À l'intérieur (2007)

While watching this extremely over-the-top French gore film, one question kept bugging me, drawing my mind away, far away from the indulgent bloodshed. That question is as follows: "How can such a nicely-produced, 80-minute film filled with all sorts of ultra-nasty gore be so damn tedious?" Honestly, I thought it was never going to end as I lay limply on the sofa, being sluggishly dragged from one implausible scene to the next, hopelessly wishing for something meatier than just gore to light up the screen. Still, I kept watching, toying with the aforementioned question in my mind and glancing sporadically at the seconds slowly trickling away on the DVD player display. With my mind wandering away, almost completely unbothered by the scissor wounds to the genitals, gouged-out eyes, impaled hands, and carved-out wombs displayed aggressively in front of me like so many meat slabs on the grocery counter, I realized that I dug the first twenty minutes of the film, dedicated solely to exposition, much more than I did the final hour, filled to the rim with non-sensical gore. This was an enlightening start in my quest to make sense of why I disliked À l'intérieur so much. But soon, the answers came pouring as more and more corpses piled up for no reason other than to showcase the proficiency of the makeup team, as the boring locales were being used over and over in a ridiculously short-reaching game of cat and mouse, as the perspective of any tangible dread or drama not expressed solely by squirting blood all over the place quickly waned, and as I ultimately realized that watching such stuff is the necessary burden of a film critic...

À l'intérieur has a one-track mind but it doesn't have the humor, nor the brains to back it up. It is a horror film that could've come straight out of a butcher's shop, a mere display case full of contiguous beef packets meant to attract you with their bright, artificial red hue with directors Julien Maury and Alexandre Bustillo amiably standing behind, wiping their dirty hands on streaked white aprons and smiling large toothless grins. And while their own passion is unquestioned, it is unlikely that the casual customer will share in that passion, failing to catch the artistry involved in grinding meat for resale. And that's precisely where I now stand, as the customer not understanding the pride of the butcher who has so lovingly lined up stacks of grounded beef. As such, I shall simply glimpse at these packets, then at the butchers' toothless grins without even so much as asking "Why?", but just passing by and moving on to better things.

Blood, blood, blood, but what else?

The story here focuses on Parisian yuppie Sarah and her coveted unborn offspring. As the film opens, the young woman is involved in a brutal car crash. Her baby survives, but not her boyfriend sitting in the passenger's seat. Both he and Sarah are bleeding thick drops of syrupy film blood when she realizes that the worst has come to the worst, and that handsome, buff Matthieu is gone forever. Fast-forward four months and some very cool credits later, and we find ourselves in a hospital room on Christmas Eve. Sarah is having the final check-up prior to her delivery planned for the following day. From the get-go, as she sharply answers every question asked by the obstetrician with angry one-liners, we understand that she has become a bitter bitch. The loss of her boyfriend has obviously made her fall into the nether regions of female moods. That is why she decides to push all her friends away in order to spend the night alone in her huge house located in a cozy Paris neighborhood. Conveniently enough, this neighborhood is almost completely devoid of feasting neighbors, making Sarah the ideal prey for a mysterious stranger who suddenly knocks on her door. From outside, a husky female voice asks to use the phone for such or such reason. Completely panicked, Sarah answers that she won't allow it for fear of waking up her sleeping husband. But since the stranger already knows about the pre-credits car crash, she isn't fooled by that stratagem and simply points out the obvious, namely that Sarah's husband is dead...

And so begins a night of atrocious horrors, all of which are probably more exciting as white words on a black screen than as the indulgent exhibits appearing onscreen. But at this point, with Sarah freaking out and cold sweating against her front door, the film is still promising. And it gets better as the stranger suddenly appears smack in front of the glass wall of her living room, negligently smoking a cigarette, which eerily ignites the night sky. Then, the ominous shrouded woman smashes her fist against the glass, causing a large crack to appear and metaphorically breaking the barrier between two worlds filled with darkness. The intensity, the suddenness of this punch are truly gripping and thus, as the crack stretches a little and Sarah rushes to call the cop, so has the high point of the film come to pass. Then it all goes downhill... and fast. Surprisingly enough, Sarah does manage to successfully summon police assistance here. Despite her apparently infinite resources, the stranger obviously hasn't thought of severing the phone line to the house, nor as she managed to take down the satellite providing Sarah with cellphone coverage. Hence, we aren't immediately faced with a dated device unduly isolating the protagonist from the outside world, which would be quite refreshing if the remainder of the film wasn't so unbelievably implausible and weirdly paced. At any rate, when the police does come, the stranger has eloped... to a nearby bush no doubt for she pops up inside the house moments later to torment Sarah some more. But torment is not the name of the game here as the antagonist harbors a very precise agenda, which she intends to carry out no matter what. Her objective is to pry out Sarah's baby out of her womb. And what better way to remove a baby than with a pair of sturdy film scissors capable of retaining their sharpness after several dozens of stabs through the various body parts of random passersby. Eventually, after dispatching a whopping seven people (including a carful of cops) using almost only stabbing weapons, after having her face half-burnt, the stranger finally gets her wish with some major help from the screenwriters, leaving a very lengthy trail of blood, guts and afterbirth behind her.

From here, I can see you drooling already, as I did when I first read the film's synopsis. And although I sense it hard to convince you that it actually sucks, I will ask you to have the decency to try and believe me, based on arguments, when I say that À l'intérieur is a really, really unsatisfying film. But first I must address the complex issue of Béatrice Dalle's portrayal of "the stranger". Personally, I had no clue who this darkly elegant actress was prior to watching the film. Having never witnessed her legendary performance as Betty in Jean-Jacques Beineix' 37.2 degrés le matin nor any other of her performances, I was hard-pressed to appraise her present casting. Had I known more about her, then maybe my perception of the film would've been quite different as I feel that her character here is intimately tied to her star persona back in France (and her substantial police record, which prevented her from working on The Sixth Sense in the US). But from where I stand, in the role we are now discussing, I feel that she fails to create a convincing villain amidst all of the mindless drivel contained in the film. And while she has undeniable screen presence, contributing her own inner darkness to the surrounding shadows, she cannot transcend the flimsy, shallow role she has been given. We know next to nothing about the stranger, only that she is extremely vindictive and prone to uncontrolled bursts of anger, both of which can be automatically inferred only insofar as one is familiar with Dalle's antics outside of the diegetic world. And while these antics might help further flesh out her character, they're extraneous to any logical interpretation of the narrative and should not be taken into account when appraising À l'intérieur's numerous issues with characterization.

Confined to the shadows, both in terms of lighting and character development, the stranger cruelly lacks a full-fledged psychological motivation for her gruesome murder rampage. The only explanation we are given as to her disturbingly misanthropic violence is a mere trigger, which conveniently doubles as a predictable twist ending. This trigger, the likes of which are usually used to provoke a mere shift in mood and never to sum up a character's entire persona, is meant to come as a brief surprise here when it should be an integrant part of the killer's identity. In all fairness, the screenwriters were fools to think that such a silly twist could actually account for all the brutal bloodletting that constitutes their bread and butter. It could've worked, had they decided to take a more humorous, less stuck-up approach to their outlandish material. But as it stands, it merely pushes what is essentially a would-be serious, would-be realistic effort in terror squarely into the realm of camp, which the ridiculous parade of mindless victims further confirms. Unfortunately, while it embodies all of the narrative carelessness of camp cinema, À l'intérieur possess none of its lightness or humor.

And while the antagonist is criminally underdeveloped, protagonist Sarah proves to be an equally cold and distanced character. And while it is easier for us to empathize with her loss as it is exposed slightly longer, the young woman's surprising bitterness in the face of adversity fails to generate the sympathy necessary to make her an earnest victim in this scenario. Hence, we cannot root for either of the two stars despite their maddening efforts to reach survivalist goals, seeing them only as two rats caught in a maze, running endlessly before our uncaring eyes. Given that sorry state of affairs, the film is bound to fail as an exercise in terror for we cannot possibly find any anchor in the diegetic world but with the gamut of anonymous victims left by the stranger. Personally, I only cringed for the cat's death for it is the only one that managed to stir any form of compassion inside my heart. As for the expendable peripheral characters, they couldn't begin to stir sympathy in the heart of Mother Theresa. They are clearly just scissor fodder meant to be punctured aggressively like pin cushions. They all die a pig's death for they are no more interesting than pigs. And all that is left of their demise, all that is left from our own emotional involvement in the film is the hollow enjoyment of mindless gore, a flimsy reward for enduring such an uninvolving film.

Dalle's offscreen antics help understand her present screen persona.

Aside from simplistic characterization, the screenplay also suffers from a shockingly erratic pace, which constantly compromises mood in a bid to cram as many superfluous murder victims  as possible into the short runtime. Apparently discontent with the initial set-up, in which Sarah is caught alone in her house and forced to fend for herself against a very determined assailant, the screenwriters felt it was necessary to add several unrelated characters, not only cops but family members and co-workers as well. Hence, they quickly turn Sarah's house into the stage of some macabre vaudeville where characters constantly pop in and out of the scenery like so many dancers in a stale musical number. Every narrative development subsequently feels like an empty excuse to drag the film from one kill to the next, with some frankly annoying implausibilities serving as rough stitches to keep the ensemble together.

If one removed all one-dimensional support players, all of which exist solely to be butchered, then and only then could the film achieve any real sense of tension, as Sarah would thus be truly trapped with her dark counterpart. The screw could then turn and turn tighter and the protagonist's fear could become intelligible to us over time. But as the film is built, the arduously-staged moments of tension are all systematically cut short by the sudden apparition of an outsider, breaking the mood and leaving us only with an empty, tedious scene where the villainess manages to catch the outsider off guard and stab him. She does that a number of times, and each of these times, it seems like the cog is spinning to no avail, especially since the lacking narrative importance of all murder victims prevents their deaths from forwarding the plot in any significant way. In fact, these deaths actually hamper the plot by shifting the focus away from Sarah and the pain she has to endure, creating a vicious circle in which the spectator constantly loses track of the ball. The sheer stupidity and helplessness of these murder victims further makes them appear like mere cogs in a backtracking wheel...

In the end, what the film's inefficiency boils down to is the directors' unwillingness to take the more arduous path of psychological observation and the slow development of any sort of meaningful antagonism between the two stars. It stems from them preferring the obvious spectacle of gore over the careful depiction of tension, and their opportunistic casting of Béatrice Dalle as a prepackaged high-strung individualist willing to violently impose her will and claim her due without consideration for others. Luckily, they sought the help of many talented latex artisans, whose unrestrained gore effects constitute some of the film's only assets.

In closing, I would like to play a fun game called "battle of the posters", which will allow me to indulge in my interest for contrasting visual representations across different cultural contexts. Above is the original French DVD cover of the film. Below is the international English DVD cover. Esthetically speaking, the French cover is way superior, using light and shadows to great effect while graphically suggesting a complex, at once complementary and antagonistic relationship between the two main characters. The international cover screams exploitative camp, which is definitely the main selling point of the film. Since the complex relationship of the two women suggested by the French cover (one is light, one is darkness, but in reverse while they seem to perfectly complement one another as an awesome graphic match is seamlessly achieved) never actually happens in the film, leaving us hungry for more, I will have to give the international cover a victory by KO. This latter poster is perfectly crafted. It's ugly, and it says everything you need to know about the film, namely that it involves bloody scissors, a baby in danger, and the collision of the two. It further manages to thrill you with the disturbing perspective of a cesarian performed with dirty scissors, which the film does deliver (pun intended).

1,5/5: This good-looking but boring film fails to create affect because it privileges the mindless spectacle of indulgent gore over the careful development of tension and meaningful antagonisms.

The Mist (2007)

The Mist is a tense, gripping film with an extremely intriguing premise that's greatly exploited, strong performances by an A-list cast and a ruthlessly efficient screenplay that manages to keep you on the edge of your seat for two whole hours. It features incredible special FX that blend almost seamlessly with the live world, a pragmatic camera that seems to instinctively know where to go, but also... one of the worst film endings of all times. This ending is so bad, especially considering how stellar the preceding 120 minutes are, that it will certainly leave a bitter taste in your mouth and some nail marks in your palm. The grandiose climax, one that actually made me shiver in awe, is completely ruined by it, and on purpose! It really makes you wonder whether the makers of this film even knew what they were doing. Privileging a cheap twist ending as they do and thus jeopardizing the lasting impression that the film could've had on its viewers, this almost trivializes the entire enterprise and seems to lessen every one of the great achievements leading up to the final few frames. It's a damn shame! I don't know if Darabont (who did an impeccable job with The 'Shank (1994)) simply wanted to stay true to King's original story or if he didn't even understand the very nature of the mood he worked so hard to create (although I could make an educated guess), but it's a real shame! The guy really shot himself in the foot, there. Still, I've had a long hard think about the whole issue, and decided that I would not penalize the film too much only because of the ending, seeing how a single minute of pure shit could not really topple two hours of gold, even if it actually did.

When I first saw the film, I mostly liked it, but ended up dismissing the entire project on account of its ending (I originally planned to give the film a **1/2 rating). When I saw it again, I liked it even more. So I was even more pissed off against the ending. But love eventually overweighted hate, especially in regards to a certain gun-shot wound to the head which I would've loved to share with fellow Fantasia fanatics. And so I was reconciled with The Mist, its generous narrative, talented director Darabont and with the lovely folks of Bridgton, Maine: the smart and sensitive hero (Thomas Jane), the touching, traumatized kid (Nathan Gamble), gorgeous teenage sitter (Alexa Davalos), diminutive bagger/crack-shot (Toby Jones), and lovely old school mistress (Frances Sternhagen), all with their own wisdom and skills to bring to the battle. But most of all, I reconciled with one of my favorite film villains of all times, demented Christian zealot Mrs. Carmody, played to perfection by Marcia Gay Harden who gives one of the best performances in the annals of contemporary horror.

Stranded townsfolk vs The Mist (Odds are 1:150,000,000).

As we say in Quebec, The Mist doesn't fiddle around with the puck. The action starts almost straight away, after just a tiny bit of exposition necessary to set up the story. You see, most of the character development in the film is made while those characters are stranded by the mist, and pushed to the limits of their humanity. Thus, we get to see only their true selves as revealed by stress and the fear of death. We don't have to bother with their mundane selves, save for the opening sequence wherein civility between neighbors arise only to bring about a more dramatic break when things start turning sour, hence showing us how such civility is but a mask that helps us live our lives in the perpetual, unconfessed hatred of others.

The film opens on David Drayton (Thomas Jane) who is quietly painting a portrait of 'the quiet man' from the Leone films when an electrical storm causes a power outage that plunges his cozy Maine house in total darkness. But the storm causes more than this. It causes trees to fall down and crash through the windows and over his boat house, ripping his ongoing work to shreds. The following morning, it's time for the Drayton family to appraise the damage. And when David realizes that it is actually his neighbor's tree that has fallen over his boat house, he figures it's time for them both to trade insurance information. This would be a simple task if said neighbor wasn't a self-centered power lawyer from the big city who looks at country folks as a bunch of primitive hicks. When the two men meet, David tames the honorable law man (Andre Braugher, solid) by expressing sincere feelings for his crushed Mercedes. And he tames him even further by offering a ride into town along with him and his son. At this point, it seems that the two former enemies are almost becoming friends. But this doesn't last long, as they both become stranded in the grocery store where they went to buy supplies. Along with a large chunk of the town's population, they are in dire need to stash up in the event of a nastier storm. But when a bleeding old man comes rushing in through the sliding doors, screaming "Something in the mist, something in the mist", while being seemingly pursued by a smoky cloud that instantly laps up the entire parking lot, everybody knows something is wrong. And so they all barricade themselves inside the grocery store, soon realizing that there is indeed something in the mist, something monstrous that threatens them all. But then, there are those who believe and those who don't, making for multiple arising bands of contradicting allegiance. Before long, it's every man for himself as the bodies keep piling up and the fight for survival (against outside forces and paranoid fellowmen alike) becomes more and more fierce. In the end, the fun lies not in knowing the origin of the monsters, but in witnessing the slow mental decay of a tightly-knit community in the face of apocalyptic, unexplainable disaster.

Being a major studio film, The Mist has the advantage of casting over its brothers from poverty row and skilled director Darabont takes full advantage of it. Totaling a whopping 27 acting nominations for various awards (most of them going to Michael Clarke Duncan for The Green Mile), the four feature films by the French maestro are obvious proof that he is a highly competent director of actors. Here, he gets a real honest performance out of action star Thomas Jane as the over-burdenened hero trying to salvage a sinking ship full of emotionally-shattered souls, but also from young Nathan Gamble who appears truly traumatized by the events unfolding around him. As father and son, the two actors make a really empathic duo that you really come to cherish. Add to that the presence of regulars William Sadler as a grease-monkey on the verge of a nervous breakdown and Laurie Holden as the wide-eyed leading lady, with really affective performances from a supporting cast full of conviction, and you've got what appears to be a real town full of real people stuck in a really extreme situation.

But most of all, we have Marcia Gay Harden as Mrs. Carmody, the bitch queen of the universe, the delusional, Bible-totting, child-sacrificing maniac from Hell who represents both the totalitarian power of the medieval Church and the most extreme elements of the American religious right. As such, she is more than annoying, she is downright scary. The influence she has on the poor people seeking an answer to their metaphysical woes is reminiscent of those rotten apples from the Bible Belt, those who, unhappy with simply believing in the existence of a Creator who has generously given us life, preach only His anger and vengeance, condemning the faithful to a lifetime of penitent servitude. Religion in itself, even the detestable Christian religion, is not bad as long as it preaches compassion, love and trust in your fellowman. But used as it is by the likes of Mrs. Carmody, that is in order to further their own selfish agendas, that is not religion, that is politics. Personally, I wanted to gouge the woman's eyes out with my thumbs, ever since she started babbling about her own personal god, the "bloodthirsty asshole" that pulpit Pitbulls dream up to rake collection money from the trembling hands of their parishioners. And the more I thought about my hate for Carmody, the more I started to respect Harden's performance. I mean, if an actor can make you react in such a way, they must be doing a damn good job, which is certainly the case here.

All in all, characterization is a key feature in films such as The Mist, that is survivor films taking place 'In Camera', because acting thus becomes a privileged mean for conveying mood. Here, the entire cast contributes its share to depict a world on the brink of madness and they do it almost flawlessly. The slowly forming cliques, deteriorating mental states, erupting personal feuds, emotional outbursts, all are perfectly controlled, and perfectly believable. The world of the film thus becomes the microcosm of a dystopian society caught right at the moment before extinction, and so the entire cast is capable of transcending its excellent work and become much, much more than the sum of its parts. Well done!

Give Thomas Jane a chance, he and diminutive Nathan

Gamble are actually real, heart-warming characters here. Also,

the inside of a grocery store have never looked so good.

As invaluable as the acting is here, it is the smart, episodic screenplay that magnifies its impact. Its savvy use of ellipses, its taking small, but very revelatory steps in narrative progression, this allows the characters to develop nicely through the course of the film. Hence, David is soon revealed as a passionate humanist after he witnesses the death by tentacles of a foolish bag boy who decided to show his bravery by stepping outside to unblock the vent of a power generator. Warned by David, whom he doesn't really consider to be an integrant part of their township, the poor kid rather decides to try and impress the local grease-monkeys who talk tough and try to discredit David's warnings as bourgeois bullshit. But when he is munched, then dragged to his death by fanged tentacles, it is David who is truly heart-broken, but it is also him who throws the first punch, right in the face of Jim (Sadler), the dull-eyed "though guy". And thus, the first break occurs: a break in the characters' sanity, but also a break between believers and non-believers. Because when David calmly tries to explain how a thirty feet long tentacle has grabbed the bag boy, he is met with annoyed disbelief, which is perfectly understandable given the situation.

At that point, there can be four explanations for The Mist (natural, artificial, supernatural or spiritual) which are based solely on assumptions and beliefs rather than facts. These explanations will soon begin to clash, but also to interpenetrate and thus blur the perception of the people held captive. And thus, we can return to the idea of a microcosm, complete with varied sets of ideologies concerning the nature of life and of the universe, constantly clashing ideologies creating tension and forming cliques which, given the circumstances, will eventually turn against each other. Hence, The Mist is not interesting only in sociological terms (analysis of social reactions when a population is confronted with extreme situations), but also in metaphysical terms (the clash of ideas bringing about a heated debate concerning the very nature of the world surrounding us). Needless to say that when the actual "facts" concerning the nature of the mist arise, one is necessarily underwhelmed to find the debate sterilized. Fortunately, and again this shows you just how smart the screenplay is, the ball fumbled by the need for a definitive explanation is picked up right away in order to open another debate concerning man's folly in tampering with God's perfect design. Obviously, such "debates" become more and more groundless as the characters sink deeper into madness and despair, but this is all very well gauged and perfectly relevant to the explosive central narrative.

And although The Mist is no Lord of the Rings, the interplay of CGI beasties and live actors is good enough to spawn plenty of exhilarating, sometimes even transcending scenes of horror, paramount of which features the thinly veiled shadow of a tentacled hulk towering over the characters' SUV (as seen in the gorgeous illustration below). Be they all sorts of toothy tentacles or corrosive spider silk, shelf-smashing prehistoric flyers or large flying insects, every monstrous entity is fluidly animated, making their movements surprisingly lifelike. With the scenery being destroyed accordingly, the otherworldly fauna from the mist appears to have truly penetrated into our world. If characterization was essential for bringing life to the stranded mob of paranoid townsfolk, adequate special effects were equally essential for fleshing out the impeding menace threatening those townsfolk, making them react the way they do. It is the symbiosis of those two elements that makes the film so plausible, and thus so successful. Plus, these CGI effects are good for the show, that is the horror show, or cinema's ability to materialize nightmares. These effects allow the creation of larger than life creature from the nether regions of the imagination, giving them an intelligible and immediately menacing shape, ultimately making them livelier than any latex or stop-motion monster of old. All in all, the excellence of the acting in the film finds its reflection in the excellence of the special FX, which combined, vie to create a well-laid world pulsating with all forms of life. An ecosystem all of its own, wherein man is no longer at the top of the food chain. Again, a microcosm.

Lifelike special FX contribute greatly to the film's affect

Frank Darabont's camera is also thankfully versatile in its ability to frame both the well-composed, more theatrical shots of character interaction and the exhilarating, equally well-composed action scenes in all of their glory. Being extremely volatile at times, it propels the action, and the speedy flyers with dizzying virtuosity while sacrificing nothing in the way of plastic beauty. For anybody who has seen The 'Shank, that is The Shawshank Redemption, or The Green Mile (1999), the director's perfectionism in all manners of technique should come as no surprise. The man is very classical in his approach, but he shares something else with Golden Age American directors: an impeccable work ethic. Every detail of his films, including the gorgeous art direction is catered to with utmost care and, yes... with unbridled love for cinema as grandiose spectacle. Of course, the budget helps, but then again, the 18M$ of The Mist are nothing compared to the 237M$ of Avatar (which was released a scant two years later) or the 25M$ of Freddy vs Jason (2003). The problem is that only a fraction of the people who pay to see the latter two films will buy tickets for Darabont's films. It's a shame, and very symptomatic of things in the contemporary film market where flashy gimmicks systematically seem to overwhelm formal beauty. That said, all we can do for now is grind our teeth and swear (I solemnly swear) to go see Darabont's next film in theaters, that is before the hype reaches me and drags me to it, when it needs to be the other way around.

If you re-read my review, you will notice that I have only one bad comment to say about the film and it concerns the ending. Still, I stand by my comments, praising the film for its formal excellence and engrossing narrative while insisting on the fact that the ending almost condemns the whole project to oblivion. And although I will not fully reveal this ending, I will just say this: the thing I hate the most in films are twist endings, especially if they contradict a mood so carefully established as The Mist's. Here, the overwhelming, transcending and truly shocking perspective of a destroyed Earth, lost by human arrogance to the creatures of a world beyond is brutally annihilated by the need to focus on the plight of one individual. This extremely narrow vision of what horror truly is in regards to humanity has shocked, and will continue to shock me forever. And I will always blame Darabont, not King, for it as he is supposed to be the master in his own castle (especially with his 'producer' credits). Yet, I will not completely dismiss any of his great achievements. And to you, the viewer, I will say this: see The Mist, see it right away, see it with your family, see it with your friends, see it alone, but see it. It is a worthy film, worthy of at least a lasting life on DVD. But do this: turn it off after the fourth gun shot at the end. I swear you will enjoy it even more than you would have otherwise.

In conclusion, I would like to take this opportunity to share with you a sublime illustration that I have come across while researching the film. In my opinion, it perfectly exemplifies the sense of unfathomable horror stemming from the world created by Stephen King and Frank Darabont. This is the whole portrait evoked only in shreds by the film but depicted here with bone-chilling artistry and whole-hearted insight. Behold!

Here is a link to the artist's blog where you can check

out more detailed zooms. And other amazing work.

3,5/5 A very well-crafted A-list film that works admirably well until the final few shots.

Monster - Humanoids from the Deep (1980)

As of yesterday, I had been anxiously waiting for fifteen years to see this film, ever since I read Leonard Maltin's glowing review wherein he gives it three stars out of four, more than he gives Martin Scorsese's key masterpiece Taxi Driver. For as long as I can remember, I've always wanted to solve the riddle of the exploitative gore-fest (full of blood and bouncing breasts) that Maltin could love so much. I've tried to track the film down over the years, but there was always one side of me that felt unconvinced by Maltin, one side that would fight the unhealthy urge that drove me towards the film. But now that Shout! Factory has graciously started re-releasing Corman-produced classics (such as this, Piranha, Galaxy of Terror, Forbidden World, Not of this Earth and the Slumber Party Massacre trilogy) on affordable DVDs, it was about time that I stopped searching. And so I renewed my teenage curiosity, and took a long-awaited peek at what is essentially a fun B-movie worthy of some praise for its ruthless, sex-crazed monsters but not nearly as brilliant as I had made it up to be in my wishful mind.

Surely, any horror fan can enjoy this...

Behold the quiet coastal town of Noyo where the working fishermen are struggling to find salmon to fill their nets. There's a lot of tension there stemming from work-related frustrations. Drunken sailors led by Hank Slattery (Vic Morrow) are pissed off with local Native Johnny Eagle (Anthony Pena) who in turn is pissed off against the townspeople and their project to open a cannery on what he considers to be ancestral Native grounds. Unbeknownst to all these people, the company behind the cannery project has developed a new strand of salmon to help fill the coastal waters. These salmons were injected with some sort of growth hormone that allows them to reach new heights in size and weight. But obviously, as is common in films of this ilk, it has also precipitated their "evolution" into horny fish-like humanoids with bulging brains that prey on dogs and men while raping women to create an even more advanced race of man/fish creatures.

Despite numerous flaws including an overwhelming score by Oscar-winning composer James Horner, atrocious sound-editing, wooden acting (especially from leading lady Ann Turkel who went on to do mostly TV work, including three different roles in cultish David Hasselhoff vehicle Knight Rider) and many unsatisfying, and brutally abridged plot lines, Monster manages to impress in the last act thanks to an ample serving of monsters and mayhem as well as a birth scene that could challenge Alien's authority in matters of gut-bursting. But is this last act good enough to recommend the film? Honestly, I would say that it is, especially since Shout! Factory released the thing under its original title, Monster, which constitutes the "racier" version of this cult classic, usually referred to as Humanoids from the Deep. Thus, it contains a lot of female flesh to feast your eyes upon. Be ready to see four, count 'em, four different pairs of big, naked, bouncing breasts jiggling around. Hell, there is even bush in this film, which is quite a treat considering that we weren't in the 70s anymore. But bush is nothing without gore, which is thankfully also on the menu. All over the menu in fact, as rivers of brutal gore flood the screen. As for the monster rape scenes, they're quite creepy, but too short. And pretty awkward considering how limited motion becomes for an actor in a rubber suit. These scenes seem more like excuses to show flesh than honest attempts at simulating rape. Personally, I would've elaborated on them a lot and upped the gross-out factor by crafting some sort of green drool that could drip all over the girls... but, hey, that's just me! All in all, Monster is exactly what you should expect from a Corman film: exploitative sex and violence in spades under a certain veil of respectability offered by an eco-friendly, pseudo-scientifical, but ultimately vacuous storyline.

...and this...

Here, the slowly-evolving plot is only an excuse to justify the exhilarating central scene of mayhem set in the marina during a popular celebration. In fact, every plot point seems to be abruptly abridged at this point to make way for an unforgettable showcase of bloody violence and disgusting monster suits (designed by Oscar-nominee Rob Bottin). Because although it begins as a fable about the evils of ruthless capitalism and the unethical genetic tampering of God's creatures, Monster eventually reveals its true nature as a purely exploitative genre film. The intriguing storyline concerning Johnny Eagle's decision to hire a city lawyer specialized in civil rights to defend his case against the townspeople is ultimately revealed as no more than a way to set-up one murder near his shack, then it is forgotten. The lengthy scene of scientific exposition about salmon evolution also seems like dead weight. Handled by using boring slides coupled with some pretty un-involving narration by Turkel, it seems like no more than some filler made to give an appearance of legitimacy to the bloodshed. But we all know this to be useless and counter-productive, especially in light of the fact that poor Turkel couldn't convince a child to eat an ice cream cone, let alone bring to life the subtleties inherent to her character. In the end, we are not really surprised, nor do we really care for those abandoned storylines as the final act can justify itself any day to any horror fan. Just let it bleed! Which is what happens when a boatload of salmon-creatures attacks townspeople partying on the pier. The film becomes quite generous at this point. You get twisted-off heads, ripped out skin, stabbed entrails, bloody gun wounds, burning water... all in an exhilarating symphony of frenzied editing that would make Eisenstein proud! It's a shame that the massacre doesn't start earlier. Kind of makes me think about Troma's Beware! Children at Play (1989) wherein the final massacre constitutes both a moment of anthology and the only worthy sequence of the film. Of course, Monster is not such an extreme, but it still tends to be self-defeating in narrative terms, which is not to say that it is an unsuccessful horror film. It's not. It's just not exploitative enough... from my viewpoint anyway.

That said, the makeup job here is stellar, and it is perhaps the greatest asset of the film. The monster suits, the gore, every bit of latex and syrup are used to the very best of their potential. It's just a shame that we don't get to see a monster in full view until the halfway mark, nor do we get to see elaborate gore up to that point. Only pools of blood forming on the surface of the water: nothing to write a review about... When I got to thinking, I realized that the very effectiveness of an horror film from the 80s can be most precisely measured in latex and syrup. These are the two quintessential ingredients to brew a classic of this era. Here, they play a major part in the film's success as no amount of narrative exposition or life-affirming dialogue could rightfully replace even one second of the climactic massacre. Nor could it enhance the enjoyment thereof. Plot, in an 80s gore film, is like the costume of a midget in a wrestling match. Sometimes it can, but it still rarely improves the show beyond what it already is, that is a freak show. Transcendence has no place in commercial, teenage-oriented fare. Only hormones do. And unless you can add some form of snazzy technical virtuosity (such as Argento's grandiose tracking shots, paramount of which is the one around the house in Tenebrae (1982)), biting dark humor (such as Romero's or Cohen's), solid characterization (think Fright Night, Near Dark or Stuart Gordon's films) or any such distinctive feature into the mix, the success of any given title relies almost solely on the skill of special FX artisans and the audacity of big-breasted actresses. And I bet that Leonard Maltin agrees with me.

... but this is just wrong! A fully-clothed scientist taking pictures!?!

Come on!

In the end, Monster certainly doesn't transcend the genre, nor does it fully deliver. It's a nice, short film that picks up speed as it goes, but keeps most of the goods neatly packed at the end. Its impeccable choice of women, most impressive of which is the courageous, and incredibly gorgeous Lynn Theel (who vanished from the silver screen in 1989), its progressive stance on Native rights, superb monster makeup and gallons of gore are all assets. But some very rigid characterization and a boring, over-done narrative deflates any pretension at higher goals than pure entertainment. Still, the film manages to showcase some moments of anthology, closing on a very strong note that's more of a climax than a cliffhanger.

2,5/5 A mostly hollow film that delivers the (gory, sexy) goods

The Stuff (1985)

The Stuff abruptly begins with an old miner walking in a snow-covered quarry, then stopping to stare at a puddle of pulsating white sludge erupting from the ground. Surprisingly enough, his first reflex is to grab a handful of the creamy white substance and taste it. Confounded with its incredible flavor, he digs in for more. And that's how a very popular new brand of desert comes to be. The film then fast-forwards a few months as "The Stuff" is now being marketed and sold in great volumes across the US. It seems like the perfect food: healthy, delicious and strangely addictive, the main reason being that it is actually a living organism that turns its host into a brain-washed zombie. Thanks to a clever marketing campaign masterminded by a smart, young self-seeker named Nicole (Andrea Marcovicci), this dangerous food has even become quite a fashionable item. But when it begins to outsell ice cream, the disgruntled bigwigs of dairy concerns must react quickly not to become buried in mounds of pulsating pudding. Soon, they are willing to do anything in order to find out exactly what The Stuff is made of. This means hiring the best of the best, suave industrial saboteur Mo Rutherford (Michael Moriarty), to discover the dark secret behind the living desert's otherworldly success. But this secret is well-guarded and it involves a slippery trail of hints that will carry Mo all across the US in a frenzied hunt for his paycheck, but most importantly, for the truth.

The plot also follows the trials and tribulations of poor young Jason (Scott Bloom), a kid who catches some Stuff moving around in the family refrigerator. After confronting his family with this dire fact, he soon discovers that they have all succumbed to the desert's brainwashing effects. Starting his own campaign to stop the use of the nasty product, he crosses paths with Mo as they start narrowing in on the real bad guys, the execs of the heartless distribution company responsible for marketing and selling the product. The exhilarating, effects-filled climax takes place in a quarry full of The Stuff where it is harvested industrially by a fleet of 18-wheelers. It also involves a large commando led by deliciously paranoid general Malcolm Spears (Paul Sorvino) as well as tankfuls of aggressive pudding. Truly, this climax has to be seen to be believed.

The Stuff: "So divine, it will make you lose your mind."

Hell, I should start my own marketing campaign!

As I watched this delightfully gooey horror/comedy, I couldn't help thinking that it might represent the pinnacle of Larry Cohen's career as a director. The film bears all of his trademarks: biting social satire, extravagant gore and the ever welcome presence of fetish lead Michael Moriarty in what may well be his finest performance ever. It is a fast-paced, funny and thought-provoking film despite a somewhat underdeveloped premise and relatively poor production values. Over the years, it has developed into quite a cult phenomenon, but I believe it never really got the full attention it deserves. With hilarious turns by Danny Aiello (as the health official who originally okayed The Stuff), Paul Sorvino (as a red-bashing military nutcase) and a downright addictive jingle featured in omnipresent commercials for the titular product ("Enough is never enough... of The Stuff!"), the film is bound to have you grinning years after you've seen it. Add to that large helpings of willful white pudding and you've got one of the most unique, most refreshing horror films of the 80s. I don't know if it is the absence of nudity, or the absence of sequels which has hampered it's popularity, but rarely is the film mentioned with any sort of nostalgic languor. Maybe people are too hellbent on forcing comparison with Cohen's classic It's Alive (1974) and its darker use of horrific imagery or maybe they don't dig its cheap look, I don't know. What I do know is that The Stuff is, by all accounts, a very underrated film full of relevant jabs at consumer culture and truly weird imagery that finds only rare echos elsewhere in the world of horror. Of course, The Blob (1958) immediately comes to mind, but whereas the pink space monster finds relevance only in its monstrosity, The Stuff finds its own in the ability to control its hosts, hence offering a larger range of narrative possibilities as well as a potent metaphor for the contemporary man.

Clocking in at 93 minutes while featuring a race for clues that stretches throughout the entire US of A, The Stuff unfolds at breakneck speed, jumping from one scene to the next using key hints to propel Mo closer and closer to the center of the spiral while wasting no time in superfluous explanations. The Stuff exists. That's it. Where it came from is never explained, nor does it need to be since the product itself is not that important. What is important is how ruthless multinationals make use of it, disregarding any health hazard it represents in order to cash in on its addictive flavor. Not knowing the nature of the product actually strengthens the plot by making it even more hazardous... and its distributors more irresponsible. Besides, this allows Cohen to use the classic Noir framework to the best of its potential by making us share the investigation carried out by private eye Rutherford. That said, Michael Moriarty is more than charismatic enough to carry the narrative on his own, and although he gets some major help from some of his co-stars, the most important of which being Paul Sorvino and Garrett Morris (as the ex-president of a chocolate chip factory), the fate of the film mostly lies in his hands. And he does pretty well, managing to come out as both a poor man's Bogart and a poor man's Bond, lacking their flair for fashion while being suave, resourceful and fast-talking enough to earn the comparison. His character prefers working alone, gathering hints through keen observation and manipulation. Yet, he seems to have infinite resources; he can mobilize jets and limousines or gather commandos in the blink of an eye. At heart, he is a throwback to the heyday of Hollywood, when heroes were tough, smart and emotionless, when both the protagonists' words and fists had the same raw power. But since the film was made in the 80s, he is also an action hero, blowing stuff up, driving 18-wheelers through barricades and generally protecting the well-being of the weak.

This dual nature finds echo in the film's structure, which contains many elements pertaining to both the influence of Golden Age cinema and that of contemporary action films. The protagonist itself, the way he begins at least, is beautifully classical. And so is the snappy dialogue. You see, by flanking Rutherford with equally voluble characters (paramount of which is Morris' Chocolate Chip Charlie), you get verbal exchanges worthy of Howard Hawks or the Marx Brothers wherein words fly and the virtuosity of acting seems to be measured only in terms of delivery. Yet, this speedy delivery also becomes a way to shoot a greater number of one-liners as the film tips more and more into the realm of action cinema. And the man to do it is Paul Sorvino, to whom all the crunchier lines have been given. The man is really a laugh riot, at once manic and stern, managing to come out as the ultimate incarnation of the paranoid military man envisioned by Left-wingers. He is the man to help Mo in his transformation, allowing him to further develop into a socially-conscious American hero. Because although the protagonist begins as somewhat of a self-centered asshole, he evolves during the course of the film, becoming more and more selfless and ultimately even spearheading a nation-wide boycott of the titular product in order to protect the well-being of Americans, trading his pay for the benefit of public health. His journey across the US is a lengthy, but worthy enterprise that will see him (as well as repentant publicist Nicole) deliver small-time folks from corporate-controlled addiction. The character's evolution from money-minded opportunist to action hero is thus paralleled by the film's evolution from the narratives of olden days, involving suave tough guys and unfathomable mysteries, into contemporary narratives where subtlety gives way to the spectacle of a whole planet being narrowly saved by one determined hero.

Mo Rutherford is Bond-esque in his choice of vehicles,

not in his choice of clothing

Despite its shoestring budget, the makers of this film still managed to give shape to all of their big-buget ideas. First off, they managed to set up a rather lengthy road trip undertook by Mo Rutherford as he follows the trail left by The Stuff. Seeing the protagonist work his way from New York to Virginia, then to Georgia in such a way actually makes him look like a hell of an investigator; it even allows for a blob attack scene set within a private jet. And although the scenes in Virginia were actually shot in Upstate New York, while it is New Jersey that stands in for Georgia, even if no scene was actually shot inside a flying jet (the jet is merely seen landing with superimposed voices leading you to believe that Mo and Nicole are in it), you can nonetheless appreciate the effort. And if you are willing to suspend your disbelief just a little bit, you might actually be drawn right into the implausible storyline. The same goes for the special effects : if you are willing to suspend your disbelief, which you should find necessary given the subject matter at hand, you will certainly be able to enjoy them.

Personally, I thought these special effects were quite decent as The Stuff is not only seen moving in young Jason's fridge, but also in and out of its hosts' gaping mouths, across walls and through them, clamping around people's faces, etc... It's movement is almost hypnotic at times as it willfully glides over the floor and across walls, closing in on the protagonists' heels and throwing sticky tentacles their way. But what's even more engrossing about the killer pudding is how it grotesquely forces open the mouths of its victims on the way out, thus allowing the use of some frankly disgusting prosthetics and forcing many uncomfortable bits of acting (as the actors need to 'puke' large doses of thick, white substance). For some reason, it also makes the victims easier to break, and spew bits of flesh drowned in large helpings of the killer desert. It's really, really fun stuff to watch. Very gory, but amusingly so since blood has been replaced by, well, melted vanilla ice cream. The very aggressiveness of The Stuff is very well portrayed also as it leaps toward the characters and menaces them in all sorts of ways. This all builds toward an apocalyptic showdown in the infested quarry during which many action film ideas (such as exploding mounds of rocks and bursting building walls) are carried out nicely through typically Cohen-esque efficiency. The use of miniatures and blue screens is key to making the blob out to be a willful, intelligent monster. And although it doesn't all work perfectly, you have to ask yourself this: could James Cameron have done any better? Could he have convinced you of a killer pudding's liveliness? I doubt it... I doubt he would even consider trying. You see, The Stuff has an outlandish premise that only a B film could support. And thus, the pudding couldn't even have been made to look better. As things are, you will only enjoy the film if you accept the premise as it is. And besides, if you focus on the first degree, you will miss the point of the film entirely.

You see, killer puddings are not that far from killer babies insofar as they all pertain to a global social critique by prolific cult figure Cohen, a critique of consumerism that uses over-the-top imagery to better make its point. But whereas the killer baby gimmick was meant as a real gut-punch, especially if you consider the bone-chilling birth scene, The Stuff takes it easier on the viewer, using grayer humor and more caricatural characters to convey its message. Nevertheless, the omnipresence of aggressive publicity within the film should give you a definite clue as to the author's intent, especially if you consider the fact that these ads are frankly well-crafted and only marginally cornier than actual ads from the 80s. Picture this: two babes in bathing suits wearing fur coats over their shoulders are walking on a makeshift runway, spoon-feeding each other The Stuff. From here, this might seem like something straight out of a comedic film about killer pudding, but it's actually a pretty accurate depiction of ads from that era. Even more so is the TV ad featuring a group of youths dancing in unison on a basketball court with The Stuff's logo covering the brick wall behind them. The message is simple: if babes and cool kids love The Stuff, then you need to dig in as well. These ads are not selling a product, they're selling a cool look. Because no matter how addictive a product can be in itself, it is its publicity which is often the hook. Or rather, the illusion that you need it when you actually don't need it all. This is what makes you a zombie. A pleasant taste is merely instrumental in the process. Just think about McDonald's for a second. Their burgers contain nothing remotely good for you, nothing which you need. In fact, they're not even burgers, more like 'meat-flavored sandwiches'. Still, they have this sort of inexplicably pleasant taste. And people get addicted to them. Then they are constantly maintained in their addiction not by publicity per se, but by the omnipresence of publicity, by the sight of McDonald's logos reproduced everywhere in every country and every medium. The Stuff basically works in the same way. It fills rows and rows and rows of supermarket space, being sold in the dairy products department as well as in the frozen food department. People eat it for breakfast, for lunch, for dinner. There are even specialized outlet stores selling only this very specific product. When driving past one of these stores smack in the middle of the night, Mo is surprised to see the affluence of clients. Yet today, many McDonald's are full in the middle of the night and you actually have to wait in line to grab just a tiny bit of munchies. Near the end of the film, publicist Nicole insists that she is directly responsible for the outbreak of The Stuff addiction. And although Mo objects (but only because he is enamored with her), we feel that, by naming and marketing the product, it is her who has created a monster. It is her who has convinced people that 'enough is never enough' and that one must fill himself until his entire thought process consists only in coveting more and more of the deadly product (read here McDonald's). Cohen doesn't simply include a bit of publicity in his film, he insists on it heavily. He multiplies the ads ad nauseam, thus creating a very large mosaic of pastel images meant to overwhelm the viewer and make him believe that only The Stuff is ever advertised in the diegetic world. It is not publicity which Cohen criticizes, it is the omnipresence of publicity, that which will truly make zombies out of its victims.

Beware of advertising! It creeps. And leaps. And glides.

And slides. Across the city walls.

The Stuff is fast-moving; it is funny; it is gory. It has all the characteristics of light entertainment. However, it is much deeper than many people usually consider it to be, because under its impoverished look and laid-back attitude lies a very relevant message that we don't care to see for it involves all of us in our precious individual bubbles of apathetic pseudo-happiness. The film actually warned us of something that has now become a reality. We have now all succumbed to the debilitating effects of the consumer culture. And thus, the fights for equality and justice of yesteryears have now become fights to become the best-dressed or the best-equipped of all. The zombie metaphor is not a bad one considering the current state of affairs. So, if you want to dismiss The Stuff as simply a mindless monster movie, go right ahead. But you will thus make another murder attempt against this tiny voice called conscience which screams more and more sheepishly as time goes by...

3/5 A fast, funny, gooey and political film to crown Larry Cohen's career.

Les sept jours du talion (2010)

A politically relevant torture porn film? Move over, Saw VI...

Quebec is not known for its horror films. More for its poignant family dramas, such as Les invasions barbares (2003) who clinched the Best Foreign Film Oscar a few years back or the classical Les bons débarras (1980), Jean-Claude Lauzon's films, etc... The present work is one that actually manages to walk the (very) fine line between tear-inducing family drama and hardcore torture porn without falling too much. If I had to pinpoint a specific sub-genre, I would tag it as "torture porn with a purpose". You see, child abduction/rape is a hot topic in québécois media, and it has been for quite some time now. First, there was a huge, province-wide campaign to find the late Cédrika Provencher. Instead of beer, the billboards now advertized the disappearance of the young girl, who was, sadly, never found. Then there was Julie Surprenant, whose parents followed in the footsteps of Cédrika's and amassed supporters by the tens of thousands but failed to find their daughter, who by all accounts, must be dead and left in a makeshift tomb. Now that Pierre-Hugues Boisvenu, father of famous child victim Julie Boisvenu, has become a senator hellbent on protecting the conservative agenda, it was just a question of time before celebrated writer Patrick Sénécal wrote Les sept jours du talion. There was a deep hurt in the hearts of our people and the answer to that hurt may well be Sénécal's cathartic book. It offered what no parent of child victims could ever dream of: vengeance of the most brutal, yet orderly kind. It offered them a heroic avenger to appease their qualms and bloody his hands in their stead. But the novel also held its own, ethical ideas about biblical justice (read, an eye for an eye). The hero's inevitable downfall is proof that vengeance is always self-defeating (read not an eye for an eye will make the world blind, but rather the tamer expression: killing won't bring back the killed). In the end, you will have to figure out what to take out from such a dubious, overdetermined morale that's literally imposed on you by a very uneven distribution of dramatic highs and a mathematically-minded construction.

A cold, calculating avenger: Bruno Hamel.

The story revolves around Bruno Hamel, father of young Jasmine, a loveable ten-year old who is found raped and murdered in a field scant minutes after the opening scene. It focuses on his plan to capture and torture the perpetrator for seven days, that is until his daughter's birthday. Being a doctor (which is about all you get to learn about the protagonist), Bruno is a methodical and resourceful man, and he just won't quit. Although he doesn't quite enjoy the pain he inflicts, he feels that he somehow has to do it, for the sake of all the raped children of this world. This is quite symptomatic of the québécois mindset at this point in time. Killing, or tagging pedophiles is seen by many not as an act of revenge, but as civic duty. In effect, this overturns the avowed goal of our penal system, which is not punishment, but rehabilitation. And the entire philosophy behind Les sept jours du talion revolves around this contradiction. But the film also has a very precise agenda: to show that vengeance is never fulfilling. The rapid deterioration of Bruno, and the constant reminders of his dead daughter are obvious demonstrators of this "fact". Thus, we only see Bruno evolving a tiny bit all through the film, which is a necessary evil considering the nature of the point made, namely that vengeance makes you hollow.

Now, the film's extremely graphic nature is at once its greatest asset and greatest flaw. Sure, the repulsive acts onscreen are meant to challenge the audience's preconceived ideas about revenge, but the very people who hold these ideas dearest, namely the parents of young children, are not likely to even be in this audience. At once, the film tries to conquer the mainstream by using a hot media topic and high-strung drama, but also alienates this very audience with its graphic depiction of repulsive torture. Personally, I felt that the film falls squarely in the horror genre, if only for the opening shots focusing prominently on surgical tools that foreshadow vindictive violence and little else. As for the anemic, overdetermined plot, it yields too easily to the overwhelming depiction of torture. What we are left with is perhaps too dramatic for casual gorehounds, and not dramatic enough for casual moviegoers. In short, by focusing on the eponymous torture session, the film will always be hard-pressed to find a dedicated audience, not one drawn only by curiosity or blood thirst.

For one, I believe that Jasmine's lack of exposition greatly undermines the dramatic power of the film, nullifying almost any attempt at giving a strong justification for Bruno's actions. Sure, the little girl is cute. Sure, the sight of her corpse is horrific beyond words (her tiny, blood-streaked thighs and dead, gray eyes are truly a pain to watch). Sure, the killer's grin at the TV camera is infuriating. But the whole film is done so clinically, so mathematically, that it becomes little more than an exercise in button-pushing. Surprisingly, the camera shyly keeps its distance from the action and from the characters, avoiding close-ups, but not the carefully-planned, manipulative outbursts of extreme violence. As such, it reminded me of the abysmal, truly, wholly abysmal The Passion of the Christ (2004), a film that revels in a purely theatrical, never-gripping depictions of violence shamelessly constructed to manipulate people by stirring up their most deeply-held beliefs. One of the saddest examples of button-pushing in film history. While certainly not as bad as Passion, Les sept jours du talion is manipulative in a similar way: it shocks to shock, and to make you react, but without giving you much in the way of diegetic justification for this reaction. Not unlike his protagonist, director Daniel Grou (aka Podz) is a methodical man doing what he does out of duty, but lacking the emotional maturity to truly transcend his actions. He is a courageous man, who never shies away from showing us what he believes must be shown. But he is a man who only capture our guts, and never our hearts. Thus, Les sept jours du talion never achieves the dramatic stature it needed to become full, but nevertheless remains a ruthlessly smart, mathematical film. In short, it is smart, but not emotionally smart.

Les sept jours du talion: Well made, but cold.

Grou's first and foremost mistake lies squarely in his overconfidence in the abilities of unidimensional TV actor (and frequent collaborator) Claude Legault. The guy has such a limited range that it boggles the mind to think of someone casting him here. Bruno is a very complex and tragic, not to mention central character in the film. The lack of flair with which he is interpreted, and yes, directed (as Grou must accept a part of responsibility for his star's lackluster performance) is detrimental to the whole project. You see, Legault's specialty is screaming like a petulant kid and freaking out (which he does so well in Grou's Minuit le soir (TV)), which is fine in certain cases. Here, he can easily handle the great scene in which Bruno smashes up all the furniture in his torture chamber, but he lacks the subtlety necessary to embody the good doctor's more quiet, more controlled shades of anger. At any rate, he never comes across as a realistic surgeon. Personally, I would've have altered Bruno's character from the book to fit Legault's comfort zone, and not try to cram his already overwhelming TV persona in such a hard-to-play character. Make Bruno freak out all the time! He will come across as a character just as realistic (given the situation) and more fitting to Legault's own acting preferences. As things stand, no matter how hard the film tries to make Bruno come across as a dedicated, calculating avenger, we cannot help but feel that revenge of this kind necessarily entails a certain emotional weight that's mostly absent from the film but in the most crude ways.

And this is not all a question of acting, it's also a question of characterization within the screenplay. If Bruno had been more developed, and more exposed prior to the murder of his child, we might have understood what makes him tick. But as it is, he is merely a symbol of vengeful fatherhood. And again, this brings us back to the idea of a mathematical film. The multiplication of symbols, such as a buck's corpse that Bruno tries to bury to no avail, makes the film more of an intellectual experience than the visceral, self-revelatory one that it should have been. Truth is, all characters are mere symbols. First, there's the angry cop (played with a surprising lack of conviction by legendary Rémy Girard) who's wife has been murdered by a young thug who has eluded his clutches. The poor man watches the police tape of his better half's execution in loop every night (subtle like a 2x4 to the head...). Then, there are the three families of three other murdered girls, whom Bruno has contacted to let them know that he is holding the killer. Two of the families are begging for blood, while the last one wishes for peace. It all seems like a poll: "When asked if they would kidnap and torture their kids' murderers, 67% of Quebec families answered 'yes'"... Even the killer himself (Martin Dubreuil, who gives one of the most courageous performances I've ever seen, spending nearly the entire runtime naked and tortured) seems to evolve exactly out of a case-example: first denying his crime, then trying to win his captor over, then confessing, then begging, then confronting... All these characters represent social trends regarding the brutal execution of child molesters, but they have no emotional depth, no other dimension than the first. They remain abstract concepts. And although the will provoke topical reflexion, they will unlikely move you in any way.

The emotional crux of the film: Martin
Dubreuil's performance as the child killer.

All in all, the film is successful in what it is trying to achieve, namely to show the absurdity and uselessness of revenge, not only as an individual act, but also as a social one. Because although we never feel bad for the guy being tortured so extensively in front of us, we come to realize, thanks mostly to the use of symbolic and illusory corpses, that the mechanical slaughter of child killers will never fulfill the executioners, nor will it help them get over their grief and painful memories. The reason I've been so hard on the film in this review is not because I didn't like it. I actually did. A lot. It's just that it was so cold when it should have been so passionate. It's just that it seemed to want to excise all the human drama of the story, which is hard to translate onscreen, in order to keep only the most shocking, and easily provocative elements. It all seems too lazy. But despite it all, the film smartly makes many thoughtful, well crafted points for its central thesis. It's actually just like the work of a smart student knowing exactly what he was doing, while lacking conviction and self-confidence in his right answers. There's also the small trivial fact that Les sept jours du talion is a film aimed at a ghost audience of concerned parents and conservative types with itchy-trigger fingers who most likely loathe the torture porn sub-genre. In the end, it will be up to you, the viewer, to make up your own opinion, based on facts. And therein lies the film's paramount strength: its incidental ability to make everybody react in their own personal way and thus encourage dialogue between parties instead of pushing for one, common interpretation.

3/5 The film's main flaw is that it could've been so much better with a little conviction, passion and hard work.

Black Swan (2010)

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