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Out in Theaters: THE DISAPPEARANCE OF ELEANOR RIGBY

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Trimmed down from a pair of standout 2013 TIFF films –  The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby: Him and The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby: Her – which each focused on a crumbled marriage from its own character’s point of view, The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby abandons this narrative invention to seek something more palatable for general audiences. As is almost always the case, in doing so, it’s lost any structural uniqueness and, therefore, any battle cry for an audience’s undivided attention. In effect, this Frankenstein’s monster of a romantic drama is a long-winded festival hit castrated into just another better-than-average weepy drama. I did leave wondering what it might have been like in its original format but still couldn’t shake the feeling that this product is nothing short of art that’s had its balls cut off.

The 89 minute Him – exclusively following James McAvoy‘s Conor’s point of view –  and 100 minute Her – exclusively following Jessica Chastain‘s Beatles’ inspired Eleanor Rigby’s point of view –  have been boiled together for this rebranded and more “digestible” 119 minute battlefield of love. And though we devoted cinephiles might mourn that lost 70 minutes, having already sat through 119 gloomy minutes, I couldn’t be convinced to revisit the endeavor in its entirety to work out the filmmaker’s original intent were I offered an exclusive interview with Jessica Chastain and a walk on role in her next project. Doing so would be akin to revisiting the park where you were mugged because you couldn’t remember whether the attacker’s right or left hook packed more punch.

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Columbia grad and first time filmmaker Ned Benson‘s doomed affair starts amicably enough with our bubbly but impoverished couple dining and dashing at a chic joint before collapsing into each others arms at some darkness-clad NYC park. They giggle and roll into one another. Their chortles reek of carefreeness. Their passion is palpable even through their drunkenness. Without fanfare or even any warning, the next scene sees Eleanor Rigby park her bike and throw herself from a bridge. We’ve no insight into what just happened, or more importantly why, and are left guessing as to how much time has passed since that rumpus dinner date and this bridge-throwing venture. From here on out, giggles are left on the sideline and super serious “adult” stuff pounds us in the face.

What follows is a baleful tale of cat-and-mouse, a voyeur’s journey into the crushed lives of two star-crossed lovers who’ve found their star suddenly snuffed. Following a ballad of soul-bearing tête-à-têtes, with Chastain and McAvoy going toe-to-toe with the best of them, Benson leaves us in the dark to wonder what event has driven such a forceful wedge between these once inseparable partners. What power is strong enough to tear down the levy of love? Has a Christy Mack/War Machine situation unfolded behind the scene or did she perhaps Kristen Stewart his Robert Pattinson? We wonder in the dark. Conor lurks, Elle pushes things down inside. We’re sucked into sulking with them. The breakup mystery unfolds slowly and deliberately, showing a knack for patience and emotionally honesty for Benson while losing a certain amount of excitement-craving goodwill from any reasonable audience member.

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That’s because watching The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby is like waking up with a sore throat. It’s sobering, passively aggressive and just won’t quit nagging at you. For those who found a melancholic solace in John Cameron Mitchell‘s weighty Rabbit Hole, The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby delivers much of the same. Tragedy befalls happy family, happy family no longer happy. Much pain. Much sadness. Bathe in tears. Rinse. Repeat.

If The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby were a Beatles song, it wants to be “Yesterday”, unaware that it’s really “She’s Leaving Home”; more “She goes downstairs to the kitchen clutching her handkerchief/Quietly turning the backdoor key/ Stepping outside she is free” than “Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away/Now it looks as though they’re here to stay/Oh, I believe in yesterday.” The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby is about forgetting what yesterday ever was in the first place, about cutting and running, about giving and sacrificing with nothing to show for it in the end.

Bolstered with two fine performances from its healthily talented leads, this truncated art film – while entirely a mouthful to say – will pique your morbid curiosity and satisfy any need for dispiriting drama, though it admittedly aims to leave you more rattled than it does. As such, it’s a second cousin to superior romance dramas like Blue Valentine or Like Crazy, more on par with the work of a filmmaker who hasn’t quite found his footing…or whose footing has been irrevocably altered by the Weinsteins. Then again, you know what they say about dancing with the devil…

C+

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Out in Theaters: TUSK

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With Tusk, it’s easy to note that Kevin Smith has a sense of humor like a kid roasting ants with a magnifying glass. From the years since he entered the stage with Clerks, he’s morphed his convenience store potty mouth into something more sick and politically sharp. As he tries out his new bags, his brand of black humor has become more veiled, indelicate and urgent. It’s become something far more sinister. Something far grosser. Such being the case, Tusk is sick, sharp, sinister, indelicate, and totally fucking gross.

Since the great Smith vs. Critics Cop Out bout of 2010, Smith has changed irreversibly. The infinitely superior Red State – a film I found massively interesting and one of the man’s finest works – was easy evidence of that. His newfound union with frequent Quentin Tarantino collaborator Michael Parks has seemed to spur within his writing something almost unpalatably dark and twisted but also dementedly funny, embroidered with low-boiling real world commentary. Tusk is the natural progress of taking that menacing, almost humorless comedy and no-holds-barred horror to the edge of full blown psychosis and hanging there until we can hang no more.  

Our entrance to Smith’s beautiful dark twisted fantasy that is Tusk is through Wallace (Justin Long), a loony podcaster who “made 100 grand last year” at the expense of others. Having emerged from the cocoon of a loser nobody, Wallace is a changed man. He’s rich, he’s popular; he’s finally a cool kid. To rightfully jealous girlfriend Ally (Genesis Rodriguez) he soliloquizes – in sonnets of fart jokes and curse words – about how he likes the “new” Wallace. With the foreboding ratcheted up to cabin in the woods levels, Smith unleashes the red herrings like doves at a funeral.

After Wallace’s trip to the Canadian providence of Manitoba to interview an accidentally self-mutilating YouTube star – deemed “The Kill Bill Kid” – results in a dead end, he becomes serendipitously wrapped up in a jackpot of a story and a walrus of a storyteller in Howard Howe (Parks). At his reclusive Bifrost mansion filled with treasures and trophies of adventures past, Howe waxes prosaically on his exploits at sea before getting to the proverbial gold of his story – one that brings a shipwrecked Howe into the loving bosom of a full grown walrus nicknamed Mr. Tusk. Never has such a respectful, tender relationship existed between humans, Howe contends. After so many years, Howe just wants his friend back and it appears that Wallace arrived just in time to help make it happen.
 
Panicked by Wallace’s untimely disappearance, Ally and Wallace’s podcast co-host Teddy (Haley Joel Osment) seek out the help of drunken discredited detective Guy Lapointe – played by none other than the wacky Johnny Depp under the pseudonym Guy LaPointe– to get to the bottom of what is really going on. Depp, per usual, is the most unbound performer on set and his oddball antics get so extreme as to take us out of the moment and cuts through the tension like a magician farting in the midst of his act.

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From a douchey megalomaniac to a scrambling captive, Long offers up ample evidence of why he was made for horror movies. Restricted in his later portions to just communicating with his eyes, Long is the embodiment of fear and he displays a range of emotions through his hazelnut baby blues. Lording over him, Parks is just as revelatory. His twisted gumption and rhetorical acrobatics prove there’s nothing more frightening than a well-learned mad man on a rant that would be rather lowly ranked on the sanity pole. Though the compassion is mostly meant for hyperbole’s sake, Smith seems to have found his Christopher Waltz in Parks. The two work together like blood and bones.

There to make it all happen, makeup supervisor Robert Kurtzman – not to be confused with The Walking Dead‘s Robert Kirkman –  has sewn together what may be the most disturbing practical effects showcase that I can possibly think of, offering up pure, untarnished nightmare fuel in the form of the the new born Mr. Tusk. Kurtzman’s handicrafts are a patchwork of OMG, a sickening stitch of new age body horror. To coin a phrase, it’s as disturbing as watching a man eat through his own hip.

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As much a deranged freak show as any episode of American Horror Story, Tusk seeks to define that age old question: is man really a walrus? And though Smith’s walrus opus could use sharper editing, a greater emphasis on somberness and even more Michael Parks musings, good god has had made a true haunter.

As effective as any high dosage caffeine pill, Tusk is a wildly original, tonally inconsistent, totally appalling smorgasbord of nightmare fuel that won’t soon stop haunting me. Smith and Kurtzman’s inhuman union presents nothing short of disturbing imagery, doomed to forever rattle around my brain. With Tusk, Smith performs his own Kafkaesque lobotomy. It’s “Metamorphosis” a la The Human Centipede. It’s The Fly meets Hostel. For those weak of stomach and mind, it might be advisable to bring a barf bag.

B

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Out in Theaters: THE GUEST

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NOTE: Re-printed from our 2014 Sundance review.


Slam Drive and Stocker together, rub them down in a spicy 80’s genre marinate and sprinkle with mesmerizing performances and dollops of camp and you have The Guest. Like a turducken of genre, Adam Wingard‘s latest is a campy horror movie stuffed inside a hoodwinking Canon action flick and deep fried in the latest brand of Bourne-style thriller. It’s clever, tense, uproarious, and hypnotizing nearly every second.

Coming off the success of You’re Next and the crowd-pleasing anthology V/H/S films, Wingard has assembled another cast of “where did these people come from?” talent. Dan Stevens is absolutely magnetic as the titular guest and from his vacuous eyed stares to his charismatic domination of conversations, he oozes character. You might recognize Stevens from Downtown Abbey but his turn here is a reinvention and could signal the birth of a true star. While youngsters have a floppy tendency to detract from the overall thespian landscape, newbies Brendan Meyer and Maika Monroe each hold their own, elevating cliches into compelling characters.

Wingard and scribe Simon Barrett admit in the writing process, the film was inspired by Terminator and Halloween, an unlikely combination but you can see the influence bleeding from both. By transcending a single genre, The Guest is able to riff on the tropes of nearly all mainstay film culture. But don’t confuse homage with mocking, there is artistry present here that escapes cheap imitation, a fact that garners such a spectrum of emotions. The fact that the film’s mood can change on a dime depending on Steven’s facial composure is a sure sign of its thematic success. The Guest may not be deadly serious but it’s never not deadly funny. We laugh because its familiar and yet new; a crossroads of homage and invention.

Completed in a mere 31-day shoot, the technical aspects of Guest shine as bright as Stevens immaculately pearly chompers. The throbbing soundtrack is a living heartbeat, becoming a secondary character that informs the laughs and tension in equal stake. Gorgeous sets born of Susan Magestro make up for the otherwise bland middle American landscapes with a final Halloween-themed set piece that was exactly what one hopes for.

When all is said and done, The Guest is 30-caliber entertainment, mainlining laughs, thrills, and excitement like a junkie on a bender. A step forward for the already majorly competent Wingard, this kind of genre movie reminds us of just how much fun a time at the theaters can be.

A

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Weekly Review 54: STAR, IRREVERSIBLE, HENRY, FEAR, WOYZECK, COBRA

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Weekly Review

I was thinking that this had been a week without a lot of screenings but then I realized I’d seen four films this week – The Two Faces of January, The Guest, Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby and Tusk. I guess the fact that I’ve not been able to yet publish reviews for any of these that has me thrown off. None the less, it was an almost prolific week of watching at home, where I consumed six films including one of my all time favorites; Star Wars; a few more Werner Herzog features; Woyzeck and Cobra Verde; a couple of uber tense horrors; Irreversible and In Fear; and a film that I didn’t really like though I can understand other’s appreciation for it; Henry: Portrait of a Killer. So let’s get down to it and spit some Weekly Review.

STAR WARS (1977)

Perfect in its imperfections, Star Wars – and yes I mean A New Hope but remember, this was originally just called Star Wars – deserves its status as legendary. Unfortunately, the only copy I now possess is the demonic “Special Editions” in which Gredo shoots first, an inexcusably badly rendered Jabba the Hutt makes a completely nonsensical appearance and clumsy, ill-fitting CGI clutters up the otherwise inspired scenery but to experience just how much this annoys me – and dear god does it annoy me – is a testament to both the nostalgic power of the original Star Wars and how great George Lucas‘ original vision really was. Though Mark Hamill is noticeably shy of the acting mark, it’s nothing short of a joy watching Harrison Ford rock his character-defining smugness, Alec Guinness bring a classically trained believability to the otherwise goofy “Force”, Carrie Fischer own the only role she’s ever really owned and all the lively secondary characters – from the walking rug to those lovable droids – running amock. A definitive classic, even my sci-fi-adhoring girlfriend finally fell for the weirdness of Star Wars. I couldn’t have been more pleased. (A+)

IRREVERSIBLE (2002)

One of the most graphic and disturbing films ever imaginable with a rape sequence that will likely haunt me for the rest of my life, Irreversible is as impossible to watch as it is to recommend…and yet, it is fantastic. For those looking to “go the distance” and really challenge yourself to watch something so horrifying and so heinous that it will literally seer itself into your nightmares, this is it. It’s incredibly well done and viciously visceral as filmmaker Gaspar Noé backwardly tracks two men hunting down a rapist who’s brutally assaulted one of their girlfriends, Alex. Gratuitous almost seems like an understatement in this film that let’s the camera roll on and on and on in some of the most graphic sequences ever set to film. If the camera somersaults and seizure-inducing strobing don’t make you sick, the content might, and still Irreversible is a glaringly avant garde effort, a near brilliant art film so committed to its contrarian cause that it’ll happily spurn the leagues of those who do attempt to consume it. For those with a stomach of iron though, Irreversible will surely join the ranks of most “fucked up” movies you’ll ever see. (A)

IN FEAR (2013)

A taut little psychological thriller that could almost be defined as “one location”, Jeremy Lovering‘s In Fear sees a fresh couple of Irish festival-goers lost on the customary dirt road in the middle of some back-country woods. For such a fatigued concept, In Fear‘s vehicular invasion premise is preternaturally creepy, providing just the right amount of bumps in the night to spook those willing to turn the lights off and commit to the darkly lit scares. With only three actors in the entire film and an imaginably frugal budget (I couldn’t find official budget numbers anywhere), In Fear‘s biggest asset is Lovering’s ability to work simplicity to his advantage. The tension lives in the shadow, just outside the fray of Lovering’s spotlight tactics. Using our fear of the unseen as the most powerful tool in his arsenal, Lovering understands how to built up tension like a conflagration. An economical and tactile horror venture for those willing to take the unnerving plunge, In Fear commits to its small stature and massages these prudently scary elements to match the mold expertly. (B-)

HENRY: PORTRAIT OF A KILLER (1986)

This rough around the edges effort from indie filmmaker John McNaughton seems like it might have been culturally relevant and borderline antagonistic back in the 80s where it came from but nowadays, doesn’t hold much power and is more repulsive than intriguing. We’ve seen a  dump truck of superior serial killer procedurals – from both sides of the fence – and though Henry might be responsible for inspiring some of those better films to follow, it’s hard to pretend that this was a film I liked. Michael Rooker (Merv of The Walking Dead) plays real life serial killer Henry Lee Lucas, a man to whom life is as meaningless as a noncommittal shrug. As Henry’s life becomes intertwined with redneck friend Otis (Tom Towles) and his younger, maltreated sister Becky (Tracy Arnold), his murderous ways spread like a cancer. Taking Otis under his wing, the two start a spree that leaves a trail of victims somewhere between 11 and thousands. According to Wikipedia, Lucas “initially admitted to having killed 60 people, a number he raised to over 100 and then to 3,000.” From this, you can imagine the bulk of the film. McNaughton’s fictionalized biopic is a narcissistic film with a jet black heart that isn’t much fun to watch though it’s undoubtedly respectably made considering available resources. (C-)

WOYZECK (1979)

One of Klaus Kinski‘s less definitive Hamlet-esque descents into insanity, Woyzeck pits a dullard against his own throbbing suspicions. A lowly rifleman who’s almost the social equivalent of Vincent D’Onofrio’s Leonard “Soap Socked” Lawrence from Full Metal Jacket, the titular Woyzeck is driven mad both by his unforgiving peers/patronizing superiors and adulterous wife. He’s a peon, a pariah, a bottom feeder at the command of all those around him. The only thing he can control is his family, woe be unto them. This cuckold gone bat shit crazy perfectly matches Kinski’s outlandish aura making Woyzeck a cautionary tale of Shakespearean compare. Adapted from a play of the same name by German dramatist Georg Büchne, Woyzeck may not be Herzog’s most noted accomplishment but it’s a soaring accomplishment none the less. (B+)

COBRA VERDE (1987)

We takes a trip to Africa for Cobra Verge, a narrative trip through colorful lands and splashy, living-on-the-edge cultures. Cobra Verde would be the last film that Klaus Kinski made with Werner Herzog (and preceded his death by just four years) and leaves Kinski with some monstrously powerful imagery. As has been my experience of all Kinski-Herzog collaborations, Kinski’s performance is the glue that holds Herzog’s sweeping, celestial elements together; he’s a dehumanizing black hole who eats our attention just as much as he apparently tormented those who worked with him. Cobra takes on slavery, outlaws and the bushman lifestyle with the kind of spontaneity and attention to detail that only Herzog’s wandering eye can achieve and it makes for some stunning imagery and mighty powerful scene work. (B+)

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Out in Theaters: HONEYMOON

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NOTE: Re-printed from our 2014 SXSW review.

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In 1954, Colliers Magazine published Jack Finney‘s sci-fi horror serial The Body Snatchers. Since then, this fire starter novella has led to a handful of direct film adaptations (the latest being Oliver Hirschbiegel‘s 2007 The Invasion starring Daniel Craig and Nicole Kidman) and dozens of spinoffs (John Carpenter‘s The Thing for instance.) But even more importantly, Finney’s creation all but gave birth to a whole subsection of genre: the infamous body invasion flick. In the years since, many filmmakers have employed this humble little niche market as an elastic stage to claim veritable scares by peddling harrowing practical visual effects and unsettling character shifts (in the best of cases) or CG sight gags and the banal formula of a group’s numbers mysteriously thinning (in the worst of cases). Director and co-writer Leigh Janiak though sees the genre as a chance to explore change on a microscopic scale, to prod just how absolutely horrifying it would be to see the one you love most temporally drained from their own body. Let’s just say, it’s not nice.

With the very talented Rose Leslie (Ygritte from Game of Thrones) and Henry Callaway at her disposal, Janiak prohibits an immense talent for directing her actors into believable territory, even under such inconceivable circumstances. From the opening montage where we meet newlyweds Bea and Paul undergoing matrimonial traditions like cake fighting (even though they forewent a real cake for cinnamon buns) and recounting the events by which they met (bad Indian food, it’s always bad Indian food!) to Rose’s fleeting misguided attempts to protect her husband from her extraterrestrial transformation (“They’ll never find you down here”) and through all the bumping of uglies in between, Leslie and Callaway sell the show as genuine.

Even on the heels of the more outrageous elements, their steadfast performances point to a unshaken understanding of their character’s respective head spaces. For the genre, it’s an uncharacteristically committed pair of performances and with Janiak jamming her cameras right in the midst of their personal space, we feel like we’re right alongside them, an equal victim of some inexplicable emotional violation.  

That is really where the true horror of these kinds of body snatching stories lies. Worse yet than seeing someone shot by a laser beam or abducted by some ethereal blue beam, there’s something infinitely more jarring to standing witness to an individual’s personality being siphoned out of them. Janiak’s film engages this process in stages. After running into what seems like the only other two people living in a ten mile radius, couple Annie and Will (who Bea just so happened to share a summer love with in the way, way back of past childhood flirtations), Janiak presents a first taste of “off-ness”. Annie’s withdrawn, confuzzled and all around off. She’s stage one of a mental virus, the foreshadow of what’s to come.

Shortly after meeting them, Paul wakes in the middle of the night to find the spot in bed next to him abandoned and cold to the touch. With harebrained suspicions of infidelity, he charges from the house only to find Bea naked, disorientated and caked in mud. Upon bringing her inside, a patch of what appears to be bug bites around her crotchal region alarms him. It’s nothing to worry about, she pleads in unconvincing manner. Instead of slamming on the brakes and seeing whatever transformation to come take place overnight, Janiak picks at her plate like a sparrow to birdseed. Like a gas leak from the brainstem, Bea isn’t replaced outright so much as reborn one blink at a time, reinvented with each breathe drawn, re-imagined with every performance of normalcy.

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Watching Bea recite milestone events from her own life into the mirror mimics an earlier scene where she practices a speech to get out of engaging in post-marital carnal relations but in the space between, she’s become more drained – more a shell than the filling. She’s lost another chunk of “Bea.” It’s the hollow spaces between the words, the falsity of her gestures, the empty recitation of loving remarks that imbues Honeymoon with such an eerie tautness. Bea being such an unreliable character, we never know what’s coming next and right up to the very last moments, we never really get a grasp on how much “Bea” is left in Bea after all.

And though Honeymoon may take place at a cabin in the woods, the camp has been left at home. Janiak’s take is fatally humorless, devoutly sobering. Instead of harping on frights, she’s left us with a steamy atmosphere so thick you could cut it with a butter knife and serve it at as a wedding cake. Even the hollowed out bride and groom toppers wouldn’t be missing.  

As Bea and Paul’s deserted woodland homestead becomes an unwelcome chrysalis, we’re left with little more than the remains of an evaporating relationship. Like Bea’s special nightgown (though it’s more hoary than whory) that Paul finds in the woods after her disappearance, there’s chunks inexplicably missing, impossible to recover, chalked up to some pieceless puzzle. But even after everything, there’s still some inkling of connection left, some fleeting memory of what it means to care for each other.

Perhaps that’s her intent after all, to show us something beautiful only to take it away, leaving tatters and fragments of what it meant to be able to connect with someone, to tell them you love them and actually mean it. By the end, “Bea” is reduced to mumbling her twisted version of sweet nothings but I’m still not convinced that all is lost of the well-intending New York butterfly she once was. Even in her harrowing final act, there’s love or at least something masquerading as such.

B+

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Out in Theaters: THE DROP

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Pitch perfect performances grounded by a bare-bones gangster plot and a neglected puppy makes The Drop a sweeping human story surging with thematic undertones of good versus evil.  Returning after the majorly affecting Bullhead, Belgian director Michael R. Roskam enters the English language game to deliver yet another absolute wonder of subtlety and character. Backed by a screenplay from Denis Lehane (Shutter Island, Mystic River, Gone Baby Gone), who adapted from his own short story “Animal Rescue”, The Drop is a nerve-wracking shadow game that puts the players at the forefront and lets the underlying crime elements serve as a guide to move those characters into different lights. With the shadows and spotlights cast here or there, Lehane’s characters electrify or terrify. They are tarnished archetypes; representations of the degree to which the label “good” has become sullied and the awful selling power of “bad”.

To get a sense of the acting prowess working under Roskam, look no further than leading man Tom Hardy, who once again proves to be an absolute wrecking ball onscreen. As nuanced as any of his finest performances, Hardy is cloaked in his own kind of puppy dog veneer. He’s fiercely trustworthy, notably thick-skulled and loyal to a fault. On his way home from working at Marv’s Bar, Bob Saginowski (Hardy) even stops to rescue a battered and bleeding Pit Bull puppy from a trash can. All signs point to him being a pretty great dude. But that doesn’t mean he’s not mixed up in some sketchy shit.

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Throughout the picture, Bob’s past is hinted at, as is his former association with Marv, played by the late, great James Gandolfini, and his “golden days” crew. From Marv’s relative low-standing in this harsh New York neighborhood, we learn he’s a man fallen from grace. With flashes of Tony Soprano shimmering through, Marv makes a point of rubbing Bob’s nose in his former glory at one point, supposing in a superior tone that to have and to lose is better than to never have had at all. We, like Bob, are left to work through this values judgement on our own. We’re equally reminded of Gandolfini’s massive ability to juggle soul-bearing humanity and seething rage in one mere scene. For a final role, his turn as Marv is humming with potency and understatement, and like Gandolfini himself, leaves us wishing for more.

Late one night, Bob discovers said puppy abandoned and whimpering in a trash can in front of Nadia’s (Noomi Rapace) seedy apartment. Against his better judgement, he decides to take in the pup and care for it with the occasional help from this new friend and potential love interest. At first their meeting seems entirely coincidental but as we learn more, we come to know that’s not quite the case. When antagonist Eric Deeds (Matthias Schoenaerts), infamous around the neighborhood for killing a young man in a yet unsolved crime, enters the picture demanding his dog back, a threatening triangle begins. It’s almost too easy to sense won’t that things won’t be right until one of the parties is offed.

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With Bob tending bar during the nights and Marv running the place in name alone, a group of Chechen gangsters – who we can only assume are responsible for putting the aforementioned crew of Marv, Bob and co. out of the game – own and operate Marv’s Bar, using it primarily as a place for money drops. After an amateur sting takes the place for five large, the Checens breath down Marv and Bob’s neck to recover the money and Lehane starts to inject the proceedings with the sheen of double-crosses and mystery that he’s so well known for. He gives a certain amount of pieces to the puzzle but forces his audience to assemble it without a key. As characters expose themselves one piece at a time, we learn bites, not mouthfuls, of truth and Lehane manages to keep the major reveals close to his chest until the spell-binding climax.

The three major plot points – Deeds and the dog, the heist at Marv’s, Bob and Nadia’s fledgling fling – all run parallel to each other before coming to that show-stopping head. As Lehane builds the tension slowly, Roskam lets the big moments strike the audience like a street fighter wearing brass knuckles. There’s no showboating, no “gotcha” moments; just an elevated series of genuinely earned, classically executed character revelations. No one is quite who they seem to be. Everyone puts on a face of some degree. Is Bob the harmless dummy he puts forth? Is Deeds the ruthless killer he claims? Is Marv too far past redemption to survive? All may be solved but it’s never quite completely resolved. Like life, things are messy and answers don’t come wrapped in bows.

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Moving into its final moments, Roskam and The Drop pull a bit of a Return of the King triple ending that mutes the power of one of Bob’s closing soliloquies. Rather than end on the somber note Lelane had driven towards, the piece moves towards a hopeful coda I wish Roskam had spared. It’s a turn I’m willing to forgive but it isn’t without its consequence. But forgiveness goes a long way in a movie packed with four prodigious performances; Hardy lays out some of his best work yet, Gandolfini exits on top, Schoenaerts continues his streak of haunting strong, silent types and Rapace hints at a kind of subtlety I didn’t know she was capable of. From front to back, these performances rightfully help keep the focus on the characters and not the events surrounding them and each of the above actors deserve high praise for such.

By the end of the film, we’re met a slew of ugly, compromised characters and seen their chameleon turn from one thing to another. The archetypes fade away to reveal broken men and women. Cinematographer Nicolas Karakatsanis‘ tasteful shadows consume all at some point. At a critical junction, Nadia questions Bob whether or not he was “still in the life”. He replies, “No, I just tend bar.” The Drop is all about sussing about whether that singular statement is the truth or not. That and puppies.

A-

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Weekly Review 53: TEXAS, VIETNAM, NOSFERATU, HOUSE, INNKEEPERS

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Weekly Review

Now that fall is here – I know it’s not the Autumn Equinox yet or anything but September = fall in my mind so deal with it – I’ve taken myself hostage to an onslaught of horror movies. As Above/So Below proved to be a mighty fun time at the cinema – though I am amongst the few who seem to think so – and I’ve been trying to recapture that delightful feeling of creepiness since. I even took to Facebook to cull out some recommendations for those in the genre that have still escaped me. If you were one that suggested anything, many thanks and I’ll do my best to give ’em a watch and feature them in this segment. This week, with one exception, has been dominated by films of the horrifying ilk, a trend I foresee continuing up until Halloween. So bring it on horror movies because it’s time for Weekly Review.

 

TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE (1974)

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Marked as the one that started it all, Texas Chainsaw Massacre is a slasher film of the first degree. The themes and plot tropes may be cliche nowadays but it was Tobe Hooper and his hapless mess of a production team – in fear of going over budget, the nothing-short-of-unfortunate cast and crew often worked 16 hour days, 7 days a week in 100+ degree weather – that originated the foreboding gasoline clerk, the red herring hitchhiker, the masked, hulking villain and the use of power tools as murder weapons. Hooper is credited with bringing political undercurrents to Texas Chainsaw but being a child of the 80s, they were largely missed on me. What lasts though is the malicious intent and downright evil spirit of the piece. That and Marilyn Burns haunted – she was literally bound, gagged and tortured on set – performance. Buyer beware, this massacre may haunt you for nights to come. (B+)

LAST DAYS IN VIETNAM (2014)

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Rory Kennedy‘s documentary on the fall of Saigon brings to light the horrifying other side of the fence that was the US’s withdrawal from the Vietnam War. Though officially ended by the Paris Peace Accords in 1973 , the war effort continued until April 1975 as the Northern Communist Army stormed south, forcing Southern loyalists and US forces and citizens out of the country by the plane full. Kennedy’s film is a lesson in the binary nature of war – of the salvation that comes with destruction and the irony of lives lost trying to save lives – but it’s a lesson nonetheless. More geared towards History classes than cinephiles, Last Days in Vietnam is a great vehicle to educate yourself on an oft overlooked component of a vicious war but doesn’t necessarily deliver more entrainment value than a really solid History Channel special. (C+)

NOSFERATU THE VAMPYRE (1979)

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Klaus Kinsis again proves to be one of the most interesting actors ever to live in Werner Herzog‘s remake of the original Nosferatu. But as much as Herzog has aped the central conceit of the original, he has changed the setting and the soul of the film. In Black Plague-stricken England, everything has a different meaning and Kinski’s army of rats are as troubling as the fanged monster himself. The only trouble with Nosferatu is that every minute Kinski steps offscreen feels like a wasted minute. It’s not that co-stars Bruno Ganz, Rolan Topor and Isabelle Adjani aren’t great – they are – it’s just that Kinski’s that good in the role. There’s something about his intensity that makes you genuinely fear for the safety of his co-stars; it’s a magical devilishness that eludes any performer I know. As the notorious Count Dracula, Kinski dumps understated malice by the truckload and with Herzog’s signature lingering touch and gorgeous cinematography, it’s truly a sight to behold. (A-)

THE HOUSE OF THE DEVIL (2009)

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Ti West‘s tip of the hat to the shlock horror films of the 70s and 80s replicates both the long-lingering sense of dread and the simple camera techniques that dominated the era. Gone are the dolly zooms, replaced by the steady wide zoom of late; the credit titles blare in dated neon yellow; horrifying images in inglorious freeze frames. West’s descent into the occult is such a love letter to a bygone time that you can all but see the ink dripping from the screen. As much an exercise in viewer patience as anything else, The House of the Devil demands audiences willing to stick it out without the guts and gore or jump scares that have come to characterize the genre since Saw dropped into theaters.  (B-)

THE INNKEEPERS (2011)

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Another Ti West outing this week – thanks Netflix – this time dipping into the modern era, with all its advances in cinematic technology. West takes on a ghost story in very direct – almost too much so – fashion. I’m finding myself very seduced by West’s low key style; his patient tone, his teasing spirit. His totalitarian grasp on the production – he writes, directs and edits – makes for a very smooth, very deliberate endeavor where each piece is part of a larger whole rather than there to startle you briefly and be forgotten. The Innkeepers – while compelling – would have benefitted from some more flair to its boilerplate “ghost in a run-down hotel” setting. West has proved he can generate tension and make a film exactly how he wants it to be made, now I’m ready for him to really churn up the heat in the writing department. (C+)

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A Collision of Curt: Bumbershoot’s 1 Reel Film Festival Brings All the Shorts

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Bumbershoot’s 1 Reel Film Festival, currated by the Seattle International Film Festival, was a charmed parade of “cinematic brevity” that came and went with a bang; a lavish celebration of the art form offering a smattering of delightful shorts. We had the in to cover as much as possible of this three day long engagement that afforded a chance for festival-goers to break up their day with some much deserved short film action and an equal opportunity for SIFF’s bevy of committed programers to delight audiences from the age of four to a hundred with the likes of their distinctive taste for comedy, sci-fi and drama and all the nooks and crannies in between. Read More

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Weekly Review 52: AGUIRRE, RISKY, JODOROWSKY'S, 12 O'CLOCK, TAKEI

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Weekly Review

This week has held no press screenings until Thursday night which means I’ve had plenty of time to catch up on my hit list. As Above/So Below screened the night before it was opening, a generally telltale sign of bad things to come, but proved to be a madcap fright-fest. More by random chance than anything, I found myself watching three documentaries from 2014; Jodorowsky’s Dune, 12 O’Clock Boys and To Be Takei; each of which was great for their own reasons; a reminder of why I love documentaries as much as I do. Additionally, I caught up with two older classics, Werner Herzog‘s Aguirre: The Wrath of God and Risky Business starring Tom Cruise, both of which I enjoyed monumentally. So all in all, a very good week for Weekly Review.

AGUIRRE: THE WRATH OF GOD (1972)

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Haunting and electrifying, Aguirre: The Wrath of God is the story of one man’s descent into madness with Klaus Kinski giving an unhinged performance as the hubristic titular character. The story follows Aguirre’s quest through Peru to find El Dorado as loyalties falter around him and insanity takes hold. It’s got an unnaturally real feel to it, accenting the existing eerieness of Werner Herzog‘s production. It’s as if Aguirre is partially a documentary in spirit and Herzog is a guide taking us into 1530 and stranding us there for 93 minutes. His minimalist, fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants directorial style leads to a bevy of moments that could have never been choreographed or planned, making the whole endeavor that much more wondrous and awesome. (A)

RISKY BUSINESS (1983)

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If Ferris Bueller picked up a hooker on his day off, John Hughes‘ classic tale of teenage ruckus would probably look a lot more like Risky Business. Paul Brickman‘s venture into adolescent male fantasy is marked by a subtlety oft missing from most coming of age stories from the same generation. In such, Risky Business is a groundbreaking, almost earth-shattering picture. One can also point to Risky for Tom Cruise‘s breakout role and for good reason. Though Cruise’s voice is still crackling with youth, he showcases the effortless charm, rebellious tinge and winning smile that would go on to define his success. All in all, Risky Business is a winning formula that sees ultra-sexualized feminine guile slam on the shores of pubescent, budding masculinity and the funny, poignant mess such leaves behind. (B+)

JODOROWSKY’S DUNE (2014)

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A captivating journey into what should have been but never was, Jodorowsky’s Dune is a bittersweet fairy tale. The most influential film that was never made, Jodorowsky’s vision for his film version of Dune has bleed a plethora of its distinctively forward-looking DNA into most iconic of films. Star Wars, Alien, Terminator, The Matrix, this mind-boogling documentary presupposes that without the Dune that never was, none of these would have ever existed. Perhaps the most intriguing aspect is the stable of off-kilter talent Jodorowsky was able to reel into the project, including none other than Dali (yes, that Dali) and Mick Jagger. Though it’s almost depressing to see such a work of passion crash and burn as hard as it did, at least this wonderfully captured chronology of Jodorowsky’s Dune will carry on the legacy of one of Hollywood’s wildest and most missed-out on production.  (A-)

12 O’CLOCK BOYS (2014)

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A searing look into the ethos of a gang of Baltimore dirt bikers, 12 O’Clock Boys follows young wannabe Pug as he aspires to join up with the revered crew. Named after the posture of a dirt bike pulling a gravity-defying wheelie, the 12 o’clock boys are at odds with the local police and the community at large. While they’re not gang members of the gat-wielding variety, their vehicular acrobatics puts other drivers at risk and often leads to the gruesome demise of their members. It’s a hard watch that’ll elicit conflicting emotions and is especially pertinent in the wake of the Ferguson events. While we as an audience struggle to relate to a fast growing Pug – the doc filmed him for three years – we can’t help but judge him and his hapless, tragic descent into hoodlumdom. As film tracks Pug over that span of years, we see a transformation from a child who dreamed of being a veterinarian to a teenager who kicks his own dog to quiet it down. Unfortunately, 12 O’Clock Boys ends abruptly and without warning, as if it had to be rushed to the theater and we’re left guessing of the fate of the character we’ve grown attached to, leaving us without the closure and moments of reflection that the film so badly needed. (B-)

TO BE TAKEI (2014)

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Actor turned activist George Takei might be best known for his role as Sulu on the original Star Trek series but it’s his constant strife for social equality that makes him as important a figure as he is today. Bill Weber and Jennifer M. Kroot‘s biography digs up Takei’s roots, his tenure on Star Trek, his later plight for egalitarianism and his oddly bumbling, indescribably pure relationship with Brad Altman. Even though the documentarians seem more focused on cramming in all the facts than of stream-lined and laser-focusing their effort, they find immeasurably powerful moments in Takei’s brutal honesty, especially in the later half of the film. We learn that Takei’s struggle is not just that of a gay man but of a Japanese gay man; a man who’s been beat down by homophobic political policies; a man who spent a portion of his childhood in the American Japanese Internment camps. From being a politic ally to Bill Clinton to appearing on the Howard Stern Show, Takei’s journey as a human being has all but become one big boxing match for equality and even though the film biographing him isn’t perfectly constructed, it’s a forceful reckoning with our skewed political agendas and often emotionally hard-hitting to boot. Plus, it’s nice to spend a little more time with George Takei. (B)

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Out in Theaters: AS ABOVE/SO BELOW

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John Erick Dowdle is an alchemist. He’s turned $5 million dollars into a pantheon of terror in As Above/So Below; an adventurer’s misadventure set in the made-for-the-movies Paris catacombs. There’s eddies of blood, characters crawling on their hands and knees through piles of dusty human bones, haunting cult-like choirs providing some hair-raising ambiance and eerie demonic symbology caking the scenery. It’s Temple of Doom meets the claustrophobic unease of The Descent – a spooky, campy theme park ride of a horror flick that’ll get your blood boiling and pulse racing.

Perdita Weeks plays Scarlet Marlowe, a tomb raider of the British variety who we meet sacking an Iranian cavern on the cusp of being demolished. She’s here hunting for a lost relic, an Arabic key stone that’ll help lead towards her ultimate goal: the Philosopher’s Stone. As sirens wail imminent danger, Scarlet scans the uncovered Key Stone with her helmet cam – the window through which we view the entire film –  up until, and beyond, the cave beginning to collapse in on itself. Scarlet’s fast-paced introduction quickly gives us a keen sense of who this Dr. Bones really is; a smart, sly, risk-taker who will stop at nothing to accomplish her treasure-hunting goals; and what the film has in store. If you’re not already along for the ride by the time the title card rolls up, it’s unlikely the Dowdles will ever be able to win you over.

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The rest of the film’s set-up is basic but well-balanced: Scarlet Marlowe, now the product of a documentary by secondary character and primary camera-holder Benji (Edwin Hodge), has tracked down the location of the Philosopher’s Stone – an artifact responsible for turning other base metals to gold and, more importantly, providing ever-lasting life to those who possess it – with the help of catty but canny George (a not-so-great Ben Feldman). Scarlet and George have a prior relationship that’s hinted at but never brought to the forefront. After frequent refusals to join the scavenging party, a run-in with local police forces the dastardly George into the underground fold with Scarlet, Benji and local spelunkers/inside men Papillon (François Civil), Zed (Ali Marhyar) and Souxie (Marion Lambert), tagging along as guides for promises of treasure.

The second we head underground, Dowdle’s lingering sense of doom takes hold like a bouncer who’s grabbed you far too hard. As our cast ambles through tight spaces and over cob-webbed canals of subterranean pathways, disorientation takes the steering wheel, directing us as audience members towards something unnerving and entirely frightful. A spooky discovery of the aforementioned carolers – who don’t prove to be a threat so much as an all singing, no dancing red herring –  is the sinister icing on the cake. If you’re looking for creepy, As Above/So Below gives you all the feels.

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Traversing deeper into the maw of this sinister network, the group begins to encounter relics from their past – a ringing telephone, a broken piano, a shambling noose. Each relic holds significance to one of the cavers. Facing the music is a theme of the Dowdle’s screenplay and it just so happens that the music here is rather unsettling and certainly none that you would opt to face. Thanks to a cave in though – of course there’s a cave in – there’s no turning back. Matters only get worse when La Taupe (Cosme Castro) shows up out of thin air to join the fun. His gangly posture alone was unnerving enough to have me clutching onto my armrests for dear life.  

Found footage movies come with a certain expectation of averageness. They’ll get their few jump scares in, take your ten dollars and be on their way. In 2014, they’re a dime a dozen. And yet, As Above/So Below manages to put a new coat of paint on a fading formula. Give me more of this movie. With more killer production sets than you can expect from a movie filmed solely on Go Pros, an absolutely chilling atmosphere and a strong lead in Perdita Weeks, As Above/So Below is a massively unexpected surprise, a truly chilling chapter of an intriguing, if somewhat aped, lead character.

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This first film in Legendary‘s distribution deal with Universal is unfortunately not off to a promising start – with only $470,000 from 1,805 theaters during its opening night showing – meaning that the franchise they were hoping for is likely not on the horizon. Sad news for this critic, who would relish the opportunity to see Weeks step into her salty British accent and Lara Croft garb again to face off with evil and caves. As is, As Above/So Below will have to live on in the catacombs of cult flicks, where you’d have to be daring to face it down on any given stormy night.

B+

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