Winter Break Movie Meltdown Part One

I am blessed to have working from home as a component of my job. Not only because it has made caring for my son over his Winter break and dealing with general Holiday madness a non-issue, it has afforded me an enormous amount of time to catch up on movies, both theatrically and and at home via my voluminous blu-ray backlog. So, without further ado, let us wrap up the final straggling cinematic strands of 2011.

We're lucky enough here in Minnesota to have one of the 42 true IMAX theaters in North America showing The Dark Knight Rises prologue before Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol. Thanks to some free passes, I've seen this presentation twice. Hugo showed us that 3-D can be quite enjoyable in the hands of a talented film maker, but 3-D is technically the past. It has been around forever and despite technological advancements, is at its core a gimmick, no matter how judiciously employed. IMAX is the future. It is true immersion into the world a film maker creates. A monolithic screen filled to the point of bursting with stunning detail, remarkable resolution and the most bowel rumbling sound system imaginable. The only drawback is being tipped off that an important sequence is about to begin due to the ever shifting aspect ration. Perhaps as the format becomes more reliably profitable and the technology is improved, it will become less prohibitively expensive to shoot in it.

Unfortunately, what you have heard is true. Bane is nigh indistinguishable in The Dark Knight Rises prologue. That quibble aside, it's a remarkable sequence that showcases Nolan's distaste for CGI, (SPOILER ALERT!!!!!) somehow filming a group of assassins repelling from one plane to another, mid flight, dismantling it and dropping it to the ground like a lifeless bird with broken wings, all the while using minimal if any computer assistance. There is one shot in particular as the plane is dropped and our perspective is from above, the enormous field of vision opening up as the vessel hurtles toward earth below two suspended characters, that frankly, well, let's just say I've never seen anything like it. Even though garbled, Tom Hardy's Bane is a formidably unsettling presence, exuding charisma and engendering terrified awe. This is THE film of 2012 for me. Nothing else even comes close. Well, maybe Tim and Eric's Billion Dollar movie.

Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol (love that deliciously unwieldy title!) is a blast. A real return to efficient, eminently enjoyable action cinema. A handsomely crafted, high-tech, globe-trotting, spy yarn of the highest order. Sure it has neat gadgets and gargantuan set pieces (the 35 minutes spent inside and out of the Burj Khalifa is the most breathlessly constructed excitement of the year), but the real fun is in reveling in Tom Cruise's still luminous star power and watching this lovingly assembled team interact. It's a joy to see Simon Pegg in something like this, Paula Patton is wonderful and Jeremy Renner gets the rare chance to be fun and slightly off kilter. This film is the biggest surprise of the year for me, a late Christmas gift I had no idea I wanted, but enjoyed most of all once I tore off the wrapping.

I've never had any interest in The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo. I tend to abhor literary sensations. You know, the sort of thing where one minute no one has ever heard of it, then suddenly every single person owns the book and is talking about it. The Davinci Code springs to mind. In any case, I had to see this because Fincher directed it and when it wasn't repulsing me, it was boring me to absolute tears. This is clearly an endeavor for the previously converted, because I found its mix of disingenuous fauxminism, fetishised misogyny and bloodless mystery an unpalatable concoction unworthy of the auteur treatment it received. This is aesthetic ground already well trodden by Fincher, sans the thematic weight of his previous triumphs of investigatory serial killer cinema, Se7en and Zodiac. Move along folks, nothing to see here.

Given my predisposal to dismiss the work of Diablo Cody and Jason Reitman after the self absorbed atrocities that were Juno and Up in the Air, Young Adult was something of a revelation. Poignant without being cloying and understated where their previous efforts were irritatingly insistent, this is a nicely quiet affair that manages to be funny and telling about the generation it documents. Charlize Theron is utterly fantastic in a complicated, inherently unlikable role. She plays off a similarly excellent Patton Oswalt in unexpected ways that illustrates each of their characters disgust and affection, toward themselves and each other. A very interesting film that figures out how to be amusing, uncomfortable, dark, depressing and uplifting all at once.

We Bought a Zoo is schmaltzy and predictable, but entertains and touches on the strength of its performances and in spite of its simplistic storyline. I wish Hollywood could get over the notion that for us mouth breathing audience members to care about a protagonist, we need their spouse or parent to have died. It's the easiest, hackiest way to establish an emotional connection to a character and it's long since devolved into self parody as a narrative trope. Put that shit to bed and find another inroad for crying out loud.

Tintin proves my Beowulf-era assertion that motion capture can open up camera movement and scene transition possibilities hitherto unimaginable to traditional film making. Unlike Beowulf however, it isn't in the service of anything deeper than an uninvolving action set piece generator of a storyline for a character we're never properly introduced to. I'm not familiar with this Tintin, and after seeing the picture devoted to him, don't think I need or want to be. He's a blank slate distinguished only by his shark fin hairdo and adorable dog. Nice to look at, but forgettable despite the involvement of truly talented folks such as Andy Serkis, Simon Pegg, Edgar Wright, Nick Frost and Joe Cornish.

Hey, we were all happy to see Robert Downey Jr. back in the game back when Iron Man came out, right? He's responsible for one of my all time favorite performances and characters with Wayne Gale from Natural Born Killers, so good for him that he cleaned up and found a way to bring his smarmy charm to the mainstream heading up Iron Man and Sherlock Holmes, both of which I enjoyed. Iron Man 2 and now this, Sherlock Holmes: Game of Shadows is where that goodwill runs out and Downey becomes an ingratiating husk of a performer defined by winks and tics that have become less rapscallion and more lascivious as his age advances. Never mind the fact his efforts are in the service of this dismal, dung heap of a film. Holmes innate detective skills have no bearing on his character, they seemingly exist solely as an excuse for camera tricks and obnoxious editing. Guy Ritchie's been flashing up that pan for far too long now and his all style, no substance approach reaches its execrable nadir here. A crashingly loud, thuddingly dull and painfully incomprehensible excuse for a film.

The Passion And The Hyperbole: 2011 In Review

With the year winding down, it's time to delve into the obligatory wrap-up of bests and worsts reminiscences. Sure, there are quite a few films left on the docket (most notably the new Fincher joint), but with the release dates so obscenely clustered around the holiday break, I doubt I will be afforded the time to give them the serious consideration and multiple theatrical viewings (the power of my cinematic OCD compels me) I deem necessary to properly pontificate. So, with the understanding that I will likely enjoy, but not have my life changed by Tintin, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, MI4: Ghost Protocol and Sherlock Holmes: The Return of The Slow Motion Explosion, let us begin analyzing 2011. The year I will best remember for my death, the boiling over of my disgust with Internet hatorade and my rebirth into cinematic ecstasy.

This year started off slower than any in recent memory. I didn't see anything in theaters until the Farrely's utterly forgettable Hall Pass in late February. At the risk of losing intrepid readers right out of the gate, I must admit the first movie to blow me away and my runner up for film of the year was Zach Snyder's audacious paean to auteur excess, Sucker Punch. His first wholly original project, Sucker Punch is a dynamic visual feast that has the audacity to focus on challenging themes that are rarely, if ever, addressed in modern fantasy action fare. Namely misogyny and the male gaze, and the derisive snorts issued forth from the provincial online detractors was as predictable as it was pointless. No one seemingly had a damn thing to say about how thematically bold it was or the truly next level film making going on. It was an inside hit job from the start. A retribution sacrifice carried out by disgruntled pedants and frustrated nerds for some imagined blasphemy committed on Watchmen perhaps? Whatever the reason for the hate it engendered or the box office catastrophe it became, when reactions are that volatile, some sort of magick is happening. Usually the kind that takes a few decades removal from to contemplate and comprehend. It's the H2 or Scott Pilgrim of the last year and like those other initially misunderstood gems, I eagerly await the time when people inevitably come around to its transgressive charms.

The summer doldrums were made all the more dismal by a slew of drooling junk food features aimed at grown men who wished they were still 11 years old. Thor and Fast Five were rousing enough with the latter a masculine, imbecilic blast and the former a histrionic delight. Captain America and Green Lantern were where it all fell apart for me. Paint by numbers drivel and excruciatingly unnecessary to boot. Sarsgaard's deliriously unhinged turn in Lantern was a personal favorite performance of the year for me admittedly, but both pictures were so hastily assembled and callously tossed out, it left a sour taste in my mouth toward superhero cinema. A distaste I hope The Dark Knight Rises will ameliorate this coming July. Transformers was its usual grating garbage. Overlong, ugly and every other negative adjective that's come to be associated with the execrable series. Harry Potter 7.5 was mightily impressive, especially considering how much I've loathed and felt distanced by the entire series. It was a film so well made and so blissfully expensive, I felt invested in the characters finally, primarily due to seeing them in action for 2 straight hours as opposed to droning on about nonsense that means nothing to a geriatric muggle such as myself.

On the Asian tip, I thoroughly enjoyed Miike's orgiastic tribute to feudal masculinity with 13 Assassins and was mesmerized by Jee-Woon Kim's serial killer tone poem I Saw The Devil. For underground fare, I fell head over heels in love with Hobo With A Shotgun and gave Christopher Smiths Black Death the grim appreciation it deserved. Troll Hunter was an absolute blast and along with Apollo 18, was a found footage type film I actually enjoyed for once. Kevin Smith's Red State was the best thing he's ever done by a damn sight and I implore him to keep directing if that's where his material is heading. I loved The Thing prequel and can't wait to pair it with Carpenter's forbear for a somber, icky, snowbound double feature. Immortals was gorgeous stupidity and Rise of the Planet of the Apes a welcome surprise that inspired me to revisit the original series, which happens to be no slouch itself.

The two worst film going experiences I had were the monotonous tedium of Don't Be Afraid Of The Dark and the masturbatory monstrosity Super-8. Both films were colossal let downs considering the pedigree behind them and how great the trailers looked. DBAOTD was simply a total misfire. All good intentions and zero invention. More of the same dark whimsy we've come to expect from DelToro, but entirely lacking in heart or purpose. I seriously considered walking out. Super-8 however, is the more egregious pile of manure betwixt the 2. It starts off well enough, but descends into a senseless, slavish recreation of Spielbergian tropes without bothering to make a lick of narrative sense. Featuring a bunch of kids ranging from unlikable to uninteresting and a monster that appears intermittently to disjointedly do only that which the ever changing whim of whatever particular scene demands of it, Super-8 is everything wrong with the creatively bankrupt, backward looking and nostalgia mythologizing generation of geeks holding the reins of blockbuster Hollywood today. Liking Suburban 80's Spielberg swill isn't enough J.J. You need earned character moments and a definitive thematic arc to cut the treacle and justify your leaden, lens flare laden CGI monument to riding your bike around the neighborhood. Grow up.

Insidious was terrifying. There's just no better way to put it. An anxiety inducing chill machine for the ages. James Wan and Leigh Whannell have my eternal devotion having now crafted 4 films I greatly enjoy, 3 of which I would describe as being touched by brilliance. Easily the best horror film of the year. Attack The Block was a real treat as well and a forceful calling card for its creator, Joe Cornish.

Hugo blindsided me as the original trailers had me expecting a waning master cashing in on 3-D with farcical kiddie garbage. What I got instead was Scorsese the master craftsman, stepping up his game exponentially by pushing past his comfort zone and giving us something new. Everything you've read about this ode to the majesty of the moving image is true. Don't miss it in theaters in 3-D, I guarantee you will regret it.

What more can be said about Drive? It is easily my favorite film of the year. I saw it 4 times theatrically and, despite the pervasive national punchline it became due to all the various spin off art it inspired and outraged reactions it caused, I still maintained my swooning, pubescent adoration of its effortless guile and poetic enchantment. It made me feel like I was 17 years old again and seeing Natural Born Killers, Se7en, The Crow and Pulp Fiction for the first time. Total cinematic intoxication. This film had such a profound effect on me, I chased its sense memory by revisiting Michael Mann films for the rest of the year after Drive left theaters, staying aloft on related fumes while awaiting the bluray. A movie like Drive is why I cherish the art form. A perfect synthesis of setting, sound, performance, writing and shot composition. It effortlessly enthralls and is one of many reasons and reminders I can glean from this year that I'm eternally grateful to still be around, enjoying my life and my passions with loved ones and fellow travellers. Here's looking forward to 2012.

Blue Velvet

The great thing about the Bluray medium, apart from the often stunning picture resolution and sound, is how catalog releases are beginning to take on the aura of transcendent rediscovery. Certainly we all love Taxi Driver, but seeing it in 1080p with that Bernard Hermann score swelling and enveloping in lossless 5.1 is akin to seeing it for the first time. A cinematic reawakening of sorts. The same goes for a bevy of classic films that instantly spring to mind (Metropolis, West Side Story, The Exorcist, Night of the Hunter, Se7en etc...) with untold more crying out to be spoiled with such loving treatment and sterling presentation.

Apart from the (again, often) uptick in the audio-visual department, these re-releases afford the compulsive cinephile an opportunity for reappraisal with a set of new, more mature eyes. Eyes that have witnessed adulthood and parenthood first hand. Eyes that have grown weary with the surfeit of evil, compromise and disenchantment spilling forth from the nightly news. Eyes that are ceaselessly shocked by the stomach turning depths of sick, publicly trumpeted self obsession spat out of the maw of the social networking revolution. Eyes that have read more and studied more films, whose interest and patience with the subjective nature of art has only grown with the passing years. It is with these eyes that I sat down last night to contemplate the MGM release of David Lynch's 1986 masterpiece, Blue Velvet.

I found the film to be terrifying frankly. It's a fairy tale nightmare world for adults where the psychologically damaged and the pathologically dangerous drown naive innocence in their putrid, prodigious wake. Compound soul sickness and salacious mental illness born of necessity, born of boredom, born of flat out meanness. Corrupted, barbarous lust poisoning and taking and retching boundless hatred upon weak willed misery receptacles. It's not a pleasant film, but Lynch's gauzy mise en scene makes the pill palatable, even soothing to swallow.

Billowing blue velvet curtains open up on a Norman Rockwell small town with worms burrowing just beneath the surface. Seedy, late night transactions set to the rhythm of a fey Dean Stockwell performing dreamy, trouble light karaoke. Trapped in the back seat of an out of control joyride that couldn't be any more joyless. Sandwiched between two leering, giggling goons, waiting for the beating you know is coming and are powerless to stop. Illicit debasement and an omnipresent threat to life, limb and reputation. Dark, disgusting secrets bubbling and boiling over, compulsively drawn back to the scalding, sickening pot of festering unease.

It's easily Lynch's most straightforward film and without having seen Inland Empire, I would say his best. There is a purity of purpose and intent at play here, a directness that empowers the film where his convoluted asides and baffling digressions weaken his later work. The art house auteur approach works best when the man behind the wheel remembers to keep it simple stupid. Trust us, the audience, to fill in the shadowy margins with our own sickly preoccupations. When a tone is this vividly established, it's awfully hard to not ruminate and mentally wander. Blanks tend to get filled in and uncomfortable connections are made. Blue Velvet is the cinematic equivalent and perfected personification of a Lynch motif. It is slowly walking down an ominous, ever darkening hallway, yet still opening the door at the end, regardless of the unfathomable blackness waiting on the other side.

Shloggs Speaks: Waingro Edition

I'm back on Profondo Cinema this week talking some latter career DeNiro. Heat and Ronin, Bobby D's last two good films are discussed at length.

In other news, I saw Immortals and enjoyed the hell out of it. It's paper thin when it comes to story and characterization, but overflowing with sumptuous art direction, breathtaking costume design and liberally fruity doses of masculinity. Cavill acquits himself well in the fight scenes and has a solid physical presence, but it's Rourke's show all the way. In a film replete with fashion models sashaying their washboard abs from one side of the screen to the other, old Mickey makes the biggest impression by proudly thrusting his middle aged gut and tree trunk arms about like the wizened and exhausted old warrior he plays and truly is. His voice in surround sound is a major selling point for me to get out to the theater and it's in fine form here. Sonorous, yet strangely brittle. Hoarse and full, imbuing palpable menace to every nut crushing soliloquy he delivers. The man is a joy in roles like this and I encourage all to check Immortals out. It does nothing to reinvent the wheel (hell, in some ways it removes integral spokes), but it sure doesn't skimp on ornamenting it.

I've also been frequently spinning my newly acquired Island of Lost Souls Bluray from Criterion. This is a brilliant pre-Hays code adaptation of Wells Island of Dr. Moreau with Charles Laughton and Bela Lugosi turning in great work against a surprisingly sordid and deliciously well shot backdrop. Laughton is amazing in the film, oozing out a performance at least 50 years ahead of its time in terms of subtlety, control and nuance. No one else acted this naturally in a film as transgressive and vulgar as this back then and it is truly a revelation to behold. Lugosi is pure animalistic pathos and his recitation of "the law" is as iconic as it gets, his intonation and energy dancing dangerously close to unaware self parody without ever toppling over into it. Erle C. Kenton directs forcefully and assuredly with a keen eye for shadow and mist that gives way to assaultive, confrontational horror in the rousing third act. Greg Mank provides a masterful commentary track full of fascinating insight and information. The new crown jewel of my collection.

Other than that, I've been revisiting the Karloff/Lugosi team-ups and following along with the aforementioned Greg Mank's fantastic book concerning the duo's "haunting collaboration" throughout the golden age of horror in the 30's and 40's. I have such respect, admiration and fascination for those two gentlemen actors of a bygone era. My love of the genre, and perhaps indeed film itself, begins with Dracula and Frankenstein. Flickering, black and white images seemingly piped in from another dimension. Slow, languid dream state memories of half forgotten childhood bedtime stories. My first memories to be precise. Well, that and Lou Ferrigno scaring the shinola out of me as The Hulk. To paraphrase Burroughs, "The thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts".

Hope those that are interested give the podcast a listen and forgive me my hyperbolic, overeager exaltation of Heat. The film is so inextricably linked to an era when I could spend days with nothing to worry about save for crafting ever more amusing in jokes with my chums about Jon Voight's mullet and mustache combo, or the symphonic perfection of the name Waingro. VHS giving way to DVD giving way to bluray. The enhanced clarity and definition in corollary contradiction to the size of the group watching it. Time marches on and childish pastimes become ever more a solitary endeavor, to be rehashed and reminisced upon in perpetual podcast purgatory.

Shloggs Speaks: Matrix Trilogy Edition

Hello there loyal readers! I had the honor of recording a very special Profondo Cinema with Axl in which we discuss the Matrix trilogy at length! I'm very proud of this discussion and I hope you all enjoy!

It Stinks! Alien, Aliens and Alien 3

This one is going to get me into trouble. Not necessarily with the bulk of film fandom (who, judging by my blogspot stats, are decidedly not reading this), but with genre fans in general and good friends who believe vociferously the opposite in particular. A fellow horror enthusiast I pal around with loaned me the Aliens bluray box to peruse at my own leisure. He will no doubt be disappointed with my estimation of the first three films, but I did loan him the Miramax classic Venom, so, you know, we're even. I'm more concerned with how these ensuing opinions will enrage my great friend and internet horror writer colleague SteakKnife Surprise. He doesn't write often, but when he does, pay attention cause he makes it count. In any case, the Aliens films are sacred gospel in his estimation, none more so than the first 3 I am about to argue are execrable wastes of time outside of Goldsmith's score and Giger's design work. With all due respect and with apologies proffered in advance, let us begin.

Now, the Alien films have been with me my whole life. I have vivid memories of witnessing them at a criminally early age and was regrettably psychologically damaged by seeing the Fincher entry in the theater with a friend and my mother who chaperoned us. Outside of the sex education scene in Monty Python's The Meaning of Life and Kevin Kline's enthusiastic, transatlantic lovemaking session with Jaimie Lee Curtis in A Fish Called Wanda, I can recall no other more excruciatingly embarrassing cinematic experience with my mother. My point is, it's not like these films are a blind spot in my film appreciation history. They were front and center for many years and I will readily admit my first viewing of Cameron's propulsive sequel was undeniably exhilarating. I've always adored the Giger design work and was gifted a book of his art by a friend of mine in the mid-90's that I still peruse to this day.

I love the look of these films. I love the design of the Alien, Alien Queen and Facehuggers. I love the underlying jabs at insidious corporate forces and the unblinking light cast on the unavoidable end result of the future of the military industrial complex. These are films whose aesthetic approach is to me every bit as stunning as its thematic approach is laudable. So what gives? Well, first off, Ridley Scott is a hack. Perhaps the most over rated, uninspiring dish soap commercial director to ever have a career so wildly praised by critics and worshipped by fanboys. Alien and Blade Runner, while featuring admittedly sumptuous production design, happen to be two of the most lifeless and boring films ever to be catapulted into the realm of the iconic. Scott has often been given fascinating themes to explore in the films he chooses, but he never manages to make the events feel real or immediate, the characters fleshed out or likable. People can make excuses up and down for why I don't connect to his narrative or his characters, but the bottom line is, nothing Ridley Scott does as an artist resonates with me. The Alien looks beautiful, but that is a product of Giger's Brilliance and Rambaldi's (and other artists as the series progressed) technique. The ship looks great, but I never feel like I'm on it, I never care about the people in it. That disconnect is directly attributable to the Director, not the artisans who simply produced what he requested.

As I said earlier, my first viewing of Aliens, alone at home, was terrifying to the point of giving me palpitations. It was a thrill ride par excellance. It was also 1987 on VHS. The sort of Horror/Sci-Fi/Action template it birthed has been endlessly eclipsed, no more obviously than by Cameron himself with T2. So, stripped of that innovation, what are you left with? Clunky dialog, convenient plot mechanics and a ceaselessly shrieking 10 year old girl. I suppose Paxton is a hoot as Hudson and Henricksen is reliably perfect as Bishop. Hell, I'll even give Paul Reiser credit for so expertly essaying the slippery douchebaggery inherent to the corporate stooge. But Ripley? Hicks? Newt? I could care less about any of these people and with the Alien menace reduced to a flailing melange of rubbery appendages easily blasted to bits, the tension has evaporated completely. What was once so exciting as a child is now a repetitive assemblage of surpassed action scenes and tepid catchphrases. Game over indeed.

I'm not even going to bother getting in depth on Alien 3. Of course I will concede that Fincher has blossomed into America's finest director in the intervening two decades. That doesn't change the fact that Alien 3 is one of the ugliest and most miserable pieces of entertainment to come out of the 90's. It's Christian prisoner subtext is not only poorly realized and half heartedly executed, it's didactic and pointless. Martyrdom...sure...got it. What's your point and why should we care? Stuck for 2 hours in what appears to be a dilapidated asylum with the patients feces smeared on the walls with only an indecipherable gaggle of bald headed, constantly cursing convicts to identify with is zero fun. The atrocious, then nascent CGI employed to realize the lone Alien doesn't help matters. Not only guilty of wasting your time, this film has the temerity to waste Charles Dance. Avoid at all costs.

Strangely, the two best films in the series to my eyes are the ones most maligned by fans of the franchise, Resurrection and AVP. Resurrection finally makes Ripley interesting and Weaver gives a fascinating, complex performance full of physicality, intelligence and heart. The effects are goopy and great, the action scenes inventive and plentiful. Plus, you get playful turns from Dan Hedaya, Michael Wincott and Ron Perlman. It's a fun flick with unique direction and a smart, forward thinking script from Joss Whedon. AVP is just a damn solid monster movie with a ridiculous premise played straight and implausibly silly action. These are the 2 films that work for me, the ones I can tolerate, hell, even enjoy returning to. I realize the pointlessness of trying to defend them to ardent Aliens fans, so I will simply conclude with my unabashed and enthusiastic support of them. Even if it flies in the face of all previously established movie nerd logic. I sense I'm going to be embroiled in an epic cell phone debate with my estimable opponent SteakKnife very soon.

The Thing (2011) About The Internet

I love John Carpenter's The Thing. Let's get that out of the way right off the bat. I've loved it since the first time I saw it in 5th grade over twenty years ago and have continued loving it ever since. I would wager I've seen it at least 30 times and have never grown tired of it. It truly is a perfect film. Great performances. Stunning atmosphere and production design. Ground breaking special effects. Masterful score. Yeah, yeah yeah, we know all that. What has it done for us lately? Well, it has served as the springboard for a new film set in its universe. An extremely entertaining motion picture that hits all the familiar beats we'd be outraged if weren't alluded to, all the while managing to have a trick or two up its sleeve to keep us guessing. That's right everyone, the long dreaded, pre-emptively maligned Thing prequel was released this weekend, and it was pretty goddamn great.

No, the characters aren't as awesome as they were in the original, but we've had thirty years to fall so deeply in love with them haven't we? No, the practical effects work Woodruff and Gillis contributed (yes, there is practical effects work in this) doesn't hold a candle to the ingenuity of Bottin's artistry in the original, but it is solid and the computer graphics work is marvelously compelling and repulsive. No, the score is not as instantly iconic as the Morricone one, but after a second viewing, Beltrami's work is starting to grow on me. The point is, I go see films in the theater because I love movies and want to be entertained by them, temporarily (and safely) transported out of my world into something more fantastical. On those accounts, The Thing prequel did a wonderful job and I honestly couldn't be more pleasantly pleased with how it turned out.

My problem is with narrow minded fans of the original who have opted to trash the picture sight unseen, out of some twisted obligation to the sanctity of the Carpenter film, itself a remake. I don't know why I allow myself to get sucked into these pointless message board squabbles time and again. Breathlessly exhorting my myriad points in a misguided, wrong headed and meaningless attempt to get people I've never met and never will to appreciate film in the same manner as I do. I have a very active and exceedingly energetic relationship with film. I LOVE seeing movies in the theater. It's my religion and the theater is my church. If a film particularly speaks to me, I will soak in the sermon several times on the big screen before buying the bluray to worship in the comfort of my own home. I love way more movies than I hate, and have even been known to give a film I hated a second chance while still in theaters. That is the way I choose to enjoy film and it is becoming increasingly at odds with how people on the net do. I've taken a week or so off of arguing about movies with people on message boards and it has been heaven.

I need to detach. I need to not care about opinions I don't even respect. I need to enjoy a resurgent interest in Michael Mann films without feeling obligated to blog about it or create a thread about it where ignorant nimrods spew garbage and break off into crude tangents. I'll write in here when and if I feel like it and enthusiastically participate on podcasts with like minded friends, but I'm done arguing. I love movies and I don't need to justify myself to anyone. I'm not making any money from this and I have no interest in doing so. I'm just going to enjoy being a film aficionado who comments in a one sided capacity when the muse moves him. So, see you all at the movies! Save me an aisle seat....asshole.

You Know What's Great? Manhunter

I saw Manhunter for the first time in 1987, a banner year for me film wise. I was treated to a 10th birthday screening of Robocop and caught Predator with my old man on Father's Day. We also had a subscription to HBO, off which my father and I compiled 3 film VHS dubs using our top loader VCR. It was glorious to be able to endlessly watch films such as Road Warrior, Rocky 4 and Rambo: First Blood Part 2 unhindered by network editing or commercial interruptions. I discovered Manhunter on one of these tapes and instantly fell in love with its "Miami Vice but grittier" vibe. I loved Miami Vice, the pastel fashions, the Jan hammer music, you name it. Everything about that show defined my 10 year old interpretation of what cool is. Don Johnson's rolled up sleeves sports jacket (a look I shamefully tried to rock myself) wearing, chain smoking, hard ass, high strung Sonny Crockett was in my eyes the epitome of total bad assery, so imagine how floored I was when introduced to William Petersen's Will Graham.

Something about the aloof way Petersen played this damaged detective captured my imagination. An anti-hero if ever there was one, Will Graham seems detached to the point of robotic disinterest in human connection, even when it comes to his own wife and son. An abundant, unruly salt and pepper mane crowning his perma stubble'd face with big, sad, deep set eyes disturbed by what he's seen, shielding others from the thoughts he's had. Just plain cool as hell is what I'm getting at here, even in the pink short shorts he rocks during family beach time. He reluctantly agrees to assist in the investigation of the tooth fairy murders, but once that darkness creeps back in, he's drowning in grim determination. A sick cypher of the criminal mind unable to alter his collision course destiny.

Will Graham makes Sonny Crockett look like the coked up pansy he is. Will Graham doesn't have time for sports cars and speed boat ownership. He doesn't have a pet crocodile and he isn't surrounded by babes in neon pink thongs. He spends his time alone in a Marriot suite, talking to VHS tapes of murdered families in the voice of the killer he's hunting. He sits quietly in evidence lockers absentmindedly fondling the slip of the Jacoby woman, the one with the bloom on her. Will Graham grapples with the cavernous abyss of the human soul at its most degraded, dangerous and evil. He never smiles, he never laughs and he never lets down his guard, whether talking to incarcerated cannibals or his 10 year old son.

Brian Cox is solid, if underused as Lecktor. A few more scenes with Petersen wouldn't have been that garish an addition, especially considering the delightfully frosty chemistry they have in their back and forth. Dennis Farina makes an interesting Jack Crawford, but seems miscast with his beat cop mustache from which no light can escape. Stephen Lang is textbook perfect as the snivelling reporter Lounds, but the real casting gold is to be found in Petersen's nemesis, the Tooth fairy killer, played with delicate menace by hulking, 6 foot, 7 inch Tom Noonan. This was my introduction to Noonan, one of the great off kilter presences in film. His Francis Dollarhyde is pitiable, terrifying and bizarre beyond belief.

This is a film where little in the way of action occurs. It's all about atmosphere, psychology and the nuts and bolts of police work. A moody procedural piece drenched in synth tones and bathed in ethereal light. White light emanating from fantasised eyes and back lit secret kisses born of imagined trysts. It is a wealth of fetishised voyeurism from the nether regions of a diseased mind, served up with a dollop of elegant art direction and scored with hypnotic, casual nonchalance. As much as I love Heat and as many gaps as I have in his filmography, Manhunter will always be my favorite Michael Mann film. It affected me so profoundly at such an early age and I have revisited it so many times over the last 24 years that it is permanently encoded in my DNA. I have a deep, abiding personal connection to it.

That long standing connection is why I choose not to recognize the Bret Ratner directed Red Dragon. Sure, Fiennes is great as Dollarhyde, but his performance wilts when stacked up next to Noonan's. Edward Norton can't deign to carry a 1986 William Petersen's jock when it comes to dishing out the wounded charisma. The Lecktor scenes feel forced, shoehorned in to capitalize on Hopkin's popular success in the role as opposed to the organic manner the character fits into Manhunter's narrative. It's redundant and predictable in its choices, right up to a cliched, fake out house explosion ending. No, you needn't watch Red Dragon when something as authentically unnerving as Manhunter exists.

Shloggs Speaks: Back from the Dead Edition!

I joined the Profondo Cinema boys yet again for a lengthy discussion concerning the films and intermittent career of D.I.Y icon Jim VanBebber. This is yet another long episode, but I was generously allowed to be a part of the whole thing, from the viewer mail section to tangents about Day of the Dead, Hellbound Hellraiser 2 and the Matrix sequels! There's a little something for every film fan in here, hope you all enjoy it! Thanks again to Axl and JScott from Profondo Cinema, still the best in the business!

Reappraisal Corner: Ang Lee's Hulk

A strange thing happened to me this last July while watching Captain America in the theater. Now, for the record, as much as I love dour, arty pieces of misanthropic pretension, I also can appreciate the ecstatic high achieved while sniffing the fleeting fumes of a throwaway Hollywood Blockbuster. I look forward to the summer movie season and try to see as many of these glittering baubles on the best possible digital screens with the most eardrum damaging sound systems available. I can grin like a contented idiot while the earth burns as well as the next American, but after the earnest, workmanlike origin of Steve Rogers was taken care of, I found myself beginning to become irritated and impatient.

What followed from the midway point was nothing more than a bunch of formless action montages with no discernible purpose other than to get our hero frozen in ice, effectively setting up next summers The Avengers. Marvel has done a hell of a job establishing their palatable universe of dashing cads and genetically deformed do gooders, but after, what is it now? 346 films in the last 4 years? I finally realized that my brain was shrivelling up inside my skull and retreating back down my neo-cortex in an effort to permanently lodge itself in my rectum. All these wannabe blockbusters and force fed franchises amount to so much shiny dross that is exactly good enough and definitively no better. All that star power and opening weekend calculation castrating our inability to critically assess how unnecessary it is for these stories to be told. Walking out of the theater after the obligatory Marvel post credit sequence that concluded Captain America, I felt drained of all interest or enthusiasm for superhero flicks specifically, but on a larger scale, for the summer movie season in its entirety and all that entails.

Back in June of 2003, America's Hulk fever was positively boiling over. Well, that's how I remember it in any case. Our nations collective movie malady cooled off quickly upon its release as most were bewildered and bored by Ang Lee's atypical approach to the burgeoning genre. His psychological art house take on the subject matter went over like the proverbial fart in church as even a cinema snob as open minded as myself couldn't wait for it to be over so I could rip it apart on the car ride home. But, like all interesting films, something about it stuck in the back of my mind and it begged to be revisited, an impulse I kept at bay until recently acquiring the bargain price bluray.

While far from a misunderstood classic and chock full of narrative flaws, there is considerable merit to be found in its obtuse insistence on being taken more seriously than some silly superhero movie. First, the Hulk isn't really a superhero, certainly not in this film at least. He's treated as the personification of bottled up, unchecked emotion resulting in the amplification of explosive rage. A post traumatic stress disorder case throwing a gargantuan tantrum that not only can't be controlled, but will horrifically escalate if you have the temerity to attempt to. While I can understand the thematic appeal a man with such a bifurcated emotional life would hold to a film maker as delicate as Ang Lee, it doesn't necessarily guarantee a compelling film story. The problem lies in the presentation and the format. On a comic page, you can visually accept a 6 foot man violently transforming into a 15 foot green behemoth. There is a consistency to the image. It's a drawing, none of it is real, therefore, in its own universe, it is all real. When Eric Bana becomes the Hulk in the film, it is painfully evident it's a special effect. Subsequently, we cease to believe a man and his complex oedipal issues are lurking inside this pixilated creation bounding from one side of the screen to the other.

Also... Note to Hollywood: Nobody cares about the Betty love story in a Hulk movie. The Hulk is more than enough visually and thematically for an audience to deal with. There is no need to tack on a paper thin romance that will never find resolution. If you're going to keep putting the Hulk in movies, please stop shoehorning this worthless character in there and forcing whatever brunette actress is enjoying a streak of employability at the time of its filming to stare wistfully at a tennis ball held aloft by a stage hand. Connely isn't nearly as bad as Tyler was, but she's pretty damn dull and Bana, who was so astounding in Chopper, is sadly milquetoast in this as well.

So what does work? The transitions are amazingly inventive. For the first half hour, the film is a hallucinatory blur with one scene cleverly melting into the next. It feels propulsive and exciting, so when Lee starts to lose steam, applying the technique less and less as it progresses, the movie suffers and begins to drag. Really beautiful stuff for a while though and his nature photography in the desert is stately, restrained and wonderfully cinematic. While I think the effects detract from ones ability to take any aspect of the story seriously, I do like the cartoonish look to them and feel the Hulk comes across as fully realized, just not believably integrated with his flesh and blood counterpart. The dogs look good as well with an interesting mutation design and Nolte's powers mix it up with a varied take on the dangerous allure of science run amok.

Speaking of Nolte, he's far and away the best thing about this picture. He gamely tackles this unglamorous role and imbues it with a mountain of palpable world weariness. It's the flip side to his role in Affliction, in this case he's the purveyor of the paternal abuse and positively swirling with conflicting emotions and motivations. It's actually a fascinatingly drawn character and Nolte colors it with a great deal of nuance, humor and humanity. I'd also like to single out Josh Lucas, who seems to be the only other person in the film who knew how to approach their role. He's deliciously smarmy and aggressive. A fun villain who has a great exit, but leaves too soon.

The ending though, is truly something to behold. Most Marvel films botch the conclusion, leaving you shrugging in disinterested dissatisfaction. Hulk however, wraps things up with an audacious, experimental exercise in conveying conflict resolution by the expulsion and transference of emotional pain. An interesting choice to be sure and one that decidedly disappointed action fans. I find it more and more interesting every time I watch it. It begins like a play, boldly focusing on Nolte and Bana in an enormous hangar with only two spotlights illuminating them. There's a stark intimacy to the scene and playing off Nolte, Bana finally comes alive in the role. After Nolte commences with some memorable speechifying, the scene electrically switches settings with the stunning motif of these two titans travelling through the clouds in fresco flashes of painted images. Easily my favorite visual idea in the film and it culminates in a billowing cloud of repressed rage and sadness being annihilated by the military. I flat out love everything about this bizarre and overtly psychological denouement.

So yes, it still has problems, but it dares to be unique and challenging. In this era where the studio system has the assembly line production of superhero films down to a fine point, I miss a film like Hulk. I miss not knowing what I was going to get going in, even if I was less than impressed by the results. I'd rather someone swing for the fences with their own vision than simply point and shoot, part of a committee approach resulting in one homogenized and carefully practiced product. Even if it's a "silly superhero movie", I want art out of it, not soap.

It Stinks! Dario Argento

I usually try to write only about that which I love in this blog because I feel the Internet is filled with enough negativity as it is. After reading through some old posts however, I couldn't help but notice my hyperbole is growing stale and my adjective choices (being of the positive leanings) have grown quite repetitive. So, in the interests of mixing it up, breaking out of my rut and plain old exorcising nasty demons, I present the inaugural "It Stinks!" entry. Let's begin by deflating that sallow, greasy bag of Italian hot air, Dario Argento.

To these jaded eyes, Dario is far and away the most over rated genre film maker to ever come down the pike. I understand that his influence on vastly better film makers has been monumental and his films are stylish and gleefully violent at times. This doesn't excuse how pointless they are, not to mention thinly written and atrociously cast. In fact, I don't recall a single line from any of his films off the top of my head. I don't need Aaron Sorkin pounding the keys for my misogynistic murder movies or anything, but good god man! He let Adam Gierasch and his wife script the final entry in his three mothers trilogy for the love of Jeff! But, "it's not the script that matters!", protest his ardent devotee's, "it's all about the lyrical style." Now, I consider myself a huge fan of style over substance. I've even written at length in these pages about my interest in a break from slavish adherence to predictable narrative machinations. So the fact that Argento's angles, colors and lighting leave me cold is most troubling.

I have put a lot of effort into enjoying Argento, hell, I'd settle for tolerating him at this point. Problem being, I have yet to find his films the least bit compelling. I find the protagonists as one dimensional as the victims and the victims as perfunctory and unimpressive as the killers. Take Deep Red for example. To me, this is the most embarrassingly over rated genre film perhaps of all time. I know of very few people who don't consider it an out and out masterpiece, usually the same people who bemoan art house pretension and movies without effective plotting. I hate to break it to everyone, but Deep Red is a crushing bore. Like all Argento's Giallo films I've had the displeasure to slog through, it begins with some uncharismatic asshole stumbling onto a murder I have no interest in seeing solved. Then follows some painful attempts at humor and romance, glacially paced and violently boring exposition, a half decent murder every 38 minutes and it's all capped off with a reveal of the killer that makes you shrug and say "Whatever man, anything to wrap this shit up." There isn't enough style in the world to make these boiler plate, sub-CSI mysteries the least bit interesting to me.

I won't outright assert the man has had no positive effect on cinema though. He did produce Dawn of the Dead (though butchered it with his tone deaf cut), Phenomena admittedly has a fun, ghastly charm to it and Inferno has that one great scene in the alchemists basement, but other than that, the dude is pretty much a total wash for me. Perhaps it's because I didn't see Suspiria (my first foray into his films) until a scant three years ago and my expectations were too astronomical. Whatever the reason, after immersing myself in his career and forcing myself to choke down his back catalog out of some misplaced sense of obligation to the horror genre, I can finally admit to myself that I find the films of Dario Argento to be tedious swill.

No longer will I groan my way through the Golgothan march of Opera, surely the ugliest movie ever made in such a beautiful setting. Never again will I endure the repugnant, pointless unpleasantness of Tenebre. I will not abide the blistering banality of Deep Red solely to groove on the funky Goblin track during the credits. I would sit through a thousand Katherine Heigel rom-com's before again subjecting myself to his animal trilogy, a troika of cinematic sleeping pills that verily challenge you to complete them. To put it as kindly as I care to, Dario Argento is an energetic hack left unchecked in his shallow end of the sandbox for far too long. When I see genre enthusiasts saying terrible things about Romero and demanding he hang it up while giving this buffoon a pass, I weep for the dispensation of the modern horror fan.

But, to each his own and all that. I'm not singling anyone out in particular with this inflammatory screed. This invective toward the "Edgar Allen Poe of Italy" (Jesus, that reminds me how belligerently awful his Black cat with Keitel was) has been building up in me a long time. Given my ever swaying opinion though, I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if I was all about the dude in another three or four years. Well, only time will tell.

Valhalla Rising

Valhalla Rising is like Michael Keaton's life in Tim Burton's Batman. It's.....complex. I saw it several months before Drive came out, and without that more initially palatable aesthetic touchstone, I was somewhat lost. I knew it's poetic barbarism appealed to me on an elemental level, but felt at arms length from this Danish auteur's peculiar stylistic approach. Frankly it struck me as underwhelming and more than a little boring. After seeing Drive three times in the theater and drooling all over Refn's shot compositions, I felt that I was beginning to grasp what this preternaturally gifted film maker was going for. Perhaps it took witnessing his virtuosic milieu grafted on to a more recognizable genre to acclimate me to the manner in which he presents a story, especially in the case of one as compelling, distant and esoteric as Valhalla Rising.

This week, I purchased the film and began re watching it in manageable chunks each night before sleep. Some nights I would watch half of it or more. In all, I'd say I've seen the film 3 times now and have developed a need to view at least some of it before succumbing to slumber. No longer simply to utilize its leisurely pace as a cure for insomnia, but to solemnly study, to contemplate and to savor. I suffered from sudden cardiac death in early august of this year and was technically dead for several minutes before being revived. Since rejoining the land of the living and beginning my long road to recovery, I've been preoccupied with my own mortality, the meaning of life and the potential for a level of existence beyond the corporeal. Needless to say, Valhalla Rising is a much more striking proposition to me now for reasons beyond a heightened understanding of how its director works. If you're at all curious, I saw no light at the end of no tunnel during my ordeal. Take from that what you will.

In any case, the film concerns a mute, one eyed warrior held captive by a tribal chieftain in an unnamed Scandinavian setting. He is forced to fight other men to the death until he breaks free of his bonds, slays his captors and takes a young boy under his protection. The pair come across a group of "holy men" looking to travel to New Jerusalem and reclaim it for the Christian God. They join up with them and the quest becomes a convoluted, meaningless descent into the hell of the new world at the ends of the earth. I detest synopsizing and clearly have no skill at it, but it bears spelling out to effectively highlight the strange, meandering path this hallucinatory tone poem takes. The characters motivations are unclear, the exact time and place are open to interpretation and its overall meaning is as much a mystery as whether or not a meaning even exists. So, the film is a lot like life.

Mads Mikkelsen (the best name this side of Dieter Laser) is so visually arresting as One Eye, you can be forgiven for not understanding how remarkable his performance is the first few times around. He somehow can imbue every look with a million possible meanings, all the while retaining an air of unknowable, alien indifference. Like Gosling in Drive, the films efficacy hinges entirely on his presence, yet unlike Driver, Mikkelsen's One Eye has no lines whatsoever and is so unearthly it's difficult to relate or sympathise with him at all. Yet, like the misguided men who claim righteousness as their guide, you would gladly follow him into hell. A large part of my fascination with this film is wrapped up in attempting to interpret what exactly this character symbolizes. Like so many elements in the Refn oeuvre, it is not blatantly explained and you are allowed to use it as a mirror to reflect your own preconceived notions and beliefs.

The film is a litmus test in some ways for what you expect out of cinema. It's a colossal undertaking in the same way that reading Nietzsche or Moby Dick is. People can bellow about its pretension all they want, but you get out of it what you put into it. I really don't mean to come across with that lamentable "You don't like it cause you didn't understand it" attitude. Valhalla Rising is not necessarily a smart movie. It's primal, barbaric and structurally simplistic. You can choose to engage with it or not. The same option is presented to us whether we watch 2001 or The Chronicles of Riddick, and as Vin admonishes a group of Crematoria slam inmates before attempting escape in the latter, "Don't step up if you can't keep up". You have to want it with Valhalla, and considering how I've been drawn back to it time and again, I apparently want it a great deal.

There is a scene toward the end that is perhaps one of the most beautifully haunting I've ever had the privilege to see. One of the party following One Eye who has been bleeding out after suffering an unexpected incision is seated atop a hill overlooking a stunning tableau of mountains and valleys. The camera hold on the mans face in profile for what seems an eternity as his life force ever so slowly ebbs and eventually dissipates. Then.... cut to a shot of the seated man from behind with the grandeur of nature spread out before his empty vessel. It's a transition and an image so breathtaking it hurts the eyes with its forceful, nearly vulgar purity. In a film chock full of caustic moments that make life seem a hellish struggle for survival, it is this instance of aquiescence to nature that stays with you longest.

Changeling

It was sometime after seeing Mystic River and Letters from Iwo Jima in the theater that I wrote off seeing any more Clint Eastwood films. Those cinematic exercises in relentless misery were well constructed and all, but watching them made me feel like drowning myself in the bathtub would be a whimsical endeavor in comparison. I don't know where it was exactly that Eastwood essentially became Gaspar Noe with a more melancholic bent, but a little of that goes an awful long way. In my estimation, Eastwood's finest moment will always be Unforgiven, that perfect marriage of gentle poetry and ass whupping that deservedly netted Clint best picture and Director. Other than sharing a comedy bit with my friends in which we imitated Clint's hilariously over exaggerated grimacing done in Absolute Power while watching Gene Hackman's POTUS murdering a woman, nothing the man has done in the last 2 decades has appealed to me much. Apparently my wife was unaware of this opinion and took Netflix's suggestion of Changeling to heart. So, it was chagrined and with a wary, distrustful attitude that I sat down last evening to begrudgingly give this Hollywood legends work a fresh appraisal.

I had no idea Eastwood had finally decided to make an out and out horror film, but that's exactly what Changeling is. Sure, it has sumptuous period detail, top notch acting and sturdy, patient direction, but at heart this is a skin crawling genre film. A deeply unsettling dissertation on death, evil and loss. The film is a dizzying descent into the depths of this woman's hell. One atrocity and indignity after another is uncovered and suffered as the layers of sadness threaten to suffocate both protagonist and viewer alike.

I've never been sold on the merits of Angelina Jolie, but she is quite good in this. Her hallowed, skeletal beauty suits her characters martyrdom nicely and her exasperated rage is impressive in certain scenes, if a tad overdone and one note in others. Jeffrey Donovan is a hoot playing the despicable cop railroading Jolie out of corrupted laziness and plain old misogynist spite. His Irish policeman trying to be smooth in L.A. schtick is pure gold and perhaps the only area in which the film allows itself to have any fun. He's a magnetic presence and I look forward to seeing more of him. Michael Kelly brings an assuring, welcome stoicism to his decent (but not that nice) cop role. Amy Adams character however seems an afterthought not entirely fleshed out and whose pragmatic narrative purpose is jarringly at odds with the rest of the films more lucid tone.

But she's just the beginning of the problems with this film. A harbinger of tonal recriminations that begin to pile up and threaten to torpedo the uneasy, unknowable queasiness the film impressively exudes for the first ninety minutes. It begins to degenerate into maudlin, predictable set pieces that ground the film back in a safe reality its previous invention had so deftly avoided. For the first hour and a half of this two hour and fifteen minute film, it felt like a waking, Lynchian nightmare. A bottomless emotional hole designed to collapse your soul and prolapse your sense of right and wrong. So you can imagine why shoehorning in trite, A Few Good Men courtroom histrionics and sub par R. P. McMurphy sticking it to the man moments would ruin the momentum. The tacked on and totally unnecessary message of hope at the very end is particularly out of place and nearly unforgivable in the way it seems to suggest all is well when it clearly is not.

Still, that first hour an a half admittedly shattered something within me and I have not been able to get the more murderous moments of the film out of my head. I've decided against detailing the unsavory elements of this film because I don't have much of an idea how many have seen it and would prefer not to be the one that spoils it if you choose to. Needless to say, I went into this film not knowing much about how the story would play out and frankly, it does so in an unexpected, devastating fashion. It's a damn shame that through loss of directorial nerve and structural compromises made in the script, what could have been something truly great became something only frustratingly good. You can't go as far as this movie does, then try to take it back.

Drive

Seeing Drive brought me back to the overwhelming, breathless awe I felt while first witnessing films like Goodfella's, Natural Born Killers, Pulp Fiction, Heat and The Crow on the big screen. Not because it necessarily shares any narrative, thematic or aesthetic attributes with those classics, but because it reawakened my sense memory to a time when cinema could seem dangerous and beautiful to behold all at once. In the early to mid 9o's, I was coming of age and had the good fortune of sharing my new found freedom through gaining my drivers license with the release of an onslaught of seminal, game changing movies. As fun as 80's films were and as much as they were instrumental in cementing my adoration of the cinematic art form, it was discovering the complex nuance of something like The Usual Suspects or the Gothic nihilism of Se7en that made me realize my childhood interest could blossom into a life spanning and full blown adult obsession.

Drive is in every single aspect a perfect film. People will say it's a hollow, pretentious exercise in style and a narrative black hole with oversimplified connections between thinly drawn characters. They won't be wrong, but they're missing the bigger picture. The greatest movies don't need to mean or be about anything. They don't need to tell important stories or preach universal truths. They need to be powerful examples of an art form, which people tend to forget film inherently is. Sure, it can raise consciousness or unite an audience behind a hero in the interests of spawning a franchise, but I feel no more transcendence than when a film sucks me out of my life and into the world it has created, leaving me desperately wanting to return to it the instant the end credits begin to roll. Drive is such a film.

From the opening sequence, it's clear that you're in the hands of a master visual stylist. A true auteur working with supreme confidence to achieve a singular vision. No notions of audience concession or studio interference are allowed to touch this film. Refn seems to be wielding some sort of Kubrickian control over this project and his results under these circumstances speak volumes about the need for a return to 70's era directorial reverence and the preferential treatment afforded such gifted craftsmen. Drive is a liquid dream, gliding and floating with effortless control through the lives of bad men and the unfortunate women drawn to them. It presents Los Angeles as a hazy world without rules or structure where waitresses, gangsters, auto mechanics and film industry professionals all occupy the same space, bumping into each other to tragic, detrimental effect. It's a world of allure, danger and ghostly silence. Otherworldly and dreamlike in a classic 1980's Michael Mann capacity.

The story and characters aren't important here, its the raw elements that are. The colorful criminal menace, the bruised but beautiful moll, the sad sack father figure, the doe eyed dame with the cute kid and most importantly, the hypnotic, magnetic force of the enigmatic Driver unifying them all. Albert Brooks and Ron Perlman are pure gold in only the way 2 such brilliant character actors can be, but it's in the inspired pairing of them that we are given something altogether hilarious, dangerous and strangely realistic. Cranston wholly inhabits his chain smoking, limping nefarious manager role with a warm, preternatural paternity, grounding the film with his recognizable humanity. Hendricks is pitch perfect despite the brevity of her appearance, displaying the terror and exhaustion of her character without requiring unnecessary back story or dialog. Oscar Isaac continues his ascension in my estimation through potently and memorably rendering a stock character, elevating the whole film in the process.

But truthfully, the film is a make or break proposition resting on Goslings shoulders to bring across the nearly silent and certainly off putting lead role of the Driver. To say he pulls off this fearless high wire act of acting with aplomb is a gross understatement. With a character so hard to read who has no history spelled out for the viewer and rarely speaks, Gosling takes this golden opportunity to turn in a performance so fascinating, I dare you to take your eyes off him. He makes every affectation of his posture its own universe of endlessly fascinating intricacy. The pointing of his finger, clenching of his gloved hands or his sly, dispassionate grin all serve to draw you in, yet keep you at a frustrated distance. The controlled nervousness of his fingers fluttering across the steering wheel during a heist speak volumes more about the inner workings of this sociopath than ten pages of dialog could have, and good lord is this character ever a sociopath.

The Driver isn't just familiar with or adept at committing violence. He embodies violence. It follows him and flows from him as naturally as water distributing itself into a tributary. There is a scene where after exploding in jaw dropping rage, he turns and faces his ostensible love interest and tries to compose himself , the effect comes across like someone attempting to suppress a werewolf transformation. It's but one of a thousand such haunting and unforgettable images in the film. I won't spoil the particulars, but there's a scene with Perlman and Gosling on a beach toward the end that is so powerful and laden with iconic magnificence, even if the rest of the film surrounding it was total garbage, it would still be the best film of the year, just off the strength of that one scene.

I've enjoyed a lot of the films I've seen this year and would even go so far as to say found a few to be quite impressive, but none have had the instantaneous and revelatory effect of Drive. I've been hearing the hype and expecting something good, maybe even great. In no way was I prepared for the masterpiece it truly is. It is without doubt a film that will be talked about, analyzed and worshipped for generations to come.

Attack The Block

Attack the Block is a perfect example of what happens when everything comes together just right on a film. There's a reason this is one of the most fawned over and relentlessly hyped movies of the year. A film so hyped up by the internet cinema dorks that I almost didn't want to see it out of spite for their incessantly slobbering, slavish worshipping. Well, I noticed it was playing at my local AMC, so with the caveat that I would at least be able to see it screened in a decent theater with good sound and comfortable seating, I ventured out, ready to scrutinize and shoot down this behemoth of internet adulation. Suffice to say, this movie had an uphill battle to win me over. On top of my irritation with the aforementioned lemming like praise it's engendered, I detest hip hop fashion, music and attitude, not to mention English slang, all of which this film traffics heavily in. Plus, its central characters are teen gangster dickheads, and after an ongoing spate of similarly misguided youth killing each other in the city I live in, I was less than receptive to get behind them as protagonists. But, like all great movies, this one is more than the sum of its parts and vastly more than meets the eye upon first glance.

Attack the Block is an alien invasion movie that has nothing to do with an alien invasion. Attack the Block is about responsibility to your fellow humans, it's about forging friendship through empathetic understanding and most importantly, it's about acknowledging that your actions have consequences. Unlike another recent low budget alien invasion film I watched today entitled Monsters (also much hyped), the message and subtext didn't overwhelm the film, crushing all the fun and life out of it. No, Attack the Block is a breezy and exhilarating ride during which I fell in love with the characters, no small feat considering how much I hated them after their introduction mugging a young woman. Moses, the lead character played by John Boyega is instantly one of the most compelling heroes in modern cinema. Mark my words, Boyega is going to have a huge career if he plays his cards right. This kids screen presence and charisma is off the charts. The emotional dexterity he instills in this complex character is both fascinating and heartbreaking to watch, especially considering how few lines of dialogue he has.

The aliens are a marvel of artistic restraint. So many low budget films botch the usage of CGI. Attack the Block gets it just right. The aliens are galloping pitch black entities with glowing teeth and ear shredding screams. The creature design is perfect in that it is unique, allows for the maximum suspension of disbelief and subtly serves as a visual allegory for the darkness surrounding this economically distressed housing block in general and the demon of hopeless criminal recidivism and escalation bearing down on Moses in particular.

I won't get further into this because I want everyone to give this film a watch free of spoilers and I know it isn't widely released or available as of yet. I'll just say that I went into this with a scowl on my face and left the theater emotionally drained, hopeful for humanity and happy as hell. If that isn't the point of art, I don't know what is.

Don't be Afraid of the Dark

I've long been a Guillermo DelToro booster. I saw Mimic in theaters and enjoyed it greatly. I followed his career catching up on Cronos and seeing The Devil's Backbone, Pan's Labyrinth and both the Hellboy films as they were released and generally loving them all. It's been three long years since the spectacular Hellboy 2 and good old Guillermo's been attached to more films than Justin Timberlake women, yet nothing has materialised. Until now. Well, he only wrote the script for Don't Be afraid of the Dark, but his fingerprints are all over this thing from the fairy tale mythos to the nasty critters to the murals on the wall even down to the brocaded headboard on the child's bed! And you know what? This movie stinks. It's absolute junk. It's a wannabe high brow Charles Band feature at best. Just because DelToro has a notebook full of doodles doesn't mean he has to shoehorn them into a lackluster creature feature starring two disinterested adults and one homely little girl.

After a moderately promising prologue, we're introduced to the most milquetoast "movie couple" I've ever seen. The lack of chemistry is simply astonishing. Guy Pearce and Katie Holmes literally seem like they just met 2 minutes before filming.... in every scene they share!!! It never comes across as anything than what it is, Pearce slumming for a big paycheck and Holmes taking a token role to remind people she's actually an actress and not just Cruise's indentured wife. The little girl in this film serves as a stark reminder of how much DelToro lucked out finding Ivana baqero for Pan's labyrinth. The camera loved her, she had innate talent and copious screen charisma. I don't mean to bag on a little girl, so let's just say the child actor in Don't be afraid of the Dark is not someone you want to spend an hour and forty minutes following around. So, right off the bat, I can't buy into the lead couple's relationship which emotionally distances me from the film and I dislike the protagonist, making it difficult for me to care when she's imperiled.

And what is she put into peril by? Spoiler alert for those who care........ It's pretty much the tooth fairy creatures from Hellboy 2, but less cartoonish, more ugly and without wings. So now the movie is repetitive as well. These sort of mythical creatures with fairy tale roots have long been a DelToro staple to flavor his films (such as the aforementioned Hellboy 2 sequence, which lasted 10 minutes), here, it's the entire course! I was intrigued by the films advertising, eager to learn what this house's secret was. After discovering it was simply alternate versions of the 8 inch tall turds from Subspecies rendered in better graphics, well, needless to say, I was a little disappointed. Not only is the threat underwhelming and silly, it's revealed far too early in the story, leaving the film makers no option but to "treat" us to a dreary, seemingly endless parade of sequences where characters are in a dark room, then something is really loud, then they fend off CGI beasties by pointing flashlights at them (cause they can't stand the light, natch). Not exactly gripping stuff to this 34 year old man. I felt the same as I did watching Child's Play all those years ago, inwardly screaming, "Why don't you just kick them?!?!?!?".

This being a tiresome exercise in convention, we get treated to all the classics. Flashlights being smacked around by the protagonists, sputtering light during tense situations when they need it so desperately. The child droning on and on about the threat and no one believing her. The stepmother trying to side with her and doing research at the library to uncover the horrible truth. The child making creepy drawings etc... You name it, this movie trots it out, by the numbers and every bit as brain numbing as it sounds. I wanted to leave about an hour in, but realized I had nothing better to do at home, so I stuck it out, hoping against hope there would be some redeeming quality to mitigate DelToro's complicit guilt in penning this drivel, but there was to be none. Please Guillermo, I beg of you to return to the directors chair. Just please do so once you've settled on a project infinitely more ambitious and deserving of your talents than this utter waste.

You Know What's Great? The Mangler!

Tobe Hooper's The Mangler, released in in the dead center of the most despised decade for horror among genre fans, seems to have become some sort of horror-dork anointed scapegoat for the entire time frame of the 90's. EVERYBODY hates this movie and I can not for the life of me understand why. I sit back and watch horror nerds bestow breathless accolades upon the Friday the 13th series, which I find to be a generally boring and bloodless affair with no style and even less substance, while trashing this quirky Hooper gem and I shake my head in disgusted disbelief. The go-to focal point in tearing The Mangler down is its outlandish premise of a possessed laundry folding machine become unquenchable killer after getting a taste for virgin blood during the dazzling credit sequence. I can scarcely think of a greater reason to recommend a film than it having the temerity to be unique to the point of being difficult, but I'll offer some more.

This film looks like magnificent. The production design is spot on, be it the hellish sweatshop conditions of the laundry factory or the cavernous descent into the underworld represented by the locations of the morgue and the photographers black room/office. The titular murderous machine is mightily impressive in all its limb chomping glory and looks threatening as hell sputtering sparks and smoke while blood spatters from its unholy maw. Hooper shoots the film with unmitigated flair, his camera always moving, always underscoring the thematic momentum of the story. From the manner he films laundry impresario Bill Gartley to emphasise how his damaged physicality embodies his despicable, heartless capitalism to the contrast of inviting Christmas lights and mystical doo dads in the trees of our protagonists brother in laws plot of land. The wooden bridge symbolizing the hardened cop coming over to his way of thinking about the supernatural by the end of the film. It's all deliberate and it all works.

The performances are uniformly excellent and more importantly, off the wall to the point of being psychotic. Ted Levine, a vastly under used character actor best known for his role of Buffalo Bill in Silence of the Lambs, is let loose in the lead role of Detective John "Johnny" Hunton. He's stressed out, volatile, combative and terrifyingly histrionic. He seems like someone who should not be entrusted with a badge, but that's what makes the character compelling. His embittered pragmatism clashes wonderfully with the hippy dippy spirituality of his neighbor/Brother in law played with likable coolness by Daniel Matmoor. Their relationship becomes quite touching by the end of the film and extremely effective. Englund is hilariously awful (by which I mean great) as the differently abled head of the laundry with a million secrets and a soul so black he makes Dick Cheney seem huggable in contrast. My favorite performance in the film though, is that of Jeremy Crutchley as J.J.J. the towns post mortem photographer, who seems to have walked straight off the set of a 1950's noir film. He icily insinuates himself into these morbid situations and his bemused detachment belies a more poignant side to be revealed spectacularly toward the end. His final scene is a powerhouse of acting and his character one I think of often when considering the notion of facing the unavoidable specter of death.

The gore is top notch and plentiful, also something missing from most films of the era and the 80's in general. Englund's demise is one of the more fitting and bombastic villain death scenes I can recall. I also like how this film handles both practical gore and supernatural pyrotechnics with equal aplomb. This is a kitchen sink movie if ever there was one. It's got something to appeal to every kind of genre fan, except those slavishly devoted to dim witted, moronic, one-note slasher films consisting of tedious P.O.V. shots of vapid teenagers being followed around for what seems like an eternity before being killed off screen. There's none of that garbage in The Mangler, just good old fashioned entertainment consisting of bold characters, a compelling story, plentiful grue and masterful direction. I can't recommend it highly enough to first timers in the search of an evening of enthusiastic entertainment. And to those who have previously seen and dismissed it outright, I beg of you to give it another chance and appreciate what's there instead of bemoaning what isn't.

Thanks loyal Readers!

Just wanted to print a quick thank you to all my loyal readers and to all who took the time to send me a nice comment following my return from the beyond! It really helps as a pick me up and shows me the internet isn't just full of trolling assholes out to tear everything down for no reason. There's actually some decent people here to talk film! In any case, no matter how hard I try, I can't figure out how to post reply comments on my own blog anymore! It keeps asking me to sign in, which I do, then the verification, then it asks me to sign in again, then the verification.... It's like that painting of a guy painting himself painting a picture into infinity. So take this as my response and thanks again!

Back from the Dead!

As some of you might have heard, roughly three weeks ago, I suffered what the doctors referred to as sudden cardiac death. My heart stopped and I technically died. Thankfully, I was resuscitated, put on ice to allow my body and brain to recuperate and thanks to my healthy workout and eating regimen, am on my way to a full recovery. I don't want to get into the nuts and bolts of my medical shit as it's morbid and uninteresting to me, so I can only imagine how snooze inducing it would be to my readership. Suffice to say, I had a faulty valve and it was fixed. My being alive is indebted to my spartan lifestyle and the quick thinking of the gentleman who found me, not to mention the expertise of the many Doctor's who cared for me. The upshot is, I've been able to see a multitude of films recently, both theatrical and on home video. There's not much to do during a convalescence besides fade in and out of consciousness and stare blankly at flickering images. So, without further ado, here's what I've been watching lately!

Stakeland was fantastic. Maybe the best horror film of the year next to Insidious (not that there's much competition). It's epic, yet claustrophobic. Lyrical, yet blunt. Draining, yet invigorating. It's the kind of horror film that transcends genre while being indisputably of it. This is the kind of movie to point to when non-genre fans ridicule horror as the breeding ground for mouth breathing stupidity and senseless violence.

Rec2 was visceral as all get out, but ultimately tedious as all films featuring the found footage gambit are. Your Highness was a disappointing, vulgar festival of inconsequence. All high concept and no actual jokes, unless swearing and intimating molestation, sexual assault and rape at every turn count as jokes nowadays.

The Rise of the Planet of the Apes was exceptional and easily the best movie of the summer. It was thrilling, innovative, intelligent, complex and compassionate, a series of adjectives I usually can't associate with modern film. The Final Destination was great fun to me for some reason. I saw it with my father shortly after my own brush with death and found it endlessly amusing. I'm sure a large part of it was introducing my dad to the series and watching him squirm through the protracted and misleading set pieces. It was also just plain great to be out of the hospital, seeing a movie with the man who instilled in me my love of film.

Conan The Barbarian hit the sweet spot for me. It's unrelenting in it's pacing, action and violence. The story and characters are nothing new or that great, but they got the job done in a workmanlike fashion. The movie provided me with a much needed escape. I know every critic seemingly despises it, but I appreciated it's sloping brow mentality and cut rate fantasy film backdrops. It was a treat to sit through a film where no one whipped out a cell phone or gave a moments thought to political correctness. I doubt I will remember it much come years end, but I thought it was a blast when I saw it in the theater and that 's about as much as one can expect from the current crop of cinema.

I saw the Fright Night remake, which didn't fare as well for me. I guess I didn't see the point. Nothing was altered drastically enough to justify a redux and the violence and effects weren't nearly as visceral or creative as they were in the original. I watched the original on DVD the night after and was reminded how exciting, lively and clever it was, which only served to throw into sharper contrast how dull, drab and crude the inessential remake is. The original is so colorful and vibrant, while the remake is seemingly shot with all the lights out in black and white. If it's a stylistic choice, it was a bad one, cause the film verily dares you to watch it.

A great friend of mine sent me the blu's for Zombie Holocaust (or as I prefer to refer to it, Dr. Butcher MD!) and Criterion's Blow Out, so I can't wait to dig into those this coming week. Another good friend has loaned me his complete set of Planet of the Apes blurays, while Axl from Profondo Cinema sent me a care package of DVD goodness I can't wait to dip into! Thanks so much to all the friends and well wishers out there that made returning to the world of the living such a pleasant and touching affair. I'm on the mend and ready to get back at film dissection with a renewed purpose and vigor!

Rediscovering artistic extremity in music through the pursuit of physical perfection

Film has become something I'm less and less interested in lately. I've enjoyed going to the theater on a fairly regular basis and taking in the sights and sounds of the summer blockbuster season, but I doubt I'll be thinking much about Thor or X-Men First Class once the leaves start falling. I find it harder and harder to sit still for my fallback films as time goes on and after selling off half of my once cherished collection, I can definitively state that the days of Shloggs the compulsive collector have come to a close. It's time to come clean about the obsession currently consuming this erstwhile cinephile. Bodybuilding. Yes, you read that right. I grew up in the 80's, worshipping Arnold and Sly and reading Muscle and Fitness magazine, dreaming of one day sporting the lats of Lee Haney, the traps of Rich Gaspari and the bicep peaks of Albert Beckles. I'm certain no one is interested in my encyclopedic knowledge of mid 70's to late 80's body builders, but the point is, after moving into a complex with a well stocked workout room, my love affair with resistance training has been rekindled with a passion.

The endlessly inspirational documentary Pumping Iron makes a clear cut case for body building as an art form. The pursuit of attaining symmetry, strength and size with your own body as the canvas using hard work, discipline and scientific understanding of muscle groups and diet as the instrument. I have found an outlet for my creativity outside the navel gazing of sedentary consumption or self loathing misanthropy and it feels fantastic. Finally, here is something in life that I have complete control over. The results are dependent entirely upon the effort, both physical and mental, I put into it and nothing else. It's liberating to be involved in something which preconceived opinion and differing taste has no bearing. I've always been a big dude and dabbled haphazardly in it, but dedicating myself wholly to the discipline with purpose and clarity has been rewarding and life affirming in a manner bordering on spiritual.

Point being, this endeavor has occasioned me to re-familiarize myself with music as it is my sole companion and trusted motivator while engaged in my morning sessions. Music was my second love after film and I (mis)spent most of my teens and early 20's playing in bands. Heavy metal most appealed to me with its darkness and aggression. I discovered Slayer, Metallica and Megadeth first, but just as my tastes in film clamored for the ever more extreme, I found myself searching out underground publications (in the glorious pre-Internet world where you had to put effort into finding that which spoke to you personally) to help me locate the cutting edge. I moved onto Carcass, Godflesh, Entombed, Prong and a bevy of similarly transgressive acts. Standard music with 4/4 time signatures and intelligible lyrics concerning the pedestrian notions of life and love became unlistenable tedium. I would come across albums that spoke deeply to me and study them for months. I mean literally listening to the one album for MONTHS and nothing else. Albums like Godflesh's Songs of Love and Hate, Carcass' Necrotism: Descanting the Insalubrious, Sepultura's Roots and Dimmu Borgir's Death Cult Armageddon.

I need my music to be like my films. It has to be confrontational and complex to the point that it can't possibly be understood on first listen. I need to put serious effort into comprehending it for it to be worth my while. I want to discover something new during each subsequent listen. To me, bands like AC/DC and The Ramones are the musical equivalent of Paul Blart Mall Cop and Rush Hour 2. Purely predictable pap, formulaic and easily digestible. I've been spinning a lot of jagged vitriol spewed by inhuman musicians while shredding muscle fiber such as The Red Chord, Whitechapel, Converge and Daath, but a certain album has come along and completely blindsided me. That album is the recently released masterpiece from Hate Eternal entitled Phoenix Amongst the Ashes.

Hate Eternal is the brainchild of death metal guitarist and producer extraordinaire Erik Rutan. To the uninitiated, it will at first listen seem a maelstrom of indecipherable nonsense. A blistering cacophony of merciless eardrum punishment conceived by steroidal demons in the bowels of hell with the sole purpose of driving mere mortals to irretrievable madness. There are no choruses here, no reference points, no calm amidst the storm, just pure insanity for 45 straight minutes. If this album were a film it would make the likes of Tetsuo, Irreversible and Cannibal Holocaust cower in fear. This shit makes avant garde Jazz and noise rock sound like the fucking Goo Goo Dolls. But, if you possess the intestinal fortitude to brave its monolithic onslaught more than once, the intricate brilliance of its otherworldly composition will slowly reveal itself. There are a million melodies contained within a single riff, a thousand ideas at play behind every blast beat. This album is artistic creativity moving at a million miles a second.

There is no commercial viability to this piece of art. The motives for its production are without compromise or concession. It is a vision as singular as anything from Kubrick, Fincher, Tsukamoto or Cronenberg. Rutan is the sole composer, the primary musician, hell, he's even the man behind microphone placement and performance selection. Through sheer force of will he has constructed this entire accomplishment, devoid of outside influence or marketplace dictation. This will only appeal to or even be understood by a select few who can tolerate its nearly unbearable intensity. To paraphrase Sherriff Wydell from Devil's Rejects, Rutan is playing on a level that few will ever see and to me, that is a feat as breathtaking as it is beautiful.