[Rec] (2007)

Forty years after George Romero's seminal Night of the Living Dead (1968), the zombie sub-genre was almost bone dry. Years of stagnation wherein the old clichés were used over and over again had almost sucked all the fun out of it, and despite the occasional gem such as Braindead (1992) or Pontypool (2009), there wasn't much left in there to please, let alone surprise hardcore horror fans. We knew all the plot twists and all the situations. No zombie could be thrown at us that we didn't expect. The sub-genre thus played mostly for camp, sometimes using stereotypes to its advantage but never transcending the age-old formulas upon which it was created. Of course, the connotation of the word 'zombie' had changed over the years, evolving to fit contemporary fears. Thus, the living dead of old had become the infected carriers of today's germ-paranoid world. Conveniently enough, this allowed for "faster" zombies who could also spit blood and scream loudly, zombies who could capture the imagination of youths for whom the "slow-moving" zombies did nothing. But this didn't change the basic structure of zombie films; zombies were just faster now, so filmmakers needed only to shorten pursuit scenes by adding more frequent and more accessible safe havens.

On the other side of the spectrum, the new millenium began with a little film, which you may have heard of, called The Blair Witch Project (1999). Although this film did amazingly well at the time, using only POV shots to heighten the terror of the cameramen/protagonists, it was still merely seen as a lucky accident and the concept never really caught on. Nobody seemed to think it a good idea to apply this concept to a well-established sub-genre and thus cash in on it even more. Nobody until Jaume Balaguero and Paco Plaza released [Rec], a film that took the world by storm although it added nothing new to cinema. It merely achieved the successful mix of the two aforementioned elements. Here, narrative development is done by-the-book. Only the subjective camera makes a difference, but it is a huge one. It gives the film the lifelike look necessary to draw the viewer in and the raw power to glue him to his seat. The very title of the project pertains only to its central filming technique. That is to say, the subjective camera is the film. And although this film doesn't reinvent the wheel, it works. Plain and simple. It works much better than Matt Reeves' dubiously similar Cloverfield (2008) for it grounds the action in reality, not in fantasy. You see, Cloverfield is not such a bad film (although it emanates a faint but distinct stench of plagiarism). It simply overreaches its mandate, trying to force a huge CGI beastie within a shaky video diary. [Rec], on the other hand, never delves into the supernatural, using naturalistic sets, makeup and acting to the best of their potential while consecrating the raw potential of the subjective camera in itself, not merely surrounding it with special effects. The result draws the viewer right into the diegetic world and cultivates his sense of horror by highlighting the shortcomings of perception. [Rec] is an unusually smart film, but most of all, it is an opportunistic film, grabbing the ball fumbled by Myrick and Sanchez and running all the way to the goal line.

First of all, I can't insist enough on how brilliant it was to cast Manuela Velasco in the lead role. At that point in her career, she was well-known in Spain as a VJ and TV presenter packaged to the masses using short skirts, high-heel boots and some jaw-dropping cleavage (just look here and tell me if the latter half of this video doesn't remind you of a famous shot from [Rec]). By using this preexisting persona and eventually subverting it, Balaguero and Plaza have not only tapped into a ready-made anchor point to their diegetic world, but they have allowed the young woman to transcend both her character in the film and her regular TV persona (granting her a Goya Award for Breakthrough Performance in the process).

The film starts out exquisitely by framing Manuela's alter-ego, Angela Vidal, while she is practicing the opening lines of her present report with cameraman Pablo. Her presence alone as a diegetic TV presenter draws the viewer right into the film's trap, namely the appearance of reality, carefully constructed for optimal shock to the viewer. Hence, While you are Asleep (the in-film TV show) becomes a mere continuation of her previous work and you can thus approach it as you would Cuatrosfera, sit down comfortably and enjoy its familiar construction. At this point, we're only one second into the film, and already we find it surprisingly relevant. After that, we only have to wait a couple more seconds for Manuela to further anchor the film in reality. This is achieved when the first blooper is included, then cut to show a second one. Angela fumbles her lines, then she starts over, and over again. The directors are thus telling us that what's onscreen is not a carefully planned event, i.e. not an horror film in the classical term of the film. It is rather composed of images caught on the fly, improvised along the way. And when Manuela/Angela addresses the cameraman, staring right at the lens, she further contributes to this idea by breaking the fourth wall, hence breaking the illusion of reality. This leaves us with only reality, which is what the film vies to offer us. All of these devices, implemented right from the start with amazing savvy, take the action far away from the world of make-belief wherein zombie narratives usually take place and into the best approximation of what the real world can be. We are thus not "in the near future", "in the days following the crash of a space probe", or "28 days later". We are in the here and now, in the world of real terror where real people live real lives.

This point is made also by the very report Angela and Pablo are shooting. It is a report about the day-to-day lives of firemen, the very mundane, very common unfolding of these people's lives. And this is what we see for the first ten minutes of the film: life as plain as can be. At some point, Angela even starts getting bored with the lack of action, the lack of exciting material to shoot. And thus, we find ourselves in the world we roam everyday, a world which is so safe and familiar that the smallest break in its unified façade can make us topple into the nether realms of anxiety and terror. At this point in the narrative, the protagonist embodies all which is wholesome and non-threatening. She is back in the studio of Los 40 principales doing her thing. Her gorgeous long hair tied in pig-tails, her slightly prominent front teeth and her small red coat transform her once more into the cute cartoon character she was made up to be by the station. She is still a very comforting figure at this point and thus a perfect bridge between our living room and the fire station within the frame. It is only through her ordeal that she will become a more substantial, feminized character, dropping the coat to reveal a fetching white tank top that seems to magically attract blood stains, losing the pig-tails and gaining assertiveness as a serious TV reporter. Thus, Manuela's real-life transformation from cute videoclip-presenting doll to respected, award-winning actress finds echo in the evolution of her character in the film, who begins as a week-end journalist covering the mundane, creating TV filler for undiscriminating masses, but then using a great opportunity fallen from the sky to take her rightful place in the world and become what she could only dream of, namely a professional worthy of her peers' respect. This whole set-up is almost too perfect. And it makes for a perfect threshold toward the darker depths of the film as the opening images are perfectly familiar, with nothing to foreshadow the horrible things to come. That's how we can enter the diegetic world so seamlessly. Because it is our world, which we believe to be safe, and the downfall of which is thus even more shocking than that of Romero's worlds.

Is this Manuela? Is this Angela? No matter who, she is the

perfect hostess to escort us through the diegetic world

As I mentioned above, the film starts out innocently during a TV report about the day-to-day life of firemen on the night shift. Nothing happens at first. We see the guys eating in the mess hall, playing basketball, sleeping... An interviewee even explains how his work consists mostly of repairing leaking pipes and rescuing pets. From his testimony, it seems that poor Angela and Pablo are in for quite a boring night, which seems to be the norm in their line of work. When a call finally comes in, although it sounds pretty unexciting at first, the pair jumps aboard the first truck dispatched on location along with firemen Alex and Manu. Even as they reach the apartment building where the call originated, finding a police car with its lights on by the door and a bevy of distressed neighbors in the hall, there's still no reason to suspect anything other than domestic disturbance, at least, as long as the protagonists are concerned. But when the screaming starts, inhuman shrieks with no distinctive origin filling the entire building, when the old woman mentioned in the call is found bloodied and fiercely aggressive, the whole world starts falling apart, the world in which we have so willingly been drawn. The following events need not be described in too many details, as you will probably expect every twist and turn from then on. You see, the old woman shrieking is actually infected with a rabies-like disease that causes blood-thirst and an apparent immunity to bullets. When she manages to bite one of the policemen trying to calm her, the narrative events start to trickle down as expected, respecting the familiar "domino" structure of standard zombie films. The building is quarantined, the policeman unexpectedly wakes up from his ethereal coma, bites and infects another character, which infects yet another one until everyone but Angela and the cameraman (obviously) are left standing. The climax is set in the building's pitch-black penthouse where we are given a partial explanation about the nature of the disease. And when I say partial, I mean very partial and thankfully so. There's no all-encompassing revelation to fill in the blanks here but many confused bits of evidence pertaining to the strange experiments of an icon-obsessed Christian madman. These confused bits of evidence play more for scares than for exposition per se as they only create affect, decorating the filthy walls of the madman's lair and displacing the nature of the outbreak away from a purely medical standpoint into the (creepier) area of religion and madness. That said, the film ends exactly as you would expect it to. And that's an obvious limitation of entirely subjective horror films: there's one way and one way only to end those films: dropping the camera to the floor and letting the viewers figure out what happens to the protagonists after that.

Although the subjective camera generally causes underwhelming finales, the directors here had the decency to leave us with a final shot that's both creepy and enticing thanks to its surprising mix of cleavage, repulsive night vision and a dire fate for lovely Angela which we can only imagine with tearful indignation. Still, it remains a very predictable finale. But that's only a small tradeoff for the dreadful sense of immediacy that the subjective camera creates and which fuels the dated narrative all the way through. This camera allows the viewer to be an integrant part of the action, making the events unfolding around him to be "live events" elapsing in real time without any breaks in the action caused by parallel editing, thus putting a continuous strain on him. You end up being trapped with the other characters, unable to leave the building by cutting to a location outside (such as a police station, military base or other such "safe" location) and thus the feeling of constant menace is left unbroken. This also helps to keep the mystery surrounding the nature of the disease whole as you never know more than the characters around you, nor can you learn to know them through other means than simple observation or TV-style interviews. You end up being manipulated and processed just as they are, sharing their terror and paranoia along the way. Most importantly, you come to experience the cameraman's terror by stepping right into his shoes and sharing his feelings to the best of the camera's abilities. This is achieved mostly by emulation of "real" movement. That said, the careful steps taken by Pablo when entering old Conchita's apartment are our own. Just as he, we don't know what we will find in the darkened depths of her cluttered home. At that moment, we feel the cameraman's pulse-pounding anticipation. The same is true when he starts running while pursued by rabid zombies. The sense of panic is perfectly captured by the shaking frame and we thus come to believe that we are also pursued by the infected. What's even more impressive is when the monsters start running right toward us, screaming and drooling in inhuman fashion. We then become the object of their blood thirst and it is us who must find shelter as quickly as possible. The action grips us, not some sacrificial character whose terror we can only try to interpret with the limited data provided by the screenplay. The human mind is such that it is much harder to project our own terror onto even the most sympathetic victim than to feel it into our guts, which is what POV shots offer. They tickle our survival instinct by making our health in jeopardy, not that of others whose pain is only as shocking as the quality of their characterization allows.

Here's looking straight at you, kid.

Other than allowing the silent cameraman and the viewer to become one, subjectivity questions the very nature of perception within film, which is entirely relevant to a genre that thrives on the opposition between the seen and the unseen. POV shots both enhance vision and reduce it. By using the zoom and by rewinding the tape, we are allowed to transcend sight and spot horrific details that we might have missed, all the while being constantly reminded of the presence of the camera as the driving force behind the narrative. The camera also possess the ability to instantly generate light sources where there is none, illuminating pitch black rooms with creepy mood lighting. In the end, it even comes down to the night vision filter, which shows only darkness and green silhouettes with panicked pale eyes, adding more and more to the atmosphere of dread permeating the cluttered apartments contained inside the building. Instead of using the soundtrack to generate the sense of impending doom necessary to grab the viewer by the guts, the film simply uses darkness. Because although one could say that the spotlight and night-vision filter allow the characters to see, I would rather say that it allows them "not to see". In effect, a portable light source actually lessens the perception of the viewer when you compare it to a fixed light source, such as a spot used in classic films (which illuminates the entire set). It creates a lot of dark areas wherein the monsters can creep but most of all, it surrounds us with darkness, making us unsure of where the next attack will come from. The affective possibilities of the hand-held camera (and hand-held light source) is used to maximal effect once the night-vision filter is activated since we thus see Angela not seeing, scanning the room helplessly with her big, beautiful eyes caught in the greenish glow of the filter. At this point, only we can see the tall, skeletal creature wandering in the distance in search of fresh victims. We understand that the creature cannot see the protagonists, this privilege belonging only to the camera-wielder. But as the creature gets closer and closer, as the minute details of her wiry arms are revealed, that privilege becomes meaningless since we are now at arm's length of the beast and any movement can betray our presence. Tension builds and builds as the predator roams about Angela and Pedro, placing us in its reach as well and creating one of the most intense sequence of all the horror genre. But despite all this, despite the unnerving mechanics of the light halo plunging all the scenery in darkness but one bright spot and the night-vision limiting our perception to silhouettes, you also have to consider the crucial moment it takes for the cameraman to flip on the spotlight or night vision filter. This very short laps of time is very heavy on mood as we lose sight but not the sense of immediacy provided by the camera. We can hear people screaming in panic all around us and those screams fill our hearts with anguish, making us manically eager for the light to come on but equally fearful at the same time since it might reveal a monstrous face staring right at us. This technique is used to optimal effect when the mounted spotlight is knocked down by a briefly appearing zombie, plunging us in total darkness with the intimate knowledge of a nefarious nearby presence. This proceeds from a simple shock tactic (the suddenly appearing monster) to create a scene of genuine, palpable tension that perfectly exemplifies the directors' proficiency at using the subjective camera to go one step beyond your average zombie film. As far as the limitations of perception go, sound also plays a major part in establishing the mood. The loud screams heard sporadically are imprecise in nature and in location. They contribute to the mood by suggesting the presence of monsters ready to emerge from the shadows at any moment as well as making the very nature of those monsters remain sketchy, leaving us with only what we can imagine. What we retain from those sounds is only what our flawed sense of perception (and that of the camera itself) allow.

The camera manages to enhance and diminish our perception

at the same time by high-lighting darkened details

and surrounding them by deeper shadows

Another feature of the subjective camera is its ability to squeeze wherever its carrier can, offering the viewer access to very confined spaces, most notably the crowded apartments of the besieged tenants. Those apartments are so full of doors and bulky furniture that they become real labyrinths contributing their maze-like architecture to the sense of entrapment and disorientation that's omnipresent in the film. Claustrophobia might not seem to be an issue at first, and being trapped in the building isn't such a big deal for the characters who are still free to move around between floors. But as the zombies keep multiplying, transforming many locations into danger zones, space becomes more and more constrained and the protagonists' movement soon becomes forced by circumstances until they are trapped in the penthouse of all places. And despite previous hints as to its vacancy, the penthouse is actually more crowded than the apartments below. Seen only through the camera's spotlight, the creepy Christian paraphernalia cluttering the many rooms and the cropped newspapers articles covering the walls make for a marvelously chilling set for the climax, sort of a mix between the cabin from The Evil Dead (1981)and John Doe's apartment in Se7en (1995).

Despite a mostly generic screenplay following a dated formula, [Rec] manages to elevate its game thanks to a savvy use of all the subjective camera's potential. But most of all, it works because it keeps the film within the boundaries of palpable reality, using very little special effects, constrained sets and a very competent star brilliantly cast in a mirror role. From my point of view, Manuela winning the Goya for Breakthrough Performance is the story of the film. It should be recognized by all as the crowning selling point of the entire project since it entirely validates the transformation of her character within the film while also validating Balaguero and Plaza's bid to heighten realism by using the most mundane of set-ups (the harmless TV report) to drag us in and strap us for the ride. So, I will give thanks to the lovely Manuela and wish her to break a leg in whatever project she is to undertake in the future. But most of all, I will thank Balaguero and Plaza for initiating her transformation and making their own project that more relevant at the same time. The remainder of their success stems from their rightful exploitation of a great initial idea.

3,5/5 A gritty, gripping, genre-savvy film that manages to elevate a formulaic storyline through simple technical prowess and the amazingly brilliant casting of Manuela Velasco.

Rocky Balboa (2006)

Here's what one could call an unnecessary film: a fifth sequel to the 1976 original which it virtually  remakes, recycling almost the full roster of characters (including Little Marie and Spider Rico who share a combined two minutes of screen time in Rocky, but now return as full-fledged, pivotal characters), reusing several sets (Mickey's gym, the pet store, the ice rink...) while cramming in an ungodly amount of nostalgic flashbacks. Nonetheless, the whole process makes perfect sense in legendary Sylvester Stallone's master plan to make amends for his inferior sequels of the late 1980s and to reflexively ponder on his own state as aging champion. Using his enviable position in Hollywood (due to the fact that he remains a marketable star), the 60-year old actor/writer/director invites us on a trip down memory lane undertook to end the series he originated in his own terms, thus starting a therapeutic process that he pursued with his final Rambo (2008), and with which he aspires to write his own epitaph and happily intone the swan song of his glorious career. As the march of time carried on, old wounds must've soured, prompting Sly to reflect on four particular mistakes: Rambo II (1985), Rocky IV (1985), Rambo III (1988) Rocky V (1990), which he felt he had to correct in order to polish his legacy and rejoice millions of fans disgruntled by such loose ends. Luckily, the cunning old fox (much smarter than many people give him credits for) would not be satisfied with anything but full earnestness and heart, which both Rocky Balboa (2006) and Rambo (2008) have in spades. And again I am filled with admiration for this exemplary American and indelible film icon that is Stallone.

Rocky Balboa is a trip down memory lane.

Right from its first moments, this new Rocky stirs up old memories. The old boxer wakes up alone, and with his usual candor, distributes seeds and candy to the birds. His modest house is located smack in the middle of his old Philly neighborhood, where everything started for him: the hired goon business, his friendship with Paulie, his puppy love for Adrian, and most of all, his boxing career. Now, things have changed, and they have changed for the worst. Adrian is dead (of "woman cancer", which is mentioned only in passing), Rocky is estranged from his only son, lost fruit of their undying love, the skating rink where they first dated has been destroyed, and the whole neighborhood is wasting away along with the people in it. But there's nothing to bring Rock down as he brandishes an unwavering optimism like a remedy to the world's aches. In reality, there's nothing that this abundantly generous man wouldn't do to bring a little warmth and consideration to the disenfranchised poor of his old neighborhood. To the dead Adrian, he offers a local eatery, which he lovingly names after her. To old adversary Spider Rico (real-life boxer Pedro Lovell), he offers food and shelter. To Little Marie he offers a job and some help raising her son Steps, with whom he rescues scrawny old dog Punchy from a local shelter. But deep down, there is a beast inside him that needs to be put to rest, a fire raging on that needs to be extinguished. It is the desire to step back into the ring once more and to exorcize the many demons haunting him, namely the death of his one and only love, the general decay of his old neighborhood and his estrangement with a son who would rather live outside of the large shadow cast by his father.

On the other side of existence, an undefeated young boxer shares his angst. Although he has everything money can buy, current undisputed heavyweight champion Mason Dixon is lacking an adversary strong enough to help develop his full potential. Inside his young heart, there lies a fire similar to Rocky's which must be extinguished in order for him to find peace. The central narrative uniting the two revolves around a computer-simulated fight that sees Rocky knocking Dixon out cold. Sensing an opportunity to cash-in on the buzz generated by that "cartoon fight", Dixon's sleazy manager decides to organize an exhibition match against the recently licensed Balboa. The fight is supposed to be a simple way for Dixon to regain credibility and win back fans through the intermediary of the much more popular Rocky. It is supposed to be a walk in the park as the champ is half the age of his opponent, twice as fast and equally tough. But if the previous five films in the series have taught us anything, it's that you can never count Rocky out. By training like a mad man, amongst old friends (Paulie and Apollo Creed's ex-coach Duke) and new friends (son Robert, Little Marie, Steps, Punchy), everybody's favorite champion gets in the best shape he can manage and prepares to step back into the ring and make everything right, regaining his own self-respect and helping Dixon find his while securing the love and respect of his son. But most of all, making us shiver with excitement against our brains' will. Just like he did back in the USSR...

As usual, Rocky is not about subtlety. Far from it. It's about crude melodrama that forages through your ribcage like a creaky old drill with endless, life-affirming speeches by the worn-out old champ, syrupy music, lovable little folks and nostalgic flashbacks galore. In the end, your brain has become so mushy from these repeated attempts against its cartesian superiority that it finally gives in and leaves control of your body to your aching heart, which magnetically adheres to Sly's irresistible brand of corn. But Rocky is much more than that. It's also witty humor, engrossing training montages and exhilarating, wholly unrealistic fight scenes featuring tireless combatants who can endure the pain of 200+ landed shots to the face without flinching. In short, it is no more than a formula for button-pushing. But it is a damn good one, one which is wholly Sly's, one which has won underdog Rocky an Oscar (against vastly superior films such as Taxi Driver and All the President's Men) back in 1976* and since inspired three generations of bright-eyed moviegoers.

And while you may love or loathe these kinds of films, you can't deny the fact that they still inspire people, helping them in their lives and making them happy, singing songs to themselves, beating the air with their fists and rejoicing in their most humble achievements... That's what really matters. Technical excellence or fine narrative construction has nothing to do with the popularity of such films, and although they may not possess these qualities, they lack not what matters in their own quest for your spectatorship, that is a generous heart whose beat is contagious. Not unlike the Star Wars films, the Rocky films did not need to be good in order to earn their rightful place in pop culture because they talk a universal language, the language of the heart, which finds its expression in the most obvious of dramatic devices, the most syrupy of orchestral music and the corniest of lines. Because although old Rocko's uplifting monologues about life, about how you don't need to owe someone to receive something, about how you must stand up for yourself and keep moving forward despite adversity, never blaming others for one's own shortcomings, although these might sound dated to death, they speak universal truths nonetheless and they can help people rise up from their apathy and find meaning in their day-to-day lives.

Yesterday, I was watching Rocky Balboa with a friend my age (who had never seen a Rocky film, if you can believe that) and at one point, after the Stallion gave a heartwarming speech to his son about personal responsibility and self-respect, he asked: "Does Rocky have any character flaw at all?" to which I answered: "No. And that's just the way we love him". Indeed, Rocky doesn't have any character flaw; he is good incarnate. But what's wrong with filling the big screen with such sparkling humanism? Seeing a heart-warming and naive hulk helping his fellowman, being good to the needy, helping local businesses and providing jobs for the unemployed; there's nothing wrong with that. Hence, Sly gives us much more than many philanthropists, he gives us hopes and dreams which everyone can use. His humanism is such that he can even make the antagonists of his films out to be good people despite their excessive cockiness and how they beat up on the protagonist without mercy. Thus Apollo Creed finds his reflection in Mason Dixon, both of whom are great athletes and great men, deserving not a thrashing, but rather some help to reach their potential and become more humble, caring individuals. Truly, Sly is a gold bar, with many golden rings, but also a golden heart. And he will remain an undying star in the dark Hollywood sky for as long as people will believe in the magic of melodrama.

Surrounded by old friends and new, old Rock manages to last

ten rounds against a much younger, much quicker version of himself.

While Stallone may not be a great, and especially not an original filmmaker, he has managed to elevate his craft a bit in recent years by using self-reference to reflect on his career, and on time passing by. Being an action star can be tough, but being an aging action star is tougher and he seems to think a lot about this these days. With the latest Rocky he ties his own faith with that of aging sports stars, people who share with him the cruel burden of a career bearing an expiration date. And this is not the only parallel to be made between his own life and life as he pictures it onscreen. There is actually a trinity of decrepitude within Rocky Balboa: that of the Stallion, that of Stallone, and that of the Philly slums where the story takes place. All three have been mistreated by life and their former glory has all but vanished to memory. Yet they all still bear the spark of life, and thus the possibility of greatness which arises only through the cultivation of "high hopes" (which is the song selected by nostalgic Paulie as Rocky's theme song for his final bout). Here, Stallone's comeback finds its reflection in Rocky's and all his talk about the need to "let the beast out" by fighting one last time. This is a transparent allusion to Sly's desire to do it all again, buffing up for a role and reprising a lovable old skin for just one last time. But before he can make his triumphant return to the ring, Rocky faces the distress of age, of seeing his pleasant memories turn to pure nostalgia and his body turn to mush. Hence, the broken-down neighborhood surrounding him finds echo in his sore bones which are similarly wasting away. Reflecting on this, Rocky remarks: "Ya know they always say if you live in one place long enough, you are that place". Again, needlessly transparent introspection but necessary introspection nonetheless as all this applies to the author as well. Then there's the dog that Rocky, and new friend Steps, "bail out" from the pound and which is basically yet another metaphoric double of the aging boxer. When Rocky remarks that "with careful attention and some new friends", "there's still a lot of good mileage on that dog", he's basically talking about himself again, spelling it out in all-caps for the viewer who is hooked nonetheless, not by the transparent metaphor, but by Sly's heartwarming praise of old age.

You see, this entire project, all that talk about "letting the beast out", this all serves a single, yet crucial purpose: to help both star and protagonist evade the shackles of nostalgia that tend to ground all too many of us to an empty life of chasing old dreams and subsequently compromising the future. Thus, if Rocky starts out as a purely nostalgic figure, endlessly repeating his tired old boxing stories to his patrons, celebrating every anniversary of Adrian's death by pathetically revisiting the key places where their love developed, he eventually manages to escape his nostalgic shell by severing the chain tying him to a dead but painfully beautiful past in order to become his own man once more. And he does so the only way he can: by doing it one last time, but doing it properly, reuniting with his son, who represents his future and not rotting away with his dead wife, who represents the nostalgic past. The entire film is constructed around this opposition between nostalgia and forward-thinking. Which is why it begins by reusing characters and sets from the first film while setting the final fight in glittering Las Vegas. Seeing Mickey's old gym, the skating rink and the pet store from the original all battered up and ruined by time and the cruelty of life may bring you down at first, but it's all part of Sly's irresistible return to form. Because, as the Stallion so rightfully puts it: life is cruel and it will always keep you pinned to the ground, but only if you let it. And thus he decides to fight again, and we immediately find him in a completely new, and exciting world: the contemporary world of boxing as spectacle where his catharsis can take place and where he can be reunited with his fans, both those in the stands around him and those in the seats of the theater. At first, you will be very surprised to witness the snazzy fireworks celebrating the fighters' entrance in the ring for the climactic bout. And you will be even more surprised to see a timer bearing the HBO PPV logo pop up in the lower right corner of the screen. The truth is we aren't stagnating in nostalgia anymore. Rocky has leapt from outside the diegetic world and crossed the boundary into the real world. At this point, him and Sly have finally become one and, carried by thunderous cheer, they both give the best of themselves, one last time, for us, for them, for everybody who still can be moved by the magic of film as popular entertainment.

Keeping in line with this idea of nostalgia confronted with forward-thinking, Stallone makes a surprisingly smart usage of the flashbacks contained within the film, showing them to be an integrant part of Rocky's thought process during his progression from backwards-looking nostalgic to liberated hero. No longer do we have to suffer the lengthy montages of flashbacks which ruined Rocky IV since Sly, as I mentioned earlier, has grown much smarter with age and is now using a much more subtle, slightly more advanced technique of tear-inducing manipulation. At first, he uses these lively memories to give a second life to the broken-down sets that the former champ revisits in the first part of the film. Thankfully, these memories do not take the shape of flashbacks per se, but rather that of brief super-impositions meant to simulate the presence of ghosts roaming the Earth, trapping the protagonist into a life of nostalgic self-pity. Later during the film, these flashbacks are used in a sharply contrasting way, one that makes Rocky's evolution obvious and contributes its fair share to the exhilarating final fight montage. While standing toe to toe with Mason Dixon, and receiving quite a beating, the Stallion's memories come back to aid him in the form of quick flashes appearing onscreen, illustrating his accelerated thought process through frenzied editing. These flashes represent all the reasons Rocky has to fight, they fuel him, and cause the collision of all three parallel story lines (that of Sly, Rocky, and of Philly) into one single, uppercut-strong conclusion to the celebrated director/actor/writer/boxer's career. It allows the Stallion to dig deep one last time and keep standing, leaving the ring (and the screen) under a rain of exhilarated cheers from the massive crowd gathered around him, having let the beast out and conquered the nostalgic demons plaguing him. Just like the stunned spectators amassed in Las Vegas to see the fight, the film spectators will witness here one truly grandiose final apparition by Sly as Balboa and his image will thus be forever frozen in a stance of humble excellence.

Whether Sly used only power-lifting or steroids to buff-up,

I still congratulate him on for his outstanding work ethic.

As far as acting goes, things are fine as usual, due mostly to the fact that the two main actors (Sly and Burt Young) have lived and breathed Rocky for thirty years. You also have to consider the fact that the Italian Stallion (which is the name of a 1970 porno in which the author played) was Sly's brainchild from the get-go. Everything the character has done since he was born was his own making. He probably envisioned himself playing every scene while writing. The big guy's innocence, his childish candor and idiocy within his huge, humbling build are typically Stallone's. These features are what made him so beloved amongst film audiences, and these are things that will never die, even amidst many uneven narratives. As for Sly managing to stay in game shape despite his age, it's truly incredible. Whether he used steroids to do it or not is no concern of mine, and even if he did, I wouldn't hold it against him. I mean, he wasn't planning on capturing a real sporting achievement here (like, oh, let's say... Barry Bonds). What he did was only for appearances, and that's called acting: putting your body in harm's way over a role. This is something worthy of praise, not criticism. There exists a similar debate as to whether actors who portray smoking characters should actually learn to smoke or merely pretend to. Personally, I think that they should learn to do it, learn to inhale properly. That is the only way to adequately portray such characters. I haven't seen Rachel Getting Married (2008) wherein Anne Hathaway plays a chain-smoking drug-addict but I've been told that she simply cannot smoke, which I think she should, especially considering the nature of her character. In the Vietnamese action film Clash (2009), actor Johnny Nguyen (of The Protector (2005) fame) plays a chain-smoking bad boy, but he does not inhale, which I thought was ridiculous in the context of the film. Cigarette-smoking issues aside, there's also that of weight-loss. Christian Bale is a great actor in that regards, seeing how he seems to gain/lose weight at will. For The Machinist (2004), he reportedly lost 63 pounds, which is totally unhealthy, but nonetheless worthy of praise. If Stallone indeed took steroids to beef up, then fine. It makes for a much-more believable Rocky and it also acts as a sign of his complete willingness to remain in character. Sly is not a sports star, I repeat, he is not a sports star. The appreciation of his work should not be based solely on the honesty of his physical effort, but on that of his acting effort, which is pretty good here.

All in all, Rocky Balboa is not a great film, far from it, but it's an honest film, and an honest attempt by Sly to give his breakthrough character the exit he deserves. If he is able to make peace with his fans along the way, it's great, but this final chapter mostly serve a very personal role, that of allowing the venerable filmmaker to look back on what he has learned throughout  the years and use his arduously-acquired wisdom to the best of its potential. Just like the old champ making an unlikely come-back, Sly has jumped back in the director's chair (which he had left after Rocky IV back in 1985) to show his worth once more during a whole new era of filmmaking. And just like his titular character (which he celebrates by fully naming), he passes the test with flying colors and receives renewed cheers from an always loyal crowd.

3/5 This conventional melodrama benefits from Sly's life-affirming, and renewed outlook on life as well as his generous offering of all the elements that made the Rocky series great.

*I mention in passing about how All the President's Men and Taxi Driver are superior to Rocky and I stand by that, although I must also admit that the latter film was much more influential worldwide than the former two. Still, there's this question that often arises with bitter passion within scholarly circles: Why did Rocky win over Taxi Driver? Personally, I am convinced that it pertains to the celebrated American Dream, or the philosophy of 'the lucky ticket' as explained by Theodor Adorno and Max Horkheimer in their essay, The Culture Industry: Enlightenment as Mass Deception. After all, Rocky is all about the lucky ticket, that free pass which miraculously gives equal opportunities to an anonymous bum from the slums. If you remember correctly, the Stallion is picked almost at random by Apollo Creed and then immediately given a title shot for the Heavyweight Championship. He does not have to climb the ladder to become the challenger but is instead offered the opportunity on a silver platter. Which is what the American Dream is all about. Hard work has nothing to do with it. Only the presence of God-given opportunities matters. Hence, the message conveyed in the original Rocky is that anybody can make it big in the US granted that the wheel of fortune picks them out of the millions of others suffering the same condition. Which is why Rocky III is, and will forever remain my favorite film of the series, for it sees a truly worthy challenger step into the ring, defeat the Stallion and force him to realize a crucial truth, namely that one must create his own opportunities in life and not wait for instantaneous title shots.

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.