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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12 Angry Men (USA 1957) (9): In New York, as storm clouds gather on the “hottest day of the year”, an 18-year old boy from the wrong side of the tracks stands accused of murdering his father. With a mountain of evidence against him and two solid eyewitnesses whose damning testimonies link him to the crime, the death penalty seems inevitable. The monumental task of deciding the young man’s fate ultimately rests in the hands of the twelve-member jury assigned to the case, and eleven of them have already decided he is guilty. Only one man stands between them and the unanimous vote needed for a verdict. “Juror #8” (Henry Fonda, marvelously understated) is not entirely convinced the boy did it and has some serious doubts concerning the prosecution’s arguments. Fighting an uphill battle against his increasingly hostile fellow jurors he insists on presenting his own interpretation of the evidence; but will it be compelling enough to swing the vote? Filmed almost entirely within the confines of a small jury room, Sidney Lumet’s intense courtroom drama is absolutely engrossing. His roster of A-List stars play off one another expertly on a set that is little more than a claustrophobic mix of sweat and cigarette smoke. As the afternoon’s deliberations wear on and tempers begin to flare Lumet deftly places each separate juror on trial, slowly exposing the hidden motives and deep-seated prejudices influencing their decisions. While one man holds anyone from “those neighbourhoods” in equal disdain another has an axe to grind with his own son, a situation that quickly sets him on a collision course with Fonda’s character. In the end however, as a sudden rainstorm brings some relief from the oppressive heat, it is time for one final, decisive vote. With its brilliant cast and tightly focused direction 12 Angry men is a powerful ensemble piece exploring what can happen when conscience versus consensus. An American classic.
Paranormal Activity (USA 2007) (6): Yuppie couple Katie and Micah have just moved into a comfortable San Diego townhouse when things start going bump in the night. No stranger to spooky manifestations, she’s been having them since she was eight, Katie consults a psychic who confirms her worst fears; something evil has been following her since she was a child and it’s starting to get pissed off. Micah refuses to let his girlfriend be harassed by an invisible bogeyman however, and sets up his camcorder in order to capture any “weird shit” going on. Of course things start off with a red herring or two until the couple start placing their camera on the dresser while they sleep at night; that’s when the creep factor threatens to go through the roof. Rippling sheets, slamming doors and mysterious shadows are just the beginning, but when Micah decides to explore the attic at 3 a.m. it’s all you can do to keep yourself from diving under the couch. Presented as a series of home movies, Paranormal Activity combines the choppy verité style of Blair Witch with the non-Disney elements of Poltergeist. Director Peli frames his shots just right and then ratchets up the suspense until you squirm. The nighttime scenes especially had my skin crawling; who knew that looking at nothing could be so frightening? Unfortunately the actors are not quite up to the task especially with a script consisting mainly of bad improv and running up and down staircases. There are too many illogical plot devices (“Gee, something demonic is running amok so let’s keep the lights off as we film the apartment and then go back to bed…”) and a cheap Exorcist rip-off towards the end left me groaning. This type of horror is best played out in the audience’s imagination where subtlety is the key; by bombarding the screen with exaggerated visuals Peli ends his film with the diabolical equivalent of a car chase. When it works it leaves you covered with goosebumps, but when it doesn’t the whole production goes down like a flaming Ouija board.
What Have I Done to Deserve This? (Spain 1985) (8): Gloria is a typical Madrid housewife; bored, neglected and sexually frustrated she tries in vain to keep her dysfunctional family together. While her husband is supplementing his income by forging historical documents her eldest son is selling dope to his classmates and her youngest son is sleeping with his best friend’s father. Meanwhile the woman upstairs is abusing her spooky daughter, the hooker next door is constantly asking for a helping hand with her tricks and grandma is having trouble keeping track of her pet lizard. If it weren’t for her drawer full of prescription drugs and the occasional huff of airplane glue Gloria would have packed it in long ago. But as financial pressures mount and her husband’s abusive behaviour escalates, her already fragile psyche takes one final nosedive right through the kitchen floor. A wickedly camp soap opera from Pedro Almodovar, this unpolished gem plays out like a Castilian version of Maria Hartman, Maria Hartman. The cast is in top-notch form as they deliver their lines with the master’s inimitable deadpan seriousness and the wholly inappropriate laughs come fast and furious (Gloria’s business deal with a pedophile dentist is especially noteworthy). Although Pedro’s lifelong obsession with strong female characters is clearly evident in this early work, it is first and foremost a deliriously exaggerated salute to life’s absurdities. Best taken with a couple of valium.
Tropic Thunder (USA 2008) (8): Things are not going well on the jungle set of Tropic Thunder, a big budget Viet Nam epic based on the wartime memoirs of gruff and reclusive Sgt. “Four Leaf” Tayback. Not only does the director have to contend with technical screw-ups but he also finds himself playing nursemaid to a cast of Hollywood prima donnas; among them a heroin-snorting party animal (Jack Black, true to form), a semi-talented rap star, a fussy leading man (Ben Stiller, surprisingly un-annoying), and a faded Aussie matinee idol who underwent “racial reassignment” surgery in order to play a tough, jive-talking brother (Robert Downey Jr. in what should have been an Oscar-winning performance). At his wits’ end the director takes Tayback’s advice and dumps the actors in the middle of a nearby rain forest with instructions to find their way back to base camp while staying in character. Armed only with prop weapons and a map, the men ham it up as best they can while hidden cameras record their every move and surprise pyrotechnics keep them off guard. Unfortunately, unbeknownst to cast and crew, this particular rainforest is run by a ruthless drug cartel and their diminutive warlord who mistake the bumbling performers for an invading American army. Filled with hilarious celebrity cameos and an acerbic humour that harpoons everything from Tinseltown politics to cliché-riddled American war movies, Stiller’s film is a perfect blend of in-your-face comedy and pitch black satire. Glorious widescreen shots drenched in tropical colours, and expertly choreographed action sequences call to mind the meticulous camerawork of Platoon or Apocalypse Now, but this is more skewering than homage. Stiller concentrates on the darker side of celebrity, the lies and illusions one maintains pursuing that Hollywood dream of money and prestige; as the crew suddenly find themselves struggling with a variety of identity crises, a talent agent back in Los Angeles considers entering into a faustian bargain with a ruthless producer. And throughout it all the cameras keep rolling right up to the satisfyingly ironic ending. This territory has been covered many time before though never with such riotous excess; it may not be art, exactly, but rarely have two hours flown by so fast.
Ivan Vasilievich: Back to the Future (Russia 1973) (6): Mild-mannered genius Alexander Timofeyev has built a time machine in his modest Moscow apartment much to the consternation of his neighbours who complain about the constant power outages his experiments cause. On top of that his gorgeous wife is leaving him for a film director and the apartment manager seems intent on making his life miserable. But when he finally takes his invention for a test spin things go from bad to worse in ways he had never imagined. Opening a portal to 16th century Russia he inadvertently “kidnaps” the infamous tsar, Ivan the Terrible, while at the same time sending his apartment manager, also named Ivan, and a hapless cat burglar back to the Tsar’s palace. What follows is a series of gags based on culture clashes, mistaken identities (both Ivans are played by the same actor), and subtle jabs at communism and religion. Director Leonid Gaidai’s cast obviously have a great deal of fun as they throw themselves into character with wild abandon. Using slapstick, improvisation, and chase sequences right out of Benny Hill they almost succeed in pulling off what could have been a burlesque send-up of Eisenstein’s sober 2-part epic. There are a few nice touches along the way: Repin’s painting of Ivan and his Son hangs prominently in Alexander’s apartment; funky 70s fashions, soviet-style, abound; and a very silly song & dance sequence near the end reminded me of a similar scene in Python’s Holy Grail. Many of the jokes fall flat however, at least to western audiences, and the production values leave much to be desired. Furthermore Gaidai, perhaps not knowing how to end this increasingly ridiculous farce, resorts to one of cinema’s most clichéd and overused devices. Fun to watch if not exactly memorable, but the cat is priceless!
Wristcutters: A Love Story (USA 2006) (5): Breaking up with longtime girlfriend Desiree is hard on Zia; so hard in fact that he decides to end it all by slashing his wrists. Waking up in the afterlife, at least that portion of the afterlife assigned to suicides, he’s vaguely disappointed to find it bears an uncomfortable resemblance to a rundown American suburb filled with unsmiling layabouts who spend their days working minimum-wage jobs and their nights drinking beer in trashy honky-tonks while listening to dead artists on the jukebox. Life after death seems pretty banal to Zia until he learns that Desiree also killed herself shortly after his funeral and may very well be in the same situation as himself. Hooking up with his friend Eugene, a failed Russian rocker, the two hit the road in search of the elusive girlfriend. Along the way they meet a quick-witted goth chick on a mission, a camp for misfit geeks led by an angelic Tom Waits, and a nefarious death cult hellbent on offing themselves once again. Eventually the trio do find Desiree, but the reunion isn’t quite what Zia had envisioned. Goran Dukic’s painfully low-budget indie does manage to paint a rather despairing view of purgatory. Using bleached desert landscapes littered with garbage and abandoned clapboard shacks he makes the most of his California interstate locations. He then throws in a few death-related quirks which work occasionally but, more often than not, elicit little more than a weak smile. His ultra low-key approach actually works against him; he may have been aiming for a hip slacker love-after-death story but he delivers a lifeless road movie complete with pat Hollywood ending instead. Some people should just stay dead.
Fear(s) of the Dark (France 2007) (6): Four animated shorts from various directors take aim at all things creepy and unsettling with limited success. A college student plays reluctant nursemaid to a host of nasty bedbugs; a young girl has a questionable run-in with a vengeful spirit; a village is terrorized by something in the woods; and in the film’s best segment, a wayward traveller seeks refuge in a mysterious house with a murderous secret. Loosely tying the stories together are a series of vignettes involving a mad hatter and a pack of wild dogs with a taste for innocent flesh while a faceless narrator provides an endless litany of her many phobias, among them a fear of indigestion and becoming “irredeemably bourgeois”. Drawing artistic inspiration from a variety of sources including Japanese manga, Italian artist Giorgio de Chirico, and American illustrator Edward Gorey, the directors take us to places live actors simply cannot. There is a macabre, dreamlike feel to the primitive B&W animation which relies more on shadow and texture than graphic carnage yet, in the end, it ultimately fails to deliver the icy frissons it promises. Mildly unnerving and then easily forgotten, rather like an episode of Fear Factor for the terminally timid.
The Belly of an Architect (UK 1987) (6): The emblematic belly in question belongs to Stourley Kracklite, a husky, overbearing American architect who, along with his nasally-voiced trophy wife, makes a pilgrimage to Rome. Supposedly hired to oversee the construction of an exhibition honoring obscure 18th century French architect Etienne Boullée, his personal hero and a man with whom he shares more than a few things in common, Stourley instead finds himself embroiled in a power struggle with a wealthy Italian upstart and a host of strangely hostile officials. As deadlines loom and his wife’s behaviour becomes increasingly suspicious, Kracklite begins to suffer vague abdominal symptoms coupled with an odd temporal dislocation wherein the intrigues of long-dead Roman emperors begin to mirror events in his own life. Concerned about his failing health, and plagued with doubts regarding his wife’s fidelity and his own self-worth, Stourley’s initial sense of unease threatens to turn into absolute paranoia...but is it completely unfounded? As with all of Greenaway’s projects, Belly of an Architect unfolds with a cinematic bravura that takes full advantage of Rome’s magnificent scenery. Blowing drapes, piercing stares, and ancient artifacts compete with the film’s pounding score while the director’s penchant for stark symmetries and puzzling allegory is evident throughout. Unfortunately, the rich visuals are not always supported by a leaden script that too often wallows in abstruse references and arty chinwagging. The film’s cast is hopelessly uneven as well. Brian Dennehy is perfect in the role of the titular antihero; his larger-than-life frame and booming voice give him the appearance of an imperial statue come to life. He dominates each scene both physically and emotionally at the expense of the other, less talented, actors whose characters become little more than a pallid backdrop. Finally, Greenaway’s preoccupation with birth, death and decay once again takes centre stage but, unlike the cleverly engaging twists and turns of his previous films, Architect comes across as a colourful cerebral exercise with a disappointingly poor payoff in the end.
Stiff Competition (USA 1984) (6): Full review in Adult Films section.
Meet The Spartans (USA 2008) (2): An unforgivably sophomoric attempt to spoof the film 300 with hunky Sean Maguire leading a cast of waxed eye candy through a tedious succession of trashy jokes, corny puns and feeble visual gags. Some of the lower points include an impromptu dance-off where the Persian army gets served by the plucky Spartans, a mindless Grand Theft Auto sendup, and an excruciatingly bad American Idol finale. As if that wasn’t enough to insult our intelligence we’re also treated to cheap product placements and an endless array of crappy fake celebrity cameos. What little humour there is occurs more by accident than design and is limited to the first 10 minutes. Finally, not content to let this travesty die at 75 minutes, the directors just had to sprinkle the closing credits with deleted scenes which, believe it or not, were too awful to leave in the actual movie. Not even sharp enough for the 12-and-under crowd.
Hawaii, Oslo (Norway 2004) (7): What Erik Poppe’s multi-character ensemble piece lacks in discipline it more than makes up for in presentation. On the mean streets of Oslo during the hottest day of the year we are introduced to a handful of strangers, among them a couple whose newborn son is dying, an ambulance attendant who becomes obsessed with a suicidal woman, a pair of young delinquents on the run, a violent convict, and an institutionalized young man still obsessed with his childhood sweetheart. Each character is desperately grasping at a personal dream which hovers just beyond their reach, much like the tropical images that seem to adorn every wall. Tying the individual stories together are an enigmatic newspaper girl and Vidar, a counsellor-cum-guardian angel who tries to use his sleep-induced visions of the future to nudge each person in the proper direction. In the course of a single night some dreams will be realized while others will be lost forever, and redemption will come in the form of one final sacrifice. With its suspiciously convenient coincidences and heavy angelic symbolism there is certainly enough to criticize here. Furthermore, as a narrative bridge between the separate tales Vidar and the young girl prove to be a rather ponderous plot device at times rendering some of the dramatic links weak and contrived. So why can’t I simply dismiss it as nothing more than a Scandinavian version of Touched By An Angel? First off the cast is magnificent; there is a synergy between them that results in performances that are both natural and engrossing. Secondly, the script manages to avoid most of the saccharine pitfalls one would expect and instead delivers a well-paced and captivating composite of lives in chaos. And finally, the spare soundtrack of strings and piano chords compliments the film’s low-keyed delivery perfectly. A deeply felt work which must be taken at face value.
Agnes and His Brothers (Germany 2004) (6): Oskar Roehler’s overly ambitious family drama follows the separate stories of three adult siblings from the highly dysfunctional Tschirner clan. Eldest brother Werner, a successful politician, is slowly going mad thanks in large part to his emotionally frigid wife and loveless marriage. To make matters worse his snotty son, who seems uncomfortably close to mom, is not only videotaping his mental unraveling but growing a healthy crop of pot in the couple’s front yard to boot. Middle brother Hans-Jörg is an alcoholic sex addict and chronic masturbator whose monomaniacal obsession with women causes him to lose his job, his dignity, and quite possibly his sanity. Lastly there is little brother “Agnes”, now a marginalized transsexual involved in a violent relationship who may or may not be harbouring a traumatic secret from her childhood. Their unhappy adulthoods seem to be related to their slovenly hippy of a father and his child-rearing practices which left much to be desired. With resentments all around and tensions becoming unbearable, the only pressing question is who will snap first. This is a dark bit of filmmaking whose occasional flashes of weak sunlight do little to dispel the gloom. Although the main performances are uniformly excellent the script is woefully short on substance, as if loud histrionics and thumbnail characterizations should be enough to carry us along. Roehler asks us to fill in too many narrative gaps and leaves the role of the father, which is pivotal to an understanding of the story, weak and poorly developed. Furthermore, the siblings’ unique tales fail to overlap but run parallel to each other instead. This lack of a group dynamic robs the film of much of its power and leaves the characters' final scenes, involving tragedy, hope, and reconciliation, flat and unmoving. Agnes fails to earn the dramatic impact it was aiming for, leaving us with little more than a handsome ragbag of missed potential. Nice soundtrack though.
The Seduction of Lacy Bodin (USA 1975) (2): Full review in Adult Films section.
Song at Midnight (China 1937) (6): Teeming with misty moonlight and revolutionary rhetoric, this early Chinese take on The Phantom of the Opera plays like a communist infomercial that thinks it’s a gothic romance. Song Daping is a promising young actor whose socialist ideologies gets him in trouble with the local capitalist landowner. But when he starts seeing the man’s lovestruck daughter, Xiaoxia, her father has him sprayed with nitric acid. Horribly disfigured, Daping retreats to the attic of the local theatre while Xioxia, believing him dead, goes mad with grief. Still deeply in love with the now insane young woman, Daping eases her fevered mind by serenading her with a “song at midnight” whenever the moon is full. Not content to be so cruelly separated from his sweetheart, Daping sees an opportunity when a visiting troupe of actors take temporary residence in the decaying old theatre. Can he convince Ou, the company’s promising young male lead, to take his place in Xiaoxa’s life and become her suitor? There are many drawbacks to this film; choppy editing, quirky subtitles and unreliable sound quality to name a few, although some of these may be the effects of age on the original film stock. Furthermore, the exaggerated performances and shadowy atmosphere would probably fare better in a silent film while the odd snatches of classical music seem out of place. There is a dead earnestness to the production, however, and I soon found myself warming to its Chinese Opera aesthetic where passionate young lovers solemnly pose against painted dawns and nights are dark and stormy indeed. Director Weibang presents us with a kinder, gentler phantom whose motivations spring more from love (and Party ideals) than revenge which causes me to disagree with other critics who cite Song at Midnight as being China’s first “horror” film. Despite it’s occasional awkward moments it remains a fine example of cinematic excess in the grand tradition.
SS Girls (aka: Private House of the SS) (Italy 1977) (7): Full review in Adult Films section.
Up (USA 2009) (8): When he was a young boy, Carl Fredricksen dreamed of piloting a fantastic flying machine into the wilds of South America. Fueled by newsreel footage of dashing adventurer Charles Muntz’s escapades in those southern jungles he vowed, along with his childhood sweetheart Ellie, that someday he would journey to the semi-mythical Paradise Falls (a land lost in time!) But sometimes life gets in the way of living and despite the young couple’s best efforts to realize their dream there were always bills to pay and minor crises to avert. Sadly, Ellie dies without ever stepping foot outside the United States, leaving Carl an embittered old man long past his prime. With developers itching to bulldoze his home and a nursing home eager to add him to their census, he hatches an ingenious scheme to leave the civilized world behind; he attaches thousands of helium-filled balloons to the chimney and turns his house into a domestic dirigible. Accompanied by Russell, a 10-year old “Wilderness Explorer” who happened to be on the porch during lift-off, Carl finally sets sail for South America... Pixar’s latest adventure is a pure delight from start to finish. Meticulously detailed and rich in bright carnival colours, Up attests to the power of animation to touch an emotional chord with its audience whether it be a soft-spoken pathos or a wistful yearning for some magic in our lives. Of course there is the expected assortment of oddly charming (and marketable) characters one expects from Pixar; a pack of dogs fitted with talking collars had us rolling on the couch, a mad scientist looms menacingly, and a giant pastel bird comes close to stealing the show. Beyond the kaleidoscopic visuals and slapstick action, however, there is a surprising depth to this story. The buoyant quality of dreams is certainly taken to its literal extreme but the crippling effect of memories, especially those associated with guilt or unresolved grief, is beautifully illustrated as we see Carl stumbling over an expanse of barren rock dragging his floating house behind him as if it were a leg iron. Yet, as the old man finally lets go of the past and the young boy learns the importance of duty, we are treated to one last radiant barrage of sight and sound which brings the entire film to a perfect three-point landing.
Duck (USA 2005) (2): Full of mawkish sentimentality, mangled metaphors and a soundtrack overflowing with sugary folk ballads, this lightweight road movie-cum-social critique manages to lay one rotten egg after another. Set in a dystopian 2009 (Jeb Bush is president, recycling has been abolished and social security is bankrupt), it revolves around sixty-six year old Arthur, a newly widowed retiree who finds himself alone and penniless in a hostile world. After scattering his wife’s ashes in the park where they used to court; now the garbage-strewn site of a future shopping mall, he decides to end it all with a handful of prescription drugs when he is saved by the timely arrival of an orphaned duckling. Soon man and bird are inseparable buddies; sharing the bathtub, cuddling in bed and exchanging little gems of feathered wisdom. But when Arthur’s neurotic asshole of a landlord evicts the pair they suddenly find themselves on a long (so very very long) journey of the soul as they slowly make their way to the coast. Crossing the dirty concrete wasteland of Los Angeles they meet up with the usual assortment of one-dimensional stock characters one expects in these schmaltzy knee-jerk sagas; the heartless authorities, the panhandler with a heart of gold, the blind vagrant who sees all, and the deeply philosophical immigrant (Amy Hill overdoing it with an insultingly fake Asian accent). Eventually Arthur and his little winged alter ego do make it to the shores of the sunlit Pacific just in time for the film’s sickeningly sweet finale and a mercifully quick fade to black. With its corny dialogue and clumsy attempts at eliciting sympathy this little turkey should never have been hatched. I must admit that the duck was kind of cute though, especially when it took an unscripted shit on the picnic table.
Synecdoche, New York (USA 2008) (10): Caden Cotard is a modestly successful stage director obsessed with death. It doesn’t help that his mailbox is filled with cancer magazines, his newspaper is filled with obituaries and the cartoons his child watches seem to mock his fears. Even the milk in the fridge is long past its expiry date while the wallpaper in his cluttered kitchen bears a ghostly, half-emerged figure. Between interminable visits to specialists who take a bleak interest in his intermittent lumps, bumps and bloody stools he works on an ironic production of Death of a Salesman while at the same time trying to save his failing marriage. But when he receives a huge arts grant he decides to embark on his biggest project yet; no less than recreating the city of New York in an abandoned hangar and populating it with hundreds of anonymous extras, including stand-ins for everyone in his life from his wife and daughter to Hazel, the box office cashier he’s having an uneasy affair with. Before long however, the actors begin to take on lives of their own which diverge from his carefully prepared script necessitating the introduction of additional actors to play the actors who are acting out his life... Combining the audacity of Fosse’s All That Jazz with the cryptic details of Anderson’s Magnolia, Kaufman draws on theatrical hyperbole to highlight one man’s rage against his own mortality. Using telescoping timelines, overlapping characters and an odd dream logic, he creates a skewed reality which is both seductive and mystifying. “Fate is what you create...” bellows a character at one point, “...every choice you make changes everything...and you only get one chance to play it out!” Fueled by his own artistic narcissism and an overriding fear of obscurity (he is described as a man “already dead”) Caden attempts to challenge this dictum by rewriting his own life with a cast of doppelgängers and phantoms. But you can’t change the past and all people, no matter what their station in life, arrive at the same final destination. Kaufman’s brilliant script is constantly catching you off guard with its unexpected turns and sly allusions (google “Cotard Delusion” and “synecdoche” for starters). He then fills his elaborately layered sets with tantalizing clues and visual tropes, whether it’s the briefly glimpsed title of a book or Hazel’s chronically smoldering house (reflecting her own reckless passion, perhaps?). Puzzling, enigmatic and impossible to fully appreciate with one viewing; we may not grasp all the finer tricks, but Kaufman’s sympathetic portrayal of a painfully flawed everyman can’t help but strike a chord.
Faces (USA 1968) (7): The war between the sexes is a bleak battlefield indeed in this early experimental work by John Cassavetes. As his marriage deteriorates into a series of angry clashes, Richard Forst tries to seek some comfort in the arms of Jeannie, a prostitute half his age. His wife Maria, meanwhile, has her own disastrous fling with Chet, a young dance floor gigolo. But with the morning light fantasies give way to cold reality and each partner is forced to confront the loveless mess their relationship has become. Themes of alienation and illusion run strongly throughout Cassavetes’ film as characters gasp for air between bouts of loneliness and rage; each one bearing the scars of living yet none capable of sharing their pain openly. Drunken banality and sexual games replace actual communication, and as the night wears on both become increasingly destructive. While one of Jeannie’s intoxicated clients proudly declares his love for “Aesop’s fables and Walt Disney”, one of Maria’s elderly friends, terrified of her own mortality, makes a pathetic fool of herself fawning over a blond youth. Even the Forst’s own adulterous transgressions are shown for the desperate acts of denial they are; in trying to ignore their marriage’s impending demise they form the most tenuous of bonds with people who are essentially idealized strangers. As Chet sagely observes, “Nobody has the time to be vulnerable to each other...” Cassavetes’ use of B&W coupled with severe camera angles which pit foreground against background, often across a table or flight of stairs, highlights the movie’s confrontational tone. Furthermore, as characters go from room to room flicking switches on and off, shifting panels of light and darkness are created which offset the film’s heavy realist approach. Lastly, the use of artwork is both subtle and powerful; while Jeannie’s apartment is decorated with images of solitary nymphs, the Forst’s have a painting of a couple playing an intense game of chess and a photo of multiple streams flowing aimlessly over a barren landscape. If the drama is a wee bit overdone in parts the powerful performances almost make up for it.
Fantasm (Australia 1976) (6): Full review in Adult Films section.
The Exterminating Angel (Mexico 1962) (8): As Señor Nobile and his lovely wife prepare for a lavish dinner party at their mansion they are somewhat perturbed when the servants decide to beat a hasty retreat before the guests have even come through the front door. Keeping a stiff upper lip, the wealthy couple decide to wing it anyway with the aid of their chief Steward. Aside from some flying hors d’oeuvres things go splendidly until the guests retire to the living room and suddenly find themselves unable (or unwilling) to leave. There are no locked doors or physical barriers but an unexplained physical malaise keeps them rooted in the salon and try as they may they just can’t seem to make it past the threshold. As crowds gather outside the estate, equally unable to walk past the open gate, the dinner guests slide into a type of bourgeois savagery; angry recriminations are leveled at their hosts, adulterous urges are acted upon and a messy meal is made of a hapless flock of sheep that just happen to wander by. As their isolation drags on the affluent partygoers, desperate for material comfort and helpless without their maids and butlers to wait on them, begin to despair. Walls are ripped apart in search of water, rare Ming vases become toilets and, as a last ditch effort, a seemingly absent God is called upon. Once again Luis Buñuel takes aim at the pettiness of the upper class and scores a bullseye. By combining fierce wit with a parade of increasingly absurd plot twists he delivers a cruel satire that has you laughing even as you cringe. The mundane qualities of his subjects are brought out in some very clever ways with individual lines (and one entire scene) being repeated and an acid-tongued script laced with disparaging remarks about class and patriotism. Furthermore, aside from their all-consuming lethargy, there exists a spiritual paralysis with some guests taking cold comfort in meaningless ritual; as one woman offers up a showy prayer to the Virgin, another practices voodoo with the chicken feet and feathers stashed in her purse and a couple of well-dressed dandies eagerly exchange secret Masonic handshakes. Ever the atheist, Buñuel adorns the salon walls with faded religious icons, including one prominent painting of St. Michael battling the dragon which graces the makeshift latrine’s outer door. But his final jab at both church and aristocracy is saved for a deliciously irreverent ending involving raucous bells and a few persistent sheep. Wonderfully layered and impossible to pigeonhole.
Paranoiac (UK 1962) (5): After their parents die in a plane crash and their older brother commits suicide, Eleanor and Simon find themselves the sole remaining heirs to the vast Ashby estate. Unfortunately Simon is a boorish alcoholic and Eleanor may very well be mad. But when their supposedly dead brother Tony comes looking for his share of the money we discover the Ashby family has more skeletons than closets to put them in. A macabre whodunnit filled with false leads and a no-star cast of red herrings featuring an overwrought Aunt, a seductive (and barely intelligible) French nurse, and a young accountant with a shameful secret. Things start out intriguing enough but it eventually sinks into a gothic soap opera with Oliver Reed giving the performance which should have netted him a lifetime Razzie award for awfullness. A great choice if you’re wide awake at 2 a.m. with absolutely nothing to do.
The Phantom of the Opera (UK 1962) (7): Set in Victorian England, this is one of the better screen adaptations of the French classic. The plot is pretty straightforward of course; a mysterious masked character stalks the halls of a theatre wreaking havoc as the resident company rehearses for an upcoming opera production. Smitten by lead singer Christine Charles, the “Phantom” is determined to help her develop her amazing vocal talents even if it means sequestering her to his underground lair. Christine’s young beau Harry, meanwhile, sets out to rescue his sweetheart and bring the reclusive madman to justice. The period sets are impeccable including the Phantom’s abode which is an eclectic combination of Bat Cave and carnival sideshow while the chills and thrills are surprisingly effective. Director Terence Fisher further foils our expectations by eliciting an unexpected sympathy for the titular protagonist. Once the reason behind his monomaniacal obsession with the theatre is explained his grotesquely disfigured character takes on an aura of tragic romanticism. We see a misunderstood genius who was horribly wronged in the past now forced to lurk in the shadows due to the facial scars he acquired trying to exact an unsuccessful justice. The opera scenes themselves, taken from a fictitious production detailing the life of Joan of Arc, were quite good for a B-movie and lent an undercurrent of sad irony to the story. Artistic license aside, this was still an unexpected pleasure.
The Curse of the Werewolf (UK 1961) (6): Poor little Leon; it’s bad enough his conception was the result of his mother being raped by an insane dungeon inmate, but he was born (and orphaned) on Christmas Day to boot and according to the film’s screenwriter any unwanted child born on Jesus’ birthday is practically begging for some evil mojo. It appears he was invaded by an animal spirit when he drew his first breath and by the time he was old enough to talk he was already licking dead squirrels and growing an impressive pelt on his little palms much to his foster parents’ horror. Advised by their parish priest to shower the child with love and affection in order to thwart his lupine proclivities, Leon eventually grows up to be a happy well-adjusted adult until a visit to a local brothel once again awakens the hairy beast within. Will he be able to live happily ever after with the local vintner’s pouty-lipped daughter whom he’s been wooing on the sly, or will his newly acquired taste for dead hooker cast a pall on their planned nuptials? Oliver Reed obviously graduated from the William Shatner School of Dramatic Arts as he shamelessly shrieks and emotes his way through Hammer Films’ one and only werewolf flick. The rest of the cast is suitably overblown while the studio sets, meant to evoke 18th century Spain, are a soothing mishmash of bucolic clichés and peasant argot. When we finally do get to see Reed in wolfman drag however, he looks more like Gary Glitter after a week’s bender; he even barks like a little shih-tzu when he should be howling. A wonderful Saturday afternoon monster movie.
