Grown-Ups (1980)

Grown-Ups is a 1990 film by Mike Leigh produced by the BBC. Starring Leigh regulars Phil Davis and Lesley Manville, as well as a wonderful supporting cast helmed by the incredible Brenda Blethyn, Grown-Ups follows the travails of young couple Dick and Mandy (Davis and Manville) as they move into a new council house. Dick and Mandy are assisted, or harassed, in their efforts to settle in by Mandy's sister Gloria, played with a delirious mania by Blethyn. Gloria fails miserably to understand when she is not wanted and, increasingly pushed out by her and Mandy's mother, intrudes more and more on the young couple's privacy. Eventually, Dick and Mandy's attempts to shoo Gloria away spill over, quite violently into the next door neighbours' house, the placid Ralph and Christine Butcher (played with great verve by Sam Kelley and Lindsay Duncan). Ralph and Christine are teachers, Ralph having taught a young Dick and Mandy. Their lives, in contrast to the low-brow pursuits of their neighbours, are prim and regular. Ralph is both horribly pedantic and horribly childish, while Christine, desperate for love and a family, operates with a laconic wit and laudable restraint, managing to maintain her cool despite Ralph's boorish carrying-ons. When Gloria, practically psychotic with desperation, is pushed into the Butchers' home following the climactic "row," Christine is ironically given what she has longed for, someone to mother. Meanwhile, Dick and Mandy, at their wits end, recover from this dust-up, Dick finally relenting to Mandy's wish to have a baby. The film ends with both families more or less reconciled, though in typical Leigh fashion, no simplistic resolutions are arrived at. Gloria is still overbearing and Christine deeply unsatisfied, however, through their dramatic encounter with one another, both sides have achieved some kind of cathartic release.

Grown-Ups finds Leigh rounding into his more modern form, following on 1979's solid Who's Who. Feeling like a fully-fleshed feature film, as opposed to the somewhat half-baked dramas of his early career, Grown-Ups features many, by now, familiar Leigh tropes. Both Christine and Mandy are hard-done-by wives, dealing with petulant, childish husbands. They both "get on," in classic Leigh fashion, despite their lackluster partners. There is also the predominant concern with babies. Both women, in very different ways, yearn for children. Mandy is very upfront with Dick about her desire while Christine's simmers below the surface, percolating in thinly veiled comments before exploding out angrily at the end. These are women desperate to settle in and get on with family life, while their husbands seem content to be cared for, like insolent children. This tension, between feminine and male desires, ties this drama together, uniting the two women in a seemingly hopeless quest for domestic harmony and progress. Leigh is expert at identifying humane allegiance between disparate people, and illustrating this in an unpretentious, un-didactic manner.

Like all of Leigh's best work, the performances in Grown-Ups are sterling. Davis and Manville are perfect as the casually feuding Dick and Mandy, while Blethyn is a force of nature as the barely-hinged Gloria. Duncan and Kelley are similarly great as the prim teachers, a perfect foil to their slobby neighbors. Blethyn's magnificent performances in Grown-Ups and Secrets and Lies, makes one wish her and Leigh worked together more often. Blethyn is so excellent at tempering her odd, almost screwball comic tendencies, with a heartbreaking sensitivity. The character of Gloria is unceasingly obnoxious yet supremely endearing. She is incapable of not annoying people, yet it is clear she is nothing but well-intentioned.

Grown-Ups shows Mike Leigh rounding into his present form, demonstrating the visual control and balance of zany comedy and startling intimacy that informs his best films. While not quite reaching the heights of some of his later works Grown-Ups is an excellent early film, and an interesting incubator for many of his most central preoccupations.

Tenebre (1982)

Tenebre is a 1982 giallo film by Dario Argento. Peter Neal arrives in Rome to promote his latest novel Tenebre, only to find that a copycat murderer is replicating the deaths from his book. Neal also starts receiving cryptic messages from the killer, and several of his coterie of comely young female assistants begin to be targeted. Neal and his lone male assistant, the fey Brit "Gianni" stalk the house of an obsessive reporter, believing him to the killer, only to see him get murdered. Gianni goes off the rails and is promptly relieved of his driving duties, however he too falls victim to the killer's knife. As seems to be typical of this type of film, lots of people, generally attractive young women whose connection to the narrative is tentative at best, get killed in grisly fashion. One is nearly killed by an acrobatic Doberman Pincher that chases her right into the killer's lair (can these chicks catch a break or what?). Not sure if the dog was in cahoots with the killer or perhaps some sort of schizophrenic hallucination (a la Son of Sam), either way... Eventually it is revealed that Neal himself is the killer (trip out!), or at least had killed some of the people (I wasn't paying that close of attention), spurred on by a memory of seaside sexual humiliation (he also killed that chick).

Apparently banned in the US for some time (before a highly-edited version under the hilarious moniker "Unsane" was released), Tenebre is the sort of lurid splatter-fest for which Argento is famous. While I didn't find the film terrifically interesting, Tenebre certainly presages the work of notable auteurs like Abel Ferrara and Vincent Gallo, with its combination of fashion, music, and "nastiness." The music is one redemptive aspect of the film as Goblin contribute a devastating soundtrack, most notable for the title track, which Justice would beef up for their hit "Phantom." The soundtrack, which at times sounds as if it was made for a different film, is remarkably modern, balancing the corny, arpeggiated sleaze of italo with a a dark, hollow cynicism.

While I appreciate some of Argento's more impressionistic touches (particularly the Fellini-esque flashback to the seaside rebuffing), the film often feels too vicious to enjoy. I don't mind watching people murder horrifically if there seems to be a point. Argento's films too often feel like the fever dream of a blood-obsessed music video director, the substance, if any, lies in the visuals, or, in the case of Tenebre, the soundtrack, which, in fairness, is ripping. For this one, watching a trailer and downloading the soundtrack would have sufficed.

Curtains (1983)

Curtains is a 1983 Canadian horror flick directed by Richard Ciupka. In preparation for the role of a lifetime, veteran thespian Samantha Sherwood (played by Samantha Eggar) fakes insanity in order to be institutionalized in an insane asylum. However, despite her inspiring commitment to the role, the director Jonathan Stryker (John Vernon) decides to hold a casting session at his creepy country home, inviting five strikingly different actresses. Not to be denied, Sherwood crashes this session, insisting she be considered for the role. Somewhere along the line a creepy doll and haggard old woman start killing people. It's not quite clear why these killings are happening, but generally foxy young women are the targets. Eventually, the killing reaches the country home, where it is revealed that Stryker owns the creepy old hag mask, using it for acting exercises. One by one the actresses, and Stryker, fall, until only Sherwood and a comedienne, Patti O'Connor (Lynn Griffin) are left. And though Sherwood, in a jealous rage, has killed Stryker, O'Connor turns out to be the real killer (she would "kill" to get the role, get it?).

Curtains is an odd movie, feeling like one red herring after another.  Initially, it seems like it will be a straight forward case of an actress going over the edge for a role, actually going crazy in preparation. Then it seems like a fairly straight-forward slasher flick, with some deranged pervert going around killing girls. One by one these storylines are abandoned, or sublimated, leaving a strange mish-mash of narratives. The disjointed structure is somewhat hard to understand as the writing, on a scene by scene basis, is quite strong. The dialogue is sharp and pointed, with just the right amount of humor to let us now we shouldn't be taking anything too seriously. It's not surprising to learn that this production was bereft with conceptual problems, as it seems the director and producers duked it out over the essence of the film. What we are left with is a strange, somewhat incoherent oddity; not so truly odd as to be unique, but a kind of malformed cinematic child.

What redeems the film, enough to make it watchable, are the strong performances. Samantha Eggar is wonderful as the mannered Sherwood, the type of career thespian you can imagine summering in Stratford. Lynn Griffin is likewise solid as the wise-cracking O'Connor, providing a nice comic foil to the refined Sherwood. John Vernon is also great as the mercurial auteur Stryker, pushing the woman beyond their boundaries with controlled Kubrickian aloofness. Though far from perfect, Curtains is passable viewing for those interested in the b-horror genre, particularly of Canadian origin.

Orange County (2002)

Orange County is a 2002 film directed by Jake Kasdan and written by Mike White, frequent JB collaborator. Concerning the fate of one affluent OC ex-surfer and aspiring writer Shaun Brumder (Colin Hanks), Orange County charts Shaun's attempts to get into Stanford after a spaced-out guidance counsellor (Lili Tomlin) submits the wrong transcript. With the help of his ne'er-do-well brother Lance, Shaun storms the Stanford campus, accidentally getting the Dean of Admissions (Harold Ramis) high. Meanwhile, Lance is burning down the admissions building after a romantic encounter with the always-charming Jane Adams. Luckily, Shaun, in the depths of despair, encounters his literary idol Marcus Skinner (played by the very literary Kevin Kline), who convinces him that, hey, home is where the heart is, man, and didn't like Beckett and Joyce and those dudes write about their homes? So, like, maybe staying in OC isn't such a bad idea? Shaun sees the light and returns home to find that his wacky mom (Catherine O'Hara) and his wacky dad (John Lithgow) have gotten back together, which is like, pretty groovy actually. Everyone seems super happy that Shaun has decided to stay home and Shaun seems super happy that everyone is so super happy. And that's about it.

This movie is carried by a raft of excellent supporting performances, most notably by comedy genius Jack Black. Black delivers what may be his finest performance as the manic Lance, exuding his singular mixture of laconic puppy dog charm and high-keyed mischief. Harold Ramis' brief cameo is, like most of his acting work, endearingly (and knowingly) labored, but always appreciated. Mike White is great as the spaced-out English teacher, delivering an eternal lecture about Shakespeare, while Jane Adams is perfectly cast as the dowdy pyromaniac secretary.

Though the script often borders on parody, Orange County is a solid MTV slacker comedy. The tongue in cheek atmosphere of the whole thing, not to mention the great supporting cast, nudge this above your average MOR comedy fare. As usual, JB steals the show, proving again that he is the most charming man on the planet. His performance is delightful and it is a shame the writers couldn't find a way to fit him in even more.

Who's Who (1979)

Who's Who is a 1979 BBC "Play for Today" by eminent British filmmaker Mike Leigh. This film concerns, in typical Leigh fashion, a wide swath of characters, vaguely related by an accounting office where several of them work. Alan is a middle man and an ingratiating social climber. Obsessed with social lineage, celebrities, and particularly the monarchy, he desperately attempts to curry favour with anyone in the upper classes, whether it be the young Oxford educated upper management at his work, or the high-bred woman attempting to buy a cat from his wife, April. April is the consummate cat lady, a breeder who lives and breathes all that is feline. April is actually quite sweet, despite her obvious quirks, and a good deal of the film's sympathy lies with her. We watch in horror as Alan drives her to tears, first upsetting her transaction with the frigid Miss Hunt, as he tries to suss out her family's origins, then later shamelessly badgering the photographer, Mr. Shakespeare, whom she has hired to take glamour shots of her cats. At the other end of the spectrum lie the aforementioned Ivy Leaguers, the prim but well-intentioned Nigel, his "punk" girlfriend Samantha, the immature Giles, the mutely shy Caroline, and Anthony, a pompous, braying elitist and shameless flirt. This near-absurdly mannered group gathers for a dinner party prepared by Nigel, disintegrating into a fractious argument about "punk." Nigel, ever particular, is hurt as his hoped-for order is lost amidst the argument and the quickly disintegrating level of decorum. The group dissolves somewhat awkwardly, leaving Nigel and Giles with uncertain romantic prospects. Meanwhile, back at the office, Alan is baited by his co-worker Kevin (played by charming Leigh regular Phil Davis), who claims to have visited a fictitious historical residence, one Alan falsely states he is familiar with. The ending somewhat redeems Alan however as he finally shows interest in the romantic scene occurring in an adjacent building. Finally, we see a human Alan, a simple Alan, amused by the daily minutiae Leigh is so adept at capturing.

Who's Who is a nice return for Leigh after the unrelenting and irritating Abigail's Party. Furthermore, Who's Who, while another BBC "Play for Today," feels like a proper film, not a stilted studio creation like some of the others in that series. While Who's Who does dip into caricature at times, we are mostly treated to well-rounded characters, that even at their most obnoxious, reveal themselves to be inescapably human. Alan and April, on the surface a sort of sketch comedy duo, are a complicated couple. While generally placid and polite, the tedium of their domestic situation, intensified by April's roaming army of white cats, eventually simmers to the surface, as Alan, completely ignoring April, badgers the wealthy Mrs. Hunt, betraying his selfishness and disregard for her feelings. Likewise, the haughty Giles, who initially seems to be little more than a boorish, immature rich kid, eventually betrays sensitivity and a sweet boyish reserve. His relations with the exceedingly shy Caroline are never fully explained, but is clear that a complicated, melancholy subtext is playing out between them. It is a testament to Leigh's methodology that subtle emotional undercurrents such as these resonate as deeply as they do, contributing a great richness to the overall effect of the film. This can be seen particularly in the treatment of smaller roles as two of the most memorable characters in the film also receive some of the littlest screen time. The aforementioned Phil Davis is excellent as Kevin, the mischievous office clerk prone to needling the pretentious Alan, and Sam Kelly delivers a delightful turn as the sweet-natured photographer Mr. Shakespeare. The depth afforded these smaller characters pays great dividends as their scenes, though small, and in the case of Kevin, not overly concerned with the main thrust of the story, become poignant, enriching moments.

While not as fully fleshed out as later masterpieces like Life is Sweet or Secrets & Lies, Who's Who is definitely in the strong second echelon of Leigh films, a film enjoyable to fans of his work and the casual viewer. The film is also noteworthy for the choice of actors, other than Phil Davis, who would appear in High Hopes and Vera Drake, I didn't recognize any of the performers from other Leigh films. However unsung (at least to me) they all do a great job, particularly Joolia Cappleman as April.

Dead Kids (aka Strange Behavior) (1981)

Dead Kids (also known as Strange Behavior) is a 1981 slasher film directed by Michael Laughin and written by Bill Condon, director/writer of part 1 and 2 of the Twilight franchise. Looking to score some cash to help pay for his college applications, Pete Brady signs up as a test patient at the local bio lab. Unbeknownst to him, the tests are having some like wacky effects - resulting in expanded mental capacity and an insatiable blood lust. These tests, conducted by vivacious researcher Gwen Parkinson, continue the research of the late Dr. Le Sange, a creepy Oppenheimer-esque scientist who communicates his post-mortem wishes through a library of film. Pete's Dad John, the "Top Cop" in town, starts to become suspicious, what with all the dead teenage bodies piling up, eventually tracing the bloodbath to the research lab, where it turns out his late wife worked, herself a casualty of these strange mind control experiments. John arrives just in time to rescue Pete from what appears to be a lobotomy, meanwhile revealing the still-living Dr. Le Sange's experiments as, to say the least, dubious.

Despite losing steam in the second half, Dead Kids is an enjoyable, worthwhile B-horror flick. Fiona Lewis is great as the ice-blooded Dr. Parkinson, somehow making the act of inserting a foot-long needle into someone's eye erotic. Louise Fletcher makes a brief, but indelible appearance as John's longtime GF, perpetually in the cotton-candy pink uniform of the diner where she serves shakes. Also noteworthy is the excellent soundtrack featuring angular new-wave from NZ's Pop Mechanix, typically drizzle-y goth-rock from The Birthday Party, and this:

This amazing Halloween party sequence, featuring the wonderful "Lightnin' Strikes" by Lou Christie, is by far the highlight of the film. From the scantily clad seductresses to Waldo puking in the sink prior to hitting on a 13 year old, this scene perfectly captures the innocent debauchery of high school partying. Overall, a fun flick, mildly recommended.

Phantasm II (1988)

Phantasm II is a 1988 horror film directed by Don Coscarelli. Picking up where the original film leaves off, Phantasm II finds Reggie (Reggie Bannister) and a teenaged Mike (played by James LeGros of Point Break and Mildred Pierce fame) on a quest to hunt down The Tall Man and banish him to his dwarf-rendering hell world for ever. Aided by the elphin Liz, with whom Mike shares a psychic, as well as romantic, connection, Mike and Reggie criss-cross America in their beefed-up Hemicuda, armed with a flamethrower and a quadruple-barrelled sawed-off shotgun. Along the way they pick up sultry hitchhiker Alchemy (Chemmy, for short), who quickly takes a shine to the love-starved Reggie. The three eventually track The Tall Man to a mortuary where Liz's grandparents have recently been interned and, naturally, enslaved to dwarfdom. After battling the elderly dwarves, as well as several robotic "Gravers," Mike and Liz manage to ensnare one of the deadly metallic spheres, using it to unlock a portal into the hell-world. However, before they can torch this portal room, The Tall Man intervenes, tossing them like rag-dolls, before Reggie injects him with a lethal concoction of embalming fluid and hydrochloric acid. Having dispatched The Tall Man, the three burn down the building and escape, catching a ride in a hearse with Chemmy. However, just when you think the thrills are over, Chemmy pulls like half of her scalp off and The Tall Man rips Mike and Liz through the back window. Fin.

Phantasm II is a worthy predecessor to the excellent original film. Delivering the same winning mixture of gore, scary flying objects, and strange dream-logic, Phantasm II, while not breaking tons of new ground, is satisfying viewing for fans of the series.

Paradise Lost: The Child Murders at Robin Hood Hills (1996)

Paradise Lost is a 1996 HBO documentary profiling the court trial of the West Memphis Three. This is the first film in the Paradise Lost trilogy, as well as a precursor to the 2012 documentary West of Memphis. Paradise Lost covers the original trial of Damien Echols, Jason Baldwin, and Jason Misskelley, as they are tried for capital murder in the deaths of three young boys found hog-tied and sexually mutilated. This trial quickly became a sensational media event as prosecutors framed this crime as occult and satanic in nature. Echols, Baldwin, and Misskelley, all teenagers at the time, served as the perfect patsies for this crime, all outsiders, "weirdos," or, in the case of Misskelley, mentally disabled. The appearance of Echols and Baldwin, who dress in black and listen to Metallica and Slayer, becomes a major factor in the case, prosecutors painting them as soulless, devil worshippers, even at one point bizarrely suggesting that Echols interest in Stephen King books suggested the capacity for murder. Despite strong evidence to suggest their innocence, all three are convicted. This conviction hinges largely on Misskelley's confession to police, despite large discrepancies in his story and the actual crime, as well as the fact that he is mentally disabled.

Watching Paradise Lost now, knowing that all three, finally, have been released from prison, makes the film no less terrifying. Echols comments quite accurately that West Memphis is "Salem 2," and indeed it is this draconian paranoia that makes West Memphis seem a lot like hell. The parents of the murdered children, as well as the prosecutors and narcoleptic judge, seem to have no doubt about the guilt of these three "weirdos." Mark Byers, step-father of Christopher Byers, is perhaps the most terrifying (though it is worth noting he later recants his belief in their guilt, as shown in West of Memphis). We watch him pretend to shoot Damien, Jason, and Jason Jr. with a large pistol, one he "likes" because no ballistics can be taken from it. It is hard to watch people who, having gone through such a horrific tragedy of violence, respond with a kind of horrifying violence of their own. The Robin Hood Hills murder case is fascinating for the excruciating emotions it produces; the community is torn asunder by the vicious killings and sadly the West Memphis Three fall victim to these inflamed passions. However, despite the terrible injustice that befell the West Memphis Three (something which can never be truly "righted") it is a testimony to justice and the American legal system that so many people took up their cause and for so long. Echols is right in his statement that people will never forget him in West Memphis, however it may prove that he is spoken about, not as the "boogeyman," as he predicts, but rather as a symbol for the perseverance of the truth, and a grave warning about the dangers of scapegoating.

The Pledge (2001)

The Pledge is a 2001 murder-mystery directed by Madonna's ex-husband Sean Penn. Jack Nicholson leads a star-studded cast featuring Robin Wright Penn (in one her best performances), Aaron Eckhart, Sam Shepard, Hellen Mirren, Harry Dean Stanton, Vanessa Redgrave, Benicio Del Toro, and Tom Noonan. The Pledge follows newly-retired cop Jerry Black as he chases, what he believes to be, a serial child-murderer. Black, struggling to adjust to his new life as a "little person," cannot forget his "pledge" to the mother of a murdered young girl. Believing the wrong man has been charged for that crime (Benicio Del Toro in a brief, yet electric performance, as a mentally disabled Native American), Black hunts the believed killer, finally connecting a set of similar murders and disappearances. Black eventually installs himself at the centre of these crimes, waiting patiently for the true killer to reveal himself. Tom Noonan enters as the ultimate red herring, a creepy, porcupine-sculpture gifting preacher that also operates a snow-plow and has a penchant for chatting up little girls (I know, he must be a serial killer right?). Black sets the trap with his girlfriend's daughter, playing a dangerous game in an attempt to ensnare "The Wizard" (not Noonan after all). Ultimately, Black's plan derails (or does it?), causing him to lose his burgeoning family, as well as it appears, his sanity.

Penn directs The Pledge with admirable restraint for a first-time director, only occasionally reaching for too much. The film moves with purpose, allowing the story to take centre-stage. Nicholson turns in an understated, yet effective performance as the insular, good hearted Black. Robin Wright Penn is excellent as the trashy waitress Lori. Despite her stately beauty queen looks, Penn is perfect as the rough and tumble Lori, bringing tenderness and resolve to the role. The cast is uniformly strong, though it feels a bit like a guilty pleasure watching theatrical titans like Mirren, Shepard, and Redgrave fill out relatively bit parts. Rourke delivers an extremely brief, yet memorable turn as the custodian father of one of the disappeared girls. Even in this microscopic dose, Rourke displays his other-worldly charisma, captivating the camera even if just momentarily. Aaron Eckhart is also excellent as Black's hot-shot predecessor, providing an energetic foil to Nicholson's laconic Black.

The Pledge is an interesting predecessor to the current trend of Nordic horror, feeling like the older brother of recent films like Let The Right One In and The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo, as well as delivering the same occult terror as True Detective. Definitely worth watching, The Pledge is a surprisingly film, and one that leaves me hoping for more Sean Penn helmed features (as long as he doesn't act).

Phantasm (1979)

Phantasm is a 1979 low-budget horror film written, directed, photographed, edited, aaaaand produced by Don Coscarelli. Following the death of his friend Tommy (stabbed by a bare-breasted vixen that transforms into an elderly man), musician-playboy Jody (sporting a look one part Han Solo and one part David Hasselhoff), returns to his small hometown, only to be drawn into a surrealistic nightmare AND WICKED BAD VIBES. After witnessing Tommy's casket being abducted by a spooky undertaker (the "Tall Man"), Jody's younger brother Mike consults with the local crazy lady/ mind-reader (you know she's crazy because she has a BLACK STAR tattooed in between her eyes), who confirms his suspicions that something fishy is indeed going on. Mike and Jody, as well as their ice-cream salesman friend Reggie (also a member of Jody's pick-up jam band), spend the rest of the movie hunted by dismembered fingers, be-cloaked dwarves, a wicked chrome sphere armed with what appear to be razor sharp pickle prongs, and the aforementioned "Tall Man." Turns out The Tall Man, under his guise as Undertaker, is stealing corpses from the funeral home and transforming them into the aforementioned dwarves through the use of a portal into a parallel universe (natch).  This parallel universe has like mega heavy gravity that crushes these former corpses into dwarves (makes sense). No idea why they wear cloaks though (maybe because cloaks are cool, Ted?). Mike and Jody finally lure The Tall Man into the town's token abandoned mine shaft, and SEND HIM TO HELL WHERE HE BELONGS. However, just when you think you can take a breath, the entire film that you just like watched is revealed to be NOTHING MORE THAN A DREAM. Or is it... The final "chill" is provided when Mike, packing a rucksack to go on a deadly road trip with Reggie (doesn't this kid have to go to school?), is snatched by the Tall Man, who pulls him through a mirror. The end. SPOOKY.

Phantasm is a masterpiece of stupidity, like the greatest movie Mark Borchardt never made. The acting is gloriously hambone, yet earnest enough to be endearing; you feel that Don Coscarelli really thought he was making the greatest movie ever made. And maybe he did... Operating with a kind of bizarre dream-logic (partially, it seems, due to a radical re-edit after the disastrous initial screening), Phantasm is Hellraiser's kind of clueless, but really enthusiastic younger brother. Genuine thrills are to be had, particularly when the metal sphere drills an oil derrick in the middle of some dude's head (see above image). The odd Greek sauna decor of the funeral home provides a unique and coldly chilling setting, as does the odd "portal" room, a blinding white edifice lined with stacks of ominous black barrels (housing the dwarves, pre-portal travel, natch). Phantasm is nothing if not inspired and, despite being made for a paltry $300,000, looks like a much more professional grade film. Coscarelli clearly knew his way around a ring focus and the inspired photography goes a long way towards making this film enjoyable. Even the performances, though amateurish, are charming for their commitment. All the "actors" receive A's for effort, particularly Michael Baldwin who delivers a star turn as the industrious, effete younger brother.

It is not hard to see why Phantasm spawned a trio of sequels, as it is the kind of bizarre, un-self-conscious film that can be such a treat of the B-horror genre. Phantasm is also a noteworthy example of the power of failure, as it's abstruse editing, likely created more through panic than narrative intent, transform what could have been a more straightforward (I don't think this film ever could have been too straightforward) into a Delpic dreamscape of terror. Causality? Linearity? Who needs em? I'll take gushing blood holes in people's foreheads and dwarf hell any day.

The Driver (1978)

The Driver is a 1978 film from Walter Hill, starring Ryan O' Neal, Bruce Dern, and Isabelle Adjani. O'Neal plays the titular "Driver," a talented getaway man with little time for guns, mistakes, or the English language. Dern is "The Detective," a loose cannon hell-bent on catching the "cowboy" driver; he has little respect for anything that gets in his way, even the law. Adjani, at her babydoll best, is "The Player," though a better description might be "pretty girl that is sort of necessary to the story but not really."

Little happens in "The Driver" besides cars being driven, but man, are those cars driven. The chase scenes are some of the best yet committed to film, careening with high-octane intensity and an unforgiving speed. Hill's direction is restrained, yet unrelenting. The film moves with a cat-like urgency, never lingering too long, yet never rushing either. The "dramatic" scenes are straight to the point, few words are wasted as Hill pushes us towards the next heart-pounding chase scene. Dern does his best to chew the scenery but even his performance is kept direct and focused. O'Neal's human breadstick act works well as the mono-syllabic Driver. He is required to little more than act stoic and drive, both of which he accomplishes with notable efficiency, piloting the wheel like Paul Walker's older, better laid brother. Similarly, Adjani functions as little more than a titillating aside, appearing every twenty minutes to divert blood flow, slowing our pulse with an assortment of floppy hats and silk bell-bottoms. 

Unquestionably, the star of "The Driver" is Hill, who pilots this film with surprising restraint. Compared to later films such as "The Warriors" and "Johnny  Handsome," "The Driver" practically feels like an Antonioni film. The direction is spare, yet evocative. The camera rarely moves, unless it is on the hood of a car, and much of the dialogue takes place in simple, one-shot set-ups. Nicolas Winding Refn, who pillaged essentially the entire opening of "The Driver" for his 2011 "Drive," could learn much from Hill's spare, yet vibrant approach. The film moves with appropriate intensity yet never goes overboard. A pulpy 70s masterpiece.

The Broken Circle Breakdown (2012)

The Broken Circle Breakdown is a 2012 Belgian film about the relationship between a tattoo artist, Elise, and the leader of a bluegrass band, Didier. The film charts the formation and disintegration of the couple's relationship, centring on the loss of their young daughter, Maybelle, to cancer. Moving in an elliptical fashion between past and present, the story of this family unfolds. We are witness to joy and heartbreak, tenderness and animosity. Elise and Didier, brought together by an unexpected pregnancy, ultimately break apart, unable to reconcile the circumstance of their daughter's death. Unwilling to accept Maybelle's passing, Elise holds out hope in spiritual sources, believing Maybelle may be reincarnated as a small bird. Didier's torment is political, as he rages against Bush Jr.s vetoing of a bill to approve stem-cell research, blaming the religious right for the inability to save Maybelle's life. Soon, he transfers this anger onto Elise, viewing her belief in reincarnation as a similar type of religious fanaticism. They split apart, Elise ultimately taking her own life. Finally, in the wake of tragedy, Didier relents and accepts Elise's view of the afterlife, affirming her right to belief.

The Broken Circle Breakdown, a nominee for an Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film in 2013, is a finely constructed, if somewhat derivative, realist film. The film works for its fine craftsmanship and the excellent leading performances of Johan Heldenbergh (who also co-wrote the play on which the film is based) and Veerle Baetens. Heldenbergh and Baetens deliver authentic, understated performances; Heldenbergh in particular bringing a stunning kind of sensitivity to his role (made more impressive for its contrast to his large, lank appearance). The intimate believability of Elise and Didier's relationship creates the necessary height from which to affect a crushing fall when they are torn apart.

Despite the film's quality construction and the excellent work of Baetens and Heldenbergh, The Broken Circle Breakdown suffers from a feeling of cinematic deja vu. At various times it felt the film was simply re-hashing the essence of several zeitgeist-y films of the past decade. The most obvious touchstone is 2010's excellent Ryan Gosling and Michelle Williams drama, Blue Valentine. Similarly paralleling the formation and dissolution of a young couple's relationship, Blue Valentine evokes the same tone of painful nostalgia, contrasting the thrill and joy of new love, with the dull pain of experience, tragedy, and time. The Tree of Life is another film that comes to mind when watching The Broken Circle Breakdown. The central conceit of a child's death, and the catastrophic effect this has on families and individuals, ties both of these films together, as does their dreamy, naturalistic style. The connection to these films is not damning in and of itself, many films share thematic or stylistic parallels, however it spoke to me of a lack of innovation, a sense that this film, so enchanting in the first half, kind of runs out of steam as it approaches the finish line. The beginning of this film felt genuinely fresh; interesting characters, an interesting world, and, with the sickness of their daughter, an interesting conundrum. However, when the daughter reaches her terminal point (about mid-way through the film), the film seemed to deflate slightly, lowering itself to the somewhat predictable tragedy in the end. It may be that the daughter's death occurs, for me, too soon - resolving a central issue ( if not THE central issue) with half the film yet to happen. The first half succeeds for the tension between the unbridled passion of the beginning of their relationship, and the happiness they feel with the birth of the daughter, contrasted with the horror and uncertainty at watching a young child become more and more sick. The daughter's death never seemed like a foregone conclusion, yet when it does happen, the rest of the film kind of seemed destined for the same predictable type of outcome. Nevertheless, despite feeling like there were some scriptural issues, The Broken Circle Breakdown is a high quality film, worthy of viewing. It forms, with the films if references (knowingly or not), a modern school of hyper-realist drama and, if not quite up to the snuff of Blue Valentine or Tree of Life, is at least a slightly lesser talented peer.

Driller Killer (1979)

Abel Ferrara week continues at tedsmovies.blogspot (more to come!) with the infamous New York art-sleaze director's 1979 debut, the aptly titled Driller Killer. This low-budget exploitation film follows struggling artist Reno Miller (played by a loathsome, swaggering Ferrara) as he descends into madness, spurred on by his annoying girlfriends, the obnoxious punk band next door, and some bad vibes from an old dude in a church that kisses his hand (hey, I can relate). Reno decides to vent his anger in the most logical fashion, by murdering members of New York's homeless population with a power drill. Reno soon becomes obsessed with "killing" with a "drill," eventually offing most of the rest of the cast. The end.

Driller Killer, while not a perfect, or even coherent, or even very watchable, film, remains, I assume, required viewing for fans of Ferrara's work. While extremely rough, Driller Killer provides glimpses of the glossy aesthetic of sleaze Ferrara would perfect in his later work. Driller Killer moves with a lunatic rhythm; it is fast, choppy, and loose, with raw, barely audible performances and sketchy plot machination. At best, Driller Killer is an idiot savante horror, at worst, a bad art school experiment. The film toes the line drunkenly, providing just enough exposition to remain in the category of narrative film, while interpolating bizarre, disparate imagery with little context. Without Ferrara's later work to validate his genius, Driller Killer would likely be unredeemable smut, however, in lieu of his later accomplishments, it can be enjoyed as the zany breeding ground of a singular gutter auteur.

This film is worth watching if for no other reason, than to watch Ferrara create a fairly developed model for Vincent Gallo's later Billy Brown. Ferrara's Reno Miller sounds, and looks, exceedingly similar to Gallo's neurotic, aggravating Brown, and was no doubt a large influence on Gallo's strange aesthetic. Ferrara's performance, though rough, contains a certain brutal charm, perhaps best personified by the scene in which he devours an extra-large pizza single-handedly (apparently murdering people with a drill has given him an insatiable appetite). It is a wonder to watch the gangly Ferrara stuff massive pizza slice after massive pizza slice into his gaunt head, a feat he does with enough relish and aplomb to convince us that perhaps he is eating these slices, and not just "acting."

One thing that astounded me about Driller Killer is the quantum leap in quality between it and Ferrara's next film, the much more focused Ms. 45. While Ms. 45 is no doubt a more professional production, it is impressive to see how fast Ferrara refined and controlled the raw skills displayed in Driller Killer.

Far From The Madding Crowd (1967)

This 1967 John Schlesinger adaptation of Thomas Hardy's 1874 novel Far From The Madding Crowd features Julie Christie as the enigmatic Bathsheba, a fetching young woman attempting to run a farm while dealing with the unremitting advances of a coterie of suitors. Alan Bates, Terence Stamp, and Peter Finch play the respective admirers; Bates as the stoic shephard Oak, Stamp as the dashing Sergeant Troy, and Finch as the stubborn farmer Boldwood. The story follows Bathsheba's entanglements with these men, and the concurrent consequences that arise from her sometimes mercurial actions.

Christie's Bathsheba is far less headstrong than the heroine of Hardy's novel. More than often, she seems "put upon" by the men, and her reactions to their advances seem more deferential than stubborn, or even playful, as she often is in the novel. The film Bathsheba's less than dynamic capabilities cause this adaptation to feel limp at times, as it seems like our protagonist is little more than an attractive ball of yarn being batted back and forth between a trio of cats. The problem with Bathsheba is a problem with nearly all of the characters in the film, they feel too simple, or rather not simple in the appropriate ways. The novel is masterful in portraying characters with steadfast, yet sublimated, desires. Both Oak and Boldwood hold deep, unwavering affection for Bathsheba, yet, for the most part, keep this desire hidden, or, if it is revealed, it is done so in the most delicate and Victorian of terms. The film portrays much more headstrong versions of Oak and Boldwood. Oak, whose stoic diffidence in the book approaches heroic levels, wears his emotions on his sleeve in the film, often becoming tempermental or jealous. Similarly, Boldwood, who in the novel is dedicatedly naive, becomes somewhat villainous in the film. His actions are motivated, not through a childlike dedication to Bathsheba, but by a vengeful obsession. Only Sergeant Troy, whose swaggering capriciousness is well captured by Stamp, bears close relation to the character in the novel. However, even the character of Troy is somewhat transformed in the film, as his gambling and womanizing are treated with what feels like sympathy. Rather than an outright rogue, one who marries Bathsheba more for sport and financial gain than love, Troy becomes a jilted lover, caught up by the cloying affections of his second-choice love.

Perhaps the most enduing element of the film is the wonderful naturalistic photography of Nicholas Roeg. The pastoral realism presages the natural light experiments of Terence Malick's 1978 masterpiece Days of Heaven, depicting a lush, yet melancholic British countryside. The sequences featuring animals are particularly impressive, specifically the tragic scene in which Shephard Oak's dog chases his flock off of a cliff. The animals are shot in an almost documentary style, giving them an earthy, yet lucid quality. Similar are the harvest montages, shot in the same natural, documentary manner.

Despite some odd casting choices, and a less than compelling script, Far From The Madding Crowd is a watchable, and interesting, film. Even at nearly three hours I was generally engaged, enjoying the wide Lean-esque photography, as well as several intriguing sequences (particularly the vaudeville performance put on by a disguised Sergeant Troy). An interesting experiment in both fictional adaptation and early Naturalism.

Blade Runner (Theatrical Release (1982))

To this point I had only seen the Directors Cut of Blade Runner which, though undeniably a visual masterpiece, always left me a bit cold. I mean, there is no doubt ANY version of Blade Runner would be "cool," it looks amazing, the soundtracks rules, but it is a flawed film. The screenplay is pretty weak and the pacing, in the Director's Cut, is glacial. As a result, what, I felt, should be one of the most exciting, engrossing films of all time, often left me fighting off sleep. 

I was curious to see the theatrical Release because I knew it had the Harrison Ford narration excised from the Director's Cut, as well as the "Return to Paradise" ending, and I assumed, as a Hollywood release, would be a little more lean than the Ridley Scott cut. The narration, though pretty ham-bone, does help to tie the initial scenes together (Deckard's summoning by Police Chief Bryant), as well as fleshing out the Edward James Olmos character a touch. However, after the first fifteen minutes or so, the narration is basically absent until the end. 

Overall, I felt the theatrical release to be a big improvement over the Scott version. Though still moving a touch slow, Deckard's character takes a more focal position in the film. Aided by the more linear, less impressionistic editing, Deckard's "quest" to retire the Replicants follows a logical path. There are still a lot of moments in the film that, from a writing standpoint at least, leave me scratching my head. The "inciting incident" in the film has always seemed to me painfully weak, and almost inexplicably so. Could they not have motivated Deckard's quest any better? Wouldn't even financial motivation be completely logical? Instead, there is Bryant's vague threat to make Deckard a "little person." What the fuck does that mean? As the film progressed I wondered if Deckard couldn't have been given a substance problem. he is pretty fucked up as it is (ostensibly because he has guilt over killing things?), so it wouldn't be much of a stretch for him be battling some kind of booze or drug problem (a common theme in PKD stories). All of this to say that Deckard's quest isn't strongly motivated and, IMO, fails to give the film an engaging sweep. Story-wise, I believe all the problems basically stem from Deckard's more or less flimsy desire. However, this is reconciled much better in the Theatrical Version than Scott's gauzy, vague edit.

The relationship between Deckard and Rachel (played by a pristine Sean Young) also benefits from the more causal editing in the Theatrical Cut. Despite the mildly horrifying "seduction" scene, in which Deckard basically rapes Rachel, their relationship progresses logically and Rachel's horror at discovering she is an android is given much better support. Likewise, the showdown with Roy Batty. In the Director's Cut, Roy, in lieu of a fully characterized Deckard, essentially becomes the Protagonist. However, in the Theatrical Version, where Deckard's aims are at least elucidated enough to make sense, Batty becomes an intriguing, yet clearly villainous, antagonist. The reversal at the end, in which Batty rescues Deckard, carries a more effective punch, and makes this potentially superior humanity of the in-human androids a revelation rather than foregone conclusion.

It was pleasing to discover in this seemingly relegated version of the film (I think the Director's Cut was the only version on DVD for a long time?) a version of Blade Runner that, though not perfect, manages to align the elements of the story in a coherent, engaging enough fashion to make the film watchable (or, if "watchable" is too harsh, "entertaining"). 

Evilspeak (1981)

Evilspeak is a 1981 horror film by director Eric Weston. Clint Howard, brother of Ron, stars at Stanley Coopesmith, a disgruntled orphan abused and bullied by nearly everyone at the fascistic military academy he is enrolled. For reasons seemingly not extending beyond the fact that he is kind of odd-looking, Stanley is treated like shit by his fellow classmates, his soccer coach, the principal of the academy, even the pervy Reverend. One of the various abuses inflicted upon him is the task of cleaning the chapel basement, a moribund cellar which houses "Sarge," a brutish drunk that, like everyone else in this zip code, has a bone to pick with Coopersmith (why Sarge lives in the basement is never explained beyond the fact that he likes his drink). While cleaning this moth-ridden cellar, Stanley stumbles upon a satanic crypt, revealing the a plethora of demonic literature. Pushed too far by his evil classmates (they throw his hat away, as well as "pants" him in front of a pretty girl), Stanley - using the aid of a primitive computer - Stanley decodes the Latin Satana and completes a Black Mass, causing the partial resurrection of Esteban, the founder of this chapel (a Spanish satanist, banished from Spain during the Inquisition). At the end of the film Stanley fuses with Esteban and, in a genuinely thrilling and bizarre climax, butchers his soccer coach, the Reverend, as well as his loathsome classmates with the aid of a gigantic broadsword, newfound levitation powers, and an army of bloodthirsty pigs. Stanley's main tormentor, Bubba, has his still-beating heart ripped from his chest by a zombified Sarge, while the Reverend meets an untimely end after a ceramic spike from the chapel crucifix animates and embeds itself in his frontal lobe.

This film, despite some odd structural problems that suggest post-mortem tinkering, is quite enjoyable. Howard, and particularly Don Stark as Bubba, deliver inspired performances, giving the bullying scenes a kind of awful realism. However, what really redeems this film is the ending. It is truly balls to the wall and I watched with glee as Coopersmith eviscerates the slimy staff and student body of the military academy. No expense seemed to have been spared in the low-budget thriller's climax as crucifixes exlplode, flames fill the halls, and animatronic pigs savage the bodies of rotund freshman.

Overall, an exciting, if sometimes confused, 80s horror gem. 

Fear City (1984)

Fear City is a 1984 film directed by New York legend Abel Ferrara. Like many of his films, Fear City takes place in the seedy underbelly of New York City, specifically the libidinous pleasure centre that was pre-Giuliani Times Square. Tom Berenger, an ex-boxer, runs a mob-linked talent agency providing exotic dancers to various strip clubs. The star attraction of his roster is his ex-girlfriend Loretta, played by a sultry and often nude Melanie Griffith. Things go south for Berenger when a deranged Kung-Fu expert, with an apparent hatred of women working in the "entertainment"industry, begins killing dancers with various sharp implements, including curvy knives, razor blades, and even a large sword. Understandably, this freaks the dancers out and Berenger's business effectively comes to a stand-still, while also inflaming mob tensions. Berenger must confront his foremost demon, the bitter memory of killing an opponent in the ring, before he is able to find "The New York Knifer," save his business, and protect his love, the now drug-addled Griffith (she relapses after her lesbian lover is killed by the "Knifer").

This film is directed with the typical seedy panache of Ferrara, who transforms what could be a dreary, rote slasher film into something vibrant and visceral. Berenger delivers a broody, muscular yet effectively sensitive, performance - sitting somewhere between Brando's Stanley and Paul Newman's Cool Hand Luke. Griffith's strange combination of child-like naivete and unabashed sexuality work well in the role, yet she isn't required to do much more than wear slinky evening wear (something, however, she does quite well). Maria Conchita and Rae Dawn Chong also feature, Conchita in particular delivering a memorable turn as the sassy dancer Silver (sadly, both succumb to the fanatic "Knifer").

Like many of Ferrara's films, Fear City strikes a strange and occasionally uncomfortable balance between vaguely Feminist critique and brutal mysogynistic fantasy. The film overtly links the brutal violence inflicted by the "Knifer" to their oppressive circumstance in various smut parlours, yet delivers most of its thrills through either sexual or violent titillation. The film's climax, a high noon showdown between Berenger and the Knifer, suggests a possible redemption through masculinity and violence, however Ferrara adept direction and sultry visual style redeems the work from feeling prescriptive or simplistic. Fear City is a film about dark, dangerous worlds, and often dark, dangerous people; Ferrara's refusal to deliver simple, moralistic solutions is admirable, allowing us the greater pleasure of immersion into his vibrant, yet depraved milieu.