Fantasia 2013 - Saturday, July 20th

Here are some brief impressions on the two films I saw on Saturday, July 20th:

Zero Charisma

Zero Charisma is not a major film by any stretch of the imagination. It won’t go on to win a cult following, nor will it earn a place of choice in the collective unconscious. In fact, it pertains to such a specific reality that its rawest worth will probably be lost on the vast majority of people. You know, those people who do have sex sometimes… Still, despite its humble means and iffy future, the film remains an honest, somewhat inspired effort in dramatic catharsis that manages to generate some genuine laughs and some heartfelt empathy for its reclusive protagonist. The narrative structure is quite rudimentary, but it finds fuel in a certain sense of urgency for this protagonist and its creators to find a fair means of representation for a waning “true” nerd culture.

The story focuses on Scott, an aging metal-head with an ingrate physique and a past filled with lashing humiliations. Earning little cash from his job as a delivery boy, he bides his time until his grandmother dies and leaves him the suburban house that they share. Being a failed writer, a failed game-store manager and an abandoned child as well, it is no wonder why Scott entertains such a serious fetish for his homemade RPG and its world filled with leather-laced swordsman and sultry goblin princesses. After all, it is only in the dream world he has created that he exerts any kind of control and that is only where he has agency over other people. These people are his players, those few other nerds with whom he can share his life, and whom he can involve in his own little world. All is well and the illusion manages to persist until one of the players drops from the circle, fearful that he might lose his wife if he doesn’t. Scott must then start hunting for a replacement, which he finds almost accidentally in the person of Miles, a cultivated hipster against whom he soon comes at odds. When his ringleader status is threatened by the charismatic newcomer, Scott’s bubbled world starts to crumble, and he comes to make crucial realizations about his life. This will eventually bring him… right back to where he was at the beginning.

Romance in the eyes of a nerd...

What is perhaps the paramount quality of Zero Charisma is its emotional realism, as well as its realistic depiction of the table top gaming world. Scott may be exactly the anti-social pariah that you’d expect him to be, but he’s also a real character here, with unseen depth and some tangible pain. Not far under his uncaring narcissist façade lies a broken, lonely child suddenly confronted with the world of adults. Of course, the screenplay constantly pokes fun at his eccentric quirks, but it does so for a point: to emphasize his childishness, hence pointing out to his most obvious and self-defining lack: sex. The narrative is not afraid to tackle this crucial issue head-on without the recourse to miserabilism or overly crude humor. Thanks to some fairly clever substitutions, we understand that Scott’s status as game master is not merely meant to give him agency over his existence, but to give him macho power as the alpha male. For example, sex is herein sublimated through a sublime war ballet between his two plastic figurines representing the knife-wielding hunter and the goblin princess. This substitution is made obvious by the abrupt cut in the orchestral music made when he is suddenly surprised by his stepfather irrupting into his bedroom. Interrupted coit. Even more intriguing is how passionately Scott wishes to pop his friend’s zits, physically overpowering him while in his bedroom in a strange form of mock foreplay. While boil-bursting obviously entails a similar result, I doubt it has ever been so intelligently substituted for ejaculation

While he is mostly a functional character, at once the imaginary nemesis with which Scott pursues his daydreaming and his cathartic guide to the gates of adulthood, Miles is nicely fleshed out too. He is cultivated and seems to exude genuine affection for the bottom-feeding nerds with which he now shares a weekly reunion. His girlfriend seems equally warm and open-minded. It’s a shame that things eventually get polarized to the point where Miles becomes almost a pure antagonist. But it should come as no real surprise here, for the film seems to entertain a certain bias for the truer nerd, and not merely those who steal their culture and leave them to dry in the lower strata of society. This is emphasized in the climactic fight scene set at a party during which the indulgent hipsters chase the nerds out after a mock-duel that sees the latter beaten at their own game. What this goes to show is that the recent appropriation of the nerd culture by the mainstream culture has been made much at the detriment of those true nerds, who still remain misunderstood. In this perspective, you’d think the film would end on a positive opening to the future for them, but it does not provide that either, opting for a mostly neutral, harmlessly humoristic conclusion that offers little hope for change to the slow-evolving protagonist. A slim hope shines through, but the sense of urgency in demanding fair representation has all but failed to bring forth easy answers. And again, life takes a familiar shade of gray…

Watching Scott struggling with his castrating mother, I couldn’t help but think of Some Guy who Kills People (screening at Fantasia a few years back) and how both these films offered devastatingly frank depictions of alienated adults. But Zero Charisma lacks Some Guy’s teeth and pitch black humor. It is merely a bleeding-heart attempt at depicting things as is, in a world so bleak for some that it needs another world entirely to gloss it over. And for that, it deserves to be seen.

**1/2    This honest depiction of alienation is deeper than most people can fathom, but everyone can still enjoy the film’s humorous jabs at nerd culture and the privileged look it provides into the dens of eccentric game masters.

La nuit excentrique

This third edition of the great mass of bad cinema was quite a disappointment, especially after last year’s wildly eclectic extravaganza. Phillip Spurell’s selection from the vault of the Film Society was uninspired at best, with three tedious clips from Paris, je t’aime being selected for the first block and an underwhelming 1950s monster movie (Terror From the Year 5000) chosen to close the show. As expected, Douteux.org did a respectable job carving up a thematic clips show for the intermission. Theirs was probably the most heartfelt love letter to the art of the moving image to be found all night.

Unfortunately for us all, the main attraction was Neil Breen’s insufferable Fateful Findings. Wordy and redundant beyond belief, this self-produced piece of garbage has only a revolutionary conclusion to keep it afloat. Aside from that, it’s scene after scene of bland dialogue delivered by unconvinced actors in what appears to be a single setting (most likely Breen’s house). The blinds are always closed so day plays for night without compromise to good sense and the diminutive backyard can even transform in a lofty party area with only the help of clicking champagne flutes on the soundtrack. There’s a semblance of epic dramatic issues and several narrative strands run parallel, but they never intertwine in any meaningful way. The whole thing is just a showcase of Breen himself and the narrative seems to fluctuate along with his temporary moods. Too bad he’s such a moody guy…

No delusion of grandeur is too great for 

producer/director/writer/star Neil Breen!

The confused plot involves a little black gem uncovered by a young Breen and his girlfriend many years back. This artifact seems to hold the key to arcane knowledge dispensed by shadowy beings (who enjoy toying with Breen’s furniture as well as making things disappear). But its importance lies more in the moment of its discovery, a perfect childhood day during which the protagonist fell in love with the woman of his life, one he would lose for many years (about 15 for her and 35 for him), but find again over the course of this film. Oh, and there’s also a life-changing car crash and a far too emphasized hacking into the government’s most secret networks (which Breen achieves by punching a few keys on one of his four breakable laptops). It doesn’t really matter at any rate, for any and all the tribulations merely pave the way for the crowning of King Breen as savior of the people and discoverer of the world’s most sacred truth: government and corporate corruption!

While struggling to endure such a sorry spectacle and desperately trying to draw some cheesy fun out of it, I couldn’t help but think about Samurai Cop and just how great THAT piece of schlock was. Then it hit me, the most obvious truth about bad movies out there: only genre films can be so bad that they are good. It’s all a question of pretension. Being a would-be serious drama, a film like Fateful Findings doesn’t even aim to entertain. It merely does so by accident, in those rare instances where the spectator’s brain is stroked at a certain angle necessary to elicit laughter or joyous contempt. Sure, it’s entertaining to see pasty old Breen ham it up as the super-hacker savior of the universe, but its not nearly enough to help cope with all the painful dialogue, boring locales and iffy drama contained within. Just look at a picture of the director and you should find it in yourself to put him in one million funnier situations than anything in here. Hell, put him in a car chase or a gun fight, and at least you will get some action out of it. After all, a bad action film is still an action film, but a bad drama is just plain bad.

Despite it all, despite the endless repetitions and inane tribulations that led you there, the film does provide a satisfying ending, not any sort of great dramatic catharsis, but a surprisingly vitriolic jab at white-collar criminals. Unmasked in their occult dealings by super-hacker Breen, a certain number of corrupt businessmen and politicians are seen apologizing for their crimes and committing bloody suicide while the protagonist delivers an empowering speech about the evils of collusion. There’s even the Capitol projected on a green screen behind the aging hero. It’s all very candid, but at least it is righteous, unlike the rest of the film…

*   For douteux.org’s contribution to this disappointing nuit excentrique…   

Fantasia 2013 - Friday, July 19th

Here are some brief impressions on the three films I saw on Friday, July 19th:

Drug War
There’s no shortage of action in this latest effort by HK maverick Johnnie To, who makes his triumphant return to the gangster genre after a short, but enjoyable venture into the world of romantic comedies. The camera is brisk and sensuous and the screenplay is very lean, leaving very little pause to the action, which spans three days and about ten major drug lords. Of course, the politics are all wrong, with a touch of misogyny being stirred in a boiling pot full of disturbing anti-drug sentiment, but that is to be expected from a film shot in mainland China.

Set in and around Canton, the film stars two very dedicated actors, Sun Honglei and Louis Koo, as badass police captain Zhang Lei and slick criminal mastermind Timmy Choi respectively. When the latter is caught by police after an explosion in his drug factory, he is faced with two choices: the death penalty or something less-than in exchange for his total collaboration in Zhang’s ongoing investigation. Wishing to “redeem himself”, Choi immediately accepts the deal and offers his help in toppling a large drug-trafficking ring that extends right up to the lawless land of Hong Kong. But he might also be animated by ulterior motives in doing so…

Johnnie To keeps his fanbase happy thanks to many returning motifs.

If one is to take the film at face value, Drug War could be said to be simply the apology of the well-thinking but brutal constabulary authorities of mainland China and their uncompromising views on drugs. But then, there is something quite enjoyable in seeing all the swift and synchronized efforts involved by the police in catching their prey. These guys are actually so dedicated and tireless that their whole operation becomes like a ballet of government-cautioned violence. I doubt many Westerners will develop empathy for the cops here, save perhaps for the hard-as-nails captain Zhang, but they will still be able to appreciate their muscular contribution to the busy storyline. In some way, they can perhaps best be compared with ants in this context, each working without pause, but without volition or self-interest. And that is why they are almost beaten at their own game by the infinitely resourceful, infinitely charismatic and above all, free-spirited Choi, who manages to capture most of our sympathy despite his fiendish ways.

In the end, you may select whatever deeper philosophy to withdraw from the narrative, be it the romantic representation of the criminal way or the ruthless condemnation of all things drugs, but Drug War still remains what it was meant to be at heart: a solid piece of entertaining. It is superbly produced. The pacing is absolutely spectacular, with nearly no pause to be found in the whole process of dismantling the drug ring. The cinematography is breathtaking, both from an action and artistic point of view. The action sequences are very potent and they include all sorts of lengthy gun fights and car chases, all shot glamorously and without the Hollywoodian recourse to cheaply choppy editing. Actually, there’s one specific reason why this film, and many others of its ilk, easily edges its American counterparts, and it lies in the lack of tedious transition scenes. Instead of having a bunch of CIA bigwigs discussing what to do during a board meeting mysteriously shot action style, all you’ve got is an army of ant cops, perfectly fit to do their duties, but also perfectly fit to die in anonymity. And that spells pure, unadulterated action. Finally, the acting here is as good as in any To film, especially from  veteran Louis Koo, who proves once more why he is one of the director’s, favorites.

***1/2   If you like Johnnie To or if you like Chinese action films, there’s no reason for you not to see Drug War. As for the rest of you, I’m sure you can appreciate the film on at least one level, esthetic or otherwise.



Lesson of the Evil
Perhaps more annoying than the half-assed translation of the title (any way you put it, A Lesson in Evil is the just translation) is the fact that Takashi Miike does this kind of shit all the time! He takes a seemingly awesome premise and packages it in a formulaic mold that draws a little bit from eon-old conventions (in this case, the “psycho in disguise” narrative) and a little bit from his own brand of eccentrics (which includes long-drawn visual gags and excessive bloodshed), but rarely ever striking an interesting balance. His take on Pasolini’s Teorema, the irreverent Visitor Q, was perhaps the high point of his career, and it now seems far away, very far away indeed. And while I agree that the Japanese maverick may once have been a truly intriguing voice in Asian cinema, his industrial style of production has now got the best of him, making redundancy the name of the game. I won’t go as far as to suggest a “sausage factory”, like one Montreal critic did a few years back, but I understand the feeling more and more.

The film opens with a troubled teen knifing his parents to death while Die Moritat von Mackie Messer is playing in the background. There’s no onscreen butchery, but the importance of the scene lies elsewhere. It is merely meant to establish a flimsy motivation for the antagonist as well as to instill a dreary leitmotiv in the very song playing in the background. Now, I’m sure that die-hard fans of Miike will argue that the reference to Brecht is actually a brilliant testament of his creative genius, but it’s really hard to think so when you’ve had to sit like a lemon for the following 2 hours, hoping for something, anything to hook you into the narrative. The film then flash-forwards some years, after our knife-wielding psycho has become a well-liked English teacher in a respectable Japanese academy. His English is absolutely atrocious, but students still love and revere him for his childish good looks and cool demeanor, unknowing that he is actually a cold-blooded killer. As the plot tediously unfolds, the bodies start piling up around him and nobody but the murdered are savvier to the killer’s identity... until the final kid-killing frenzy of course!

The climactic massacre scene is bloody indeed.

But it is pretty damn far from the opening scene...

While passable from a purely technical standpoint, Lesson of the Evil is a sluggish, predictable bore that seems more than happy to plunge headfirst into the expected. Fans of “psycho in disguise” narratives should anticipate everything here, and the others should catch on pretty quickly as several plot points are literally spoon-fed to us. Hell, there’s a whole scene in which one of the teachers exposes the killer’s background to an equally suspicious student with all sorts of visual aids. Maybe some people out there will be rejoiced with such a didactic exposé, but I would have personally preferred to have the allotted time frame removed from the total runtime of the film… Then, there is that “infamous” shotgun scene. While largely more entertaining than anything prior, this massive shooting spree involving a whole classroom full of students not only clashes with the killer’s previously established M.O., but it also fails to generate interest for the underdeveloped student characters. I was surprised to hear people laughing as the kids were being butchered, but I should’ve known that laughter was really the only medicine here… or the only thing to fill the moral and dramatic void.

As far as characterization is concerned, anything goes here. Lead Hideaki Ito may be quite efficient in portraying the suave, manipulative killer with an agenda, but his calm demeanor actually seems to come at odds with his psychopathic instincts, creating a character whose motivations are hazy at best. We are thus meant to readily accept that he is an anti-social psychopath, yet one that is perfectly groomed and perfectly integrated to the work-a-day world. From a character standpoint, it makes very little sense. There is some intriguing insight into his pathology that is provided through a flashback of his days in the old U.S. of A. At once a vitriolic pamphlet against the American brand of violence and an impressionistic foray into the mind of the killer, this sequence is not only key to the symbolic side of the film, but also one of the most vivid and memorable. Unfortunately, the dialogue therein is done in such a broken English as to be completely undecipherable. And in the end, everything in the screenplay, including that playful scene, seems like a mere excuse to drag the plot forward to the moment of the massacre, where Miike finally seems to step into a comfort zone and become able to deliver some mildly inspired mayhem. It’s just too bad that he ends the whole thing on the ludicrous promise of a sequel, hence creating what is essentially a ketchup sandwich made with hardened slices of shit.

**  Your appreciation of this tedious, predictable thriller will depend entirely on how much you enjoy seeing shotgun wounds on teenage Japanese bodies. Production values are OK.



Samurai Cop
I am always skeptical when it comes to any film hailed as being “so bad, it’s good”. Such descriptions often seem to trickle only from some private joke or from someone’s warped idea of “bad” and “good”, elevating to Video Valhalla some films that have actually no redeeming value. But then there are films like Samurai Cop, films that are so perfectly bad, that they beg for a closer inspection, films that are so bad that they seem engineered for that purpose. So, while I wasn’t expecting much from this 1989 atrocity, considered by many to be the epitome of the enjoyable 1980s b-movie, I was actually overjoyed to see it and to bask in its hilarious ineptitude.

The paper-thin narrative here concerns the LAPD’s struggle in catching elusive gangster Fujiyama, head of the dreaded “Katana” gang. In comes the titular “samurai cop” (Matt Hannon), a transfer from San Diego learned in the ways of the Japanese (but still struggling to pronounce “Fujiyama” correctly). With (loads of) help from wise-cracking black partner Washington (Mark Frazer), the long-haired, vacuous mastodon will eventually manage to shoot, pummel and slash his way through to Fujiyama, and his most pissed-off henchman, Yamashita (Robert Z’Dar). In the process, he will distribute some of the greatest pick-up lines ever to get past a man’s lips and some of the lamest “black ass” jokes out there. Oh, and he also manages to deliver a truly heartfelt condemnation of drug-peddling during one long close-up that REALLY looks too close for comfort.

That goddamn string lion is really a fan favorite...

While it does feature a linear, coherent storyline, Samurai Cop is very much an unfinished film, at least where quality-control is concerned. Oftentimes, an actor will fumble his line, but the shot still makes it to the final cut. Then, there are those counter shots that feature… nothing at all, those impossible eyeline matches, the protagonist’s vanishing wig, the unsynched lip dubbing and those hilarious reaction shots by Frazer, who smiles idiotically at everything that happens around him. But surprisingly, everything works out perfectly, as if the director was somehow in a state of grace when shooting this film. It’s somewhat of a miracle, really, as if the stars had aligned for just that precise moment when the final cut was being assembled. This makes me want to recycle my argument for Dawn of the Dead and use it to describe this film. You see, in my review of the Romero classic, I insisted on the fact that such a collaboration between Romero, Argento and The Goblins was a unique occurrence that happily combined the talents of those many eclectic elements while they were all at the peak of their art. Well, the combination of Matt Hannon, Mark Frazer, Robert Z’Dar, composer Alen Dermarderossian, Amir Shervan and all of their fight coordinators is pretty unique too. Only it reaps quite a dissimilar product, one that deserves a lesser place in Americana, but a rightful place nonetheless.

One more enjoyable aspect of this film is the simple fact that it was produced with no other pretension than to create a fun action flick. With an absolutely crazy, synth-heavy soundtrack straight out of the NES era and a generous helping of fight scenes, the film doesn’t disappoint in terms of quantity. Sure, the gun fights are not realistic and the wrestling holds are an absolute joke, but in this case, this merely adds a humorous dimension to an already exciting happening. And in the end, what comes out of this endless string of hilarious turns (some intentional, some unintentional) is the unflinching desire to please. Add some generous helpings of clunky sex scenes and you've got one of the rare instances of something that can accuretaly be described as "pure entertainment". Long live 1980s cinema!

****   I was a bitter and tightly-wound skeptic before I walked into the theater, but the film was quick to make me a believer. Here is truly one of the few must-see genre films of the 1980s!                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   

World War Z (2013)

A review for Alex...

This review is dedicated to my friend Alex, who likes his zombie films with extra gravy. I’m sorry Alex, but you shouldn't expect too much gore from a 200,000,000$ film...

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Adapted from the eponymous bestseller by Max Brooks, World War Z is a hulking summer blockbuster that plays more like an overblown thriller in the vein of Steven Soderbergh’s Contagion than a true, indulgent zombie film. That said, it now makes perfect sense to see the word itself being truncated to its smallest form. “Zombie” might as well have been replaced altogether in this lush Brad Pitt vehicle, where the aging star travels the world in search of a cure for a nasty worldwide pandemic. So, you might want to forget about survivalist horror here, forget about Romero and simply bask in the large-scale, and highly improbable set pieces showcased with great flair here. Just accept how money can change the zombie narratives of old and you might very well have a good time with this new, good-looking entry in the genre.

Million-dollar zombies have no bite.

The narrative focuses on the Lane family, and particularly Gerry Lane (Pitt), an ex-UN infiltrator who is saved from extinction thanks to his government ties. While stuck in New York gridlock with his family, Gerry gets off his car in order to inquire about the situation. It should be obvious to everyone, but the cause of gridlock is the sudden presence of hyperactive zombies dashing toward humans at lightning speed, bashing their heads unto windshields and prying out victims on which to feed. The one novelty in such an otherwise overdetermined premise is the speed at which the infection is spread. Personally, I was very surprised to see zombie victims rise up and attack within a scant 12 seconds from infection. In my mind, this greatly compromised the survival rate of humanity, whom is quickly seen faltering like a deck of cards under high winds. After stealing a camper and heading into New Jersey for supplies and shelter, Gerry’s family is rescued by an old army buddy of his, who manages to send a helicopter on the rooftop of a large apartment complex. But he does so not only out of friendship, but out of necessity. You see, Gerry is considered necessary personnel by the army thanks to his background in covert ops. He is thus sent out to investigate the cause of the outbreak by locating patient zero. First stop: South Korea, where the first memo concerning the plague originated. From there, Gerry will travel to Israel and the UK in search of a cure, which he eventually manages to find thanks to an eye-popping effort in screenwriting gymnastics.

While proceeding from age-old narrative conventions, the film is refreshingly realistic from a sociological standpoint and rewarding in its all-encompassing vantage point on the catastrophe, hence providing one of the most readily acceptable scenarios in the genre. With the military quickly taking charge of operations after the outbreak and boarding the necessary personnel onto large battleships way off the coastline, the premise might reek of militarism, but it also opens up far larger narrative possibilities than your average zombie film, at least where scope is concerned. There's no scraping for food here, walking through ghost towns or struggling to find shelter. There is an actual meta-narrative through which the whole of humanity can be saved and redeemed by the heroics of one man. There is hope, and not merely a daily struggle with the living dead. Obviously, such a "big picture" outlook is indebted to the "big picture" budget of the film and that is why one should accept to trade cheap gore for the promise of grander narrative schemes.

World War Z is a "big picture" zombie film, actually a

rarer occurence than the traditional survivalist horror film.

The one major problem in regards to realism here lies in the overwhelmingly pro-Israeli stance of the screenplay. In the narrative, Israel has managed to seal off its borders from the infected wasteland, and they are letting the surrounding Palestinians IN, arguing that every human salvaged from the outside world is one less zombie to fight. Now, that’s the biggest load of crap I've ever heard. We all know what Israel would do with Palestine should a zombie outbreak occur: they would bomb the Natives alongside the zombies with no distinction whatsoever, arguing that it was God’s design all along. But while this pro-Israeli bullshit tends to defuse the potency of the narrative, it remains coherent with a certain American tendency to depict Israelis as good guys in order to further their own anti-Arab agenda. I won't dwell on it, but I must insist on just how incongruous it is to involve such dubious politics in an otherwise solid anticipation effort... I mean, if one is to exacerbate current political trends to such an extreme as to suggest that North Korea could actually survive the tragedy by removing the teeth of all its citizens, then you might as well acknowledge Israeli's protectionist, exclusionist politics as a fact, and not merely an unjust attempt at slender!

From a genre perspective, no one will be impressed with the level of gore in this tame PG-13 effort. Still, the action sequences manage to provide excitement in spades mostly due to the sheer scale of the mayhem. That is the main contribution of money to the film. It allows us to really see humanity on the brink of extinction, during breathtaking sequences of destruction, where the rushing dead fill up busy city streets and even climb city walls. Like the ominous counter aboard the Americans' floating HQ, which constantly updates the projected number of victims from the plague, so too does the number of victims rises up exponentially during the massive invasion scenes set in New York, Israel, Scotland and inbetween (during a particularly exciting, and improbable stint aboard a flying plane). The initial invasion scene is actually quite striking in its depiction of absolute chaos, with walls of cars blocking the way in all directions and hyperactive brutes largely ignoring their own physical integrity in order to reach human flesh. Involving both large numbers of extras in makeup and quality CGI effects, these sequences leave nothing to be desired, except for the occasional machete to the skull and some casual disembowelment. On the big screen, this really makes for some pulse-pounding entertainment. I mean, this ain't a 1980s VHS cheapie, folks. This ain't Troma. It's "World War" Z!

The mayhem scenes are a sight to behold.

Unfortunately, while most large-scale open-air action sequences here are absolutely sumptuous, the close-quarter encounters with the infected are edited frantically and confusingly. Not unlike 28 Weeks Later, so too does World War Z rely on disorientation to create a sense of excitement during the cramped chase scenes pitting Pitt and his family against the undead. The result often feels tiresome and dizzying, but mostly unnecessary. Given the quality of the production, it would have been a cinch to frame better shots and edit them accordingly. And while the hyperactive editing of near-shots might be understood as a mere sign of our times, it still has no place in a big-budget effort such as this one. There is a thing called Steadicam, after all...

What does redeem the film is the sheer amount of exciting world travel involved in the narrative. Flying from the US to Korea, then to Israel and the UK, and back to American soil, all the while running from zany zombies, Gerry Lane is nothing short of a sci-fi James Bond, equally resourceful, ingenious… and lucky. He is the quintessential American hero, fighting selflessly for family and country. Such a story structure also provides a welcome twist to the tired zombie genre by adding inquisitive elements to the mix. Again, it’s all a question of money. While the B-series horror hero merely struggles for his own survival, the A-series hero can envision grander schemes, that is the survival of the entire species. With superior production values and world-class actors to boot, these grander schemes materialize seamlessly and so too is the meta-narrative reborn out of its own ashes, making the cottage from Romero's Night of the Living Dead (1968) appear as the narrative dead-end that it really is.

 Despite the disintegration of Western society, Brad Pitt's Gerry Lane

remains a typically American hero, fighting selflessly for family and country.

What is perhaps the most annoying feature of the present narrative is the lack of a proper conclusion. From what we see at the end, it seems like the producers weren’t sure about a potential sequel, choosing a half-open ending in order both to end the story and leave it open. That is called having your cake and eating it too. Is the invasion over? Is it not? Will we actually see our human brethren resolve the crisis? Once the cure is found and Gerry is reunited with his family in Nova Scotia, the hero goes on to explain how the world will be saved through a series of images that look suspiciously like a trailer for a sequel to come. This leaves the viewer unfulfilled and it suggests a great lack of respect by the filmmakers. Sitting there for 2 hours and having to swallow the rationale behind Gerry finding the cure, we were entitled to something more definitive as a conclusion. What we are given instead leaves a bitter taste of plaster and plywood in our mouths from what is essentially an unfinished product. In turn, it dulls the power of the meta-narrative to truly concretize the exhilarating victory of good over evil. This is not enough to invalidate the whole film, but it is very much akin to ending a concerto on a false note. Shame...

3/5  Well-produced zombie film for the whole family provide wonderful thrills, but mostly steers clears of the actual horror genre. 

H6: Diary of a Serial Killer (2005)

This surprisingly tame Spanish import doesn’t look as bad as it is boring. Relying on a screenplay that fancies itself an enlightening foray into the mind of a madman, the film is actually overbearing and snob, with no suspense to grip us and no real insight as to the actual mindset of the protagonist. Add to that some atrocious editing and you’ve got a would-be Henry that falls flat on its face, dragging the viewer not in a actual depths of the human psyche, but up in the arms of Orpheus.

Antonio Frau: rarely has a chainsaw-totting, self-rigtheous

mass-murderer been so uninteresting.

Our story opens on a jealous young man strangling his girlfriend to death following what seems to be a recurring argument. This young man turns out to be the titular anti-hero. Years later, after being released from prison, he moves in a large guesthouse inherited from his aunt. That’s where he puts his long-matured plan into execution: to chronicle his exploits as a serial rapist and killer of streetwalkers. Convinced that he has some sort of divine authority over the prostitutes living in the surrounding neighborhood, he proceeds to equip one of the guest rooms with plastic-covered walls and a large table with four leather straps. That’s where he brings his unwilling guests to indulge in their suffering and to preach endlessly, all the while living a double life alongside his newly married wife and keeping a diary of his activities for posterity. At some point, a police detective gets involved in all this, adding yet another voice-over to the over-saturated soundtrack. As for the would-be clever denouement, it could’ve worked if only we had been given reasons to care for what is ultimately a despicable, highly uninteresting protagonist.

I rented H6 mostly out of curiosity, wishing for a traumatizing torture porn title to darken my nights. I was particularly intrigued by the 18+ rating showcased on the box. That turned out to be a dud. The gore here is actually very light, consisting of little more than suggested dismemberment, splashing blood and dispersed body parts. There is some cannibalism involved, but it merely stands as one of the many random quirks of the protagonist. There is some sex also, but nothing really decadent, especially since our murderous friend doesn’t feel the need to remove his victims’ panties before raping them. He merely squirms over them, like a slug. There is no real passion to it. Nothing palpable at any rate. The guy is actually much more expressive when reading from his diary than in any of the torture sessions in the film. So if you get more of a kick out of watching some guy tend to his diary rather than watching him kill people, then H6 is the film for you, especially since there are also some neat “page-turning” wipes to go along with the central “diary” idea. As far as novelty is concerned, these wipes could actually prove to be the most exciting technical feat here, which should tell you about the level of this thing...

The killer sluggishly squirms over his victims

while preaching abstinence...

As the drama began to unfold, I was pleased to discover the central setting through a series of asymmetric shots, each taken from an unusual angle, and each featuring telling details about the guesthouse. Hence, we are shown a single wooden leg gathering dust, a luxuriant spiral staircase and some dilapidated rooms covered with incongruous art. The fragmentation of space immediately creates a labyrinthine space in which the story can take root. It also mirrors the psychological instability of the killer, which we infer from the opening sequence. It’s all well and good up to this point, but the film then quickly unravels and crumbles under the weight of its poor penmanship and some ill-advised directorial decisions.

You see, the fragmentation of space used to unveil the intriguing central setting turns out to be ever-present, even in the most banal dialogue scenes. Hence, the camera angle changes every few seconds, even when totally unwarranted by the scene. This is not only annoying from a visual standpoint, but it is also detrimental to any coherent sense of space or any atmospheric concern. Since the camera never lingers on anything, nothing seems to ever have sensual interest. Nothing is ever scrutinized, nor does any of the victims succumb to the lingering power of the camera's gaze, one of the most powerful weapons in the horror film arsenal. What this eventually points out to is a lack of directorial assertiveness in depicting space or pacing the action. The dubious decision to have torture scenes intercut with diary-writing scenes or boring domestic scenes also undermines any true sense of horror that could ever have come out of the narrative. No intensity is to be found with these constant cuts. All that is left is a bland exposé of the killer’s actions in the perspective of creating an engrossing narrative from what is actually a detestable protagonist and his dubious pastimes. 

Great, but unrealized potential for the labyrinthine

interiors of Frau's squalid guesthouse.

Now, I’ve said that the fragmentation of space helped define the psychological instability of the protagonist. Unfortunately, that psychological instability also turned out to be a dud. Actually, the morbidly passionate character we met in the opening sequence is nothing like the assertive and controlled character we meet on the other side of his prison sentence. Depicted as a mastermind of macabre pursuits, this “new” Antonio is supposed to come off as a likeable, almost Tarantino-esque bad guy with a master plan to leave us in awe. He is NOT the unstable madman that the mise-en-scène first suggests. But while his endless preaching and philosophizing is meant to imbue his character with a sense of purpose, it actually has the contrary effect. The weak, unconvincing arguments he uses to justify his actions are actually delivered by the killer as pearls of wisdom, at once too articulate to suggest madness and too ridiculous to suggest sanity. This creates a disturbing discrepancy between the character's endless resolve and what is essentially a near-total lack of sound motivation, pointing out to nothing more than a badly conceived piece of filmmaking, one that has pretension in spades, but no means to bring them to fruition in any sort of coherent narrative. 

From a screenwriting standpoint alone, the film is quite weak, defusing almost all of its attempts at foreshadowing and thus creating a chaotic narrative full of red herrings. As I mentioned earlier, the very opening sequence is misleading in its depiction of an impulsive wife-beater, which is then painstakingly established as a calm, composed murderer. Then, there is the issue with his wife’s infidelity, which seems to prefigure an explosive denouement, or at least a heated confrontation that never happens. As for the fact that the protagonist constantly contradicts himself, praising abstinence for example, then raping a bound victim scant moments later, it wouldn’t be so bad if he wasn’t ultimately portrayed as a calculating and self-controlled mastermind, which itself contradicts the way he was set up in an endless loop of awful characterization. Other important plot points are only briefly mentioned, such as the study of Law undertook by the killer during his stay in prison, the fact that the detective on the dead prostitutes’ case is actually the same detective who put him in jail. The very nature of the protagonist’s mental state is never convincingly laid out, nor is it ever manifested in any intriguing way. All of this makes him a very unlikable lead, and as the sole fleshed-out character in the story, a very weak link to hold the screenplay together.

White clothes are not nearly enough to exonerate
the serial rapist of 18 women...

With a very intrusive score featuring loads of classical pieces tacked on to better imbue this exploitation film with a false sense of nobility, the entire enterprise seems discordant and unfinished. Add to that some highly unwelcome voice-over narration from three, count them, three different sources (the killer, his wife and the police detective) and you’ve got a confused narrative that never manages to generate interest despite some serious delusions of grandeur. This could have been saved with some suspense, a basic sense of pacing, or any sort of powerful imagery, gory or otherwise, but all of these are also found lacking. The end result is a tedious yawner with no redeeming value but great settings and some decent photography, both of which are lost on an atrocious and pretentious screenplay featuring one of the most unlikable anti-heroes since Freddy Krueger started talking only in one-liners.

1/5   Some decent photography and luxuriant settings can’t save a pretentious, flawed and tedious screenplay filmed with no sense of pacing and no knack for tension-building. 

Ginger Snaps (2000)

I would really like to love this film. After all, it provides an earnest twist on the werewolf sub-genre, it was produced with some of my taxes, and it stars a tremendously fetching, teenage Katharine Isabelle. I would like to love the film but in all fairness, it is only slightly superior to similar genre fare, defused as it is by a very underwhelming finale and some formulaic twists. The premise is quite clever and the free-floating camera allows for some privileged intimacy with the characters, but the end result leaves one eager only for a closer look at Isabelle’s tail-free buttocks.

Despite some real screenwriting efforts, there is only so

much to do with the werewolf narrative.

While it is not an actual spoiler (like Gregg Araki’s disappointing Kaboom, for example), the title could be said to accurately describe the premise. Ginger Fitzgerald is your average teenage recluse, fantasizing about death with her equally moody sister Brigitte in their gloomy suburban basement. Both sisters are hormonally challenged in that they have never experienced cramps (or as they call it, “the curse”) despite their age (15). But when Ginger starts feeling symptomatic back pains, it would seem that she has reached womanhood after all, much to the delight of her mother and the despair of her fearful sibling. Her natural transformation is precipitated however, when she is bitten by a roaming lycanthrope, thus becoming a sex-starved, self-assertive individual with growing panache and growing hair, as well as a bothersome tail above her lovely behind. Seeing how her sister is fast degenerating and starving for human blood, it is up to Brigitte to save her, with the aid of a savvy local weed dealer and all-around botanic enthusiast.

While it could be said to be only another teenage monster flick, Ginger Snaps actually edges its competition by bringing along a highly welcome, contemporary twist on gender representation. As is the case with vampire stories, the werewolf narrative always focuses on the transformative power of the affliction and its intrinsic ties with sexuality and the awakening of sexual potency. This is often tied to a very macho iconography, with the phallic canines of the vampire tying the predatory nature of the creature with the idea of rape and werewolf hair reminding one of secondary male sexual features. What Ginger Snaps does with its premise is to cleverly transpose these tropes into the dreary world of awakening femininity, thus providing a refreshingly frank perspective on the matter. This provides not only screenwriter Karen Walton with a distinct voice in the genre, but also the whole of horror film females, whose sexuality is finally depicted in its rightful complexity, and not merely as an instrument of the devil.

Appropriating the myth for an earnest

depiction of budding femininity.

As a male with no sisters and very few female friends, it never struck me how much grimmer the perspective of womanhood is than that of manhood. From what I remember, almost all of our secondary sexual traits seemed cool when we were teens. We got to grow hair like dad, coarse hair that would make us look though. Then, we could cum, and assert ourselves through the power of our gushing seed, making pissing contests all but obsolete through tales of jizz-covered windows and walls. Personally, I long for the carefree days when I could climax without cumming and messing up my sheets, but it now seems that any sexual inconvenience I might ever experience can hardly be compared with those experienced by young women. In the film, this is depicted in a delectable scene where the school nurse explains the nature of her cramps to a discouraged Ginger. “Thick, syrupy, voluminous discharges are not uncommon”, she says before adding that the apparition of a “brownish, blackish sludge signals the end of a cycle” that will repeat itself every month for thirty years. The bleakness of this discussion flattens Ginger’s traits into a mask of painful desperation. Not only do the two sisters have to cope with a bleak hometown comprised of rows after rows of bland suburban housing, with hostile female classmates and horny male classmates to endure, but they also have to cope with the life-long curse provided by their very gender. That is the horror of adolescence and it is heightened to great new extremes by the traditional genre tropes associated with the lycanthropic transformation.

As far as gender representation goes, one must also note the absence of any strong father figure within the narrative, with the sole male character worthy of interest being the functional weed dealer. The ineffectual dad, or parent, is a staple of teenage genre films. Otherwise, there would always be a quick resolution to the problems faced by teenage characters in such narratives. But it is rare to see such a purposefully subdued character as father. Maybe, this is typically Canadian, but the patriarch here is a non-factor, neither a tormentor, nor a resource for his estranged progeny. He does not seem interested in their faith and he squirms at the very mention of their budding sexuality. “Pam, we’re eating!”, he sternly interjects as his wife is discussing cramps with his daughters. “They never go out!”, he blandly states as she forbids the two girls from going out and becoming prey to the “beast of Bailey Downs”. Judging from such apathic reactions, it seems that his role as parent does not go beyond providing sperms and sitting down at the dinner table with his family. Such a representation of the “dad” opens up a whole window as to the uncaring nature of the male gaze in matters of female sexuality.

"Blackish sludge", or the horrific terminology of puberty.

The lack of interest of the father actually echoes with that of most male characters within the narrative. From teachers who admit to being “sickened” by the girls’ macabre, but highly elaborate photo series depicting “life” in Bailey Downs to school counselors who argue that there is no justification for hormone-driven female violence and horny classmates who see nothing more in Ginger than a “mutant lay”, the male landscape is pretty bleak here, and synched to fit that of the dreary suburban landscape. Surprisingly, the only male character of valor here is the obligatory “stoner” and this provides yet another twist on conventional representational tropes. Being a lucid, resourceful, selfless and helpful peripheral character, he turns out to be a welcome substitute for the usual drug-peddling cannon fodder. Again, this might merely be a Canadian thing, but the idea of drugs here isn’t contorted into the rigid framework of morality, but it rather opens up an intriguing world of arcane knowledge. Using his botanic skills, our friend actually manages to devise an antidote from wolf’s bane distilled in alcohol. While this provides the sub-genre with a fun alternative to silver bullets, it provides the whole genre with something far more important: the recognition of pot-smokers as potential mystics and awakened individuals. I don’t wish to go into this at great length, but the criminalization of recreational drugs is a social plague that is profitable only to violent criminals and soulless pharmaceutical companies. Thanks to enlightened liberal narratives such Ginger Snaps, this highly disturbing, hatred-fueled staple of our well-thinking “progressive” societies is at least challenged. And so does the fight to free female sexuality from a stern logic of sin and amorality extends to include drugs in a vibrant panorama of understanding and open-mindedness.       

But while the film eschews the conservative staples of the genre in matters representational, it doesn’t stray off the beaten path in terms of story-structure. Shortly after Ginger is bitten by the werewolf, in a confused, hyperkinetic sequence that leaves the viewer more startled than excited, the film starts walking along the dotted lines of the genre. The young woman becomes estranged from her sister, sporting a new look that doesn’t do much but flaunt her natural beauty. She also becomes interested in boys, but in a predatory manner that leaves one poor classmate infected. This takes place in the backseat of his car, where Ginger very much plays “the guy” by aggressively pinning her partner down and nearly raping him. This is another fun play on gender expectations, but it remains rooted very much in the conventional predatory instincts of the cursed individual. The rest of the narrative sees the cursed sister becoming increasingly worse, with the healthy sister helping her cover the bloody tracks left by the beast, all the while trying to devise a cure. This plays out very much as you’d expect it to be, with victims falling into the werewolf’s path like so many leaves on a park alley in autumn and Ginger turning evil in the most predictable, over-determined way possible. The main problem here is that, while the latter remains an interesting character for the most part of the narrative, her final transformation into a being of pure evil, and somewhat uninspired craftsmanship, seems to sap every early attempt at characterization, drawing the final confrontation with her sister far away from the Shakespearian heights that it could’ve achieved into a simple, and very disappointing “close encounter with the beast” type ending.

Cat calls for a foxy, err... wolfy Ginger at the height

of her sexual potency.

This is a great shame since Katharine Isabelle is not only one of the most beautiful, but also one of the most interesting Canadian scream queens since Neve Campbell. While her character from Freddy vs Jason is nothing more than sexy cannon fodder, her work within Canadian genre cinema has allowed her to portray two of the strongest, most dangerous and intriguing female leads in recent memory. Aside from Ginger Fitzgerald, the accursed young woman who longs to be considered more than just a simple lay by her male peers, Isabelle has also incarnated the vindictive Mary Mason from the recent rape-revenge effort American Mary (reviewed here). Escaping the poisonously farcical tone of the I Spit on your Grave remake (reviewed here), this latter film has established one of the strongest avenging angels out there and a character of true, unflinching resolve. However, if Isabelle portrays Mary with cold efficiency throughout, she strikes a better balance as Ginger for most of the original Ginger Snaps. Being both a strong and willing young woman, but also a scared and confused one, she brings nuance to her role, appearing both vulnerable and terrifying at the same time. Unfortunately, this balance is eventually trumped by her completed transformation into a werewolf.

As far as mise-en-scène is concerned, the volatile, free-roaming camera helps create a very organic sense of space, alternating freely between languorous tracking shots and POV shots to create an all-encompassing panorama, but also clinging mercilessly to the protagonists, entering even bathroom stalls and exploring changing rooms with all the self-control of a seasoned pervert. This greatly helps achieve the level of intimacy necessary to depict the predominantly sexual nature of “the curse”, and the privileged and very close relationship between the two sisters, while servicing the spectator looking for forbidden flesh. In that regard, the navel-puncturing scene is highly erotic. While Brigitte is laboriously fitting Ginger with a “cleansing” ring of pure metal, piercing her flesh with a tiny phallic tool, the accursed sister is squirming on her bed while screaming and holding the railing with both hands, very much like in the throes of ecstasy. This highly sexual image is actually reprised both for the back side of the DVD cover and the chapters list in an obvious attempt at suggesting raunchy love-making. Luckily for us, while it could be said to have been taken out of context, this image actually proceeds from an even more enticing, if merely symbolic sexual encounter between the two sisters. And that is truly the magic of horror filmmaking at its psychoanalytical best!

A sublimated sexual encounter between the two sisters

is the psychoanalytical high of the film. 

Camerawork aside, the film uses clever mise en abyme to link the two sisters’ troubled everyday life with the droning experience that is high school, allowing for smooth and seamless transitions between the two. It turns out that the entire opening credits, in which the girls are framed and photographed in elaborate death scenes to the rightfully melancholy music of Michael Shields, are part of an elaborate school project entitled “Life in Bailey Downs”. The transition from the opening credits to the school settings is thus not only seamless, but very telling of both the protagonists’ state of mind and the revolting nature of their existence. Unfortunately, such clever storytelling techniques eventually disappear as the narrative starts drawing from the prefabricated, almost necessary mold of the traditional monster movie, very much moving on rails up to the final reel. As for the settings, they are appropriately droning, but hardly extraordinary in their banality. The endless rows of prefabricated houses on which the film opens could be said to have power in themselves, but it is eventually only in their bathing in blood that those suburban dwellings find meaning for what they are, fake neighborhoods sanitized from life itself and begging for blood only to give them meaning again.

There is much to be said about Ginger Snaps, both as a vehicle for the gorgeous and underused Katharine Isabelle and as an earnest feminist horror effort, but the film does not actually deliver the goods as a whole. Once the wheel is in motion and the narrative starts striving on prefabricated tribulations, its feminist edge starts losing its sharpness, eventually being destroyed through the evacuation of the gender issue into the redundant motif of monstrosity.

Suburbia livened by blood, death and Thom Best's

organic camerawork. 

2,5/5    While it benefits from a clever feminist premise, some organic camerawork, and one of the greatest scream queens out there, Ginger Snaps is eventually marred by its familiar story structure.   

The Fly (1986)

The Fly is a true Cronenbergian landmark and an appropriately adult reworking of the eponymous camp film starring Vincent Price. Faithful to his binary conception of the world (science vs. nature, male vs. female, intellect vs. animality, etc…), the director articulates the narrative around a cathartic but destructive love story between an enterprising journalist (Geena Davis as one of the weakest female characters of the entire Cronenbergian canon) and a reclusive scientist (Jeff Goldblum, in one of his many such roles). Thanks to a great turn by the two leads, who get some help from Howard Shore’s majestic orchestral score and some really effective monster effects, The Fly still remains one of the most accomplished, most memorable horror efforts from the 1980s.

The story focuses on Seth Brundle and Veronica Quaife, who first meet in a scientific convention where he promises her a glimpse at an invention that will change the world as we know it. The invention in question, a pair of teleport pods (or “telepods” for short), immediately amazes Quaife, but it fails to impress her editor, and former boyfriend Strathis Borans, who believes Brundle to be a con artist. Quickly grabbing the fumbling ball in a bid to prevent Quaife from publishing an article about his unfinished invention, Brundle proposes a professional association that soon turns into a romance. Allowing the young woman into his laboratory, which doubles as a homely loft, he also allows her to document his ongoing work. But the mutually beneficial nature of their relationship doesn’t end there as it is Quaife who helps Brundle decode the mystery of flesh, allowing him to finally perfect the teleportation of living things. Being the first human subjected to that process, Brundle inadvertently steps into the telepod along with a house fly, creating a half fly/half human hybrid in the process. That is how the mad scientist gets his come-uppance, by seeing his body quickly disintegrate and enter the realm of insects, all the while compromising his enriching relationship with Veronica.

Some great triangular composition, helping us understand

 how the telepod will come between the two lovers.

In trying to appraise the screenplay, one cannot fail to notice its total lack of scientific realism, with no real attempt being made at explaining the basic principles of teleportation other than saying that it involves the breaking down and reconstruction of the subject. The computer interface of Brundle’s invention may be colorful, well designed and a crucial plot device, but I’m sure that it will fail to capture the heart of any true science buff. As in all Cronenberg films, “science” is merely a theme to be used in opposition with nature, its primordial counterpart. Here, the narrative rather proceeds from a certain notion of “amorous realism”, allowing both main characters, as well as the invention in between, to evolve (and regress) simultaneously with their relationship.

Hence, we are first introduced to a man who fails to understand “the flesh” (another thematic concept), which in turns impairs his ability to break it down and recreate it in the process of teleportation. It’s only after a sexual encounter with Veronica that Seth finally “gets it”, thus gaining the ability to teach his computer how to “go crazy” for the flesh. All of these are great plot points, but they have little bearing on the actual exercise of scientific know-how. They rather imbue the narrative with a well-fitted sense of tragedy. After all, it is those very “liberating” carnal desires that also prove to be Brundle’s downfall as he takes a “penetrating dive into the plasma pool” in a moment of drunken jealousy, uncaring as to the physical effects of such a dive. This happens moments after Veronica witnessed the successful teleportation of a baboon, and nearly convinced Seth to enjoy a well-needed vacation by her side. Momentarily noticing a package sent by her ex-boyfriend the editor, Veronica elopes under the pretext that she must “scrape off” the remnants of her past life, leaving Seth alone with a bottle of champagne and some deep dark thoughts. Insecure as any first time lover, the man immediately suspects foul play and thus decides to try out his invention in order to drag his ego up to where it needs to be. That is how he becomes Brundlefly, an accidental new self more akin to what he perceives to be the essence of masculinity, as further exemplified by Stathis Borans, a self-centered and unapologetic sex fiend.

Brundlefly towers over Strathis as uber-masculinity

brazenly proves its worth.

Brundlefly is the “manly” (read self-assured) version of Brundle, at once the byproduct of gene-splicing and sexual awakening. Right after emerging from the mist sweeping out of the telepod (itself a rather potent device to help heighten suspense as to what is about to come out), the hybrid seems fully human. But then it quickly gains a manic self-confidence and a newfound sense of corporeality, two qualities that were found completely lacking in the scientist alone. This is fine at first as it allows the man to revel in his own perceived Godhood. But then, every dramatic character since the beginning of time has been swiftly punished for such an access to Godhood. And Brundle is no exception. His rapid regression into the world of insects is actually quite disturbing to watch, but we shall get into that later. For now, we must concentrate on the transforming power of sex and its relevance in the character's access to Godhood. At once the cornerstone of scientific advancement and scientific regression, sex is herein depicted as a powerful catalyst that subverts nearly all binaries, transforming the protagonist from a purely intellectual entity to a brutal being of violence and sugar. As the Cronenbergian maieutics operates, it liberates Brundle from all of his hang-ups, allowing all the hidden secrets of his mind to seep into our world. In the end however, his obsession with masculinity will consume him whole, making him the uber-male, or the “beast”, which quickly transforms the standard male hunter into the hero.

Seth’s elaborate transformation from ethereal scientist with a terrible fashion sense to monstrous man-sized fly certainly accounts for most of the film’s notoriety. Resulting first in the apparition of unsightly boils on the protagonist’s face, the ongoing process of hybridity eventually contributes to the integral disintegration of his body. In one famous scene, Brundle realizes that his teeth and nails can now be pulled off with the fingers, and that pus is squirting from all over his battered hands. This nightmarish take on the horror of puberty hits home mostly as a cringe-inducing common ground, climaxing on one hell of a freaky close-up featuring a nail being slowly removed from atop a finger oozing with pus. Soon after, the process of hybridity becomes more akin to the process of aging as we see a staggering Brundle moving forward pathetically with the help of crutches, needing to break down solid food with a corrosive acid in order to better digest it. This later common ground also helps give a human dimension to the “disease”, making it all the more intelligible to the spectator and all the more contrasting with its later stages, which see a rejuvenated Brundlefly walking on walls and eventually shedding his human skin for that of an insect. The immaculate plasticity of all those scenes and their seamless integration to the “reality” of the narrative help create some unforgettable imagery that have since earned their place in the pantheon of horror. They have also helped Chris Walas and Stephan Dupuis earn a well-deserved Oscar for Best Makeup. 

The common ground of puberty helps us understand

 the plight of awkward, boil-covered Brundle.

Heavy on tragic twists and turn, the film finds resonance in the memorable orchestral score by long-time Cronenberg collaborator Howard Shore. Being the two men’s fourth collective effort, it is one of pure collaboration, with the composer heightening the dramatic power of nearly every scene and the director using just the right amount of restraint not to overwhelm his own material. The soundtrack actually gives a certain nobility and credibility to the film, one that is found lacking in similar horror efforts. And so, despite some grotesque imagery, the film always manages to avoid campiness, choosing drama instead in a bid to heighten the sense of horror deriving from that grotesque imagery, using it not for shock value, but as a testament to the protagonist's plight in experiencing the drawbacks of passion.

With Cronenberg’s dynamic direction helping the narrative unfold at a brisk pace, there is not a dull moment in The Fly, starting from the intriguing, retro-looking credits (featuring a plethora of chameleonic moving shapes) to the gore-drenched finale. There is no lengthy exposition scene at the beginning, just a quick plunge into the engrossing relationship between Seth and Veronica. This quick plunge then becomes a quick segue into the heart of the matter, namely the ongoing dynamic of attraction/repulsion that characterizes the relationship between the two. After being “seduced” by Brundle, and brought back to his place, Veronica is asked to remove an item that is “uniquely hers”, either a piece of jewelry or some other memento for use in the telepods. Sure enough, she decides to remove one of her stockings in a surprising display of mundane eroticism. From then one starts a mechanic of attraction that goes awry after Seth’s transformation, thus becoming something much more elaborate, at once a mechanic of emotional attraction and physical repulsion, which finds its emotional crux in Veronica’s monstrous pregnancy. The hypothetical son of Brundlefly (and the titular character of the inferior sequel) is indeed a source of pure repulsion, as exemplified by a memorable dream scene in which the director himself (in the guise of a masked gynecologist) removes a large wiggling larva from Veronica’s womb. The whole issue of a monstrous pregnancy is actually what prompts the confused mother to seek refuge back into her ex-boyfriend’s arms, choosing disgusting normality over repulsive integrity.  Being the story of a love triangle highlighting the transformative power of sex, The Fly thus prefigures other major works from Cronenberg, namely Dead Ringers and A Dangerous Method, both of which are subtler and more psychological in nature.

As in Dead Ringers, the womb is source

of horror and fascination for Cronenberg.

Simplistic in nature, but befitted with strong turns by the three leads, a dynamite score, some Oscar-winning makeup and the sheer mastery of Cronenberg at the helm, exploring in the process many of his grandest, resonant themes, The Fly is an immense success. It’s also a fascinating film from start to finish, an endless series of vibrant scenes full of passion, filmed with passion, and able to draw the viewer right into its dark universe. The absence of any identifiable landmark from Toronto (where the film was shot) further helps the narrative appear universal, thus pointing out to its intrinsically human nature. After all, The Fly is basically a love story, one so honest and psychologically realistic that it manages to inscribe emotional distress right into the flesh, depicting the corroding aspects of passion-laced relationships in the nasty boils, endless twitches and self-destructive antics of the protagonist. A true, albeit fantastic testament to passion and the immense pain that derives from it. 

4/5  An essential film for both Cronenberg completists and casual genre fans alike, but also a tragic love story elevated to unbearable heights by Howard Shore’s majestic score and the repulsive makeup  by Oscar-winners Walas and Dupuis. 

P.S. It is a rather strange coincidence that Geena Davis’ character bears the name Veronica here, for I presently lust for a Veronica of my own. Being the liberated woman that she is, and me the reclusive weirdo that I am, I doubt that we can ever be together, lest the magic of cinema seeps into our own boring reality. All I can do now is not let the sting of rejection turn me into a monster. And most importantly, not let it impair my current inspiration. 

Damien: Omen II (1978)

This obligatory sequel to The Omen is a rather classical film in many regards, relying on a strong script carried out by a strong cast to sell a formulaic, underwhelming narrative to the masses. The locales are grandiose and the soundtrack is memorable, but unfortunately, the unfolding of the narrative is rather laborious and the efficiency of the thrills questionable. Despite a strong beginning, the screenplay becomes increasingly underwhelming as time elapses, mostly because the titular Antichrist is characterized far beyond the scope of his dramatic usefulness. The end result is a film that will go down in history for two things: its elaborate “murder by circumstances” sequences that will later become a staple of the Final Destination series, and the redundant usage of Latin lyrics to convey the idea of a Satanic presence.

Elaborate kill scenes are some of the

film's most prominent assets.

Seven years after his father’s attempt on his life, Antichrist Damien Thorn has grown into a strapping young lad under the guidance of his filthy-rich uncle. Now living in Chicago, where he attends military school under the tutelage of Lance Henriksen, the 12 year-old boy seems innocuous enough, unaware that some of his gnarly powers are actually an inheritance from the Desolate One. We thus get to see him grow up while a bunch of hysterical secondary characters try vainly to stop… whatever he is doing. There’s a journalist who has her eyes pecked out by a raging crow, a museum official who gets crushed by an incoming train, and a doctor who gets sliced by a metal wire, all of them dying just for us to be re-told what was made explicit in the very first sequence, namely that Damien is the Antichrist. In the end, everybody dies and the mischievous kid is left standing, ready to take on the sequel…

The opening sequence of the film is quite incredible, with some exhilarating tracking shots capturing a zealous archeologist’s mad drive through the narrow streets of Acre (in Israel). The exotic locales and the man’s sheer eagerness to share his most recent discovery with a fellow explorer immediately draw us into an exciting world where mythology comes alive. The following scene, in which the two men lose their lives near Yigael’s wall, where Damien’s face is depicted as that of the Antichrist, is equally engrossing. Unfortunately, the pace drops drastically after that, and the historical details surrounding the birth of Damien are revealed to be a superficial way to keep the story afloat, with the bulk of the narrative interested solely in killing off meddling third parties for show.

Damien's opening sequence is awesome.

Unfortunately, the film goes downhill from there.

Luckily, the “show” is quite good as most kills are masterfully choreographed, with savvy editing allowing them to unfold with some real intensity. Unfortunately, these kills are often meaningless from a dramatic standpoint, neither creating affect, nor forwarding the plot in any significant way. This results from a dubious politic of identification that deflates any real sense of dread emanating from the titular character. At once, we are supposed to feel sympathetic for Damien’s uncle, a “responsible” industrialist undisturbed by his brother’s murder attempt on his nephew, but we are also asked to feel sympathetic for Damien himself, in the arduous process of assuming his monstrosity. So there is no bad guy. There are only circumstances. And crows with murderous designs. Even when Damien is miles away from a victim to be, there’s always a minion ready to carry out the will of his father. So, you’ll know exactly when a kill is coming, making both your sympathy for the victims and any sense of suspense deriving from their deaths null and void. All of this prefigures the Final Destination series in a disturbing way, further pointing out the shortcomings of said series.

As far as symbolism goes, the equation between ruthless capitalism and the politics of the Netherworld is very interesting, but not sustained. When Paul, a dynamic entrepreneur at the head of Thorn industries, decides to launch a program for acquiring agricultural land to better showcase the potential of the company’s fertilizers and insecticides, shades of Monsanto are immediately summoned. The perspective of a monopolistic grasp on food industries is chilling enough that it makes the association with pure evil perfectly relevant. With Paul later being compared to Damien himself, we are fast imagining the young man in a padded leather armchair, staring at the cityscape from the bay window in his office, smiling contently as Latin lyrics pulsate on the soundtrack. But that never happens, as the story sluggishly unfolds, twisting and turning toward no definite destination, but rather reveling in incessant repetition. Thanks to a rushed finale bonified by a last-minute, and highly dubious, act of treason, the narrative is abruptly cut short, with nothing to reflect on but the perspective of yet another sequel. It’s like watching the cliffhanger from a TV show you don’t even like.

Damien is ready to take on the sequel...

whether or not you care.

Damien’s only saving grace, aside from the occasional showcase of elaborate bloodletting, lie in its highly capable cast, gorgeous locales and classic soundtrack. In William Holden and young Jonathan Scott-Taylor, perfectly cast as the kindhearted patriarch and bright-eyed mischief-maker respectively, we have two actors who manage to create engrossing figures from excessively flawed characters. There’s even the great Sylvia Sidney doing her thing as the obligatory suspicious aunt and a very young Lance Henriksen, as phlegmatic as ever in the role of a jaded military man. As for the opulent surroundings home to the Thorn family (including a lakeside villa where a fatidic hockey game is played), they contribute both a certain nobility to the characters (reminiscent of Gregory Peck’s from the original film) and a sense of wonder for us poor mortals. By toying with the conventions of the coming-of-age film, Damien allows us to indulge in the young man’s life as if it were our own. It’s a dream of sorts, a dream of being the true Antichrist Superstar. As for the soundtrack by Jerry Goldsmith, it is certainly the film’s most lasting feature, a testament to the power of liturgy in creating powerful mythological implications. Unfortunately, it is also far too heavy-handed and over-used to make it an asset per se.

There’s a fun vintage quality to Damien as a foray into the world of a nearly aristocratic family. The wooden interiors of the lakeside villa and the quiet nobility of Holden’s character all possess a certain timeless quality toward which one will be drawn. Unfortunately, the film is botched, thanks to a lousy screenplay that manages to create very little real drama and fails to tap into some intriguing ideas. The biggest flaw therein is in constantly highlighting facts about Damien, which are plainly explained in scene 1, and by completely disregarding any true sense of angst as to the fate of any character. All of this actually tend to push the film away from the horror genre, momentarily reconciling with its imagery during the kill scenes, but never managing to create affect, the greatest tenet of said genre. The result is entirely watchable, but not a classic, or a must-see by any stretch of the imagination.

By depicting the coming-of-age of Satan's spawn, Damien

prompts dreams of Antichrist Superstardom. 

2 1/2   Good actors, gorgeous locales and a classic soundtrack cannot really elevate a film with such an underwhelming narrative.