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

September 6, 2014 by Matt Oakes Posted in Weekly Review Tagged Horror, Last Days in Vietnam, Nosferatu The Vamprye, Reviews, Texas Chainsaw Massacre, The House of the Devil, The Innkeepers, 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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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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Out in Theaters: AS ABOVE/SO BELOW

August 29, 2014 by Matt Oakes Posted in Out in Theaters Tagged Ali Marhyar, As Above/So Below, Ben Feldman, Edwin Hodge, François Civil, Horror, John Erick Dowdle, Marion Lambert, Out in Theaters, Perdita Weeks, Reviews 509 Comments

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.

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.

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.

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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Out in Theaters: LOVE IS STRANGE

August 27, 2014 by Matt Oakes Posted in Out in Theaters Tagged Charlie Tahan, Cheyenne Jackson, Darren E. Burrows, John Lithgow, Love is Strange, Marisa Tomei, Out in Theaters, Reviews 1 Comment

Love is strange. It’s hard to pin down, impossible to predict and most of the time doesn’t really make much sense. Aristophanes claimed that love was the end of the search for one’s other half. Plato stated that love is a serious mental disease. In the ironic tremble of John Lennon, “Love is all you need.” Ira Sachs‘ lovingly made and tenderly acted film Love is Strange seeks to answer the question: is love all you need?

Ben and George have been in a relationship for 25 years. They’ve shared beds, apartments, lovers. They’ve built a life for themselves. We come into the story and meet the two twilight-yeared lovers on the morning of their marriage, now finally legal. Ben, played by John Lithgow, is as frazzled as his fluffed-up, bone white patch of hair. Scrambling to find his glasses and fidgeting his way through the scene, he’s the id of this relationship’s persona. Alfred Molina‘s George is a statue of patience, a kindly, lovable soul who’s quite clearly the more stable of the two. Their respective professions speak to that fact as well.

George has taught music for a Christian academy for a great many years whiles Ben is a pretty-much retired artist. They both are passionately involved in the arts but there’s a great divide between the teachers and the doers – as some might say, “Those that can’t do, teach” – one that separates the patient from the impertinent, the socialites from the misanthropes. Ben isn’t as cagey or bitter as one might imagine from an old semi-successful painter but he’s not how one would describe “easy going,” a thread that runs through the film.

Shortly after their wedding nuptials, George is “let go” from his career on the grounds of getting “gay married”. While his argument that “everyone already knew” is logically sound, it’s kinda a no-brainer that a Christian organization isn’t going to be the most supportive of his particular life style choice. As their income well runs dry, Ben and George reach out to their family and close friends, including Marisa Tomei, Darren E. Burrows, and Cheyenne Jackson, to put them up for a while whilst they figure out the proverbial next step. As they soon discover, this new found living situation has a larger impact on both them and their gracious host families than any of them could have initially expected.

As a showcase of acting prowess, Love is Strange is a beast. Lithgow and Molina both shine improbably bright, with tenderness, honesty and earnestness seeping through their pores. Lithgow hasn’t been this exposed in many years and Molina may have never stood so tall. We feel their connection singing from the screen; each kiss feels as organic as the kale you bought from this morning’s Farmer’s Market, each gentle gesture a remarkable feat of losing yourself to a character. It’s their caring energy and adroit performances that give the film such power, but they manage to outshine some of their younger co-stars.

A side track involving Joey (Charlie Tahan), the petulant son of Tomei, seems at times forced; an avenue for extra drama that isn’t really ever needed. In a film that’s all about nuance, his scenes dump a cold bucket of water on the building sense of subtle, creeping animosity. Aside from a cloying Joey outburst or two though, the supporting cast is a rock-solid addition to keep the affair utterly believable and succulently emotional. Tomei in particular hasn’t been this good since The Wrestler.

As Sachs’ story draws on, we gain a better understanding of his intentions. This is not a queer story. It’s not a generational story. It’s a timeless saga of the heart wanting what the heart wants, of the people you’re closest to annoying you the most, about personal space and the sucking invasion that is “letting someone crash there”. It’s a tale we’ve all lived through, a junction we all dread. Offering it up with as much honesty as he has, Sachs has brought the heart and soul of a tale not often told onscreen to our attention in an unpolluted and entirely relevant manner. He’s put our lives on the screen and in doing so has made something quite beautiful and often touching.

Beneath Sachs’ caring direction is a wealth of production touches to love, from the handsome set design to the cutting piano sonatas. Susan Jacob‘s classical musical selection is soft and vibrant, giving a sense of sophistication to the picture as Christos Voudoruis‘ warm, amber hues imbrue the drama with a sense of hopefulness, even amongst those most difficult times. Love is Strange is a film made with a heart full of sadness and love and one worth recommending for the soaring performances alone. So is love all you need? Probably not, but it sure does help.

B+

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Out in Theaters: THE NOVEMBER MAN

August 25, 2014 by Matt Oakes Posted in Out in Theaters Tagged Bill Smitrovich, Karl Gajdusek, Lazar Ristovski, Luke Bracey, Michael Finch, Out in Theaters, Pierce Brosnan, Reviews, Roger Donald, The November Man 1 Comment

It’s been a full dozen years since Pierce Brosnan and co. shamed the Bond franchise with Die Another Day – the 007 movie with an invisible car, “glacier surfing” and Halle Berry. Since 2002, his film career has all but gone undercover. He’s starred in a slew of little known independent films with his most well-known appearances likely being in Roman Polanski‘s excellent Ghost Writer, more recently in Edgar Wright‘s trilogy-capping The World’s End and in 2008, ugh, Mama Mia! I guess that’s what makes the Goldeneye-starrer’s reunion with a pistol all the more exciting and, ultimately, forgivable.

The November Man starts on fine spy fare footing with Brosnan, now more of a silver fox than ever, on an undercover mission to save some politician in some country. The scene both introduces us to Brosnan’s hard-shelled Peter Deveraux and battle green sidekick David Mason (a not-so-hot Luke Bracey) and establishes Deveraux as the no-frills man on a mission that we’d expect from this brand of no-stops thriller. You see, Deveraux’s so committed to the job that he impersonates the politician who’s life is on the line so THE ASSASSIN-TO-BE WILL SHOOT AT HIM, THUS IDENTIFYING HIMSELF. It’s a brilliant plan if you’re made of brass and bolts but, as Mason says, “The vest won’t stop a headshot.” In a movie that’s more about headshots than brains, we, like Deveraux, must too be willing to take that risk.

Yada, yada, something about checking your line of sight, Deveraux takes a fistful of asinine assassin bullets, and Mason fires against Deveraux’s direct command, taking a kid out with the trash that is the would-be assassin. Flash forward three years and Deveraux’s off the job now, a rogue seemingly working as a nine-to-five playboy.

Wasting no time at all, Deveraux receives a phone call from his old handler Hanley (Bill Smitrovich) informing him that he’s needed for one more assignment… off the books. Deveraux is to travel to Russia to obtain extremely sensitive material from a former mole that could put political kingpin and Arkady Federov (Bond alum Lazar Ristovski) in the pocket of American interests. In a matter of minutes, the pieces are in place and the bullets are let loose like dogs off a leash, leading to Deveraux’s fated meeting with Alice (another Bond alum, leading lady Olga Kurylenko), a social worker who knows more than she lets on.

Based on Bill Granger’s book “There Are No Spies”, The November Man gets the adaptation treatment from Michael Finch and Karl Gajdusek who make a game of mimicking prior entries to the spy genre. Unfortunately, the joke is ultimately on them. And us. While their screenplay serves to get characters from one chase or gun battle to the next, there’s little to no nuance in character relationships, rendering all of the eventual reveals moot.

The only character who seems to make it out of Gajdusek and Finch’s unsavory writing web unscathed is Deveraux, a living, breathing reminder of how great Brosnan could be as Bond. But as Bourne paved the way for Daniel Craig‘s reinvented Bond, Brosnan’s new no-nonsense spy is inspired by the gray-paned realism of a post-911 world. He’s a much more chilly iteration of the lovable, pun-heavy spy he played in the past who even dips into a show of deplorable acts. A mid-movie scene that’s meant to showcase Deveraux impressing upon his could-have-been-protegee Mason the commitment required to excel at such a job is brutal and shocking, even if it doesn’t fit into the movie.

Here is a man who is willing to gauge the femoral artery of a bystander just to teach someone a lesson. That’s the movie I want to see. Had Roger Donald committed to making that movie, I believe Pierce Brosnan may be looking down the barrel at his own Taken franchise. As is, Relativity has already gone ahead and green lit a sequel before The November Man has even made it to theaters but there’s no one living who wouldn’t call that a Vegas gamble. Take into consideration the fact that (as of writing this) the film has a 14% approval rating on Rotten Tomatoes and has been advertised virtually nowhere and you have a obvious example of a studio putting the cart before the horse.

The question remains: will this be a success with audiences? All evidence points to a resounding meh but quite honestly, the meh-ness of The November Man might just prove the requisite semi-excitement that the late-August movie-going crowd needs. While it’s no Taken (nor is it Taken 2…), The November Man is probably as close to Tooken as we’ll ever see.

C

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Weekly Review 51: GIGOLO, STAGE, CONGRESS, IMMIGRANT, FITZCARRALDO

August 25, 2014 by Matt Oakes Posted in Weekly Review Tagged Fading Gigolo, Fitzcarraldo, Reviews, Stage Fright, The Congress, The Immigrant, Weekly Review

From Woody Allen to Meatloaf, this installment of Weekly Review takes a look at some of the flicks of 2014 that haven’t met much fanfare. I visited John Turturro‘s Fading Gigolo, the SXSW horror movie Stage Fright, last year’s Cannes film The Congress starring Robin Wright, James Gray‘s historical drama The Immigrant and took a trip back in time for Werner Herzog‘s Fitzcarraldo. In theaters, I faced down Chloe Moretz for an interview and squared off against Sin City: A Dame to Kill For and If I Stay, two bad movies, and The November Man, which I’ll have a review of this week. In general, we’ll write this week off as August woes.

Fading Gigolo (2014)

When Woody Allen and John Turturro share a room, Fading Gigolo is a poignant, engaging dramedy with life and a lion’s share of wit. Whilst on their own, Turturro’s directorial project falls short, often coming up with goopy handfuls of sand. Gigolo is certainly better than the obvious comparison of Rob Schneider‘s bottom-feeding Deuce Bigalow: Male Gigolo but suffers its own rom-com trappings. As the romance ratchets up so does our suspension of disbelief run out of steam. Tender and real, Turturro gives one of his better performances and it’s nothing short of a joy to watch Woody ooze out lines on screen again. Liev Schreiber is quietly impressive as morally upstanding, Hasidic Jew antagonist Dovi but it becomes increasingly harder and harder to buy Vanessa Paradis‘ Avigal. (C+)

Stage Fright (2014)

On an actual stage, Stage Fright would probably work better. Plop it in an off-Broadway theater, fill it with fresh young faces and anchor it with Meatloaf and you might even have a hit. As is, it’s a convoluted mess that never makes a lick of sense. The musical elements – with songs that are more cringe-worthy than catchy – fit awkwardly amongst the gory, backstage murder scenes with long bouts of bloodlessness adding little momentum to the long-winded proceedings. Some of the more ludicrously campy elements do shine through the muck but it can’t make up for the mismatched genres slammed awkwardly together. (D+)

The Congress (2014)

Occasionally touching, always strange and a visual feast in the spirit of The Beatle‘s Yellow Submarine, The Congress is a recklessly ambitious take on the future of Hollywood and mankind. Robin Wright stars as a version of herself who sells her image to Miramount (an almost lame on-the-nose parody) in order to stay relevant. As the film crosses the 45 minute mark, everything turns animated and things tend to get out of director Ari Folman‘s control. There’s a wonderful scene right before the transition in which Harvey Keitel and Wright share a powerful moment of self-reflection and admiration. It’s so full of heart and earnest emotion that it makes the jarring shift to Folman’s wackadoo animation all the more confuzzled. Though much of what occurs in the second act could have been synthesized into a more focused and fluent movement of ideas, the film finishes on an extreme high note. Knowing that the film took seven years to get together and finish, it’s no wonder that some things have jumped the proverbial shark. Even with all its slips and follies, The Congress is an acid trip of a flick, with all the highs and lows that accompany such. (B-)

The Immigrant (2014)

A costume drama that’s proved divisive amongst critics and audience members, James Gray‘s The Immigrant is a dressed-up tale of woe that ultimately disservices the talented actors within. Marion Cotillard is Polish immigrant Ewa, who has arrived on Ellis Island with a sick sister and a bit of a slutty reputation. She’s swoon swept up by a powerful pimp (Joaquin Phoenix) who forces her into prostitution so she can pay for her sister’s care. There are occasionally strong scenes, most of which start and end with Jeremy Renner, but Gray’s morbid fascination leaves little room for his characters to breathe. Ewa is often lifeless, a victim of circumstances who we’re told is more of a siren than we ever are lead to believe and Phoenix’s Bruno never goes through the transformation his final scenes seem to suggest he has. All in all, there are glimmers of good in The Immigrant but they’re largely snuffed out by borderline bad writing and an often boring tempo. (C-)

Fitzcarraldo (1982)

Werner Herzog‘s trip to the Peruvian jungle didn’t go as planned. While filming Fitzcarraldo, he lost star Jason Robards to dysentery. Robards replacement, frequent Herzog collaborator Klaus Kinski, was so hated by the local tribesman in the film that they offered to kill him for Herzog. From a production side, Herzog insisted on doing all the heavy lifting – quite literally – without the use of any special effects, leading to many on-job injuries and countless wasted hours. It’s a project where the “Making Of” is entirely more interesting than the final product; an admirable effort in the face of adversity that doesn’t quite come together on its one. Fitzcarraldo just never really sucks the viewer in. Aside from Klaus Kinski’s manic performance, the tale is simple and long-drawn, offering the plight of a would-be rubber baron that never takes the time to really flesh out the themes bubbling under the surface. (B-)

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Out in Theaters: SIN CITY: A DAME TO KILL FOR

August 20, 2014 by Matt Oakes Posted in Out in Theaters Tagged Bruce Willis, Christopher Lloyd, Christopher Meloni, Eva Green, Frank Miller, Jeremy Piven, Jessica Alba, Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Josh Brolin, Mickey Rourke, Out in Theaters, Powers Booth, Ray Liotta, Reviews, Robert Rodriguez, Rosario Dawson, Sin City: A Dame to Kill For

An argument could be made that Sin City: A Dame to Kill For isn’t really a movie. There’s no real story to speak of, and what does try to pass as a story is a shambled mess of ultra-violent non-sequiturs; a collage of half-thought through ideas that never add up or mean anything in the context of one another. A movie flows through a collective of ideas adding onto one another to create a cohesive narrative. This is like someone cut up a bunch of comic books and glued their favorite parts together. And that someone is 12 and loves blood and boobies.

Nine years ago, Robert Rodriguez and Frank Miller were truly onto something with Sin City. Their electrifying visual palette – stark blacks-and-whites accented by flourishes of blood red and bastard yellow – wasn’t just a new ballgame. It was a whole damn other stadium. But for all the success and acclaim their co-directorial debut received, the aesthetic trend never caught on.

Be that because Miller nosedived that visual flair into the ground with the widely panned The Spirit or because it felt like an aesthetic signature that only worked for something so rooted in the comic world and violence is unclear. What is however abundantly clear is that in the nearly 10 years since the original’s release, the largely black-and-white, entirely CG graphics have stagnated and soured. Their visuals do look straight from the pages of a hardcover graphic novel but they also lack any consequence and any gravity. Each blow is goofily powerless. Each sword strike looks like it missed. The over-seasoned and thoroughly mannered dialogue do little to convince us otherwise. But they sure do try.

This wouldn’t be such a monumental problem if the whole movie wasn’t a symphony of slamming cars, chopping off heads and getting thrown through pane glass windows. And boobies. For all intents and purposes, Miller’s sparsely imaginative storylines boil down to poor plot devices that get someone’s face from point A to point Through a Glass Window. That is intention numbers one through five. Six through ten consist of getting a dame from point A to point Naked. Seriously, if you can prove to me that this movie wasn’t one long con to reunite Jessica Alba with a stripper pole, I’ll pay your ticket price.

The craziest part is, for all the excessive nudity smeared throughout the flick, none comes from Alba’s Nancy, a stripper who spends the majority of her screen time onstage slapping flesh on hardwood and slithering around on all fours. You see, the boob award goes to Eva Green and her magnificent tata’s. That sex-kitten/minx manages to expose her simply awesome breasts for 90% of the time she occupies the space. When she’s not flipping nude into a pool, rubbing and tubbing up her silky smooth breastoids or macking out with anything with a pair of lips, she’s slipping off her garnets like they’re made of live rattlesnakes. Seriously. Chick lives in the buff. Why she doesn’t work at the strip club is beyond me.

At said Strip Club – Sin City‘s equivalent of Friend‘s Central Perk – one can stumble upon rapscallions of all shapes and sizes. Here, Alba gyrates like a made-up mechanical bull as box-faced Marv (Mickey Rourke) and other scalawags drown their sorrows in booze, taking in fully-clothed Coyote Ugly shows. I swear, Kadie’s Strip Club is the only place in the movie you won’t find a naked lass’ ass.

Here at Kadie’s, the movie reveals itself for the big show of sexy, stylized, senseless smut that it is. Here, plot lines are born and die without a smidgeon of fanfare. Here, characters rub elbows like they live in a small town of 2,000 residents. Here, lives the deus ex machina that is Marv, an individual whose sole purpose is to help characters murder other characters. He’s more MacGuffin than person, more meat than man. He’s only there to get peps out of a fix but has no storyline of his own. I guess someone out there needed to cut Mickey Rourke a paycheck.

Characters slither in and out of Kadie’s to grab their few minutes in the sun and bump uglies with the charter of vixens sprawling indoors. Joseph Gordon Levvett is compelling as a smooth-talking gambler but his plot line goes absolutely nowhere real fast. Alba, reeling from the loss of loved one Hartigan (Bruce Willis), eventually goes through a wardrobe change supposed to signal character progression but none is emotionally present. She goes from whoring herself with dangerous men to hurling herself at dangerous men and then all of a sudden the screen goes black. Nothing really happens. Just lots of murder and titties.

In the most movie-like portion of the film, Josh Brolin steps in for Clive Owen and captures the only almost-fully formed story of the bunch. However, his saga is littered with major congruency issues and logic problems of its own, the least of which is why he seems to believe that suiting up with a bad wig will make him look like an entirely new person. You scratch your head that someone actually wrote this stuff down.

For my barrage of complaints, it wouldn’t be fair to say that I hated Sin City: A Dame to Kill For because I quite honestly didn’t. I enjoy the ultra-violent, ultra-silly take on film noir. I chuckle at the trumped-up performances, meretricious violence and graphic sexuality on neon-flashing display. I gobble up the stubborn dedication to bring a comic book to life. But to claim that it’s not a bad, unnecessary, boorish slouch of a film would be a bold-faced lie. There’s little here that makes sense and nothing that will add to your understanding of Frank Miller‘s should-be compelling world of sin. Like 300: Rise of an Empire before it, Sin City: A Dame to Kill For is just another chance for Frank Miller to show off how poor he is at extending franchises.

C-

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