All films rated on a 1 to 10 scale
(1 = dog vomit, 10 = best ever)
When rating a film I ask myself these three questions: What is the director’s goal (purpose of the film)? How does the director try to achieve it? Is the director successful? Hence a big box office hit may get a “5” while a Eurosleaze sexploitation flick gets a “7”. Most recent reviews are at the top. For the most part the newest “Adult” reviews will only appear in that section already alphabetized.
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A Little Princess (USA 1995) (6): It’s 1914 and ten-year-old Sara lives on a lavish Indian estate with her widowed father, the dashing army officer and wealthy entrepreneur Captain Crewe. When the captain is called to Europe to fight in the great war he sends his daughter to the exclusive “Miss Minchin’s Seminary for Girls” in New York City; an opulent boarding school run by a dour old spinster with no time for Sara’s romantic notions of magic and make-believe. Despite their stern headmistress it isn’t long before she has the other girls caught up in her colourful stories, even Becky the little black servant who lives in the attic finds some degree of solace in Sara’s fiery accounts of Prince Rama and his lover Sita. But when Captain Crewe is killed in action and the British government seizes his properties little Sara suddenly finds herself alone and penniless. Reduced to the level of scullery maid in order to pay for her keep, she soon gives in to despair despite a growing friendship with Becky. There is magic in the air however, and Sara quickly discovers that the world is every bit as wonderful and mysterious as she once imagined. With it’s glorious fairytale cinematography and evocative soundtrack of children’s choral music Princess is sure to enchant little girls everywhere; I even found my own cynical old eyes growing a bit misty towards the end. Still, it’s one thing to be gently manipulated by a director, and quite another to be gripped in a headlock and beaten with fairy wings and pixie dust. In the end, the film’s cloying mix of wistful close-ups and syrupy performances proved to be too much for me. If I had only been a few decades younger...
Gospel According to Harry (Poland 1994) (5): Lech Majewski’s rather minimalist contemporary parable based loosely (very loosely) on writings from the old and new testament goes to great lengths to say relatively little. Karen and Wes are an emotionally estranged couple living, literally and metaphorically, in a desert; their small living space delineated by a few throw rugs and some furniture surrounded by endless dunes and a piercing blue sky. One gets a sense of post-apocalyptic disaster with images of half-buried lampposts and a vague reference to the Pacific ocean “drying up” but it is the couple’s growing malaise, that desert within, which proves to be the story’s focal point. The reason for their cooling relationship seems to be maternal; she wants a baby, he doesn’t. In fact he doesn’t seem to want to do much of anything aside from hitting golf balls and watching television while she whines to her mother and vainly attempts to keep the ever-present sand from encroaching into their personal space. Using this nuclear relationship as a vehicle Majewski attempts to critique a host of modern woes; from yuppie narcissism and TV culture to stifling governmental bureaucracy and spiritual angst. With his trademark gift for the obscure metaphor he treats us to some dazzling sequences: two corporate CEOs battle to the death; the president of the United States delivers a patriotic speech amidst so much wind and blowing sand; and a political dissident is crucified in the distance while a disinterested Wes and Karen host an impromptu brunch for some friends including the titular Harry, a heartless tax collector. In one scathing scene, my personal favourite, the cast ignore an apparent miraculous resurrection in order to prostrate themselves before an ersatz Liz Taylor seen wandering aimlessly amongst the dunes with her entourage in tow. There is definitely some meat here but, unfortunately, Majewski tells a tale best using nothing but sound and imagery (see my reviews for his later films, The Roe’s Room and Glass Lips). Harry’s script comes across as awkward and clunky, its beautifully enigmatic visuals seriously hampered by all attempts to force them into a linear storyline. It’s these narrative constraints that dam up what should have been a free-flowing stream of consciousness and turn a potential work of cinematic poetry into so much psychobabble. A real disappointment.
Fermat’s Room (Spain 2007) (6): In response to a series of mysteriously enticing invitations, four brilliant mathematicians gather in an abandoned warehouse for a night of intellectual fun and games. But as the evening progresses they quickly realize they have been caught in a most ingenious trap involving hydraulic presses and moving walls; if they are to survive until dawn they will have to work together in order to solve a number of mathematical puzzles posed by their enigmatic host, Mr. Fermat. With time running out and tensions mounting it soon becomes clear that the four reluctant guests were not brought together randomly. The reason for their current predicament may very well lie in their past, but what are the common threads? And why does Fermat hold them in such low esteem? Interesting premise stylishly presented but it lacks both the wit and claustrophobic camerawork essential to make it work; I’m thinking of the brazen audacity of Saw or the Kafkaesque paranoia of Cube. Furthermore, in a vain attempt to repeatedly throw us off the trail the directors pile on so many red herrings and ludicrous plot twists that Fermat’s Room winds up being a victim of it’s own inflated sense of cleverness. The mathematical word problems are fun however and sure to be a hit at geeky dinner parties everywhere.
Ice Crawlers (USA 2003) (1): Heavens! Evil multinational energy syndicate, Geotech, is drilling for oil in Antarctica when they unwittingly unleash a horde of giant carnivorous rubber cockroaches which have been frozen in the ice shelf for hundreds of millions of years; you know, back when Antarctica was tropical. Anyway, bouncing around on their barely concealed strings the chitinous cooties soon develop a taste for blue collar brutes and it’s up to a team of young photogenic scientists (Geek, Nerd, Jock, Slut, and Ice Princess respectively) to save the station and alert the world. Absolutely awful rip-off of Carpenter’s The Thing with a few anemic nods to Alien and “special effects” on par with Toho Studio’s neoprene monster epics. Some tacked-on Greenpeace sermons strive for “ecological awareness” while a few dirty words and flashing tits satisfy the MPAA “R” requirement and a ludicrous love affair between the tree-hugging Ice Princess and an oil company rep provides irony for the brain dead.
The Boston Strangler (USA 1968) (8): Between 1962 and 1964 as many as 13 women in the Boston area were found strangled and sexually mutilated. The resulting police investigation eventually led detectives to Albert DeSalvo, a local furnace repairman and father of two small children. Although he was never formally convicted in any of the murders he would end up spending the rest of his life incarcerated for lesser crimes; first in a state mental hospital and finally in a maximum security prison. Fleischer’s engrossing drama features a cast of seasoned actors headlined by Tony Curtis as the deeply troubled strangler and Henry Fonda as John Bottomly, the reluctant law professor charged with hunting him down. Controversial for 1968, the film doesn’t shy away from the more troubling aspects of the case; DeSalvo’s sexual aberrations are alluded to (Curtis’ facial expressions during the assaults speak volumes) and his victims are portrayed with a blunt realism that deepens the sense of tragedy while keeping the grislier details tastefully off camera. Some homophobic slurs do prove troublesome, even when you consider the time and place in which the story unfolds, and it’s difficult to assess whether Bottomly’s overly respectful approach to a gay suspect constitutes genuine sympathy or condescension. What won me over in the end however was the film’s highly innovative camerawork. Fleischer’s frequent use of multiple frames and overlapping dialogue is brilliant; the separate frames sometimes appearing as pieces of a puzzle while at other times forming a mosaic of fear and suspicion as we see images of women locking doors and peering nervously over their shoulders. Furthermore, Bottomly’s tense interrogations of an increasingly psychotic DeSalvo are beautifully enhanced when the killer’s disjointed memories suddenly become interactive with both men moving in and out of reality. Despite some glaring factual omissions, DeSalvo was definitely not the innocuous family man portrayed here, this still remains a highly polished and riveting piece of pseudo-fiction.
Big Bad Mama (USA 1974) (7): Angie Dickinson (and her breasts) star as Wilma McClatchie, a dirt poor single mother in Depression era Texas who finds herself even more destitute when her bootlegging boyfriend is killed by the cops. Packing up her two sex-obsessed daughters she decides to hit the road in search of infamy and fortune. At first content to simply deliver moonshine to the local hicks, a few twists of fate land her in the company of a machine gun-toting bank robber and suave con artist who introduce her and the girls to the lucrative world of armed robbery. Slowly making their way to California where Wilma hopes to use her ill-gotten lucre to open a legit business, the gang decides to pull one more outrageous stunt guaranteed to make them all filthy rich. Although Dickinson doesn’t quite convince us she’s a hard-edged desperado and William Shatner’s faux southern drawl is cringe-worthy, this is still one of the more entertaining B-Movies to emerge from the 70s; think slapstick version of Bonnie & Clyde with the sleaze factor turned up half a notch. Carver, under the tutelage of the great Roger Corman, keeps things buoyed with plenty of frantic shoot-outs and steamy bed-hopping as mother and daughters take their male accomplices for a few test spins; Shatner and co-star Tom Skerritt even manage to show off some of their assets in a few (almost) nude scenes. Like a string of dirty jokes with some occasionally funny punchlines the humour is decidedly low-brow but the pacing is tight and a supporting cast of dumb sheriffs, horny yokels and religious swindlers keep things interesting. Even the oddly incongruous ending seems more of a sly wink than a glib cop-out.
To Live (Hong Kong 1994) (8): Zhang Yimou’s gorgeous film traces 30 years of contemporary Chinese history by examining its impact on one young couple. Wealthy landowner Xu Fugui enjoys his privileged lifestyle until an uncontrollable gambling habit causes him to lose everything; his estate, his fortune and his mousy wife Jiazhen who, along with their little daughter and unborn son, decides to strike out on her own. Penniless and desperate, Fugui ekes out a meager living as a street vendor and puppeteer until fate and Mao’s Cultural Revolution unite him with Jiazhen once more. With a new-found determination to weather whatever life has to throw at them, the young family bravely face the social and political upheavals of the 50s and 60s with cautious optimism. With his endearingly flawed characters and a liberal dollop of delightfully dark counterrevolutionary barbs, Zhang manages to find that delicate balance between life-sustaining hope and bitter tragedy. He forgoes the impersonality of a political epic and instead delivers a loving family portrait; Mao’s troubling legacy may pervade every aspect of the film but it is reduced to the level of two adults and two small children. Ge You and Gong Li are flawless in their leading roles while the haunting musical score is as integral to the story as its intimate cinematography. “I want to live...” Fugui states at one particularly trying time in his life, “...there’s nothing like family.” A perfect summation of a film that stands among the best I’ve seen this year.
The Petrified Forest (USA 1936) (6): While trying to evade the police, four desperate gangsters hold a diverse group of people hostage in a remote desert diner. Among the unwilling guests are Gabrielle Maple, the owner’s daughter who dreams of becoming an artist in Paris; her colourful grandfather; Boze, the dumb jock handyman with a crush on “Gabby”; wealthy banker Mr. Chisholm and his bitter aging trophy wife; Gabby’s rabidly patriotic father; and Alan Squier, an insufferable angst-ridden milquetoast grown tired of a world which has no place for Art. With their precisely delineated lives as fossilized as the wood outside it isn’t long before this small band of characters forms a microcosm of contemporary American society. As dad dances around the flag and grandpa recalls fuzzy memories of past glory, the Chisholms bicker over the importance of duty and prestige. Meanwhile Boze fawns over a goal he can never attain and Gabrielle retreats into a book of romantic poetry; the desperate need to escape her meaningless life heightened by Alan’s existentialist whining. When the inevitable shoot-out with the law comes a final sacrifice ensures that no one’s life will ever be quite the same again. With an over-the-top script rife with tortured soul-bearing and avant-garde social critiques things get bogged down pretty quickly; a deeply metaphorical sandstorm borders on sheer overkill. If it were made today I’d give this film a much lower mark but, for some reason, these old B&W classics possess an ageless quality that is almost sacrosanct. There is an earnestness to them which allows me to overlook all but the most glaring faults; like Bogart’s performance. I just can’t see why his portrayal of gang leader Duke Mantee is touted as being a “breakout” role; his muddled monotone and self-conscious shambling (at one point he appears to be paralyzed from the waist up) seem pretty lame. But I suppose that was then, this is now and who am I to argue with the making of a Hollywood legend?
Mamma Roma (Italy 1962) (8): Anna Magnani is brilliant in Pasolini’s heartbreaking story of a former prostitute desperately trying to give her son the life she never had. First married to a man decades her senior while still a teenager, then victimized by a brutal pimp, “Mamma Roma” endured years of shame and privation yet managed to survive by sheer force of will. Now eking out a living as a vegetable vendor in a backwater village she dreams of saving her son from a life of small town delinquency by moving to an upscale apartment in Rome; a dream thrown into turmoil when her ex-pimp comes knocking at the door. Although firmly rooted in Italian neorealism, Pasolini nevertheless manages to throw in some very clever camerawork which, along with a melancholic score of classical Vivaldi, gives his film the highly formalized feel of a religious epic; a series of long tracking shots following Mamma Roma as she strolls past assorted johns while waxing eloquent on everything from motherhood to the legacy of Mussolini were especially notable. There is a finely balanced symmetry at work here as the story shifts from the mean streets of rural Italy to the cleaner, though no less mean, streets of modern Rome. While the old apartment faces a barren cemetery filled with concrete headstones, the new one overlooks the faded glory of crumbling ruins; yet in both settings one is all too aware of the ubiquitous dust that seems to cover everything. True to his roots, Pasolini doesn’t miss an opportunity to take a few jabs at God, or rather the ritualized hypocrisy of the church whether it’s a sobering interpretation of the Madonna & Child, a trio of pigs crashing a wedding banquet, or a passionate quotation from Dante’s Inferno. But, above all, this is a sad tale of one headstrong mother’s refusal to accept what life has given her. “The evil you do is like a highway the innocent have to walk down...” she states at one point; words that culminate in one of cinema’s most tragic final scenes.
In The Dust Of The Stars (Germany 1976) (4): Made by East Germany’s famous DEFA studios in the waning years of the Berlin Wall it isn’t difficult to find parallels between this fictitious story of extraterrestrial oppression and the socialist rhetoric of the ruling GDR. While investigating an interstellar distress signal originating from Tem 4, a desolate planet of dusty deserts and ancient lava flows, the crew of the starship Cynro are forced to make an emergency landing due to a mysterious power surge. The humanoid Temians at first greet their would-be rescuers with open arms yet flatly deny ever having sent an SOS in the first place. Not content with the aliens’ pat answers to their questions the astronauts decide to do a little undercover detective work which eventually lands them right in the middle of a colonial uprising between the Temian overlords and the planet’s oppressed natives, the Turi. As tension between the two factions reaches its crisis point it takes an act of selfless, one could almost say Christ-like, sacrifice to finally overthrow the shackles of capitalist oppression. Although woefully lacking in grandeur (and acting, and special effects, and script...) Dust nevertheless tries to compensate with pure cheesy glitter. The glossy sets are right out of Studio 54, the costumes were obviously designed by an ABBA fan club, and there is even a bit of gratuitous nudity, communist-style. A hedonistic (read: Western) disco party-cum-orgy complete with psychedelic genie costumes and aerosolized drugs proves to be the film’s only hight point although the theme song, an ethereal female chorale, is rather pretty. Recommended for those with an interest in camp retro Eastern bloc science fiction movies; all three of you.
Wicked Little Things (USA 2006) (5): When a young widow discovers her late husband owned some property in the hills of Pennsylvania she packs up her two daughters and decides to make a fresh start of it. Moving into the old Tunny estate proves to be more of a challenge for Karen and the kids than they had anticipated however for not only is the house in dire need of repairs but the surrounding hills are said to be haunted by the angry ghosts of children who died in a horrific mining disaster 100 years earlier. Of course things immediately begin going bump in the night, lights start to flicker, and before you can yell “Pickaxe to the Thorax!” legions of petite ghouls in work shorts and pinafores are roaming the countryside hungry for blood. Can Karen defeat the little monsters before they destroy her? And why do they have a particular affinity for her youngest daughter? Filmed with the usual assortment of eccentric yokels against a backdrop of misty forests there is nothing here even remotely original. Cardone tries too hard to establish a creepy atmosphere as if full moons and dazed rats are enough to make us cringe in terror; at one point you can practically see the fog machine puffing behind a bush. His generic shopping list of chills and thrills has been done to death in countless other films of this calibre, from an unnecessary stroll into a dark basement to a group of horny teenagers getting it on in the woods. Besides, despite their cannibalistic tendencies and empty eye sockets, it’s hard to be afraid of a pack of pale-faced moppets who look as if they’ve just come from an off-Broadway revival of Oliver!
Dangerous Crossing (USA 1953) (8): Blushing newlyweds John and Ruth Bowman are taking a trans-Atlantic cruise for their honeymoon when John mysteriously vanishes just as the ship leaves dock. Ruth’s initial concern soon turns into full-blown panic however when she discovers all traces of her husband’s existence have been erased, their cabin has been changed and is now registered under her maiden name, and the crew denies ever having seen her in the company of a man. Are the hapless couple victims of a sinister plot? Or is Ruth carrying more baggage than meets the eye as her mental health is called into question? With a sea full of red herrings and a plot as murky as ocean fog this is a wonderful example of film noir excess. Newman never misses a chance for a shadowy close-up or sinister stare as he ratchets up the suspense, and Jeanne Crain plays the role of Ruth to perfection as a terribly naïve bride whose paranoia threatens to spiral out of control. The ending may be tied up a little too neatly but the pleasure lies in the journey itself, not its resolution.
Terror Taxi (Korea 2000) (4): Cab driver Gil-Nam is not having a good day. His estranged girlfriend Yoo-Jung is being harassed by loan sharks, his best buddy is a heroin addict and, to top things off, he ends up dead after being forced off the road by a ghostly driver. But even the afterlife proves to be disappointingly anticlimactic for Gil; aside from the fact his taxi now contains a beating heart and runs on blood he finds himself back on the streets competing with other spectral cabbies for elusive customers, both living and dead. Deciding to get even with the ghost who killed him Gil enlists the aid of an outrageously eccentric group of fellow dead drivers as well as an enigmatic little girl who has a knack for showing up at just the right time. What follows is a series of frantically choreographed car chases, flying taxis, and unfortunate accidents; apparently ghost drivers don’t really care if their fares arrive alive and well. There is some Laurel & Hardy type comedy from a couple of clueless cops, a few unexceptional CGI effects, and a whole lot of crazed yelling before everything runs out of gas and coasts to a painfully slow stop. You’d be further ahead taking the bus.
Half Nelson (USA 2006) (8): Dan Dunne is a highschool history teacher who’s learned nothing from his own past. By day he’s a charismatic educator and hardworking coach for the girls’ basketball team but at night he indulges his insatiable appetites for crack cocaine and cheap sex. Like most addicts Dan believes himself to be in control of both his drug use and his professional life until he’s discovered smoking in the girls’ room by 13-year old Drey, a bright young student with enough problems of her own. A hesitant friendship slowly develops between the two as they discover they may have more in common than they thought. Fleck firmly avoids the cinematic hyperbole inherent in these types of films; there are no healing hugs, 12-step platitudes or tearful trips to rehab. Instead we see two fully realized human beings who, despite their vastly different backgrounds, are drawn to each other’s pain for reasons entirely their own. Using naturalistic dialogue, handheld camerawork and a funky score, Fleck gives his film an unpolished street-level authenticity further enhanced by some amazing performances. The film does falter somewhat when it tries to ramp up the dramatic irony. Dunne’s classroom lectures on the importance of “change” and “turning points” in respect to history (usually delivered while hungover) are glaring examples of this as are the historical asides delivered by various students; the narrative relevance between covert CIA atrocities and Dunne’s own self-deception is tenuous at best. And a strategically placed “stars’n’stripes” bandaid is pure overkill. Still, this is one of the more engrossing character-driven dramas I’ve seen in years. Ryan Gosling and Shareeka Epps play off one another beautifully while their final scene, if not exactly uplifting, at least hints at the possibility of mutual salvation.
Female (USA 1933) (3): When Alison Drake inherits the family car company from her father she suddenly finds herself surrounded by hundreds of handsome male employees more than willing to grease her gears for the sake of a promotion. Not one to worry about other people’s opinions she eagerly takes them up on their offers but, after a vodka-fueled roll in the hay, unceremoniously dumps them back into the secretarial pool. “I’m merely treating men the same way they’ve always treated women” she admits to an old highschool girlfriend and one can’t help but marvel at such a frank and liberated attitude in 1933. However, upon meeting the cavalier and oh-so-manly engineer Jim Thorne she suddenly realizes that all she really wants is “...marriage.....love......and children, the things women were born for.” Boo! Hiss! The art deco sets, however, are beautiful.
Three On A Match (USA 1932) (6): “Three on a match means one will die soon...” So goes the old adage as three former classmates light up during an impromptu reunion. There’s Vivian who attended a private highschool and is now a terribly depressed trophy wife; Ruth, class valedictorian now a meek office drone fresh out of business college; and Mary, irrepressible tomboy and all-around slut who went on to become a chorus girl after a brief stint in reform school. The “death” which eventually follows their ill-fated smokes has as much to do with shattered virtue as it does with physical demise for one woman will fall from grace, one will redeem herself, and one will get stuck with babysitting duty. A tired and predictable morality play with a cloyingly sweet ending (the child actor is pretty good, I must admit) but with the likes of Humphrey Bogart, Joan Blondell and Bette Davis who can resist?
A Day At The Beach (UK 1970) (7): Penned, but not directed, by Roman Polanski and then “lost” in a bureaucratic shuffle, this grim little arthouse oddity sticks with you even though it has not aged well. You know it’s going to be a bad day when Uncle Bernie swings by his brother and sister-in-law’s place to pick up his adorable little niece, Winnie, for a day at the beach. Not only is it pouring rain outside, but he manages to knock back a couple of vodka shooters before the little girl has even put her raincoat on. Stumbling from one seaside tavern to another, Bernie becomes increasingly intoxicated while Winnie tries to eke out what little enjoyment she can, comforting her uncle with a gentle forbearance that goes far beyond her single-digit age. An angry and self-loathing alcoholic, Bernie carries on an internal monologue as grey and cynical as the stormy weather around him. Not content to simply voice his rage to a deserted beach of seagulls and empty cabana chairs he begins to lash out at anyone who crosses his path, from a crusty old beach vendor to a soft-spoken gay cougar (Peter Sellers in an eye-popping cameo). Even a chance encounter with an old friend, now married and gainfully employed, turns into an afternoon of binge drinking and listless cheating. But as night descends and the shop lights wink out, Bernie’s self-destructive odyssey reaches its inevitable conclusion leaving a frightened Winnie cold and bewildered. In the role of Bernie, the late Mark Burns turns in a phenomenal performance as a man whose demons tarnish everything he touches. Although his character is a loud-mouthed intellectual prick he nevertheless manages to elicit some degree of sympathy even if it’s only a sense of sadness over a life wasted. But it is the diminutive Beatrice Eddy as Winnie who carries the most weight. Seeing everything, yet judging no one, her unaffected innocence and childish wisdom provide counterpoint to the film’s glaring nihilism beautifully. Lastly, Taylor’s widescreen shots of bleak seascapes and slate-coloured clouds are balanced by a melancholic, almost wistful, score of flutes and harpsichord. But, although it aims for social realism the film often lapses into dramatic overkill thick with angry shouting and jarring close-ups that threaten to alienate an audience already averse to its bridge-burning protagonist. And what’s with the Danish signage in a supposedly English seaside resort? Vague artsiness? Deliberate quirkiness? Or cheaper production costs?
The Fantasticks (USA 1995) (6): Even though the off-Broadway mainstay loses much of its small stage charm in this silver screen adaptation, there is still enough here to elicit a few wistful smiles. Two neighbouring widowers will stop at nothing to foster a romance between their teenaged children, Matt and Louisa. The desperate fathers even feign an ongoing feud and forbid the two youngsters from seeing each other in the hope that “kids will always do what they’re told not to do”. But when a mysterious carnival blows into town the two men decide to enlist the aid of its dashing, and decidedly devilish, proprietor El Gallo whose elaborate business cards promise to make “dreams come true”. Hatching an outrageous plan involving kidnapping and sword fights, El Gallo does manage to draw the fledgling sweethearts closer together until one of the dads accidentally spills the beans and the path of true love experiences its first big bump. As a disenchanted Matt is led astray by the temporal pleasures of the outside world, Louisa becomes seduced by El Gallo’s oily charms and the despairing fathers begin to lose hope. “Love Conquers All” however, and by the film’s end a contrite Matt and Louisa take their first tentative steps toward maturity. Teeming with bright candy colours and deliberately exaggerated performances, The Fantastick’s light fairytale feel belies its scholarly origins. Inspired by centuries of romantic tradition, from Roman mythology to Shakespeare and beyond, the play’s deceptively simple script is rife with literary archetypes that tickle the intellect while its unapologetic sentimentality appeals to the dreamer in all of us. Ritchie keeps the sets and effects simple enough, a giddy boat ride through the “Tunnel of Love” has a delightful vaudevillian edge to it, but the cast seems uncomfortable with the quirky dialogue and the widescreen cinematography dilutes much of the play’s more fanciful elements. Even so, the songs are just as wonderfully corny as ever and still manage to make us pause and remember that certain September...
Going to Pieces: The Rise and Fall of the Slasher Film (USA 2006) (7): According to the talking heads in this nostalgic look back at the “dead teenager” films of the late 70’s and 80’s, man has always had a dark fascination for the violent and macabre. While I find it somewhat difficult to draw a straight line linking primitive cave paintings and gladiatorial spectacles to Freddy Krueger and Jason Voorhees, I must agree that these films did indeed strike a chord with a generation suddenly thrust from the breezy hedonism of the disco era into the conservative dictates of the Reagan years. With their strict, if somewhat warped, adherence to traditional moral values (past sins are punished, sluts are slaughtered and righteous virgins live to tell the tale) movies such as Friday the 13th and A Nightmare on Elm Street moved horror from dusty Transylvanian castles and placed it squarely in the previously sacrosanct backyards and summer camps of middle class suburbia. No longer were America’s privileged children safe from the bogeyman; he stalked them in their homes, their private schools and even in their naughtier dreams. And, like all things truly evil, he was immortal and unstoppable. Heavily influenced by both the charnel excesses of Italian splatter films and the claustrophobic camerawork of Hitchcock, the American Slasher Film quickly became a genre unto itself until cheaply made knock-offs with increasingly formulaic scripts heralded its demise; or rather its descent into self-mockery and parody. Reviled by critics who branded them as gratuitous exercises in blood-drenched misogyny, defended by filmmakers who saw them as an artistic catharsis appealing to that “reptilian” part of the human psyche which delights in violence, and still adored by fans who just want some moist entrails to go with their T&A, these films continue to carve out a niche on late night cable and dusty VHS collections everywhere. Personally I just enjoy the cheesiness of it all as time and fashion slowly turn one-time ghouls into camp icons.
Trouble the Water (USA 2008) (6): Nominated for an Academy Award for all the usual reasons, Carl Dean and Tia Lessin’s documentary brings the tragedy of Hurricane Katrina to a very personal level with an uneven mix of professional footage, television bulletins and shaky home movies taken by a young couple who actually rode the storm out in their dripping attic. When we first meet Kimberly and Scott Roberts they’re battening down the hatches of their low-rent house in one of New Orleans’ poorer neighbourhoods. With camcorder firmly attached to one eye, Kim chronicles the days leading up to Katrina as she and Scott load up on charcoal and groceries while trying to maintain a brave face. Their neighbours, meanwhile, take some delight in mugging for the camera while expressing sentiments ranging from fatalistic resignation and apathy to a naive bravura. Too poor to evacuate the city (the government neglected to provide transportation) they put their faith in God and prepare for a few days of hardship. And then the levees broke. What follows is a first-person video diary detailing the horrors of ground zero punctuated now and again by news commentary showing the scope of devastation. Scenes of flooded streets and shrouded corpses are juxtaposed with later footage taken when the Roberts flee the city, then return months later to start rebuilding their lives. As President Bush offers platitudes from an exclusive country club in Phoenix and Michael Brown, then head of FEMA, stares moronically into the news cameras, a troubling picture begins to emerge which is summed up succinctly by Kim’s cousin, “If you don’t have money, and you don’t have status, you have no government.” With no food, water or shelter, and a military more concerned with maintaining order than delivering aid, those who were left to fend for themselves, mostly poor and black, saw those prophetic words become cold reality. Kim and Scott may not be angels, he was dealing drugs and she was on the fast track to an early grave when they first met, but by the film’s end we see a couple reborn; he lands a job and she tries to jumpstart a music career. Definitely in need of some trimming, Trouble the Water often plays more like a rambling inner city reality show than a world class doc, but its straight-up approach and unembellished testimonies manage to keep it afloat, if just barely.
