TOTAL RADICAL.

(An experimental article as published in The Scene, Jan. 2014)

 

 

Within the confines of the film Bullet Collector, teen angst is a strange and violently crooked world unto itself. A curious, ultra indie effort bred in Mother Russia (native title 'Sobiratel pul'), this film marks a flawed yet highly noteworthy feature bow for Alexander Vartanov, following stints toiling in and around television and stage productions . This director has openly cited the cinematic legacy of long beloved French new waver François Truffaut (in great particular, The 400 Blows, a work that receives rather explicit homage here) as a primary source of influence on his yarn spinning approach. One may be hard pressed to overlook the shades of fellow countrymen filmmakers embedded in the texture and rhythm of Bullet Collector as well (i.e. Andrei Tarkovsky, Grigory Chukhray).

Bullet Collector gives the adventurous viewer bold (and often quite brutal) insight into the passing everyday turmoil that is the waking life of a perpetually put upon youth, never officially named in the film and played by Ruslan Nazarenko, and the unique process he develops in order to soldier on. Between a cold, defeatist vibe at home care an emotionally bankrupt mother and conflict prone stepfather and an arguably worse environment at school and in the city streets, this poor soul must stick to the markedly fairer comforts of his imagination which at least provides him with a sense of purpose in the role of budding 'bullet collector' (yes, that odd title has a tangible meaning). You see, inside the framework of this anonymous child's mind, there is an abstract war of wills between collectives suggested to be heroic (the 'Bullet Collectors') and villainous (the 'Wood Borers') who trade bloody stand offs in strict juxtaposition to the harsh truths unfolding around him.

 

 

The potency that fuels this odd slice of monochromatic cinematic experimentation comes far more from the director's method of image composing and the corralling together of some remarkable ideas than just sticking to a convenient 'woe is me' type of t.v. movie level character study. Bullet Collector feels more accurate when it chooses to unfold its given saga in more of a brooding, even horrific light.

Vartanov divides the overall body of his unusual domestic dilemma into two distinct halves (like a kind of avaunt guarde 'Full Metal Jacket', albeit focusing on a rather scaled down form of combat) the first hour being fractured into drifting, largely unpredictable fragments that attempt to flesh out themes and shades of the protagonist's problematic existence. In said segmentations (ten in total, bearing titles like 'Father', 'Dagger', 'Debt, 'The Road' etc...) the viewer is fitted with the duty of properly assembling a coherent take on the main lad's background and upbringing coupled with sketches that work to detail this kid's none too smooth interaction with a pretty lass (who actually is permitted a name 'Vika', a blatant anomaly in the film for some reason) and a heady variety of violent altercations with local gangs of mechanically vicious delinquents. Finally, following a succession of these increasingly chaotic situations this lithe, blond ne'er do well finds himself smack in the nucleus of, the choice is made to have him shifted away to a reform school hell pit and the film reconfigures itself to become a far more linear, though no less aggressive and troubling, prison escape attempt melodrama. The kid aligns himself with a fitful company of other misfit types, mostly the kind that are repeatedly singled out for predictable abuse, and sets forth to hatch an effective scheme in which they are able to burst from the draining, oppressive walls of this 'establishment' and make their ways to brighter pastures. The film refuses to play out its final beats en route to a chipper denouement, preferring instead to play witness to their free fall away from one another and, especially in the case of the central youth so besotted with evacuating his given reality, a complete decent into a vast open body of water that may (or may not) spell the literal end of a much troubled mortal role.

 

 

 

Bullet Collector works as a mostly dead on depiction of extensive mental improvisation and (eventually) clear cut delirium as a means to survive a truly desolate end. The picture is rendered through stark cinematography that reveals its collection of potentially mundane daily life set pieces more as an engrossing Grand Guignol of painful challenges that the story's chief hero (to use the term with a bit of abstraction) must endure, overcome and ultimately escape in an improved form, or not. To be sure, the pace of Bullet Collector may lag some at times, the film runs a tad overlong, but that does precious little to diffuse its' genuine level of power. The plight of this boy is never reduced to cheap, simple to digest sentiment as the film favors a wholly gory series of visual visitations (i.e. one downtrodden specter who strangles himself with his own intestines) to help or hinder (the purpose is never completely sharp here) his progress through each passing day.

 

Bullet Collector is a strong piece of film for the sake of pure art and should satiate the needs of those who crave the brave and apart from conventional in their cinematic diet. Available on DVD from an interesting company named Artsploitation Films whose aim is to transcend safe boundaries in cinema and one glane at their budding catalog of releases (check artsploitationfilms.com to see for your own damn self) and one can easily believe in them. Bullet Collector is accompanied by a 25 minute making of piece (in color for a nice bit of alternate perspective), a short deleted scene, audition footage and a somewhat helpful booklet with ample insights from director Vartanov who does his darndest to clarify his intentions. Give it a chance, won't you?

 

 

 

 

 

Also along the path of different things for 'different' people is the spare yet informative documentary that goes by the name of Free Radicals, A History of Experimental Film. Here, we are presented with a bit of a crash course on the basics and key participants of the underground film movement that sought to separate itself from the confines of strict, commercial narrative storytelling in order to lay emphasis on the value and power of the image itself. The film seems to be a labor of love for its' heavily enthusiastic creator, director Pip Chodorov, and with obvious reason as the film makes blatant early on. Chodorov's pop, Stephan, was a would be avaunt gaurde filmmaker and documentarian and it seems Pip was raised in the embrace of a natural, creativity driven household that involved copious group screenings and related discussions. Pip does well within his tightly kept 82 minute running time to provide the uninitiated with many key points of interest (both historic and current) in relation to the founding and continued nurturing of the world of expressive celluloid manipulation.

 

Free Radicals works between clips of various works and interviews detailing by direct example the way established voices in this strange variant of the cinema found fulfillment by scratching, looping, spitting, spastically editing and painting on strips of film to craft dense and hitherto unforeseen realms to be projected before any (usually limited) gathering they could wrangle together. Some of the major names in this so-called movement, living and not, are given time to share insight, theory and asides into what first lured them and what maintained their drive to continue making these rebellious and consistently under loved little contributions to the motion picture universe. Stan Brakhage, Jonas Mekas, Hans Richter, Robert Breer and Ken Jacobs are all granted a fair share in this micro-epic and yes, even ol' Andy Warhol finds himself slotted into the mix.

 

 

 

The film holds a majority focus on many of the current and more recent facets of this sub-genre and never fully conveys the impression that it ever intends to be a end all, beat all historical chronicle of said subject matter (after all, there is no mention of turn of the century trail blazers like Georges Méliès and his ilk) and that hardly matters. What Free Radicals achieves is the worthy status as a sort of engaging primer on the matter, it could work wonders to pique interest and lead certain odd duck tastes to seek out the sprawling body of works that the mentioned individuals have given forth thus far. The Criterion Collection (forever a valued source for moi) itself has two fat collections of Stan Brakhage's mammoth output as well as a package of stuff from related artist Hollis Frampton (a name not mentioned in this film) that more than do the trick. I found each of the aforementioned films at the Appleton Public Library (bless 'em), so it doesn't even have to cost you to make the effort. Dig into it, pronto.

Free Radicals : A History of Experimental Film can also be tracked down at kinolorber.com

ALL YOU BLEED IS LOVE.

The marks

about her neck

remind me of

'perfect'

she checks the mirror

to see if I'm

responsible

it's all backwards now

I never asked to be

(re) born as her

lover she

just took the initiative

apart

made her own rules to

become broken

bones

fit for our

wedding night

the day before the

baby arrived

stillborn

on the nightstand

waiting

for me to entrust it to

the over spilling trash with

the dawning hypocrisy of

our vows

rusting

my decision to

have the courage to

ever approach her at all


I have always been leery of

interacting with women



Now I know why.

 

JOYRIDING INTO INFAMY.

(as originally published in The Scene Newspaper, Menasha, Wisconsin. circa 2010)

This month's subject is a rock you mentary.

It is about a world famous rock star.

It is about 78 minutes long.

It whips a donkey's ass.

It can really knock it out.

'Wesley Willis's Joy Rides' is perhaps the first, middle and last word on the life, times, art and essence of the true American original known as Wesley Willis (1963-2003). Willis was a Chicago born personality who struggled through poverty, familial dysfunction and the pains of chronic schizophrenia to stake his claim to underground fame as a hustler/songwriter/manic performance wonderkind who, in turn, elevated the spirits of endless crowds with his addictive form of bent creative energy. The first time I was exposed to the man (care the track 'Rock & Roll McDonald's') was like an overwhelming shock to my senses. I thought to myself, 'what the hell is this?' and 'where can I find more?' I have always been partial to the more eccentric members of our mostly listless and convention driven culture, so it would only prove natural for me to seek out more of Wesley on record and live on stage.

Through digesting tons of (often self-produced) albums featuring rants and chants touching on various bands, fast food joints, celebrities and vicarious bestial sex acts, I often wondered what the full story was behind what led this towering, manic,  300+ pound mammoth of a human to become something genuinely positive instead of yet another sad fixture in some mental institute somewhere.

With the arrival of this 'Joy Rides' documentary, one may now obtain an informative (if still somewhat fractured) distillation and analysis of the life lived by this completely nominal and incomparable character. We are presented this information by way of many of the standard practices required of the biographical strain of the documentary format. The film presents copious footage of the man in motion, crafting, recording and belting out his music live. It sheds impressive light on his family life (his father and several brothers lend colorful voice to the topic of Wes), friendships that seemed to have often served as life saving moral support and the origin and troublesome particulars of Wesley's mental 'glitches' (his 'demon' runs him on frequent hell rides with what Willis deems 'torture profanity'). Archival photographic gems reveal Willis as a lanky, awkward youth infatuated with architecture and developing tight, meticulous line drawing technique that gives birth to a mass of huge, sprawling renditions of the Windy City, its public transit system and its skyline that Wesley would produce on a prolific scale until the very day he clocked out of this thing called mortality at the too young age of 40 (leukemia was the culprit).

When discussing Wesley Willis, it is important to keep in mind the patently different approach to deemed insanity the man typifies. Unlike the brand of shifty, crack addled street dregs that tend to put the fear of murder into folks with their vocal cacophonies and suspect behavioral traits, Wesley tended to work the good out of most of his public encounters (providing he was adequately medicated) with the sheer power of his bold and gregarious personality. One interviewee states late in the film that Wesley is a kind of person who is so in love with life that he acts imbalanced, he has the opposing effect of a standard issue 'mad' person, whom you want to be away from. Wesley tends to uplift those around him and many of the words employed by those who lend commentary in this film reiterate this statement by way of key personal anecdotes. Sometimes, crazy is simply an affirmation of true individuality.

'Wesley Willis' Joy Rides' works first on the basics of documentary criteria, in that it sells its subject matter as a legitimate point of interest and second as a fascinating case study of the sheer might of the human spirit as well as the potency of artistic expression as tools to offset and transcend hardship and handicap in order to attain a higher standard of living. The DVD release boasts some fine add-on bits including an extensive collection of deleted footage, herein one gets a glimpse at the likes of a Willis 'tribute' concert held in Belgium (?!?), a slightly creepy Kinko's based encounter with a loopy Jesus crispy and a Wesley cameo in an otherwise disposable short film ('The Dead and the Dying'). A pair of photo galleries round the package out nice and sweet like lunch meat. Wonderful stuff, highly recommended to all who seek to revel in the beauty of life by way of less than expected sources.

To track this pretty little poem to rock and roll, check it Internet-wise at-www.wesleywillissjoyrides.com

ALSO......

CONFESSIONS OF A SUPERHERO

Being the day to day quest for cultural immortality on the part of an L.A. based posse made up of a seriously delusion afflicted quartet of faux comic book personas. A fetishistic Superman, a bargain rate George Clooney-looking Batman, Wonder Woman and a buck toothed afro -centric Hulk jockey for tips and attention on Hollywood Blvd while clinging to the far fetched hope of making the grade with the A-List.

The fine line between quirky in a charming way and crash and burn pathetic is blurred from the start as we follow this hope-deprived crew through their desperate, streetwise routine that barely clarifies the real difference between these pulpy fools and commonplace panhandlers (save for the color palate of their costumes, of course). With the slight exception of the Wonder Woman wannabe (just another starry-eyed hick girl), this bunch is dominated by what can only be accurately referenced as absolute retards. The movie gives up a Superman who obsesses over everything 'Man of Steel' and Christopher Reeve (and claims blood relation to now obscure actress Sandy Dennis), a Batman with a temper glitch who lays claim to a former life of crime and a Hulk who looks as if he got face raped by an inbred jackass.

Now, while I can easily admire the film on its own merits and legitimate level of technical competency, I am hard pressed to become emotionally connected to the subjects to any degree higher than that of a giggling patron at a carnival sideshow. There is fun to be had with the film, no mistake. Its all train wreck fab in the details of this prime slice of Tinsel Town tackiness gone sadly amok. The movie could probably double as a potent warning sign to parents of future generation dumb shits who still cling to the tired belief of having a shot at greatness simply by parading their mug around that city of angels.  Blah! Think twice.

Rock Over London, Rock On Wisconsin,

killpeoplenamedrichard@yahoo.com, it's the best way to kill time online.

WRONG MADE RIGHT.

(Year end movie round up as published in the December 2013 edition of The Scene.)


Time to put this 2013 thing to rest with a few supplementary observations on some film bits that I failed to give proper attention to during the preceding 11 episodes of this column.

We start with a sensationally odd little tale called Wrong about a distraught young man who suddenly and inexplicably finds himself without his best friend, a fluffy canine named Paul. Said chap, calling himself Dolph (as played by Jack Plotnick) finds this is yet another in a series of steps working to unwind his already questionable mental framework. Dolph is in severe denial over being released from his standard issue office job to the point in which he continues behave as if he still belongs at his desk plugging away at his computer (beneath a ceaseless sheet of indoor rainfall, which is apparently the norm at this company) whilst his former co-workers look on in disbelief. In addition, Dolph gains the acquaintance of a collection of characters of equally off base stature. His gardener Victor (Eric Judor) draws his attention to the fact that the palm tree in his backyard has morphed into a pine tree, which isn't right, a plucky pizza delivery gal (Alexis Dziena) who takes an analytical phone debate over the nature of her store's logo as an impetus for romantic bliss and a mystery man named Mr. Chang (William Fichtner) with a direct hand in the missing pooch dilemma all work to help take poor Dolph down a weird path toward abstract enlightenment.

If the above outlined scenario comes off as more than a bit confused, it damn well should. Wrong arrives on the scene as the third directorial effort of a French bred fella named Quentin Dupieux. This is the same guy who carved out a compelling, if not in anyway logical, narrative based around the loopy concept of a homicidal tire rampaging across the desert under the observation of a group of random spectators and the pursuit of a slightly disjointed police force. That film bore the given title of Rubber and took to the cult film circuit with predictable results creating an appreciation of its director's very specific slant on many of the well trod conventions of the cinematic form. Dupieux, a man hailing from an electronic music/performance art background (established under the pseudonym 'Mr. Oizo') seems far more interested in the bending and mutating of many of the rules taken for granted by casual, everyday viewers. This tactic makes an audience member reevaluate the nature of the art form and, in particular, the  order of things in direct relation to the telling of a story. Not all cinema need unfurl in A, B, C/ straight line fashion and it is always a refreshing thing to behold when someone comes along with a complete bid to step apart from the familiar.

This Wrong film comes to the home video arena care a distributor out of Austin, Texas named Drafthouse Films. An offshoot of the Alamo Drafthouse theater chain famed for old school movie going presentation, odd duck, indie-cult programming and elaborate festivals. The video company was started in 2010 with similar, alternative ambitions. Other releases on this label have included the Belgian forgien Oscar nominee Bullhead, the 70s schlock reissue The Visitor (with a great, past their prime cast including Glenn Ford, Shelley Winters and even Sam Peckinpah) and the latest by Japanese meistro of utter oddness Sion (Love Exposure, Suicide Club,Cold Fish) Sono with the warm moniker Why Don't You Play In Hell?

The Wrong DVD includes a few handy goodies to help, possibly, flesh out some the many thematic issues and/or points of confusion likely to raise a fair measure of expected inquirey on the part of many who witness the confidently surreal world that the film presents. Phase 7-The Making of a Non-Film uses interviews and commentary by the powers involved in the production to help explain away the modus operandi behind this boy in search of dog saga while the requisite 'behind the scenes' segment actually consists of various cast and crew members giving  script readings of random portions of the storyline. Worth a look for anyone who just wants a little something to help offset the doldrums the predictiblility of most mainstream products dominating rental outlet shelves often impart. I actually stumbled on this at my local library but if one is interested enough they can check drafthousefilms.com for all the nessessary details.

Now for the rest of the stuff I can remember seeing that's worth sharing.


Spring Breakers.

Tell me you anticipated that a Harmony Korine movie would roll into a successful, wide, theatrical release riding on the gimmick of a bunch of once plucky, Disneyfied good girls getting down and debauched. Best time at the movies all year, thanks to Korine's knack for making even the most absurd degenerate behavior seem poetic and, dare I say, groovy. Four cute, hormonally imbalanced and morally confused gal pals (fleshed out by former Disney drones like Vanessa Hudgens and Selena Gomez)  rob a greasy spoon for some fast cash to fund their quest to escape their uneventful, community college life for the suds and skin orgies of beach side chaos that is the make shift spring break week of St. Petersburg, FL. An excess of substance addled partying leads to legal entanglement and an unexpected helping hand in Alien (James Franco), a local dope slinger and would be rapper who draws the heavily impressionable ladies into his world of small scale drug lording and over the top, white rapper clichés. The meat of the value of this whole wacky opus has got to be the from now on to be forever memorable performance of Mr. Franco.

Alien the motor mouthed quote machine is easily the best, pure cartoon character I've come in contact with in many a year (certainly in this movie going season). Franco's roll call of all his many trivial material trinkets ('look at my shit') is my pick for the film's best stand alone scene and the energy the actor derives from this larger than life and then some persona works to lift an already potent Korine opus to the next level of 'beautifully' disturbed. The music at play in the picture works to perfection as well as the visuals (sorry Skrillex haters) and I am quite sure I will never think of the work of Britney Spears in quite the same way again (you'll understand once you've seen the film).

Pacific Rim.

The best of the big summer specticles that I got around to checking out. Guillermo del Toro's vivid mash up of Robotech-ish anime and big reptile monsters knocking shit over is the kind of colorful, fun for the sake of being fun epic that we just don't see enough of anymore. Duel pilot mecha suits named Jaegers smash into ugly, turtle like bastards called Kaiju (Japanese for 'strange creature', natch) in order to stave off the end of all things we humans cling to on this rock called Earth. Simple concept, sure, but it has a kind of Saturday morning cartoon vibe that del Toro has employed so strongly in the past (as in his two Hellboy films) that works fine here to present a loud, sprawling summer epic that avoids the murk and dreariness that dulled much of its (unfortunately higher grossing) competition like the underwhelming Man of Steel or the mostly dreadful Word War Z. I actually hope they pursue the film's sequel potential.

The World's End.

More effortless fun and genre blending from the trio of film maker Edgar Wright (bouncing way back from that forgettable Scott Pligrim misfire) and his fave actors Simon Pegg and Nick Frost. As with the slacker sitcom vs zombie flick homage of Shaun of the Dead and the buddy cop meets gore chic murder mystery devices of Hot Fuzz this film marries seemingly unrelated themes and styles to oddly maximum effect. A group of old friends who have greatly drifted apart are brought unexpectedly together by their least formidable member (Pegg) who posits a return to their glory days of drunken abandon with a 12 step pub crawl that he hopes will fully congeal their long estranged social bond. Once this proposal is set in motion the lads slowly discover the general populace surrounding them is not quite on par with one would call genuine humanity. A strange presence has integrated itself into the horde and the film reveals this in methods both goofy and startling. The World's End shifts smoothly from manic comedy replete with plentiful gags and one-liners to something cooly creepy and rich with a stout John Carpenter vibe as the whole thing winds its way to some truly inspired and unexpected reveals. Fresh on home video shelves as I write this. Get to it.

Other films of note I caught throughout the year include, Gravity which every much has earned its reputation as one of the few films one must attend at the theater (and the bigger the screen, the better). An absolute mastery of the cinematic form by Mexican director Alfonso Cuaron who succeeds in placing the viewer in what has to be as close to the experience of floating in the endless void of outer space can ever be conveyed to the common human. That and Sandra Bullock is confoundingly solid in the role of the poor sod who must overcome seemingly endless odds to escape a crippled space station and make her way back to Mamma Earth. Simple outline, increadible execution on all technical fronts. Prince Avalanche marked a much needed return to form of sorts for one time indie voice on the rise David Gordon Green. Green, once responsible for such odd treasures as George Washington and Undertow forged a name in conventional terms as a writer/director of comedic efforts like The Pineapple Express and the heavily profane East Bound & Down cable show. He faultered somewhat with a pair of unremarkable flicks (Your Highness, The Sitter) but seems to have regained his footing here with this spare yet genuine character study of two  conflicting personas, young and easily bored Lance (Emile Hirsch) and his sister's strict and internalized beau Alvin (Paul Rudd) as they spend a summer repainting highway road lines in the wake of a devastating forest fire. Concerned more with nuances of personality and carefully measured performances, Prince Avalanche is a reassuring sign that this director has not forgotten the skill set that helped make him in the first place.

12 Years a Slave is the anti-Django and director Steve McQueen makes damn certain that point is made paramount in this, his third film and soon to be Oscar dominator. The film is based on the slave narrative by Solomon Northup and details his abduction from his productive life as a freeman violin player in New York and subsequent violent induction into the brutal plantation realm of the dirty south. McQueen and his splendid cast and crew create a harsh and even suffocating experience that goes to great lengths to make sure any audience game enough to endure it will take away from it the value of any living man, woman or child's individual freedom and complete peace of mind. Expect to hear a ton more about this fearless sucker come February, particularly in regards to McQueen and many of his chief actors (i.e. Chiwetel Ejiofor and a raging Michael Fassbender). Still rolling in theaters everywhere. Don't fear it, see it.

Lastly, a few further, much briefer notes of some good (if not great) options for y'all when next you decide to make it a movie night.
Pawn Shop Chronicles for further cementing the belief I have that director Wayne Kramer is a truly gifted master of purely unexpected character quirks and sheer, perverse dementia (see also his earlier film Running Scared) and also that Elijah (Frodo) Wood is destined to own a lofty place within the ranks of the all time cinematic creepers. V/H/S 2 for handily topping both its predessessor and the much more hyped ABC's of Death in a bid for the current horror anthology crown.

The Place Beyond the Pines for proving with little doubt that a film with both Ryan Gosling AND Bradley Cooper can capture the attention of an audience encompassing more than just swooning females (see also Only God Forgives for additional, man friendly Gosling). Mud, the latest significant statement from director Jeff Nichols and actor Matthew McConaughey (whose latest slate of films deserves an article all unto their own). I have enjoyed all that Nichols has put forth to date and from what I hear his next project is set to be a sci-fi picture serving tribute to the ever influencial Johnny Carpenter. Expect to hear far more detailed rambling about Mr. Nichols and his work sometime in the none so distant future. Grabbers is a decent, Irish drinking man's monster movie with slimy, tentacled beasties besieging a desolate island community where the most potent weapon of retaliation is a high concentration of alcohol in the bloodstream. No joke, IFC put it out which means Family Video outlets will surely carry it.

That'll do it, happy present giving. See you in the 2014.

FILMS WITHOUT FEAR...FOR BETTER OR WORSE.

GORGING ON A CINEMATIC BUFFET.

Last year 'round about this time I set out on a modest attempt to spread the word and generate notable interest within our region in relation to a solid cultural collective calling themselves Wega Arts and basing their creative attack in the nearby town of Weyauwega. The organization, founded and run by Ian Teal and Kathy Fehl, seeks to perpetuate various outlets of artistic expression in its community through the cultivation and presentation of stage plays, booked touring performers, film screenings and workshops. The main point of focus for me for this column was then, as it still is now, the mid November placed Weyauwega International Film Festival. Now entering its third run through, the fest is looking to expose any film fancying types from all surrounding areas to yet another varied menu of rich examples of the film form (both the long and the short of it).

 All things cinematic are set to kick off Thursday, November 14th at 1:30pm at the Gerold Opera House (which can be found at 136 Main St.) with another throwback installment from Hollywood's rich and far reaching past (remember, last year's was the edgy John Frankenheimer thriller 'Seconds'). 1960's 'Midnight Lace', directed by David Miller and featuring Doris Day and Rex Harrison in a strange mix of Hitchcock wannabe and offbeat character study which charts the misfortune of an American woman (Day) living in England who finds herself the apparent person of interest of a would be stalker. From here the fest plows on, unspooling film after film across the next four days. Some flicks of passing note include a pair of odd duck documentaries centering on the kinship between the art of drinking and the allure of the bowling ally ('Pints and Pins') and the obsessive quest by an expatriate American who returns stateside to find the finest representation of that golden calf of fried foods ('The Great Chicken Wing Hunt'). There are tales of movie mavens ('Tough Ain't Enough-Conversations With Albert S. Ruddy'), a historic escape artist ('Houdini') and even some convoluted affairs of the heart ('9 Full Moons').

One major standout section on the schedule that was passed along to me (it's all still tentative as this goes to press, for complete final results check, wegaarts.org) is what is set to be dubbed the 'Friday Night Fright Fest'. Beginning at 7pm on the 15th, there will be a tight trifecta of genre pictures, each with (what sounds like) a decent shot at becoming the next big thing in the cult film underground. A pair of these, 'Billy Club' and 'Don't Go To The Reunion', both made on locations in our very own state, play on the cheeky familiarity of long adhered to 'slasher on the loose/doomed youth' tropes and related shock effect plot devices while at the same time attempting to inject some very much needed energy into the oft tread, ultra violent  stalker/splatter sub-genre. The third film, 'Escape From Tomorrow', on the other hand, seems to be the product of an entirely different filmmaking methodology altogether.

'Escape From Tomorrow' comes to the Weyauwega fest at long last following a protracted period in which those responsible for its creation were not even sure if it would ever reach a legitimate audience. The film is a perplexing, monochromatic phantasmagoria set in and around a combination of the Disney theme parks Disneyworld and Disneyland and it involves a typical family man type named Jim White (Roy Abramsohn) whose grip on a tangible reality grows increasingly fragmented as his vacation day with the family progresses.

This curiosity has generated a bit of a rep for itself primarily based on the absolutely removed from conventional tactics employed in its production. It would seem the director, an ambitious gent named Randy Moore, guided his project's shooting process along in almost entirely incognito fashion, grabbing footage without consent from the theme park powers that be with indistinct consumer DSLR cameras (Canon's Mark II and IV specifically), with his actors taking cues and script notes off of I Phones and such. Even after such a clandestine production phase was completed, Moore sought to stitch his baby together outside the country (in South Korea, where the director also tapped area technicians to help polish the effects work) to maintain utter secrecy from the Mouse. Several playdates at major fests soon followed (including a premiere bow at the almighty Sundance, where the film first began to noticeably cause a stir) with the ever ominous spectre of how the beast that is the Walt Disney Co. would react to the film's existence hovering over it and making the commercial future of 'Escape From Tomorrow' an uncertain concept at best.

This film was originally slotted into the line up of last year's Weyauwega fest only to have such legal uncertainties withhold it (it was substituted with the very worthy French effort 'Holy Motors', a head scratcher without peer and definitely a healthy addition). This time out, folks will finally get to see just what the elaborate fuss was all about.

The remainder of this year's W.I.F.F. is peppered with quality attractions as well, from several short film packages spread throughout the weekend to a sure to be rowdy awards ceremony set to follow that 'Great Chicken Wing Hunt' doc on Saturday night (at about 9pm). Free to ticket holders of the day as well as fest pass holders, the show will feature beer (care of Central Waters Brewery) and eats (including, yes, chicken wings) and live music. I've been informed that a fair number of behind the scenes folks will be in attendance to either introduce and/or entertain questions and commentary in relation to their respective projects. 'Billy Club' co-writer, director and actor Nick Sommer and members of the 'Don't Go To The Reunion' posse will be on hand Friday evening to chat at length about their playfully creepy gore fests. Familiar face Dan Davies will intro his latest offering, the short film 'Caroline' (which he wrote and acted in), the 'Pints and Pins' crew are penciled in and the filmmaker (Jim Tittle) behind the Sunday afternoon entry, the Midwestern sand mining documentary  'The Price of Sand' may participate too. Plus one can never count out some sort of last minute addition when it comes to filmmakers jumping at a fair chance to talk up their latest creations.

There you have it, a serviceable 'heads up' on another fine showcase of cinematic treasures here in this Wisconsin. Make no mistake, this is a well planned festival by a pair of folks with their heart in the art, don't at all let the small scale locale fool you.

Once again, all necessary information (i.e. ticket prices, showtimes, finalized film scheduling) can be found easily at wegaarts.org


Hope to see a huge turnout for this one, don't let me down.


Also of note.

Room 237

Being all about the often larger than life and deep beneath the surface alternate interpretations of Stanley Kubrick's Stephen King adapt 'The Shining'. Unfolding less like any standard format of feature or documentary film and more akin to some kind of art student's instillation project that got lost on its way to the gallery, 'Room 237' serves to not so much conventionally entertain viewers as entrance and confound them with its conviction to a series of boarder line absurd analytical proposals. The complicated project, as assembled by one Rodney Ascher, plays out a series of audio taped discussions with a bunch of genuinely enthusiastic people I'm afraid I've never heard of over an ever flowing parade of imagery encompassing many a well known Kubrick work (with obvious, dominant emphasis on 'The Shining' itself) as well as a largely random collection of material from less then expected sources like Spielberg's 'Schindler's List' and the lurid mid-80s Italian gore flick 'Demons'.

The speakers use this particular format to (with Ascher's careful guidance) breakdown in often crucial, obsessive detail how and why their given theories of true meaning behind Kubrick's 1980 film are perfectly sound. Rolling out and cutting back and forth between speaker and subject gives off a vibe of a mix tape running to and fro at some manic movie fan's invite only party. The film's interviewees expound with breathless abandon on how 'The Shining' contains, shuffled within its meticulously rendered surface narrative, everything from the well documented atrocities of the Nazi instigated mass (near) execution of the Jewish race to the punishing round up and stomping down of the Native American peoples by greedy, self righteous colonists (from Portland, Maine to Portland, Oregon) and back around to explicate how Kubrick employed his cinematic craftsmanship to help the U.S. Government to enact a staged moon landing in 1969. Uh-huh, sure.

'Room 237' works well as a sort of intellectual geek show that allows its subjects to banter unchecked about these strange ideas that an other wise generally lauded piece of high end genre filmmaking has oddly inspired within their nominal mindframes. I didn't even bother to mention the gal with the minotaur fixation or the fella who goes way out of his way to carefully point out what he believes is a subliminal erection. Well, now you have two more things to keep an eye out for.  You're most welcome.

'Room 237' comes on DVD/Blu ray from the IFC Midnight Label and contains the usual bonus goodies, commentary, music score featurette, deleted scenes (which are little more than audio tracks, sans the film clips, providing additional babble) and a Q&A session from some simple looking Kubrick fan fest. Recommended for the conspiracy theorist who believes he's heard it all.
http://www.ifcfilms.com/films/room-237


Abducted.


A tight and rather minimal psychological horror scenario made with much stronger than anticipated efficiency and reserve. It all surrounds your basic, cute to a fault, young couple (Trevor Morgan, Tessa Ferrer) who one fine night find themselves the object of mystery kidnappers who abscond them to a dank and foreboding location and subject them to a series of initially inexplicable experimentation. As their startling incarceration drags on and more and more additional young human pairings arrive in their midst, the kids begin to brainstorm over the gravity of their situation. Is this the work of some elite terrorist outfit? A government shadow group? Alien forces with malicious plans that stretch far beyond the simple reach of this small sampling of earth peeps?

The film builds a decent measure of genuine tension as these questions loom, unanswered and the natural fragility of these unfortunate, young creatures is supremely tested. The skill set piloting this compact piece from behind the camera belongs to Glen Scantlebury and Lucy Phillips, both sharing duties and honing a small yet significant team (and there is evidence of this on display on the DVD's brief accompanying making of special feature) to bring together a finished film that works based on solid character development care competent performances complimented by the quality of the cinematography and especially the rather concise cutting together of scenes and imagery. As it turns out, Mr. Scantlebury is a well seasoned veteran of the editing process who honed his skills on a long list of major pictures like Francis Ford Coppola's Dracula (and his far less daunting recent picture, 'Twixt') and several bloated Michael Bay directed odes to ADD like the first 'Transformers'. He's currently slapping together a much unneeded reboot of The 'Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles' with Megan Fox, but let's not hold that against him. His work here spells out a genuine talent that, along with his teammate Mrs. Phillips, should suitably produce quality goods in cinematic form on and on again down the road.

This 'Abducted' thing should do the trick for fans of decent low budget genre filmmaking as apposed to the utterly disposable dreck that clutters the direct to video market. It can be found at most rental joints or here;  http://www.abducted2013.com/


Done with the movie stuff...for now.

BODIES INVESTED IN SUPERIOR MOTION.

(Being an article originally published in The Scene Newspaper)

There is not a whole lot I can say in favor of the art of dance, it just never seemed to suit me on any real level. I don't tend to indulge in the graceful, often lauded cinematic legacy of the Fred Astaire, Gene Kelly types, have never attended any sort of ballet (that I'll admit to) and I sure as shit won't burn my eyes out on the flotsam they shell out nowadays. With the rare exception of the 'Breakin' films (especially 'Electric Boogaloo') and that one Fatboy Slim video with Christopher Walken in it, I simply fail to gel to the sight of folks twisting and/or undulating to the accompanying music as it were. Still, there is always room for a change of opinion, if only for a certain, specific facet of something previously unappreciated. Such a change occurred with the viewing of 'Pina', the latest offering from the fine German filmmaker Wim Wenders. This is a documentary that centers on the unique choreographic mindset of Pina Bausch a visionary designer of movement as a means to express feeling and thought through using the human form as a better, more potent form of language at large in inventive pieces that completely transcend the conventions of standard dance theatrics.

Wenders, like me, was never one to hold a vested interest in dance or any artistic statement build around it. He was converted, at least in part, after an initial, very emotional encounter with a mid 1980s performance of Bausch's seminal work, 'Café Muller' and soon after set to forging a comradery  with the woman that would slowly lead to the suggestion of a collaboration with the end goal of birthing a film meant to share Bausch's skills with a broader audience. The enduring dilemma hanging over this concept, however, was the director's conviction that the flat projection of an image could never fully replicate the depth and gravity inherent in the way the human body occupies and, most importantly, moves about space. The project remained a mulled over puzzle for years until Wenders became more attracted to the budding 3-D digital technology that started really gaining momentum and polish as it became a tool for more than cheeky computerized cartoons and big event spectacles like 'Avatar'. With this chief aspect solved and in place (Wenders consulted an expert on stereoscopic photography and implementation, Alain Derobe ) all was a go on the production front, the director and his muse agreed on using fractions of four Bausch pieces ('Vollmond', 'Kontakthof', 'Le sacre du printemps' and the aforementioned  'Café Muller') to help flesh out the film proper. Then Pina Bausch herself passed on abruptly into the great unknown in June 2009.

The project had to be suspended as this unforeseen circumstance threw all prep work and emotional stamina into turmoil. It was only given a second wind by way of the insistence of the dedicated members of Pina's esteemed Tanztheater Wuppertal company who helped by reconfiguring the concept of the proposed film into something resembling an homage to their beloved maestro. Wenders conceded and production began in earnest shortly thereafter incorporating the previously agreed upon Bausch works with more personal performance pieces by the company members (who hail from such varied locales as Italy, France, Korea, Russia, the good ol' U.S. of A and, of course, Germany) as they attempt to share their love and appreciation for Pina through inventive solo numbers and odd confessional scenes where the thoughts of the dancers are heard as voices hovering above their respective, contemplative bodies.

Wenders and his crew follow the graceful action with seeming ease, the camera addresses the potent energy at large when these folks bear their souls and move their bodies according to some of the more startling and unexpected presentations of 'dance' I have ever stumbled across, thank goodness a true filmmaker was present to document it all in all-pro fashion. The picture was shot on stages at Bausch's theater and at several interesting points around the mid size German city of Wuppertal (on street corners, inside a rail train, by a shopworn factory and a quarry) and often positions the framing to fully exploit the use of space between and surrounding the dancers to suitably (by way of the 3-D enhancement the film was predominantly exhibited in) bridge the gap between a live performance and a recorded replication. Two prime examples of this can be found at the start of the film with a lady laying a bit disheveled on a pile of dirt in the foreground as other bodies creep into the far background of the frame in a portion of 'Le sacre du printemps' ('The Rite of Spring') and in the frantic smashing about the flooded stage on hand to help bring 'Vollmond' ('Full Moon') to hectic life later on.


Wim  Wenders has, by all evident accounts, done his late creative peer a grand service. 'Pina' as a film works to both ensure that this woman's legacy will thrive and also that her life long talent of greatly redefining a long standing artistic practice with an immense bravado and flair for the fully unique will be picked up and furthered by those she molded in her theater to become practitioners of dance of the highest, most incomparable order. This film works in favor of Wenders as the latest addition in a long career made up of a healthy balance of fiction and non-fiction cinema (much like the path taken by, perhaps, his most notable contemporary, Werner Herzog). Wenders finished his first feature at the dawn of the 70s ('Summer in the City') and continued to delve into the quirks of characters both real life and imagined who wander on the outer parameters of the conventional. This continued as Wenders honed his skills and branched his free spirit tendencies out to craft such noteworthy pictures as 'Paris, Texas' (the darling of the 1984 Cannes Film Fest), 'Wings of Desire' (later bastardized by Hollywood into some kind of long form Goo-Goo Dolls video starring Nicolas Cage) and 'The End of Violence'.

As much as he clearly fixates on the less obvious textures of the human condition, Wenders also possesses a bit of affection for the wonders of travel. Early on in his filmmaking endeavors he created a swift succession of films eventually dubbed 'The Road Movie Trilogy' ('Alice in the Cities', 'The Wrong Move' and 'Kings of the Road') which would either introduce or expand upon themes and characters that would make their way through this trilogy and out to find a place in later Wenders pictures. The director's distinct style played influence on budding independent film movements across the globe, particularly on American shores in the man with the sharp, white hair, Jim Jarmusch (who appropriated the director's frequent camera wiz Robby Muller for several films including 'Down by Law' and 'Dead Man') who had assisted Wenders on his 1982 film 'The State of Things'.

Were 'Pina' fits into all this is simple, much as he gave adventurous audiences a peak at the less than mainstream world of aging Cuban musicians in 'The Buena Vista Social Club' or shed light into the waning days of once prominent, old school director Nicolas ('Rebel Without a Cause') Ray with 'Lightning Over Water', this most current offering seeks to spread the name of its subject out to devoted creative minds everywhere. Sadly, I was only able to snag a standard two dimensional copy of the film (from the Appleton Library, of course. It comes from the godly Criterion Collection (which does offer a 3-D Blu-Ray edition) and features a fair set of behind the scenes info, commentary by Wenders and additional footage of the dancers in action. I recommend this thing on the grounds that it works to sway opinion in favor of the vibrant sights contained within. If some coordination impaired clown like myself can find ample value in a film entirely focused on the art of choreographed dance (albeit, rather surreal choreography in this case) then there must be at least some passing merit in the mix. www.criterion.com

Also,


UPSTREAM COLOR.

Nine years ago a fella named Shane Carruth brought his debut effort, 'Primer', quietly into the independent film community. Carruth wrote, directed, produced, co-starred and had a hand in pretty much every other aspect of the intricate $7,000 wonder. A spare, unapologetically complex tale of two engineering pros who stumble across a low key variation of time travel which they gradually learn to erroneously employ to their financial gain, resulting in increasing friction and paranoia between the two. This little slice of sci-fi themed brain food was but a minor sampling of the deliberate and confounding potential this Carruth, a former software designer with a heavy mathematical background, would prove full of.

Now comes this delayed follow up, 'Upstream Color, reverted to after the frustrating collapse of a far longer gestating project, 'A Topiary', completely dissolved. Once more, Carruth assumes a multitude of duties to pull together the meticulously vague and often just out of narrative reach saga of two people (Amy Seimetz and the Carruth man himself) who have both been the victims of a very elaborate form of hypnotism caused by an organic force culled from a certain flower that goes out into the world deeply (often negatively) effecting a variety of other living things. The style of the film is pure, poetic, dreamlike and cooley unnerving. We basically become observers in a winding parade of easily ruined or greatly misguided lives (the film ultimately reveals a wealth of people and creatures effected by the parasite) struggling to shake themselves back into the straight line familiarity of their pre-tampered lives. Yet 'Upstream Color' plainly refuses to make things so simple for anyone, especially the audience.

As with 'Primer', Shane Carruth cares more about introducing brave ideas than gratuitously over-explaining them. The film is an elegant, bold mystery that does not necessarily need to be fully solved. Better to just soak in the experience as if you were living it in the same fog of confusion as the protagonists. A tricky way to unfold a story, true, but the workmanship and unavoidable intelligence of the handling of the material makes this strange, aloof beauty worth reaching out for. Do seek it,  erbpfilm.com

ZOMBIE LORDS AND FRANKENBEASTS.

(As published in the October 2013 issue of The Scene Newspaper)

With that most hallowed of all dark days waiting at the close of this given month, I feel a bit more than passingly obliged to banter on in favor of a few fitting nuggets of sinister cinema. In the often deplored and very cult-specific realm of the horrific branch of the motion picture art form, finding a treasure of any notable measure can often times prove to be a might challenging. This days seem fatally infected with many, many examples of the largely sad trend of remakes/reboots that predominately serve to rape away the valuable memories lovingly held in regards to many of the classics which founded in many of us the enduring adoration of this particular genre in the first damn place. Even the rehashes done with irrefutable technical skill (i.e. Evil Dead, which sports its' fair share of impressive, stand alone images) leave a lasting stain of being completely unnecessary and occupying precious space far better suited for something at least attempting to share ideas of the fresh and self-contained variety (like Edgar Wright's The World's End, perhaps?).

So, to do my part in keeping with this cause, I give you, fair reader, a pairing of 'from scratch' horror flicks that should assist you in your quest for all things spooky this Halloween.

'Frankenstein's Army' plants its' ragged, low budget feet down on East German soil at the tail portion of W.W.II and follows a ramshackle company of Russian troops trudging across some truly lifeless terrain hoping almost in vein for any semblance of a connect with their lost fellow comrades. One member of this war party, Dimitri (Alexander Mercury) has been charged by the big man himself, Stalin, with exposing footage of the battalion in action as material for use in a future propaganda project back in the homeland. Before too very long, the men come in contact with a ransacked little hamlet that actually houses a madman's abhorrent laboratory fitted up for the most inexplicable and corrosively far reaching experiments to ever be realized by mortal man.

It seems a skittish, weather beaten character calling himself Viktor (Karel Roden) has established a foundation here for which he can foster many of the twisted, breakthrough malformations of protean beings that have been swimming in the fetid reaches of his deviant mind. This certain flavor of freakish mad scientist has rapidly assembled a gallery of motley confections that marry, by odd and often rather random design, elements of both living organic (mostly human) structures with a wide array of tools, devices and rusty industrial leftovers. How the increasingly weary and unbalanced soldiers manage to address and survive (or not) this less than welcome dilemma fills out the majority of the film's scant run time. The creature creations themselves are basically the prime sell point for this bent little picture (hell, several of their nasty, deformed mugs adorn the film's poster art) and I have to slap the credit in the appropriate direction, many of the mad lab rat's patched together 'children' are a might impressive. Sporting nappy metallic limbs and various, violently misappropriated bodily structures, the creatures (or 'Zombots' as the picture dubs them) are rendered to on screen life as something between a steampunk convention where every participant suffered a brutal gang rape and a long lost Hellraiser sequel as imagined by a seriously sociopathic black metal band. These hybrid beasts see the most action in Frankenstein's Army's closing segment, as the fiendish Viktor, having laid waste to the bulk of the outfit's numbers, guides the erstwhile documentarian on a personal journey through the damnable particulars of his vivid form of genius. Keep an eye out for the creepy little teddy bear woman, she's something special.

The director of this whole odd scenario, a competent Dutchman by the name of Richard Raaphorst has managed to carve together a worthy and effective piece of rampant monster cinema. Nothing to be embarrassed of here, tight and mostly to the point (though at the expense of a good deal of genuine character development, oh well), this Frankenstein's Army achieves what it set out to do, throw its audience into a dark pit full of blood crazed monstrosities that come at the screen from every direction. Sure, the film may sometimes look a tad suspect (notably some uber murky nighttime imagery) and one can't really be faulted for a lack of emotional investment when certain main characters expire, but Karel Roden chews it up quite nice as the good ol' awful doctor (who alleges a blood tie to the Dr. Frankenstein of horror fiction lore) and again I must point to the monsters, that's really what it's all about...right?

Frankenstein's Army arrives care a company out of Chicago called Dark Sky Films. Now these folks have long been good to the horror film, having helped spread the magic of gems like the immortal Henry Portrait of a Serial Killer, House of the Devil, The Hatchet trilogy and the works of Jim VanBebber (The Manson Family, Deadbeat at Dawn). For this new entry in their esteemed catalog, Dark Sky has issued the film on both DVD and Blu Ray with a just over half an hour making of bonus piece that introduces any interested parties to the cast, crew and, of course, the ranks of Frankenstein's Army as FX aces and the director himself detail their fabrication. Catch it at local rental joints everywhere or go to the source- darkskyfilms.com

Coming from a blatantly different pedigree and boasting a separate set of conceptual and aesthetic goals is The Lords of Salem. This film marks the return to magnificently twisted filmmaking form for one Rob Zombie. Lords gives forth ample, legitimate evidence once and for final that this Zombie fella is actually blessed with the ability to grow apart from the hectic shock and awe approach he's become known for that frequently pummels the viewer with the profane and colorful ultra violent stylization that did work at times earlier on in his career (The Devil's Rejects) but came to wear thin and grow a bit tiresome (Halloween II, that lame Superbeasto cartoon).

This time up, Zombie has both slowed things down to a notable degree and learned how to craft a story around less obvious traits and ideas in relation to his chosen genre of operation. The basic outlay this time around involves the uneventful daily routines of Heidi Hawthorne (Rob's always present spouse Sheri Moon) a Salem area local and disc jockey by trade who shares her dank, under lit apartment with her faithful pooch. One evening, after a typically loose cannon stint at the radio station where she is so gainfully employed (a stint which incorporates a cheeky interview session with an all too clueless 'black metal' musician at one point) our gal is given a right odd form of promotional swag. Seems some enigmatic recording entity known sparingly and cryptically as The Lords has made a point to pass along an oddly packaged slab of wax (think something along the lines of the wicked Necronomicon Bruce Campell's iconic 'Ash' character regularly fell prey to) containing some truly entrancing sounds. Proceeding with a patient, steady pace director Zombie charts the gradual regression from the psyche on out that this disheveled, dread-locked protagonist must now endure as this mystery vinyl has apparently seeded something seriously volatile deep within her.

To help solve the mounting puzzle and lend a more rational perspective on the none too clear cut progression of the narrative, Zombie gives us Francis Matthias (Bruce Davison), an aging free spirit type and author of a scholarly book on the subject of the Salem witch trials who guests on Heidi's radio gig to push his work. Francis has a nose for the occult underpinnings in and about his town and his interest gains a boost when he meets Heidi whom he later discovers is of direct descent along the family tree from Jonathen Hawthorne, a man of faith who sought to foil the satanic plottings of a coven of witches back in the late 17th century. Francis may normally bide his time with his weed toking painter, lady love Alice (Maria Conchita Alonso) but his fixation on brooding witch rites in Salem and their possible link with Heidi proves to be a stronger draw.

Worlds duth collide as witches both modern and ancient weave maximum hallucinatory hold over Heidi, morphing her take on what passes for real and tangible. Zombie infuses this melding of demonic worship and vicious personal torment into a spiral of inventive madness that dips into an influential well, mixing the likes of Stanley Kubrick, Dario Argento, Nicolas Roeg and even the multi-layered hyper surrealism of Alejandro Jodorowsky. I wouldn't startle me to discover that Bobby boy here immersed himself in a marathon run of shit like Don't Look Now, Suspiria, Santa Sangre and definitely The Shining (which, to be fair, is a film Zombie has directly sited as having a direct hand in the genesis of this project).

 

The Lords of Salem engages more by way of its intricate textures and creative renderings of potentially cheap, exploitation level ideas. The witches, ghouls, phantasms and less clearly defined apparitions that populate the nightmare unreal creeping its way into the formal landscape of Zombie's New England based, small town locale emerge as quite remarkable, working to realize the ongoing concept of a somewhat damaged (Heidi is also revealed to be a struggling former drug addict) woman's mental abduction by a superior force beyond the natural and serving a timeless agenda. Meg (They Live) Foster heads up the mostly rotting, naked coven of old school witches who lead the charge to turn the modern world over to their beloved, evil master and the film sports the expected genre friendly supporting bits and cameos by Dee Wallace, Ken Foree, Sid Haig and Michael Berryman. Several subplots/segments of the film ended up falling short of the final cut however, this lead to the abandonment of a film-within-a-film, Frankenstein vs The Witchfinder which involved Udo Kier, Clint (Ron's brother) Howard and the chick from that ugly 1978 rape-revenge 'classic' I Spit on Your Grave, Camille Keaton.

Sad news indeed, even sadder is the fact that none of this cut footage has been included on the Anchor Bay DVD/Blu Ray combo that so recently hit retail stores and rental joints. Only a handy, dandy audio commentary from the informative Rob Z himself is included. Strange turn of events as many of the previous Zombie directorial efforts have come stuffed with bonus goodies, especially in the extra footage department. These bastards had better not be planning a deluxe package for release somewhere further down the road, that would be a bit of an unforgivable scam. Still, I say give these Lords a chance, they do well by October standards. anchorbayentertainment.com

Bonus....

Screaming in High Heels (The Rise and Fall of the Scream Queen Era).

Charming, retro-centric essay dwelling on a time and place in the annals of indie schlock cinema where a pretty gal with marginal, non-aesthetic talents could carve out a dependable niche for herself without having to submit to the narrow, scumbag confines of the porn industry. Beginning at the cusp of the blossoming home video tape boom of the early 1980s, able babes like Linnea Quigley, Michelle Bauer and Brinke Stevens (the trio profiled here) became staples of a prolific run of bargain level, boobs, bloodshed and rubber beast laden sub-genre spectacles. Fully vested in their careers founded on exuberant sexual chemistry at play in some of the most openly tacky product yet to emerge on the market (an inordinate amount of witch came care the production houses of Charles Band and Roger Corman), said ladies none the less managed to grow upward in stout popularity and eventually drew upon themselves the precise classification of 'Scream Queens'.

Filmmaker and obvious fan boy Jason Paul Collum investigates this small scale but utterly notable bubble of popular culture trivia by way of a meshing of in the now interviews with the three key Queens (whom time has not been entirely polite to) as well as multiple movers and shakers in this cost conscious dungeon of an industry like directors David DeCoteau and Fred Olen Ray and jack of many trades; writer, director, actor, F/X man Kenneth J. Hall. Along the way we are treated to the expected homegrown origin stories and copious clips from a vast VHS library of washed out looking examples of no budget greatness including Dr. Alien, 'Murder Weapon', 'Sorority Babes in the Slimeball Bowl-O-Rama', 'Night of the Demons' and 'Hollywood Chainsaw Hookers'.

The girls employed their weird, skintastic form of celebrity to network both entertainment (at third rate nerd conventions doling out autographs) and political arenas (some even met Reagan, how conservative) and occasionally touch the edge of the mainstream (Linnea's buck naked cemetery stint in 'Return of the Living Dead' immortalized her in the eyes of the Fangoria demographic). Sadly, both the pains of mortal time and the rise of higher quality tastes on the home video front took its toll on the 'Scream Queen' juggernaut and the ladies largely faded from sight.  In the end, what we're left with is a fond memento of a bygone time when the value of a VHS deck actually held weight in the lower ranks of the motion picture medium, when locally owned rental operations thrived on the unending output of a relentless army of driven showmen and 'give it to 'em fast, sleazy and dirt cheap' cinema was the treasure of the (mostly awkward male dominated) market. Recommended to those who still cling to those VHS classics that came in boxes with artwork that probably cost twice as much as the film inside. You can acquire Screaming in High Heels at breakingglasspictures.com

MAKING A DAY OF IT.

COSMOPOLIS AND THE COLD TRUTH OF THE MODERN CITYSCAPE.

 

What is left for the man who has everything?  The majority of the chief appeal of ace director David Cronenberg's latest concoction, Cosmopolis, is the way it attempts to explicate a functional answer. Said answer, unfortunately, appears to manifest itself through a series of calculated steps leading in the direction of total self destructive collapse. The main body of focus is on the every waking movement of one Eric Packer (realized here by a sparkle free Robert Pattinson) a still youthful master of the universe type who prefers to wheel his deals quite literally within the top end confines of his slick ass limousine. We enter his cool and precise mode of existence on one typically bustling, big city Monday. At the start of the film, while posturing in that certain special way the 1% do, Eric decides that he needs himself a haircut and although there are plenty of functional barber shops in the fairly immediate vicinity (as his ever trusty chief bodyguard Torval carefully points out) Eric has his mind set to traverse the cluttered urban sprawl to a rickety old joint in some far less polished segment of the crude inner city.

The ensuing trek fuels the remainder of the film's body, peopling Eric's slow crawl to his rather illogically chosen destination with varied fragments of his business and social lives as well as the random, sweltering chaos of the increasingly unstable cityscape that surrounds him. He trades barbs with his tech boy, endures an alarmingly protracted prostate exam, bangs a foxy French cougar (Juliette Binoche) who happens to be his art dealer, morns as best he can the abrupt passing of his favorite hip-hop star, suffers the wrath of a hyper-kinetic pie wielding activist and breaks off from the action proper to attempt to sway his aloof young beauty of a wife (Sarah Gadon) back into his embrace, which seems odd given his own seriously detached reaction to just about everything. The limo ride proves so protracted and drawn out due a perfect storm of calamitous factors including a presidential event that has era security on edge and traffic smashed together like cattle. Riots and protests abound and the risk of an assassination attempt is at the forefront of every foot soldier's mind.

So what pragmatic purpose could this obstacle laden sojourn actually have? It would seem that our suave non-hero has a slow burning agenda pertaining to the particulars of his own financial ruin. Eric Packer has set his Wall Street skills against himself by hedging his investment luck against the power of the Chinese yuan (much to the chagrin of his key financial analysts). This poor, practically soulless fool even seems to be more preoccupied with a cheap, sensational fling with a sexy security agent than addressing the notion that someone out there in all the mounting disorder may be plotting his mortal demise.

We eventually get a reveal on this looming threat of a potential assassin in the form of a disgruntled former employee of Packer's named Benno Levin (Paul Giamatti, as twitchy and curious an actor as ever) who opens fire on his one time boss yet ends up engaging in a long and greatly involved conversation with him about the nature and purpose they both serve in this twisted information age saga and Levin basically offers forth a summation of all that went wrong for this young man who so long had effortlessly excelled at getting everything right. The verbal trade off between Pattinson and Giametti in itself works as a strong and fitting recap of the world this film Cosmopolis presents to us. Language and the measure in which it is delivered as a method of communication is the protein that drives this picture.

The film is essentially a rapid succession of conversations pertaining to the bits and specifics that fill out Eric Packer's vast, upper crust lifestyle. Robert Pattinson is supported throughout this parade of unending chatter by a healthy (and mostly Canadian) cast featuring (in addition to the aforementioned Giametti and co.) Jay Baruchel as Packer's personal tech geek, Samantha Morton and Emily Hampshire as two key advisers, Kevin Durand (memorable as the menacing Martin Keamy in the T.V. show Lost) as Packer's close yet ill fated security escort Torvil and Mathieu Amalric as the pie crazy 'Pastry Assassin'. Cronenberg milks each performer's respective strengths to max effect and has assembled a tight and efficient machine in which to detail Eric Packer's weighty day on the move.


Cosmopolis was adapted to a loyal degree by the director from auther Don DeLillo's 2003 novel of the same name (Big Dave claims to have pounded out the script in a scant 6 days!) and lensed on a very controlled set in Toronto featuring the limo interior surrounded by greenscreens with the New York like cityscape imagery inserted on top of them for the finished product. Cronenberg's ample skill makes a potentially stuffy and redundant project come off with a deft pace and well above average level of dramatic value. No, this is not to say this baby has earned a place alongside the filmmakers finest works, like Naked Lunch, The Fly, The Dead Zone and A History of Violence, but it never bored me. Worth it fully for fans of the director and/or the novel. Twilight groupies, you might wanna make an alternate choice.

The home video release comes by way of a company called E One Entertainment (us.eonefilms.com) and comes outfitted with audio commentary from Cronenberg and a feature length behind the scenes documentary that goes in depth with the steps it took to put this project together. It can be found at most outlets.













Extra, Extra.


I DIDN'T COME HERE TO DIE!


Another Wisconsin boy gets it done. Bradley Scott Sullivan writes and directs a senario that entails a fateful trip into the woods for a small collective of earnest young volunteers looking to find a suitable location in which to develop a youth center. The six of them arrive, pitch their tents, feel each other out, bust open the booze and then it all goes to hell. One by one, each of the cast members falls pray to an increasingly absurd series of cruel, brutal examples of dire human error. The overachiever pokes an eye out with a tree branch, the bitchy girl gets slapped in the face with a chainsaw (the picture's finest gore gag), another poor sap becomes overwhelmed by visions of one of the newly dead gals and hangs himself and eventually the bad boy with a sordid past becomes paranoid and perpetuates further mayhem.

This ultimately leads to the silent, brooding semi-hero type of the picture (some actor named Kurt Cole, as with most low budget genre offerings, there are no names that will be easily recognized) to rise to the challenge of overcoming the unexpected chaos and making it back to the civilized world in one piece. The film plays out its rather simple yet slightly startling, odd ball premise of random misfortune as opposed to a concrete, standard issue stalker/monster menace as a cross breeding of grindhouse tackiness (the picture quality occasionally becomes suspect as a result of this) and a somewhat slapstick addressing of some really hardcore ultraviolence. The cast is serviceable (plus the lead chick, Emmy Robben, looks just swell with less and less clothes on) and the picture is kept to a nice, compact 80 minutes. No fat on this puppy. Good job Brad, you've scored another one for the Wisco (even if your film was shot down by Austin, Texas). Plus it all leads to a solid wrap up that really does make this little trek deserving of a two dollar rental.

Further details-ididntcomeheretodie.com