Another House of Wax (World of Remakes #2)

"House of Wax"
Jaume Collect-Serra, Australia/2005, USA

"The House of Wax" seems an ideal example of how a horror remake that simultaneously cashes-in and updates a respected original can reveal the best and worst of contemporary ‘re-imaginings’. The originals ("House of Wax 1953 is a remake of 1933's "Mystery of the Wax Museum") are delightful Gothic chillers with an irresistible promise and, in one example, Vincent Price. Full of theatrical, garish and ghoulish flourishes, earlier versions were never exemplary of Classic with the capitalised "c", but simply possessed of a highly appealing horror premise, Old School charm and a good set-piece or two.

Immediately, in just invoking Price’s name, a key difference in the old and the new flares up: modern horror does not have the same cache of horror stars such as Lugosi, Karloff, The Chaneys, Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing It’s in the casting that we find the conflict in the "House of Wax" remake [1]. It feels like two films competing against one another: one is a contemporised rural Gothic with lashings of Twenty-First Century graphic cruelty plus a glorious topping of surrealism; the other is one of those Teen Horrors (well, twentysomething) that seem dictated by the production company to draw in the demographic they imagine make up the horror audience. The audience who’ll apparently only come to see pretty young things talk dirty and get killed by something monstrous.

And so it is that we begin with an arresting opening that feels more like Tim Burton on a particularly nasty day - a dinnertime in which one of two brothers is strapped savagely into a chair, all to slightly edgy if not jaunty editing - which then gives way to generic soft metal and a bunch of bratty and bitching young Americans. They all fit their stereotype, their dramas are soooo day-time soap and sure enough, the chaste girl is going to be the Final Girl of sorts, the loved-up black guy and the slutty one (some stunt-casting with Paris Hilton) will do some bumping-and-grinding and the delinquent… well, he is not the obnoxious, crass type, but rather the misunderstood type. This means he will be redeemed. Herein lies the most original feature of the drama, for "House of Wax" is about sibling love rather than romance. It is not in any way revelatory - some generalised stuff about there always being a ‘good’ sibling and a ‘bad’ sibling - but it does make a change after the bland amorous pairings at the core of so many standard horrors. Otherwise, it is simply an undistinguished cast borrowed from a long line of tedious slashers and High School flicks and is probably responsible for what makes "House of Wax" so superficially banal.

But when it steers into a mixture of "Texas Chainsaw Massacre" (1974) and waxy surrealism, it quite excels. Jeune Collet-Serra directly fluidly and fluently with fine sense of establishing geography and showing off the wonderful set design details. "House of Wax" throws up a number of far-fetched but gleeful conceits and spikes them with a decidedly modern focus on body horror, all culminating in the unapologetically contrived separation by knife of wax twins. Indeed, you can almost hear someone looking to remake the originals - and actually, they probably did not refer to the originals at all - and saying "Hey, what about if the house is, you know, actually made of wax?" And this paves way for the deliriously surreal denouement of the final chase in a melting building. For this little wonder, it wins over its flaws. In fact, nearly all its weaknesses can be forgiven for the exemplary set design, the lovingly grungy detail, the ending, plus another great otherworldly scene: a cinema of wax dummies watching "Whatever Happened To Baby Jane?" (1962)These unforgettable set-pieces and the full-on joy the film-makers have with wax, both on a grand and small scale, make this a minor surrealist horror treat, and all that tired and humourless teen-slasher stuff is just weak scaffolding.
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1 - The only potential crossover star I can think up is Robert England, and he is hardly a household name in quite the same way. Anthony Hopkins as Hannibal Lecktor, possibly, but he has hardly earned his crust by affiliating himself with horror.

CLOVERFIELD

"CLOVERFIELD", 2008, USA, Matt Reeves


The problems with the "Cloverfield" hand-held execution are evident from the outset. We’re all accustomed to amateur shaky-cam (we’re all filmmakers now!), but as with any medium, it takes real skill to create something fluid and new from such a volatile familiar technique. Some of the action is carefully orchestrated with the natural motion; at other times it becomes absurd, as our cameraman diligently continues to record whilst being attacked by smaller creatures (Hit it with the camera! Hit it with the camera!!), or climbing from one falling building to another. What is/was new with "Cloverfield" was the concept of viewing a mega-budget monster flick through the eyes of YouTube. It half works. First-person ground zero perspective is a delicate balance, but this is not as successful as ".Rec" (2007) or (yes, of course) "The Blair Witch Project" (1999). You can look to "28 Weeks Later" (2007) as an excellent example of mobile but not hand-held camera, which probably would have reaped a more convincing ground zero perspective for "Cloverfield". And, of course, the camera has an excellent microphone, what with all the stereo and depth of bass.

Nevertheless, this is in no way as crippling as the human drama on offer. Some shallow love-friction provides the impetus for our vanilla Manhattanites to go back into the war zone, to rescue a loved one. Brandon Colvin gives a fine defence of both the digicam aesthetic and the romantic narrative arc, which he argues for most convincingly. Its title "Epically Personal" indicating how he feels the minor-to-major perspective works well (and please do read). But when actually listening to their interaction and love-before-monsters philosophy, these characters really are not the supposedly average people we can empathise with: they are cut-outs taken from a soap opera A-to-B manual. Colvin rightly sees the monster as the embodiment of our hero’s anxieties about his move to Japan and his break-up with a woman he loves. And surely the monster is also her repressed rage at his abandoning her, tearing down the city to prevent his leaving. Pity about the hokey dialogue. More interesting is the cameraman (also requisite comic relief) and his unrequited love for the girl at the party, but this is never allowed to take off, even though they are more intriguing and quirky characters. I am not persuaded by the human commotion element: it is like a particularly smug and asinine TV drama about successful but emotionally cliché New Yorkers is suddenly interrupted by a "Godzilla" rip-off. In itself, this ought to be (if you’ll forgive me) awesome, but you need better dialogue and actual character charisma than Drew Goddard's script offers. Rather, it feels like a tale of how the Cappuccino crowd, having modelled themselves heroically on constant re-runs of "Friends" but without the gags, simply won’t let a little thing like gigantic monsters running amok stand in the way of love, but the kind of love you see in commercials rather than the actual engaging stuff.

　

But: what a "Godzilla" homage. The famous "Cloverfield" promotional campaign was a brilliant tease. A party of happy Americans is interrupted by a full Dolby-trembling roar from the distance. Chills go up the spine. This might have been a seminal monster movie, as rendered by the little people running around its toes, shaking with its every footstep, fleeing from falling buildings. And there is plenty of that. News broadcasts hint at what’s to come. Then the first brief appearance and the falling head of the Statue of Liberty, followed by a run for cover in a store in a fog of dust and dirt is spectacular and thrilling. This is what we came to see!! The attack on the bridge is perhaps even more spectacular and unique in putting us right there during monster mayhem. The glimpses near and far of the thing are both revealing and teasing enough to get an creature feature fan trembling with joy. If you love monster movies, how can you not celebrate these moments? They come close to a totally new perspective… close. I am reminded of the brilliant alien invasion pictures of Charlie White.

A moment of respite taking refuge in the subway is a smart move, keeping us firmly under but aside from the action, felt only by the trembling earth. This bunker-perspective re-captures the best element of Shyamalan’s "Signs" (2002), where you can think Yes, this is how we would experience this. A tunnel attack, whilst frightening, is perhaps where things start to lose a cast-iron grip and we have to start making allowances - which can be done happily for the most part - to let it get on with what it is doing. Rushing through military camps and battle zones strain credibility, as cleverly as they may be choreographed, and by the time we come to the helicopter, after a wonderful aerial monster-shot, plausibility just gets thrown aside. So, suddenly, the camera looks up and sees the monster, and no one heard it coming? You know, no stomping and trembling earth? Did no one care enough to follow details to the very end? Why have an aesthetic that purports allegiance to first-person credibility and then throw logic and plausibility out the window when it suits?

JJ Abrams has a real fan boy love for genre, and enough pop culture savvy to play with the conventions to liven things up. But those same pop motifs often have him making do with the obvious and superficially cool; when he is called on for truly innovative dramatics and closure, he can’t quite deliver. This then is why the human drama has all the depth of weak R’n’B love songs. But in closing, when the fears of separation and failure in the "Cloverfield" couple’s relationship finally comes to overwhelm them, there is almost a genuine emotional kick come the end. Almost.

But the monster stuff is great.

BIGGER THAN LIFE

Nicholas Ray, USA, 1956


Nicolas Ray's "Bigger Than Life" is full of wonderful detail: the bright yellows of the taxi cabs; Richie painfully declaring how he hates his father whilst sporting a milk moustache; the way Barbara Rush’s orange dress seems to glow and tint the house interiors as psychosis takes flame at home; the use of light (as Jim Jarmusch notes: from Mason’s first fall with the lamp, the lighting is overhead for his high moods and low for his dark mania); the subtle and not so subtle use of mirrors. It is full of unforgettable scenes: the shopping for dress which at first seems an act of adoration but is more a "Vertigo" act of male control; the PTA meeting evolving into a scathing attack on the apparent intellectual and moral deficiency of children; the slow homework session from hell…

This simultaneously gorgeous and troubling portrait of domestic America always on the verge appears to be a pet project for James Mason, who not excels in the lead role but also produced. He is Ed Avery, a fair but troubled teacher who agrees to be treated by a new "miracle drug" - cortisone - when diagnosed with a fatal illness. The psychological effects on Avery is one of those tales of household despair, anguish and torment that so easily falls into weak soap operatics, but Ray’s direction and the screenplay by Cyril Hume and Richard Maibaum uses this to explore the precarious fabric and stability of American society. Based on Berton Rouche’s case study that appeared in "The New Yorker", the melodrama is the means of this exploration, rather than an end in itself. Aside from Mason, Barbara Rush and Christopher Olsen also give exceptional performances as his wife and son, carrying their own perspective. She represents a woman who could far exceed her status, but seems to have been coerced into her role as an actively ideal Fifties housewife. The son has an Oedipal struggle of his own. It is with these strong side conflicts that the film achieves richness, not simple allowing Avery’s mental breakdown to define the drama. Much of this is accessorised with a wealth of loaded symbolism - the football; the banister; clothing; scissors, etc.


That the composition and cinematography is so exemplary, rich and gorgeous would make this melodrama exceptional alone, but that it turns out to be a scathing attack on any American institution it notices makes "Bigger Than Life" a genuinely resonant and disturbing work. Teachers are borderline psychotics and treated miserably by the establishment; doctors speak like educational films and patronise and prescribe seemingly without fully understanding their true power; the respectable American life is "dull" and founded on repressed discontent and past glories (his football carries a lot of symbolism; she could go back to her career if she wanted rather than homemaking); the Bible fuels delusion and mania… None of this is resolved by the inevitable closing family embrace, which in itself doesn’t quell the overbearing shadow of Death that set all this off in the first place.

THE HOBBIT

Tolkien's "The Hobbit"... and political, moral and heroic landscapes.

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~1~
Tolkien’s classic children’s novel "The Hobbit" (1937) was initially written for his son, who proofread it for pocket money, and eventually paved way for the literary monolith that is "The Lord of the Rings." Although Tolkien himself disliked metaphor and analogy ~ although Jungian interpretation would argue that it matters not whether the author is conscious of symbolism and meaning, that it is there anyhow ~ the political undercurrents and horror of warfare is never far from the story, although never interfering with the elements of adventure and great quest. Simply, in the face of conflict, of apocalypse and devastation of war, Tolkien’s argument is for negotiation, sharing, compromise and democracy. All these features are combined in the famous Hobbit, Bilbo.

Bilbo is a diminutive, hermetic persona, both physically and psychologically, and somewhat subservient to the duties of politeness ~ as when the dwarves arrive for dinner unannounced and he is unable to turn them away ~ and exhibiting a small-town sensibility. As a child reader surrogate Bilbo, as in most fairy tales, develops awareness and adult skills by embarking upon a great odyssey. It is the tale of naïve, home-loving and home-safe character being thrown by force into the trials and terrors of the outside world. Bilbo becomes an anti-hero, in that he himself is less than traditionally heroic ~ like Beorn and Bard. His heroism take two forms: firstly, that he rises to the occasion when needed, whether it be stealing from Smaug the dragon or fighting the giant spiders to save the dwarves; secondly, that he is also the advocate of political diplomacy, which he demonstrates in attempting to undermine Thorin’s stubborn greed by negotiating with the elves over Smaug’s treasure hoard. If Gandalf represents an almost absent but ever-present governance, then Biblo is the active politician and diplomat.

In this way, Tolkien has Biblo act as a moderated symbol of heroism, but heroism built from necessity rather than Classic conventions, and one that point towards a democratic sensibility. Bilbo possesses elements of parody of Classic Heroism whilst simultaneously earning them through deed and compromise. Compare with Smaug or Thorin, who express selfishness, greed and foolhardy excesses of stubborn pride, and who both meet bad ends. With his best intentions being for the greater good rather than just the fortune of one race, Bilbo wins on all fronts.

~2~

There is also Smaug, a vain creature of mass destruction, sat atop the hoards of gold and treasure gained from his decimation of towns and peoples: Smaug is a full-blooded metaphor and symbol for the greed of genocide; for wealth, power and mass-slaughter just for the profit. As to the further symbolism that has been foisted upon The Ring ~ widely compared to Atomic and Nuclear power, symbolism which Tolkien actively disapproved of ~ but surely the meaning is wider than that direct comparison. Rather, the One Ring embodies all the terrible burden of life, of trying to do right, of conscience, of the temptation of power and corruption, of selfish gain and thought. It seduces preys on the weaknesses of all, on selfish sensibilities, debasing their good motivations. And it also represents any means or weapon of mass destruction ~ surely no matter what size. The will to do harm, the uncontrolled anger and violence that the Ring represents is what is so terrifying - and only the meekness and innate goodness of (child-like) Hobbit creatures Bilbo and Frodo can wrestle with its allure. Even the mighty Gandalf will not trust himself, it seems…

If we accept that fictional characters operate from a Good and Bad internal dichotomy ~ rather than shades of grey ~ and that this lays not within a religious realm but a "moral" one [1], then morality can be achieved by adhering to Good intentions whilst acknowledging the temptation of the Bad (e.g. The Ring). "The good self is the self which is identified with, and takes pleasure in, the morally good; which is interested in and is bound up with pursuits, activities, in a word, with ends that realise the good will," writes F.H. Bradley [2]. It is an active, conscious process. Comparatively, Bradley states that: "The bad self can not as such be self-conscious; if it were so, it would realise the ideal of a self-conscious collection." [3]. If to be Bad is to lack a self-awareness, it is perhaps then relevant that invisibility, a kind of self-denial, is the initial power of the Ring. Of course all this moral talk must acknowledge the grey realm between the Good and the Bad, and that even the Bad are often self-aware, but bear no adherence to the actions that create the Good. Smaug and Orcs cannot be said to be self-conscious, but Saramon is surely more than aware of his ambitions for power, perhaps derived from some unknown quantity of self-hatred and desire for status.
　
~3~

It is possible to see The Ring as a symbol of the onset of the industrial and technological advances that will challenge of the oral cultures and fairy-tale form that Tolkien develops. But in some senses, he was wrong to be so pessimistic ~ the bedtime fairy tale has not lost entirely to the TV set. "Harry Potter" alone stands as testimony that full-blooded and increasingly complex fantasy can still capture cultural imagination, albeit - that a film adaptation will inevitably follow also. "The Lord of the Rings" prose fans are still happily fanatical, and it is not hard so to find someone that reads it annually. In a sense, "The Hobbit" is still seen as a younger-minded precursor to the major epic. And what does the young reader take from Biblo’s adventure - apart from the spirit of adventure itself? A tale that says the scary outside world can be advanced upon and fought with; one that suggests a complex multi-cultural and therefore politicised (fantasy) landscape; the idea that open-mindedness and positive action, goodwill and negotiation will provide the best way forward and prevent all bloodshed. And that to actively prevent bloodshed, in and of itself, is the goal of the Good. There is no real arguments for pre-emptive action here. Like the best fiction for the young, "The Hobbit" provides adult themes and contexts without the audience barely noticing; he never lets it interfere with the adventure ~ and yet never allows the need for adventure to undermine his more ponderous concerns with responsibility, loneliness, bonding and almost casual heroism.

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[1] My definition: "moral" being the creation and agreement of behaviour that is positive and enlightened. I am reading Tolkien as trying for something greater than Good and Evil, sidestepping religious allegory and motivation (the kind he disliked in C.S. Lewis' "Narnia" series), hence my preferred use of Good and Bad.

[2] F.H. Bradley, "Ethical Studies," Oxford University Press, 1876, 2nd edition [1962] pg. 305

[3] F.H. Bradley, ibid.

FRIDAY NIGHT LIGHTS

Peter Berg & Josh Plate - 2004 - USA

"Friday Night Lights" is a good lesson in how to take and use all those narrative clichés and package them so that the audience isn't insulted. It's a sports film, and even before I venture more you know how that goes, and there isn't anything in Peter Berg's film that will convince you otherwise. The bragging, wiseass, cocky star player that everyone counts on... well, he's going to have the wind taken out of him. The team that keeps losing, just about scrapes through to battle a truly formidable opposition - on a toss of coin, no less. The father whose reaction to his son's imperfect performance verges on all-out abuse. And so on. Incidentally, we are talking Texan College Football here. The biggest surprise is that most of this is based on truth, which only makes you wonder if life likes to imitate big screen convention. Berg mitigates the given predictability and stereotypes by giving the film a washed-out, shaky-cam quasi-documentary flush and an Altman-esque wandering eye and camera over the ensemble characters. Certainly Berg's previous "Very Bad Things" revealed little of this canny respect and tackling of narrative and visual chestnuts, for these techniques near enough turn the given corniness into something moving.

The film scores big thematically by focusing not upon the imminent success of the underdog - indeed, this team is an underdog only in that it has to beat the top team in the league - but by concentrating on the experience of having and losing the best time of your life, on your greatest achievement flashing by before you even realise. You don't have to be a sports fan to get that. The young men that make up the team know that their moment as glorified football players is probably going to be over by the time they're eighteen, and then there will be no more. The film burdens the youths with the knowledge not only that they carry the weight of a whole team and town's reputation, but also that this moment of glory will be over come one Friday soon, and that nothing afterwards in life will match that. The abusive drunk father is, we surmise, a wreck because he peaked in football at that early age and couldn't find any joy or glory afterwards. Inevitably, he tries to relive it through his imperfect son's football career.

The initiative is that the idea of needing to win is forced upon us, with very little leeway for error. An unattainable perfection is demanded. The community heap praise, criticism, celebration and scorn upon the team and the coach with the terrifying irrationality and lack of perspective of devout fans. One of the best small moments is when two men stop the coach in a car park to wish him good luck but also to demand he enforce a win or else with all the veiled menace and threats of Mafioso. The coach is under the cruel thumb of public scrutiny, but in turn stills employs the training tactics of simply shouting and insulting his players into improvement and success. Is this, I wondered as neither a sports fan or an aficionado of American Football, truly the way all seriously competitive sports are taught, and how its great players fostered? Even creepier is the other quiet scene where the coach sits in Lucas Black's bedroom and convinces him that he has to choose between the responsibility to his ailing mother and his responsibility to the team, and by proxy the community. Lucas fondles a toy car and we are given to believe this is the moment where he must put aside childish things, but in truth it is the adults' demands placed upon the boy that are immature and unrealistic. Lucas has already proven his maturity by forsaking his youth to tend to his mother. Thankfully, the scene retains the ambiguity and the coach doesn't come out as some all-knowing tough-love mentor, but as also mercenary and as much of product of peer and public pressure as the youths. There is a casual realism to the characters, enforced by equally casual and assured performances.

As a quiet criticism of the pressure and expectations placed upon American youth when it comes to succeeding, as a criticism of adults living vicariously through their offspring, "Friday Night Lights" succeeds well. It does so both broadly and in the smaller details: for example, Booby Smith's lack of academic education is relayed through a telling moment when he is reading a wealth of potential Universities but has to be told what "prestigious" means. Again, real life makes this apparent cliché real: Booby Smith himself (in the DVD extras) laments his lack of academic learning and reliance upon football to provide him with a secure future.

This quite sly criticism counters the excitement and glory of the football scenes, which rush and crunch and reek of desperation. But it's not a happy portrait of the sporting life: the team all go around bewildered at the roles of responsibility placed upon them. In the film's other brief but best quiet moment, three of the team talk about how they don't even feel seventeen. And in the DVD extras again, another sad but true convention becomes manifest when it turns out that the three players we see sadly saying goodbye to it all at the end of the film never hung out the same way afterwards.

Although it misses out on the joy of sport and plays it as the camaraderie of desperate footsoldiers under fire of constant pressure and scrutiny, "Friday Night Lights" does come as a celebration of sport with heavy reservations. It plays out like one of those typically smart but conventional biopics.

Perhaps sport is the one art form where axioms and conventions are endorsed and excused. Wrestling, for example, is the broadest form of pantomime drama and no one is complaining at its artifice: the wrestlers are athletes, but the platform is theatre. Soccer, baseball, snooker, et cetera, are less flagrant, but also driven by conventional dramatics: icons; losers; underdogs; accidents and tragedies; scandals, and so on. You put these onto film, and they quickly fall into cliché, even if coloured by social or political context. But perhaps with "Friday Night Lights", the clichés become the point. That is, the players are drafted into sporting stereotypes and formula and - in the film at least - this predicament leaves them a little bewildered. Again, there is a pleasing ambiguity, a glint of wrongness around those standard scenes of the coach’s pep talk to his most promising player, or the players sobbing after losing on the field. The sobbing isn’t sentimental here: it is the devastated crack of a personality unable to live up to the demand for sporting perfection and of typecasting. In this way, "Friday Night Lights" gives its team a genuine humanityand vulnerability missing from many such tales.

DAYBREAK

Om jag vänder mig om

Björn Runge - 2003 - Sweden

Swedish melodrama by Bjorn Runge based around three couples and a night of secrets, shouting, sharing, absolution, etc. You know the score. Comparisons with Bergman’s family dramas are obvious, but the roaming camera pursuing and swinging between characters looking for cracks and blame seem more akin to Haneke. If anything, despite a quality cast, Runge’s allowing everything to be resolved by histrionics only shows how carefully calibrated Bergman pitched his melodrama. Despite its chilly, despondent disposition, "Daybreak" has more in common with soap operas.

Also like Hanake, Runge ultimately comes out as hectoring and exhibiting moral superiority. There is evidence of casual humanity, but in the end the blame is - as in Hanake - with a middle-class bourgeois who Won’t Face Things and earnestly live their lives in denial. The oddness here is that Runge throws culpability mostly all on the men. A builder who works so hard to earn money for his family, he never spends time with them. A man so embedded in his own loss of his daughter and disgust at the outside world, especially people of colour, that he wants the house bricked up so no one can trouble him and his wife. A philandering doctor about to lose his job and family who, when confronted with painful truths over a dinner of revelations, simply keeps saying he is going to make dinner or coffee to comical proportions. And, oddest of all, a man who left his clearly disturbed and demanding wife for a younger woman years ago. He is obviously happy with his new life, and his ex-wife clearly needs psychiatric treatment and a restraining order; and yet perversely we are apparently to empathise with her agony, with her inflicting what can only be termed torture upon her ex and his wife, for this is the only way he can be made to face the grief he has caused so that she can achieve closure. The ex-wife is left to wander into the dawn, presumably cleansed and less sociopathic, but I wouldn’t bet on it. It’s a fine line between addressing the flaws of average people for a humane outlook and criticising those mistakes into something more judgmental.

The overt symbolism is occasionally cloying too. The bricking-up-the-house is a decent conceit, for it generates a little quirk and mystery besides representing willful alienation. But we start with the graphic removal of the heart; a car chase that ends with them going in circles; a moment where the different narratives briefly pass one another at a crossroads; and then, when revelations have been made and absorbed… daybreak. Like firearms, hysterical characters are often cheap dramatics in search of meaningful drama. More reliance upon the fine cast and greater restraint might have given the show more elegance.

DRAG ME TO HELL

Sam Raimi, USA, 2009

-I-

Anecdotal evidence suggests that Raimi’s latest is a real crowd pleaser. Friends tell me that they saw it in a packed cinema where everyone jumped and screamed at the right places; I have a friend who got whiplash watching it and had to take time off work. They should quote her on that for the poster. I didn’t see it in a crowded theatre… just a few of us. I wonder how much of a difference that might make? There is no doubting there is plenty meant to make you leap out of your skin. Every five minutes there is a slightly quiet moment and them BAM!! A blast of noise. It is not so much fear you are reacting too as much as an excess of volume. In other films, this just seems like a cheap BOO!! tactic. Luckily, Raimi has more to offer. Accolades have escalated for "Drag Me To Hell" to the level that it's being called the best horror film of the decade, etc. Which is ridiculous and seems based upon Rami delivering exactly what popcorn horror fans are expected to enjoy, and no more. Which he does. Some say that horror should always have, or is improved with the humour Raimi delivers. No. It is something like excessive horror for those who don't mind the violence of cartoons, but probably don't go much for the grimier, darker stuff.

It's mostly fun, but when watching and becoming annoyed at glaring continuity and logic issues, I started to see something else. These notes are based upon one viewing, so conclusions may change later on, and be warned that there are a whole bunch of spoilers.

"Drag Me To Hell" is slapstick horror, written by brothers Sam and Ivan Raimi, and it is often brilliantly presented, pushing the boundaries of its rating. As critic Mark Kermode has noted, that something like this is a PG13 shows how much things have changed, because with all its exploding eyeballs, etc., it surely would have been thrown in with the Video Nasties pile back at the height of that moral panic. It has Raimi’s aversion at old ladies and then some, more articulate in its revulsion than “Evil Dead” in its use of false teeth, dodgy eyes and witchy crones. It is also freewheeling with its continuity and details. No one expects completely consistent details in a horror romp, but: after it’s scene-stealing performance, where does the goat go in the séance? When Chrsitine Brown spurts a geyser of blood from her nose at everyone at work, no one particularly seems freaked out and it certainly doesn’t cause any consequences in people’s reactions to her. Upon disturbing the corpse at the wake, one minute it is spewing gunk over her, the next she is totally fresh-faced. Like a good old Tom and Jerry fight, she receives barely a blemish from all the battering she takes. Is this just the genre’s typical shrug at physical realism and constancy? I suspect more is at play.

Alison Lohman is Christine Brown is a farm girl apparently desperate to rise above her humble origins, the death of her father and her mother’s alcoholism. This one-time “fat girl” has slimmed down and is in line for promotion at work, up against the sliminess of a colleague rival. She has slimmed, worked her way up the chain of promotion at work, got herself a great boyfriend in Clay Dalton (Justin Long), she’s worked at a puppy shelter and she doesn’t eat meat. There is a lot tied into food. The curse comes from the Gypsy (a totally game Lorna Raver) who eats desk candy disgustingly, not to mention steals it. Many of the demonic attacks are foreshadowed or responded to by eating. The dinner with Clay's parents in particular is loaded with eyeballs in farm cake and devilish banging on doors. There is plenty of vomit going around; a fly penetrates her lips into her stomach; early on, the pre-curse gypsy gets a stapler down her throat and simply spits it back up. And the Lamia demon shoves its fist right down Lohan’s throat. The allusions to bulimic behaviour and repugnance, guilt and shame regarding food, eating and the mouth are everywhere. Once she thinks she is out of the curse, Christine immediately, impulsively buys a new minty green coat and tosses the old (despite having sold all her stuff earlier). All the clues of self-image problems are there, although we thankfully do not get a barrage of symbolic mirrors. If it wasn’t for the prologue showing Hell claiming a victim, and if it wasn’t for the séance which seems to possess a lot of action and consequence to validate the existence of a supernatural grudge, one might think the psychics onto a scam and the rest all in Christine's mind. Is her boyfriend’s mother right? Is Christine crazy?

-II-

Nihilistic Kid and Angry Black Woman take “Drag Me To Hell” to task for racism. The representation of the Gypsy community is not enlightened, but attacking horror films for casual and offensive caricatures is like reprimanding metal music for being too loud or Mariah Carey for singing too many notes: it comes with the territory and it’s like shooting fish in a barrel. That is not a justification of stereotypes and broad caricature, but in the better horrors something else is usually happening.

First context: this is a B-horror and the Gypsy Curse inclusion is surely meant to hark to the era when Gypsies were always cursing one Lon Chaney or the other - it is homage. It also comes from that unenlightened, prejudiced rendering of Gypsies (e.g., people originating from Roma) as seemingly a lifestyle choice, like occultism, rather than an ethnicity, and a persecuted one at that. But, again, I suspect there is more going on here.

Second context: the perspective of the narrative. Once the Gypsy woman has turned up, grossed us out and cursed Lohman with a vengeful Lamia devil to drag her to Hades, Lohman goes into the basement car park and sees a beat up, puke yellow car. The moment slows and she stares at it increasingly suspicious and nervous. The aesthetic becomes dreamy and tense. From the car floats the handkerchief of the Gypsy, and suddenly the Gypsy is right there in the car and an almighty cartoon fight ensues. But wait… back up. How does Lohman know that that decidedly inferior vehicle is the Gypsy’s car? It looks similar. And the Gypsy knows how to break into cars too? Isn’t this absurd fight before she dispenses with a curse and manifests herself as a Lamia? Perhaps we cannot exactly trust what we are seeing, as proposed before; and then perhaps what we are actually dealing with is not only Lohman’s self-disgust and eating disorder manifest, but also evidence of her racism. That is: the exaggerated disgust and stereotyping is Lohman’s perspective, through which the film is filtered. And so it follows that this is the Gypsy’s car and it is later seen when Lohman tries to visit the old crone at her house to get the curse lifted, but instead stumbles into her wake. Lohman is invited into the house, not knowing the wake is in progress, and the corridor she tentatively moves along is moreorless silent and then - bam! she is in the middle of a noisy wake … and gets embalming fluid or whatever vomited over her, except there is no evidence of that at the end of the scene. But we have no reason to believe that the Gypsy lady ever owned a car, outside of Lohman’s decidedly dubious perspective. Or just because the film says, "Sure that's her car". Therefore, the authenticity of the wake scene is also in doubt.

So come the ending, when all seems to be well and sunny and she has the promotion, the dastardly co-worker is exposed as conniving, her boyfriend is waiting for her, Lohman buys a new coat… she practically skips. It is not quite Peter Parker going “Saturday Night Fever” in “Spiderman 3”, but it is near the same dancefloor. And then…. All those consistent uses of food, eating and mouth images and anxieties. All those apparently dodgy moments of continuity. Is this one of those “Fight Club”, “The Others” tricks, with a relatively consistent parallel story going on, or simply the result of flippant horror making? It’s never spelt out, but: she trashed her own room; that nosebleed was not an actual geyser, etc. And even at the end, she imagines her accidental fall as the result of the hex of barely repressed fear of failure, fate and herself. Is it that half the craziness never actually happens in the séance - again, note there is a lot of blood that suddenly vanishes; that the medium dies during the course of the con and so the earnest Indian medium simply invents another convenient story of a “cure” (very much in the “Ringu” vein) to let Lohman off the hook? Is it simply that the prologue is a representation of what Lohman comes to imagine the back-story, as told by the con-artist medium, and just that we get to see it before the action truly starts? And is it that her barely repressed, troubled mind drives her into all kinds of hokum, even to imagining herself being dragged away?

...and now for some lols...

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SHIVERS

a.k.a: The Pararsite Murders; They Came From Within

David Cronenberg, USA, 1974

The culmination of the themes begun by Cronenberg’s earlier "Stereo" (1969) and the rarely seen "Crimes of the Future" (1970). A sexually transmitted disease mutates people of all ages into rapists in the hi-tech Starliner complex, set on its own island. The visuals possess the prosaic gloss of brochures and style magazines, but the most striking colour motif is blood on un-glamorised flesh. Assured and controlled to a greater degree than the earlier films, and more so than the subsequent "Rabid" [1976], Cronenberg mixes the banal with sudden but equally matter-of-fact shocks from the outset: we begin with an advert for the complex which gives way to a girl in her late teens apparently about to be raped by an older man in one of the luxury apartments. The truth of the matter, when revealed, is just as horrible. Soon, it is apparent that a faeces-like creature has been created and let loose in the building, sliming its way around the rooms, turning everyone into carriers. The old man is a professor, who has experimenting with organ replacement and created these parasites which are "a mixture of aphrodisiac and venereal disease"[1].

The apocalyptic vision that defined much of Seventies horror and science fiction is here merged with the possession theme and turned inward: Cronenberg’s vision is a sexual apocalypse where man cannot help himself, where he has little control or defense against his body, its desires or its mutations. As a visionary, Cronenberg has proved daring, pioneering and singular but increasingly accessible; he is a true auteur. Decades later and his early films would all be seen in the context of fear of A.I.D.S. and promiscuity. His sense of both horror and the domestic, and where the two overlap, is always both clinical and essentially humane, not to mention black-humoured. Comparisons with "Crash" (1996) - Cronenberg’s later assault on the shine of a car-fetishising culture - shows how fearless and sharp his analytical, objective style has consistently been. Any budgetary restrictions and patchy scripting is often overcome by an obvious intellect and allegory (which is perhaps why the British censors passed "Shivers" uncut). In this way, Cronenberg is also able to create scenes dealing with husband-wife rape, incest, predatory homosexuals, child carriers and afflicted elders without prejudice: the sexual holocaust shows no preference.

A more experienced Cronenberg would have matched the Bright New World of the complex with sleeker cinematography and camerawork. "Shivers" has no showy camerawork, but the sudden shocks are upstaged only by Cronenberg’s ability to turn everyday orifices into deadly threats, from letterboxes and plugholes to ajar elevator doors. Likewise, he underplays how Hampton’s doctor turns into a pragmatic killer without the slightest hesitation: he is simply a man of medicine trying to destroy a virus. Society’s gloss and alienation barely suppresses the violence and sexuality of ordinary people; the clinical succumbs to the visceral and primal, creating a sexualised zombie plague.

This is Cronenberg’s "Night of the Living Dead" [1968], but the threat is manifested from within, trying to get out, right down to the cars leaving the underground car park of the phallic complex. A venereal "Invasion of the Bodysnatchers". Peter Nichols calls the film part of Cronenberg’s "bizarre cinema of disgust" and a deeply black comedy, and it is probably so that Cronenberg’s earlier work ventured clearly into such uncharted territory that only some of the audience would respond to. "Shivers" was badly received upon release. This merging of evident intellect and out-right horror convention is probably what dumbfounded many critics: or, as Kim Newman puts it, "Shivers" seems like the director’s reaction to his seriously cerebral earlier experimental films, so that "‘Shivers’ is so unswervingly gripping that rational thought is impossible." [2] Certainly, there is an accumulation of action typical of horror - a sort of "The Andromeda Strain" (1971) meets "Dawn of the Dead" (1979) - but the allegory justifies such cinema of transgression and achieves uncomfortable insight that other genres can only dream about. "Rabid", ultimately, can only end up seeming a lesser sequel to this initial, fierce vision.

[1] The Science Fiction Film Source Book, (ed. David Wingrove, Longman Group Ltd, Essex, 1985) pg. 202

[2] Nightmare Movies: a critical guide to horror films, ( Kim Newman, Harmony Books, New York, 1988), pg. 118

The Warriors

THE WARRIORS

Walter Hill, 1979, USA

The first thing that you find when starting in on Walter’s Hill’s ‘ultimate’ version of "The Warriors" is that it is far from the incendiary, brutally realistic depiction of gang violence that its original riot-causing reputation might lead you to believe. The (online) sources tell a tale of extra security paid for by the film company to supervise theatre screenings, of outbreaks of gang violence at the cinema. Genuine gangs liked it, but apparently couldn’t stand sitting next to rivals to watch it. But this is hardly gritty, terrifying realism; it is probably not even as provocative as "A Clockwork Orange". What it is is far closer to "Sin City", "Creepshow" and "The Hulk" (Ang Lee) than "Romper Stomper", or "Gomorrah". The film freezes and becomes artwork; the artwork pulls back to reveal comic-book panels of scenes; there are wipes and titles that say "Meanwhile" that carry the narrative along. It is conceived as a comic-book come to life, and it is set in the near future. Sol Yurick’s source novel is apparently truly interested in exploring the desperate environment that creates gangs, but Hill moved onto something more fantastic when the studio would not consent to an all black and Hispanic cast. It is this, he believes, that induced him to make "The Warriors" futuristic which, like "A Clockwork Orange", makes more sense of all the crazy dressing up. The superficial details are not sci-fi, so it feels more like a variant New York reality.

It has considerable cult cool, generated by a hip soundtrack that is both sinister synths (much like John Carpenter, courtesy of Barry De Vorzon) and funky soul cuts. It is hip from the variety and outrageousness of the gang costumes and tribal identities, courtesy of great work by costume designers Mary Ann Winston and Bobbie Mannix. It is hip from the smooth, unfussy direction and broody atmosphere, from the constant threat of trial-by-violence. Much of "The Warriors" longevity comes, like all good cult films, from its successful creation of an alternate reality with details that speak far beyond the immediate action. All those gangs, costumes and their history can be imagined and expanded upon by the audience. This is just the tip of the iceberg. For example, you can try out Rockstar Games’ 2005 tie-in beat-em-up role-player for "The Warriors", which is full of expanded character backstories - and a far more brutal, amoral and provocative experience than the original film. The gangland is the seemingly barren and endlessly nocturnal city, overwritten with graffiti and alleviated only by blocks of coloured neon reflections stretching down shiny asphalt. It is both flamboyant and noir-ish. Even when the sun comes up, it’s still possible to imagine as a place where shadows house silent gangs ready to take you down. Somewhere else in the city, where the police are presumably less brutal and loathsome, you might envision John Carpenter’s "Assault on Precinct 13" taking place.

Hill almost starts with what ought to be the grand finale, with all the gangs gathering in one place for a gigantic meeting of rivals. This pays great dividends: once The Warriors have been framed for the murder of Cyrus - (Roger Hill) a warlord who is trying to bring all the gangs together to run the city like some big funky "Can you dig it?!" kingpin (the common enemy: police & authority) - we can look forward with curiosity as to which oddball gang they will run into next. There is a similar trick, or possible influence, in Richard’s Price’s novel "The Wanderers" (1974), where on page two there is a list of gangs, all of which have defining characteristics (Wongs, Pharaohs, Del-Bombers, etc.) and all promising some nasty encounters. It is a novel that William Burroughs called "A deeply moving account of confused and spiritually underprivileged youth"*; and although "The Warriors" is not that film nor "Rebel Without A Cause", it doesn’t forget to shade its colourful characters with a little desperation and deprivation. The most celebrated touch is when the encounter between the beat-up Warriors and tagalong gang girl Mercy (Deborah Van Valkenburgh) and a group of bright white preppies becomes a silent bid for dignity.

In enemy territory and with the whole city out for their blood, The Warriors try to make their way back to the beaches of Coney Island. This owes everything to the Greek tale of Anabasis, just as so many of the character names allude to all things classical and mythical. The structure is stripped down but carefully paced: after the opening show-piece, it’s the best part of an hour before the first real gang-on-gang punch-out occurs. Aside from confrontational Ajax (James Remar) and bare-chest outfits, The Warriors aren’t macho poseurs or pit-fighting lunkheads: rather, there is plenty of barely repressed anxiety and vulnerability on display, quietly played out between them, which evokes their need of gang identity for survival in a harsh urban wasteland. And then, come the end, Swan (Michael Beck) looks out across his home with unconcealed disdain. Walter Hill even sidesteps a showdown with The Rogues, even though they have raced to Coney Island especially to take down The Warriors. Rather, he allows the drama to round itself off without unnecessary grandstanding. It is a fine demonstration of how satisfying closure can be dramatically achieved without recourse to the standard punch-up felt needed to resolve so many action films.

Sleek, sparse and atmospheric, "The Warriors" has been adopted by the hip-hop community and outwards, and has generated its own long-term cult. An action film that manages to circumnavigate much of the obvious genre pitfalls, but at the same time still offers skinheads, post-Russ Meyer Siren-like lesbian crews, martial arts clans and baseball bat baddies. Moody, smart enough and thoroughly enjoyable.

* This William Burroughs quote taken from the back cover of: Richard Price, "The Wanderers" (Bloomsbury Classic Reads; 2004 edition).

THE WIND WILL CARRY US

Bad ma ra khahad bord

Abbas Kiarostami - 1999 - Iran/France

Although it relies upon natural action rather than dramatic narrative, Kiarostomai's film allows easy-going pace, simple situations and scenery to draw in the viewer. The lengthy shots allow space for magnificent vistas to take the breath away (the opposite of the claustrophobic single-setting of his "Ten"). The takes never seem prolonged in order to discover a spiritual world like Tarkovsky, for they feel organic rather that ceremonious. Neither do they go beyond prolonged, as in Bela Tarr, to discover a metaphysical world somewhat freed of spirituality, leaving only what you see and the elements around you. Rather, Kauristami allows his shots and scenes to linger just enough for the scenery and authentic rhythms of the local life to rise to the surface.

Our protagonist is a filmmaker who makes himself part of the daily routine of the town; there is casual generosity all round and despite his somewhat bullish nature, he is successful in befriending several townsfolk. Slowly, he finds himself interested in their gossip; the days are full of casual greetings, the search for milk, wandering livestock, driving… lots of driving in Kiarostami films … Slowly the truth comes: he leads a film crew, but this just creates new questions. The mystery is underplayed but it’s there from the start: why is this small group of filmmakers pretending to be engineers, or treasure hunters? Why does the director keep asking about the health of a local woman who appears to be on her deathbed? What is it that they want from this remote town? But now he is partially embedded in the culture and a crisis of conscious is felt, his mean streak and arrogance surfaces from frustration and the idle pace of the town gets to the increasingly impatient crew. His natural goodwill reasserts itself, but by then it seems to late (in particular, his relationship with his young guide suffers and he doesn't have the time to repair it properly).

So there is humour and mystery, and a genuine plot to be had, despite the impression that we are simply watching a incidental life as it happens. The humour is slight but colours the scenes where an old couple argue gender at the tea shop, or in our filmmaking protagonist constantly dashing great distances to find high ground to take his mobile calls. The repetitions yield rewards and truths: here is the local daily routine; what the filmmaker is told one day, he forgets the next. The careful shots that follow the characters give us a tour and, through that repetition, the geography of the place becomes clear. This topographical attention is a rare reward, for so many films fail to take the time to establish the geography of their locations, which can often hold the key to so much information and suspense. The village itself becomes the main character. The faint grades of shade and sunlight become key indicators of time of day, cast against the sandy walls of the buildings and possessing an unforced beauty. A film to calm you, to force you to ease up, relax and soak in its leisure, pleasures and casual surrealism. Ultimately life-affirming, rational and greatly humanitarian.

DESPERATION

Mick Garris - USA - 2006

The first half is fair enough, with the demonic sheriff rounding up random people who just happen to be passing through his middle-of-nowhere town called Desperation, jailing them for some undoubtedly demonic purpose.. Once the victims are out of the jail, the whole thing comes to a screeching halt for an old man to spout exposition, then for an tediously evangelical and pious child to gush born-again Stephen Kingisms. King has said that horror is conservative because it is about the fight between Good and Evil. Actually, the fight between Good and Evil is the Conservative view of horror which takes for granted the existence of such polar forces. Usually this involves the most banal evocation of horror, the kind fully on display in "Desperation": unholy portals, possession, random prophetic visions, possessed people acting in hammy fashion and using pop-culture references in that punning post-Jack Torence, post-Freddy Kruger manner. Evil also uses spiders and snakes and big cats and wisecracking Hellboys (yes, Ron Perlman). God uses visions of angelic dead girls and back-story conveyed in the style of old silent-movies (complete with title cards and tight editing) to pass on visions to the prophet-boy. Later, He will use personal, shameful memories served up as bad war movies. And God also sends divine soap to aid escape plans (rather than, you know, simply opening cell doors). King’s conservative vision of horror does not accommodate the far more complex, painful and truthful horror of post-Vietnam genre films such as "Night of the Living Dead", "Last House on the Left", "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre"… the list is well known. To top off how this incorporates all the worst traits of King’s screenplays, the hero with the spiritual dilemma is yet again a writer.

All that matters is what God wants, says the kid at one point. In such a weak offering, does King really think he has a message to spin? It’s a mess, it’s badly paced, weakly played and unimaginatively rendered, especially come the second half. If you are to look for a far more disturbing investigation of the temptation of Evil, look to another King mini-series, "Storm of the Century". It is everything that this effort is not: carefully paced and a sturdy allegory and not just a little disturbing.

THE CRAZIES

George A. Romero - USA - 1973

Romero’s less grisly but disturbing variation/development of the themes of "Night Of The Living Dead" perhaps owes more to disaster films of the Seventies than low budget horror. It’s ambitions are admirable, far-reaching on scale and generally successful, but here the rough edges arguably do not enhance the aesthetic (as it did with "Living Dead"). The chief weakness is the soundtrack which is often tinny and sharp to the ear, punctuated by unsubtle machine-gun military drumming and folkish songs. Romero’s intention is clear and steady when demonstrating that during times of disaster, although the initial threat may be, say, biological weapons, the ongoing peril is military incompetence, bureaucracy and people going insane. It's barely allegory. The military red tape causes more harm than good, soldiers mistreat and steal from those they are meant to protect, people that are hysterical are barely distinguishable from those infected with the plague of violence, a violence that is barely suppressed within old ladies by knitting.

There is a classic Romero opening, one which most of his films benefit from. First he introduces a horror that is make-believe, then he pulls back to make it real. The brother tells Barbara that the shambling man in the graveyard of "The Living Dead" is a zombie, and then it turns out that he really is. The father throws away the false horrors of the "Creepshow" comic, only for the boy to find that the corpse-like Creep is real. And so on. It is a methodology that always proves a winner. "The Crazies" opens with a young boy designs to scare his little sister before bedtime, only to see the shadow of his father going berserk and wrecking the house. It is another great, chilling opening that throws the viewer right in the deep end, setting out and stirring up false and real terrors. Later, as happens frequently in Romero, the view pulls back further to reveal that the truest horror is how we react to catastrophe and fear. "The Crazies" may not be considered essential Romero, but it is thick with his disillusion and black humour and shows that Romero was already creating zombie variations long before that was trendy. Rarely has a director so consistently conveyed and balanced fantastic and real horrors and their relationship to one another so successfully.

TEN FILM MUSCIAL MOMENTS

ANIMAL FACTORY

~ Steve Buscemi, 2000, USA

"Rapture" ~ Antony

So you’re just settling into this prison drama with some top notch acting, and a terrible backdrop of decay, barely suppressed violence and rape, when suddenly there’s Antony of Antony and the Johnsons, crooning in his otherworldy quaver to a bunch of hardened convicts. Tony Trejo’s reaction is priceless. It’s a wonderful, almost surreal lull in an otherwise realist and straightforward character drama. Later, another band does a straightforward rock number, but it isn’t the same at all. One can only wonder what Anthony did to end up in that hellhole.

*

PARANOID PARK

~ Gus Van Sant, 2007, USA

"I Can Help" ~ Billy Swan

In "Elephant", Gus Van Sant has his teens walk the corridors of school to a underlying, unsettling, slightly industrial ambient bed of noise: the sound of impending nightmares. Here in "Paranoid Park", the tone of the film is dreamy and flowing so that when our troubled skater protagonist is called to the office and he steps out from class to walk the halls in slow motion, that he is accompanied by such a compressed gorgeous organ sound, such a fresh, bright blast of pop such as "I Can Help" is almost like painting the whole somnambulist world yellow and shaking a bottle of lemonade over it. The different tempos between the youth walking (artificially slowed) and the music provide a frission that is hard to put the finger on, but it feels inspired and almost novel as a choice, even if the song title is more a less-than-subtle metaphor for adults trying to reach alienated teenagers.

*

BLUE VELVET & MULHOLLAND DRIVE

~ David Lynch, 1986 & 2001, USA & France/USA

"In Dreams" & "Crying" ~ Roy Orbison

Firstly, I have traced my very first favourite song to be Orbison’s "In Dreams". At junior school age, I inherited my mother’s music collection, and I have always, always loved this song. It still floors me with its longing, it’s rising melodrama and Orbison’s peerless vocal delivery slowly rising out of the untypical arrangement. No chorus here. "It’s too bad it always seems it only happens in my dreams", he sings with a resigned sobriety that roots this operatic sorrow firmly down to earth. In David Lynch’s "Blue Velvet", Dean Stockwell gives a gloriously mannered karaoke performance of Orbison’s timeless classic. Creepy and funny and delicious all at the same time.

Lynch uses another Orbison classic to send "Mulholland Drive" into otherworldly bliss. This time, Rebekah Del Rio steps onto a stage, unaccompanied, to sing "Crying". In Spanish. With a showstopping voice and a little reverb, this acapella version brings time to a standstill and acts like a black hole for all the sadness in the world.

*

WEST BEIRUT / West Beyrouth (À l'abri les enfants)

~ Ziad Doueiri, France/Norway/lebanon/Belgiun

"Rock Your Baby" ~ George MacCrae

The use of "Rock Me Baby" comes so without warning that it is a total tonal shock halfway into "West Beirut". In this war-torn setting, one of our young rascalish protagonists puts needle to vinyl and out comes this blast of Western disco joy. To these characters, it’s a foreign promise of another world and the promise of good times, a mid-tempo shake-and-boogie of adolescent desire, dance and easy-going fun. It feels out-of-place contextually, so alive and free and totally jubilant. Both sweet and defiant. But rather then taking the neon-drenched night by storm, the guys pop out to the market in the afternoon. Nevertheless, this musical interlude ends with Tarek going to bed smiling at the day, and the song has been the soundtrack of his casual happiness and hope. It was a good day.

*

MAGNOLIA

~ PT Anderson, 1999, USA

"Wise Up" ~ Aimee Mann

I love "Magonolia": it has one of my favourite opening sequences; lots of clever camerawork (he is good at long, mobile takes) and I dug it as overstuffed drama with some nice acting. It’s okay to like Tom Cruise in this one, honest, because he is good. And then… and then the whole thing to stops to become a Aimie Mann music video for "Wise Up" (as featured in "Jerry Maguire"??). One character sings. So does another. They all sing, telling themselves to wise up. A corpse sings. What the hell? And as if someone has turned over from American Masterpiece channel to MTV, the artifice is made clear, suspension of belief and engagement are batted out the window. A bold move? An incalculable error? I am sure PT Anderson thinks it is the emotional crux of the film, but it’s an aesthetic faux pas that shines the drama into light of self-regarding angst affectation. No… I can’t go with it. I just wait until the film starts properly again. Thankfully, it is almost redeemed by the outrageousness of the frogs.

*

[.REC]

~ Jaume Balagueró & Paco Plaza, Spain, 2007

"Vudú (Extended Version)" ~ Vudu

The sound of the horror film is, apparently, rock music. If you are Oriental horror, it is often slightly creepy pop, but mostly it’s rock. Frequently metal of the old or new school kind. And more often than not, it is not of the atmospheric kind. In those crap teen horrors, you expect it. The use of rock seems to say "HELL YEH!! FUCKIN’ SCARY! FUCKIN’ GORY!! LET’S KICK IT!" A kind of crude egging on from your peers.

That ".Rec" ends with the most inappropriate rock song is nearly an act of total sabotage. It's "Vudú (Extended Version)" by Vudu. Carefully and consummately, the film has cultivated a spiralling into the claustrophobia of horror. It starts with freely walking in airy hallways and ends with scrambling through the dark in corners with no way out… rarely has the finale of a film been so nerve-wracking. It doesn’t have many options available and it doesn’t manage the bluff and odd emotional pay-off of "The Descent", but it ends in real horror. And then the rock song comes and all the atmosphere, mood and horror is dumped as if they really didn’t care after all. A stunning final misstep for an otherwise excellent little horror.

*

8-10...AND REALLY, THEY ARE MUSICALS….

LOLA

~ Jacques Demy, 1961, France
… there are no actual musical dance numbers, but the lightness of touch, and all those sailors, p-leeeessee…

*

2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY

~ Stanley Kubrick, 1968, UK/USA

The Universe is classical.

*

THE WICKER MAN

~ Robin Hardy, 1973, UK

The sound of horror is folk music. Who knew?

SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE

Danny Boyle, 2008

1 - DANCING AND DENIAL:

Danny Boyle says that he didn’t see the dance sequence in "Slumdog Millionaire" as a homage to Bollywood. He says it is because you can’t go to India and not dance [1], which, although obviously spoken out of some appreciation joy derived from his time there, can’t help but strike a condescending chord. It also echoes Danny Boyle denying that his "23 Days Later" is a zombie film. Is it possible that the lightness of touch Boyle has with dark subject matter - which can be an asset - comes from a kind of benign self-denial of the roots of some choices? Is he really oblivious to genre convention? "23 Days Later" may be as he says "a thing in itself" [1], but it still has antecedents and works within a given genre: even if Boyle does not want it associated with Romero’s flesh-eaters, the violent plague of "23 Days Later" is preceded by Romero’s "The Crazies", at least.

Whatever, and it really shouldn’t work, but there was a cry of joy from the cinema audience with whom I saw "Slumdog" when the dance routine started. At the time, I myself was a sucker for it. Breaking out the Bollywood moves really should have been a terrible lurch to applauding oneself - but somehow Boyle pulls it off, perhaps because by the end of the film it has completely frothed up and spilt over and pretty much anything goes. It also provides a strong clue as to the karaoke-style emotional triggers and playing-to-the-crowd intentions of this Oscar winner. I am willing to bet that there is a catalog of Bollywood films to which fans could find similarities and references. "Slumdog" really is quite a remarkably successful pot pouri, the ingredients of which Boyle’s seems cheerfully in denial about, where any blandness of concept is resolved with a little sprinkling of Indian spices. He’s watched Bollywood and Zombie films, but his films aren’t them. It is a thing in itself. It is, actually, a thing of many other things.

Boyle comes across as highly amiable and full of good intentions, and I am sure that is shocked by the accusations of racism inherent in the film. What he surely sees as his tribute to India wears all the signifiers of post-colonial thinking, the kind where, hilariously, white people feel no qualms about congratulating the nearest Asian on "Slumdog" (See Accidental Blogger’s article, quotes and comments, plus funny video, for a fine description of why "Slumdog Millionaire" can be filed for accusations of colonialist thinking - clink that link). So is Boyle’s portrayal of the slums a homage to slumdog resilience or a cinematic prettifying, where the emphasis on "Destiny" patronises as the elements of Indian culture is exoticised for a Western audience? An audience that is well familiar with the feel-good romantic fantasies, and especially those so profoundly tied to monetary success. But it is surely not so much the utilisation of a culture or underclass for pop-entertainment that ought to offend as much as the inanity of the script and conceit themselves, the latter derived from Indian author Vikas Swarap’s source novel. That "Slumdog" wins a Oscar for Best Adapted Screenplay is surely a insult to the craft, being that is it based upon the most hackneyed dialogue and beliefs.

Entertainment is its only agenda and, like its protagonist, it gleefully ploughs through its turmoil somewhat obliviously. It champions "destiny" over distress and experience over intelligence and truly has no statement worth considering. Boyle sees the romantic achievement as the true happy ending of the film, although he states that Americans specifically ask him: "He got the money? He did get the money, yeah?!" Again, he seems blissfully unaware of the full ramifications of the concept.

2- FEEL GOOD; FEEL BAD; FEEL GOOD

Sure, I have been telling many people that "Slumdog Millionaire" is good, by which I mean it is worth watching and that they will probably enjoy it as I did, perhaps more so. I am reluctant to dismiss it simply because it is so currently popular, and also to avoid being dishonest because I did enjoy it on first viewing. I always set out to enjoy the film before me and I was kept aloft for the duration. As a feel-good parable with enough trauma to boost up the size of the gleeful all-win finale (and would that ever be a spoiler or unexpected?), it works tremendously well. It’s a fairy-tale where the happy ending is always in mind, is never in doubt. Love will champion all. And the millions probably won’t do much harm either. The British promotional posters are thoroughly misleading (it seems to be a marriage rom-com, judging by the confetti and embrace), or at least won’t prepare most for the litany of torture and corruption that is the scaffolding of the narrative… although little actual deprivation is depicted. "The FEEL GOOD movie of the DECADE" say the posters in type almost bigger than the title of the film itself. But Boyle does it all with such gusto and joy, or rather films the dark elements with hardly a hint of despair, that although you are suitably horrified, you do not come away feeling scarred. It is remarkable sleight-of-hand.

The young cast are effortlessly charming, and Dev Patel gives a career-making performance of vulnerability, charm and humour that grounds all the pyrotechnics going on around him. As Jamal he is, as Sight and Sound notes, as impervious to the cruelty around him as "Oliver Twist" [2], and Dev is photogenic, winning and cautious in his performance, wafer thin as his character is, as unlikely perfect as his accent becomes. Jamal's brother Salim looks as if he has wandered in from "City of God", and Freida Pinto as Latika is gorgeous, even though she is nothing more than a token prize. It is often funny and always engaging. And it must be said that the soundtrack is great too. All this is the good.

The dashes of "Salaam Bombay!" and alternative Asian cinema go some way to salvage Boyle’s film from the curse of the shallow feel-good flick, and help to forgive many clichés. It is a parable, so that the truth of the film is a matter of archetypes rather than plausibility. The litany of abuses suffered by the main trio are there to bolster the fairy-tale ending, but it is not particularly earned, neither by the characters or the narrative contrivance. The emotional tempo of a Danny Boyle film is often that of a commercial, at the service of the cool/hip/sad/pretty/etc moment rather than a coherent thread. One moment a humorous slum celebration, next slim neo-realism, next a rascally picaresque romp, next a heroic rescue mission, the next a gangster flick, next a gameshow, next a music video. Et cetera. There are always enough tricks to please the eye, although Boyle never quite pulls off an evocative simplicity in the manner of "The Blossoming of Maximo Oliveros", where the kaleidoscope of slum colours is derived organically from the natural array of litter.

Just as I am reticent about accusing "Slumdog" of conscious racism, I am reluctant to echo accusations of "poverty porn", despite the alliterative appeal. There are other genuine classics that exploit poverty to empathic ends, such as the sympathetic and sentimental "Umbert D.", or the scathing expose of "Gummo". It is true that "Slumdog" has no insights or genuine, deeply felt compassion, which means its manipulation of poverty is of the cheaper kind; but it is surely a mistake to look to it for any more profundity than, say, the crime musical "Oliver!" So not quite "poverty porn", but it does closes with a montage of poverty days featuring all smiles and no scarring. No matter what happens, you’ll turn out okay at the end.... just believe.

Far more problematic is this film’s happy lobotomised view of fate: it is that the poverty and hardships cause no credible trauma in the characters. That’s Destiny! Latika is raped by Salim; the brothers see their mother murdered (luckily, Jamal has some kind of religious vision which immediately tops this loss); they are beaten by cops; they live in dump sites; there is the slight hint of starvation; their friends are abused… But when Jamal meets an old friend in the street, blinded deliberately to increase his begging power, the old friend merely accepts his lot like a good martyr and absolves Jamal of any guilt or responsibility by telling him that the only difference between them is that Jamal is the one that escaped such a fate. Destiny! Boyle presents a somewhat garbled and condescensing vision of the role of "Destiny" in the film, and seems to present going on a gameshow as taking charge of fate ... which, no matter how he tries to assign this to an Indian context, seems a particularly Westernised vision of taking your life into your own hands.

There is precious little bitterness, outrage or acumen in this slumdog’s world. And the romantic angle is just the substanceless pap that holds up vacuous girl-and-boy narratives of bad writing and fragrance adverts the world over. If we are to take the film’s colourful aesthetic and short attention span as life filtered through Jamal’s view, then it’s like that of a passive kitten being entertained by shiny colourful sweet wrappers, even as it is being kicked around.


3 - WORTH A MILLION, THEN?

Upon leaving the cinema, my friend declared that he loved it whilst suspecting that it actually wasn’t very good. Indeed, there are surely plenty more films more worthy of the Golden Globes, Oscars, and whatever else they hand it, but perhaps fewer that are unashamedly as popularist and enjoyable. Similarly, I enjoyed "Hellboy 2: The Golden Army" whilst recognising its serious weaknesses that surely makes it Del Toro’s lesser work (I wouldn't begrudge technical awards). Or, to look at something a little more comparable, "Walk The Line" was thoroughly amenable but also utterly pedestrian and predictable: it would be nice to expect more from award-winners. "Slumdog Millionaire" has plenty of dazzle, but I suspect is more pretty packaging with a little kernel of grit that rattles in an otherwise hollow parcel.

I believe my conflicted and ambivalent response to the film is clear. But if we really are talking Best Film and Best Director ever... In 2008, "Gomorrah" was far bolder and more enlightening in its exposition of slum and criminal lifestyle; "Let The Right One In" was far more surprising and exemplary in its juggling of restraint and grandstanding; similarly, "The Dark Knight" transcended its genre; and "The Wrestler" was a far better piece of classic formula. I would also argue that all those films had superior and more subtle editing ("Slumdog" won for that). But, again, "Slumdog Millionaire" is a remarkably popular film, and one cannot underestimate the draw of those twin dreams of wealth and love, with the preceding story of hardship surmounted. This time they are in a Bollywood-style package which may be fresh and surprising to Western Audience unfamiliar with Indian cinema of any hue. That Boyle makes anything coherent and successful out of such a grab-bag of moods and references is surely noteworthy in itself. It is ultimately more "Oliver!" than Satyajit Ray. It’s entertaining-good, but not award-good. Award winners should surely be of some originality, should epitomise some aspect of the art form, even when playing to the crowd, and should hold up under scrutiny. Definitely not award-good.

*
[1] "Mumbai Rising", Alkarim Jivani, Sight and Sound, vol. 9, issue 2, February 2009, pg's 40-41
[2] "Slumdog Millionaire" review, Geoffrey Macnab, Sight and Sound, vol. 9, issue 2, February 2009, pg's 75-6