Morris is a dark comedy in American Independent Cinema Fashion: the film is character-driven and quirky, and the set-piece stands out. A lot of the film takes place in prison where there are some fantastic sequences. Russell and Morris’s first meeting, in the law library, is completely endearing. Carrey and McGregor have an immediate chemistry. Russell eventually becomes Morris’s cellmate; and in a hilarious sequence, Morris gets his neighbor to play a song so he and Russell can slow dance in their cell. The camera stays on Carrey and McGregor while they embrace. The audio cues in the background, behind the music, are of the neighbor in the cell in a violent confrontation with the guards: here are the two lovers, oblivious and blissful, among their dangerous and absurd circumstances: an almost representative scene for the whole film.

Requa and Ficarra deserve praise, also, for giving Carrey’s character some humanity. Despite the fact that when you think about it, Carrey’s Russell is a fairly despicable character, but like almost everyone, he is able to engender sympathy or empathy. In a totally unexpected and short sequence, Russell is shown at the bedside of his lover who is in his final days, dying of AIDS. I can only imagine what it is like to watch someone that you love literally waste away. It is a tender sequence, and one could imagine that this is the kind of hurt that never goes away. In an earlier sequence when Russell confronts his biological mother, the awkwardness and dysfunction become focal: there is no real way to prepare to meet an estranged parent, and Russell performs as best as he can. How do you tell someone who you do not know that you’re my mother and I want to get to know you? Requa and Ficarra and Carrey’s rendition is interesting. When Carrey’s Russell goes back to his car after the confrontation, he steals the “Welcome” mat, because, as Russell puts it, “this is obviously not true.”

Jim Carrey delivers another fantastic performance. His comedic timing and his spontaneity are at its peak. Like many of his previous roles, as Andy Kaufman or as the Cable Guy, for example, he really embraces his character and gives an intense, in-depth performance which appears totally natural. It is difficult to watch his performance and not consider him an artist. Ewan McGregor deserves a lot of praise, as well. Like Marisa Tomei’s performance in The Wrestler, when the central performance is so strong and focal, there is a tendency to either forget, belittle, or neglect the other performers who are often giving equally strong performances. McGregor is simultaneously charming, endearing, and mysterious: one has to remember that Phillip Morris is ultimately Steven Russell’s one weakness and his undoing as a criminal mastermind. McGregor imbues that quality, and he is very lovable. I Love You Phillip Morris is totally unpredictable and satisfying, both in its execution and its expectations.

I was able to view I Love You Phillip Morris as an On Demand Rental via the Zune Video application via the XBOX Live Marketplace.

The Girl Who Played with Fire (2009)

2011-04-04T15:37:00.004-05:00

The following review is written with the intention that its reader has seen the film The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (2009); and discussion of the film under review, The Girl Who Played with Fire (2009), will entail plot revelations of the former but not of the latter.

When The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (2009) premiered, I was eager to see it as the film seemed promising as one of the better films to appear in this millennium. While the novel(s) by Stieg Larsson were sold and consumed by readers as if they were bound-and-printed crack cocaine, I never read the source material. When I finished watching The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, I was completely disappointed: two characters appeared within who were obviously brilliantly conceived: the journalist, Mikael Blomkvist, portrayed by Michael Nyqvist, and the computer hacker, Lisbeth Salander, portrayed Noomi Rapace: a hero and heroine worth rooting for. The character of Blomkvist seemed like a journalist with integrity and also a man truly capable of sympathy and understanding. Lisbeth was highly capable, resourceful, intelligent, and was receiving, to put it very mildly, very poor treatment by the world. Her character appeared more misunderstood than mysterious, as there were obviously strong emotions stirring inside her. Blomkvist was a character capable of drawing those emotions out Lisbeth (she was also capable of helping him elicit his own). The seeds to a satisfying cinematic relationship were sown only to have a tired mystery plot keep these two from ever truly consummating. The real energy of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo was with these two characters (and the actors giving the performances); and the film, for me, was ultimately unsatisfying. I was chided by the film's fans, however, who told me that the film was part of a trilogy and that I should reserve judgment until I had seen the other films. I believe this was a very fair proposition, and when I decided to give my Netflix Instant subscription some mileage with the best of an open mind that I could muster, I watched the second film in the trilogy, The Girl Who Played with Fire (2009).

One of my main grievances with The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo was the depiction of Lisbeth's rape in the first act of the film. It is a brutal depiction with attentive and meticulous detail to emphasize that it is an anal rape occurring on screen. When the aftermath scene of Lisbeth shuffling home appears, she is barely able to walk because of the trauma. By this scene, the energy of the sequence is overdone, and the whole inclusion of the rape scene in the movie appears sadistic. However, when Lisbeth exacts her revenge on her attacker, later on, this rape scene makes its sense: it's fuel for the viewer. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo wants you to feel a satisfying emotion of revenge with Lisbeth. I didn't know how to feel after viewing Lisbeth's rape scene, and I didn't really know if I wanted the contrived revenge scenario, either.

Nonetheless, The Girl Who Played with Fire begins with events directly relating to that rape scene, as Lisbeth has come back to Sweden and has another encounter with her attacker. During this incident Lisbeth makes some threats towards her attacker but she commits no violence. Meanwhile, back at his magazine, Blomkvist is helping a young journalist and his girlfriend write a story, exposing a sex trade ring involving forced prostitutes of Eastern European immigrants and local johns of varying important political power. Blomkvist eventually finds the young journalist and his girlfriend shot dead. Lisbeth’s attacker is soon found dead by the police. Lisbeth is the prime suspect for all three murders, since her fingerprints are found on the murder weapon. She is in hiding, and Blomkvist wants to help her and find her. They both begin parallel investigations.

At the conclusion of The Girl Who Played with Fire, I cannot say that I was disappointed. The best and fairest way to describe my reaction to the film is to say that I am probably not the ideal audience for this film(s). During Lisbeth’s investigation, she learns the identity of man holding a potentially important lead. She breaks into his apartment and subdues him. As she questions him, I couldn’t get past her appearance. She is wearing ghoulish makeup, grey skin paint with black circles around her eyes and lips with a bright-red streak of paint across her face. Her image is arresting, but I cannot get past the fact that her whole appearance makes no sense. It just looks fucking cool, like she’s a true badass. At another location, Lisbeth gets caught stealing some documents by two bad-guy bikers, donning stereotypical biker garb. She makes quick work of the two chumps with a close-up shot of her stun gun to the crotch of one of her attackers. The following scene becomes a money shot: Lisbeth is seen riding on one of the motorcycles with her attacker’s helmet and sunglasses on: she is a warrior celebrating the victory of battle by stealing her slain opponent’s armor as a trophy. The funniest scene in the film is totally unintentional: Blomkvist tells his editor that he is worried about Lisbeth and needs to find her. Why? Um, she hasn’t been caught by anyone over an hour into the film, and the viewer has not been given any indication that she’ll be found anytime soon. Want to know how intelligent and resourceful Lisbeth gets caught and suffers a setback: by the very definition of a deux ex machina. Her stun gun crotch attack doesn’t work a second time.

Noomi Rapace is a beautiful and talented actress. Her performance as Lisbeth has been the shining moments of both Girl films that I’ve seen. She has the potential to be a true breakout performer with her natural charisma and her ability. Unfortunately, The Girl Who Played with Fire feels like a feature-length adaptation of Lisbeth’s original revenge scenario from The Girl with The Dragon Tattoo: too much time is devoted to watching little Lisbeth getting the upper hand on supposedly bigger and more powerful foes. The film wants its viewer to feel those revenge feelings, but I wanted something else that was hidden in that original film of the trilogy: some human feelings and some vulnerability. These aspects are pretty rare and are the bigger risk for the film makers. I’ve got the final film of the trilogy in my instant queue with my fingers crossed. We’ll see what happens.

Hobo with a Shotgun (2011)

2011-04-01T10:25:00.001-05:00

I was able to view Hobo with a Shotgun (2011) via the Zune Video application on XBOX Live Marketplace as an On-Demand rental. I was perusing the selection in Zune Video this morning and was intrigued when I saw this film's title. I clicked the selection for further information and watched a preview which featured star Rutger Hauer. My interest piqued, I went to look up more information on the film at the Internet Movie Database. From that site I learned that Hobo with a Shotgun (2011) is a feature-length film of one of the fake trailers shown in between Planet Terror and Death Proof as part of the theatrical release of Grindhouse (2007). I never saw Grindhouse during its theatrical run, so I had no idea that this release was inspired by that fake trailer. The director of Hobo with a Shotgun is Jason Eisener who also directed the fake trailer for the Grindhouse release. As this film flows from the Grindhouse universe, I believe that it is at least arguable that any criticism of the film will invite comparisons to other films, as the genesis of the Grindhouse films want to recreate and evoke a specific cinema of old. However, it seems that most readers find obscure, film-geeky references irritating, and I will be only making general comparisons in the following review. None, I hope, is too geeky. Without further ado--

Rutger Hauer is the hobo and rides into a new town on a boxcar, freight train. The actual name of the town alludes me, because often street signs and the like have the first portion of the town's name stricken, and words like "Scum" and "Fuck" are graffittied over. Hauer's character grabs a shopping cart and begins to collect recyclable material, while taking in the sights of his new town. It's pretty fucked up. There's an asshole with a video camera, filming two homeless people fighting, and he waves some cash in Hauer's direction to get in on the action. (Thank God that there aren't people in the real world like this). The street life really livens up when a bloodied man with a manhole wrapped around his neck runs frantically into the street seeking help. Two stooges in a hotrod sports car roll up to confront the guy, Slick (Gregory Smith) and Ivan (Nick Bateman). These two stooges are the sons and henchmen of the local crime boss, Drake (Brian Downey). Drake appears and wants to set an example by offing the manhole-draped victim in front of everyone. Repulsed and intrigued, Hauer's hobo follows Slick to his den to learn more. Within Slick accosts local prostitute, Abby (Molly Dunsworth), and Hauer's hobo saves her from a vile fate. The hobo brings Slick into the local police department but is greeted by corruption. Now bloodied and beaten, the hobo hits the streets and finds Abby. She shows the hobo kindness and tends to his wounds. Soon after, the hobo is inspired and goes to the pawnshop to purchase a lawnmower (after degrading himself for the money). While in the pawn shop, some ski-mask toting thugs pop in for a robbery. The hobo abandons the idea of a lawnmower and grabs the shotgun. The hobo loses his shit, and blast, blast, a vigilante is born.

Ever watched Troma movies from the 80s, like Toxic Avenger and Class of Nuke 'Em High? If you haven't, then Hobo with a Shotgun will serve as an adequate representative, as I believe 80s Troma films are its true inspiration. Troma films are wonderfully offensive; not necessarily because they are graphically violent and excessive (they certainly are though) but because of the vehicles delivering the violence. Most of the Troma villains of those 80s films are the asshole icons of our youth: the bully. Even if we weren't their victims, these are the kind of people most wish would go away, for like forever. When you see Ivan and Slick in Hobo, they are the quintessential cool-kid bullies: varsity jackets and Ray Bans and slicked-back hair. They love making stupid jokes and love beating people up. In Troma fashion, however, they are full-on sick psychopaths. At Slick's den, Ivan asks Slick to check this out: Ivan has a victim strapped to a chair with the victim's bare foot over a hole. With a sledgehammer and a squishy smash, Ivan turns the victim's foot into piecemeal. Slick's not impressed.

The most impressive aspect of Hobo with a Shotgun is the photography by film director and cinematographer, Karim Hussain. He is really able to capture the look of those 80s low-budget features. The saturated colors, the tracking shots side by side with the handheld work, and the odd distorted look from a wide-angle lens in a close-up. Hobo with a Shotgun looks like it was shot on Super-8 or 16mm and blown-up. It gives the film a washed-out, cheap feel which only compliments the action. I actually was impressed to see smoke-machine work in the background in Hobo, knowing that those machines got quite the workout in the 80s from low-budget cinema to music videos.

Beyond its visual appeal or perhaps because of its visual appeal, Hobo with a Shotgun kept me numb during its whole running time--either because it is so slick and rich visually, one cannot help but to look at it; or either because so much detail is put into the visuals and the style, Hobo cannot transcend being cosmetic. Here is my last comparison: When I use the words, "vigilante" and "street prostitute," is there a famous film which comes to mind? In that film, two disassociated characters are actually able to achieve emotional intimacy and a human connection, despite the fucked-up circumstances around them. Hobo wants to recreate the feelings from this relationship, but cannot quite do it. For example, in one scene, Abby gets injured and is in the hospital. By this point in the film, the hobo and Abby have formed a bond. As a gesture of kindness or love, the hobo gives Abby some flowers--some dead weeds and dandelions in a disposable drinking cup. The sentiment is genuine, but like the entire relationship, it is never felt. Hobo can never transcend its cosmetic qualities. I suppose that the details are so well-done that one cannot get past looking deeper into them.

With no accuracy at all can I judge others sensibility or sensitivity, but I would be remiss not to mention how violent Hobo is. Hobo is violent with violent-in-italics violent. Its runtime will make you desensitized to violence. I might have made my point. Also, I watched Hobo alone in the comfort of my home. I have no idea how this film will play to a packed audience (according to the film's official site, it opens theatrically wide on May 6th). Perhaps the energy of a crowded movie theatre will fuel the action. When the hobo grabs the shotgun and starts blasting people, I can see people cheering; or when some gross-out moment occurs or a bad joke delivered, I can see people giving an uncomfortable laugh. Rutger Hauer is a brilliant actor and gives another stellar performance. I also quite like Dunsworth as Abby. She's really sassy and cute and never comes off as ditzy. Not one that I want to revisit again, but I'm sure Hobo will provoke a reaction out of all those who see it.

Monsters (2010)

2011-03-31T08:26:00.001-05:00

When I finished watching Monsters (2010) and was about to turn off the television at the credits, I noticed that its director, Gareth Edwards, was also responsible for the film's photography and visual effects. I was impressed as I thought that these two qualities were the film's strongest. I also thought that the two lead performances by Whitney Able and Scoot McNairy were very good, and the two are clearly talented actors who I would not mind seeing again in another film. Beyond these aspects, Monsters is not wholly satisfying: I wanted more from what was there and wanted less of what was actually shown.

Simple premise: The presence of alien life has been discovered in space, and a satellite was launched to collect data. The satellite made an unsuccessful re-entry, and the collected data scattered as debris on the earth's surface. Alien life has appeared in this area; and it has been designated an "infected zone" and it is located in Mexico, south of the U.S. border. A photojournalist, Andrew, working for an American magazine is south of the zone in Mexico, hoping to get some photos of the dramatic action caused by the upheaval at the local level in Mexico, the presence of the U.S. military, and of course, the alien life. Andrew's publisher (more of a mogul) has a daughter, Samantha, located in the same area as Andrew. He quietly commands Andrew to escort his daughter back to the U.S., safely.

One of the benefits of the modern visual style of filmmaking, taking its cues from documentary and news media, is to invoke a sense of an objective style of capturing footage; so the viewer is free to form his/her own opinion while watching. This is of course a fiction and still requires a "suspension of belief" on behalf of the viewer. Alternatively, however, one can say this style really calls attention to itself with its handheld-style camera work, with a specific emphasis on "handheld." There's always at least a lingering sense that someone is holding a camera, capturing footage, and making a movie. It's a brilliant style, always at risk of appearing either organic or contrived. Both results, organic or contrived, can also be brilliant. Edwards captures some fantastic imagery with some striking compositions, such as when Monsters visits the small villages in Mexico; the "post-apocalyptic" imagery, such as downed plane or a vehicle stuck in a tree; or genuine location captures, such as when Andrew and Sam visit a pyramid near the U.S. border.

One of the aspects that really aids this modern visual style of filmmaking, in terms of making it seem organic, is the absence of dramatic music accompanying the action. Edwards has chosen to include dramatic music within Monsters. This is inherently not a flaw, as the only potential result is the film seems, with its inclusion, more contrived. It does, however, become a strong flaw within Monsters. As the film progresses and Andrew and Sam make an arduous journey to the U.S. border and beyond, the viewer gets a sampling of accompanying music during scenes. There is music invoking a sad feeling when Sam is looking at memorials of dead children; there is music invoking a contemplative or ponderous sense as Sam and Andrew are walking an empty street with no signs of life around; and there is music invoking an ominous sense when the aliens and humans have an encounter. There is actually a scene when the ominous music begins and the viewer is the first to realize that the aliens are about to appear. The characters are initially unaware. Odd. Monsters certainly could have benefited from the absence of dramatic music.

Computer-generated visual effects receive the harshest criticism from viewers and critics alike when they are done poorly. In other words, nearly everyone finds its grating when imagery created by a computer looks exactly like imagery created from a computer. Edwards in creative fashion attempts to hide his computer-generated imagery in the shadows. I believe nearly all of the alien and human encounters occur at night, and the frame is often very dark. The aliens are put in a corner of the composition. Like shadows, the alien imagery is vague and unformed. Edwards does, however, have at least one scene where an alien tentacle is shown in the light; and my cinematically-trained mind immediately had flashbacks of Anaconda (1997). It seems as if the entirety of Monsters wants to avoid these types of viewer flashbacks, and Edwards almost makes it to the end. I ended up questioning this scene's inclusion, as I don't understand it. Also, when the screen went almost completely dark, as the film progressed, I was ready for an alien encounter.

I suppose the film's philosophical and socio-critical themes deserve mention. Monsters doesn't hide them: they are almost completely delivered via dialogue. When characters, for example, sit around a traditional setting, like a campfire, and begin to have a philosophical conversation, it appears exactly like it is. The words become focal, and the viewer is watching a conversation but primarily listening. There is such a didactic quality to these scenes in Monsters that it is off-putting. Interestingly, the simple character-driven themes, such as Andrew's abandonment of his own commercial gains to learn some humanity and Samantha's quest to discover what she wants out of life, are the film's most interesting. Able and McNairy really imbue these qualities with their performances. In fact, if Monsters had completely focused on these two characters and their personal, spiritual journeys, then Monsters would have been a much more affecting emotional film; and Edwards still would be able to include his philosophical themes and social criticism. Alfonso Cuaron executed this style brilliantly with his film Y Tu Mama Tambien.

As an alternative to blockbuster, big-bang explosion, Hollywood cinema, I can see how some viewers will find Monsters refreshing and creative. Monsters is refreshing and creative in that respect. I suppose I'm still looking for something different from cinema, and I didn't find it here.

Intruder (1988)

2011-03-30T07:00:00.002-05:00

When I was a kid, I lived for horror films. I often could get my old man to take me to the theatre to see one on the weekend so afterwards we could raid the local hamburger joint, as mom kept us in healthy eating at the house. Primary 80s horror viewing was done via the video store, however, and I relished "New Release" day so I could browse the stacks of boxes. I'll never forget the box of demonic Angela in Night of the Demons, Pinhead on the Hellraiser boxes, or the iconic skull on the box of Evil Dead 2. This artwork screamed "Rent Me!" and I often picked up quite a few for the weekend. I knew about all of these flicks well in advance, because I hungrily read genre magazines Fangoria and Gorezone from cover to cover, as if they were my bible. As I got older, this passion for horror films seriously waned. Now, I rarely watch any new horror cinema, and like most of the cinema covered here, I seek out the obscure and forgotten (or never known) for something unique and different.

A few months ago on eBay, I got a lot of genre magazines, primarily Fango and Gorezone, for a pittance, perhaps from someone once like me. When I got them in the mail, I started perusing them. A lot of those old feelings of excitement returned. I even got the opportunity to read my letter in an issue of Gorezone where I queried the editors on the work of Jim Van Bebber whose film Deadbeat at Dawn was making a bloody splash on the horror scene! Finally, when Bryce at Things that Don't Suck announced that he was hosting Raimifest, I knew exactly which film that I would revisit and then review. I had rented it over twenty years ago and had been disappointed--not in the film mind you, but in its video presentation. I even found the article in Gorezone No. 6 that inspired me to seek it out, written by the inimitable Chas. Balun. Allow me to quote Balun's opening paragraph from his article to kick off the substantive portion of this review:

"Actor, writer, producer, director, Fake Shemp, practical joker, devoted horror fan, and close personal friend to both Sam Raimi and Bruce Campbell--known 'em both since junior high school, as a matter of fact. His previous film credits include Evil Dead II (as co-writer and actor), Thou Shalt Not Kill...Except (co-writer, producer) and The Dead Next Door (actor). He's currently in postproduction on Intruder, his feature film directorial debut that co-stars old chums Sam and Ted Raimi and Bruce Campbell; it sports the FX talents of Greg Nicotero, Howard Berger and Bob Kurtzman (Savini's crew on Day of the Dead)." (Gorezone, No. 6, March 1989. edited by Anthony Timpone, O’ Quinn Studios Publishing, New York, p.8) The director described is Scott Spiegel whose film Intruder was also co-written and produced by Lawrence Bender (whose collaborations with Quentin Tarantino must have led to these three eventually working together on From Dusk Till Dawn 2: Texas Blood Money (1999)). Intruder is about a crew working in a grocery store after closing who get picked off, one by one, by a killer. It's a film with a single location, few characters, and a simple plot. While Spiegel admits in the Gorezone article that after working on Thou Shalt Not Kill...Except, low-budget films, like Evil Dead, should be kept to a single location for organizational and budgetary reasons (Gorezone, p.9), his decision to do so with Intruder is as much a creative one: like Evil Dead and the film that he co-wrote previously, Evil Dead 2, when the setting, plot, and characters are simple, the complexity and creativity can come with the details. The opportunity for interesting and bloody practical effects; off-kilter photography, lighting, and editing; and dark comedy are ripe. Does Intruder succeed? Yes, kind of, sort of, no. However, Spiegel and crew had some hurdles to clear in 1989 even before the cameras started rolling.

In 1989. the MPAA had its sharpest scissors. Virtually every horror film with an iota of gore was censored by the group. Video had saved a lot of horror films, as "unrated" versions of films were common. Balun notes in his article that Paramount Home Video would release Intruder on video (Gorezone, p. 11) and this was the version that I first saw. (Someone is going to have to verify the following information for me, as I don't have an original VHS of Intruder to view.) The subsequent VHS release had its gore censored and was released rated R. It was even censored in a disrespectful manner: scenes were cut from the release with its audio, so even the music gets muffed. Paramount didn't even bother cutting and then redoing the audio track. With a low-budget film with a heavy portion devoted to elaborate FX, there went a good part of its appeal.

However, Intruder was going to suffer at its inception: by 1989 or even before, the slasher genre was tired. Three buzz words surrounded Intruder in print media: "slasher," "gore," and "grocery store." How would Spiegel attempt to tackle and entertain and make memorable his film among jaded fans? In the Gorezone article, Spiegel reveals himself a real horror fan with a deep love for the genre. He declares that "Intruder is straightforward in a Halloween kind of way." (Gorezone, p.10) However, this same filmmaker also made Super-8 comedies in his youth with Sam and Ted Raimi, and this comedic tradition continues in his adulthood with both Evil Dead 2 and Intruder. (Gorezone, p. 8) Ultimately, Intruder wants to be a tension-filled horror film with laughs. The comedy and the horror actually work against each other in the film.

Here is an example and it is representative. In celebration of Raimifest, the character is Randy, portrayed by Sam Raimi, and his death scene (yes, he dies in the film. What a shock.). By the end of the first act in traditional fashion, all of the characters are introduced, the mystery opened, red herring inserted, and the dramatic motivation begun: the grocery store is shutting down. The two co-owners are selling the store. The crew has to stay overnight to mark all the prices down in the store. This motivation will separate the characters into different parts of the store and put each alone on some task. By the time Raimi's Randy meets his demise, the viewer has already seen his treatment: character alone, quiet audio, dark room, a minute for him/her to discover that something is amiss, then audio cue, attack, and gore scene. It is very predictable to say the least. The comedy, when inserted in these scenes, is completely out of place. For example, Randy is in the meat department, and before the killer gets him, he picks up a packaged container. Instead of a fresh cut steak, it is a human hand. The tension is not only undercut by the predictability but its comedy. Nail-biting, chuckle, or jump scare? I don't know. Take your pick. However, this is my opinion in 2011. If Intruder were made today, not only would I have never seen it, then I probably would have never had known about it. Intruder does have a wonderfully dated quality that really defines it. The grocery store setting appears genuine and also appears dated even in 1988. To see products that are no longer around because they have lost their utility or their companies have gone under, print magazines no longer published, and technology seriously outdated is surreal.

Anyone can attack a mystery or a horror film armed with elementary logic. Take any mystery: define the number of characters, reduce the pool by their obvious characteristics from the extreme ends of the spectrum, limit the pool to a workable bunch, and deduce the killer from the small group. Shit, you can probably guess with bulls-eye accuracy. Or, even easier, attack the traditional, three-act structure, plot-driven film. First, learn the running time of the film from either the back of the DVD cover or on the internet from, say, Moviefone. Second, divide the film's running time into thirds and make note of each time. While watching the film, look at your watch. At the end of the first third, all of the characters in the film are introduced, the exposition delivered, and the dramatic conflict begun. At the end of the second act, again look at your watch, the dramatic action should be fuelled and the characters should have some sort of knowledge as to its resolution. Finally, the third act has the most structural sub-components but its ultimate aim is climax and resolution. So, for example, when I look at my watch at the end of an hour into Intruder, it's "final girl" time. I can pretty much guess where this is going. It's a load of shit to say it, but it's true: a film's heart can never be measured with any logical or mathematical approach. It is conveyed really to the viewer, and the level to which it reaches you is dependent on the viewer. Intruder conveys a tremendous amount of heart. The enthusiasm with which Balun writes his Gorezone article and the geeky-horror-movie-fan enthusiasm so very present in Spiegel radiates throughout Intruder. The shadowy compositions are really effective. Spiegel is able to make his shadows powerful enough to compete with the other props and gore effects in the frame, and often the shadows win out in creepy factor. Often a lot of the comedy, while it may be out of place, is quite endearing. For example, virtually everyone who works in the store is constantly snacking on something. Raimi's Randy is totally focused on some menial task. In the foreground of the composition, a jar of olives stands out from which Randy is mindlessly taking out olives. He pops them in his mouth without looking. The camera goes into close-up of the jar, and Randy reaches into the jar. The killer has placed an eyeball among the olives. Randy's fingers graze the eyeball but at the last second, he grabs an olive. It's a cute, "ewww" gore effect, and one that only a real lover of horror films would even think to include. Any Raimi fan will recognize Dan Hicks in Intruder and he gives a wonderful performance. He tells a story midway into the film that is totally creative and incredulous, yet Hicks's rendition is genuine. While all of the performances in Intruder waver in quality, none are lacking in enthusiasm. The final film appears as if everyone, from cast and crew, want Intruder to be a roller-coaster scarefest. This one quality, its heart, is ultimately Intruder's redeeming quality. This is why it made fans in 1989 and still has fans, like me, today. Intruder is old-school predictable horror but it's old-school horror. They just don't make them like this anymore. Okay, I'm fucking around. Yes, they do. However, not quite like this. See it and understand.

Vanishing on 7th Street (2010)

2011-03-19T00:29:00.001-05:00

Brad Anderson directed Session 9 (2001), indisputably one of the best and arguably the best horror film of its decade. He followed this feature with another fantastic film, The Machinist (2004). I recently watched his latest feature film, Vanishing on 7th Street (2010) via the Zune Video application via the XBOX Live Marketplace (with content accessible in the United States). I would like to share this small anecdote about my life before this review of Anderson's latest film, as I feel it is very appropriate:

I grew up in a small community on the Gulf of Mexico. I attended college in New Orleans and after graduating, I moved to Los Angeles. Within a couple months of arriving, I was sleeping soundly in my apartment until I was awoken by a considerable rumbling. I sat up in bed, disoriented, confused, and worried. Within a few seconds, my mind began to rationalize: "Hey, stupid, this is Los Angeles. That was an earthquake." An immediate sense of comfort warmed over me when I realized this, and any fear that I held almost disappeared. For all I knew the Big One was about to hit, but the comfort that I had received in identifying the source of my fear stayed and lessened any other immediate fears.

What would happen if that comfort were removed? What if a catastrophe were to occur and none of its survivors could identify its source? How would they act and react to circumstances? This is the thematic premise of Vanishing on 7th Street. Here is a bare description of the set-up for the film:

Paul (John Leguizamo) is an introverted projectionist working at a multiplex movie theatre. Rosemary (Thandie Newton) is a physical therapist who works at a hospital and has an infant child. Luke (Hayden Christensen) works at a television station as a reporter and is fucking the woman who covers the weather. One evening, all of the power everywhere immediately goes out, and everyone, save primarily the mentioned three above, disappear. These three do not know each other at all. As each scrambles in the darkness to survive, a bar appears in the middle of the city with its power intact. Luke is the first to enter the bar and meet its sole inhabitant, a child named James (Jacob Latimore). The three characters eventually unite at this bar. The only thing that is certain is that something which can exist only in darkness is making people disappear.

Anderson seemed to have in mind the massive failure which was M. Night Shyamalan's The Happening (2008) and wished to not recreate its mistakes, as both films deal with the same thematic premise. Both filmmakers deserve kudos in attempting to tackle this premise, as virtually no one can relate to its dilemma. If a catastrophe were to occur and no one could, with any degree of certainty, identify its source, then what would people do? Immediately, I'm certain that some would ignore the question completely and just attempt to survive as best as possible. Ignorant and/or uneducated people would probably make something up to create a sense of comfort and pick an easy target, like terrorists. All the characters that Anderson presents in Vanishing are intelligent people who are trying to understand what is going on but are having a lot of trouble just surviving.

Anderson is walking a tightrope with his viewer. First, how he is able to adequately convey his ideas to his viewer? Second, as Vanishing is a horror film, is he going to be able to generate the fear that is very much present in his characters into his audience?

The mystery of the colony at Roanoke is Anderson's primary thematic metaphor. Shy and introverted Paul is seen reading about the colony at the beginning of the film, and later when the three unite at the bar, it is Paul who brings it into the discussion. While the mystery colony is Anderson's primary metaphor, his primary tool in conveying his thematic ideas is dialogue. Vanishing is set largely in the bar, and when the three are together, they talk quite a bit. This amount of dialogue coupled with the singular setting gives Vanishing a stage-play-like quality. This is not a bad thing in itself, but at the time of my viewing, I wasn't in the mood to see a film structured like this. It doesn't help the proceedings much when the characters break their dialogue to have an emotional outburst. These outbursts are frequent, and while I can feel for these characters, watching them continually breakdown becomes annoying. Ultimately, Anderson overdoes the dialogue so his themes aren't hidden, and this quality sacrifices the dramatic and compelling qualities of the cinema.

That is not to say Vanishing is not compelling on a visual and atmospheric level. When the characters are shown alone, two things happen: one, each does not talk; and two, Anderson really shows his creative talent. Luke's visit to the television station, the morning after the incident, is a highlight. Paul, later in the film, takes a bizarre trip, which Anderson mixes with footage from present events and Paul's subjectivity. Newton's sequences alone are also visually compelling and tension-filled. Incidentally, Newton's scenes alone are much more affecting emotionally (instead of the frequent bouts of crying to which she is given). There is a brilliant film in these sequences, but unfortunately, Anderson handholds his audience too much. Ironically, in a film about the fear of uncertainty, Anderson goes to length to make certain his audience understands this fear.

The film's conception is a big risk, and I wish that Anderson would have went further. Vanishing, with its few brilliant sequences, could have surpassed Kiyoshi Kurosawa's underappreciated masterpiece, Kairo (2001), which also deals with similar material. As it stands, Vanishing on 7th Street is another example of commercial conservatism overshadowing real artistic talent.

Una ondata di piacere (1975)

2011-03-08T18:30:00.001-06:00

Irem (Al Cliver) and Barbara (Silvia Dionisio) are a good-looking young couple, who, at Cefalù, spy another couple, Giorgio (John Steiner) and Silvia (Elizabeth Turner), water skiing. Giorgio knocks Silvia from her tether, and while she is splashing in the water, Giorgio makes an intentional turn towards her head, almost killing her. Witnessing this cruel display by Giorgio, Barbara and Irem decide to interject themselves into the lives of Giorgio and Silvia and play a game. Barbara quickly seduces Giorgio with her beauty; and eventually, Giorgio invites both Barbara and Irem to accompany himself and Silvia aboard his yacht for a weekend cruise. Soon after boarding the yacht, Barbara and Irem quickly learn that Giorgio and Silvia like to play games, too. Una ondata di piacere (1975) marks a return to cinema after an absence of years for its director, Ruggero Deodato. In his own words, Deodato speaks of its genesis, taken from his interview included as a part of a featurette of the Raro DVD release:

"Waves of Lust" is a film that I didn't really want to do at first. I'd been in the doldrums. I'd shot some comedies but then I was prohibited from making anymore because of competition and various other reasons. In the meantime I'd married a girl [Silvia Dionisio] who started out with me and got very famous. That's why I wanted to distance myself from cinema. The woman's always more important than the man. If I'd made five films in a year, the woman would get more famous by doing just one. And the husband is seen as being past it. I didn't like the idea of that so I started working in advertising. I was very successful but it always felt really sad when I went to Milan and saw a crew arrive from Rome to shoot a film. I'd get depressed.
They'd always call me with an ulterior motive. "Can you bring your wife as well?" My wife was already working with Monicelli and Scola, why should she make B movies with me? Agents in the business would ask me to go and see them and tell me to take my wife too. But she already had an agent. That's why I distanced myself. Then I got the offer to this film, and even though I wasn't keen on the erotic aspect of the story I thought I could steer it into thriller territory and manage to maneuver it out of the erotic ghetto. But I got ripped off, because my wife said: "You not doing this film if I'm not in it." But she couldn't do it, because the female lead was already cast. She said: "You're not making a film with a naked woman if that woman isn't me. As soon as all my other colleagues start to strip off, like Ornella Muti, I want to be able to say I did it with my husband." I told her it was impossible, but she was so persuasive with me and the producers that they annulled the contract with the other actress and my wife did it for a quarter of her normal fee. So for me it was quite a difficult shoot, because not only did I have to get my wife naked, but I had to make sure she came out looking good. It's difficult to direct your wife when she's naked, making her adopt certain positions. She'd say: "Wasn't that okay?" It was more than okay...but it was a very embarrassing shoot. It was even more embarrassing because the film was a huge success. It made a fortune. But my wife lost a contract because of it. Actually it was a contract we both had with a production company to advertise a famous liquor. The owner said: "After this film I don't want either of you."

In Cannibal Holocaust and The Savage Cinema of Ruggero Deodato, Deodato relates this version of the film's genesis:

The producers Marras and Salviani, offered me the chance to make an erotic film; this style of movie was in fashion at the time. Muti, Giorgi, and Agnostina Belli were the pioneers and then everyone started doing it. I had planned to shoot that film with another actress, who at the last minute refused to be film naked. So I put forward my wife's name to the producers; at that time she was a star and had never got undressed before the cameras. She accepted the part only because her peers were doing this sort of film at the time. (p. 14, FAB Press, Surrey, U.K., edited by Harvey Fenton, 1999.) Una ondata di piacere benefits from its tight and almost primary setting, Giorgio’s yacht, four characters, with each actor giving an effective performance, and a willingness to be provocative, leaving the conservative perhaps back at shore. It is a film about power and its perversity, its ridiculousness, and its attraction. John Steiner’s Giorgio is the most overt character with the most stereotypical rendition of power. Giorgio’s wealthy, competitive, and possessive; and perhaps as a result of these traits, he is cruel. He enjoys berating and abusing his wife, Silvia. Giorgio refuses a business deal with a down-on-his-luck colleague, and it is intimated in a later scene that this colleague committed suicide because of this refusal. Giorgio could have helped, exclaims Silvia, but he didn’t want to, intimating that Giorgio took some pleasure in rebuffing his colleague. In another sequence on the yacht, Irem overhears Giorgio tells his lawyer via phone to close a deal with its end result being the unemployment of six hundred workers. Giorgio doesn’t care in the least, and this irks Irem. Dionisio’s Barbara immediately realizes Giorgio’s nature, and as the film progresses, it becomes clear that Barbara’s plan is to seduce Giorgio. However, she is never going to complete the seduction: the ultimate punishment is to deny Giorgio what he wants the most. For someone so driven and possessive and cruel like Giorgio, to be denied anything could kill him. Barbara’s plan does not work as conceived. The perversity of Una ondata di piacere reveals itself during the second act. Elizabeth Turner’s Silvia reveals herself as not a victim but as very complacent in her position. In their cabin, Barbara and Irem stare incredulously as they hear Giorgio and Silvia have sex in their cabin. Barbara remarks, humorously, from the noises that they are making now, one would never think that they tried to kill each other earlier that day. Irem remarks that they seem like a master and happy slave. Barbara still attempts to exact her plan but she is never able to make any effective headway. Meanwhile, Irem develops a blossoming obsession towards Silvia. Like Barbara, Silvia seems to enjoy seducing Irem yet keeping him effectively at bay. Silvia’s character takes a perverse turn, as does Barbara‘s--when the third act begins, Barbara changes her plan, and when the credits roll, the viewer will certainly be questioning her cruelty. Ruggero Deodato has always been a court jester of cinema, enjoying being willful and provocative for the sake of being so. I admire this tremendously. The thriller plot of Una ondata di piacere is tired; and the real interest of the film is in watching these characters reveal their different layers with totally unexpected results. In fact, as much as Una ondata di piacere is touted as an erotic film, Deodato shoots the film as if it weren’t: the film has an organic style, none of the nudity or the sex is particularly treated with flourish. When Turner and Dionisio disrobe in front of each other, Deodato’s composition doesn’t change. Like a conversation, the inclusion of any skin into the frame just continues. When Irem attempts to fuck Silvia, Deodato shoots them on the small staircase leading from the cabin to the upper deck. There’s nothing special about the setting nor the atmosphere: there’s only Irem’s obsession and Silvia’s seduction. Any eroticism from the film is generated from the actors: gorgeous Dionisio is as seductive in her jeans and hooded sweatshirt walking the streets of Cefalù as she is sunbathing topless on the deck of the yacht. Deodato’s primary composition of Dionisio is a facial close-up. Cliver and Turner generate heat in their few sequences, and Steiner, perhaps intentionally with his performance, looks buffoonish in his sexual scenes. Una ondata di piacere is unexpected in Deodato style and is worth seeing if not just for Silvia Dionisio’s precious performance. She captures every frame and is the very definition of charismatic. While Steiner’s character is the most overt and Turner’s character the most subverted, Dionisio’s character is the most unexpected and holds the most mystery. Una ondata di piacere is a rare film in Deodato’s filmography, rarely spoken of, but like most of his cinema, very provocative and compelling and certainly worthy of seeking out.

La nuit des traquées (1980)

2011-03-04T19:42:00.001-06:00

La nuit des traquées (1980) is a sad film. I had not seen the film in quite a while, and it was the first film that I had seen of Jean Rollin's since his death. There is an overwhelming sense of melancholy to the whole production. I pulled my Encore DVD of the film for no particular reason and gave it a spin. I watched it several times over successive nights. I suppose I wanted to see if the sadness came from me or was an emotion elicited from watching the film. "When I see this film," says Rollin, "I feel a sense of unease. As if the film contains the seed of a great film that was never actually realized." (from Virgins and Vampires, edited by Peter Blumenstock, Essays by Jean Rollin, Crippled Publishing, Germany, 1997, p.93)

Robert (Alain Duclos) is driving on a dark night during a storm in the countryside. A young woman, dressed only in her night gown, steps out on to the road. Robert stops to help the young woman. She has no memory, save her name, Elisabeth (Brigitte Lahaie), and Robert agrees to drive her to Paris for help. Robert takes Elisabeth to his flat in Paris, and the two fuck. Robert has to leave to go to the office and requests that Elisabeth wait for him. While Robert is gone, an older gentleman and his lady assistant arrive to reclaim Elisabeth and take her back to her home--the "Black Tower," a modern high-rise building located in a block of them in the outskirts of Paris. She is a patient there.

With La nuit des traquées, Rollin has been compared to David Cronenberg, especially his film Shivers (1975). The two films certainly share superficial qualities, and the comparison is not without merit. The "Black Tower" setting and the physical affliction of its residents (which also affects Elisabeth) which is causing their behavior to change are notable similarities. However, beyond these similarities, I think the comparison ends. Elizabeth's affliction is a romantic one in signature Rollin style: a disease which removes memories. The modern high-rise setting is often focal, because it is far from Rollin's previous settings, such as the ruinous castle in Requiem pour un vampire or the little getaway villa of Fascination, for example.

Natalie Perry, "in a very moving scene that gave the film its true meaning," (Virgins, p. 93) appears in the hallway of the Black Tower in front of Elisabeth and her roommate, portrayed by Catherine Greiner. Perry's character knows that she has a child and does not know where her child is. She cannot remember the sex of her child nor its name. She only has this innate connection, beyond her memory, that she has had a child and that her child is somewhere, alone. Elisabeth and Catherine are speechless and are overcome with the awkwardness of being so moved so suddenly by such emotion. Catherine tells Perry's character that her child's name is Alice, and this statement brings comfort to Perry's character. Its comfort is not lasting, as Perry's character only takes five or ten steps away, and asks again what her child's name is. Catherine tells Elisabeth that we can make memories for each other--making memories as temporary comfort for a debilitating condition that is consuming them. Grenier's character, in addition to suffering the memory loss, has also lost the ability of her fine motor skills, like undoing her buttons or unfastening her belt. "Cathy Grenier was a real actress. She dreamed about playing and worked for a long time on the scene where Brigitte feeds her with a spoon. This scene is a great moment, very moving and she is excellent in it," says Rollin. "I resisted to the bitter end facing André Samarcq [the producer] who insisted on me cutting it out at the editing." (from the supplemental booklet included in the Encore DVD set, p. 19) The scene which Rollin is describing is during a sequence where Elisabeth and Catherine are having dinner. Elisabeth watches as Catherine cannot bring the spoon of soup to her lips without spilling it. Without words, Elisabeth sits next to her friend and feeds her. Like Perry's sole scene, this sequence is especially tender and moving. So much so, after viewing, one can see why Rollin put up a fight to keep it in La nuit.

While the wonderfully-titled "Black Tower" is interesting on a visual level (just odd and out of place and disorienting), the actual location of the film perhaps hides the more interesting influence over La nuit. André Samarcq offered this production to Rollin to be filmed “within ten days or so in the La Défense district” with “complete freedom,” save the forced inclusion of several soft-core sex scenes. (Encore booklet, p.3, and Virgins, p. 93) Rollin chose to cast his friends from the x-rated movie industry, because “at the time I was rebellious,” he adds. “I was particularly bothered by the disdain that the mainstream movie people displayed towards their porno colleagues.” (Virgins, p.93) The building was an office building named “Fiat Tower,” where Rollin and crew would come in minutes after the workers left at five p.m. and film all night. (Encore booklet, p. 5) Rollin tells this fantastic story about the location:

During “La nuit des traquées”, the top floor of the tower was called the X floor. It was empty and probably served as junk space; you can guess what the crew used it for. There was a storm once and I was in the lift, looking for a location for a scene. I was aiming for the top floor. It must have been just past midnight, I was alone. The wind was howling and roaring in the lift shaft. Suddenly, I clearly felt the tower rocking. Anyone who has never found himself alone at night in the centre of a dancing tower doesn’t know what it’s like to feel scared. I learned later that the towers are erected on neoprene supports and that it’s normal that they move during a storm. But I didn’t know this at the time. So, the automatic doors open and the actors and actresses are thrashing around restlessly on the floor in front of me. I go down one floor, leave the lift of terror and climb down again through the staircase. The tower is still moving under my feet...” (Encore booklet, p. 5)

A beautiful story (it serves as an example also of how fine of a writer Rollin was). There is also a little joke in the story, as well, tied into the “X floor.”

Nonetheless, Samarcq’s demands upon Rollin show its influence in La nuit des traquées and alter its outcome. The lengthy sex scene between Lahaie and Duclos goes on way too long for most viewers. In addition, the scene is way too much for most viewers. To be totally frank, Brigitte Lahaie is too much for most viewers. Lahaie is one of the most sensuous actresses to ever grace the screen. She possesses an overwhelming and powerful sexuality. She also plays all of her roles with a true vulnerability and genuineness. Few possess these traits. However, to encounter a scene like this early in the film, many might determine the film for something it is not--a pure sex film. The subsequent sex scenes in La nuit might be borne from Rollin’s rebelliousness against Samarcq: one is a scene of violence, a rape scene shot in the same manner as a consensual sex scene; and the other is a sex scene ending in violence, performed by two ancillary characters (to be fair, ancillary characters pop up in and around Rollin’s films so often, they can hardly be called ancillary as their quantity removes their ancillary nature). The sex scenes are there, but they’re not titillating, save Lahaie and Duclos’s scene. These exploitive scenes punctuate La nuit loudly, making it unique in that respect. I’ve never valued tonal consistency (or any consistency, for that matter) in film, as I believe an artist is completely free to do as he/she wishes with the art. However, the tender scenes don’t play well with the exploitative scenes--they stand together like bullies and victims forced uncomfortably together for a school photo.

La nuit has some beautiful scenes. The opening sequence where Duclos encounters Lahaie in the rain is one of Rollin’s most beautiful in his entire filmography. Rollin writes, “I was so pleased with this beginning of the film that I was considering to open all my future films with a similar scene.” (Encore booklet, p. 6) Dominique Journet, as Véronique, is also present in this opening scene, and as in this one, she steals virtually every scene that she’s in. Véronique is arguably the most tragic character in La nuit, solely because Lahaie’s Elisabeth is focal. That is to say, since such a mystery surrounds Véronique, her emotional scenes have much more resonance. When she is alone and grasping her knees in a somber state, her emotion comes solely from her--not from some previous plot revelation or a character-building scene. Her character also has the saddest ending. Finally, I would be remiss not to mention the music by Philippe Bréjean: it’s simple and haunting. He really captured the melancholy mood of the film. It has to be heard rather than described with words. La nuit des traquées is an obscure film in an obscure film maker’s filmography. There are no castles, no Castel twins, and no beach scenes. It’s a beautiful and sad film full of fragments, where perhaps, all its beauty and sadness reside.

Anno 2020 - I gladiatori del futuro (1986)

2011-02-21T16:30:00.001-06:00

Sometimes the stories behind the films are more interesting than the finished films. I find this shit fascinating. Let us first hear from the participants from a semi-obscure film from Italy, made in 1986, rooted firmly in the “Post Nuke” genre--Anno 2020 - I gladiatori del futuro (2020 Texas Gladiators). Ready?

Luigi Montefiori (aka George Eastman)

"I directed that film at Massaccesi's request," says Luigi Montefiori (aka George Eastman) about Anno 2020 - I gladiatori del futuro (2020 Texas Gladiators) (1986). "His production company had bought the ready-made 'package' (actors with contracts and fixed dates, script already written, cost of the film frozen) from another production company, which had backed out because they considered it impossible to make the film with such poor funding. Massaccesi thought he could manage, but then, over the next 24 hours (work was due to start on Monday and it was already Friday), he realized that the script was short...terribly short--the film would have lasted an hour at the very most. The shooting schedule had already been worked out (20 days exactly) and couldn’t be extended a single day unless somebody was prepared to put up the finances. He called me up and asked me if I would be willing to assist him with directing the film: I turned the offer down saying I’d do it alone, but not with him.” (from Spaghetti Nightmares, edited by Luca Palmerini and Gaetano Mistretta, Fantasma Books, Key West, FL: 1996, p. 108)

Montefiori continues, “To be honest, when he [Aristide Massaccesi, aka Joe D’Amato] said, ‘Let’s direct it together,’ I answered, ‘No, I’ll direct, and you can watch and learn how it’s done.’ He really got pissed off. No, I told him that the first day on the set. On the first day of the shoot, we were in the basement of the Hilton hotel, you know, where there are all the pipes, for heating and so on--in order to shoot a strange scene, like out of James Bond--Aristide and Donatella [Donati] were on the set. He stood there like this [Montefiori gestures with arms crossed], watching me. He wanted to see what I would say. Then the cameraman showed up, and I said, ‘Put the camera here, with this lens, then we’ll do a dolly shot...’ And he was totally quiet. After five minutes I was thinking he’d come up. I was saying to myself, ‘It’s impossible for him to hold his tongue.’ And in fact he come up and goes, ‘Why’d you put the camera there?’ I said ‘Aha! Aristide!’ I must say that I hadn’t asked him for a salary as director. When he’d proposed we direct together, I knew it was because he didn’t want to pay me! So I said, ‘I’ll direct.’ He started to object and I told him to pay me an assistant director’s salary. I didn’t care about the money--at the time I didn’t give a damn about money. So when he came up to me and asked me why I placed the camera there, I said, ‘Ari, you’re paying me to direct, not to teach you how to direct.’ He got really pissed and called me every name in the book and split. But I say he always let me work in peace, since of course he knew me. The thing that was fun for me was to do something that everyone said couldn’t be done. We’d just answer: ‘It can be done, don’t worry.’” (from the documentary, Joe D'Amato Totally Uncut, included as a supplement on the Shriek Show/Media Blasters Anthrophagus DVD)

Montefiori further states that, “I looked at the script and estimated that I’d need another half hour of film, which meant I’d have to improvise some scenes to shoot on the sets which had already been planned, I couldn’t have done this effectively as a co-director, as I’d have had to first discuss every idea for a new scene. He [Massaccesi] hedged a bit at first, but then, when I said I’d do it for a very low salary, he gave in. You see, I wanted to do the film at all costs and was convinced that if I could pull off such a difficult task, I could be a director for the rest of my days. Anyway, I did the shooting in exactly 20 days and everything went smoothly despite the lack of resources, and here I must say that I owe a great deal to the participation of my young and exuberant assistant-director, Michele Soavi. I never saw the finished film; once I’d supervised the editing, I left the technicians to do the postrecording and the mixing. I wasn’t particularly concerned about how it had turned out, being satisfied with the fact that I’d managed to keep to the schedule and produce a 95 minute film.” (from Spaghetti Nightmares, p. 108-09)

Pierluigi Conti (aka Al Cliver)

Question: You remember another film you did with Aristide [Massaccesi], but directed by [Luigi] Montefiori?

Answer: I vaguely remember it...

Q: Do you remember whether Montefiori directed the whole film, or was part of it directed by Aristide?

A: No, I think Montefiori directed the whole thing. Aristide was good at that sort of thing. When he’s entrusted the direction to someone, he didn’t interfere with it, unlike the usual producer. (from the Joe D'Amato Uncut documentary from source same as above)

Aristide Massaccesi (aka Joe D’Amato)

“Montefiori didn’t feel confident enough in the action scenes and so I dealt with those, leaving him to the directing of the actors. But in this case, the name recorded at the Ministry was mine.” (from Spaghetti Nightmares, p. 79)

I love Luigi Montefiori’s story. Notice the insinuation that he makes during the first paragraph with the phrase “over the next 24 hours”--it sounds as if Joe D’Amato bought a film production which was going to begin in less than a week, and he had only started to prepare for the shoot the Friday before the Monday starting of the production. So he calls in a old friend and collaborator to fix the shoot. The two had made films on the fly in short periods of time, before--Sesso nero (1980) is a prime example. Montefiori even further insinuates that the two didn’t finalize who was actually going to direct (or if the two would co-direct) Anno 2020 until the first day of shooting. Finally, although Montefiori makes it sound as if he directed the film, the statement by Massaccessi, in his typical modest and terse style, says a lot. If he directed solely the action sequences, then Joe D’Amato was a true co-director, because Anno 2020 has a lot of action sequences.

While the finished film has a few problems (as I’ll discuss below), Anno 2020 is quite an accomplishment considering its background.

Anno 2020 - I gladiatori del futuro (2020 Texas Gladiators) begins with a group of law marshals who patrol the post-apocalyptic wasteland of Texas. This group is comprised of Nisus (Al Cliver), Jab (Harrison Muller), Catch Dog (Daniel Stephen), Halakron (Peter Hooten), and Red Wolfe (Hal Yamanouchi). Like a Black-Ops team, they disrupt a band of rabid and violent raiders who attack a peaceful group of religious settlers. All of the raiders are killed, and the remaining settlers are rescued. This group has a code--they intend to restore justice in the post-apocalyptic wasteland, by any means necessary. However, Catch Dog sees a distressed settler hidden in the corner, named Maida (Sabrina Siani), and decides, with no one looking, to rape her. He is stopped by Nisus and given a beatdown. The group expels him on the spot and forces him into exile. Maida, while grateful for Nisus’s help, questions his violent methods: if he just kills the killers, isn’t he just a killer, too? This observation is astute, and Nisus cannot disagree. He agrees to accompany Maida to her settlement--a community living under the shadow of a power plant. This group has hopes of rebuilding it, just like they are rebuilding ideas like community and harmony. This is just the beginning.

I’ll be damned if the story of Anno 2020 isn’t epic in scope. It’s definitely a Western in its structural design, its archetypes, and its mythology, complete with a saloon sequence, a canyon standoff, and a fort defense by incoming raiders. Love, revenge, redemption, good versus evil, hope, despair, wagon wheels...all that shit. Eventually, Cliver’s Nisus abandons the group and settles with Maida in the community. Nisus becomes a pillar and helps the community restore power to the plant. He and Maida even have a child together and are beginning a family. Eventually fascist bastard, the Black One (Donald O’Brien) busts in on the group with his elite futuristic warriors in tow. A band of raiders also appear to be supporting the Black One, led by Nisus’s former colleague, Catch Dog. They subdue the community after a valiant defense by the settlers, and the Black One takes power, intending to kill the rest of the law marshals in the area. Part of the charm of Anno 2020 comes from the era, and those, like me, who love Italian action films from the 1980s, especially the “Post Nuke” films, will enjoy revisiting this era: the Mohawks, the makeshift battle armor, spiked armbands, the facepaint--as much as these are costumes for new tribes of the post-apocalyptic world, they are also staples of the 1980s fashion scene. Anno 2020 has a synth score by whom the credits reveal as Francis Taylor who may be Carlo Maria Cordio, as the IMdB suggests, as nearly everyone in the credits has an Anglicized pseudonym. Like most music for Italian genre cinema, the “Post Nuke” cycle of films wouldn’t be memorable without the fantastic synth scores. Anno 2020’s score is pretty cool. The inclusion of actors like Muller and Siani are memorable, solely because the bulk of their work was few and was during this decade. Both of the actors are eye candy: Muller has beautiful eyes and a pretty baby face which he hides under a beard; while Siani is voluptuous, tanned, and bleached blonde. Anno 2020 is a representative film of the era.

As the film progresses, it is evident that the haphazard planning by Montefiori and Massaccesi would have an effect. There is some shit in this film that really comes out of left field. The saloon sequence involves a bizarre game of Russian Roulette. Later in the film, the remaining group of marshals, after fleeing the raiders, wander in the woods to encounter a group of Native Americans who are rendered visually in stereotypical cinematic fashion. There is even a slavery sequence in a mine where the Black One houses his prisoners. This scene seems an opportunity to film a slave revolt.

Visually, Anno 2020 is competent and slick yet not flashy. Its design is to be a commercial action film and it delivers--it hides its low budget well with its editing while also being exciting editing in its action sequences. Montefiori’s improvisations to the script and his direction of scenes with the actors are well done. He’s a professional and seasoned (and in my opinion, underrated) screenwriter who knows scenarios and characters well. Although the story is disjointed and fragmented (and a lot of the time, weird), there is a richness and depth to the fragments.

Anno 2020 - I gladiatori del futuro is ultimately really representative of how creative Italian cinema was. Film makers, like Joe D’Amato, could pick a whole production up on the fly and were professional and sly and creative enough to craft an entertaining film. These films were designed to make quick cash and not lasting memories. The film makers can have the former any day. I’ll gladly take the latter.

Les cauchemars naissent la nuit (1970)

2011-02-18T03:08:00.004-06:00

It is difficult to discern what Les cauchemars naissent la nuit is about, in as much as it is to discern what genre Jess Franco's film falls into. The latter is not important (but erotica is probably the answer); and as to the former, here is a plot description: Diana Lorys is Anna, a nightclub dancer, who meets Cincia (Colette Jack), who invites Anna to her home. Cincia tells Anna that her talent and beauty are above and beyond where she is working and makes a vague promise to Anna that she can make her a bigger success. Anna agrees and soon finds comfort in Cincia's home. A local doctor, Paul (Paul Muller), is eventually summoned to Cincia's home under the assumption that Anna is ill. Apparently, Anna has been having nightmares--those of her killing people or waking up not knowing what she has done, with someone dead in her bedroom. Les cauchemars naissent la nuit is, as a mystery, reminiscent of Umberto Lenzi's Orgasmo (Paranoia) (1969) in the respect that Anna's reality is being manipulated by those around her. Anna's subsequent madness is borne from this manipulation. The key figure in this manipulation would have to be Colette Jack's Cincia, but during the nightclub sequence when Cincia first sees Anna, it would appear that Anna actually seduces Cincia. Anna's striptease sequence is shot in Franco-style (aka very lovingly) (aided by José Climent's photography and a sexy score by Bruno Nicolai); and it almost seems that Cincia is compelled to have Anna in her home. Lorys's Anna remains the focus of Les cauchemars naissent la nuit, and this makes it difficult to discern what is going on around her. Franco shows many an emotional scene where Anna wants to flee Cincia's home, and Anna often runs into the arms of Muller's Paul. She continually asks for help. Paul, not uncaring, lends a sympathetic ear, yet his ultimate advice is often just "go home and rest." More telling perhaps about Les cauchemars naissent la nuit is where this falls in Jess Franco's filmography: it is only slightly removed in time from his previous Eugénie (1970); and his subsequent film would be Christina, princesse de l'érotisme (1971). It is very easy to see Les cauchemars naissent la nuit as an experimental, transitional film: Les cauchemars has the intense subjective sexual obsession of Eugénie combined with the ethereal, almost random, characters of Christina. Jack Taylor appears late in the film as one of Cincia’s lovers; and when Anna and Taylor’s character interact, it is often composed of poetic, playful dialogue. Taylor’s character doesn’t seem real, and if he’s helping Anna, then it is very cryptic. Finally, giving a very precious appearance in a small performance is Soledad Miranda as a beautiful girl peering out of a window across the street from Cincia’s house. She has dreams that she shares with her lover of coming into a lot of money (this is important to the plot?). Miranda is dead sexy--Franco composes her primarily nude wearing only thigh-high boots. Franco had an intense obsession for Miranda, and it undoubtedly shows.Les cauchemars naissent la nuit is a lithe, meandering, arty, poetic film. I tend to prefer my cinema like this--a film which has really nowhere in particular to go in terms of story, so its imagery becomes prominent and, in the case of Franco, seductive. A minor entry, perhaps, in Franco’s filmography, because of the films preceding and following it. However, here’s some facts to conclude this post taken from essential Obsession: The Films of Jess Franco:

Only released in Belgium, this variation of the Miss Muerte story (a nightclub dancer unconsciously commits murders for somebody controlling her) has become virtually invisible since this limited release. Franco used the same story three years later for his own production of Los Ojos Siniestros del Dr. Orlof. Local critics writing about Les cauchemars naissent la nuit found that “the vague screenplay in the crime novel vein was only a pretext for showing scenes of a dubious nature with excessive nudity.” It is also true that Belgium is probably the most prudish country in Europe: even sex magazines are sold with stickers to cover genitalia! When asked (in Vampirella n° 13) what had been his smallest budget to date (in 1973) Franco named this film.

(from Obsession, ed. Lucas Balbo & Peter Blumenstock, Graf Haufen & Frank Trebbin Publishing, Munich, Germany: 1993, p.77)
Les cauchemars naissent la nuit has been released by Media Blasters/Shriek Show on DVD as Nightmares Come at Night. Also, check out Aaron’s review at his killer blog, The Bone Throne.

La tomba (2004)

2011-02-16T07:35:00.001-06:00

Some questions, perhaps, are better not asked and left unanswered. After a week's viewing of his cinema, I asked myself why--for well over a decade, now--I continue to watch the films of Bruno Mattei. Are they fun, b-movie trash? Maybe, but I find this answer unpersuasive. Lurking on message boards and searching for answers for the few of us who genuinely consider ourselves fans of Mattei's work, I can find no answers. Mattei fans make no apologies and mount no defenses. It's as if there is no redemption to be had. Often, I am like a vegetative hospital patient in front of the screen when Mattei's images flicker past and am totally defenseless. Is Bruno Mattei cinema anti-cinema? I like that term, and it looks cool as I write it; but I prefer to end this query now, before its answers crawl up from the abyss.La tomba (2004) is one of Mattei's last films. In the new millennium, before his death in 2007, Mattei would helm more films than in the decade before. Most, if not all, were shot-on-video and most, to put it in an understated manner, were highly derivative of other cinema. Mexico. The height of the Mayan civilization. One of the Mayan deities, a goddess, is about to be invoked and brought forth into this world. A high priest resides over a sacrificial ritual with his masked consort at his side. Two jewels are placed in the eyes of the statue of the goddess, and now, only sacrifices are needed. The final sacrifice is to be a priestess, someone specially chosen. A clan of Mayan warriors disrupt the ritual and begin battle. If the Mayan goddess is brought forth from the dark abyss, then humanity is doomed. The masked consort flees with the high priest. In a tomb located in the catacombs of the temple, the high priest sacrifices himself. Patiently, his corpse will stay in the tomb. One day, he will rise again and complete the ritual. Mexico. Modern day. A group of archaeology students led by their professor (Robert Madison) arrive via bus to begin a survey and study of some ancient ruins. If you've read the paragraph above, then take a guess where they're going and what they are about to do. I'll wait.

Video has either been a blessing or a curse for modern cinema. Modern viewers have adapted to life beyond celluloid quite well; and most do not see it as a deterrent to an enjoyable cinema experience. Modern technology has advanced quite far; and often, films shot on the video format rarely call attention to themselves. La tomba is one of those rarities. Have you ever seen a really funky-ass-looking television show and wondered why it looked so funky? Lighting for film and lighting for video are two wholly different arts. La tomba appears lit for film (or lit for coverage) and shot on video. Colors appear unnaturally bright and vibrant, and the sets appear even more theatrical and artificial. With every frame of La tomba, while watching, it is difficult to forget that a film is playing out. La tomba really calls attention to itself with its visual style. Therefore, one with little ease can be critical of the sets, the costumes, and the makeup. You can almost see where the latex adheres to the skin on the practical makeup effects. When one of the characters pushes the lid off of the crypt which houses the corpse of the high priest, immediately one does not think of heavy granite. The lid weighs practically nothing, and that actor straining is clearly acting. How about them apples?

Mattei loves casting attractive women in the roles of his films. Their attractive quality seems, at times, the sole reason why he cast them. Two actresses standout: Anna Marcello and Kasia Zurakowska. Marcello gives the best performance in La tomba as the bruja. Upon arrival in Mexico, the archaeological team needs a guide. A disgusting, lecherous man named Professor Santos is the initial guide. He is not able to fulfill his duties (his final scenes in La tomba are sublime). The archaeological team, via the concierge at their hotel, is led to a "healer," or bruja, who could substitute. Enter Marcello. Simultaneously sensuous and sinister, Marcello always scowls. Her character radiates true energy. Zurakowska plays Viola, one of the archaeological students and also was the priestess from the initial sequence whose death is staved off by the Mayan warriors. Not a coincidence. In an endearing sequence, Viola is hard at study in the temple with her portable CD player tucked into her waistband. She’s dancing to her own rhythm and occasionally taking notes from one the murals in the temple. Viola hears a haunting and odd chanting. She pulls her earphones and shakes her CD player. Frightened, she throws the player to the ground. Gasp! There is no music disc inside. Incidental note. Most, even those reading this, will never see La tomba. However, if you want to see how beautiful Marcello and Zurakowska are, then do an image search via your favorite search engine for one of their model pictorials. Best not done at work, kiddies.

I know little of acting and little of character interaction and little of actor motivation. This, to me, is the oddest thing in La tomba: whenever a character starts screaming or flipping out, usually Viola, another character will run over to him/her and immediately grab and shake them. In fact, the characters will go out of their way to touch each other in almost every conversation. The concept of personal space is truly dead in La tomba.

One of the indisputable and shining highlights of La tomba (of really all of Mattei’s cinema) is the editing. Although it does not appear that Mattei edited La tomba, Mattei has as many credits as a film editor as he does a film director. Of all the things that could be said about his work, directorial self-indulgence is not one of them. Mattei rarely fell in love with his footage. As an editor, he knew when to cut a sequence before it outstayed its welcome. La tomba zips along and seems well shorter than its ninety-minute-or-so running time.

There is so much more that can be said about La tomba: the inclusion of clips from other films (Effectively inserted by the way, in a dramatic sense. The fact that they are celluloid inserts in a video film give them away, however.); the presence of actor Robert Madison (who appeared in some other notable Italian films) who is rugged and handsome and looks like a professional wrestler; and the sublime script and dialogue. Too much has been said already, and I think that I’ve seen La tomba too many times. I will see it many more times: the true mystery, undoubtedly.

Snakewoman (2005)

2011-02-12T18:32:00.001-06:00

Snakewoman (2005) is one of my favorite latter-day Jess Franco efforts. Prior to my recent viewing of the film, with the intention of writing about it, I had read quite a bit of recent and not-so-recent criticism of Franco's cinema. Almost all of it noted flaws common in Franco's cinema, primarily his use of simple narratives, poorly-paced, sex scenes inserted as time filler, shoddy camerawork (all the more awful when the film was shot on video), and a continual recycling of older material (that is to say, Franco has made the same film more than once). My cinema tastes have always been in the most strict minority, and while I respect others' opinions, I still watch Franco's cinema with my own eyes. Having seen over a hundred of his films now, having lost count around that number, the only aspect of Franco's cinema which varies, for me, is the intensity. However, with this recent viewing of Snakewoman, for the first time in a while, I saw it influenced by the majority opinion.Oriana Balasz was a controversial, and now obscure, artist from the 1930s, whose work, primarily film, is closely-guarded by her descendants. Carla (Fata Morgana), an agent for a publishing house, has gone to the Balasz villa to persuade the family into selling the rights to her work. Carla arrives and meets a young woman (Carmen Montes) who claims to be Oriana. She refuses to sell the work to Carla. There is an inherent mystery in the premise of Snakewoman. One would intuitively begin to ask questions with the hopes that the subsequent narrative would, at the minimum, provide clues to the mystery. Such as: what was so controversial about her work? why would a family prefer to keep it hidden away from the world, despite lucrative financial offers? Those questions, perhaps, could be clouded with the irrational, supernatural themes: is the young woman really Oriana? how is she still young?

These questions are answered by Snakewoman's narrative, but I would really be pushing my limited ability at persuasive criticism to prove it. As a mystery, it fails. As a horror film, it fails.

It had been a while since longtime collaborator, Antonio Mayans (aka Robert Foster), had appeared in a Franco film. He appears as a doctor who is treating a young patient named Alpha (Christie Levin) who appears to be suffering from delusions--seeing a person who is not there (who is influencing her behavior). Lina Romay appears during the final act of Snakewoman as Carla's doctor. Subsequent to her rebuff by the Balasz family, Carla left the villa and spent three days in a daze. She could not remember what happened or where she went. Carla's doctor recommends that she spend a week recuperating at her isolated country resort. During the week that she spends there, Carla's publisher calls to tell her that he has acquired the rights to Oriana's work and thanks Carla.

All of these events really occur in Snakewoman, and to be truthful, I had never really noticed the salient details until this recent viewing. The plot is nonsensical and not coherent. Snakewoman has a very simple narrative that is not frustrating because it is hard to follow, but frustrating because it is so simple.

My previous viewings of Snakewoman and my feelings and thoughts about the film were quite different. What I would describe (and will now) is not proper criticism.Carmen Montes, as Oriana, is a gorgeous and seductive woman. Franco's first shot of her is a fake silhouette. That is to say, with his composition, he wants to outline Montes's svelte figure against a light backdrop; but Franco also wants to draw attention to the wonderfully provocative tattoo which surrounds her body--a large snake. The end result is dim light coming from the background and soft light upon the foreground. The opening scene is both lulling and soothing. Almost perfect atmosphere for an erotic film. Mayans's character has a very tenuous connection to the main plotline, and his patient, Levin's Alpha, has an even thinner connection. Franco later reveals who Alpha is seeing in her delusions and has the two meet. When these two characters meet, they fuck. For a long time. For a duration way beyond the threshold of most viewers. This is not a deterrent for Franco. In a humorous touch, Mayans's character is shown in crosscut during the scene, chanting in Latin. I have no idea why, but it almost seems as if Franco is making a religious joke on solemnity. With the Mayans crosscuts, Franco is breaking his solemnity for this erotic sequence, but don't worry, Franco is going to capture it all. I cannot tell if it's genuine, but in the background in several scenes of the villa, there is a promotional photo of Marlene Dietrich, taken during her heyday, and it is autographed. It is framed, and occasionally, Franco will begin his scene with a close-up on the photo, and as the scene plays out, the framed photo will blend into the background with the rest of the props and furniture in the villa. The Dietrich allusion has a tenuous connection to the character of Oriana. In later sequences, Franco shows Oriana's film work (in black-and-white). It's fairly explicit and not unlike Franco. However, Oriana's films do not appear like old stag films: they're framed and shot with a reverence and detail to light and dark.My math may be incorrect, but I believe Jess Franco was in his mid-seventies when he filmed Snakewoman. It is difficult not to see a connection between Oriana's work and Franco's own. What Montes's Oriana says about the fictional filmmaker is possibly applicable to Franco's cinema. During Oriana's first meeting with Carla, Oriana gives a very inappropriate speech about the culo. This speech makes me laugh, because I cannot think of another film maker, save Tinto Brass, so devoted to the female culo.

At the end of this long post, all that can really be said definitively is that Snakewoman is quintessential Franco: erotic, irreverent, both poetic and haunting, and unique.

Lorna, the Exorcist (1974)--Repost with critique of the Mondo Macabro DVD

2011-02-11T07:50:00.002-06:00

Save this paragraph, what follows below is my original post on Lorna, the Exorcist, as published on December 27, 2009. Despite my desire to tinker with the text, I have resisted the urge to change it. It is not very good, alas. The original title of this post was "Jess Franco's Lorna, the Exorcist (1974)," and I have removed the "Jess Franco's" from the title (as an incidental note, this is because I've largely abandoned the auteur theory as a workable critical approach). I've recently received the Mondo Macabro DVD release of Lorna and am, again, quite impressed. The DVD release presents the film in a beautiful, anamorphic widescreen transfer, and the film is presented with an English language option and a French language option with English subtitles. I've watched the disc twice and have yet to listen to the English track, as I much prefer the French. The subtitles are excellent. Included on the disc are text essays and interviews with author Stephen Thrower and Gerard Kikoine. The Kikoine interview is of particular interest, as he shares his anecdotes about Robert de Nesle, editing Jess Franco's films, and his early work as a sound editor and film editor. Kikoine also talks about French cinema and censorship in France during the seventies. It is recommended and is my favorite supplement on the disc. The super-dope Mondo Macabro trailer reel is included also. This DVD release is essential Franco, and I cannot think of a true, cult film fan who does not have a stack of red DVD boxes on their shelf in his or her collection. One other note, there is a scene in Lorna which I reference below as being more provocative in its original version. Mondo Macabro has included this scene in their loving restoration of the film (an introductory text halts the beginning of the film on the disc, describing the laborious process of bringing this transfer to the public. This is very commendable work, and I appreciate it when Franco is attributed the value that he deserves.). I have left the original screenshots from my old vhs transfer and have included, above them, screenshots from Mondo Macabro's release. This is not done for comparison, as it is obvious that there is none. I have left the original screenshots, as they were part of the original post and they show how old school Franco fans saw this film, perhaps, prior to this essential release. I purchased my copy here, but it can also be found here.

Patrick (Guy Delorme) and Marianne (Jacqueline Laurent) Mariel, along with their daughter, Linda (Lina Romay), near the threshold of her eighteenth birthday, decide to leave their lush villa and head to the coast for a vacation. Patrick receives a phone call at his holiday destination from a woman named Lorna (Pamela Stanford), who wants Patrick to keep his end of the bargain that the two made nearly eighteen years ago. Lorna, The Exorcist (1974) (a more apt title is this French one, Les possédées du diable) is another Robert de Nesle/Jess Franco collaboration. Whatever pact the duo made with the devil of low-budget cinema is unleashed upon the viewer. The trademark Franco production style, cheap, small crew, few actors, single locations, etc., works completely in Lorna's favor. "Franco delays the descent into the plot as long as possible," write the authors of Immoral Tales, "increasing the claustrophobia, working out his compulsions." The film's extremely simplistic narrative allows Franco to paint a perverse tableau of images, shrouded in the most intense and haunting atmosphere.The eroticism of Lorna, the Exorcist is carried by Romay's Linda and Stanford's Lorna, and their love scenes are captured by Franco with longing, loving looks, slow embraces, and gentle touching and caressing. Lorna begins with Linda emerging from a balcony to seduce a willing Lorna upon a bed. It's a sequence made all the more powerful upon the later revelation that Lorna is the actual seductress; and Lorna's visits to Linda are in her dreams. Visually this sequence and another where Lorna seduces Linda while taking a bath are treated by Franco at the edges of voyeurism. Each sex scene dares to move one step further into its intimacy, threatening to remove any intimacy at all by revealing all. When Lorna finally confronts Linda and reveals her plans for the young daughter, she tells Linda her tale of first meeting her father and the pact they made before she was born. Lorna and Linda embrace again, and perversely Franco plays on the film's incestuous theme. Apparently, this consummation scene was far more provocative and graphic originally (fact from Immoral Tales) and was absent from my French print of the film. (A still from Lorna from this sequence is included in Obsession: The Films of Jess Franco.) The erotic sequences are not reserved completely for Lorna and Linda. Catherine Lafferière appears as a mad patient (victim or lover of Lorna) being treated by a doctor played by Franco; and her performance is as uninhibited as Romay or Stanford. Her scenes have little narrative weight and seem to exist to only permeate the truly erotic and haunting atmosphere.Virtually all of the characters have one motivation and each actor is able to play to his/her motivation with a singular intensity. Delorme's Patrick runs on fear and plays as a desperate man throughout out the film. Laurent's Marianne, like Linda, is a victim of Patrick's pact with Lorna: she doesn't know what to do or what is about to happen. In a particularly nasty scene, she's the victim of one of Lorna's spells in one of the most wince-inducing scenes in Franco's filmography. Lina Romay is fantastic as Linda and is able to genuinely balance the effective and seductive erotic sequences with a wide-eyed performance in the more innocent scenes. Stanford, as Lorna, again delivers with another seductive performance, even all the more brilliant as Franco has her hidden behind quite a bit of bizarre makeup and some impressive costumes. The primary location of the modern hotel lacks the grandeur of the genuine and more ancient locations of Franco's other work, but as the Immoral Tales authors note, the hotel (and Franco's compositions) contributes to the film's claustrophobic and intense atmosphere. Producer Robert de Nesle contributed to the hauntingly beautiful score with André Bénichou, an essential element to Lorna. In Lorna, the Exorcist, Franco plumbs the dark depths and delivers a provocative and dark gem.