Frosty Cabin in the Woods Horror ’THE LODGE’ Preaches the Hell of Child-Rearing

February 4, 2020 by Matt Oakes Posted in Out in Theaters Tagged Alicia Silverstone, Goodnight Mommy, Horror, Jaeden Martell, Jia McHugh, Out in Theaters, Reviews, Richard Armitage, Sergio Casci, Severin Fiala, Sundance, The Lodge, Veronika Franz 2 Comments

Austrian screenwriting and directing duo Veronika Franz and Severin Fiala either have terror children or were terror children. They love staging a good the-children-will-be-the-death-of-us yarn, pivoting from a story about two young mischievous twins torturing their mother (who’s recently undergone facially reconstructive surgery and, consequently, her children now refuse to believe is actually their mother) in their celebrated German-language debut Goodnight Mommy to a tale of two young mischievous siblings torturing their soon-to-be stepmother in their English-language horror show The Lodge. Read More

Out in Theaters: THE HOBBIT: THE BATTLE OF THE FIVE ARMIES

December 14, 2014 by Matt Oakes Posted in Out in Theaters Tagged Ian Holms, Ian McKellan, Luke Evans, Martin Freeman, Orlando Bloom, Out in Theaters, Peter Jackson, Reviews, Richard Armitage, The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies

For all the huffing and puffing we’ve done over Peter Jackson‘s Hobbit trilogy, The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies is one big juicy payoff. For story look elsewhere, as Jackson’s latest is a smorgasbord of VFX battle scenes, one right after the other for practically the entire running time. Those not looking for elf-on-dwarf-on-man-on-orc action ought to look elsewhere as this is literally the foundation, the studs and the dry wall of this movie. Those thinking that sounds pretty, pretty good, rejoice, as this third Hobbit installment is Jackson’s most bombastic to date. Somehow it’s also his most restrained and the tightest of the series as well; it’s shorter and battle-ier than any LOTR-related installment and only has one ending. Color me satisfied.

Picking up in the midst of the Smaug v. Laketown populace face-off that Desolation of Smaug capped off on, The Battle of the Five Armies wastes little time dispensing with the namesake of the second film. From the get-go, this is a narrative charged with finality and doesn’t purport to drag its feet getting there. In past Hobbit installments, Jackson has made brevity his enemy and this opening pre-title card sequence makes fast work of ejecting old habits while setting the stage for that golden payday at the end of the tunnel. Call it a marketing strategy if you must but I believe Jackson’s claim that this third entry is his favorite of the prequel trilogy. You can finally taste his passion again.

In the smoldering ashes of a battle equally won and lost, Bard the Bowman (Luke Evans) is now a certifiable hero while Thorin Oakenshield (Richard Armitage), atop an insurmountable pile of loot, battles a monkey on his back that’s poisoning him against his fellow Dwarf companions and the increasingly faithful Bilbo (Martin Freeman). Dragon’s gold is said to hold that kind of sway and within this internal battle Armitage is afforded the opportunity to flesh out the themes of paranoia and addiction that have been bubbling to the surface in these Lord of the Rings prequels. Studying the not-so-subtle nuance of J.R.R. Tolkien‘s source material and his very specific in-book relationship to the idea of addiction, it’s clear that there’s no short pathway to redemption in Tolkein’s Middle Earth. For all his struggles, Gollum is never redeemed. Boromir ends up a pincushion for his once ring-craving. And Frodo and Bilbo ultimately end up shipped off to Elf rehab because they can never escape the sway of the ring. Ownership always ends in bloodshed and torment.

Jonesing over a stupid amount of wealth, Oakenshield’s internal battles get a touch hokey (the golden whirlwind of bad choice) but it’s his character’s pig-headedness and his fellow race’s predilection towards greed that becomes the fulcrum point of this five armies affairs. Everyone’s got their own legitimate or illegitimate claim to the fallen Smaug’s treasury and even in light of advancing enemies forces, struggle to band together to defeat a far greater foe. It’s thematic even if it does hit the nail on the head.

But what am I on about? Jackson’s sixth never pretends to be anything more than smashing time at the Hulk convention. There’s enough f*cking battle to make Hitler jealous (guy was a big fan of CGI.) An intercut twofer of big baddie fights pretty much occupies the entire third act. Turns out Orlando Bloom engaged in more gravity-defying elf-crobatics matches up with Armitage playing CrossFit with Azog the Sword-Armed like peanut butter and chocolate. For once in this series, I wasn’t just waiting for it to end. I was engrossed.

In chaos, Jackson excels. He makes big spectacle set pieces look grand beyond belief. From Smaug’s beautifully-rendered firebreather to copious stretches of advancing Orcs, The Battle of Five Armies is earmarked by a preeminent sense of technical mastership. The large-scale cacophony of peoples is a marvel to behold. Though 48 FPS (rightfully) went the way of the Balrog, I can imagine that this action-hectic film would have been breathtaking under the cowl of those next-gen glasses.

Rather than bake everything in a long string of fanfare, Jackson manages to tie things up rather quickly once the armies and their battles subside. Thank goodness. I don’t think the franchise could withstand a Return of the King triple decker ending.

From the humble (boring) beginnings of An Unexpected Journey to the foot-dragging musings of Desolation of Smaug, Jackson and Co. have depended upon a sense of nostalgia for the far superior Lord of the Rings to propel events forward in this cousin trilogy. Old characters have lent their personages and many, many moments of foreshadowing have splayed themselves like a cheap whores (“They call him Strider but you’ll have to figure out his real name for yourself”) but while Five Armies hits on more of the same notes – more steely-eyed, bratty-boy Legolas, more “remember him?” Ian Holms, more Gandalf scraping his pipe and packing a bowl – it does so with a dreadful amount of fun.

B-

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Out in Theaters: INTO THE STORM

August 6, 2014 by Matt Oakes Posted in Out in Theaters Tagged Into the Storm, Jeremy Sumpter, Matt Walsh, Max Deacon, Nathan Kress, Out in Theaters, Reviews, Richard Armitage, Sarah Wayne Callies, Steven Quale 2 Comments

Into the Storm encounters a litany of problems right from the get-go, many of which focus around the complete lack of talent in the acting department. Storm‘s stable of actors consist primarily of those that popular cable shows have chewed up and spit out, including The Walking Dead‘s Sarah Wayne Callies, Friday Night Light‘s Jeremy Sumpter, Veep‘s Matt Walsh and iCarly‘s Nathan Kress. Each bring their own unique ineptness to the table, failing to gel together as a cohesive cast even on the most basic of levels whilst embodying characters who we hope to see offed from the very moment we encounter them. This assembly is quite literally a wind tunnel of talent; a crew that raises the bar for the “Worst Acting of the Year” award higher than a tornado peak and drops it on its head. The scariest moment is realizing that it’s going to last for 89 minutes; the most disturbing, that all these people have careers.

Director Steven Quale and his team of effects “specialists” conjure up a series of tornadoes that make 1996’s Twister look cutting edge. Add to that the complete and utter lack of internal logic of the film – especially it comes to the potency of any given twister (a smallish ‘nado is able to suck bystanders off their feet from 100 yards away whilst one about a mile wide that tosses 747s like they’re toothpicks cannot) – and you have a movie that can barely stand on its own two feet even on dry land.

The film starts with a groan as Donnie (Max Deacon) introduces us to his autocratic father (Richard Armitage) and swoop-bangs of a brother, Trey (Kress) in inglorious “found footage” style. You see, he’s making a time capsule to look back on in 25 years because nostalgia and fuck you. It’s an obvious way to establish the mechanics of the film but goes on to become an overbearing, embarrassing ploy to dish out concocted melodrama and false tension. Characters dish on “discovering” the real meaning of life after the disaster has had its way with them; they ooze over the importance of coming together. It makes for trumped up, on-the-nose Americana hooah. Even the ripped up flags wave in the background.

Quale spends the first twenty-odd minutes introducing us to an assemblage of the most obnoxious people ever to inhabit the lands once known as the Louisiana Purchase. There’s the techie dweeb who can’t act, the helplessly love interest who can’t act, the nosy brother who can’t act, the overbearing dad who can’t act, the stubborn principal who can’t act, the noxious storm chaser who can’t act, the cowardly cameraman who can’t act, the four-wheelin’ rednecks who can’t act and the grumbling scientist who can’t act. Unfortunately, we only get to see one sucked into a firenado.

The plot is as simple as “Some say there’s a storm comin’, some say it’s already here.” When two storm fronts converge into one superstorm, Into the Storm becomes the Perfect Storm on land. It’s Syfy’s Shartnado. Five minutes in, a friend turned to me and asked if this was made to go straight to RedBox. Somehow, it escaped that fate. Somehow…

Perhaps the most miraculously bad portion of the film lies within the simple fact that nothing and no-one makes a lick of sense. In the midst of this small town, middle-of-nowhere cornburbia, an airfield the size of LAX materializes just so Quale can throw a baker’s dozen 747s through the air. The vice principal of the school has literally no idea how to navigate the small town he’s lived in for an innumerable amount of years. Characters ask if everyone’s ok even after literally watching town’s folk sucked into the maw of a viperous cyclone.

The grievances go on. Professionals stare down tornadoes ripping towards them without second guessing the imminent danger they’re in. A school bus full of children are evacuated into a sewer drain to inexplicably disappear a scene later. Characters disappear and reappear at the convenience of the story inventions like they’re Neo zipping through the Matrix. It’s as if the script (obviously written on a cocktail napkin or two) got blown away with the passing wind. How else to explain this logical shit storm?

If there is a saving grace to Into the Storm (and I’m almost willing to admit that there is), it’s that it contains some of the most hysterical unintentional comedy of the year. None of the intended jokes land but when Quale tones it down for a tearful confession or lets his characters bicker over who’s to blame for another character’s demise and then quickly has them console each other, the belly laughs come a’rolling out. It’s the movie equivalent of a dog shitting in your dockers; it’s so accidentally funny that you can’t help but want to scruff its hair and forgive it immediately.

Looking over Quale’s resume, it’s really no shocker that he served up such a trash heap of an experience, considering he only has super-sequel Final Destination 5 to his name. That being the case though, I would expect a little more invention in the “kills” department. I think we can all agree that the firenado was appropriately daffy (and a suiting end for a character who was fifty shades of fey) but that’s really all Quale offers up for human sacrifice. No-one gets ripped to shreds by the sheer power of wind? No knifenados? Wa’ happened?

Instead of satisfying our bloodlust, Quale dumps out a sludge of over-the-top twisters that would only look at home on the Syfy channel. As if that will make up for it. The only footage we’re really intended to pay attention to are those shot from behind character’s shoulders as they play chicken with the impending deathwind. With the exception of one or two scenes, it’s as visually interesting as a fan on its highest setting. It’s as exciting as rolling your car window down.

By the third act, Quale beckons forth a superstorm so girthy and otherworldly that I fully expected the perfunctory Weather Channel newscaster to spew, “My god. This one’s ten miles wide with wind speeds of up to a million!!” Taking a cue from the pastures upon pastures of incoherence that pollutes the rest of the film, it wouldn’t really seem like that much of a stretch.

But as the CG winds wind down, we’re left with the inexcusable knowledge that the people onscreen presumably once took an acting lesson or two and I feel compelled to tisk tisk them for their work here. Seriously, this ought to be embarrassing for everyone involved. Hand slaps for all.

Whilst the inadvertent humor disqualifies Into the Storm from the most painful movie experience of the year accolade, that’s still not something you want to pull for the box art quote. It’s a disaster of a disaster film, never meant to exist outside the shadow of Twister. As trucks get hucked and characters chucked, at least Storm can claim to have made me cackle. It can’t be denied that while laughing at you may be worse than laughing with you, it’s still better than not laughing at all.

D

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