Fantasia 2012 (Recap)

(The following is a biographical recap of my experience at the festival. If you don't care for it,  please proceed to the next section, The limitations of genre cinema, or C'est à la Cinémathèque que ça se passe. ) 

Whew! It is finally over! My 75-film ordeal has come to an end, and I can now reclaim my life. But not without certain hurdles. The screen has gone blank and it now seems that everything around me has taken a sudden shade of gray. The streets surrounding the Concordian campus have lost all of their picturesque quality ever since I first ventured through the colorful alleys crisscrossing through the Filipino slums. Even the most extreme road accidents and gang shootings now seem mundane to me after I bore witness to so many heroes withstanding lethal blows only to come out unscathed. I had gladly surrounded myself with a magical veil for the last few weeks, but now that veil has been lifted on a drab world devoid of charm and magic. Like every year, the escapism provided by Fantasia has ultimately faded and violently exposed the appalling void that fills our lives. 

Still, it is nice to finally emerge from the hectic lifestyle I had to adopt in order to withstand the onslaught. Seeing how I have a steady, full-time job, one can appreciate just how mad it is to try and attend the number of screenings I had programmed (80 at first, 75 of which I ended up attending). To use a genre-oriented metaphor, I would say that it required me to abandon any form of resolve and willingly become a drooling film zombie. Running mostly on power drinks and weed (both of which complement and contradict each other), I barely had time to grab a piece of burger or fried rice between screenings. Here's what my schedule looked like during the three weeks of the festival:

First thing is waking up. With my alarm clock set for 7:47, I can easily walk alongside the Lachine canal and reach the office for 8:30, the start of my shift. Then, after a full day of work, complete with an endless series of grueling logistics tasks, I have to dash out at 16:30 and reach Concordia for the 5 o'clock screening. That can be tricky sometimes, especially when taking the subway and having to wait in line while some annoying Frenchmen (from France) are having a 20-minute conference with the cashier in order to buy a handful of tickets... Yet I still managed to be on time for every screening, even if it meant soaking my work clothes with sweat, knowing that I wouldn't have time to wash them for the next three weeks (I don't want to start the washing machine at midnight for it would greatly compromise my roommates' sleep cycle). After the 5 o'clock screening, there's the 7 and 9 o'clock screenings on weekdays. Add another late night screening on Friday, and you've got an average of 16 screenings per week. And that's not counting weekends, during which I would cram 12 or 13 screenings. Now, maybe it doesn't seem that many films from where you're standing, but the logistics involved here are actually heart-stopping. Just take runtimes and the 24-hour day into consideration. With a film starting at 12 on a Friday night and another one starting at 11 on the following Saturday morning, this leaves little time for sleep. With the former film ending at around 2 A.M. and the latter requiring me to wake up at 10 on the following day, I'm left with a mere 8-hour window in which to walk home, entertain my friends for a while (often up to 4-5 A.M.) and sleep. 

"Is it better to be an extraordinary 

monster or an average man?"
Real questions arise from avid film-watching.

On top of that, there was a huge event that I needed to take into consideration this year: a special visit from China. A (very) old friend of mine has been living there for a few years now, and that friend was home for a whole month this summer to introduce us to his wife and play catch-up in general. Now, I owe this very old friend of mine at least a respectable amount of my time. We go back so far, it wouldn't be right to isolate myself from him and hide away in a dark room all night long... Well, it wouldn't be right to do that EVERY night. And so, I dropped a few films for his sake, only to find myself indulging his apparently never-ending nostalgia. The things he dug out for us last week, you wouldn't believe. Old tapes and CDs, yearbooks... I thought I was back at the screening of Resolution! There were even things in there, which I thought had long been buried and forgotten, things that showed twisted, protozoic versions of ourselves who seemed to snicker cruelly with every glimpse. It was a real horror film indeed. But HE seemed to enjoy this, and I guess that's the main point. If nothing else, we are powerful instruments of home sickness for our favorite ex-pat, and we intend to use that influence to arrange his eventual return home. Who knows, maybe luring him back home would finally eliminate the need for us to keep looking back all the time, and allow us to all look forward together... 

Speaking of my very own Chinese Connection, I would now like to sidetrack, and reveal my friend's wife's unlikely infatuation with Kier La Janisse's House of Psychotic Women, which I picked up after the screening of The Haunting of Julia. The hard cover version of the book is quite a sight to behold, with the enticing promotional artwork for Andrzej Zulawski's Possession featured prominently on top. Now, my friend's wife is definitely not a novelty Chinese doll. She's got a Master's degree in English Literature and I think that her grabbing the book from under my arm and diving into it as she did was as much a result of curiosity as genuine interest in its topic and structure. You see, La Janisse’s book is a rather unique piece that's both a critical appraisal of genre cinema from the perspective of female neurosis, and an autobiographical history of the author's own neurosis. I shall get into it later, when time has been garnered in sufficient amount. But from where I stand now, it seems like a complex endeavor that's well worth a look, if only for allowing us a privileged look into what Chris Bumbray has called “the scariest of all places – the mind of a teenage misfit”. So, there you have it: a big shout-out to Mrs. La Janisse and her ability to impress Chinese scholars with very personal words of wisdom.

 Tentacular Temptation, 

or divorce according to Andrzej Zulawski

Parenthesis aside, let us go back to my mad, three-week ride during which I would sleep on average five hours a night and compensate with ample servings of Guru (thank God for the tall format on sale at the candy counter). With time having to be found, or rather, dug for, I learned to push back my limits in athletic terms. One time, I clocked in at nine minutes to cover the distance between the De Sève theater and my Petite Bourgogne home, leaving me drenched in sweat and panting like crazy. Luckily, I had some music to accompany me this year, as opposed to last year. Music, from a portable device, means you've got inspiration and a shield against nearby idiocy. Inspiration comes when you're trying to break a running record by listening to old 8-bit Mega Man tracks (Metal Man, Pharaoh Man and Tornado Man are great in that regard). And it works. As for the shield, it works so that you're completely cut off from the drivel of McDonald's patrons and other fashionable night birds. It allows for an extension of the fantastic world of film into the outside world, making the depressing distinction between the two that much slimmer. And in the end, it turned out to be an essential tool for survival, my music shield, without which I feel naked and vulnerable.

But enough with the biographical details of my odyssey, and into the crux of the matter, that is the content of the festival per se. Here is a series of thematic conclusions I have mustered in order to better synthesize my experience. 

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The limitations of genre cinema, or C'est à la Cinémathèque que ça se passe

When prompted by friends I met during the festival to comment on my experience so far, I would readily resume this year's edition of Fantasia by saying: "C'est à la Cinémathèque que ça se passe" (La Cinémathèque is where it's at!), meaning that ALL the best films I saw were shown there exclusively. From classic Nikkatsu productions (Massacre Gun, Profound Desires of the Gods, Postman Blues) to psychotic women's films (Possession, Christiane F.), every title on display was absolutely stellar, with the majority of them brushing only shyly with the world of genre cinema. For example, while Possession includes elements of the supernatural, it does so within the framework of an impressionistic tale about divorce. And so the half-veiled essence of the festival is revealed. While focusing on genre films, it ultimately manages only to showcase the limitations of said films as opposed to non-genre films, the likes of which bear the universal appeal to make them internationally enjoyable. Free form the limitations and rules of genre cinema, these films have the ability to really soar into uncharted territory and to transcend film form. From a director's point of view, it is easier to make a genre film because the groundwork is already laid down for him. But with prefabricated groundwork, one is unlikely to outdo non-genre cinema, which is fully customized to fit the needs of a specific narrative. Originality has to be found in spades for any given genre film to transcend its non-genre counterparts. Originality and technical proficiency, the two of which are rarely combined within one single project. Examples of truly great genre films to have emerged in recent years are scarce, with Tomas Alfredson’s Let the Right One being the most prominent exception as the best vampire film since Coppola’s Dracula.  

In this year's edition, the top films, classic or not, have all been non-genre films, including the two critics' choices, Doomsday Book and Toad Road, the latter of which merely brushes with genre cinema in order to transcend the contemporary “lost youth” films made popular by Clark, Korine, Van Sant and Araki. As for my personal favorites, such as Amok, Hail, Sunflower Hour, Sleep Tight and Wrinkles, they're mostly non-genre films, using the narrative freedom at their disposal as dramatic springboard. As far as pure genre films are concerned, I thoroughly enjoyed Nicholas McCarthy's The Pact, a captivating, if entirely unoriginal ghost film whose teaser trailer came in the form of an eponymous short film screened prior to last year's Marianne. Then there was Young Gun in the Time, an extremely clever, sci-fi noir from the director of last year's Attack of Alien Bikini and a consecration of his talent as a genre film director.

Young Geun is back in action this year, on his way

to becoming a household name amongst genre fans

But what about romantic comedies? While the term itself would seem to imply a rigid set of rules, the romantic comedy is a far looser genre than others, especially in the absence of subdivisions, as in horror films, where you have the zombie film, the haunted house film, the slasher film, etc. Hence, the cap fits a variety of films that share the same framework while being quite different in essence. You are the Apple of my Eye is a Taiwanese romantic comedy and coming-of-age film that focuses on a charismatic dunce and his infatuation with a cute honor student. The narrative takes place over the course of many years, taking onboard the biographical nature of the book on which it is based by tacking on an obligatory voice-over track and by including many key peripheral characters. The resulting narrative is involving while being entirely devoid of any sort of edge. Where it succeeds is in its elaborate and long-drawn study of the characters and their progression through the process of becoming adults. Turn me on, Goddammit! on the other hand is a Norwegian romantic comedy starring a girl, and a sexually voracious one at that. While far smaller in scale and runtime, it takes milieu into account and injects a fair dose of (sexual) fantasy so as to come into contrast with the earthy nature of the protagonist's hometown. With grown-ups dancing lasciviously with biking helmets and teenage girls wishing to have hammers inside them, it would seem that we're worlds away from Apple of my Eye here, while remaining within the reassuring familiarity of an established genre. By focusing on different basic elements as cornerstones for dramatic construction (one being the mysterious process of infatuation, the other being the mysterious power of female sexuality), the two films have achieved wildly different, but entirely worthy results. 

In the end, while genre cinema necessarily involves shackles, looser or tighter ones depending on the specific genre at hand, it possesses two very distinct advantages over non-genre cinema. First of all, it gives the creative mind a framework in which to work. Instead of a white canvas, genre offers some sort of backbone on which to lay the groundwork of a new project. This also allows said project to net a predetermined portion of the audience right off the bat. But more importantly, genre cinema, as a variable set of rules, allows for various degrees of transgression and offers a rather large potential for hybridity. In our postmodern era, film genres often interpenetrate with unforeseen results. Genre has become manifold in its meanings and implications, allowing directors to transcend the past and create shocking plays on expectation.

In this perspective, we should talk about the New New Wave of American indie cinema, or what some have dubbed mumblecore. The movement itself isn't clearly defined, but it involves intellectuals shooting very intimate films on shoestring budgets, using nonprofessional actors in naturalistic circumstances. Like Godard and friends did before. But the latter were also genre fans, a subtlety that the good people at Fantasia haven't failed to notice. By putting filmmakers like Adam Wingard in the spotlight, they've uncovered what is perhaps the missing link between the French of the Quartier Latin and our generation of video slackers. By brushing with genre cinema, Wingard has impregnated reality with a distinct sense of wonder, and simultaneously challenged old myths by drowning them in the mundane. A Horrible Way to Die is a prime example of this, as it totally deconstructs the archetype of the serial killer by likening him to a casual alcoholic. It's not every day that serial killers are framed as they are by Wingard. Even Henry didn't come out as real as his protagonist. This year, Wingard was back with V/H/S, which he co-directed with David Bruckner, Glenn McQuaid, Radio Silence, Joe Swanberg and Ti West. But there was also Toad Road, a cinéma vérité account of suburban drug addiction that's fortified with a vigorous dose of fantasy.  By deconstructing the image of the drug addict, it manages to eschew the systematic pessimism of all the Larry Clarks out there, and introduce a new transcendental perspective on overdetermined material, making innovation available once more to the genre filmmaker's arsenal.

 Beyond reality: Toad Road shows us that

there is more to drugs than aids and severed arms

Eventually however, the limitations of genre cinema are again made obvious by that very notion of innovation, and the appraisal of its legitimacy. One might wish to escape the genre paradigm, but he will probably find it more troublesome than he first thought as sameness and repetition are often the very things which draw genre fans into theaters. As such, they welcome transgression but only insofar as it doesn't stray too far away from the dotted line of expectations. Because while you can either embrace them or challenge them, it is expectations that define the success of most genre films. Which brings us to my next observation.

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Expectations (and the art of genre cinema)

Since genre fans often rely on their gut and personal experience when appraising films, they become somewhat predictable, even malleable to the opportunistic filmmaker. This year, I've taken it upon myself to look at my fellow spectator and see what makes him tick. Aside from just "GORE!" and "SCATOLOGICAL HUMOR!", I wanted to discern subtleties in desires, in wants, which I could take advantage of...  My golden opportunity to appraise audience reactions came with this year’s edition of Small Gauge Trauma, the very first one I ever attended in almost a decade at the festival. I found this collection of international shorts to be a particularly fertile ground in which to carry out my studies. With each title following the next in close succession, I was witness to many mood swings and raucous reactions from the audience. And I found the people to be quite responsive to brutality. What's more elusive to grasp however, is the manifold expressions of brutality that exist in filmic terms. Brutality can lie within the content of the frame or between shots. The "jump" scare is surprisingly popular, even though it has always seemed to me like a desperately manipulative way to elicit a reaction from the audience. And then there is the fleeting shot of abominable horror, the very same shot which has allowed Hitchcock to edit the shower scene in such a way as to convey the idea of a stabbing without using any prosthetics. In Small Gauge Trauma's Leyenda, there is a technique which is commonplace in economical genre films, and it is what I call the "quick-use" prosthetics. Let's say you have established a spatial relationship between an aggressor and his victim. Then all you have to do is to frame the aggressor while he is swinging a weapon toward the offscreen space where his victim is supposed to be. Add a little sound to account for the blows of metal (or wood) on flesh and insert two or three shots of a bloody, disintegrating prop to insure maximal effect. This prop should ideally be a fake head covered in corn syrup and food coloring. This technique was used with great effect in the elevator scene from Drive and it is a rather cost-efficient way to use latex body parts while eliciting the most satisfying reaction from the audience. 

Something's about to give: Drive 

and the aesthetics of brutality

With that in mind, I have imagined a zombie film premise which became more and more elaborate as the festival unfolded, more and more precise in my head. But it is not enough to want to make a film, and to have good ideas. After all, a good idea on paper is not necessarily a good idea in the field. With the numerous uncertainties of film production (as eloquently depicted in this year's Woman in the Sceptic Tank, much more so than in Vulgaria, another piece about filmmaking by overly prolific HK director Pang Ho-Cheung), you literally don't know what to expect around the corner. And being a person with so little confidence as myself, I tend to become flustered quite easily. That is why the production of Rage de dent, a tentative horror film by yours truly, is in jeopardy before it has even started. Unless, I make you a promise here and now, to enter this very film for selection at the 2013 edition of Fantasia. That is the only way I can finally put my money where my mouth is. I’ve always considered film critics to be cowards who take pride in whining against what they, themselves, cannot achieve. Hence I know that, as a critic, the only thing one can do who truly loves the medium, and not only the sound of one ‘s own voice, is to attempt and get into production. After all, film production is a truly courageous act, for it puts the filmmakers in the spotlight, unable to avoid the gaze of critics and spectators alike. I’ve dreamed of setting up my own production company, a little outfit I would like to call Roche-Papier-Ciseaux Films. All I have to do is pick up the camera and make it happen. And as I said before, and you all are witnesses to this, the only reason why I wouldn’t do so is cowardice. So try and remember the promises I made here so I will remain accountable for them…

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Taking Notes

You might have spotted me at some point during the festival. I’m the badly-groomed, skinny guy with the notepad. Since I don’t have any free time at all during the festival, I cannot write or post as I go along. Yet, I need to remember what I saw, without confusing it with someone else that I saw later. I need to remember the precise thoughts I had while watching each of the 75 titles on my list. I need to have some substance, instead of vague impressions. And that is hard, folks. It’s real fucking hard. Taking notes and trying to think of neat sentences to include in a hypothetic review during each of the three back-to-back sessions I attended every night involves an effort that’s akin to real work. Real physical work I mean.

As proof that efforts rarely go unrewarded though, I find that I greatly improved my note-taking technique over the course of the festival. From blurry diagonal waves spread out all over the page, I came to half-blurry diagonal waves neatly lined up along the page. It’s quite a sight to behold, those few pages I wrote while fully sober and entirely motivated. Near the end, I produced an average of three pages of tightly-packed notes for every film, as opposed to one page of spread-out doodles for the first few films. So you might be a tad disappointed with my earlier reviews… Sorry about that. But it is quite hard to write clearly in the dark, harder if you do so while intently watching and analyzing the screen. But it is the only way to do it. In the dark. I’ve been handed a flashlight before by one of the helpful crew members from the festival. But I had to decline as one need not importune other filmgoers in order to further personal goals, such as texting. Or using a pen mounted with a flashlight, like some other critics do…

 Just ask Chia-Yi Shen about the importance of 

note-taking.She might give you a wrong answer, but at least

 she derives a certain discipline from the process.

What I’m getting at here is just how crucial note-taking is to film criticism. I used to be quite nonchalant about it in the past. But now that I have perfected my technique, I might want to start and do it on a regular basis, becoming a real film critic I mean, and not just the Basement Brian that I am now. That said, the notes I took during the festival are often hazy and uninformative, with some films for which I took no notes at all. I don’t know if this will show in the reviews themselves, but I, myself, will know that these reviews are probably less credible than those for which I had more perceptual background. I hope that the end result will be satisfactory… and that I will finally work up the courage to expose my reviews to a tad more than three people. 

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The rise of Filipino Cinema

For the last few years, there has been a distinct rise in the number of Filipino films popping up on the festival circuit. Ever since Brillante Mendoza won Best Director at the 2009 Cannes film festival, there has been some serious attention given to this emerging “third” cinema. Always ahead of the curb, the programmers at Fantasia have put this year's spotlight squarely on the movies from Manila, with 4 enlightening titles on display. With such a selection, they continue to make sure  that Asian cinema gets the visibility that it deserves, just like they did with Korean cinema as it emerged in the first half of the 21^st century and with Thai cinema a little later. As its name implies, Fantasia has a special mandate toward Asian cinema, whether it is fantastic or not. With the inclusion of so many countries in their recent selections, they have consistently managed to fulfill this mandate with flying colors. 

As contended in The Woman in the Sceptic Tank, a self-reflexive piece by Marlon Rivera, Filipino cinema is often obsessed with showcasing the slums of Manila, focusing on the surrounding squalor for dramatic gains. With the exception of Amok, which uses the Filipino capital merely as a stream of consciousness, each Filipino film on display here featured the slums to a large extent. But while it might seem quite easy to simply use the slums in a bid to multiply the dramatic power of the narrative, there is more to directing than simply framing locales, as is demonstrated by the inability of Rivera’s film to maintain unity throughout. Brillante Mendoza’s work is more than just a simple exercise in slum aesthetics. It is intense beyond words. Way beyond the ability of the slum itself to convey the ugliness of life in all of its pictorial quality. That said, roaming through the backstreets of Manila is always a gripping experience for jaded Westerners who are discontent with their homegrown social problems. And that is where Rivera’s contentions become especially relevant. Seeing how eager festivals are to showcase social problem films, it would seem that their worldview is almost paternalistic in its concern with the disenfranchised poor from abroad. Whether this derives from a genuine humanism or a twisted sense of superiority is anyone’s guess. What it entails however is a dangerous overdetermination of misery in all of its manifold expressions. It’s creating a new world order in which there are privileged Westerners on one side and a plethora of poor souls on the other, leaving one to believe that the Filipino films included in this year's selection are equally revelatory of Filipino society as of Western society. Hence, we should question our own worldview before engaging into speculation as to the social relevance of those films. After all, films are inasmuch a reflection of their makers as of their spectators.

"Just how honest is this woman's performance?":

Woman in the Septic Tank

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Fuck the police!

Seeing police officers getting killed onscreen is extremely therapeutic. It is a non-violent, non-destructive way to get retribution for their lethal incompetence. There was this one Quebec short this year (Jeune assassin cherche cadavre fringant pour l'enterrer et peut-être +) in which we saw one of those despicable numbskulls from the SPVM getting killed by a zany protagonist armed with a shovel. I felt like clapping fiercely when the lethal blow was delivered. “One less leech on the municipal payroll”, I thought, but couldn’t find visible approval in my immediate surroundings. And so I kept my thoughts to myself, choosing instead to take the opportunity to start and appraise the representation of cops at Fantasia. From heroes, police officers have now come to be depicted as either cold-blooded killers or incompetent idiots, as we've often seen over the course of the festival. But is there redemption for the boys in blue yet? 

The most vicious attack on the police this year comes from Wong Ching-Po’s Revenge: A Love Story in which cops are the bad guys. Big time. While basically a rape revenge film, Revenge can be distinguished by its sumptuous photography and its core message, which entails that revenge is a self-defeating endeavor, even in the face of shocking authority abuse. The cops therein are pictured as psychopaths protected by the entire system of which they are part, leaving the common man with no option but to fend for himself, and let police take its due whenever it feels like it. It is a very bleak portrayal of police, revenge and life alike. Other films in which the cops were portrayed as bad guys include Michael Biehn's The Victim, in which they randomly murder hookers, torture guys and do stolen coke, and New Kids Turbo, in which they're trigger-happy goons (very much like the moronic protagonists).

Cops as incompetent idiots can be found most prominently in Sabu’s Postman Blues in which the entire police force is energetically involved in creating their own leads to follow on a case against a low level yakuza. This brings them to tighten the screws on a poor postman with a huge life crisis. The absurdity of their approach is obvious in every scene, especially when they decide to have an Olympic biking champion do a 10-minute sprint in order to crash into the protagonist’s bike with full force. The end result of their foolishness however, is not amusing but tragic. And unforgivable. Here, the cops are portrayed as bumbling fools, which isn’t so bad. But in the end, their foolishness has such dire results as to elicit downright anger against them, bringing the narrative to a dramatic climax of epic proportions. Other films in which the cops are portrayed as idiots include A Fantastic Fear of Everything, in which they mistake schizophrenia with criminal insanity, and Quick, in which they're always a step behind the protagonists. As for The Pact, it showcases a detective whom is very cute and enthusiastic, maybe even a tad too enthusiastic, but ultimately useless...

A police enforcer getting ready for a lethal bike ride: 

Postman Blues and the absurdity of police procedures

Since there should be no examples without counter-examples when trying to maintain scientific rigor, I must now propose an alternative to despising the police. This alternative can be found in Dragon (aka Wu Xia). Takeshi Kaneshiro’s character is a savvy period inspector à la Detective Dee and as such, he often steals scenes from Donnie Yen, who plays a repentant gangster trying to start life anew. While he is merely used as comic relief in some scenes, his intuition leads him to key deductions all over the course of the narrative. Also, while he plays a major part in reuniting the protagonist with his former gang, his help proves crucial during the final battle with a demented kingpin. But what’s most important here is that his character is much more interesting than that of the protagonist. By surmounting the limitations of the police archetype, Kaneshiro has crafted a lawman with immense staying power, one that finds its rightful place right next to all the Columbo, Martin Riggs and John McClane of the world. Other memorable cops this year include Jackpot's Detective Solor, a wisecracking maestro of police procedures, the civil guard sergeant from Game of Werewolves, who reveals himself to be an expert werewolf hunter, the heartwarming duo of protagonists from Grabbers and the idealistic action hero from The Viral Factor, who travels the world using knuckles and bullets in order to save it.

What this brings me to realize is that the police officer is still a mostly positive archetype the world over, if only for his capacity to instantly solve mundane criminal crises. International disillusionment with law enforcement has yet to become the norm, and perhaps this should influence our dealings with local populations of cops. Sure, cops don't respect the law, they're lazy, overpaid and mostly useless, but couldn't that be said of many, many other people? And what about authority abuse? Is it as systematic as some people imply, or merely incidental? Given the sensationalist stance permeating popular media, the whole image of "the cop" has been molded to anger readers and viewers, who come back for more every time they need a jolt of energy. Instead, we should probably use the same rule of thumb with cops as any other groups of people: do not make generalizations. Thus, we would realize that it is the core of our capitalist system which is rotten, with the people around becoming slowly entangled by its endless tentacles. And if cops are easier to corrupt, it is perhaps only because they are closer to the fusion core of avarice. Food for thought.

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“La nuit excentrique” and other memorable moments

Lastly, I would like to congratulate the programmers of La nuit excentrique. Borrowed from France, the concept of presenting a palette of obscure “nanars” and other B-rated treats has made its way across the pond and into a place where it belongs particularly well. The first homegrown edition was screened last year and it was popular enough to spawn a follow-up. This year’s lineup included a whopping amount of material. Aside from 2 features and 4 shorts, we were treated to a 20-minute compilation of mixed action footage (including a montage of exploding helicopters) from the good people at Douteux.org. It all adds up to 180 minutes of entertainment. 180 minutes! If that’s not worth your 9 dollars, I don’t know what is. Obviously, you can’t expect people at the screening to take things seriously. You will hear a lot of shouting and uncontrolled laughter throughout, but it’s all in good fun. Actually, it is essential to the mood of the soirée, which is extremely playful and a gigantic homage to these very films which have made us fans of genre cinema in the first place, those excessive and desperately produced monuments to bad taste that we would go wild for. These are the items which will insure the durability of cinema as we know it, as a form of art that is best shared with other aficionados. Great job, guys! La nuit excentrique is definitely the biggest highlight of this year’s edition.

Rotten face, perfect tits: La revanche

 des mortes vivantes and half-assedness

I’ve struggled to think of other highlights that would match what I’ve seen last year, the main reason being that I haven’t seen as many films in the Theater Hall, where everything is blown-up, often out of proportion. I must say that Richard Bates’ rain of bloody tampons was a very nice extension of his striking Excision and that he deserves his fair share of recognition for it. The ladies around me were literally going wild about them. “I want free stuff”, yelled a girl behind me at the top of her lungs. When one of those bloody tampons landed on my friend’s lap, I made sure to hand it over to her, seeing how I thought she could “use” it (unknowing at the time that the tampons were already bloodied). Then, there was this girl who asked me if I wanted to smell the tampon… An unexpected moment of weirdness, that was, and a neat introduction to the film we were about to see. Great job, Richard!

Some koodos are also in order for Jennifer Lynch, who was featured prominently this year. First, there was Despite the Gods, a very intimate documentary about the production of Hisss in India, then the world premiere of Chained. The latter was actually the first film of hers I saw after Hisss was replaced by Norwegian Ninja at the Festival du nouveau cinéma a few years back. It was good. Probably better than the final cut of Hisss anyways… I wanted to see loads of Vincent D’Onofrio and this is what the film gave me. But while D'Onofrio's talent weights heavily in the success of the enterprise, Lynch elaborates a tight framework for him to work in, getting a particularly fine performance out of the man whom we all remember as the nightmarish Gomer Pyle. Tense stuff... and a reaction from the audience that will hopefully be positive enough to breathe new confidence in the director after a roller-coaster of a career. 

Incidentally, Bates and Lynch, are the only two directors whom I remember pleading for the audience to like their films. As an artist walking the fine line between fickle praise and critical oblivion, Jennifer Lynch seems to be desperately in need of legitimacy. On the night when Chained opened however, she was definitely amongst friends. As for Bates, he was understandably anxious to present his first feature film, although it had already played before. To loving audiences I'm sure. 

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The tentative top ten (and a terribly tantalizing alliteration)  

In conclusion, I will propose a tentative top ten. Seeing how hard it is to make a clear distinction between films of such various national, economical, sociological and philosophical backgrounds as those I've seen, I was quite troubled when trying to rank them. So, you'll excuse a few incongruities and uncertainties here, since each of the 77 reviews that will follow is quite explicit in its criticism. Enjoy this for now, and stay tuned for more.

Early Imamura is a treat indeed: Profound Desires

of the Gods is no less than an offering to festival-goers

1. Profound Desires of the Gods (S. Imamura, JPN, 1968)
2. Affreux, sales et méchants (E. Scola, ITA, 1976)
3. Postman Blues (Sabu, JPN, 1997)
4. Possession (A. Zulawski, FRA, 1981)
5. Christiane F. (U. Edel, GER, 1981)
6. Massacre Gun (Y. Hasebe, JPN, 1967)
7. Hail (A. Courtin-Wilson, AUS, 2011)
8. Sleep Tight (J. Balaguero, SPN, 2011)
9. The Ambassador (M. Brugger, DEN, 2011)
10. A Letter to Momo (H. Okiura, JPN, 2011)

Honorable Mentions: Toad Road, Amok, My Amityville Horror, Sunflower Hour, Wrinkles, Young Gun in the Time, Turn Me on Goddammit, Lowlife

Fantasia 2011 (Day 25)

SUNDAY, AUGUST 7



Despite the fact that the festival had already ended with a bang (Saturday's screening of The Phantom of the Opera at La Place des Arts), there was still some work to do, most important of which was to finally see Absentia, the ultimate sleeper hit of the 2011 edition. Unable to buy a ticket within my initial batch, I was relieved to see that the programmers had added a third screening to round up every enthusiast who hadn't found a way to see it yet. And by "every enthusiast", I mean every last one of them as the theater was absolutely jam-packed, with little room to breathe, let alone move our legs. Word to mouth has that power, and so do eulogistic epithets such  as "mesmerizing" and "staggeringly effective", to elevate a slightly distinctive film to the level of revolutionary art. And while I failed to see exactly how the film could really wow me, I had to find out for myself if the hype was true.

Most importantly, I just had to add another screening to my lineup so as to complete my 75-film run. And so I purposefully favored Clown over 13 Assassins (both of which had extra screenings scheduled for the 7th), so as to snub Takashi Miike's sausage machine. And despite the rave reviews I keep hearing about the latter film, I'm still not unhappy with my decision. Besides, if you consider Miike's supremacy in the arena of Japanese film exports, the film will forever be there, waiting for me in the video store shelves, if ever I formulate the wish to see it.

In closing, I would like to congratulate every single programmer at the festival for yet another fine edition. Of course, there's always the occasional razzie, but as always, the sheer amount of fine, if often conventional titles from across the world manages to elevate the ensemble to the international standing which Fantasia has garnered as one of the top, if not the best of all, genre film festivals in the world. A fifteenth anniversary worth noticing with the quiet wish for yet another fifteen years to come.


FILMS SEEN

Clown
Adapted from a popular Danish TV show I didn't even know existed, this refreshingly excessive comedy goes where no American producer would ever dare to go, namely in the realm of dick jokes aimed at adults. Hence, the two mismatched, but complementary protagonists of the film are middle-aged men dealing with mid-life crisis by seeking to attend a very exclusive sex party. Frank is the neurotic, clumsy one while Casper is the self-assured sex fiend. The nature of their relationship directly derives from the hundreds of thousands such relationships that preceded it since the beginning of comedy. Casper is always pushy and Frank is always reluctant and this results in the precise push-pull dynamic that North Americans will expect from such a film. What one won't expect are the sheer amount of genitalia on display (male, female and even child) and the irreverent attitude toward every issue on display, from teenage drinking to bullying, sex sandwiches and drug consumption. In the end, while Clown doesn't manage to convince us of the protagonists' emotional maturation through the cathartic ordeal to which they are subjected, with an ending that borders on the moralistic, the trip is worthwhile and the jokes often hit home, thanks in most part to the adult treatment of the material and the truly extreme, unapologetic nature of its humor. Coming across as some (very) average Joes, Frank and Casper are all-the-more comical in their dealings with the absurd situations in which they are thrown. Together, they propel the film in orbit... and beyond. Be sure not to miss the hilarious ending!

THUMBS UP


Cold Sweat (2nd viewing)
As great as the first time, except for the despicable texting whale washed up on the front row and the exasperating crowd of hand-wavers who didn't realize that it was a zany midnight film they were watching and not an intricate historical drama. Read full review here.

ENTHUSIASTIC THUMBS UP, YET AGAIN


Absentia
Much ado about nothing. This solid horror effort is not nearly as atmospheric or groundbreaking as I was led to believe. Still, it packs a mighty punch, tapping into our fear of the unknown to craft a nearly metaphysical update on urban mythology. Set in disgusting L.A., which contributes its overwhelming ugliness to the horror of the film, the narrative focuses on two sisters (including tasty Katie Parker) who are reunited after years of estrangement, during which one of their husbands has went AWOL. When the man is declared dead in absentia, his carcass goes all J-horror on the protagonists, providing the obligatory jump scenes that one would expect. Luckily, the film greatly evolves when the man comes back from the limbo where he was cast, forcing his wife to reappraise her current priorities. Family drama and supernatural horror thus intertwine in meaningful ways despite the lack of a proper budget to better showcase some of the more elaborate fantastic elements. Still, the imagery contained in the film is intriguing enough to capture your attention. Plus, there's some level of originality here as elements that first seemed borrowed from J-horror are eventually revealed to be much more universal, a little too universal perhaps as the film vies to account for any and every unexplained disappearance that ever occurred by positing an alternate reality lying just beyond the veil of our own. Since leaving the festival circuit (and winning a few awards in the process), Absentia has been atrociously repackaged for the video market. And it's a damn shame too, since it is earnestly better, even in its humble means, than the vast majority of titles with which it shares the shelves.

THUMBS UP

 Absentia is cheap, but not that cheap

The Cabin in the Woods (2012)

Warning: This review contains spoilers, a lot of them. In the very first paragraph, no less. But seeing how I don't think you should care about the film and its ridiculous premise, then I encourage you to read on. If you're a fan of Joss Whedon however, then go right ahead and buy a ticket for The Cabin in the Woods so you can bask in the man's awesome awesomeness already.

There's an essential question one should ask when trying to appraise the immensely overrated Cabin in the Woods: How do you make an underwhelming horror film more interesting? Oh, I know! By tacking on a subplot involving a bunch of office workers manipulating the fate of the protagonists through a boring computer console, then placing bets on the outcome of their ordeal. By making sure that these white collar bores throw in the occasional office joke, you're sure to lighten things up and make sure everyone forgets that there's still a bunch of teens out there that are getting slaughtered by generic zombies in the generic wood cabin elaborated by corporate R&D. Then, you're ready to have the whole thing climax with a battle between the stoner "hero" of the film and Sigourney Weaver, who pops in during the last act to explain the whole meta joke. Finish it all off with a crude deux ex machina and you've got... What have you got? A loving homage to Evil Dead? What, because the cabin looks exactly the same? A brilliantly meta horror film? Certainly not. An overlong episode of Lost? Couldn't say, I don't watch TV.

When TV aesthetics run amok:
The Cabin in the Woods

Every time a film like The Cabin in the Woods is released, I get all excited. I can't fight it. My brain keeps reminding me: "Dude, this is just gonna be an overblown TV movie!", but my heart won't listen. After all, maybe the film will reveal itself to be that rare gem, that truly meta treat that you find only once in a while. This forces me to check things out for myself... and often waste my time. Here, I certainly did... although I encountered very little forewarning from the film critics who are supposed to protect viewers from unimaginative drivel such as this. With a surprising aggregate score of 92% (!) on Rotten Tomatoes and an army of would-be serious people wetting themselves over how delightfully satyric the film is, I was bound to be misled in my enthusiastic desire to see something transcendental onscreen. Evidently, I had anticipated the fact that Joss Whedon's popularity might have artificially increased the interest for the film, but I couldn't imagine how 92% could be wrong, especially in their usage of the word "entertaining", which in itself is a mild compliment at best, and their preferring it to "challenging", which the film isn't, but should've been...

Uncharacteristically, the narrative opens with two office workers talking about domestic issues around the coffee machine. Now, maybe this is a good entry point into the film if you're used to that kind of dreary exchanges, or if you can derive some giggles from such a bland expository device, but otherwise, you risk to start sighing right away. Prior to seeing the film, I read an interview with director Drew Goddard and producer Whedon in which they explained how they wanted to use these two characters as stepping stones into the meta joke that the film is supposed to be. Seeing how we were meant to recognize the two TV actors playing the characters (Six Feet Under's Richard Jenkins and The West Wing's Bradley Whitford), the realization that "hey, we're not in a dumb horror film here" should've come naturally. Unfortunately, such subtleties were lost on me as I don't watch TV . And thus arises the first of many contradictions to plague The Cabin in the Woods. You can't do an homage to film by using televisual aesthetics and references, unless you can find a way to equate film and TV, which is something that no film fan will EVER do. Comparing film and TV is like comparing filet with ground horse meat. And here, we're served a horse meat burger for the price of a filet. From what I understand, the entire cast seems to come from Whedon's roster of actors, making the entire enterprise Whedon-centric and likely to please only the very precise, but terrifyingly vast, slice of market at which the producers have aimed: people who "don't like horror films, but LOVE Joss Whedon". So here you have it: The Cabin in the Woods is not a horror film but a comedic Whedon vehicle catering to the undiscriminating fans of his TV series. Period. Grandest interpretations will likely crumble under the weight of their own inconsistencies.

Even Lennie Small had flashes of genius,
but they didn't make him one

Let us go back to this interview I read last week ("The Cabin in the Woods: lettre d'amour aux films d'horreur" by Sonia Sarfati, La Presse), which first alarmed me about the shallowness of the entire enterprise. In it, the guys at the helm simply state that "they love to laugh and to be scared at the same time", which is why they basically structured their film as a vastly incongruous series of obvious jokes and cheap scare tactics. The simplicity of that statement should also point to the lack of depth involved in the creative process. It's as if Evil Dead (from which Goddard and Whedon borrow the titular locale) was suddenly understood as a mere mash-up of jokes and scare tactics, when it is actually a far more complex, highly expressive endeavor with Sam Raimi's muscular direction as the key. Here, the narrative proceeds from a simple, and highly dubious alternation of jokes and scares, with the former defusing the latter (and vice-versa) in a tedious, systematic demonstration of self-defeating filmmaking. I should've trusted Mediafilm's review in that regard, instead of listening to Whedon's army of fanboys, as it bluntly stated: "[...] the film fails on both levels: humorous and horrific." And it does so precisely because each of these levels, given the simplistic treatment at work here, contradict each other constantly.

All in all, the film isn't even truly meta, as it doesn't really reflect on how it is to make a film. Evidently, you can read the narrative as a critique of commercial filmmaking, the result of which is a landscape of interchangeable scenarios starring a bunch of archetypical characters. But seeing how the film vies to slavishly reproduce the models which it ridicules, that critique can also be directed at The Cabin in the Woods itself. Besides, the meta elements of the story eventually merge with the clichéd aspects thereof as the two stories (of the terrorized teens and their white collar tormentors) collide, making the former to be no more than the parts of a simple twist on the dated material which Whedon and company simultaneously deny and embrace at the same time. In the end, it all boils down to a a simple meta twist that completely fails to transcend the genre. Because in the end, we're left with the same old shit than we're used to: some kills (usually badly shot in near total darkness), some tits and some prepackaged jokes to screw it all up, with the same, tired old last stand involving a couple of bloodied, panting characters resting after having vanquished the last of the ghouls, only to be suddenly destroyed by a larger foe whose appearance makes the audience jump and laugh one last time before leaving the theater. Now, a simple beastie would've done the trick in this last instance. Instead, we are treated to the cheapest trick in the book: deus ex machina, the recourse to which is at best a crude reference to Greek tragedy. It's as if Whedon and company just had to have their film end in the most obvious way possible so as to make yet another dubious statement about the "obviousness" of the film genres from which they draw their bread and butter.

Complaining while borrowing, or how walking
on people's heads is the way to the top

Obviousness, this is a rather relevant keyword here as it permeates every aspect of every scene, even those that are located in the "real" world of boring office buildings. I should like to call the film (Horror) cinema for dummies. Hell, at least there's some aura of mystery surrounding the two office workers when we first meet them. The two of them simply talk of an "important" task at hand, the boundaries of which are hazy at best. At this point, speculation helps the spectator get a kick out of the unfolding storyline. At this point, he/she is still involved in trying to piece the puzzle together. But as things unfold, every single narrative tenet is exposed so thoroughly, as to completely distill its efficiency. Some mechanisms are even explained twice, so as to make sure that everybody gets it. A case in point: while it has been explicitly stated that the prowling monster is selected through the victims' usage of the artifacts found in the cellar, the guys at the helm decided to add yet scene to explain that fact, just in case we weren't listening the first time around. Confronted with a series of plastic capsules containing various drooling mythological monsters (including a grade-B imitation of Hellraiser's Cenobites), the redhead "virgin" becomes teary-eyed before she declares: "In the cellar, they made us choose!". Watching this dead-serious scene, which concludes with a tracking shot that reveals an interlocking grid of plastic capsules meant to evoke a Rubik's cube, I was imagining Drew Goddard and Joss Whedon scratching their heads, trying to figure out if they'd already explained the politics of monster-selection, or if they should take this opportunity to give us a clue. Seeing how imperative it seemed for them to humor the viewers, they must have thought it a good idea to recap, just like one would at the beginning of a TV episode. Now, that's probably great for the spectators who were out taking a piss earlier on, but for those who stayed, those who like film and don't feel the need to be constantly reminded of what's going on, it provides yet another chance to roll your eyeballs and make a cynical comment.

The Cabin in the Woods is a lazy film that relies on one clever idea to propel the narrative through to the end, while borrowing from the laziness of others to fill in the gaps, all the while criticizing that laziness in order to enhance its own status. As most films, it does contains some good moments, but these moments all pertain to pure horror, such as the lascivious make-out session with the wolf's head, the battles involving the hero's retractable bong and the surprisingly gory monster mash located near the end. These are the only moments during which I felt a tad alive, and willing to fully open my eyes and watch. After all, who wouldn't prefer the sight of viscera splashed across a wall, to that of old men with ties clicking on buttons? Last time I checked, genre films were still about excitement, which The Cabin in the Woods provides only in the last act, as it severs the strings fastened around the protagonists, those very same strings that the director himself has attached so as to make their actions as mechanical as possible. Freed from its creators, the film does seem to gain some altitude, but as a fly caught in a jar, it finds just enough room to bounce endlessly against the glass walls of its prison And thus, so too is the hardcore horror fan trapped in a lonely prison, surrounded by pagans who seem to derive pleasure from his suffering as they laugh at the mutilation of his most beloved friend...

Only with straight horror does The
Cabin in the Woods find redemption

In the end, when trying to rate The Cabin in the Woods, I found myself in a bind. Despite the fact that the film is incredibly overrated, I can't say that it is worse than the myriad of films from which it derives. It is not worse, but not better either. For being savvy to the fact that you're making a crap film doesn't enhance the result. If it did, then all Alan Smithee films would suddenly become classics, and we certainly don't want that. Nor do we want The Cabin in the Woods to be considered a beacon for a genre from which it borrows a lot without giving anything back. So, here it is:


1,5/5 Lazy, tedious, cheaply-made film has delusions of grandeur thanks to one clever, but badly executed, vastly over-used twist on derivative material. For a really clever, transcendental effort in genre deconstruction, be sure to check out Behind the Mask: The Rise of Leslie Vernon as it also offers savvy insight on documentary cinema.

Tokyo Fist (1995)

I dedicate this review to a friend of mine who would rather see passion at every street corner than having to cope with the banality of everyday life. Being a person of many unfocused desires, a person who yearns for freedom during every minute of every day, it would seem that this friend of mine has chosen a life unfulfilled, and ultimately unsatisfying considering how many barriers have been erected to keep our bodies quarantined in the passionless cubicles of conformity. This proves particularly true in terms amorous, where his pain and unruly passion always seem to give a bitter edge to his bittersweet love stories. After talking to this friend on the phone and receiving some mild complaints about my lack of assiduity in updating the present blog, I felt I had to do a very special review for him. Then I thought of the perfect film to reflect his state of mind. It is a film I saw a while back without being quite able to fully grasp its iconography. But now that I think about my friend, and wish to throw him a thorny life preserver, I start to make sense of all the jumbled celluloid used in making this film. I start to see it almost exactly as I had first wished to see it, as a radical exercise in couple’s therapy. After all, passion will make a couple equally happy and unhappy. Passion is a very fickle thing, and one to create outbursts of affection and outbursts of anger. And while couple life is the focus of countless films, it is usually grounded in dramatic verbose ill-suiting the actual experience of love as a passionate expression of the self. With this film, passion is circumvented in truly filmic terms, and it operates from the very violence at the core of the emotion itself, making it one of the rawest love stories out there. I'm talking of course about Shinya Tsukamoto's Tokyo Fist.

Love hurts: Tsuda and Hizuru remedy their qualms
with a rageous boxing exchange (edited with fierceness
by director Tsukamoto himself)

Love hurts

The film stars somewhat of an impotent everyman called Tsuda, a man whose hold on fiancee Hizuru is actually stronger than he suspects. The two of them met in a bakery, where thoughts of sweets seemed to have encouraged sweet thoughts. They are living together in a diminutive Tokyo apartment when Tsuda makes the mistake of inviting school chum, and semi-professional boxer Kojima to share a drink. The latter immediately becomes infatuated with Hizuru, whom he tries to kiss in a sudden burst of passion (while Tsuda is still at work, earning money for his wife). But she coldly refuses his advance, staying 100% faithful to Tsuda. Right after that, a simple misunderstanding propels the narrative toward the unseen depths of the protagonists' psyche, right into the core of their emotions, into the passionate violence that animates them. When Kojima confesses to Tsuda that his fiancee was "very soft", the everyman starts losing his mind, convinced that his impotence has pushed Hizuru to adultery. And while nothing can be farther from the truth, emotional logic makes it so that Tsuda tries to violently reclaim his "lost" wife, trying to prove his masculinity in the process. Eventually, he ends up alienating her, and sending her over to Kojima, who proves to be equally weak-willed and subservient to an increasingly moody Hizuru. Tsuda then starts training to become a boxer in order to match what he considers to be an over-phallic rival and reclaim his prize by force. But Hizuru won't be taken back by force. Actually, she evolves much more than her male counterparts over the course of the narrative, becoming quite a boxer in the process... In the end, a lot of blood was shed, but only to expose humanity to its intrinsic nature, as an uneven congregation of flesh and raw emotions.

It might not come as a surprise to film buffs, but boxing films are rarely about boxing. The Rocky films for instance, are so excessive in their depiction of fights as to completely, and willingly eschew realism. Fists fly and they land almost every time. The pugilists sustain a murderous amount of blows and come out with cosmetic bruises and cuts. The reason for this is obvious: boxing here is not used as a reality in itself, but as a symbol of the protagonist's resilience and, by extension, the fighting spirit of America. As Sly so eloquently put it in the final chapter of the series (reviewed here): "It ain't about how hard ya hit. It's about how hard you can get it and keep moving forward. How much you can take and keep moving forward. That's how winning is done!". In Tokyo Fist, boxing is used as emotional catharsis. It is a way for the characters to externalize the heated feelings derived from the frustrated love triangle in which they are involved. Coupled with the violence of the editing, the violence of the sport itself becomes a surprisingly raw expression of our basest humanity. That said, the fist thus becomes an unbridled externalization of the emotional self whereas Rocky's bruised midsection served merely as canvas on which to showcase the pain involved in the quest for self-improvement and the showcase of determination.

Tsukamoto as a romantic

While Shinya Tsukamoto’s Tokyo Fist seems to stray away from the cyberpunk roots laid down in Tetsuo: The Iron Man, it merely drops the "cyber" in cyberpunk (read on for details). It is thus an equally fitting addition to his oeuvre insofar as it proves to be yet another materialization of romantic madness. There is no doubt that Tsukamoto is a true romantic at heart, using love as the major driving force behind his hyperkinetic accounts of desperation and hope. And while one might argue that the use of the labyrinthine city, or "metallic" city, is the central leitmotif of his work, I would say that it is merely subservient to the filmic expression of amorous emotions. Thus, both love and the city end up entrapping his characters like so many puppets. And if the city always appear to clamp down on his protagonists, it is their unruly emotions that provide the rhythm at the heart of his narratives. In Tokyo Fist, the oppressive city is relegated to the background (or the foreground, as exemplified by a beautiful shot in which the reflection of a building over the window of his cab entraps the protagonist, effectively entrapping him twice within the frame). And thus the raw emotions of the protagonists take center stage. Well center stage and the backstage as they literally animate the film (through editing).

Although it dwarfs the protagonist, the metallic
city remains in the background

Tsukamoto's films proceed from a powerful form of "emotional realism", opposite of which is the "dramatic realism" of American films. Such a storytelling technique is reminiscent of the Soviet tradition, wherein editing is used not only to create meaning between shots, but to create meaning through rhythm. Here, we have truly a pulse-pounding film in the sense that its rhythm is that of a heartbeat, beating at a normal pace when everything is calm, but alarmingly fast once rage sets in. The addition of loud industrial music only adds power to the depiction of the raw emotions displayed by the characters. The result is a series of aggressive sequences, including several hyperkinetic fights, meant to absorb the viewer right into the film, and make him partake directly into the protagonists' actions, putting him squarely at the center of their resolve. By attacking the senses with an impressionistic flurry of shots, Tokyo Fist will not leave the viewer unscathed. And in the end, he will feel all the bruises and cuts experienced by the protagonists as if they were his own, wondering if the boiling blood in his veins is about to burst out and rain down on the walls.

Non-cyber punk
Now is time to ask a question which I think is pertinent to our analysis of Tokyo Fist as a gutsy, visceral film. That question is the following: what happens to cyberpunk when it is deprived of its cybernetic element? The answer is quite simple: there remains punk. But what is punk? For the sake of argument, let us posit a working definition centered on the pursuit of authenticity. After all, "punk ain't no religious cult. Punk means thinking for yourself". But authenticity runs much deeper than ideas. It runs right down to the unsightly guts and gut feelings which we try so desperately to hide. In so many words, punk is the unbridled expression of the primordial humanity which we restrain through social mores. This unbridled expression of the visceral self is perhaps best exemplified by the infamous incident involving the Sex Pistols boarding a Holland-bound plane at the Heathrow Airport. Some observers referred to this as the “spitting incident at Heathrow”, as members of the band reportedly spat on passengers and airport officials. According to the The Guardian, dated January 7th 1977, one of them is even said to have vomited (on whom or what is not specified). Just like the raw words that came out of the Sex Pistols’ mouths and which tremendously offended the uptight British society, their unsightly spit (and vomit) were also instruments of their radical art, or aspects of the “raw” humanity that lurked behind the layer of civility which we entertain as our true “human” face. But humanity knows better than to be shackled by good mores as it is always ready to burst out and obliterate face with bowelfuls of repulsive, semi-liquid expressions of itself. That said, if spit and vomit exist as the necessary underside of human existence, so too does violence exist as the necessary underside of romance, seeing how our deepest emotions are entangled with our basest "flesh" components. Evidently, flowers and gift-wrapped diamonds might seem like the only true expression of love to those who think they can transcend the flesh, but in the end, everybody knows that they aren’t. Love is a powerful emotion, and as such, it cannot elude the utter violence of its rawest expression. Jealousy, pain, uncertainty, but also tearful joy, exhilaration and sexual bliss: these are the things that love is truly about. Love is both crap and the rose that's blooming out of that crap insofar as it causes pain, but not without offering a way to transcend that pain. Love is equally enslaving as it is liberating. And Tokyo Fist perfectly captures that equivalence by entrapping his characters in a endless waltz of violence that eventually liberates them through the understanding of one's self as a being of passion that will experience equally low lows as high highs insofar as one embraces the dictates of that passion. By further equating bloodletting with the expression of raw emotions, Tsukamoto makes it a point to convey the expression of humanity in true punk fashion.

Unrestrained humanity gushing out of the passionate man:
director Tsukamoto is crying blood in Tokyo Fist

During the credits, just before the title appears, one can notice a distinctly animated layer of flesh rippling away from the center toward the edges of the frame. Symbolically, the film thus emerges out of the director's guts in a direct transfer to the screen. His starring in the film is not a coincidence either as we understand that the present enterprise comes straight from the heart, becoming in the process of its elaboration a cathartic release for the author. And if his sweat is involved in making the film per se, so his is lifeblood, which we see gushing out of his body on several occasions in a bid to reveal what the narrative is really about, namely the raw expression of humanity. The bruised face of Kojima after the final boxing match is yet another reminder of what lies beneath sport as an orderly activity. The blood that spurts out abundantly from his face marks the intensity of his new resolve, born out of the violence inherent to his confrontation with Tsuda and Hizuru. It represents the epitome of self-achievement in the sense that it allows Kojima to get a tangible sense of his own self, the limits thereof and the passion that erupts from every of his pores (as represented by the blood itself). Yet, Kojima and Tsuda are not the only ones to get acquainted with the possibilities of their inner self. Hizuru also gets a sense of self through self-mutilation. Her adorning intrusive jewelry embroidered directly into her flesh is itself an experience in recognizing one's own corporeality (read corpo-reality). Hence, the puncturing of one's flesh, the bleeding, the pain, all those things against which we try to protect ourselves are but the inner side of our rawest emotions, which we also strive to hide under the masks (and suits) of civility. After all, very few people opt for passion in their daily life, judging that it is too powerful an emotion to master. And so too do people try to keep their bodily fluids inside, save for that one act during which humans become akin to beasts and indulge in their most primary function. Passion can bleed you dry, but it can also make you closer to your true self than anything else. And it is almost impossible to strike a balance between the empowering aspects of passion and its darker aspects. Fortunately, the film addresses this issue head-on, without fussing over silly dramatic details.

Tokyo Fist is a constant clash, a clash between the city and the individual, a clash between outward civility and inner chaos, between rage and restraint, between sights and sounds, between man and woman. And from that clash emerges two invaluable things: the raw expressive power of cinema used as catharsis for the author, and the crucial realization of our hidden humanity. Truly, Tsukamoto's film is a powerhouse of unrestrained emotions and one of the most accurate depiction of a true love story out there. A considerable achievement for one of the best contemporary Japanese filmmakers.


4/5 A masterpiece of expressive art that reaches deep into the heart of humanity to salvage our most powerful emotions. A love story as violent and unforgiving as any you will experience under the sign of passion.

Baise-moi (2000)

Distributed under the title Rape Me in some parts, Baise-moi actually means Fuck Me. And this is precisely what it means within the narrative. The two protagonists do not wish to be raped. Actually, one of them is a rape victim gone mad, using a macho brand of violence to finally exert some control over her sexual life, making male desire a mere operative tool in her own quest for satisfaction. And so, it is not surprising that the two directors would categorically reject the erroneous title, which was probably used only to eschew the use of the word "fuck", hence pointing out to what controversy is all about in the US: vulgar language and its pervasive influence on youth. The fact that the word 'fuck' is the most precise and most logical term to describe the random sexual encounters depicted in the film has no bearing on anyone who would have the nerve to refer to it as Rape Me, a title that should be mercilessly hunted down and invalidated instead of the film itself.

Baise-moi and the art of depicting "coups de bites" (dick hits):
women need not be subtle when tackling phallocentric tastes

That said, with nary any element overstepping the boundaries of traditional exploitation cinema, save for the gender of its directors, Baise-moi should've gracefully dodged any controversy, had it not been for the uptight rating boards who have now taken the burden of moral authority in light of the dwindling influence of the Church. Yes, the film does contain some hardcore sex. So, you just need to apply the rules concerning pornographic material, slap the film a well-deserved X-rating, and get over it already! There's no need to make a big fuss about it. Even I, who rarely ever has sex, still consider it an integral part of life, finding no discomfort in its graphic depiction onscreen. Furthermore, sex is a central tenet of the film, which unfortunately plays more like a trashy genre film that any truly dramatic attempt at depicting their characters beyond the veil of flesh. And so its depiction is crucial to narrative construction. After all, the story does concern two women's quest for freedom in a phallocentric world, which constitutes but a novel angle with which to frame an otherwise sub-par serial killer road movie. Their re-appropriation of sex within the scope of their own, personal desires thus obviously warrants its onscreen depiction, and perhaps, just perhaps was controversy born out of that deconstruction of the male dictates in terms of pornography. As for the parallel between sex and violence, it should come as no surprise for genre film fans, whom are mature enough to understand that they are both intrinsic human desires, and perhaps the last visible remnants of what lies beyond the masks of normalcy which we all slavishly adorn to better thread waters in the sea of business.

Starring porn stars Karen Bach and Raffaëla Anderson, the narrative concerns two disgruntled women who commit their first murder while under the throes of passion, both during an argument about the agency of men over their respective lives. Hooker Nadine strangles her roommate after she comments on her limp attitude toward shady boyfriend Francis, while poor immigrant Manu shoots her own brother when he dubs her a slut after she was raped in an underground parking garage. Stealing some 10,000 francs from her brother's stash, Manu then kidnaps Nadine, whom she randomly meets on the subway, and forces her to drive them to Paris, where they eventually team up and engage in a lucrative killing spree involving numerous sexual pit stops. After we see the girls shoot and fuck their way through half of France, in what basically amounts to an X-rated version of a romantic teenage fantasy, the film ends on a surprisingly harmonious note, making us contemplate the void in the protagonists' lives in particularly effective fashion while opening up the dreary perspective of absence with rare emotional precision, which helps balance the nihilistic stance of the narrative a bit.

Discussing suicide as the only worthy solution to their woes, the
protagonists play along the dotted lines of outsider narrative,
which uses nihilism as self-explanatory dramatic fuel

Shot with a cheap, hand-held video camera that garners interesting results only when used subjectively (such as when it adorns the viewpoint of Nadine getting fucked or that of a young thug getting beat up), the film is devoid of all production values. With its highly unrealistic depiction of violence and ultra realistic depiction of sex (shot using all the loving close-ups of hard-core pornography), the film is bound to catch casual genre fans off guard. Mind you, Baise-moi is not pornographic in nature. As directors Despentes and Trinh Thi so rightfully put it, "if it's not made for jerking off, then it ain't pornography". And, believe me, you probably won't feel like jerking off to this film, which hardly ever dissociates sex from violence, or at least, the possibility of violence. With its wide array of operative images, including close-ups of squirming female flesh, erect penises, bloodied heads and cocaine-snorting, Baise-moi definitely falls into the larger exploitation category, cramming all the dirty stuff that midnight audiences love into one handy 77-minute film.

But while it does fiddle with the classic codes of exploitation cinema (remember Thriller, which also featured hard-core pornographic elements within a traditional revenge storyline), the film is not made to rake in the dough in the same way as traditional exploitation does, namely because it features aggressive female sexuality in its midst, dragging the focus away from the phallocentric fantasies made to cater to the average genre film fans. Hence, the Thelma and Louise parallel becomes helpful in trying to better understand the film, for insofar as Ridley Scott's road movie removes Billy and Wyatt's hairy feet from the pedal toward freedom, so too does Baise-moi manages to conjure the memory of Henry and Otis and bring about a direly needed twist on the buddy killers film. Yet, contrary to Thelma and Louise, the present film also involves a specifically feminine take on narrative discourse, if not on filmic practices per se. The end result is a film that fails to really transcend the genre traditions from whence it came, but succeeds in bringing along a novel, eminently feminine outlook on its material. But ultimately, the subversion is only skin-deep, slightly transforming our perception of what would've been dubbed a cautionary tale against sexual abuse and social stigma (had it been shot by males), but which is now called a liberating woman's cry (seeing how it was actually shot by females), while still appealing mostly to undiscriminating thrill-seekers and jaded genre fans.

Grainy, blurred and over-saturated,
Baise-moi looks absolutely dismal

All in all, it is hard for me to qualify the film as more than "Average", for it is not. Once you get past the fact that the film contains actual shots of penetration, you can switch to passive mode and slowly slide into the catatonic stupor of casual genre fans, appreciating the film only as a buffet of juicy morsels. And while Baise-moi does manage to stand out from the formless mass of genre films, if only for the quantity of hardcore sex that it contains, I won't support any attempt at locating it anywhere near the realm of high art, for it is precisely because of its belonging to a very specific brand of popular entertainment that the film manages to formulate a critique of the phallocentric codes contained therein. By dragging it upward, away from the prosaic, foul-smelling depths of exploitation theaters, that is how the film loses its raison d'être. Because only alongside other exploitation efforts will it really stand out and make a difference in our appraisal thereof. That said, while Baise-moi itself is not good at all, at least it managed to spark some inspired intellectual discussions regarding the politics of representation within the fantasy world of genre cinema. Which does elevate it above esthetic concerns and proves once again that the act of censorship necessarily provokes adverse effects: instead of making it so that a film isn't seen, censorship rather bestows instantaneous cult status upon their "targets", thus insuring their perennity and widespread recognition.


2/5 A dismal-looking film that transcends exploitation only insofar as people can find relevance in the fact that it was made by two women. Not unlike The Human Centipede (Full Sequence) recently or the video nasties of the 1970s-1980s, it is mostly a censorship-fueled success.

Motel Hell (1980)

This here wasn't the first time I attempted to watch Motel Hell. The last time I did, I was so repulsed by the dated look thereof that I simply switched off and proceeded to watch Needful Things instead (which happened to be featured in the same bargain boxed set). And while the latter actually proved to be worse, at least it boasted some kind of visual hook into the narrative. Thanks to some spotless cinematography, it was easy to feel right at home in Castle Rock, fast taking the pulse of this small coastal community with the sight of each old homestead surrounded by endless porches. The many problems plaguing the screenplay were invisible then, for at the threshold, the film looked very good. As for the former film, it opens with bland, almost monochrome shots virtually devoid of content. Rory Calhoun posing in front of a defective neon sign that reads Motel Hell(o) isn't exactly what you could call a glorious entry into any film, low-budget horror or otherwise. Seeing this once again, I now managed to resist the urge to press 'Eject'. And ultimately, I was rewarded for my patience with some juicy assets nestled at the heart of the film, making it a flawed but memorable entry in post-TCM country horror.

The film offers some juicy morsels to those
who can get past the atrocious cinematography

As you might ascertain from the tagline ("It takes all kinds of critters to make farmer Vincent's fritters") , the film is a humorous cannibal romp with soft teeth. It stars Rory Calhoun as a Southern farmer and motel owner who sells smoked bits of former tenants to unsuspecting customers, earning himself somewhat of an illustrious reputation amongst locals. But while you'd expect some systematic narrative mechanisms involving a steady flow of victims ringing the bell on the front desk, Motel rather develops as a bitter-sweet family drama that chronicles the attempts made by Vincent and his sheriff brother to woo a young woman sheltered in the titular locale. The film actually begins with the appearance of the farmer's "angel", salvaged from a crashed motor bike during one of his nightly raids for victims. Investigating the "tragic" event, brother Bruce also becomes infatuated with the blonde orphan, soon coming at odds with his brother for her heart, and threatening to destroy the family business in the process. The climax sees the two men involved in a testosterone-filled chainsaw duel that will certainly manage to conjure the fading memories left by The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2 (actually produced six years after the present film).

To be totally frank with you, I must say that this scene is one of the two main selling points of a film that one will surely remember only anecdotally. "What's Motel Hell?", one might ask. "It's that film where they harvest people like carrots", would reply another. "Oh, you mean the one with the chainsaw duel at the end?" Yeah, that's right. This is indeed the kind of outing made memorable by tasty bit parts that barely manage to elevate the ensemble to the level of respectability. As for the rest, as for the very unconvincing romance involving aging Calhoun and twenty-something Terry (Nina Axelrod) and all the narrative weight it is supposed to possess, one will watch the spectacle thereof with the acute eye of soap opera fans, trying to artificially infuse dramatic power within.

Some chainsaw-filled fun near the end helps
elevate the film to the level of respectability

Actually, the whole thing plays out more like a soap, then an horror film per se, focusing on the petty jealousies of Vincent's siblings and the mundane goings-on of the farmer's existence, rather than on the twisted fate of their victims, whom are all as underdeveloped in terms of characterization as the common cattle. And thus, the crux of the drama lies in the lingering revelation awaiting Terry, who is seen as the rightful successor of farmer Vincent, and heir to his secret meat-smoking method. Will she refuse to humor her elderly saviors, or will she instead take on their trade? But more importantly, will she survive sister Ida and the boys' quarrels over her long enough to actually make that decision? That is what you will be poised to anticipate as one finds horror only in the disinterested attitude of the farmers in regards to their choice of livestock.

Yet, even the most mundane dramatic aspects of the narrative strangely manage to stick to the pan, if you can get past the atrocious decors, lame photography, literal acting and slow pacing best befitting TV shows. As the plot unfolds, the characters become increasingly compelling, often coming close to embodying the essence of Southern hospitality, family values and responsible farming. With the signature sequence of the film depicting how "humanely" the human livestock is slaughtered, one becomes nearly adamant to peg Vincent as a good guy who, by his own accord, is crusading to solve both the overpopulation and the hunger problem all at once. And although the film ultimately settles for a contrived finale in which his victims are freed and his production shut down, in which his sheriff brother is redeemed, after being introduced as a potential rapist, most of the drama is localized squarely in the inner sanctum of the motel, where Terry is getting acquainted with her new surroundings. Short of being the main character, it seems to be her ordeal which is delineated by the narrative and not that of the farmer's victims. But then again, the film is a tad scatter-brained in its attempts at creating a unique viewpoint from which to view the narrative, unfolding instead as a series of simple happenings systematically branching toward familiar, obligatory places.

Family picnics in the country carry more
dramatic weight than the ordeal of human cattle

As for the hardcore horror fans, which should've been considered more specifically in the elaboration of this half-baked genre parody, they are treated to a few grotesque scenes containing some rather unique imagery, all of it pertaining to the weird "culture" of human beings in soft soil. Forget the overdetermined images of metal bars and grits-filled troughs, and bask instead in the originality of this new culture, the gem of the present screenplay. Aside from that, you've got some outrageous moments of comedy peppering the story, including the apparition of a sadomasochist couple whipping their way through the contents of a motel room in a desire-fueled frenzy. You've got a metal band named "Ivan and the Terribles", thrown off the road by farmer Vincent. But witty wordplays aside, the humor doesn't come across with much success, with the crudest jokes dabbing into flat-out infantilism, making horror but a secondary element of the narrative, visible only in the mundane resort to cannibalism.

In the end, Motel Hell looks and feels like a quickly produced TV movie, with some inspired ideas thrown in the mix to better guarantee its perennity amongst adventurous horror fans. That is, if you can remain unfazed by the amateurish production values and lack of energy in the creative development of the project. Then, you will uncover secrets that will shock you. So I will recommend this film to the curious who wish to behold some unique imagery. Let it be known however, that one will need an open mind to really get into the story and care for grayish characters that cruelly lack intensity and even grayer decors that will remind one of a hillbilly's home movies shot in and around the family farm.


2/5 If it weren't for that crazy scene involving the humane slaughter of half-burrowed human carrots, the movie would've surely sunk into oblivion. Recommended only for the most curious and most undiscriminating or horror fans.

The Burning (1981)

Uninspired title, uninspired film; The Burning is a formulaic vehicle for Tom Savini's stellar FX and a slippery stepping stone for a plethora of future stars, including Seinfeld's Jason Alexander and Hollywood mogul Harvey Weinstein. Throughout the years, the film has managed to garner a mostly undeserved reputation as one of the strongest "summer camp" slashers of the early 80s, which is at best a dubious honor. Truth of the matter is, there's nothing so novel or unique here as to really stimulate the viewer, especially after ample servings of similar outings, the bulk of which thread water in a sea of moronic jump scenes and awkward teenage coupling. And at heart, The Burning is no exception, being narrowly salvaged by uncut gore scenes and the mild historical interest provided by the presence of many stars to be.

The tacky cover should tell you
precisely what's in store

A trip down Memory Lane
I remember seeing The Burning about a decade ago, during one of the horror film marathons I used to organize with a like-minded friend. We would go to La Boîte Noire (Montreal's finest home video outlet) and pick four films which appealed to our immediate desires, then dash home and indulge in the giddy thrills of our earlier years. Virtually every sub-genre and every era we covered, from classic monster movies to contemporary gore jobs and everything in between, imposing as few limits on ourselves as possible.

During our scuffles for titles, we came across this tacky-looking film cover featuring a shadowy man with outstretched arms holding a nasty-looking pair of shears. Considering the conventional backdrop composed of log cabins over shadowy woods, it wasn't hard to envision the premise: horny teenagers are chased by a slasher hiding in the woods around some summer camp on the East Coast. The teenagers are then picked off one by one by the slasher, who catches them off-guard, then proceeds to stab or cut them under various angles, impaling at least one camper to a tree in the process.

The obligatory shower scene is located way too
early to create any real sense of foreboding

At face value, the product didn't seem interesting, evoking rather boredom from redundancy than entertainment. But then, there were those immense shears, and all the different kinds of violence they could implement. The possibilities seemed endless at the time. And seeing how we weren't concerned by the promise of nudity, having outgrown our girly magazine phase, the promise of latex arteries being slashed open and rubber bodies getting penetrated by blades, all the cutting, impaling, stabbing, sawing that these weapons implied, this is what appealed to our fiendish, infantile desires.



Art and giblets
You see, there is a craft to creating realistic gore effects, a craft just as imaginative and brain-wracking as set design, and which is something that horror fans enjoy even more. Yet, it is almost universally frowned upon as something vulgar and unworthy of praise. Not unlike color photography when it first came about, and was denied any artistic potential by retrograde wise men who stroked their beard and looked at the past for inspiration. Clearly, there's a double standard at play here, and it is mostly informed by popular tastes in matters moralistic. Hence, when a master painter depicts the human body with precise accuracy, he is called great. When a cartoonist draws the face of his subject in vivid details, witnesses are in awe of his art. But when one slices the body open, even though that body is a meticulously duplicated figure, then high-strung sensibilities immediately come into play and start interfering with the appreciation of art. People will suddenly become hostile to the craftsman, whose work proves too close for comfort, an uneasy reminder of what the human form, in all its perceived glory, veils in terms of glistening viscera and dripping arteries.

The Burning is a masterpiece of gory art. Here, a young
Fisher Stevens learns of the slasher's wrath firsthand.

And that's only one of the two major downsides of creating gore FX, the other being the lack of exposition that this form of art has within the medium that is horror. Guys get to see their work onscreen for scant seconds. They spend hours designing and crafting body parts that leak in the proper way, or splatter according to script, all of that for less than three minutes of screentime in a 90-minutes film chock-full of untold filler, scenes of teenagers wandering through the forest, cheap scares, and cheap tits, usually borrowed from young actresses in need of work. But there is a reward in all this: the fact that people come to see the film precisely for those three minutes. And for the three minutes of nudity. The plot around it all is just filler, and it runs in circles, precisely not to alienate audience members, hooking them with the comforting knowledge of forecoming gore or nudity at every predictable turn.

People don't go see slashers because they enjoy the victimization of women, nor because they must comply with murderous instincts. They do so only to appreciate flesh in the most visceral, but ultimately most forbidden fashion. Just think of a roller coaster. Whether you dress it up like a dragon, a train, or a spaceship, it's appreciation will vary only in accordance with the amount of thrills that it provides. It would be naive to think that people see themselves soaring into outer space after being strapped into the Magic Mountain ride. Just like it is naive to think that people play out psychological angst while watching horror films. Horror films are mostly meant to make you react to a rapid series of stimuli, to engage you in the thrills of sexual awakening and/or murderous rage, making you probe just beyond the veil of flesh and into a world that is so real as to endanger the fragile balance of lies that constitute modern life and the comforting thought that we are somehow more than just flesh and blood.


The Scalding
Nostalgic digressions aside, The Burning constitutes a typical example of "summer camp" slashers. The formulaic storyline is punctuated by a series of twists that could be arranged in virtually any order, seeing how the characters barely evolve through the course of the narrative, except when their deaths bring about some mild emotions from their peers. Yet, there is some great gore effects to marvel at... and wait for endlessly. There is some full frontal (female) nudity. But nothing to write mom about. Moreover, the film makes quite a narrative blunder that greatly threatens the fun that one could derive from it. The fact that the killer is clearly identified from the beginning makes it impossible for the viewer to engage in any form of speculation, leaving us only to wonder why he goes on a killing spree without targeting the one character most directly responsible for his accident. What we are left with is only gore and tits, basically.

The identity of the killer is revealed
way too early for us to indulge in speculation

For those who care, the story involves an abusive caretaker who was inadvertently set afire when a group of disgruntled campers pulled a nasty prank on him several years back and left him for dead in the woods. Now, instead of fast-forwarding to the same camp in the present day, the film follows the caretaker as he is committed to the burn ward of a big city hospital (shot in near total darkness), then released after a painful recovery. Upon being let loose in the city, he quickly picks up a hooker and stabs her with a pair of scissors, establishing from the get-go that it is he, the shear-wielding slasher. Then, it's all a question of who goes first when the film cuts to the summer camp where Tommy, one of the murderous pranksters from the opening scene, now works as a counselor. With a cast of characters only slightly rounder than archetypes, whatever happens next in terms of exposition is not nearly as interesting as the minute details of the teenagers' foretold deaths.

For those who can appreciate it, I must say that the film is deliciously retro in its musical selection, respectfully paying homage to the gialli, the original slasher films, with its high-pitched, almost contrapuntal use of keyboard sounds. But most importantly, the film is of some historical interest because it contains the work of several future celebrities. Oscar winners Fisher Stevens, Holly Hunter and Harvey Weinstein all used the film as a springboard in their trip toward excellence. And so did Jason Alexander, known worldwide as Seinfeld's George Costanza. And while they are not at their best here, at least they were given that early chance to shine. Which is all the more reason to support cheaply-produced, widely-distributed exploiters, nay, to demand the return of cheaply-produced, widely-distributed exploiters as part of a business strategy to rejuvenate the Hollywoodian machine.

Becsause despite what the detractors of these films will say, these is art to be found in them, and beauty. For the craft of dismemberment is also a celebration of art, and of humanity in its depiction of the most fragile, most prosaic elements of our existence, the soft flesh and the flowing blood which makes us what we are. Then there is the sculptural beauty of teenage Venuses. The spectacle of youth, unveiled by flashy, branded garments. The spectacle of youth in its intrinsic beauty, not in the manufactured beauty of products. But most importantly, the showcasing of humanity in its simplest form, away from the overly intellectualized dramatic humanity of meta-narratives. Hence, the constant reminder of death which characterizes the horror genre, and which finds its expression in the vulnerability of our Earthly beings of flesh and guts, driven not by higher ideals, but by pressing instincts. The celebration of human as animal, and not as a Godly creature, which is at once the genre's driving force and the origin of criticism against it.


Why I digress
Why I digress is obvious. It is because there is so very little to say about The Burning, except to invite readers to look at the tag fastened around it: "A Harvey Weinstein production of a Tony Maylam summer camp slasher starring Jason Alexander, Fisher Stevens and Holly Hunter, with makeup and gore effects by Tom Savini". Given the rigid codes to which this kind of films obeys, you should get a fairly precise idea of what to expect merely from that description. And if you're looking for something more, well, you're not gonna find it. The film is fun for the shears, and for the spectacle of Jason Alexander with hair all the way to his forehead. That's it.


2/5 A fairly standard summer camp gore job with some historical interest deriving for the presence of many stars to be.