Braindead (Peter Jackson, 1992)

It has taken me a long time to watch this notable classic of the zombie film. Finally last night I cued it up and good God it’s amazing, delirious and, in it’s own gory way, quite touching. Knowing of Jackson’s subsequent career only adds to the fun as you watch various limbs torn away, holes punched into the backs of people’s heads and the hero almost literally re-born.

Sure it’s a gore-fest, but it’s also a love story and a rather wicked satire on middle-class mores. Poor old Lionel, he’s dominated by a foul mother, who’s main concerns are her application to join the New Zealand version of the WI and keeping her boy from leaving her. Pacquita longs for love and her gran’s tarot points to Lionel. Sadly a rat-monkey from Skull Island (yes that one, apparently these creatures were created when the rats from a slave ship raped the local primates) sinks its teeth into Lionel’s mum and, then things get really weird. Stir in a kung-gu vicar, a grotesque uncle and a lawn-mower and a cult classic is born. Throughout though Jackson, and partner Fran Walsh, never lose sight of Lionel’s struggles and his love for Pacquita. Somehow this film manages to be scary, funny, tense, ridiculous, disgusting and surprising. Often at the same time.

Please avoid if the idea of zombie sex, zombie babies, sentient killer entrails, and 1950s fashion offends. Otherwise dive in. Also I haven’t laughed as hard as when The Archers played over a scene for ages. Might not look at the blender in the same way though.

They Live (John Carpenter, 1988)

A classic dystopian movie about John Nada (get it?), a drifter who stumbles into the biggest conspiracy you can imagine. Turns out the 1% are aliens! Ok, it’s a hokey premise, but somehow Carpenter makes it a fantastic film. A lot of this is to do with Carpenters use of wide lenses creating a big vista to set the film against. The detail and quality of the image manages to obscure the meager budget ($3 million), as does the effectiveness of the alien conspiracy – the hook is that it’s all there, all around us (in adds, on TV, printed on money), but we can’t see it. Messages are bombarding our unconscious; “Obey”, “Buy”, “Conform”, “Consume” flash at us as subliminal messages. “Do not question authority” is the real message of the newspapers. But one day Nada finds a pair of sunglasses, and they show the truth. And then, in his words, he’s here to chew bubble-gum and kick ass, and he’s all out of bubble gum.

As Nada “Rowdy” Roddy Piper is great, nailing confusion and and despair, but also righteous anger. His ably supported by Keith David, a man so desperate to keep his head down he refuses to wear the glasses. One of the film’s most famous moments involved Piper and David wrestling over a wearing the specs; David’s character is all of us – happy to stay ignorant, to work for our families, “Man, I told you, I don’t want to be involved!”

The film suffers a little from Carpenter’s inability to provide a great 3rd act (something that crops up in a lot of his movies) – but the ideas resonate. 27 years after it was made, it feels as relevant as ever.

That a film like this was made anywhere in Hollywood is amazing – sure it’s not a mainstream Hollywood film, but this is close to being a full endictment of the capitalist system. A classic exploration of how ideology dominates our lives, without us knowing. Don’t believe me, try this link to the wonderful Slavoj Zizek.

Dressed to Kill (Brian De Palma, 1980)

Spoilers!

I’ve never really got Brian De Palma. Of all the movie brats (Spielberg, Coppola, etc) he’s the one I’ve engaged with least, and he’s probably the least respectable in critical circles. Post The Untouchables  (1987) he became more mainstream, hitting blockbuster heights with Mission: Impossible (1996) but has tailed off since, with his most recent films gaining less attention and smaller releases. Maybe mainstream success was the end of him because Dressed to Kill is far more interesting than his blockbusters, reveling in sleaze and controversy, but also showing how good De Palma can be.

When released in 1980 Dressed to Kill was widely condemned by feminists and gay rights groups for its depiction of violence and transsexualism. All the women are subjected to serious violence and terror. Sexual difference was linked to violence. However 24 years distance and the film takes on a very different light, one in which men are repeatedly exposed and condemned. If anything this film shows us how women’s desire is continuously repressed and negated by society.

The opening of the film would be unheard of today, a long lingering set of shots on Angie Dickinson (49 at the time) in the shower fantasizing. It’s a moment that simultaneously acknowledges female desire, and suggests that women over 40 can be attractive and have a sex drive. In the cinema culture of today, where actresses are getting younger and disposed of by age 40, this seems unfathomable. It is alas all a dream for Angie, and the film cuts abruptly to the “wham, bam, thank-you ma’am” sexual practice of her husband. Angie fakes it, but her discontent is obvious to us. She visits her shrink, Michael Caine, and confesses her need to be desired. What follows is a wonderful, dreamlike, sequence in an art gallery where Angie pursues a man, and is pursued by him. The camera drifts along the corridor tracking her excitement and fear, as she follows him, and is followed. An amazing scene happens, again one that I can’t imagine would occur in today’s Hollywood, in which the man goes down on Angie in the back of a cab. The whole sequence, from gallery to cab, focuses on her pleasure and desire, and shows sex as something other than a penetrative act.

She awakes, happy. It can’t last of course. She discovers the man has VD and as she flies a woman brutally murders her in an elevator, with a cut-throat razor no-less. Here the film switches to Nancy Allen, a “Park-Avenue Whore”, who witnesses the murder (and whose John scarpers at the first sight of blood). As Nancy becomes a target, Michael Caine starts getting threatening answer-phone messages from a trans-gender patient and the plot deepens.

I can see where the critics came from in 1980, decrying the fact that the sex in the film is linked to violence and violation, and that in a world where the trans-community was struggling with it’s representation the inclusion of a possible trans-killer was not helpful. But today the film reads more as a critique of men, with both women used and attacked repeatedly. In a patriarchal world what other punishment for daring to embrace one’s sexual desire could there be for a women other than disease and death? The heroine, Nancy Allen, is blackmailed by the sleazy cop (a young Denis Franz) into doing her own detective work. While pursued by the killer she’s repeatedly hustled, and leered at by men, a status as object only re-enforced by her job (although the film shows how she uses information from customers to gain investment info). The only male figure in the film to emerge sympathetically is Angie’s son, a tech-obsessed geek depicted in a pre-adolescent phase. The film seems to say that the only man worth anything is the one who hasn’t yet woken up to sex. What is a male-to-female trans-sexual but the ultimate male possession of woman, body and soul?

Stylistically the film contains some wonderful shots and techniques, really building on De Palma’s reputation as a Hitchcock style film-maker. The use of mirrors is especially well done, and a sequence on a train platform, and then in the train, masterfully ratchets up the tension. Some of the acting is a bit rough around the edges but overall it’s top entertainment and an example of the type of film Hollywood rarely makes these days; a modestly budgeted thriller aimed at adults.

Killer Joe (William Friedkin, 2011)

This a terrific, sweaty, nasty little film. William Friedkin, after years in relative wilderness, confirms that class is permanent with this tightly directed Southern Noir in which almost no-one comes out clean. It takes the classic insurance con set up (the policy even has double indemnity), and throws it into the trailer trash confines of a poor Texas family whose main goal is to eat as much K-Fried-C as possible. It’s like Billy Wilder directing an episode of Honey Boo Boo. Loser Chris (Emile Hirsch) owes some money, and schemes to off his own mother, taking his father, step-mom and sister along for the ride. Along comes Joe (an excellent Matthew McConaughey) demanding a retainer Chris doesn’t have. But then he sees Chris’ sister Dottie (Juno Temple)…

McConaughey continues a recent career renaissance, confirming his early promise that got lost somewhere in all those romantic comedies, making Joe charming and chilling all at the same time. His evolving relationship with Dottie manages to be both exploitative and tender, veering between sexual assault and romance in the blink of an eye. It’s a small, confined, well built movie that builds in unexpected, but convincing ways.

Almost no-one is likable, and yet everyone is fascinating and well played – simple caricatures are avoided. And it has the best use of K-Fried-C in a while.

In Memory of Ray Harryhausen (1920 – 2013)

To people of a certain generation, those of us brought up with only 4 Channels of TV and the wonder of the Video Shop round the corner, Ray Harryhausen holds a special place in the collective consciousness.  Regarded today, in our CGI heavy world, there may seem something naive and simplistic about his work (the process of stop-motion he dubbed, wonderfully, Dynamation) but for many of us he breathed life to a range of mythological beasts in such a way as to give them character and weight, as well as visual presence. The film that stands out, although not his best, is Sinbad and the Eye of the Tiger;  I can’t begin to guess how many times I watched it as a kid but the creatures such as Minoton and the giant Walrus are seared into my memory. Before special effects became the norm in movies Harryhausen was a lone purveyor of wonder. The acting and direction in the films may not be that special, nor the scripts, but compare the original Clash of the Titans and the remake. For all its faults the original has more life and energy and fun in one scene than the latter managed in 2 hours. He toiled, alone, for years creating skeletons that screamed, troglodytes with clubs, and statues that moved. Without Harryhausen no Lucas, no Spielberg, no Del Toro. He was that good.

The Dark Knight Rises (Christopher Nolan, 2012)

Spoilers!

Normally I avoid reviews of recent releases on this blog – there are so many out there what’s the point on joining in the cacophany? However with TDKR I’ll make an exception. One, because I really like Batman, and two, because I really liked the film. It also gives a chance to reflect on all of Nolan’s Bat-films.

Although reaction to TDKR has been largely positive, there have been some dissenting voices, especially where the ending is concerned. The reaction, much of which is from the fan-boy community (I’m looking at you Harry Knowles) highlights the virtual impossibility of comic book adaptations. Opening up a character in a way that makes him or her accessible to a wider audience than just comic book fans is essential for a film’s success, however alienating the die-hards can be problematic – particularly when word gets around the web. Nolan’s bat films have carved an interesting path in regards to this. Early on, in Batman Begins, Nolan simultaneously acknowledged his understanding of the accumulated history of Batman (for instance having the killer of Thomas and Martha Wayne called Joe Chill) and also more recent developments in comic lore (picking on elements of the Gotham crime families as seen in Batman Year One), but he also signalled his desire to create new elements to the story, making Ra’s al Ghul Wayne’s mentor and radically reconceptualising the Batmobile. Enough for the comic fans yes, but also something fresh and accessible for those who only know the stories from the films and TV. By picking across the different versions of Batman that exist, and then adding his own ideas and elements, Nolan balanced both audiences beautifully, gaining the support of the fans and the everyday movie goer.

He also, and this is not to denigrate his work, had the support of Joel Schumacher. Batman and Robin had been so poor, so camp, that Nolan’s credible take on the subject matter shone out. Then came The Dark Knight. Bigger, better, and bolder this was a film that transcended Begins, creating an epic crime drama in which some of the participants just happen to be more than a little odd. Nolan is excellent at creating grounded spectacle; for the most part the action feels real, with CGI augmenting the visuals, rather than being the action itself. Enough has been written about Heath Ledger’s Joker – but it’s worth noting that he captures just one version of the character. The Joker has nearly been around as long as Batman, and has been re-invented many times. The most radical departure is in the presentation of Harvey Dent, his Two-Face barely features, an important character restructured to add meaning to Batman’s quest for justice. Dent’s fate asks questions about what justice means, and what should be done to acheive it. Questions that come home to roost in TDKR.

So to the final film in Nolan’s series. It is as epic in size as you would hope, with effects and set-pieces to match. From the start this franchise has used very canny casting in supporting roles, and this is no different – Joseph Gordon Levitt shines, while Michael Caine and Morgan Freeman do what they do. Other newcomers, such as Tom Hardy and Anne Hathaway also blend well. Hathaway does especially well as her role, Catwoman, is saddled with the baggage of Michelle Pfeiffer’s excellent performance in Batman Returns. Catwoman’s character stays fairly faithful to the comics, Hardy’s Bane however diverts in several key ways. No longer from a Latin American Republic (the isle of Santa Prisca in the comics), Bane is now embroiled with the League of Shadows from Begins; this link, along with several others, neatly tie the films together as a real trilogy, linked not only through narrative and character, but also thematic and visual echoes of the previous films (making Gotham’s hostages walk out over the ice sent me back to the sword fight in Begins). What makes Nolan’s diversions from comic lore work are the sense that they are worked out – not simply done for the sake of difference. Bane’s new character and background preserve his key elements, of strength and tactical thought, while layering a sense of pathos into that hulking body.

The ending, which has had some folk up in arms, neatly ties up the films and the thematic arcs. Nolan knows that, just as he did, someone will reinvent these characters – this was his chance to push his vision to its conclusion. This may not please die-hards, but as a rounding off of a film trilogy it works just fine. 2 hours, 44 minutes, zipped by.

The Skin I Live In (Pedro Almodovar, 2011)

If Hitchcock was still making films I’m sure he would have made fascinating use of CCTV and surveillance technology. This thought occurred to me while watching Almodovar’s The Skin I Live In which has Hitchcockian undertones, with particular echoes of Rear Window and Vertigo. Antonio Banderas, re-united with Almodovar after many years, plays a skilled surgeon, an expert in skin grafts and cosmetic procedures, who’s haunted by the death of his wife in a fire some years ago. In his house, which doubles as a clinic, he keeps a patient on whom he’s testing a new synthetic skin. Who this patient is, and why they’re there, drives the plot into unexpected territory.

Beautifully shot in several sparse interiors a tale of obsession unfolds. Banderas is better here than in any of his American films, revealing a sinister side to the surgeon. Elena Anaya as his patient is also excellent – her eyes are almost always on the edge of tears, hinting at the shocking truth that has led her to be a prisoner/patient in Banderas’ home.

Engaging with ideas of revenge, sexuality, and identity The Skin I Live In unfolds in a surprising manner, Almodovar employing a non-linear structure, with multiple flashbacks, to gradually fill in the plot gaps. Caught somewhere between thriller and horror, it’s a film that slowly creeps up on you and gets under your own skin.

Days of Heaven (Terrence Malick, 1978)

Starring: Richard Gere (Bill), Brooke Adams (Abby), Linda (Linda Manz), Sam Shepherd (The Farmer)

There are certain films that are considered canonical almost beyond criticism (the obvious is Citizen Kane). Certain film-makers also pass into an unassailable position where utterance of their names suggests a certain quality as it passes from the lips. Terrence Malick is one of those. I’ve never seen, for my sins, any of Malik’s films before (I know, everyone is supposed to at least watch Badlands) and with The Tree of Life in cinemas at the moment it seemed like a good time to finally catch up with one of his earlier films. And know what? I don’t get it.

I have to confess that I immediately had issues with Gere. Not that I have any general issues with the actor, it’s just that in this film his face stands out a mile. Amongst all the weathered land workers and steel workers his smooth face lacks any sense of the hard life that Bill professes to live. This disbelief extends throughout the film. It’s as if Malik is trying to use characters as cyphers for something. There’s so little to them I just couldn’t care. The plot proceeds along a fairly predictable route and the film is at times pretty, but for me it was hollow. The sound mixing, obscuring lines of dialogue that may give essential clues to character and motivation, was annoying.

Maybe I should have watched Badlands.

True Grit (Joel & Ethan Coen, 2010)

Spoilers!

Starring: Jeff Bridges (Rooster Gogburn), Hailee Steinfeld (Mattie Ross), Matt Damon (LaBoeuf), Josh Brolin (Tom Chaney), Barry Pepper (Lucky Ned Pepper)

I’m a fan of Westerns. Let me qualify that. I’m a fan of some Westerns but I also concede that it’s a genre that long ago became tired through simple over-saturation. Every now and then, however, a new Western pops up that reminds me of why I first liked the genre. True Grit is one of those.

For the uninitiated it’s adapted from a novel by Charles Portis (which is excellent) and was previously adapted into a John Wayne vehicle in the late 60s (a film I can only half remember from numerous bank-holiday screenings). The narrative follows a head-strong girl, Mattie Ross, on a quest to avenge her father’s death at the hands of Tom Chaney. To achieve her goals she hires rough and ready US Marshal Rooster Cogburn – a man described as not the best Marshal, but the meanest. It’s clear that Mattie not only wants justice, but also revenge. They are aided, and sometimes hampered, by LaBoeuf (pronounced LaBeef), a blow-hard Texas Ranger with tassels and spurs.

The revenge plot itself is nothing new but what elevates this film are the central performances, the cinematography and a rich and entertaining argot that helps create a complete sense of a time past (at one point Cogburn calls Mattie a “harpie in trousers”).  Indeed the dialogue is one of the principle joys of the film and the source of much humour. Roger Deakins shoots many of the scenes in rich golds and browns, giving them a warmth that often plays against the barren and open landscapes. But most of all the film succeeds because of Hailee Steinfeld. Her performance is astonishingly assured giving Mattie purpose, poise and determination but also sympathy and warmth. In one scene a brow-beaten trader practically begs for mercy from her keen mind. She will not be stopped from her quest, no matter the obstacle, and her desire drives the film along. Alongside her Bridges is good value as Cogburn, chewing his words so aggressively they seem the leak into each other. Also excellent is Damon, vanishing into his role as the pompous, verbose Ranger (who suffers an ironic, but due, injury).

It’s also a wonderful film of faces, of frowns and lines and gapped teeth. The roughness of the West shines through, but also the absurdity; in one scene Mattie & Cogburn happen upon a bear trapper who professes to be a doctor and dentist, and likes to liberate the teeth from corpses. The action, when it comes, is short, sharp and violent giving a real sense of the brutality of a world on the cusp of civilisation.

What makes the film though is Mattie, the little book-keeper who is determined to balance her father’s death. It’s through her eyes that we experience the film, and her personality that dominates.

This is, by some way, the best film I’ve seen in a while.

Loving the Liminal: In the Mood for Love (Wong Kar Wai, 2000)

Spoilers!

I love this film – I’ve been discussing it for several years with students and every viewing opens it up a little more.  The first thing that hits you is how beautiful the film is – like many of Wong Kar Wai’s films – no doubt Christopher Doyle is a big influence on this. But the more I see it the more I feel that the film’s most magnificent element is its willingness to not let things happen; so much of this film happens out of frame. All we’re left with are the in-between scenes and spaces – instead of showing us what is going on we are shown what happens before and after the important scenes, in those liminal spaces of doorways and corridors where people pass and catch glimpses of each other.

Using the liminal to convey distance and unease is nothing new of course. John Ford famously held John Wayne in a doorway at the end of The Searchers to convey his inability to enter into domestic, civilised, life. Kubrick loved a corridor and often used colours to demark areas linked to emotions. But neither of them went as far as Wong Kar Wai; almost the whole movie plays in the in-between spaces. When we do get into a bedroom the camera lingers in a wardrobe or looks through a mirror further questioning what we see, hiding the main action. In one bravaura moment of editing Mrs Chan runs up, then down, then up, then down some stairs before we cut to Mr Chow in Room 2046 and the door knocks. Her confusion, her doubt, becomes ours.  And then we get the scenes where Mrs Chan and Mr Chow (always formally addressed, always remote) play-act their spouses’ relationship holding us in doubt as to whether they mean what they say or not. Are they also having an affair? The central beauty of this film, I now realise, is not in the cinematography, the slow undulating music or Cheung’s amazing dresses, but in this central ambiguity and the realisation that much of life is not played in the dramatic style of Hollywood but in the small details of the in-between, of a hand held in the back of a taxi, or of a shared umbrella.

Of course it helps that Tony Leung and Maggie Cheung play the possible lovers brought together by their respective spouses’ affair. I’m always amazed at how Leung conveys so much through small gestures (although watch him in John Woo’s films and see him go the other way). Cheung is almost glacial, but this makes the moments when emotion does break across her face more involving and heart breaking.

When I first watched In the Mood for Love I wanted to know whether these two did consummate their unspoken love and desire. Now I don’t – knowing would undo what I love about this film. On a shelf in my home the follow-up 2046 sits still in its plastic wrap, HMV price sticker untouched. I am worried that it might offer me an answer – and so there it stays for at least a while longer.