I Love You Phillip Morris (2009)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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.