Murders in the Zoo

 

Murders in the Zoo

Director ~  A. Edward Sutherland

Writers ~ Philip Wylie, Seton I. Miller, Milton Herbert Gropper

1933, US

Stars ~ Charles Ruggles, Lionel Atwill, Gail Patrick

 

A murder melodrama with serious outré inclinations with our bad guy Charles Atwell stopping just short of the ham that Tod Slaughter would have thrown in. He’s a sadist bumping off anyone he suspects of having designs on his wife, Evelyn; but also, masochistic where he seems to get off on her hatred for him. His toxic patriarchal masculinity is synonymous with the primal nature of the animals – his collection, his trophies – that he only sees these “beasts” in terms of in terms of “they love, they hate, they kill”; he sees no nuance in them for he is a psychopath. There’s genuine pre-code sadism and nastiness – that opening is startling, certainly setting out the agenda for the continued streak of the macabre throughout.

There’s plenty of period charm and fascination, but you might find yourself wondering about the on-set studio safety of the era. Certainly, there is obvious ambivalence to the handling of animals, if not downright maltreatment. And although Gorman’s homicidal virility is associated with the wildlife (Evelyn calls him out for rape-within-marriage during their confrontation), the animals aren’t given true agency, aren’t even presented as hunters, just “let loose” and/or blamed. There’s something messy at loose and Gorman assumes a combination of connivance and privilege will let him get away with it. The animals represent what the elite’s codify and imprison and have luxury meals amongst in a time of Depression, what is repressed, sexually and socially.

 

For comparison, note how the comedy relief Charles Ruggles is scared of the animals: impotent in all ways. He is such a broad comedy relief that’s it’s a wonder that when he is finally charged to do something of import, namely to call the police, the fact that he manages it without a pratfall is quite out of character. In fact, although Ruggles is toplined, his character contributes nothing except irritation.

Tonally insecure maybe, but there are enough pre-code shocks and themes (infidelity!) to make this a worthy curio. 

Door

Door

Director ~ Banmei Takahashi

Writers ~ Ataru Oikawa, Banmei Takahashi

1988, Japan

Stars ~ Keiko Takahashi, Daijirô Tsutsumi, Shirô Shimomoto

Taking a long time to kick in, ‘Door’ is a film that often feels like padding rather than slowburn, despite planting promises as it goes along (oh, a mini chainsaw…). Yasuko (Keiko Takahashi) is a housewife mostly looking after her small son with the absence of her husband seemingly filled by pushy salesmen on the phone and at the door. It’s this that causes problems when she closes the door on one salesman’s fingers, instigating a campaign of revenge-terror.

 Daijirô Tsutsumi as the salesman often glares and is framed as if he has wondered in from a noir (in a phone booth, simmering, even with a neon green headset), elsewhere the film shifts into the feel of giallo (blades!). Predominantly, it feels like kitchen sink with the score seemingly on random play and starting without much blending (very giallo). Yet elsewhere the sound design overlaps and the foley work toils overtime in isolating the footfalls and the metallic clang of the door – hardly a secure sound – creating an almost otherworldly aesthetic.

Yasuko’s vulnerability and anxiety are played at believable rather than hysterical levels, and with all the male pushiness trying to sell her something, the intimation that the apartment is just as much a prison as a safe space increases. But there’s no avoiding the sense of the film time-killing and there’s a drag until the the pyrotechnics of the showdown: points about everyday life, the gender disparities, the unhelpful society, passive-aggressive capitalism, the stalker creepiness, are all made early. When the home-invasion takes over, there’s a lot to credit in the authenticity of the clumsy tangling and fighting between housewife and assailant, that she doesn’t quite become some kind of righteous kick-ass female heroine. There’s surely unintentional humour but something absurdly realistic when they are trying to battle a mini-chainsaw through the door with a fork and rollerskates: it’s like kids trying to recreate ‘The Shining’ with dad’s tools.

But the peak of it is an overhead tracking shot of a chase through the apartment, a stunning sequence that is worth the wait.

Dreamscape

Dreamscape

Director ~ Joseph Ruben

Writers ~ David LougheryChuck RussellJoseph Ruben

1984, USA

Stars ~ Dennis Quaid, Max von Sydow, Christopher Plummer

If you’re looking for an 80s sci-fi thriller, there are probably none more 80s than ‘Dreamscape’, much of the blame of which can be put on Maurice Jarre’s synth-score, which is sometimes/often unintentionally amusing. But when Dennis Quaid outwits some small-time crooks on a racecourse and goes home to fawning answerphone messages from women, then picks up a saxophone to chill with to establish his cool, there can surely be no doubt of the era. Also, the smirky Quaid poster than implies this is some kind of Indiana Jones romp wannabe is criminally misleading when it is more derived more from the psychic thrillers of the 70s and the post-‘Nightmare on Elm Street’ dream-horrors of the era.  But maybe the awkward poster-image is indicative of the marketing confusion of how to sell a nightmarish-lite thriller-horror that is a little tonally muddled.

There’s some love interest in a lab coat, but this is a boys’ tale. When you have Christopher Plummer and David Patrick Kelly in the cast, you know who the bad guys are (and Kelly will never be cool enough to play sax), and there you have Max Von Sydow making the cheesiest of dialogue and exposition sound credible (“Project!”). It’s also defiantly rooted in its era for its Cold War Nuclear fears: the President is having dreams of Nuclear Holocaust that are making him lean towards a disarmament deal which doesn’t sit well with the political Hawks around him. The political paranoia and conspiracies are familiar from Seventies psychic horrors like ‘Scanners’ and ‘Fury’, although the dream angle comes as a new spin, although it’s only the wonky dreamscape staircase that truly tests the surrealist realism of dreams. The nadir is the gong for a punchline for its one Asian character, but the glaring flaw is its central Snakeman terror that, with all the best will in the world, with its inconsistent design that veers between rubberiness and Harryhausen charm, doesn’t inspire anything terrible.

But it is a film that is entertaining because of and for all its flaws, for the nostalgia. Shallow, but it ultimately does achieve some campy romp.

 

"Broken Where it Counts" - by Buck Theorem

 A new single to pass the time... 

 "Broken Where it Counts": Failed father-figures, foolish longing on a summer afternoon street, parental responsibility, big furry luxurious beasties.

Murder Me, Monster

 

Murder Me, Monster

Muere, monstruo, muere

Writer & Director ~ Alejandro Fadel

2018, Argentina-France-Chile

Stars ~ Víctor LópezEsteban BigliardiTania Casciani

A glorious oddity that is more aligned with (so-called) slow arthouse cinema than the exploitation or the fun monster movies promised by its title. It veers between awe-inspiring bright vistas of the Andes Mountains* but becomes increasingly nocturnal – those flares-in-the-night scenes are gorgeous. My initial impression was that this was like the ‘Once Upon a Time in Antonia’ of monster films. It is gruesome and ikky, but Fadel’s interest is in the machismo of such an isolated location rather than monster shocks. The true assets are Víctor López’s craggy face and quasi-elegant dancing, not to mention his troubling subservience to his melancholy but surely unstable Capitán (Jorge Pado). The feel is dirty and sad, of people going through the motions, a forgotten community. The sudden spate of headless corpses that appears in this remote town seems only to generate more melancholy, self-doubt and existential male confusion.The only considered suspect insists that a legendary monster is responsible.

 The English title is one that will automatically hook me, taken from the mantra in the narrative (is telepathy involved?). The original Spanish is 'Muere, monstruo, muere' meaning "Die, Monster, Die".

(And if you are intrigued, read no further for best to be on  tenterhooks about if the monster will appear or not. And don 't google.)

If the insistence on obliqueness may prove unsatisfying for some, for the mysteries will remain intact, the reveal of the outré, absurd and outrageous monster will be worth the patience for others. When it appears, all the moodiness and sexual disquiet and repression that has preceded is suddenly resolved with a WTF? This is revealed without breaking a sweat, with all the casualness and downbeat energy that has defined the film. Certainly, all its symbolism – and it’s a more overtly genital-based monster than Giger’s Alien but matches that of ‘The Strangeness’ – implies that some meaning has been achieved, but the monster’s mythological status and roots in the geometry of the landscape means its meaning is left vague. The film isn’t afraid to show this goofy-hideous monster in close-up, and it’s left as an Id of masculine depravity wandering the beautiful landscape unchallenged.

·     *   And if you want more of this, the accompanying short film (on Blu-ray) that exists within this world offers three helmeted figures arguing about “Freedom” amidst drone-electro and jaw-dropping landscapes.

Amusements

 Portrait: The Pisa Tower pose.

The Pop Group: I was at this gig and I can tell you that this video doesn't do justice to just how visceral and good it felt. After about three songs, some random guy turned to me and said, "Is this the best gig you've ever seen?" And at that moment I wouldn't have argued, and I still consider it one of the best.