Out in Theaters: HECTOR AND THE SEARCH FOR HAPPINESS

September 25, 2014 by Matt Oakes Posted in Out in Theaters Tagged Hector and The Search for Happiness, Out in Theaters, Peter Chelsom, Reviews, Simon Pegg, Stellan Skarsgård, The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, Toni Collette

As innocent a project as Hector and The Search for Happiness is, no one asked for a British spiritual remake of The Secret Life of Walter Mitty. Daydreams and bottlenecked ambitions find both characters in a tidy world of their own design that, like fireflies trapped too long in mason jars, have run out of oxygen and run on the humdrum fumes of expectation. Both of these uplifting films see a worker bee break free of their employment imprisonment to “find themselves” in a globetrotting journey around the world. Popping in to foreign landscapes and cultures, Hector, like Walter, discovers that what he was looking for was always right in front of his face. It’s about as stale as such a concept sounds.

Hector and the Search for Happiness begins presumptuously with Hector’s loving but equally routine-oriented girlfriend Clara, Rosamund Pike, cinching up his tie for his cushy psychiatry job. Brandishing the metaphorical noose, he’s ready to hear the suburban sob stories of his well-to-do clients. It’s ironic because his position is one of a guide out of the forest of psychological duress and yet he has a bushel of his own issues, GET IT?!

His client’s increasingly “first world problems” drive him increasingly nutty, until during one fated session, Hector bursts. He berates a crestfallen housewife, painting her sunburnt suburban lifestyle for the city dwellers paradise he believes it to be. You have no idea what pain is, he shouts. Happiness comes from within, he bombards. So why is he so goddamn empty?

Reeling from the monotony of life and unsure of his clinical effectiveness, Hector seeks to discover what exactly it is that everyone else has that he doesn’t, so installs a reversible hat on his shag of thinning ginger hair and purchases a one-way, business class ticket to China to uncover the recipe for “happiness”. Onboard, Hector acquaints himself Edward, played by Stellan Skarsgård, a filthy rich businessman who seems to have his own little secret to happiness who takes the unassuming Hector under his wing as the first of many “spiritual guides”. And so begins Hector’s titular search that’ll take him onward to a shanty village in Africa and the left coast of America before plopping him right back in London he came from.

The biggest ball in Hector’s court is star Simon Pegg, without whom the picture would be nothing shy of utter failure. With Pegg’s bumbling magnetism giving a knee up to the whole shebang, we at least have a hapless character that we don’t mind rooting for, even if the larger picture carrying him is clumsy and miles from groundbreaking.

Known for his wry, farcically humor, Pegg tries on a more somber cloth here and it isn’t necessarily ill-fitting. In fact, much of the power of the Cornetto Trilogy (Shaun of the Dead, Hot Fuzz and The World’s End) came from the earnest emotionality of the Pegg-Frost dynamic. So while Pegg doesn’t suffer under the weight of a more dramatic script, he does seem a bit naked without an arsenal of comic beats.

Some have gone to the lengths of throwing the label “racist” at Hector and his titular search but it’s one I don’t believe fits. Racially insensitive, sure. Poor diversity casting, absolutely. Racist? not really. Sure, everyone of importance whom Hector encounters around the world happens to be white – the exception being his black warlord captors and the Asian prostitute he nearly falls for. And while such might contribute to certain worldview stereotypes, it suits a picture which genuinely attempts to take nationality into account. If it’s racist to depict foreign cultures as foreign then sure, Hector might fit the buck. As it stands, it’s just a little white-washed.

Because in the end, a perceived culture of racism doesn’t really have much bearing on the overall quality of the film. What really takes Hector and Pegg down a peg is it’s complete lack of anything new to say. It’s a film about accepting your lot in life, about celebrating the routine rather than raging against it. It’s a photocopy of a film from just last year. It’s a film about being, well, ordinary. So in the end, who can really be all that surprised that a film about how being ordinary is ok is only ordinary.

C-

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Out in Theaters: THE BOXTROLLS

September 22, 2014 by Matt Oakes Posted in Out in Theaters Tagged Alan Snow, Anthony Stacchi, Ben Kingsley, Elle Fanning, Graham Annable, Isaac Hempstead Wright, Jared Harris, Laika Studios, Nick Frost, Out in Theaters, Reviews, Richard Ayoade, Simon Pegg, The Boxtrolls, Toni Collette, Tracy Morgan 14 Comments

The Boxtrolls, Laika Studios‘ third outing, sees more of the fledgling studio’s highly-demanding, signature stop motion animation come to life onscreen, flush with smart, though not game changing, camerawork and charming characters aplenty. Directed by Graham Annable and Anthony Stacchi with a script adapted from Alan Snow‘s “Here Be Monsters”, The Boxtrolls follows a orphaned boy growing up with in underground society of steampunk, gadget-friendly trolls, unfairly maligned by society overhead. Read More

Weekly Review 55: RASHOMON, JU-ON, SISTER'S, FIEND, ABYSS, HELLRAISER, POULTRY, SOPHIE

September 21, 2014 by Matt Oakes Posted in Weekly Review Tagged Hellraiser, Into the Abyss, Ju-On: The Grudge, My Best Fiend, Poultrygeist: Night of the Chicken Dead, Rashomon, Sophie's Choice, Weekly Review, Your Sister's Sister

This week has been a madhouse of sickness, screenings – The Boxtrolls, Tracks, A Walk Among the Tombstones, The Equalizer – and having nothing better to do than watch a bunch of movies at home. From 1950’s Akira Kurosawa to 2011 Lynn Shelton, I went on a tear of international and domestic, the old and the new cinema this week. Considering it’s still the beginnings of fall, I’ve been consuming horror movies like the sports oriented consume March Madness – though have admittedly slowed down since Kevin Smith‘s Tusk left me with harrowing nightmares. This week on the horror front though, the ones I expected to be good disappointed and vice versa. To quote The Kinks, “It’s a mixed up, muddled up shook up world“. Considering I ended up watching a lot more than I expected, let’s waste no more time and get down to business with this super duper long entry of Weekly Review.

RASHOMON (1950)

The very idea that a film’s narrative could be untrustworthy was a novelty to not only Japanese cinema in the 1950 but cinema around the world. A massively important film that brought Japanese film to the international stage, Rashomon sees Akira Kurosawa play with perspective in such a way that changed the game. Following an encounter between a bandit, a samurai and his wife, Kurosawa’s film plays with the idea of the unreliable narrator, presenting four interpretations of the same exact incident and forcing us to parse out a given character’s shaded motivations from the truth of their testimony. Considered a masterpiece, Rashomon, aided by Kazuo Miyagawa‘s groundbreaking and moody cinematography, holds up today for its inventive take on what makes a story believable in the first place and is certainly a much watch for fans of foreign cinema. (A-)

JU-ON: THE GRUDGE (2002)

Not very well acted or particularly scary, Ju-On: The Grudge fails to develop one single yarn worthy of interest. Instead franchise creator Takashi Shimizu essentially repeats the same gimmick over and over again with new victims in different locales. This wouldn’t be so egregiously lame if there weren’t seven additionally films in the series, all presumed scattershot and directionless. Broken down into six connected but disparate parts, Ju-On sees a bluish-white-tinged Japanese boy meow people to death and it just didn’t work for me at all. What evidently was horrifying for Japanese audiences and some horror fanboys failed to stir the slightest bit of intrigue or tension. Even the best scene – in which a spooky-faced girl awkwardly descends a staircase – is aped from an Exorcist deleted scene. (D)

YOUR SISTER’S SISTER (2011)

A definitively mumblecore effort from Seattle director Lynn Shelton, Your Sister’s Sister is a restrained, emotionally honest depiction of loss and love and the intersection between the two. Starring Mark Duplass, Emily Blunt and Rosemarie DeWitt, Shelton’s tale sees a man struggling to get over his brother’s death attempt to take a respite from society but ends up crossing paths with an unexpected relation… and maybe impregnating her. Funny, sensitive and well acted, Your Sister’s Sister likely represents the best of Shelton’s work and is certainly worth a watch for anyone looking for something light but not fluffy. Now available on Netflix. (B-)

MY BEST FIEND (1999)

Enough to convince me that were Kinski not a famous actor, he might have made quite a dictator, My Best Fiend attempts to get to the heart of the defunct relationship between German filmmaker Werner Herzog and his muse, actor Klaus Kinski. Filled with behind the scenes battles and Herzog poetically musing on events past, My Best Fiend seeks to answer how the two could have ever worked a day together, much less make five incredible films over the span of decades. I’d already been clued into the vanity and insanity that Kinski brought to set with him but watching the man in action is like having a front row seat to an atom bomb exploding. Hubristic, calculated and ultimately genius, Klaus Kinski is just one of those guys that comes around once in a lifetime and we’re lucky the madman stayed in front of the camera long enough to wrap a production…or 100. (B+)

INTO THE ABYSS (2011)

A show-stopping documentary from Werner Herzog, Into the Abyss takes a pensive look at capital punishment in Texas. By interviewing both the victims, the perpetrators and the families of both, Herzog’s pointed questions carry the expected brainwracking sensitivity that he brings to each of his endeavors. Rather than try to find a solution to the problem, Herzog characteristically tries to piece together the emotional impact of it all. From the executor to the witnesses and to the executed themselves, he helps us understand the mélange of messy thoughts running through their minds. It likely won’t change your stance on the death penalty – that’s not the point – because Herzog gives equal credence to both sides, even while making his own opposing views quite clear. A powerful, hypnotic documentary that’s likely to inspire a few tears. (A)

HELLRAISER (1987)

I had no idea how little the series iconic Pinhead would play into this gory horror affair as Hellraiser is a more much more interested in the idea of a twisted love triangle and human resurrection than it is with being a slasher of any sort. Clive Barker‘s 1987 British horror flick may have spawned a slew of lesser quality sequels and spinoffs but his original film – the only one which he directed – is actually quite a lot of fun. The practical effects are delightfully gooey and the love torn asunder plot line is marinated in equal amounts of Stockholm Syndrome and femme fatality. As a dated, creepy, yucky schlockfest, Hellraiser succeeds tremendously. (B-)

POULTRYGEIST: NIGHT OF THE CHICKEN DEAD (2006)

Carelessly racist, deplorably insensitive, greviously disgusting, obnoxiously homophobic, massively misogynistic, aggressively stupid and poorly sung to boot, Poultrygeist: Night of the Chicken Dead certainly accomplishes its goal of trying its hardest to be a bad movie. The totally childish sense of humor is actually fitfully funny but the juvenile charm wears off quickly, only to return in later portions where the gore is upped past 11 and the practical effects – though unconvincing – are enough to cull some laughs. Early on protagonist Arbie jokingly states, “My mom’s a retard and my dad’s blind”, which seems to kind of sum up the movie as an entirety. Attempting to skewer the genre in some kind of sadist, overblown way, Poultrygeist ends up the satirical equivalent of bukakke. (D+)

SOPHIE’S CHOICE (1982)

Outstanding performances from Meryl Streep and Kevin Kline make Sophie’s Choice an actor’s delight. Less admirable is the long-winded, onion-esque aspect of the two hour and thirty minute Holocaust opus. It’s a film in bad need of a narrative trim and even though the piece relies on our interaction and connection with the characters more than anything, such a pricetag of time never really seems called for or necessary. That being the case, the character work is still absolutely delightful – if you could throw such a cheery adjective as such a dreary film. Streep throws down one of her finest performances as a Polish Holocaust survivor, one that would go on to define the greatness she consistently brought with her to projects. From the perfect candor of her accent to the emotionality welling behind her fragile eyes, Streep is Sophie. Amazingly enough, co-star Kevin Kline almost threatens to overpower her when they share scenes together. While Streep took home the Oscar, Kline wasn’t even nominated – though he went on to win 6 years later for his (dramatically inferior) work in A Fish Called Wanda. (B+)

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Out in Theaters: A WALK AMONG THE TOMBSTONES

September 17, 2014 by Matt Oakes Posted in Out in Theaters Tagged A Walk Among the Tombstones, Brian 'Astro' Bradley, Dan Stevens, Lawerence Block, Liam Neeson, Mihai Malaimare Jr, Out in Theaters, Reviews, Scott Frank

Scott Frank‘s slick, sky-is-falling neo-noir may be sold as the next installment in the “Liam Neeson kicks ass and takes names” genre but it’s as far from Taken as it is from The Grey. Dedicated to telling an uneasy tale of grisly murder and off-the-record justice, A Walk Among the Tombstones is the perfect vehicle for Neeson’s defining intensity. Adapted from one of Lawrence Block’s many new-age dick novels, Tombstones is plump with a decadent sense of malevolence often missed in films of its ilk. At times, Frank’s dedication to being so relentlessly dark ends up wounding the film, but irregardless, you gotta respect his all-or-nothing commitment to such a bleak, uncompromised vision. Like New York City before Giuliani cleaned up the streets, this gumshoe yarn is as nasty as stepping on a dirty needle.

Neeson is Matt Scudder, an alcoholic gunman who’s worked as a private detective ever since an incident made him leave the police force eight years back. When an AA acquaintance asks his assistance in a family matter, Matt becomes wrapped up in a ghastly murder case that can’t be brought to the cops. His employer is Kenny Kristo (Dan Stevens) an independently wealthy man (read: drug smuggler) whose wife was kidnapped and ransomed. But even after Kristo paid the hefty bounty, his wife was sent home in pieces, packed like the very drugs he dealt. Even without a ton to work with, Stevens broods through his scenes sporting a spindly black caterpillar of a mustache, his intensity burning through his baby blues like rising fires.

Before you can say “Boo”, Matt has hit the ground running, unearthing a series of clues that trace the murders back to associates of the DEA. Considering the film is – for some reason – set in the dwindling 1990s with misplaced Y2K fears running rampant and technological ability the exception rather than the rule, cell phones are sparse and clue huntin’ involves actually going to the stacks. Plopped in a rain-pounded library, Matt meets TJ (Brian ‘Astro’ Bradley), a street smart and techno whizz homeless kid with sickle cell anemia. Teamed up little Short Round and Doctor Jones, they race towards finding the devilish duo behind these macabre homicides.

This aforementioned unorthodox partnership between Matt and TJ could easily have been a massive problem throughough, as any adult-teenager movie relationship tends to be, but it actually works by and large. Having a competent but vulnerable youngin under his wing gives Neeson an opportunity to flex some less predatory and more protective muscles. Surely, the sickle cell anemia aspect is a strangely cheap ploy for tension in a movie already thick with it but giving Neeson’s Matt a character to watch over ups his vigilant instincts to silverback gorilla levels. Plus it makes for some great one-liners.

An unexpected bonus of the film is Mihai Malaimare Jr.’s dreary, deferential cinematography which offers a variety of interesting angles and lighting choices that harken back to the action films of the 60s and 70s. The opening credits scene as well as a POV shot down the barrel of a 9mm bring particularly noteworthy visual flair to the picture, further assisting to distinguish it as noir rather than a simple humdrum, action movie. There’s poignancy to Malaimare’s shots that won’t necessarily be worked out the first time through. But even while Malaimare and Neeson largely succeed, there are elements to this lurid tale that turn towards the cartoonish.

The villains’ – both of whom are without an ounce of humanity – morbid fascination with crudely deconstructing the female body exposes the sickly nature of their violent crimes but threatens to almost push the envelope too far. But then again, we live in a world that’s already seen Se7en and, more recently, Tusk so “too far” seems almost obsolete in this day and age. Nonetheless, Frank’s taste for bloodshed may leave some viewers wishing for less.

When darkness devours all, we’re left not being able to relate, but maybe that’s the point of a film that warns that “people are afraid of all the wrong things.” On the surface, it’s a winking Y2K tech joke but I’d like to believe there’s something beneath the surface that’s only vaguely hinted at. Something that pertains to how the embodiment of evil may be what we fear most when instead it should be how we respond to evil or, even more simple, how we respond to any kind of strife. Giving into a need for bloodthirsty revenge or ill-plated justice is what we should fear most, not the “evil” itself. It’s just a theory but I welcome a film that gives the opportunity for filmgoers to make their own meaning of things.

In opposition to those intriguing, subtle elements at play, a late stage shootout amongst, you guessed it, tombstones plays off as far too heavy-handed, showcasing a strong directorial decision that doesn’t entirely work out. As bullets tear the night sky apart, Frank intersplices a 12 step AA moral message amongst freeze-framed images of lives lost and chaos asunder. It’s probably the easiest scene to point to that tries at something almost novel and falls on its nose. I can’t however deny my appreciation for Frank making that nonconventional choice, even though it, as I mentioned, doesn’t fully pan out. While not a total representation of the picture as a whole, the hit-and-miss aspect of doing something great and following it up by tripping over the shoelaces does neatly define the endeavor as a whole.

But from the categorically necessary duster to that retro first scene goatee, this is Neeson’s show. Instead of just another paint-by-numbers actioner where Neeson’s shoots, solves and barks, Tombstones flushes out some actual inner demons, allowing Neeson to balance his proven dramatic chops with his newfound action star persona. He’s so much more than a loaded gun and a bottle of whiskey, part and parcel of what makes this film ideal for a bushel of sequels if they approach it from the right angle.

With easy humor courtesy of Neeson’s growled quips, well-directed drizzly dramatics and a thick air of hardboiled, gloomy atmospherics, A Walk Among The Tombstones brings to life the aged marvel of a good noir. It’s not always perfect and may run a touch too long but it works heartily as a well-greased, appropriately artful affair. And for those expecting another Taken, don’t be scared off. This is miles better than Taken 3.

B

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Out in Theaters: THE DISAPPEARANCE OF ELEANOR RIGBY

September 15, 2014 by Matt Oakes Posted in Out in Theaters Tagged Jessica Chastain, Ned Benson, Out in Theaters, Reviews, The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby, Weinsteins

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.

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.

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

September 15, 2014 by Matt Oakes Posted in Out in Theaters Tagged Genesis Rodriquez, Haley Joel Osment, Horror, Johnny Depp, Justin Long, Kevin Smith, Michael Parks, Out in Theaters, Reviews, Robert Kurtzman, Tusk 2 Comments

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.

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.

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

September 15, 2014 by Matt Oakes Posted in Out in Theaters Tagged Adam Wingard, Brendan Meyer, Dan Stevens, Maika Monroe, Out in Theaters, Simon Barrett, Sundance, The Guest

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

September 13, 2014 by Matt Oakes Posted in Weekly Review Tagged Cobra Verde, Henry: Portrait of a Killer, In Fear, Irreversible, Reviews, Star Wars, Weekly Review, Woyzeck

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

September 13, 2014 by Matt Oakes Posted in Out in Theaters Tagged Henry Callaway, Honeymoon, Leigh Janiak, Out in Theaters, Reviews, Rose Leslie

NOTE: Re-printed from our 2014 SXSW review.

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.

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

September 9, 2014 by Matt Oakes Posted in Out in Theaters Tagged Denis Lehane, James Gandolfini, Matthias Schoenaerts, Michael R. Roskam, Nicolas Karakatsanis, Noomi Rapace, Out in Theaters, Reviews, The Drop, Tom Hardy 1 Comment

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.

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.

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.

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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