BEAST IT LIKE YOU MEAN IT.

THESE MONSTERS CAME TO PLAY.

 

 

 

 

 

It would appear as though we have yet another Godzilla flick looming on the horizon. Yes, it is another Americanized attempt to recapture the energy and brand-name charm that fueled the original, perennial Japanese juggernaut that has thus far spawned at least two very underwhelming state side knock offs ( New World Pictures' hefty overhaul of 'The Return of Godzilla', rechristened 'Godzilla 1985' and the weak kneed 1998 eponymous effort by uber schlockmiester Roland Emmerich that seemed to find some odd, blockbuster leading man cred in Matthew Broderick). With still another group of ambitious souls so willing to take the burden upon themselves to make a serious bid at a high scale and truly worthy resurrection of the big screen presence of that most universally renowned of lumbering, heavily destructive creatures, I feel a tad motivated to take a glance back at the old school days of goofy, Japanese spectacles devoted to the art of big rubber abominations  causing a mad variety of disorder and, most paramount, knocking into and toppling a multitude of miniature model cities and the like.  

I fondly recall having my share of affectionate reactions to many of the 'Zilla epics I caught at random on cable television in my youth, not to mention that Saturday morning variant that unspooled in the late 70s (anyone remember the ridiculous 'Godzooky'?) and continue to be drawn to the more modern projects that seek to keep the 'big monster' or, 'Kaiju' as them Japanese folks call it, genre alive and well like big Guillermo del Toro's vivid monsters vs. robots opus 'Pacific Rim' (that one Beastie Boys video, 'Intergalactic' had it going on too).

 

So, in keeping close with this theme of big bastards wrecking stuff, it seems all too fitting to lend some quality column space to a perfect tie-in of sorts to this impending Godzilla entry as well as all the wonderful rubber monster fun stuffs so many of us have come to adore. 'Ultra Q' is an often goofy and quite charming little monochrome T.V. oddity born in Japan in January of 1966 as both a cash in on the booming Godzilla/Gamera (the flying turtle) craze of the era as well as the popularity of American anthology programs like 'The Twilight Zone' and 'Outer Limits'. The basic, on running premise is established almost straight away as an overly ambitious newspaper reporter/staff photographer and two foolhardy pilots (embodied by Hiroko Sakurai, Kenji Sahara and Yasuhiko Saijou respectively) rush to investigate a strange occurrence at an underground mine which leads to the discovery of a menacing lizard (a resourcefully reconfigured costume used in a previous Godzilla production) that our protagonists must find a way to thwart for the betterment of mankind. In succeeding entries in this series, the trio, with some help from time to time from a Professor Ichinotani (Ureo Egawa) find themselves at odds with all manner of startling oddities that threaten to upturn the fabric of their surrounding normalcy.

 

 

 

 

Thus the viewer is graced with a veritable menagerie of living, raging abstractions, creatures and fabrications equal parts menacing and completely absurd. Beings culled forth to fulfill the 'Ultra Q' roll call for mysterious villainy include (yet are hardly limited to) an aggro beasty born of volcanic rock, a big, dopy looking ape man, a freaky acorn-like monster that bounces around (a personal fave and the cover boy for this series' DVD reissue set), a massive snail with laser beam eyes and a big, bloated, loopy looking walrus that lurks in cloud formations. Each passing episode proves packed with great camp surprises and enough clever plotting to suffice the slight 25 minutes allotted to each of the 28 total separate scenarios.

'Ultra Q' was created by a man named Eiji Tsuburaya, who served as a veteran visual effects director at several Japanese production companies, the most famous of which, Toho Studios, assigned him to labor on many of the great 'Kaiju' productions including those incorporating both King Kong and Godzilla. Tsuburaya's initial desire for 'Ultra Q' ( initially entitled 'Unbalance') was for it to go in a more brooding and mysterious direction much in the Twilight Zone vein of things until the show's backer, The Tokyo Broadcasting System, pushed for the inclusion of all the curious monsters. 'Ultra Q' was to be the first in a long line of 'Ultra' series that continues to this very day although the most overly popular, 'Ultraman', was the first to be exported to other territories. No matter, the fine people at Shout! Factory have made the concerted effort to corral the whole of this 'Ultra Q' puppy into one fine and handy, 5 disc DVD package so we simple American fools can soak it up ourselves. The show looks as good as it can for being some 50 odd years old and many of its romping creations may just prove unavoidably addictive to the true cult cinema fanatic. One of the most expensive television undertakings in its native land in its time, 'Ultra Q' may have aged in the direction of visually quaint but that does not discredit its place in the history of fantastic storytelling. Recommended to those who dig their monsters with a solid dose of infectious tackiness. More info here-http://www.shoutfactory.com/product/ultra-q-complete-series

THE LAST 5 FILMS I'VE SEEN (as of 3/19/2014)

 

 

 

1. Birth of the Living Dead. (First Run Features)- Again with the little movie that started all of this 'Warm Bodies', Zombie Walk, 'Walking Dead' hyperbole. George A. Romero and several of his legendary, debut feature's stout admirers (including producer Gale Anne Hurd and indie madman Larry Fessenden, who helped pull this documentary together) wax historic and delve into yet another intricate analysis of 'Night of the Living Dead', its' genesis and subsequent, lasting impact (positive and otherwise) on the horror community and pop culture in general. Plenty of note is made of the prevalent political and social upheaval at the time of this film's conception (the late 60s) and how said factors may/may not have injected influence into the project. The most compelling factor contained within this documentary, for me at least, are the nuts and bolts details of the piecing together of a grassroots, independent (before being 'Independent' was cool) feature film against all the expected odds and shortcomings that these sort of things almost naturally come into contact with. Not at all a landmark accomplishment but 'Birth of the Living Dead' should appease most film nerds and N.O.T.L.D. completests. 

 

2. Wicked Blood. (eOne Entertainment)- Serviceable criminal antics and melodramatics set in Baton Rouge for maximum Southern seasoning. A bright young lass (that little mrs. sunshine herself, Abigail Breslin) sets to the task of double dealing her way out of a suffocating familial drug dealing operation lorded over with a firm certainty by her stone serious uncle (Sean Bean). The plot proper involves many of the usual devices and beats suited to this sort of pot boiling endeavor. There's a rival drug dealer (James Purefoy) holding a significant secret, a knuckleheaded henchman (Jake-pale imitation of Gary-Busey), the dedicated dope cooker (Lew Temple, often shown getting high on his own supply) and the requisite number of shots of people pointing guns at one another. Nothing much here to dub as astonishing, but it might just do the time killing, rainy day movie rental trick.

 

3. Unidentified. (Dark Sky Films)- A gaggle of solid 'bros' do the getaway trek to sin city deluxe, Las Vegas. Along the way, the far and away most out of place of the bunch, a goon with a YouTube fixation (Eric Artell) convinces the group to detour into an abandoned testing site where some predictably unnerving events unfold leading to a slowly manifesting, other worldly stain on the remainder of their vacation. Once in Vegas the lads set forth to drink, rabble and (near fatally) gamble their way into oblivion. This flick works to a fair degree in spite of its adhering to the oh-so played out modern day convention of the 'found footage' technique (the above mentioned nerd character never goes anywhere with out his digital camera, never mind the real life fact that most casinos, strip clubs and such frown intensely on such trinkets). There are a handful of stand out scenes and gags that carried the whole above its many less inspired moments (the underground poker gig, run by a shady figure with, let's say, an odd personality quirk comes as a sort of welcome shock) and its closing stretch is surprisingly engaging as the film ditches most of the goofy ingredients for a legitimate measure of suspense. Directed by Jason R. Miller, who put in time on several projects by Adam Green, the 'Hatchet' guy, if that's any help.

 

4. Old Boy. (Film District)- Yo Spike!  What gives with this nice looking yet fully needless reworking of the much cherished Park chan-Wook adapt of the equally celebrated manga by Garon Tsuchiya and Nobuaki Minegishi? I mean, I guess it comes as an intriguing surprise initially that the director of potent cinema like 'Do the Right Thing', 'Clockers' and the ever mighty 'Malcolm X' would think to tackle such a tricky piece of pulpy storytelling. The end result, however, is only somewhat above the level of a scaled down, slapped together imitation.

Yes, I hear the producers pushed poor Spike Lee into forsaking his reportedly more intricate and in depth, 140 minute initial cut for the more compact, nearly 40 minute lighter version now commonly available. Then why did they so glibly toss the film to theaters with minimal promotion so it would die an easy death?  Seems like this take on an imprisoned man abruptly released to solve the mystery of his incarceration was never deemed too worthy of anyone's adulation. Better luck on the next one (the Kickstarter funded 'Da Sweet Blood of Jesus'), 'cus I still think you got game. Oh and Sam Jackson's in it, his first film with Spike since 'Jungle Fever', so expect some serious profanity.

5. The Last Days on Mars. (Magnet Releasing)- Stop me please, if you've heard this one before; a group of scientists and other assorted space travelers at work on the surface of the so-called 'red planet' are about to wind down their stint and punch their ticket back to Mother Earth. One member of the exploratory posse makes a convenient, last minute discovery on a slide at his lab station that may be suggestive of something resembling life out there under the Martian landscape. Further investigating slowly but surly leads to, guess what?, bad news and genre servicing bursts of suspense and terror mostly incorporating lots of bickering souls attempting to outlast peers who have come under the fatal spell of some form of viral force that reduces decent human folk into blood thirsty, raging zombie types. Yup, that's about all folks. Joins an inexplicably growing body of admittedly competent and fairly well cast films (see 'Europa Report' for further recent example) that basically work to drag the 'Alien' formula down to a smaller scale, lower budgeted and faintly artsy level. Not awful but not awfully necessary either.

 

Any feedback? Hit me up, killpeoplenamedrichard@yahoo.com

Kill Them All But One.

A Few Kind Words Addressing Battle Royale

 (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.

killpeoplenamedrichard@yahoo.com

Hell is Where the Heart Is.

Being the efforts of a local film dude inspired by Pig Destroyer.

Stowed deep away atop the mighty House of Heroes comic book hot spot in the thick of Oshkosh is a grand laboratory adorned with majestic posters (mostly of the original 'Evil Dead') and copious objects truly fitting a film savvy scholar that houses one mad soul hard at labor on a challenging collection of projects and ideas meant to work the value of the area filmmaking community to an ever higher level. The soul in question is that lovable man on a seemingly endless movie mission, John Pata. Pata, many of you should swiftly recall, is one of the chief creative engines behind one of the most positively received and widespread cinematic success stories to ever have been generated out of the Oshvegas/Fox Valley landscape, 'Dead Weight'. That film (which finally landed a fully legit, national distribution deal via Kino Lorber and became available online and on store shelves late last month) signaled the clear arrival of a potent cinematic commando with a natural knack for the form.

For those yet to witness 'Dead Weight' (a number of the populace that hopefully continues to dwindle), it is the tense, often troubling story of a young man named Charlie (Joe Belknap) and his increasingly self centered quest to be reunited with his eternal true love Samantha (Mary Lindberg) across a post outbreak tainted, mid western backdrop. The film plays out with minimal flaw despite the relative inexperience of many involved on either side of the camera and serves as a much more effective study of the strange ticks of the human mechanism than some entrail laden 'Walking Dead' wannabe or entry level slasher also ran (though the new packaging its been draped with may lead some to assume otherwise).

'Dead Weight' has done a serious number of festival dates and managed to win over a phat percentage of the folks who took it in, many of whom (myself included) would eventually gain the itch to see just what this Pata fellow and his constantly expanding army of contributors (especially his Head Trauma co-hort Adam Bartlett) would follow this baby up with.

Enter, of all damn things, Virginian grindcore band Pig Destroyer and their frontman, J.R. Hayes' engagingly demented arrangement of words. See, several years back, when Pata was in the midst of his U.W.-Oshkosh student tenure, a friend introduced him to the writings on the inlay booklet of Pig Destroyer's 2001 record 'Prowler in the Yard'. Now, Pata, not traditionally given to the fashion of sonic violence contained within the record, nonetheless found himself immediately taken by a brief (4 paragraphs+1 sentence) piece of writing included in the booklet. The words attempt to convey the very fractured psyche of a severely downtrodden soul sitting in his car outside the house that contains the 'better half' of a recently terminated relationship while holding depraved intentions of a dire sort of reconciliation close to his crippled heart.

During a meet up a short while back, Sir. Pata confessed to me that he found that scant passage to be one of the most 'beautifully disturbing' he'd ever run his eyes across. It stuck with him and he found himself returning to it a few years on when, in the wake of a rather disheartening creative setback (the disintegration of an ambitious horror opus named 'Among the Dead'), Pata immersed himself in the penning of a series of short film scripts, the Pig Destroyer idea (to be tagged 'Pity') fell easily in line.

It would ultimately be a tad longer as the whole 'Dead Weight' thing soon came together and soaked up a dominant chunk of Pata's precious time. But in 2013 the focus came right back around to 'Pity'. In the small interim between the close of production on 'Dead Weight' and this new short, Pata kept his filmmaking chops well oiled by lending assistance in varying capacity on several film projects guided by others. One such production, an Illinois based anthology called 'Chop-Shop', introduced John to several crew members whose work ethic and overall skill sets greatly impressed him ('They were all on the same page...it was almost like they 'shined', they didn't have to verbally speak!', he told me), most of all, cinematographer Robert Patrick Stern who would carry his considerable abilities and enthusiasm over to 'Pity'.

The time spent helping out and lugging around equipment on the sets of other people's productions only worked to magnify the itch in John Pata to get back to realizing his own cherished vision. Pata reapproached the 'Pity' script, sent word out to Pig Destroyer main men Scott Hull and J.R. Hayes of his adaptation intentions and pitched to them his plan on how to interpret the material as a short in hopes of acquiring the official rights to do so, which he did. The next obvious step was to pull together the bodies, locations and gadgets necessary to take this thing all the way. Along with the already mentioned Adam Bartlett (who served as assistant director) and camera ace Stern, Pata tapped Sarah Sharp to realize the production design and to embody the lone acting requirement of the story, there is a guy named Jake Martin. Martin, a onetime frontman for a local band named Lead Me Not, is a long standing friend of the director who has taken part, on camera, in each of his three film projects (as a zombie in 'Better Off Undead" and an intimidating redneck in 'Dead Weight') and was deemed a natural fit for the brooding, closed off and ever silent 'Anonymous' (the only words spoken in the piece come care of voiceover).

Following around two and a half months of pre-production the actual meat of the production process was largely meted out on an area soundstage with a heady array of toys (lights, cameras, rainmaking devices) to give the project a much greater polish than anything Pata has attempted to date. The shoot only needed two days to complete,yet the director explains that 'Pity' required a greater level of complexity and variety in the camera work and number of set ups for shots designed to help spice up a potentially limiting concept of one individual doling out his last moments of mortality while sitting in a car. Once the 'Pity' shoot wrapped up nicely, Pata set to the arduous undertaking of piecing the resulting footage together into a coolly effective 6 minutes of elegant, dark storytelling.

Nicholas Elert (the man behind the band Northless who scored 'Dead Weight') is back matching lovely sounds with the imagery and the completed 'Pity' is set to make its big public bow during the natural monthly chaos that is the Oshkosh Gallery Walk this coming April. This is going to transpire at the Time Community Theater (of which John Pata serves as President) right on Main Street with the film running every half hour and accompanied by an exhibition of on set photographs snapped by Mary Manchester and David Burke. From that point, Pata plans to push his 'Pity' heavily toward the sprawling film festival circuit (15% of the short's $4,500 budget was set aside for submission fees) with a possible DVD package featuring a much longer 'making of' documentary to arrive at some time down the road.

Once this 'Pity' thing and the 'Dead Weight' official roll out have both cemented their respective places in the film universe, John Pata will likely not waste time before jumping headlong into the next significant stage of his filmmaking career. He already has multiple concepts in rapid development (including one about a troublesome chain letter he's at work on with Mr. Bartlett described as something along the lines of 'if John Carpenter directed an episode of The X-Files'). In addition, John will be toiling as an editor on a documentary that is attempting to chronicle the rabid punk music scene that erupted in Green Bay back in the day between 1977 to 1987 (Kutskas Hall anyone?) and is slated to arrive sometime late in 2014 or early 2015.

Beyond all this, who knows, just rest assured people of Wisconsin, this native son has no plans in the direction of slowing down. Like the man himself summed it all up in relation to all of his experiences to date working on films, 'No time on a film set is time wasted.' Prime words from a perfect source.

Keep up on the progress of 'Pity' and other John Pata projects at these handy web spots;

https://www.facebook.com/PityFilm

https://www.facebook.com/headtraumaproductions

We Are What We Are.

Rising to a dismal rainfall, the matriarch of a remotely situated family in rural New York State sets out to embrace the clear inevitability of her impending demise. Left in the wake of this abrupt departure, an emotionally distant, ever mulling father and his brood of socially exempt offspring find themselves burdened with the obligations of a particularly daunting legacy. Such is the core plotline establishment of Jim Mickle's studied yet freshly unnerving re-take on the 2010 Mexican thriller of the same name (or 'Somos Lo Que Hay' to keep it culturally specific) by Jorge Michel Grau. Transplanted to a storm ravaged East Coast setting with a shift in gender alignment for many of the key characters, the story remains close in basic theme and situational development all filtered through a fully distinct and personal directorial touch.

As with the two prior Mickle pictures ('Mulberry St'-probably among the finest of those After Dark Horror Fest entries and 'Stakeland') the director provides equal, perhaps even superior, space to aspects of persona and genuine human behavior patterns as opposed to over saturating his story with too many cheap, exploitation friendly shocks and excessive carnage that would most likely reduce the proceedings to the lower ranks of the disposable representations of the horror genre. Sticking closely with this suddenly degraded family four pack (surname Parker) as they shuffle weakly forward with their deep rooted lifelong rituals, the film charts their struggle as they enter into a sort of 'fasting' process while pieces and portions of their closely held secrets have slowly come to the literal surface care the violent mischief of cruel mother nature.

The thing that has placed this family so curiously outside the communal mainstream is the very disturbing fact that they are, indeed, full on cannibals. Not quite the grindhouse type sleazy savages of all those (mostly Italian) flesh munching flicks that so peppered the drive-ins and low brow venues in the bygone days of the 70s and 80s, these cannibals are a somber, meditative lot who almost seem perpetually trapped in this hell embedded throughout their lineage. Seems the ancestry of this clan enacted this human consuming human option due to being unfortunate, Donner Party like settlers stuck with no other survival alternative. Because of this intrusion of hostile weather working past sins to the fore, many key members of the small surrounding populace (i.e. law enforcement) inch ever closer to the Parker's tightly hewn personal bubble. With the threat of discovery closing in, the Parkers hurry to find a way, any way to keep their unit from being torn apart eventually leading to a rather brutal collision of worlds at the film's startling climax.

The fair body of Mickle's variant on this flesh eater saga centers close to the effect of this plight on the two young sisters (played by able actresses Julia Garner and Ambyr Childers) who must wrangle some semblance of stability together in their homestead as their pa appears to degrade into a remorseful waking coma. Mickle makes the most of his rather limited resources (this is no high priced studio epic, mind you) as he has with his other works and sculpts some quality performances from a completely game and impressive cast that includes veterans Michael Parks (whose measured way of delivering dialogue elevates his performance even more) and Kelly McGillis (far removed from her 'Top Gun' prime but effortlessly effective here as a friendly neighbor) plus some lesser known folks like Bill Sage as the casually deteriorating father figure, the director's long time partner in crime Nick Damici as the local Sheriff and even Kurt Russell's son Wyatt as a deputy with an eye on one the Parker daughters.

'We Are What We Are' comes to DVD and Blu Ray courtesy of the good folks at eOne Entertainment who have included an entertaining enough running audio commentary by director Mickle, his camera man Ryan Samul and several cast members who give the impression of a fun and very creatively healthy production process.  There is also a near hour long collection of behind the scenes footage that seeks to impart some of the day to day hands on craftwork it took to make this film the fine little piece of disturbed art that it came to be. Recommended to any and all who favor a little bit more thought and class in their cannibal cinema. parkerfamilytradition.com

Thank you for reading, may you never hunger for long.

TOTAL RADICAL.

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

 

 

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

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

 

 

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

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

 

 

 

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

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

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

 

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

 

 

 

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

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

ALL YOU BLEED IS LOVE.

The marks

about her neck

remind me of

'perfect'

she checks the mirror

to see if I'm

responsible

it's all backwards now

I never asked to be

(re) born as her

lover she

just took the initiative

apart

made her own rules to

become broken

bones

fit for our

wedding night

the day before the

baby arrived

stillborn

on the nightstand

waiting

for me to entrust it to

the over spilling trash with

the dawning hypocrisy of

our vows

rusting

my decision to

have the courage to

ever approach her at all


I have always been leery of

interacting with women



Now I know why.

 

JOYRIDING INTO INFAMY.

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

This month's subject is a rock you mentary.

It is about a world famous rock star.

It is about 78 minutes long.

It whips a donkey's ass.

It can really knock it out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

ALSO......

CONFESSIONS OF A SUPERHERO

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

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

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

Rock Over London, Rock On Wisconsin,

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