Showing posts with label Violence. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Violence. Show all posts
Sunday, January 11, 2015
Sunday, September 28, 2014
THE FEARSOME AND THE FEARLESS.
(As published in the October 2014 issue of Wisconsin's own The Scene)
Following an unexpected yet invigorating sabbatical this past summer, your oh-so-humble favorite local movie rambler hath returned to saturate you once more with knowledge and helpful suggestions concerning most things cinematic that might never even make it to a theater near you. Being as it is growing close to 'All Hallows Eve' and things like neighborhood zombie walks are soon to become all the rage, it seems like a swell idea to take this month's article in a might darker, more dementia riddled direction. Shall we?
I. The Fine Art of Murder.
So, how's this strike you for a truly daunting kind of subject matter with which to found a non-fiction film on and around; the calculated reenacting of a series of ruthless, government sanctioned executions utilizing the full (and fully enthusiastic) participation of several of the pivotal perpetrators themselves? Well, 'The Act of Killing' just so happens to be the kind of film to result from such a bold and (very) risky undertaking. This picture, the impressive end product of director Joshua Oppenheimer's (assisted by Christine Cynn and some entity listed as 'Anonymous') reported 8 year or so immersion into the given material and corresponding geographic locales, takes on a smattering of Indonesian paramilitary folks (active and retired) and sets them to the deeply unsettling (one would assume) task of play acting in present time their cruel yet effective actions from a time well in the past. You see, back in the middle of the 1960s, said soldiers set out to relentlessly rid their beloved stomping grounds of any and all traces of communist misbehavior (suspected as well as proven) by virtue of unapologetic extermination of any recognized offenders.
Due to the protracted development period his project demanded, Oppenheimer got to know many of his players to a deep extent (most of note, the front and center duo of Anwar Congo and Herman Kato). In so doing, he was exposed to, among many other traits, a startling adoration of movies and their potential power over a collected audience (many of these cats used to scalp admission tickets at area bijous as youths). In light of this significant revelation of character, the filmmaker ushered in the further requirement that his subjects' reenactings be staged with a layer of direct big screen influence. Thus, Anwar and co. get to planning and fleshing out a surreal succession of mini-movie styled skits, all centered around the core factor of factual killings that were once as far removed from a fond movie going memory as legitimately conceivable.
The fair bulk of the picture delves well into these truly elaborate and often colorfully startling microcosms of damaged personal performance 'art' giving the viewer a wholly contradictory palette of images and ideas with which to digest and analyze to the best of their ability, which is no simple assignment. One absorbs both the creative, dare I say, glee with which these 'skits' are born and also the rather horrific method that pervades the carrying out of the separate acts of detrimental violence that stick close to the facts as kept alive in the now aging assassin's minds. The scope of these differing parts is sometimes notable, the torching and ransacking of a village, for quick example, employs multiple wailing extras and pyrotechnics while a tense rooftop strangulation only requires some handy wire and a solo assistant to get the (ugly) job done correct.
The progression and fervor between the crafting and full realization of the mocked up killings also works to stress the growing impact on the performers in a variety of fashions as they are coming to terms anew with their past transgressions as they are pulled into the present and placed under the microscope of the camera eye.
'The Act of Killing exists as an almost purely nominal viewing experience, one that swiftly defies easy comparison amongst other documentaries covering similar dark thematic territory. From its opening imagery, graceful dancers emerging from the mouth of a gigantic structure designed like a fish and easily moving across a long plank to the nodding approval of fat man Herman Kato adorned in vivid blue drag queen attire (cross dressing proves to be a reoccurring fashion choice for this dude), the film hypnotizes and transports us into this otherwise impenetrable kingdom of fever dreamish ultra madness.
Tales of war crimes are often of the 'Human generated horror leads to apprehension and repremendation (i.e. Proper Trial) followed by the subsequent healing process for the surviving victims or their descendants. Not so much this time out (though Oppenheimer has since put together an opposing viewpoint sequel of sorts, The Look of Silence, which gives one family a chance to address the murder of their sibling during the above mentioned chaos), here the villains have grown to become respected national heroes. Victorious saviors over the communist plague, the enjoy unparalleled freedom and often brag up even the lowliest aspects of their abhorrent behaviours (beware the one arrogant thug who waxes fondness over the 'heavenly' benefits of sexually degrading random young females, yuck!). 'The Act of Killing' sets out to try to crack the pokerfaced surface of this posse's infamous yet never disowned history and with the aid of this highly unique approach to revisiting some of the events in question, hopefully expresses to the world and better still, the men themselves, the extent of their wrong doing. Does this tactic at all work? You'll have to witness the film your own self to obtain the answer.
'The Act of Killing' is currently available in both DVD and BLU RAY formats from a place called Drafthouse Films and it features two separate cuts of the picture, the standard 122 minute theatrical issue and a more involved 166 minute Director's variation. There is, of course, bonus features to be had like featurettes, deleted scenes and audion commentary with the director and documentary hall of famer Werner ('Grizzly Man, 'Into the Abyss') Herzog who (along with esteemed filmmaking peer Errol Morris) became one of the chief cheerleaders of this film and helped to push it into the festival circuit and such. The whole mind boggling adventure can be found here, drafthousefilms.com/film/the-act-of-killing. Check into it.
II. Bonus Stuff.
'Willow Creek' (darkskyfilms.com)
This here sho' ain't the Bobcat Goldthwait you ever saw screech out a nerve wracking stand up routine nor call the behind the scenes shots on such black comedic epics as 'Shakes the Clown', 'World's Greatest Dad' (which features one of poor Robin Williams' finest latter day performances) and 'God Bless America'. Instead we are gifted still another Found Footage scenario involving naive young peeps venturing into an all-together unforgiving, unknown environment. This time it's all centered around the Big Foot mythos and one head strong believer (Bryce Johnson) and his reckless yearning to gather actual video evidence of the beast and prove it all factual for once and for final. This leads our hero and his less than convinced gal pal (Alexie Gilmore) to the darkest camping spot imaginable and....well, no spoilers here. Just accept the fact that Ol' Bobby has aimed for something quite separate from the rest of his resume and I suppose you're left with a very adequate riff on the basic outline of 'The Blair Witch Project', albeit with far more stable camera work and scares that emanate from real beasts in the darkness and not mean, ill tempered spirits. Not a complete waste of 80 minutes, but nothing poised to break ground either. Includes the expected commentary by folks involved, one deleted scene and a short on set piece.
'Death Spa' (mpihomevideo.com)
Prime sliced 80s schlock 'til you drop cheese, resurrected in fitting home video fashion. An All-American, high end fitness joint is all the aerobic rage until strange fatalities start to pile up. Seems the deceased spouse of this happenin' club's owner is out to haunt the spot into bankruptcy by picking off much of its' sexy, style conscious (when not fully naked) clientele. Real simplistic premise is established as a handy way to enact one goofy yet fairly inventive kill shot after another while the cardboard cast milk out much of the average run time searching for a way to wrap it all up cheaply and get out alive. Along with like minded flotsam like 'Killer Workout' (you know you recall that one as well) this little creeper stands as the perfect time capsule of an era when it was chic to be fit and the Jane Fonda workout regimen ruled the day.
Loaded with cut rate gore, bare and sweaty skin and thespians who understand how to react accordingly (including 'Dawn of the Dead' alum Ken Foree), this new DVD/BLU RAY combo release displays the film in what is likely the finest quality it will ever see. The bonus stuff is predictable but fun (commentary, retrospective doc short) and the film itself is not without its' considerable camp merits. Prefect fodder for the horror goon who still longs for the small scale, mom & pop local video rental store way of movie watching.
Thanks for humoring me, you can write me (if the urge somehow strikes you) at killpeoplenamedrichard@yahoo.com
Following an unexpected yet invigorating sabbatical this past summer, your oh-so-humble favorite local movie rambler hath returned to saturate you once more with knowledge and helpful suggestions concerning most things cinematic that might never even make it to a theater near you. Being as it is growing close to 'All Hallows Eve' and things like neighborhood zombie walks are soon to become all the rage, it seems like a swell idea to take this month's article in a might darker, more dementia riddled direction. Shall we?
I. The Fine Art of Murder.
So, how's this strike you for a truly daunting kind of subject matter with which to found a non-fiction film on and around; the calculated reenacting of a series of ruthless, government sanctioned executions utilizing the full (and fully enthusiastic) participation of several of the pivotal perpetrators themselves? Well, 'The Act of Killing' just so happens to be the kind of film to result from such a bold and (very) risky undertaking. This picture, the impressive end product of director Joshua Oppenheimer's (assisted by Christine Cynn and some entity listed as 'Anonymous') reported 8 year or so immersion into the given material and corresponding geographic locales, takes on a smattering of Indonesian paramilitary folks (active and retired) and sets them to the deeply unsettling (one would assume) task of play acting in present time their cruel yet effective actions from a time well in the past. You see, back in the middle of the 1960s, said soldiers set out to relentlessly rid their beloved stomping grounds of any and all traces of communist misbehavior (suspected as well as proven) by virtue of unapologetic extermination of any recognized offenders.
Due to the protracted development period his project demanded, Oppenheimer got to know many of his players to a deep extent (most of note, the front and center duo of Anwar Congo and Herman Kato). In so doing, he was exposed to, among many other traits, a startling adoration of movies and their potential power over a collected audience (many of these cats used to scalp admission tickets at area bijous as youths). In light of this significant revelation of character, the filmmaker ushered in the further requirement that his subjects' reenactings be staged with a layer of direct big screen influence. Thus, Anwar and co. get to planning and fleshing out a surreal succession of mini-movie styled skits, all centered around the core factor of factual killings that were once as far removed from a fond movie going memory as legitimately conceivable.
The fair bulk of the picture delves well into these truly elaborate and often colorfully startling microcosms of damaged personal performance 'art' giving the viewer a wholly contradictory palette of images and ideas with which to digest and analyze to the best of their ability, which is no simple assignment. One absorbs both the creative, dare I say, glee with which these 'skits' are born and also the rather horrific method that pervades the carrying out of the separate acts of detrimental violence that stick close to the facts as kept alive in the now aging assassin's minds. The scope of these differing parts is sometimes notable, the torching and ransacking of a village, for quick example, employs multiple wailing extras and pyrotechnics while a tense rooftop strangulation only requires some handy wire and a solo assistant to get the (ugly) job done correct.
The progression and fervor between the crafting and full realization of the mocked up killings also works to stress the growing impact on the performers in a variety of fashions as they are coming to terms anew with their past transgressions as they are pulled into the present and placed under the microscope of the camera eye.
'The Act of Killing exists as an almost purely nominal viewing experience, one that swiftly defies easy comparison amongst other documentaries covering similar dark thematic territory. From its opening imagery, graceful dancers emerging from the mouth of a gigantic structure designed like a fish and easily moving across a long plank to the nodding approval of fat man Herman Kato adorned in vivid blue drag queen attire (cross dressing proves to be a reoccurring fashion choice for this dude), the film hypnotizes and transports us into this otherwise impenetrable kingdom of fever dreamish ultra madness.
Tales of war crimes are often of the 'Human generated horror leads to apprehension and repremendation (i.e. Proper Trial) followed by the subsequent healing process for the surviving victims or their descendants. Not so much this time out (though Oppenheimer has since put together an opposing viewpoint sequel of sorts, The Look of Silence, which gives one family a chance to address the murder of their sibling during the above mentioned chaos), here the villains have grown to become respected national heroes. Victorious saviors over the communist plague, the enjoy unparalleled freedom and often brag up even the lowliest aspects of their abhorrent behaviours (beware the one arrogant thug who waxes fondness over the 'heavenly' benefits of sexually degrading random young females, yuck!). 'The Act of Killing' sets out to try to crack the pokerfaced surface of this posse's infamous yet never disowned history and with the aid of this highly unique approach to revisiting some of the events in question, hopefully expresses to the world and better still, the men themselves, the extent of their wrong doing. Does this tactic at all work? You'll have to witness the film your own self to obtain the answer.
'The Act of Killing' is currently available in both DVD and BLU RAY formats from a place called Drafthouse Films and it features two separate cuts of the picture, the standard 122 minute theatrical issue and a more involved 166 minute Director's variation. There is, of course, bonus features to be had like featurettes, deleted scenes and audion commentary with the director and documentary hall of famer Werner ('Grizzly Man, 'Into the Abyss') Herzog who (along with esteemed filmmaking peer Errol Morris) became one of the chief cheerleaders of this film and helped to push it into the festival circuit and such. The whole mind boggling adventure can be found here, drafthousefilms.com/film/the-act-of-killing. Check into it.
II. Bonus Stuff.
'Willow Creek' (darkskyfilms.com)
This here sho' ain't the Bobcat Goldthwait you ever saw screech out a nerve wracking stand up routine nor call the behind the scenes shots on such black comedic epics as 'Shakes the Clown', 'World's Greatest Dad' (which features one of poor Robin Williams' finest latter day performances) and 'God Bless America'. Instead we are gifted still another Found Footage scenario involving naive young peeps venturing into an all-together unforgiving, unknown environment. This time it's all centered around the Big Foot mythos and one head strong believer (Bryce Johnson) and his reckless yearning to gather actual video evidence of the beast and prove it all factual for once and for final. This leads our hero and his less than convinced gal pal (Alexie Gilmore) to the darkest camping spot imaginable and....well, no spoilers here. Just accept the fact that Ol' Bobby has aimed for something quite separate from the rest of his resume and I suppose you're left with a very adequate riff on the basic outline of 'The Blair Witch Project', albeit with far more stable camera work and scares that emanate from real beasts in the darkness and not mean, ill tempered spirits. Not a complete waste of 80 minutes, but nothing poised to break ground either. Includes the expected commentary by folks involved, one deleted scene and a short on set piece.
'Death Spa' (mpihomevideo.com)
Prime sliced 80s schlock 'til you drop cheese, resurrected in fitting home video fashion. An All-American, high end fitness joint is all the aerobic rage until strange fatalities start to pile up. Seems the deceased spouse of this happenin' club's owner is out to haunt the spot into bankruptcy by picking off much of its' sexy, style conscious (when not fully naked) clientele. Real simplistic premise is established as a handy way to enact one goofy yet fairly inventive kill shot after another while the cardboard cast milk out much of the average run time searching for a way to wrap it all up cheaply and get out alive. Along with like minded flotsam like 'Killer Workout' (you know you recall that one as well) this little creeper stands as the perfect time capsule of an era when it was chic to be fit and the Jane Fonda workout regimen ruled the day.
Loaded with cut rate gore, bare and sweaty skin and thespians who understand how to react accordingly (including 'Dawn of the Dead' alum Ken Foree), this new DVD/BLU RAY combo release displays the film in what is likely the finest quality it will ever see. The bonus stuff is predictable but fun (commentary, retrospective doc short) and the film itself is not without its' considerable camp merits. Prefect fodder for the horror goon who still longs for the small scale, mom & pop local video rental store way of movie watching.
Thanks for humoring me, you can write me (if the urge somehow strikes you) at killpeoplenamedrichard@yahoo.com
Sunday, April 20, 2014
ROWDY LIL' DEVILS
(Print version published in the May 2014 issue of The Scene Newspaper, scenenewspaper.com)
It has come to my immediate attention that some of the more necessary recent examples of quality genre cinema appear to center the weight of their chosen plotlines around some curiously small packages. The most obvious of the commercial, mainstream representations of this can be found in the work of director James Wan, most specifically 'Insidious', but I was thinking more in terms of reduced popularity yet equal (or greater) value and I have two wholly fitting flicks that fit this criteria; 'Here Comes the Devil' and 'Knights of Badassdom'. It is with these two very differing slices of economic yet effective little big threat storytelling that this month's chapter in slightly off the radar motion picture analysis and incessant rambling is prepared to devote itself.
Here Comes the Devil.
When the comfort zone of a typical familial structure becomes uprooted, say by virtue of the mostly commonplace interferences of emotional, financial and/or fidelity issues, the chief members are left with the taxing yet inevitably surmountable task of picking up the metaphoric pieces of their given lives and continuing to soldier on. In the moody and unapologetically graphic case study of the young Mexican family unit in 'Here Comes the Devil', however, we find the main parental pairing abruptly forced to contend with the sharp and dedicated intervention of a cruelly possessive element that seeks to drain away the innocence of their two prepubescents in favor of a more malicious alternative.
The set up is simple, following a startling prologue of sorts involving a juicy lesbian tryst interrupted by a maniacal house invasion and subsequent bloodletting, the base action shifts over to a sunny Baja California vacation site being occupied by the film's protagonist foursome. While Sol (Laura Caro) and Felix (Francisco Barreiro) sun themselves with nary a care to mention, their kids, Adolfo (Alan Martinez) and Sara (Michele Garcia) are nearby dealing with the alien prospect of Sara's inaugural encounter with that strange feminine occurrence known as menstruation. A quick trip to a local convenience store to deal with the inconvenient 'girl' problem and we're back in business with the kids looking to explore some area caves and the adults just looking to further pursue their relaxation agenda, only on a more romantic level (naughty, naughty). A couple of beats later finds them snoozing in their car, the sun has set and their children have not reported back.
Thus begins the thrust of the whole 'parent's worst nightmare' come to life (and then some) scenario that really informs this delectably demented piece of modern horror. With the local law alongside, the couple frets and scours the surroundings to no avail, only to have their babies appropriated off some remote road the very next day and delivered to their door. All is set to right, or so we are briefly mislead to believe. The kids almost instantly begin to exhibit a notably detached, vacant quality and suspicions arise that they may have been more than just lost in the cavernous hills. At first, after some snooping in and around the area of the disappearance, a local social reject may prove to be a prime suspect and solution to the mounting mystery of what hath molded the children in such a dark and uninviting fashion. In fact, the spectre of some variant of child abduction/unspeakable contact eats at the parents to such a degree that they carry out their rabid phobia to ultraviolent ends (no direct spoilers, just know the effects crew more than earned their keep). This all leads the parents on a downward spiral of their own en route to the true source of the madness, the dread that awaits with a proper solution they could probably due without ever encountering.
'Here Comes the Devil' marks the 10th feature offering of a deft Spanish fella named Adrian Garcia Bogliano (with another feature, 'Late Phases' waiting in the wings). He infuses his weird and wonderfully creepy opus with healthy measures of the requisite horror staples of sex, gore, lingering unease and lurid personas taking the task of boundary pushing and amping the shock and awe factor to acceptably elevated degrees. He has also made it clear in previous media coverage his love and adoration of the exploitation cinema of the 1970s and 80s and that is in blatant display care the warm, somewhat sleazy imagery and fearless employment of sharp zooming in on key moments (Bogliano has also stated his specific use of lenses based on those used in comparative old school favorites). This all combines to make for one of the more satisfying and fully unnerving horror entries in recent memory. Produced for a relative pittance by even so-called low budget standards, 'Here Comes the Devil' shines with a polished look and fitfully creepy vibe that is certain to endear it to a wealth of genre devotees.
The rich looking Blu Ray from a company called Magnet Releasing comes complete with the usual audio commentary input form the Bogliano man himself plus several bits of behind the scenes info to help flesh out the origin of this warped lil' devil. Recommended to all who still hold hope for the future of all things horrific.
For more info, check-magnetreleasing.com/herecomesthedevil
Knights of Badassdom.
Back in the summer of 2011 I was attending the enormous nerd-chic mecca known the world over as San Diego Comic Con when I found myself surrounded by a grand party of fools dolled up as some sort of medieval war party (or cast offs from a Manowar video shoot, take thy pick) and fully reveling in slapping the piss out of one another with big, realistic looking weaponry right outside of the convention's most beloved of locales, the infamous Hall H. Turns out, this was all a part of the publicity juggernaut for a charming little love letter to something dubbed 'Larping' (where participants enact a roleplaying scenario on a three dimensional scale) named 'Knights of Badassdom' that I would have to wait a further 2 1/2 years to actually witness. The film, for one reason or another, sat dormant until being swept up by distributor eOne Entertainment for fleeting screenings and a decent home video berth.
The story involves a basic collection of boy buddies, the majority of which cling to this Larping thing as if it were a serious religion. When one of their roommates, Joe (Ryan Kwanten of 'True Blood' fame), finds himself abandoned by his true blue love of all that is worth living for the resident nerd posse takes it upon themselves to lure him into a weekend role playing getaway. The gents, made up of a fairly solid batch that includes Steve Zahn (a very accomplished thespian who saw this picture released in the near vicinity of more recognized fair that he also took part in like 'Dallas Buyers Club', now there's a strange double bill) and that mightiest of little big men, Peter ('Game of Thrones') Dinklage, see this as both a bonding ritual to help bring their bummed bro back up to par and as a method of further strengthening their dominance in this fabricated geek realm.
Complications and such arise when Zahn's character, Eric, invokes a diabolical succubus that so happens to occupy the body of Joe's former flame. Once this disturbing revelation comes to the fore, our noble lads must find a way to wrangle their fellows in geekdom to help combat the rising body count and become true, victorious...er bad asses. The guiding hand behind these ramshackle events is Joe Lynch, a director whose most noted previous credit is 'Wrong Turn 2' coupled with acting/producing chores on the late FEARnet series 'Holliston' (which also featured the equally 'late' Gwar frontman Oderus Urungus). Lynch has crafted a right serviceable mash-up of comedic shtick and blood splattering spectacle in spite of the much mumbled about budgetary short comings and debated handling of the actual final edit of the film. The pace and progression of the whole affair is adequate and the technical aspect (especially the mostly old school, hands on make up and gore effects) only aids in the cause. By the time the film rambles its imperfect way to the climactic stage and the final monster is let loose on the party, the picture will likely have endeared itself to many a game viewer (awful pun, you're welcome). The cast gives it like seasoned pros, both the above mentioned peeps as well as Summer Glau (the gal from the T.V. shows 'Firefly' and 'Terminator: The Sarah Conner Chronicles') filling out the hot babe/rebound love interest part and many, many actual dedicated Larper types (many of which were among the crowd lurking around San Diego Comic Con way back when) all do their duty at a commendable level.
The video release of 'Knights of Badassdom' contains several interview segments with the cast members and the director along with a lengthy panel presentation from the greatly aforementioned Comic Con Hall H appearance wherein many of the players discuss the project and their approach to the material and also entertain questions from selected lucky nerds from the massive crowd. This whole thing makes me ever so eager to return to another ridiculous convention down in southern California this July. Can't wait.
Again, info.....here-knightsofbadassdom-movie.com
Again, info.....here-knightsofbadassdom-movie.com
Friday, January 24, 2014
Kill Them All But One.
(an article originally published in the May 2012 issue of The Scene)
When the world as you know it is on the brink of irreparable collapse and the majority vote of the younger generation seems to be leaning overwhelmingly toward a permanent, 'fuck you!' state of mind, what would be the most productive way in which to attempt to address the situation?
Simple enough, take a fat batch of these rowdy, disrespectful brats, toss them on some remote locale and have them fight 'til death until only one lucky soul remains. For extra good measure, have their former teacher (who's class they often avoided) supervise the whole bloody event and share the cruel outcome with a sensation starved general public. Such is the basic, catchy premise for the now notorious (in cult film sub-circles) Japanese grown slice of dystopian flavored savagery, Battle Royale. The film does propose a 'what if' outline of such an alternate reality where, devoid of a confident infrastructure and a stable, civil population, the powers that hope to restore any portion of order have reduced themselves to employing the youth as dependable fodder in a succession of morally bankrupt war games meant to help satiate the nagging demands of an overpopulated citizenry starving for more than just eats. The picture never gets overly explicit on the detailing of the how, when and why aspect of this society's apparent dire straits, but it's enough to know that times are tough all over and the kids must suffer their fair share of the unholy consequences.
Thus the invention and implementation of the Millennium Educational Reform or 'Battle Royale' Act. Selecting random classes by way of national lottery, the governing body (such as it dictatorially is) is freely able to ease on to a thinning of the herd (a more blunt and unapologetically fascistic variant on our real life practice of patriotically manipulating poor, gung ho kids to allow themselves to be groomed for the kill and to be shipped off to fight often meaningless combat). Once transposed to a deserted, nondescript island, the chosen ones are each read the rules and regulations of this so-called game that proves to be their sorry lot. Each player is issued a supply bag plus a random object that they must somehow use as a weapon (everything from highly useful firearms and sharp objects fit for stabbing to something as completely worthless as a stove pot lid, some get lucky and others get the short straw) and are ushered on to kick off the three day long, kill all or be killed off competition.
Attempts to resist the game or flee the island to the safety of the real world (or what now passes for it) are abruptly discouraged by way of handy explosive devices fitted inside snug neck brace like contraptions applied to each of the contestants. They try anything funny, the brace goes POP! and their throat will open up in due fashion, fanning the immediate area with a vivid, crimson shower. With the intense particulars of the game firmly established, the ensuing melodrama sees old wounds reopened, friendships compromised, flimsy grade school social systems collide and combust and genuine, youthful affections clear the path for handy suicide pacts.
Commanding over this troubling, ultra violent molestation of the normally harmless by comparison tropes of the rebellious teenager genre is a long shopworn soldier of the Japanese cinema, Kinji Fukasaku. Making his 60th directorial entry with Battle Royale, Fukasaku reaches an apex in a career he has been banging away at since 1961. He has affixed his mark on such titles as Battles Without Honor and Humanity, The Black Lizard, The Green Slime, Message From Space, Virus and many, many more than I feel like reiterating here. Fukasaku was also responsible for helming the Japanese segments (along with Toshio Masuda) of the all star, Hollywood WWII opus Tora ! Tora! Tora! (when that one hack, Akira Kurosawa got himself fired) so you just know the guy has his chops refined and honed up for tackling damn near anything, especially something as safe a bet as a youth gone wild scenario.
Turns out, a main portion of the motivation for Kinji Fukasaku to take on the production of Battle Royale (adapted by his son, Kenta, from the popular, same named novel by Koushun Takami) stemmed from his wartime imprintings as a teenager slaving away as a munitions worker and developing a deep set disdain for all manner of adult, authority figures (most importantly, those who represent the government of Japan). The curious thing about this is that it seems to have inspired the director to impart a significant measure of empathy toward his relatively naive protagonists, allowing the plight of these poor pubescents pushed into class execution to have a greater impact while the elder figures mostly lingering in supporting statuses remain deliberately underdeveloped. The sole adult who does manage to eke out some shading of nuance over the course of Battle Royale's two hour litany of relentless carnage is the former school teacher Kitano (essayed here by Japan's beloved jack of multi trades Takashi 'Beat' Kitano, a man who earned his way to fame as a comedian/television personality and additionally as an actor/director with such films as Violent Cop, Brother & Outrage) a man off put from any facet of happiness as a result of a dismal family situation (explored in greater depth in the much inferior sequel, Requiem) Takashi does his darnedest to make this sap sympathy worthy.
As the picture ambles its way toward what one would assume to be an inevitable denouement, it appears to take prioritized pleasure in dissecting and, at times, even deliberately satirizing the particulars of the often clique driven structure of this teen aged caste system that has been set on its head. Battle Royale's total dedication to brutal mayhem as a method of enhancing the impact of its rapid fire brand of socio-political mockery has led to its grandstanding amongst the hallowed annuls of cult filmdom. The fairly odd twist to all of this is, until this very year we live in now, Battle Royale has never once been granted an official, licensed home video berth in these United States. Now, theories and suppositions on this matter very, everything from a lack of distributor interest or financial confidence in this 'product', to the hot potato suggestion (by some) that this America was not ready to digest a film as heady as this, especially during its initial bow, right in the thick of the kids of Columbine and their nihilistic antics back at the close of the 20th Century.
Nothing to fret much over though, as time (and pop culture convenience) seems to soothe most troubles. As fate would have it, the generous folks at Anchor Bay Entertainment (anchorbayent.com) have taken it upon themselves to wrangle together something called Battle Royale-The Complete Collection , a title that proves to be a slight misnomer (as anyone who already owns one or more of the easily obtained import DVDs of either film can attest). This is, none the less, a noble and very polished attempt to bring this saga to the Red, White and Blue once and for all (coincidentally corresponding with that one big scale, Lion's Gate film adaptation of the mega chic, book series about young-ins in a depressing future world forced to pick one another off and such to the sound of box office cash registers endlessly ringing).
The fresh, four disc set (available as both DVD and Blu-Ray) presents both Battle Royale films (the first in both theatrical and slightly extended director's cut versions) and a decent (yet far from complete) selection of bonus materials (though with nothing at all to represent the sequel), which lend insight into the behind the scenes mechanics and promotional thunder that encompasses the B.R. phenomenon. Shamefully, there are no commentary tracks of any kind nor deleted scenes to satisfy that trivial desire for something beyond the films as they stand completed. Some passing, minor complaints to be sure, but it hardly diminishes the fact that Battle Royale has finally been granted admittance into the mainstream, albeit probably to bask in the residual effects of a dumbed down, PG-13 blockbuster with a hot, blond trophy lead that serves, at best, as a flavor of the moment.
No matter, track it down and placate your hunger for crazy, quality Japanese ultra violence. You won't be underfed.
Also, something totally unrelated.
Everyday Sunshine: The Story of Fishbone.
One of the most tragically undervalued (in commercial terms mostly) and yet thoroughly influential bands of the past several decades finally, almost, receives its just due with this not at all landmark but still very welcome and entertaining documentary profile. Piecing together the origin through modern area timeline of this South Central L.A. born outfit by way of standard practice devices like, industry peer commentary (including but not limited to; Ice-T, Les Claypool, Gwen Stefani, Mike Watt and that overrated bass whore from the Red Hot Chili Peppers), plentiful archival footage and a guiding narrative voice lent by Mr. Laurence Fishburne, filmmakers Chris Metzler and Lev Anderson shed light on the means and methods by which such a wildly varied and potentially implosive collection of creative voices managed to change the formula of what a 'rock' band is perceived to be.
Not surprisingly, the film gains its sharpest nuggets of insight from the two primary, original founding members; Angelo Moore and Norwood Fisher (the only two cats who never abandoned the Fishbone rollercoaster at any one point). The pair explicate on the epic lifespan of this band that never climbed higher up the ladder of fame than their Lollapalloza/'Reality of My Surroundings' peak. From a socially awkward first meet up in high school all the way to bickering like an old married couple while enduring the cold truths of greatly reduced concert attendance and record sales (be honest, how many of you out there who even knew who this band was even thought they were still around?), these two remain the key voice and recount without hesitation everything from getting major label love while still in their teens, cutting some stellar records ('Truth and Soul', 'The Reality of my Surroundings', 'Give a Monkey a Brain...and He'll Swear He's the Center of the Universe'), partying it up too much, seeing members cycle in and out and back again and even suffering the loss of the pivotal guitarist Kendall Jones to a religious sect or something (an ensuing intervention attempt nearly led to Fisher's incarceration).
Truly one band that shone brighter on stage (their live energy is astounding) then they ever could in a confining record studio, Fishbone still succeeds in the crafting of worthy enough releases to this very day. Anyone who has bought into the sonic benefits of No Doubt, Primus, Mordred (yeah, right) and those Chili Pecker boneheads have Fishbone, in no small part, to thank for that. So do your damn self a solid and look in to their discography, catch a live gig if at all possible and set aside a few hours for Everyday Sunshine: The Story of Fishbone (the DVD of which is stuffed with quality bonus goodies and can be procured here-fishbonedocumentay.com). Now let the majesty of the 'Bone' be overlooked no further.
Also, something totally unrelated.
Everyday Sunshine: The Story of Fishbone.
One of the most tragically undervalued (in commercial terms mostly) and yet thoroughly influential bands of the past several decades finally, almost, receives its just due with this not at all landmark but still very welcome and entertaining documentary profile. Piecing together the origin through modern area timeline of this South Central L.A. born outfit by way of standard practice devices like, industry peer commentary (including but not limited to; Ice-T, Les Claypool, Gwen Stefani, Mike Watt and that overrated bass whore from the Red Hot Chili Peppers), plentiful archival footage and a guiding narrative voice lent by Mr. Laurence Fishburne, filmmakers Chris Metzler and Lev Anderson shed light on the means and methods by which such a wildly varied and potentially implosive collection of creative voices managed to change the formula of what a 'rock' band is perceived to be.
Not surprisingly, the film gains its sharpest nuggets of insight from the two primary, original founding members; Angelo Moore and Norwood Fisher (the only two cats who never abandoned the Fishbone rollercoaster at any one point). The pair explicate on the epic lifespan of this band that never climbed higher up the ladder of fame than their Lollapalloza/'Reality of My Surroundings' peak. From a socially awkward first meet up in high school all the way to bickering like an old married couple while enduring the cold truths of greatly reduced concert attendance and record sales (be honest, how many of you out there who even knew who this band was even thought they were still around?), these two remain the key voice and recount without hesitation everything from getting major label love while still in their teens, cutting some stellar records ('Truth and Soul', 'The Reality of my Surroundings', 'Give a Monkey a Brain...and He'll Swear He's the Center of the Universe'), partying it up too much, seeing members cycle in and out and back again and even suffering the loss of the pivotal guitarist Kendall Jones to a religious sect or something (an ensuing intervention attempt nearly led to Fisher's incarceration).
Truly one band that shone brighter on stage (their live energy is astounding) then they ever could in a confining record studio, Fishbone still succeeds in the crafting of worthy enough releases to this very day. Anyone who has bought into the sonic benefits of No Doubt, Primus, Mordred (yeah, right) and those Chili Pecker boneheads have Fishbone, in no small part, to thank for that. So do your damn self a solid and look in to their discography, catch a live gig if at all possible and set aside a few hours for Everyday Sunshine: The Story of Fishbone (the DVD of which is stuffed with quality bonus goodies and can be procured here-fishbonedocumentay.com). Now let the majesty of the 'Bone' be overlooked no further.
Friday, December 27, 2013
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
Friday, November 22, 2013
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.
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.
Saturday, October 26, 2013
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.
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.
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