Super (2010)

Not all superheroes can afford fashionable rubber suits and utility belts.
Huh, Batman, you fucking bourgeois douche-bag!

If injecting some much-needed color in the superhero sub-genre (which as of late has all been painted black) sounds like an appealing proposition, then you will probably want to go out and rent a copy of Super today. No trite political intrigue here, nor any overwritten, moralistic, or otherwise gritty attempt at creating a restrictive dramatic canvas. Only fan service, which is what the genre is all about. Overdetermined, drug-dealing, gun-totting villains abound and the retribution for their crimes is brutal and bloody, even gory at times. The protagonist (Rainn Wilson) is the quintessential nerd turned avenger and not simply a good-looking teenager disguised as a nerd disguised as an avenger (such as Tobey Maguire's Spiderman). His sidekick (Ellen Page) is a similar, albeit more seductive, misfit, hers being an obsession for crime-fighting turned exclusively inward, an outlet so to speak, for her manic-depressive unconsciousness. The two paired together form an irresistible tragicomic duo involved in a wide array of oft-hilarious, always politically incorrect schemes, including semi-random beatings, pipe bomb crafting, brutal murders by cars and near-rape. Add a second beauty (Liv Tyler) to the mix, as well as a large cast of seasoned vets such as Kevin Bacon, Michael Rooker and Nathan Filion and you've got a stellar, star-studded indie gem, amounting to a kick in the ribs of Nolan's Batman and the unfortunate tradition of gritty superhero films that it has spawned.

The story of Super is that of Frank (Wilson), a poor, aging diner cook whose two "perfect" moments include his marriage with co-worker, and former junkie, Sarah (Tyler) and that one time when he directed a cop toward the hiding place of a fleeing robber. Suffice it to say that Frank's happiness hangs by a thread, which is severed when Sarah leaves him for local drug peddler Jock (Bacon). Hellbent on getting her back, he acts on his latest "vision" when spurred on by comic book store clerk Libby (Page) and becomes a superhero dubbed "The Crimson Bolt". Armed with a rather large wrench, he patrols the streets in search of petty criminals whom he beats up senselessly until he has worked up the sufficient amount of courage to attack Jock's mansion. When his plan backfires (literally), he turns to Libby for help. Ecstatic with being the Bolt's privileged confident, she insists on becoming his kid sidekick, Boltie, donning a super-sexy outfit for the occasion. And while there is obvious sexual tension between the two, culminating in a surprising rape scene, Frank remains focused on Sarah, which he finally manages to rescue after a lengthy stand-up fight with Jock's goons.

Calling all destroyers!

The first salient feature of this film is the jaw-dropping opening credits, comprised of a crude hand-drawn depiction of the cast involved in a frenzied choreography which had the entire audience clapping vigorously at the screening. And I'm not just talking claps, I'm talking loud cheers. Hell, those credits alone were worth the admission price, colorful and fast-moving as they were, as well as perfectly coordinated with Tsar's pop-rock anthem Calling all destroyers, a so-so song which finds new relevance here. That said, opening credits are one thing, an important one, granted, but a single element in a much more complex ensemble. As they should, they are an integral part of the story, reflecting on Frank's obsessive retreat in a cartoon world which he has created for himself in order to escape from the grim landscape of everyday life. The manic energy contained in the credits, the raw power emanating from the crimson-colored hero, all these elements are the crystallization of a wish made by a helpless nerd, the realization of which constitutes the crux of the narrative. That said, the biting black humor at work here proceeds mostly from how pathetic Frank really is, and how seriously he considers his calling.

Personally, I must say that I entered the theater enticed first and foremost by the perspective of seeing Ellen Page don a skin-tight, green and yellow superhero costume. Hell, just a glance would've been alright. Instead we get, as stoic protagonist Frank puts it, a very "inappropriate", intensely lascivious parade in which she poses seductively while rubbing her body with both hands. Now, that's the kind of fan service one rarely gets from over-intellectual, trend-setting Hollywood. We're not just talking entertainment here, we're talking hysterical, contagious energy seeping from every shot. This includes each hilarious moment of politically incorrect, sometimes highly original humor. Whether you like to see butters or pedophiles getting hit across the face with a wrench, horny girls raping middle-aged men, gun-shopping with rednecks, or tentacle-filled epiphanies, Super has got it in store.

That said, this new film by James Gunn contains just the right amount of Slither to make it work, whereas his former film contained too much thereof and not enough engrossing characters. This time around, Michael Rooker is perhaps a little underused as an empathic henchman, but there are two very enticing leads to cover for Elizabeth Banks and Nathan Filion (who's got a bit part here). As for the tentacles, they are back! And I was happy to see them. I mean, director Gunn clearly entertains a fetish for Japanese tentacle porn, and it shows here, but in a surprisingly novel, disturbingly iconoclastic way. I won't spoil it entirely, but there is that one scene (a definitive highlight of the film) where God himself intervenes using some very intrusive, wiggling tentacles. Playing well outside the traditional Judo-Christian canon, former Troma affiliate Gunn offers us a refreshing portrait of divinity, one of the most original thereof on this side of Mind Games.

By now, you will probably have noticed that I use a large number of superlatives to describe the film. Well, Super is just that kind of film: one that makes you so enthusiastic and content as to distribute hyperboles as generously as one gives out free tickets to a NY Islanders game. It has that effect on people. And the reason why it had a hard time striking a distribution deal? Blasphemy and sex, two things which are rather revered by hardcore film fans, those who crowd film festivals and midnight screenings, those who understand that if film is meant to echo life, it MUST contain blasphemy and sex. Super is not made for critics. It's not made for the MPAA. It's made for fans, for people who would rather have fun watching a superhero film rather than getting tangled in a political intrigue, people who enjoy the fate of little people trying to cope with a real, albeit disgusting world more than that of rich socialites or brainy science students navigating lush dystopian worlds.

Unlikely romance under the bridge of normalcy: Page and Wilson

While focused on fan service, the film manages to create a very engrossing dramatic canvas by emphasizing the everyday aspect of its superhero narrative and by making its protagonists two true-to-life nut-cases, both of whom embody a distinct tradition of costumed escapism. While Frank is the sad, under-confident weakling who dons his gear in order to feel stronger than he actually is, Libby uses it as an outlet for her psychotic alter-ego trapped deep within the confines of her outward shell. Driven by the desire for power, and for freedom respectively, the two individuals are oblivious to social responsibility, which is obvious in their frenzied exaction of justice. Much more than those of any Batman or Spiderman, their motivations are perfectly intelligible to anyone who has ever experienced isolation or a sense of powerlessness. In that regard, Rainn Wilson is perfectly cast in the lead. And while his unforgiving looks do a part of the work for him, the man gives a full, touching dramatic performance culminating in a heart-breaking scene where he asks tearfully begs God to know why he was made such an object of ridicule. Contrary to that of Page, his performance is perfectly subdued, which makes his outbursts of emotion all the more gripping. As for the tiny Canadian, she breezes by on her soft, irresistible looks and addictive screen persona, embodying, as she did so many times before, the whimsical dream girl that guys love to love (entertaining lustful thoughts about her since I first saw Hard Candy, I was surprised to see that ALL of my male friends find her attractive, no matter their usual preferences for busty blondes or redheads). But while she is great in the role of Libby, the comic book clerk, she appears a tad overzealous as hysterical Boltie, especially considering her limited vocal register. That said, her whimsical smile, murderous Wolverine claws, and proclivity for seductive poses make her easily forgiven in the present context.

The only real qualm I have with the film is its getting rid of her character so conveniently. And while it is common practice to eliminate sexualized, or otherwise extroverted women in order to quell the protagonist's dilemma in choosing a mate with whom to live "happily ever after", I didn't expect it from James Gunn. Granted, Boltie is a psycho, and she would have most likely driven Frank crazy with her ramblings had he decided to side with her instead of Sarah. But at least she loved him, with the passion unfortunately reserved only for mental patients. So why should it be okay for him to cum inside her, then violently push her inside (at which point, one can narrowly see her crotch) and subsequently lead her to her death? Why shouldn't we pissed off by that, the wanton murder of such a carefully crafted object of desire? To some, her brutal execution will provide some giddy thrills by way of a nasty shot of her mangled face, but for those who truly love women, it will be an ordeal to watch. And that single tear shed by Frank in her memory, it is not nearly enough to celebrate the myriads of exquisite female characters murdered by the hands of screenwriters hellbent on saving male protagonists from arduous amorous choices, but not from casual sexual encounters. Not nearly enough.

All in all, while director James Gunn is not the most talented filmmaker around, he is fast establishing himself as a true author, one who values viewer satisfaction above all, indulging in all forms of excessive imagery for them to savor anonymously and without guilt. Those who have seen Slither will probably remember that scene where a captive woman is literally torn apart by an army of oily slugs feeding on her innards. As for those who have seen Super, they will effortlessly recall the girl-on-guy rape scene, or the brutal beating of two butters. Personally, I reckon that it is the kind of shit people want to see. Not that their brain demands it, but their guts, where the appreciation of any genre film first springs. After all, what guy hasn't dreamed of a horny girl ripping their pants off? And who hasn't wished of kicking the shit out of annoying line-cutters, or other social parasites? Now, maybe you don't condone such behavior, but surely you sometimes contemplate it. Which is where genre cinema comes in, as a very therapeutic outlet for pent-up emotions, the new pope of which is irreverent James Gunn, who earns his rightful place in the landscape of American genre cinema by making it so that popular cinema becomes crowd-pleasing once more. The man's current rise to (indie) fame comes at an appropriate time when ancient filmmaking traditions are in dire need of new blood in order to counter Hollywood's systematic recycling of used material (particularly foreign genre films and comic books). And while his films are somewhat derivative of older stuff, they revel in excess to a point where genre cinema manages to regain its lost essence as a primordial, visceral form of expression.


3,5/5 Hilarious, irreverent superhero film brings some much-needed color back to the genre while managing to frame an engrossing, true-to-life drama.

Midnight Son (2011)

Jacob, THE definitive emo vampire: Midnight Son

For those who thought the Twilight films were the pinnacle of the emo vampire sub-genre, Midnight Son is a brutal reality check. Behold the one true emo vampire, 24 year-old night watchman and awkward lover Jacob. Condemned to a life of solitude by a strange disease akin to vampirism, he spends his days painting sunsets in his sun-proof city apartment. His complete transformation is coming to a close when he meets night bird Mary, an equally lonesome young woman bearing a dark secret of her own, with whom he manages to forget his loneliness for a spell. The only problem is that Jacob cannot make love to her, on account of his disease manifesting itself in various ways whenever the pair is nearing the bed.

The first time around, a sudden nosebleed (due to Mary's earlier coke consumption) distracts Jacob from the task at hand, leaving him a queasy mess unable to fulfill the desires of the eager lover in his midst. Things get even dicier the second time around, when his eyes take a predatory greenish color while atop Mary, urging him to dash toward the refrigerator and quickly consume a handy pint of blood. The third time is when the girl starts getting really angry with him, right after they engage in some hot preliminaries which are cut short when Jacob freezes, arguing that he cannot "do it" for fear of hurting her.

While the vampire has always been established as somewhat of a sexual predator, rarely has the link between sexuality and vampirism been established so brazenly and so relevantly as in Midnight Son. Jacob's emphasized impotence results from his ill-assumed predatory instinct. In other words, one could say he is a closeted vampire, a direct byproduct of the now-predominant tradition of increasingly fragile male characters. While vampire fangs are a deadly giveaway toward Freudian psychoanalysis, their failure to penetrate the flesh of their female victim is a timely sign of the weakening masculine resolve, extinguished in a sea of female empowerment and shifting sexual models.

Seeing how the new James Bond is a consummate weakling, one finds the perfect example of the identity crisis plaguing the representation of masculinity at the dawn of the 21st century. Originally intended as a phallus, resourceful superman Bond has now found the ability to cry, and hurt, in a bid to create a more realistic, if not necessarily representative male figure for the series' reboot. This identity crisis finds further anchors in the childish looks of international heartthrob Justien Bieber and the mannerisms of bleak-looking Robert Pattinson, who shouldn't even be considered on par with muscular opposite Taylor Lautner. Considering his hypnotic charm and phallic assets, the vampire figure is the ideal vehicle to expose the cultural male's steady weakening, and never has it been done so eloquently as in Midnight Son.

Wishing her boyfriend was Jerry Dandrige, Mary tries
her best to cope with Jacob's impotence.

Unfortunately, the film doesn't score big points for originality or style, content as it is with boring, everyday sets (as urban California contributes its unmatched ugliness to the story) and mild genre novelties. That said, the idea of a sunset-nostalgic vampire is telling but obvious, as well as weirdly underplayed here (Jacob's paintings have narrative weight in themselves but their content nearly doesn't). As for the coffee mug full of blood, it makes for a rather lame marketing gimmick, especially when a simple pair of rubber fangs would've been much more relevant... and intriguing.

Yet, what really struck me here is the characterization of the black antagonist, which in my eye neared racism a little too much. The guy starts out as a street-smart orderly who surprises Jacob trying to steal blood from a bio-hazard container. Intrigued at first, raising surprised eyebrows and smirking wildly, he soon sees Jacob's addiction not as an alarming oddity, but as a way to make money off him. From then on, he seems to become increasingly evil, sequestrating a poor old man in a run-down house in order to harvest his blood, then turning into a vampire himself, and trying to enslave Jacob. While his character provides some much-needed counterbalance to weakling Jacob, he reeks of overdetermined blackness. Maybe I, myself, is being biased, but it seems that any drug-peddling, abusive, street-smart black with well-groomed facial hair owes more to white-perpetrated archetypes than to any honest attempt at characterization. Then again, it is racial discourse such as this which helps create a cleavage between blacks and whites. And so, I'd better keep my thoughts to myself...

In the end, despite the necessary drawbacks stemming from filming a romance with two no-namers and a video camera, Midnight Son contains enough weeny novelties to keep fans interested. But ultimately, it is through meta-discourse regarding the sexual nature of the vampire figure that the film achieves induction in the "higher sphere" of genre cinema, fiercely deconstructing a powerful mythological figure to create a lesser, but more timely monster, the common Western male.


2,5/5 One of those rare examples where self-reflexivity alone can elevate the level of a genre film above its technical and narrative limitations to create an essential historical document.

Knifepoint (2011)

It's hard not to think about Haneke's Funny Games when watching Knifepoint. Actually, it's hard not to think about his bone-chilling thriller when watching any given home invasion film. Truth is Haneke's uncompromising work has become somewhat of a reference point in terms of film sadism, amounting to what is probably the finest example of torture porn ever to grace the screen. Although it contains no onscreen violence at all, it manages to handle its subject matter with such technical mastery and dramatic savvy as to virtually nullify any attempt at creating a worthy successor.

The reason for Funny Games' efficiency is threefold. Aside from Haneke's directorial skills, the motiveless nature of the antagonists' crimes and their obvious, and very much emphasized, complicity with the filmmakers serve as rocket-powered engines for the straightforward narrative. The feeling of hopelessness pulsating across the screen is the direct result of these two converging factors. Knowing that 1) the antagonists are pure evil, torturing people without any motivation other than torture itself and 2) the viewers and filmmakers are willing accomplices in their crimes, giving them all the latitude necessary to accomplish their nasty deeds, one is caught between a rock and a hard place, unable to watch, but unable to stop watching either. In the end, we are forced, even tortured into contemplating, and detesting our own sadism by the clever filmmaker who entraps us exactly like he entraps his protagonists.

The fact that Knifepoint is produced independently, without so much as a tenth of the talent at work in the former film has no bearing on the present analysis. After all, Knifepoint is a successful film in its own right. As the director so rightfully put it before the screening, the film is primarily meant to shock and it does so with surprising bravado. By upping the ante in terms of how many despicable acts of torture can be shown in a 88-minute film, it deserves to find a loyal audience of gore fanatics and jaded fans of cinematic extremities.

Submission is the name of the game as the protagonists are raped
and tortured for nearly the entire duration of the film

The film contains no less than three rapes (with two more coming dangerously close to fruition), one involving a spit-covered dick, one with a gun and one with a strap-on knife (à la Se7en). Two of the victims are male and one of the aggressors is female, so there is no sexual discrimination here. At least, the film and its violence cannot be solved using gender representation theories. But while it showcases both males and females indulging in atrocious acts of misanthropy, the film is never quite as gripping as Haneke's Funny Games. There are two main reasons for this, the first of which is the very conventional, almost archetypal look of the antagonists, which almost totally prevents any attempt at deeper characterization. The greasy-haired, tattooed ex-cons onscreen can be little more than what one can imagine them to be. Just close your eyes and picture an ex-con. Then, you'll manage to invoke one of the villains from Knifepoint. That said, the introduction of a female villain is hardly a twist for she acts no different than her male counterparts. Now, the second distinguishing factor between Funny Games and the present film involves the villains' motivations, which, while they fail to explain the full extent of their barbarity, are clearly delineated and overdetermined, which in turn makes their evil seem contrived.

The opening credits are somewhat misleading in that regard, and they help defuse the explosive potential of the ensemble. Using rhythmic editing and B&W freeze frames of the antagonists setting up their plan, the filmmakers have effectively, and inexplicably, likened them to the suave, hip rogues from recent capers such as the Ocean films. This is a moot point to make, but you cannot show antagonists in such a positive light and then turn the tables 180 degrees and make them out to be bloodthirsty demons from Hell. You must do one or the other, not both. Even better, you can try nuancing the ensemble, which is admittingly a very hard thing to do considering the specific aims of the film, but one that would have given the film a much needed extra dimension. At any rate, there is no point in setting up the antagonists to such an extent. The duration of the credits should've been allotted to the protagonists instead, allowing the filmmakers to shape them out a little better in order to make us more sympathetic to their plight, which is filmed without a hint of humor to spare our feelings. In fact, any extra attempt at characterization would've been appreciated, or any effort to capitalize on some facts established early on (such as the rivalry between the two sister protagonists). Because as it stands, the narrative clams up once the slaughter starts and the remainder of the film plays like a series of surprisingly uninvolving vignettes.

All bad guys look the part in Knifepoint

Setting up the antagonists as robbers does little to account for their barbarity. If indeed they had been mere robbers, as the intricacy of their plan suggests, they should not want to kill people, and especially in that amount. Of course, there's some slight psychosis affecting the group, but this contradicts the more Cartesian aspects of their psyche at work here. In the end, what it all boils down to is a crime spree perpetrated by inhuman, prison-trained criminals. So you can either see the film as purely a shock film meant to test the limits of one's endurance to disgusting, gratuitous violence or, to a lesser extent, you can see it as a critique of the American prison system and its manufacturing of hardened criminals. Whether or not you want to scratch the surface a bit is up to you but frankly, I can't say that I recommend it for you are unlikely to find anything really meaty underneath.

Seeing how the film is bursting with close-ups of flesh scraps hanging from various types of weapons, I am tempted to think the film as merely a gross-out fest, which isn't bad in itself, considering the type of audiences at which the film is aimed. However, it will never achieve greatness for it is founded on a contradiction of intentions crystallized in the burning desire to explain the inexplicable. A case example of this is the final rape scene. Before the main antagonist proceeds to rape the patriarch with his gun, he starts telling him about the rationale behind prison rape. He goes on to tell him that in prison, rape is made independently of pleasure, even desire. Apparently, it is merely a means to break one's spirit. And so, before jamming a gun in his ass, he assures him that he takes no pleasure out of it, but does it simply for business purposes. Not only is all of this bullshit (there's a direct connection between horniness and prison rape), but it impairs the sense of horror one might derive from such a rape scene. Because it allows the viewer to circumvent the event not as a manifestation of evil, but as a practical action. That said, it is what the mind can't conceive which terrifies it most, and that is how the horror genre has established itself as such a lasting form of expression. Bearing more resemblances to the psychological thriller than to the horror film per se, Knifepoint lacks the dramatic content to make it all stick.

Actually, it is narrative ambivalence which almost sinks the film. Because in the end, Knifepoint is made of restrained excess, hesitating between total gross-out horror and psychological drama, as if unsure of either one's potential to drive the story. By maximizing the bloodletting, it tends to tilt toward horror, but by circumventing it within the confines of a home invasion film, it penetrates the realm of genre-less cinema, with so-so results. Luckily for us, the film lives up to its tagline by offering a record amount of meaty grub, which allows it to redeem itself but only for a thin slice of film audiences, that of jaded gorehounds.

2,5/5: Mean and disgusting, this one will manage to impress even the most hardened gorehounds. Unfortunately, it will not impress anybody else.

Chop (2010)

With Chop, screenwriter Trent Haaga (Citizen Toxie, Deadgirl) tries his hand at directing with awful results. His would-be comical torture porn film may be less self-indulgent than the Saw films, but it is almost equally moralistic and definitely weaker in technical terms, which should tell you quite precisely how bad it is.

The film's premise is its strongest suit. It involves a recovering drug addict named Lance who crosses path with a very zealous everyman whom he has wronged in the past. The latter eventually kidnaps and tortures his former tormentor in order to pry out an admission of guilt, but Lance confesses to other crimes instead, for which the antagonist is prompt to find victims willing to join him in bloody retribution.

While many important plot points are established only in passing, with crude gestures devoid of emotion (such as the stroking of a crack pipe in order to establish Lance's former addiction), the narrative manages to draw you in somehow, mostly by veiling the nature of Lance's crime against the antagonist and making you wanting to know, even though you will necessarily suspect something so mundane as to jokingly defuse all dramatic tension.

Unfortunately, said intriguing narrative is marred by incredibly unimaginative direction (only halfway does the film break the chain of shots/counter-shots) and a crippling ambivalence between genuine drama and flat-out camp. The awfully limited lead is caught in a similar bind as he struggles to deliver both the lighthearted moments of comedy and the dramatic moments of tension, often grinning or sulking at grossly inappropriate times.

Look closely at the actors' faces. Notice the unease. It is as if the
pair was involved in a mid-term film school project...

Some inspired gore and a decent turn by Timothy Muskatell as the antagonist manage to elevate the whole a bit, but not up to par. The film almost peaks during a grotesque sequence in which a leather-clad S&M freak menaces to cut off the bound protagonist's leg and fuck the stump, carefully selecting the location where he wants to jizz. But as the action is cut short (by a non-collaborative ringleader), so does the film proves its lack of dedication toward its own would-be twisted material. Had there been some stump-fucking, I might have given the film an extra half-star for daring to go the extra mile. But as things stand, there's nothing novel enough here to recommend the film.

In the end, one could say that Chop is either a limp Header or a campy Saw, both of which are awfully bad. There's very little redeeming value here save for a couple of good jokes, which is sad for Muskatell, who does his best as the baby-faced psycho. Narrowly saved by the rather funny "twist" ending, Haaga's first film is best forgotten.

1,5/5 Some intriguing ideas are nullified by mediocre execution in this amateurish torture porn variation.

Red State (2011)

I wonder what the cynical adulescents of Kevin Smith's early films would have to say about Red State... Just imagine this new outing as The Phantom Menace seen through the eyes of bitchy, over-analytical Randall from Clerks. What would you think he'd say? Would he rip it to shreds? Probably. Would he point out how uncaring the work is in regards to fans? No doubt. Would he ever stop talking about how bad it is? No. And although I am reluctant to praise Randall in any way (except for his hilarious depiction of the Lord of the Rings trilogy and his closing rant against Dante at the end of Clerks), I must say that I felt exactly like him while watching Red State. I felt like an abused fanboy ready to latch out violently against what I considered to be a cruel trick by Smith. However, it also got me thinking of a practical way to remove the horrible shit stain left on the screen by the director. Another film, a sequel, about the reactions of nerdy fans to his abysmal new film. Then maybe he could redeem himself, seeing how he can only make relevant films when they're entirely located within the confines of malls, convenience stores, studios and other such places where slackers congregate to talk shit about this or that dreadful cultural product.

Are you seeing what I'm seeing?

Three high school slackers decide to go out one night and leave their boring suburban town in search of pussy. After selecting a nameless pair of tits from a singles website and making sure that its proprietor is willing to fuck them all at once, they hit the road in daddy's car and head for a distant trailer isolated by the dark, rural surroundings. Unfortunately for them, something unholy and ill-intentioned is also lurking in the shadows, ready to jump out and claim their soul. Demented preacher Abin Cooper, a composite archetype inspired by Fred Phelps and David Koresh, has actually lured the young men into the trailer in order to capture them and make them pay for their sins. Intended to die in a ritualistic execution, one of the guys escapes, but it doesn't matter, for his story becomes secondary as soon as the cynical fed played by John Goodman appears onscreen. The remainder of the film sees Cooper and his fanatical followers pitted against Goodman's agents in an endless, uninvolving gunfight, which drags the narrative slavishly to the end, where a succession of jokes finish defusing the mood set up in the first twenty minutes.

While eagerly anticipated by flocks and flocks of fans, Kevin Smith's new film, a confused hodgepodge of torture-porn-cum-action comedy, plays strictly for cheap laughs and dry, witless cynicism directed at the most obvious of targets, the Southern red states. In the literal sense, a red state is simply a Republican state. Hence, the film title alone should tell you just how unfocused Smith's attack on conservatives is. Gun-toting, gay-bashing, religious fanatics abound. Sometimes ridiculed to the point of silliness, sometimes gravely depicted, they never come off as characters. They're mere archetypes crafted to push on the viewer's buttons instead of being cogs in a real narrative. Such indeterminacy plagues the entire film, starting with the early promise of torture porn, which quickly evaporates to set the stage for a never-ending action sequence that would feel more at home in a Michael bay film. Torpedoed by Smith's unsure foot at the helm, and in the editing room, this film is a highly unwelcome departure from the character-driven, slacker-realist comedies that have made fat, bearded Smith a staple of the American indie scene. It is an ill-advised attempt at generating cynicism outside of his comfort zone and away from the involving and everyday look of his better outings. New rarely means better, and it is certainly not the case here.

Don't be fooled by the gag; this ain't a horror film.

I will not fiddle with the puck here, as Smith did while shooting his film. Red State is an exercise in futility, a tedious, never-ending series of uninspired, flavorless vignettes trying to pass off as a legitimate, high-minded critique of religious extremism. And while the main antagonist manages to give an occasional jolt of electricity to this lifeless outing, he cannot balance the shit-filled scale that is the narrative. Red State is probably one of the worst Fantasia films I have seen in years, and certainly the worst Kevin Smith film out there. While the famed anecdotalist struggles to create a coherent storyline out of the many big ideas and genre inclinations contained in the film, he also struggles in the editing room, where he multiplies the abrupt cuts and awkward alternations of contrasting moods contributing to the atrocious pacing of the ensemble. Cutting back and forth between genuine moments of dramatic tension, mean-spirited snippets of over-the-top violence and absurd comedy bits, the film ultimately amounts to a confused and highly dubious mish-mash of ideas thrown in a mixer, which is then flicked on with crossed fingers. It's like throwing the entire contents of your vegetable crisper in a blender, pushing the button and hoping for the best. In this case, Smith hadn't realized that there were lots of rotting onions and rancid kelp in the mix, which is probably what caused the debilitating sickness of his narrative.

Michael Parks does what he can to try and
bring a silly caricature to life

Aiming to please both his own fan-base and the horror film crowd, Smith manages to please neither. Because while he sets up an horror film early on, he never follows up on this, nor does he manage to craft the kind of likeable slackers and engrossing, over-the-top situations which he is famous for. Drawing energy from the torture porn premise he apparently vows to update, Smith offers horror fans a tantalizing perspective, which he never capitalizes upon. Instead, he abruptly branches into Greengrass-esque territory, leaving his three leads in the dust and starting anew, with a new protagonist and a new, lighter mood at the halfway mark of the film. The ultra-lengthy, but strangely involving monologue meant to establish Cooper as a delusional, but charismatic monster is thus defused and so are all the efforts made to establish mood up to that point. After that, the film never recovers, deconstructing and rebuilding itself endlessly much to the dismay of the viewer. Throw in some useless, incongruous peripheral characters such as the gay sheriff portrayed with unease by Stephen Root and you've got a narrative far too dense for its own good. Had I trusted my instincts, I would've walked out when the boat started drifting away toward the maelstrom of irrelevance. But I stayed instead... which isn't bad, considering the extra ammo I was given to whine about the film, and thus, to stay true to Kevin Smith, whom I still love.

1/5 Throw a whole bunch of narrative influences, bland caricatures and one hell of a vain, overlong gunfight together without any discrimination and you get something like this: an empty, uninspired farce that will forever scar Smith's filmography.

Another Earth (2011)

Imagination doesn't cost a penny: Another Earth

Young star and co-writer Brit Marling teams up with ex-boyfriend director, and fellow writer Mike Cahill to create somewhat of a rare gem: an effective, low-budget sci-fi film relying on human emotions rather than dry philosophical ideas to fuel its thesis. The result is a memorable film that will leave you shaken up, and one of the finest examples of indie cinema's power to capture the most intimate, and thus most relevant aspects of life. It is also a welcome addition to the sci-fi genre, which has almost vanished from contemporary screens, except in various truncated or diluted forms. Using the multiverse theory, the film questions the perennity of human mistakes and the dynamics of atonement and forgiveness as two complementary processes.

The protagonist of Another Earth is a brilliant young woman who commits an unforgivable act of vehicular manslaughter during a minute, drunken moment of inattention. Following a party thrown to celebrate her induction at the M.I.T., Rhoda takes her car home and inadvertently crashes into a BMW driven by renowned composer John Burroughs, killing his wife and son, while leaving the poor man in a coma. She draws four years in prison for this, during which the world becomes increasingly interested in the most recent astrological find, Earth 2, a mirror copy of the blue planet hanging in the sky as a tantalizing promise of hope. On its alien surface, speculation has it that another seven billion souls are living as we do, sharing our names and backgrounds while dwelling in mirror cities. The very find of Earth 2 coincides with the night of the crash, and it is actually the spectacle thereof which has caused Rhoda to stare away from the road for an instant, thus destroying the four lives of Burroughs, his wife, his son, and herself.

Unfortunately for physics-buff Rhoda, her Cartesian mind has no interest for Earth 2 after four years in jail but as an hypothetical source of atonement. You see, if one believes that their exact double lives on the mirror planet, sharing their name, appearance, background and so forth, one is also entitled to believe that a discrepancy might arise regarding the question of life choices. After all, aren't we, parental and social influences aside, simply the sum of the choices we have made through the years? For better or for worse, haven't we defined ourselves beyond the scope of our natural traits only by being cowardly at times and courageous at other times? To Rhoda, this question is of particular relevance. After all, what would be her life if she hadn't killed? What if the other Earth hadn't distracted her during that fatal moment four years before? Where would she be today? At M.I.T.? Probably. And if so, would she be close to solving the mystery of the obsessive doppelganger? At any rate, she certainly wouldn't be cleaning for a living, which she decides to do after hard time in jail has made her a social pariah. But then again, she wouldn't have the chance to cross paths with Burroughs either, and try to find atonement in the real world, while struggling with the raw emotions necessary for one to become truly human.

Aren't we the sum of our life choices?

Curious about the fate of her victim, Rhoda Google-searches him (how contemporary!) and learns of his address. And so, she works up the courage to contact him and ask for forgiveness. But when she is finally faced with the man, and the derelict looks he harbors, she is overwhelmed and quickly decides on a subterfuge to explain her visit. Seeing how she is a professional maid, she offers the ill-organized widow a highly dubious "trial cleaning". Right after rebuking her, Burroughs eventually accepts the proposal, on account of its gratuity, opening his home, and his secrets, to Rhoda. If the reigning disorder is any indication of the man's shattered resolve, things are very far from hunky-dory. And so, the young woman sets to work, literally and metaphorically putting order back into his life. To put it another way, she tries to give him back his life in exchange of her own, which she has abandoned after joining the caste of ex-cons.

That said, her ex-con status unlocks another narrative path when she decides to enter a contest to win a trip to Earth 2 as part of a leisurely trip organized by an opportunistic transport company. The rules are simple. All she has to do is write a 500-word essay, convincing said transport company that she is an ideal candidate for the trip. Romanticizing herself a social undesirable like the whores and criminals who crossed the Atlantic toward the New World, she claims to be a perfectly expandable crew member. As the story unfolds, this and the other narrative paths established earlier will converge to form a surprisingly coherent whole, one that leaves just the right amount of unanswered questions so as to stimulate the viewer while managing not to alienate him.

The screenplay contains many "what ifs" as does the imperfect human soul, devoured by nostalgia and grief. But as these questions multiply, we realize that they all bear the same answer, an earthly answer, anchored in the tangible world we experience everyday and delineated, as all things earthly, by the spectrum of human emotions. Earth 2 can thus be understood as nothing more than a wish distracting one from the more concrete, more real aspects of life. After all, asking "what if" only amounts to wishful thinking and it never helps one solve the problems ahead of him. That said, there is only one way to go and it is forward, not backward or sideways. The only forks in the road that one should contemplate are the ones ahead. Previous ones, the choice of an occupation, the choice of a mate or the choice of driving drunk for example, have since been crystallized into static memories. And instead of dwelling on these memories, one should use the emotional content therein as a driving force and shed the hypothetical "what ifs" embodied by the multiverse theory.

After all, one has but one life to live, and this is how the two protagonists eventually make sense of human existence, helping each other in times of need to the fullest extent allowed by their flaws and character limitations. Painful memories and the desire to overcome those memories is what fuels them, allowing them to grow beyond their immediate feelings into the more noble realm of human virtues. Thus, forgiveness and atonement become more than "what ifs". They become a beautiful reality as two complementary processes involving two complementary beings whose lives are intertwined both in love and hate and whose bodies and minds are probed and felt by each other in a celebrated sense of communion, which makes Another Earth one of the most relevant, most touching films I have seen this year at Fantasia.

The intimate camera perfectly delineates the Earthly
nature of the drama at hand

Narratively, the film achieves the crucial task of infusing the sci-fi premise with palpable human drama, without which the genre is no less sterile than an action film without action. This is achieved through the issues delineated by the screenplay, as well as through the sense of immediacy brought forward by the clinging hand-held camera. Oftentimes, it transforms immediacy into urgency, such as when it frames Rhoda's pale skin in close-up as she bares her body and lies down in the snow in order to die the frigid death she thinks she deserves. Drama is multiplied tenfold by the crisp, inhospitable aspect of the snow against her fragile skin as captured by the prying eye of the lens. Then there is that love scene, or the sight of Rhoda's finger tapping on a wooden table, all little things on which the camera focuses, giving the viewer the impression that there is no space between life as they experience it everyday and life as it is captured onscreen.

And while the camera frames details in order to better flesh out the tangible reality of the narrative, so too does the screenplay uses everyday details to seamlessly integrate the sci-fi elements within said narrative. To that effect, the film contains a blabbermouth DJ, who comments mundanely about the discovery of Earth 2, as if it were no more than a traffic incident. Then, there is that wonderful scene in which a woman scientist tries to make contact with the not-so-distant planet, managing to reach another woman scientist whom she establishes as a mirror self using a common childhood memory, that of "space berries". If God is in the details, than so is the crafting of an involving sci-fi film. And while the simple use of everyday elements to anchor otherworldly concepts in a readily intelligible reality trumps the recourse to overly elaborate, extravagant devices and situations (such as futuristic space shuttles or apocalyptic disaster scenes), it also allows idea-driven efforts such as Another Earth to bypass budget limitations. That said, a mere imprint of Earth hung in the sky becomes a very powerful narrative device. Actually, it was the sight thereof which sold me to the idea of the film. I mean, here's another hospitable planet in our midst. What does it hold? The dream of any space explorer, or anybody with the slightest inkling of imagination is suddenly realized. That promise alone is enough to warrant the purchase of a ticket. As for the fact that the narrative contained within is just as subtle and involving as that promise, it is almost miraculous.

4/5 Indie cinema at its best: wits defy low production values to create a supremely engrossing sci-fi wonder.

Love (2011)

Contrarily to what some critics would have you believe, Love is not too ambitious. The problem here lies not in scale or feasibility, but in the crew's lack of confidence in their own skills as filmmakers. And while it does seem like an ordeal to seamlessly merge two timelines almost two hundred years apart (one will probably be reminded of Aronofsky's The Fountain here), it could've been carried out successfully hadn't it been for the overwhelming soundtrack by Angel & Airwaves and the overly wordy screenplay. But as it stands, despite great cinematography and some extremely crafty art direction (the futuristic space station and replicated 19th century battlefield are a sight to behold), the film reminds one of a music video, stretched to the unbearable length of 90 minutes.

Early jitters: first-time director Eubank isn't convinced by
the intelligibility of his images, needs explanatory dialogue to
complement every one of them

The year is 2039. Gunner Wright stars as Lee Miller, a single astronaut aboard a space station, which he is given the task of maintaining. All is well and good until the man loses contact with his base back on Earth and becomes stranded in the sidereal void, completely cut-off from his loved ones, and the oh-so awesome humanity he has left behind. At first, he manages to keep his sanity by exercising and trying his hand at the ship's comm station. But as years pass by, he becomes increasingly desperate and starts sinking into madness, which is depicted with all the conventional signs thereof (endless monologues, writings on the wall, hallucinations, dwindling personal hygiene...). At some point, Miller stumbles upon a handwritten diary describing the exploits of a soldier in the American Civil War on a mission to investigate some alien remnants in the desert. And thus, two distinct timelines collide, the earliest of which contains the brief, introductory chapter of the film. As the astronaut starts reading, endlessly pursuing a tedious conversation with himself, so does time pass, until the year 2045, when he decides to exit the space station, no matter the cost.

And so Miller's ordeal lasts from 2039 through to 2045, two dates which weren't chosen arbitrarily. After all, the film is about memory, memory as one's last recourse against death. Since science has now located the cradle of thoughts and feelings directly in the brain, death necessarily implies the disappearance of what we understand as "conscience". While this has allowed the liberation of many from the clutches of religion, it has also left them in a distressing void. The death of one's conscience is not a very exciting perspective and so people strive to be remembered after their deaths so as to attain immortality through agency. That is why one needs peers so dearly: for remembrance, and for providing material on which to leave a lasting imprint. And so the titular emotion, while it is hardly an item that can be precisely delineated, is understood as a way to leave an indelible mark on humanity and thus transcend the reality of death, which is what grants it supreme relevance within the narrative.

This is all well and good and there are many unseen depths to the screenplay. Unfortunately, the execution is completely atrocious. While one would need to reflect on the images onscreen and to bask in solitude in order to better understand the protagonist's plight, the director constantly overwhelms us with the presence of humanity. While silence would've best befitted most scenes, as Love vies to use absence in order to convince its audience of the need for agency, we get deafening music all the way through. And I do mean deafening, as the soundtrack becomes increasingly distracting from the images at hand. Then, there's the incessant blabbering as lonely Miller enters in an endless dialogue with himself, his home base and various hallucinatory characters.

Director Eubank seems to think that Angels & Airwaves hold
the whole world in the palm of their hand

Hell, there is one instant where he picks up an instruction manual detailing how to service a certain control panel. When he does, the camera frames the pages as he flips through them. A Russian text appears onscreen. And so we understand that the protagonist cannot grasp the instructions. Any further reaction of frustration coming from him should become immediately intelligible. So there is no need to have the actor whine about the instructions being in Russian, or worst, make a joke about it. So why does director Eubank do it? Is it because he doesn't give us credit for understanding the images onscreen, or is it rather that he doesn't give himself credit for creating immediately intelligible images? In all fairness, I believe that the latter assumption is true, and that is precisely what torpedoes the film.

While the images Eubank crafts bear some definite narrative weight in themselves, the man decides instead to put sound in charge of propelling the storyline. Which is a terrible mistake considering that the film aims (not unlike Tarkovsky's wondrous adaptation of Lem's Solaris) at cultivating a sort of nostalgia for human contact and what one could call the paramount human feature, love. And while it is hard to convey the feeling of love through the sight of Malibu sunsets (which Miller dubs the grandest sight he ever beheld) and some snippets of a half-naked beach bimbo (the astronaut's wife) who seems to have crawled out of some Miami strip club, it is even harder to convey solitude when the film is crowded with extra-loud noise and incessant dialogue. Strangely unhappy with the well-composed shots he has painstakingly crafted, Eubank doesn't abide by the principle according to which an image is worth a thousand words. He rather seems to think that each image is worth no word at all, and that they all need to be complemented by a thousand words. This creates a film far too dense for its own good, one which eventually self-destructs under the weight of its own uncertainty. It is as if every point Eubank was trying to make couldn't be shown pictorially, but needed instead to be hammered home with an abundance of dumb, explanatory texts and one hell of a nasty power drill called Angels and Airwaves, which ends up numbing the viewers' sensory apparatus to the point of obliviousness.

A distinct feeling of déjà-vu overshadows the entire project

The use of talking heads is a further example of Eubank's lack of self-confidence, and a surprising one at that. Popping up here and there while the main narrative is unfolding are random people's confessions, all of which would feel more at home in a TV report about recovering alcoholics. While all these interventions follow a common thread, each vying for the need of human agency, they feel completely superfluous considering the nature of the narrative, which itself emphasizes that point a great deal. Said interventions actually impair the flow of the film and its unrealized need for absence. They also point to the crippling legitimacy crisis plaguing Eubank's work. By resorting to such a vox populi, the director seems to require outside intervention to help him establish his own, very personal message, trading the author's mastery over his own material for the reassuring multiplicity of arguments. Unfortunately, a film is not a philosophical treaty and so the accumulation of proof will not necessarily amount to a better result, only a more tangled one.

Strangely enough, ex-cinematographer Eubank doesn't even seem to grasp the importance of cinematography in setting the mood of a film, but also in telling the story outright. And so he relies far too heavily on sound, as if trying to find crutches for an Olympic sprinter. Metaphors aside, his film would've been much, much better had there been no sound at all and had one been given the chance to watch the screen and not the cracks forming behind the speakers. In a bid to strengthen his central thesis by every mean at his disposal, and trying to make sure everybody got the point, what Eubank ended up doing is alienating his target audience, fans of space as a black, empty void, those very people who look at the stars in quiet awe, hoping that film could capture, as Kubrick, Tarkovsky and Scott did, the feeling of wonder one derives from otherworldly silence and solitude. Which is precisely the kind of expectations that the director generates when blatantly referencing untouchable classics such as Solaris and 2001: A Space Odyssey, two films without which most of the ideas contained in Love would be non-existent. That said, attempting to crossover those two latter films is a very dangerous move for it necessarily forces comparison, highlighting Eubank's weaknesses as a director and making his film seem pointless.

Upon exiting the theater, a close friend and sci-fi enthusiast voiced his lack of appreciation for Love with a somewhat relevant question: "Whose idea was it to make a lesser copy of 2001?", he asked. And while this comparison is rather unfair, it should precisely reflect the inner reaction of any film buff at the threshold of the revolving doors. After all, Eubank's work will always draw that kind of resentment for it replicates too many of Kubrick's images without even thinking twice about their contemplative nature. But while some might call this a travesty, I call it merely a faux-pas. After all, the man at the helm shows some definite potential, which he shall exploit fully when he stops borrowing and finds a voice of his own.


2/5 Love underplays some superb pictorial assets to better showcase its derivative ideas, knack for superfluous dialogue and pathological obsession with Angels and Airwaves (from whom the title of the present film is borrowed!). It's a shame because first-time director Eubank shows some definite potential, which should come to fruition when he starts taking control over his own material.

Neighborhood Watch (2005)

Note: This review contains images of extreme gore. Please stop reading if you are easily offended by the sight of a man's hand probing his own insides. Otherwise, please enjoy.

Cheaply made but devilishly efficient, this rugged entry in the suburban horror sub-genre is a maelstrom of despair that engulfs your soul in a repugnant spiral of disillusionment that will leave broken and hollow. The weirdly excessive gore scenes showcased near the end are in it for a small part, but what really distinguishes this film from other such genre entries is its permeating ugliness. The characters, the sets, the situations, everything here shares an unfathomable crass quality that actually makes them all uneasy to look at. More importantly, Neighborhood Watch offers no safe haven to the viewer, no break. It is ugly from top to bottom. It is a prison that you will unlikely leave unscathed. And, distressing as it may be, it is a prison with airs of reality.

A prison with airs of reality:
the Zeecor corporation.

How disgusting is life?

Let us take care of the bullshit first. While the film boasts to be based on real events, it doesn't derive any form of realism from it. Besides, realism is rarely an asset in an horror film. What we have got here is a depressing semblance of reality. It's a narrative that could be conceived as plausible, but only in a very specific context of mental illness. The film's efficiency derives not from such considerations. It derives from an overwhelming, and somewhat artificial, insistence on the uglier aspects of daily life and our casual acceptance thereof. The problem is not with a certain undercurrent of madness plaguing American Southerners, as one is let to believe by the offensive ramblings of a nasty radio guru which the protagonist listens to day-in day-out, it is with the daily sacrifices we have to make in order to attain a prefabricated form of happiness, which the desert bungalow is synonymous with. It is also a film about the part everyone plays in the unhappiness of his neighbors and fellowmen. And while it hammers its point home with some shockingly repulsive imagery and a healthy dose of grotesque caricature, it never loses sight of the ball. In short, Neighborhood Watch is trash with a purpose.

The plot of the film involves newlyweds Bob and Wendi moving into a ghost town created by the nefarious Zeecor corporation, where Bob has just landed a job. Despite the decrepit aspect of the town and its senile population, the couple seems happy at first, enjoying the feeling of success one can derive from the ownership of a desert bungalow. But soon after their arrival, they become plagued by a mentally-disturbed neighbor named Adrian Trumbull, a man so evil and despicable as to elicit disgust from even the most forgiving of Christians. Annoyed with the couple having sex in his sterile, sexless town, the man does everything he can to intrude in their lives, appearing as a friend to be when he is actually akin to the antichrist. As a token of good will, he even offers his neighbors candy, which he has laced with powerful laxatives. After a while, during which Bob and Wendi try to ward Adrian off to no avail, he even poisons their water supply, sending them in a wicked spiral of sickness. But after many trials and tribulations, including many nasty scenes in the bathroom, Trumbull is defeated while performing some amateur surgery on himself.

Suburban dilemma: Unwanted
generosity vs panicked refusal.

Prefabricated towns, prefabricated villains
While it is quite easy to grasp the protagonists' terror, antagonist Adrian Trumbull remains a very problematic figure. Halfway between the casually intrusive neighbor and the demented psycho, he seems to be both a would-be realistic and a fantastically evil character. While his mild-mannered, slightly insistent relationship with the protagonists seems to imply nothing more than a clumsy attempt at dialogue, the overdetermined sets used to depict the inside of his house would seem to suggest a total loon. The dark, cluttered space where he spends his days, his chaotic collection of jars containing pickled body parts and poisons, the offensive radio chatter that hums in the air and the guy's nasty habit of eating the crusty bits of flesh surrounding a stitched-up wound on his hairy belly, all of these point squarely to an unrepentant madman. And while these somewhat generic indicators of madness contribute their fair share to the disturbing imagery of the film, they contrast with the more grounded, would-be realistic horror elements used in setting up the narrative. Most importantly, it makes Adrian to be a man so whacked out as to warrant some sort of characterization. Making him instead to be a simple consumer of radio drivel doesn't even start to explain his current situation. If you're still unsure about my words, then please be directed to the official website of the film in order to better bask in the atmosphere permeating Adrian Trumbull's house. What you will find is something far removed from the standard esthetics of the suburban horror film, where horror is hidden beyond the surface. What you will find is the endless multiplication of "horrific" surfaces, something akin to what had previously been done with John Doe's apartment in Se7en, but without as much relevance within the narrative. And while I feel the makers of this film should've expended on Adrian's background, I also feel that this could've been a self-defeating exercise as nothing could possibly be satisfactory in trying to explain his casual evilness. As it stands, the man is perhaps too much of a caricature, or a caricature that's just out of synch with the other caricatures contained in spades within the film.

I remember seeing this film the year it came out, but I also remember hating it. When trying to recall why, I can only think about the lame story structure and the somewhat redundant nature thereof. I also remember being underwhelmed by the gore after falling victim to the overblown publicity focused on supposed cases of hives and nervous breakdowns suffered by theater patrons during test screenings. I mean, if one were to put an unsuspecting housewife in front of this film, then maybe you would garner such pathological results. But seeing how I shared the screening with the hardened crowd of Fantasia (where only one person out of a sold-out crowd of 750 walked out of A Serbian Film), I should've known better and expect nothing in the way of transcendental gore. But being the explorer of extreme horror that I am, I still entertained a crazy hope fueled by my own emotional instability. And I was let down. Actually, it took a second screening, during one of my frequent moments of depression, for me to really understand what the film was truly about, namely everyday horror, and not extraordinary horror as I was first led to believe.

Extraordinary horror: Adrian
Trumbull probing his own insides.

Horror is in the desert bungalow
With the aggressive publicity campaign focused on the goriest, but also most overdetermined aspects of the film, the distributors of this film have failed to delineate the most horrific aspects thereof, namely the everyday ugliness to be found in the protagonist's occupation and the "dream house" which he has just bought with his candid wife. The arid, lawn-less exterior of the bungalow, its repulsive architecture and darkened interiors contribute much more to the horrific atmosphere permeating the film than the stuffy interiors of Adrian Trumbull's house, with its jars full of preserved body parts and poisons. Youthful dreams of ownership, moving up in the world, starting a family, these are all dirtied by the process of realizing that dream by selecting the cheapest package available, including corporate lodging in a ghost town filled with old people and the physical partaking in the environmental crimes committed by said corporation. Then, there's the possibility of ladder-climbing, but it involves the whoring of oneself in an effort to be extracted from the window-less depths of a bland office building. As disruptive as it may appear, the involvement of a psychotic neighbor hellbent on poisoning you is merely a supplementary horror thrown on an overcrowded canvas. Besides, the overdetermined imagery associated with the man's evil eventually falls flat but in the places where one can imagine him to be nothing more than an intrusive neighbor, which taps into the mundane aspects of horror that I praise here.

That said, despite the highly implausible surgery scenes, the overly aggressive tone of the radio preacher and the excessively cluttered shelves permeating the antagonist's lair, the whole thing plays out along terms familiar enough to make you share the protagonists' ordeal. Seeing how it revolves around everyday annoyances (such as a neighbor's annoying intrusiveness, trouble in the workplace and a fading sense of community), it will undoubtedly involve even the most level-headed viewer. There is no supernatural occurrences here, no vampire or alien next door, just the straightforward, highly intelligible reality of sickness. Hence, the power of diarrhea, hives, and stomachaches to better help the viewer partake in the action as a physical entity not impervious to sickness. The sneaky nature of chemical warfare (depicted as an expedient both for Adrian and the Zeecor corporation) takes a horrific dimension in the corporeality of the protagonists and their fellowmen (the viewers). As for the crumbling sense of community, it also affects us all on both sides of the screen. The isolation of the protagonists, their alienation with their neighbors, their vain attempt to mobilize people under the titular banner, all of this should also hit the viewer right at home, where all of our individual/familial bubbles are lined up contiguously without really touching or interpenetrating. Horror is thus produced not by introducing an horrific element within a homely world, but by highlighting (with recourse to a caricature) the horrific elements deeply ingrained in what should be a homely world.

Everyday horror: the desert
bungalow as dream house.

Deadly end in sight

Repackaged under the lame title Deadly End, Neighborhood Watch has left the festival scene for the video market without much of a fuss, the main reason being that it isn't your average horror film. It is a highly offensive piece of trash. Still, it is a very powerful, very depressing effort as it cultivates the darker aspects of a somewhat mundane reality. In my mind, this is a film not unlike Belgian export Ex-Drummer in the sense that I would both recommend you see it, but also stay away from it. Both these films are so repulsive in their depiction of everyday life as to completely depress you. But they do so for a purpose. They do so for you to look around for a moment, and think. Think about what it is for you to live your life as you do, and what it is for others to live their lives, then think about what it is you could do so that the bleakness shown in these movies is no more. I originally wanted to rate the film 3 out of 5, but as I was writing the present review, I felt a sort of icky feeling against my skin. I even shied away from a third viewing, knowing what to expect, but not exactly sure that I wanted to experience it... Such staying power is rare amongst casual genre films. And if you consider director Graeme Whifler's career, it is all the more impressive, seeing how he thus trades the silly one-liners of flat slasher film Dr. Giggles (which he penned) for corrosive satire, making Neighborhood Watch more than a simple video UFO, but a masterpiece in its own right.


3/5 Cheap, but very effective, this film successfully walks the fine line between satire and farce to create a very twisted meditation on the horrors of everyday life.

Footnote 02/14: Removed half a star from the rating. Got carried away again because of my depressed mindset at the time of writing this review. 

Needful Things (1993)

Prior to watching this garden-variety Stephen King adaptation, I had heard only bad things about it. So I was surprised at first to see how lush the production was, how competent the direction, and how many talented actors were involved (including the vastly under-used Ed Harris). As expected, the action is set in a small, New-England-y coastal town where decent, hard-working folks are just waiting to have their lives ruined by a supernatural apparition. This town comes complete with relatively complex, interlocking relationships between characters that make it appear like a boiling kettle of repressed emotions. The table is thus set for the ungodly apparition of Max Von Sydow. Although disguised as a mild-mannered shopkeeper, we soon find out that he is actually the Devil, out to claim the souls of Castle Rock's inhabitants. Just as the Devil would, he uses his cunning and wisdom to cash in on the townsfolk' repressed emotions and pit them against one another until they start taking out guns and meat cleavers against their neighbors. The premise of the film is actually not bad at all but in the end, thanks to a mostly plastic-minded director, Needful Things reveals itself to be criminally ineffective and wholly forgettable.

What went wrong? The actors all try their best. J.T. Walsh is particularly memorable as a manic yacht salesman named Keeton (and nicknamed Buster) while Max Von Sydow does a decent job of creating the suave aristocrat elaborated by the constrictive screenplay. The truth is that he doesn't act as an antagonist at all, more as an elderly prankster. This fact alone defuses the story a great deal. I mean, where's the horror when demons are merely characterized by plastic nails and Victorian houses? Where's the horror when the ultimate incarnation of evil is more courteous than my grandmother? The answer is that horror is actually nowhere to be found. The whole film rather plays out like a huge prank, and despite the rising body count, still maintains its careless, juvenile attitude toward human beings all the way through. Lives are lost here, without the slightest hint of drama... as if the filmmakers themselves had made a pact with the Devil that would replace their compassion with cynicism. Even the underwhelming finale seems like a practical joke pulled by Satan's lackey. It's as if Needful Things itself had paired with its characters on the path to oblivion, for it is truly a film without a soul.

"Oh, God! What's that behind you? No, I'm serious! There's really
something behind you!" (Max von Sydow as The Millenial Prankster)

The film could've been made by a robot. It is only a mechanical addition of purely picturesque scenes meant the push the plot a little further, not unlike a broken car on a straight road which needs to go from A to B in the least amount of time. But this succession of tableaux sums up to nothing significant, just to an ending that earns its name only because it is located before the end credits. A large part of the film's runtime is dedicated to a tiresome repetition of the novel's main, lame gimmick of the poisoned, "revelatory" gift. You see, in order to convince the townsfolk to do his bidding, the Devil first has to offer them a "needful" thing, which is an item from his shop that bears some special, "emotional" significance to the person to whom it is given. Whether it is a Mickey Mantle TOPS card, a precious porcelain figure or a forgotten leather jacket, all these items generate a slew of special effects as well as a succinct, shallow flashback when they come into contact with their new proprietors. Now, these flashbacks are all needless for they neither help develop the characters nor do they help justify their subsequent actions. The whole thing is just a convenient plot device, but such an under-developed one that it doesn't even function as a critique of consumerism. It merely seems to alienate the killers/pranksters from their deeper, more intrinsic motivations toward mischief and murder. Worse is that it totally fails to convince us, the audience, that the greed for these objects might actually warrant the more hardcore pranks contained in the film. For instance, when the town bum kneels beside a pet dog and readies a switchblade for the ensuing slaughter while confessing that he will do anything to keep his "needful" leather jacket, we cannot help but be somewhat perplexed by his actions. Nothing in the screenplay can justify this sudden outburst of evil besides "magic", which is also true for most of the events seen onscreen. Following the skinning of her dog by the town bum, the lonely and reserved Netty (played by Amanda Plummer) viciously attacks the woman whom she thinks has done the deed, unaware that this woman's house was vandalized earlier by a kid who cherished a "needful" baseball card. Armed with meat cleavers and butcher's knives, the two women confront each other. "You killed my dog!" says one. "You destroyed my house!" says the other. Then they fight it off to the death. HA HA HA! Lovely prank! No characterization, no drama, no tension, just a fucking prank! That's how unconcerned the filmmakers are with their characters. Same thing when they have a twelve-year old kid shoot himself in the head (!). There is no real narrative basis for such an action but it happens. It is as inevitable as Satan's visit to Small Town, USA. And we're supposed to lap it up... The filmmakers have clearly sided with the dark lord on this one, and have produced an effort that's more of a joke than an actual horror film. A good premise, and some good money have thus been utterly wasted. And that's the real joke.

The problem here seems to stem from a misconception about what constitutes a good literary adaptation. What seems to have happened is that the filmmakers have used King's novel as a template for the actions seen onscreen, while excising all the psychological subtleties and interior monologues necessary to really situate the characters and drama within the story. What is left is a skeletal outline of a plot that's populated with nice sets, capable actors, a sharp sense for photography, but no people. No victims or villains. Only lukewarm emotions of anticipation and quiet wonder seem to emerge as strange and shocking events unfold before our eyes, but fail to make us care in any way. The only thing in the film that will probably make you squirm is the shocking lack of narrative progression when it comes to the awfulness of the deadly pranks initiated by the Devil. First, you will be confronted by teenage pranks such as throwing shit on drying sheets, and the following minute, you will see skinned dogs and hacked women. The filmmakers wanted a seamless transition between such events, but it failed to materialize. The creepiness is instantaneous, but it only creeps you out for the short period of time wherein you're wondering "What the fuck?". Then it's business as usual in the lame world of the film.

Only the most hardcore of Stephen King completists should want to watch this film. Level-headed fans will probably prefer to steer clear as the novel is certainly superior and elaborate enough to make you care for the human victims. On a positive note, I must say that the film contains one of the best cat fights of all times. No bursting breasts or sweat-soaked thighs here, but some really explosive blade action and flying furniture that will surely make your eyes glitter. Unfortunately, this scene alone isn't enough to keep the sinking boat afloat. You might actually want to fast-forward to that scene, watch it, then power off your DVD player, and watch Motel Hell instead as it comes in the same three-pack. As for buying a single copy of Needful Things, forget it. If you wanna see devils making fun of you, just turn on CNN...

2/5 An easter egg of a film: a gorgeous hollow shell.

Dead End (2003)

Review #0051

"That fucking film, dude..."

Buckle up. It's going to be a bumpy ride. Just look at mom's face.

I don't quite remember why I picked up a VHS copy of Dead End. I must've read one good review and thought that the 2$ price tag was fair. I had only a mild interest in it which could best be described as a collector's impulse, or the inexplicable drive to amass, as if to compensate for loss or absence in other aspects of life. In any case, I didn't expect much from the film. And while it isn't much indeed, it's the best it could've been considering its ambitions. When I first saw it, I was happily surprised. When I saw it again, I was even more happily surprised because it does what it has to do so well while being totally unpretentious about it. Dead End is a textbook exemple of how to successfully do a B-rated horror film. And this sort of little films sure come in handy on cold, lonely, winter nights.

On Christmas Eve, a typical American family including the square-jawed, grey-haired dad, granny-ish mom, rebellious teenage son, studious, blonde daughter with a jock boyfriend, all are driving on a dark road towards the house of some relatives. At some point, dad inexplicably takes a detour, stating that he was bored with the Interstate, and feared sleep. As we all know, detours are never a good idea in horror films. Evidently, here is no exception as strange events start unfolding. There's a mysterious woman in white near the road, a ghastly apparition with a nasty gap on her forehead and a silent baby wrapped in sheets. There's a hearse roaming the road, hellbent on capturing the souls of the recently deceased and a small, empty cabin which is actually the only interior in all the film (save for the car itself). Creepy stuff happens which I can't reveal without spoiling the fun, and all the while, the characters' exposition continues. The road stretches hundreds of miles without any intersection as the characters desperately try to find a way out. The plot is simple enough, and pretty linear. Nonetheless, there are enough twists and turns to keep you interested until the mystery finally unravels and you go: "Damn, that was a crazy ride, but it was worth it!"

The woman in white is a fox: beautiful, cunning and deadly.

Cool people will inevitably tell you that they figured out the ending a couple of minutes in, which is entirely plausible considering the number of hints that the spectator has to work with. For those of us with regular insight, or more to the point, for those of us with a distrust in screenwriters so strong that they will not be convinced of any obvious truth until the drop of the curtain, the scenario will have you guessing all the way through. At any rate, the ability to predict the film's ending shouldn't impair its appreciation. It could actually heighten it, for there is no twist ending here, but a carefully planned one. You just have to observe how the mystery unfolds to capture the relevance of every scene. And reflect on how everything is precisely in its right place. Personnally, I find that it is always better to know a film's ending before even walking in the theater. That way, you can enjoy the film on a technical level without being a slave to the narrative. In saying this, I am trying to convince curious people that in this case, the ending does not make the film. It merely closes it, leaving you begging for more.

All in all, Dead End's success relies on two key elements: a strong scenario that successfully walks the thin line between humor and horror and a highly capable, and obviously willing cast led by bona fide B star Ray Wise. Ol' Ray is splendid as the over-burdened father. His stone-faced approach makes it feasible for him to handle touchy, dramatic scenes with the same ease as darkly humorous ones. 25-year-old TV actor Mick Cain first appears miscast as the family's wisecracking teenage son, but he actually does a pretty good job of bringing to life what is essentially an obnoxious brat which you will love to hate. Both guys have this zany energy that could only stem from self-enjoyment in their work, but it is ultimately Lin Shaye who steals the show as the manic-depressive mother who twitches her way through the second act, and eventually dies of an auto-erotic brain massage (!!). Truly everyone here did what they could to make this humble effort a success, including the people behind the camera.

The directors make the most of their budget by deciding to suggest carnage rather than to show it. The result is an heightened sense of horror stemming from our own input. Most of the time, there is only a small part of a corpse protruding into the frame, or the mere hint of an atrocity (such as a severed ear or the schematic drawing of a corpse) to feast upon, which is fine considering that showing poor gore could only undermine the legitimacy of the film. And besides, seeing is not as much fun as imagining, especially when cued by the characters' horrified faces. There's actually a real sense of dread emanating from the aftermath of each execution as characters fall into diverse states of madness and the chessboard is rearranged accordingly. Add to that the oppressive atmosphere stemming from dark woodlands surrounding the characters and you've got a pretty solid horror film all around. Apart from the epilogue, which I thought was over-long and over-explanatory while featuring some of the worst acting in the film, there is nothing really bad here. On the other hand, there are many interesting little novelties, or at least rarities, such as the death by brain massage or the "jerking off in the woods" part (I might have to take cues from the film, me who has actually jerked off in the woods once), little irreverent bits, which would not necessarily have been possible in a bigger-budget film.

Guessing might just be more fun than seeing.

I have mentionned the strong scenario, but it is actually amazing to see how brilliant and relevant its unfolding is. This here is truly a great cathartic adventure for the characters, all of which have dirty secrets that slowly seep out, adding not only to the characters' background, but to the sense of despair and desillusion with family life and the sacredness of some of the more incongruous family tradition, such as the dreaded (and obligatory) Christmas reunion. Christmas is actually a pretty shitty time of year for most adults. They need to drive hundreds of miles on slippery roads, in the dark, while listening to stupid carols and whining kids, all that to meet a bunch of people whom they hate, but whom they have to hypocritically treat with respect, lest their teetering marriages come to an end and they risk losing half of their possessions. Really, Christmas is particularly cathartic, especially since alcool and high-strung emotions are likely to be involved, which will loosen tongues and allow truth to rear its ugly head. This is actually a perfect set-up for an horror film. From the getgo, it gives you dark roads and dark emotions. True horror is only a few steps away in the nether regions of family life. But we all know that, through crisis, family members band back together, which is what happens here through an intriguing mechanic of attraction/repulsion which perfectly exemplifies the highs and lows experienced by all families. Of course, there are no intricate psychological subtelties here, only well-written, well-acted characters who appear entirely believable, almost more so when beginning to teeter on the brink of insanity and despair.

So, what we have here is both a great gimmick film, sort of a mystery monster movie, but also a somewaht interesting character study. The thing is that Christmas reveals a person's character (and his dark secrets) better than any other event. It is the great cathartic force behind the film. Sure, the more grisly aspects of the film may well constitute the meat of it. But eventually, it is the continual exposition of the characters which holds it together (in that, it might act as the gravy). Every event in the film is meaningful because it triggers and outpouring of secrets as the characters become more and more psychologically unstable. Everything in here is perfectly integrated in the grander scheme, as it should be. There is a reason for every scene that goes beyond the need for a new kill, and there is an evolution of the characters that follows accordingly. Hell, who said all horror films were dumb slashers?

All in all, what's great about Dead End is the smarts put in, but most importantly, the willingness and sheer enjoyment that the makers of this film hold for their work, which are prominently shown in every scene. Sure, the people responsible for this might just be there to make a buck. To make their salary and solemnly claim: "Another day, another dollar". Maybe they don't care about film fans, about horror, or about film in general... Nonetheless, they do the best they can. They're impeccable professionals. And you can admire that, as you should in every other domain: dedication to one's work. Maybe not passion, but at least a sense of responsibility which I should dare call honesty. A beautiful, but rare thing, this...

Don't judge a book by its cover... Otherwise you might think that Catcher in the Rye is shit.

I have considered many aspects of the film in my appreciation of it, but the main point I should try to make concerns its incredible potential amongst genre fans. Now, I wouldn't say the film is innovative. Sure, it does have its moments of mad brilliance, and yes, it does contain things I had never seen before. Nonetheless, it remains somewhat generic. The major thing that distinguishes it from other B-series, or straight-to-video, and ultimately ephemeral efforts is excellence. I'm talking almost perfect here. Perfect because it doesn't have lofty goals or pretentious, philosophical aspirations. Perfect in what it is trying to do.

For me, the film was a sleeper hit. I bought it in a lowly bargain bin many years ago for two measly dollars with which I can't even buy a hotdog at the Bell Center. The other night, I took it out of my library and put it in my old VHS player. The only thing I could then remember is having been surprisingly happy when I first saw it, alone on a cold winter night, wrapped in a blanked and chilled to death by the intolerable sense of dread that permeates the film (and which I found again intact the second time around). For me, the association was simple: I had just watched a confused mess of a film and its setting had reminded me of Dead End. Inside of myself, I couldn't bear the fact that me and my friends were watching Five Across the Eyes while Dead End sat on the shelf, collecting dust. It didn't seem fair for Andrea, Canepa, Wise and crew. So I had no hesitation, and God, am I glad to have trusted my instincts. The film was a hit! One of my friend kept saying: "That fucking film, dude..." as the plot twisted and turned. In the end, the cold hard truth is that, for the price you're likely to pay for this film, it's most probably worth it. You won't expect a thing, you will think, as I did: "This film can't possibly be good, just look at the cover!" But that's where you would be wrong: Never judge a book by its cover.

***  A textbook example of how to create a great B-movie.

Footnote 02/14: Removed half a star from the rating. Guess I got carried away after the film saved me from embarrassment on a night where I made the mistake of renting Five Across the Eyes (see full story here).