When rating a film I ask myself these three questions: What is the director’s goal or purpose? How does the director try to achieve it? Is the director successful? Hence a big box office hit may get a “5” while a Eurosleaze sexploitation flick gets a “7”. My rating system in a nutshell:
10 = Brilliant!
9 = Exceptional
8 = Very Good
7 = Good
6 = Average
5 = Forgettable
4 = Bad
3 = Dismal
2 = Dog Barf
1 = Beyond Awful
~ ~ ~ ~
Bluebeard [Landru] (France 1963) (7): In WWI France family man Henri Désiré Landru was found guilty of murdering eleven women before he was finally captured by authorities. His modus operandi was to place Lonely Heart ads in order to meet wealthy single ladies who he would then seduce and, upon gaining access to their accounts, kill using a variety of saws and a wood-burning stove to get rid of the bodies. Director Claude Chabrol takes this infamous piece of history and gives it a very dark satirical edge with investigating officers bumbling about like Gallic Keystone Kops and politicians using the lurid details of Landru’s trial to draw people’s attention away from the more troubling articles of the ongoing Armistice talks. Colourful backdrops and costumes are reminiscent of a Monet painting and Chabrol dresses up lead actor Charles Denner like a dapper demon—his rasping voice and ice cold eyes hinting at the psychopath lurking behind the meticulously maintained beard and fringe of hair. Yet for all his evil doings Landru maintained an air of cultured civility and even took a mistress who swore to her dying day that he was innocent. But the devil is in the details whether it be Landru lecturing his oblivious wife and children on the importance of living responsibly, the English couple living next door to his secretly rented villa complaining about the foul odour coming from his chimney (“I thought the French were more hygienic!”), or Landru’s acid wit which too often turned his trial into something of a circus. The “Bluebeard of Gambais” finally met the guillotine in 1922 (reduced here to a single decisive sound effect) and his preserved head can be seen on display at Hollywood’s Museum of Death.
The Poughkeepsie Tapes (USA 2007) (3): Even though the genre has become oversaturated I still enjoy a good “Found Footage” horror flick. But even I have my limits and this insufferably sophomoric attempt is so poorly done that at times it feels like a film student’s homework assignment that received a D-minus. A sadistic serial killer operating in the American northeast circa the early 1990s manages to stay two steps ahead of investigators despite teasing them with clues including hundreds of home movies detailing his crimes and showing his female victims in various stages of degradation, dying, and dismemberment (cue papier mâché torsos and plastic skulls). Now, armed with several minutes of horrifying video evidence as well as a gaggle of talking heads that include police, FBI agents, and forensic experts, a news team hobbles together a documentary on the killer’s exploits as well as the authorities’ attempts to track him down. Whatever. The cast come off like first year drama students—the masked murderer’s vicious taunts sound as if he’s reading the script for the first time while his “victims” screech on cue—and those endless loops of fuzzy VHS recordings render even the more egregious scenes of torture monotonous through sheer repetition—monotonous and somewhat silly when our psychopath decides to dress up. Completely unconvincing from the outset, writer/director John Erick Dowdle tries to compensate for the film’s weak fright factor with a lot of poorly focused violence that had me yawning more than squirming. Give me a good Blair Witch anytime…
End of Love (Hong Kong 2008) (6): Writer/director Simon Chung’s heart is in the right place but sloppy editing and an emotionally shallow script have turned this story of one man’s dark journey into more of a plaintive soap opera. Fresh-faced 22-year old boy toy Ming may have found the beginning of true love when he meets Yan, an older and more conservative businessman who is crazy about him. But Ming’s love for partying and drugs is not so easily left behind, especially after he begins hustling on the side in order to pay the bills. Told in a confusing succession of flashbacks and flash-forwards as Ming cools his heels at a drug rehab centre run by a smarmy Christian evangelist, Chung paints a picture of an impressionable yet headstrong young man with a knack for making the wrong decisions. Ming seems intent on torpedoing every lucky break he gets and his inability to think beyond himself invites tragedy in both his personal life and the lives of others: a forceful “coming out” to his mother doesn’t go well and his budding friendship with compassionate fellow addict, Keung, quickly goes south when Keung’s live-in girlfriend enters the equation. But Ming’s moral fog is not unique to him for it seems that no one in Chung’s film is being entirely truthful with themselves—Yan’s love carries a darker side; Keung’s steadfast sobriety stands on shaky ground; and the rehab pastor can only respond to his flock’s pain with glib platitudes. Not a “gay movie” per se even though the sex scenes are rather explicit and the pitfalls of being happily open in Hong Kong are alluded to, this is more of a low-keyed tragedy delivered in a quasi verité style with a cast whose more intense interactions often feel like improv—a tussle between Ming and Yan on a secluded beach actually had me thinking of a similar scene in From Here to Eternity. Unfortunately the characters’ motives are not entirely clear at times and the dialogue occasionally comes off as a little perfunctory. In the end, for all its stabs at tenderness and references to higher powers (be it God, Love, or plain Human Decency), Chung’s opus always seems to be one step away from overdosing on its own pathos.
V/H/S/2 (USA 2013) (7): If you’ve seen the first V/H/S movie then you already know what to expect. This time around a pair of private investigators searching for a missing student break into the subject’s last known address and find a trove of dusty videotapes which they proceed to watch. Ta-DAH! “Found footage” segments include an artificial eye that sees too much; the zombie apocalypse as seen through a biker’s helmet cam; a death cult that begins rather than ends with Kool-Aid; and rich white kids losing their shit when E.T. phones home. Of course it’s all pretty stupid, but stupid in such clever ways that I laughed more than I cringed. Heaps of steaming guts accompanied by fountains of blood, gouged eyeballs, and exploding body parts keep the gore quotient at full mast—although it was a dangling string of snot that grossed me out the most—while the film’s young crew refresh those old horror clichés (let’s hide in the closet!) with a very warped sense of humour. And it’s shot in that jerky home movie style with skips and static in all the right places. With one segment entitled “Slumber Party Alien Abduction” and a tasteless piece featuring a children’s birthday party going terribly wrong, how can you resist?!
The Bird with the Crystal Plumage (Italy 1970) (6): While vacationing in Rome, American author Sam Dalmas (TV heartthrob Tony Musante) comes to the aid of a woman being attacked and suddenly finds himself involved in a manhunt for a serial killer. The woman was supposed to have been a victim but since Sam upset the psycho’s plans he and his girlfriend may very well be next on the list… Short on logic but big on style, writer/director Dario Argento’s dark thriller is credited with being the grandaddy of the modern giallo and it certainly does set a respectable bar. Lots of shadows and creepy POV camerawork set the mood which is further enhanced by a macabre score of drumbeats, chimes, and whispered vocals arranged by the great Ennio Morricone. One particular scene in which the killer carves their way through a locked door is a study in suspense and horror. And of course there are boobs, blood, and sexy lingerie although Argento keeps it strictly PG-13 this time around. A nostalgic piece of 70s chic from the outré artwork (part of the action takes place in a gallery) and mod trappings to the killer’s impeccable sense of style—nothing goes with a bloody razor like leather gloves and matching overcoat.
Leviathan (Italy 1989) (4): If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery then Ridley Scott and John Carpenter should be patting themselves on the back for there is not one single element of this waterlogged B-movie that director George P. Cosmatos didn’t rip off from either Alien or The Thing. While stationed off the coast of Florida a team of underwater miners come across the sunken remains of a Russian ship…a ship which appears to have been deliberately scuttled along with its doomed crew. Ooh! But while exploring the wreck the miners inadvertently bring something back to their own base. Now with the crew getting picked off one by one the survivors must make a desperate gambit to escape to the surface before time runs out… Using identical sets from Alien (dripping pipes and metal catwalks everywhere!) and weapons from The Thing (why would an underwater bunker even have flamethrowers?) the crew do battle with the cheesiest creature since Toho Studio’s neoprene monsters levelled Tokyo. Looking like a cross between a muppet shark and a stir-fried shrimp the underwater bugaboo displays the same uncanny abilities as Carpenter’s shape-shifter and Scott’s xenomorph—there’s even a burst chest scene for crying out loud—while the crew might as well have been lifted from the spaceship Nostromo with Peter Weller starring as Tom Skerritt; Ernie Hudson standing in for Yaphet Kotto; Meg Foster’s heartless CEO bringing to mind Ian Holm’s robot; and Amanda Pays giving us Sigourney Weaver right down to that gratuitous bra and panty scene (why was she the only one who needed to strip down in order to get into her pressure suit?) A fun flick to laugh at especially if you like pointing out cinematic plagiarism and lapses in logic. I guess cast and crew really needed those paycheques.
Get Out (USA 2017) (8): Racism gets a horror makeover in writer/director Jordan Peele’s ultra-contemporary thriller and the result delivers as many uncomfortable chuckles as it does shivers. The fact that he’s black and his girlfriend Rose (Allison Williams) is white didn’t bother Chris (Daniel Kaluuya) as long as they were living in the big city, but when she insists they take a trip to visit her wealthy parents at their country estate he faces a journey into the heart of white privilege with a certain amount of trepidation despite Rose’s insistence that her parents will be cool with everything. Upon arriving, however, Chris’s misgivings—already heightened by a road accident and a police run-in en route—seem to be justified as mom and dad go out of their way to show how terribly liberal they are (“Boy, that Obama was a great president!”) while her brother makes wisecracks about “good genetics”. And always hovering in the background the maid and groundskeeper, both of whom are black, continue to smile vacantly. But when the Armitages host an afternoon barbecue with their friends Chris suddenly finds himself being politely scrutinized by the rudest group of WASPs this side of a Trump rally. His hosts’ increasingly suspect behaviour coupled with a few unsettling discoveries soon have Chris reaching for the car keys—but by the time he realizes the truth behind all those genteel mannerisms it may already be too late… Borrowing themes from such disparate sources as Rosemary’s Baby, The Shining, and The Stepford Wives, Peele’s largely ad-libbed project takes the usual thriller formula, spices it up with discomfiting allusions to prejudice and slavery (chains, cotton, and a silver spoon loom large), and creates something that is at once familiar and completely novel. Kaluuya’s mastery of facial expressions and ability to turn on the tears have you feeling his character’s discomfort and mounting horror while Williams’ laissez-faire girlfriend is a contradiction of pampered debutante and woke crusader who nevertheless seems blind to what’s going on right in front of her. Catherine Keener and Bradley Whitford, playing mom and dad, likewise give us a smarmy mix of monied entitlement and left wing poseur. But it’s Lil Rel Howery, playing Chris’ best friend and sole voice of reason, who injects the film with a much needed levity—his manic attempts to slap some sense into Chris taking onscreen improvisation to a new level. In the end it’s a bitter cinematic pill with a slick candy coating that will leave you thinking even if it sticks in your throat a bit.
Men (UK 2022) (6): Shortly after her abusive husband’s accidental (?) death, Harper (Jessie Buckley) rents a 16th century country house for a desperately needed getaway to calm her frayed nerves. Unfortunately the peace she sought eludes her, especially when the men in the nearby village prove to be less than helpful: the creepy landlord seems to have ulterior motives; the resident vicar is not entirely sympathetic; a delinquent teen hurls sexist slurs; and when a mysterious nude man begins showing up in her backyard the local constable dismisses her concerns with a shrug. But after the sun goes down and the lights begin to flicker Harper will suffer through a series of terrifying visitations—is she going mad or has the natural world sprung a leak? Pathological grieving is made flesh, misogyny becomes visceral, and Celtic folk horror springs to life in writer/director Alex Garland’s opus, a gruesome psychodrama whose mounting unease is ultimately undone by an overdose of platitudes and gut-churning special effects. In the lead, Buckley gives us a woman who is riddled with unwarranted guilt over her husband’s demise yet at the same time is angry at him for inflicting this guilt on her in the first place (flashbacks show just how manipulative and violent he was). Finding herself in an idyllic countryside setting, Harper’s troubled conscience nevertheless finds menace in everything from a quiet forest whose leafy canopy hides a decaying carcass, to an abandoned railway tunnel whose murky length leads to a greater threat, to a church baptismal font rife with pagan erotica. Even a simple apple tree suggests darker forces at work. But despite its dim view of men in all their incarnations and “damsel in distress” tropes, there is a sense of empowerment at work throughout as our protagonist confronts her pain—both in a figurative and disgustingly literal sense—to arrive at a place where neither natural nor supernatural forces can shake her. Or maybe she really is just plain bonkers. Paapa Essiedu gives us a convincingly psychotic husband in a small but powerful role, and Rory Kinnear shows us just how…versatile…he can be.
I Met Him in Paris (USA 1937) (5): New York fashion designer Kay Denham (Claudette Colbert either smiling or frowning) leaves her drippy simp of a boyfriend behind in order to fulfill her lifelong dream of going wild in Paris. Once there, however, she becomes the amorous target of American ex-pat Gene (Robert Young), a struggling author who whisks her off for a week of fun and frolic in the Swiss alps (Sun Valley, Idaho). But Gene’s contrary friend, sullen playwright George (Melvyn Douglas), proves to be the proverbial third wheel as he invites himself along and then proceeds to interrupt Kay and Gene’s budding relationship every chance he gets. Why are the two men constantly at each other’s throats and what is it they’re not telling Kay? The answer finally arrives in the form of a very unexpected guest and then, just to stir things up even further, Kay’s ex decides he needs to see the City of Lights for himself… Despite its trio of big name stars director Wesley Ruggles' “sparkling screwball comedy” has neither pop nor fizz but rather just flops about on the screen looking cute until the closing credits finally put it to sleep. The jokes and slapstick elements—centred mainly on crossed purposes and skiing mishaps—fall flat while the three leads are more obnoxious than engaging as they take turns growling and hissing at each other. Contrived from start to finish with no big payoff in the end—either romantic or comedic—and the film’s somewhat racy (for the time) storyline ultimately comes across as quaint.
Soldier Blue (USA 1970) (7): In the wild west of 1864 a raiding party of Cheyenne warriors wipe out a platoon of U.S. cavalrymen hired to guard a transport of gold leaving two lone survivors: Honus, a terribly naïve private (Peter Strauss), and Cresta (Candice Bergen), an outspoken young woman kidnapped by the Cheyenne a few years earlier and now being returned to a military outpost several miles away. Enduring native scouts, white profiteers, and the elements themselves, the pair make their way toward the outpost in a cross-country trek that will challenge everything Honus has come to believe about both the “savage” Indians and the moral superiority of the fledgling United States of America. Broken treaties, the imbalance of power, and wanton acts of violence perpetrated by the military are but a few of the realities Cresta has witnessed during her time with the tribe, and as she heatedly shoots down Honus’ attempts at defending America’s position animosity and dissent gradually turn into something else. However, when they finally reach their destination and discover plans are already underway to avenge the platoon that was killed earlier they realize their words must now be put into action if disaster is to be averted. In much the same vein as Arthur Penn’s Little Big Man, released the same year, director Ralph Nelson’s contentious “anti-western” (based on Theodore V. Olsen’s novel) gives us yet another problematic take on how the West was won. But whereas Penn’s classic approached Custer’s Battle of Little Bighorn with a cheekiness sometimes bordering on parody Nelson’s treatment of Colorado’s Sand Creek massacre is presented as an unembellished and grisly chapter of American history. Bergen and Strauss work well together, her decidedly unladylike vocabulary and derisive pragmatism playing well against his stuffed shirt morality. His is the patriotic voice conventional history texts would like us to believe, hers is the cold contradictory voice of uncomfortable facts. Likewise, Robert B. Hauser’s widescreen cinematography creates a romantic terrain of sunbaked plains and majestic cliffs only to have it abruptly undone by a final onslaught of graphic violence so intense that even after the studio trimmed it by 20 minutes its rapid fire images of death and depravity still divided audiences and critics alike. Undermining the genre’s orthodox assumptions (John Wayne saves the day and all that) this is definitely not your father’s oater. Buffy Sainte-Marie belts out the theme song and Donald Pleasance is almost unrecognizable as a sociopathic arms dealer, his sales to the enemy tribes adding yet another moral conundrum to the mix—is he a traitor or a necessary evil?
Blonde Venus (USA 1932) (7): Penned by an uncredited Marlene Dietrich and directed by European ex-pat Josef von Sternberg, this scandalous early Hollywood shocker titillated audiences with its themes of adultery, prostitution, kidnapping, and…skinny-dipping? Unfortunately, by the time the Hays Office censors were done watering down the screenplay it was but a shadow of what Dietrich must have envisioned. After her husband Edward (Herbert Marshall) is diagnosed with a serious illness necessitating a prolonged and expensive stay at an overseas clinic, former European stage sensation turned American housewife Helen Faraday (Dietrich) decides to resume her career in order to raise the necessary funds. But when dashing Manhattan millionaire Nick Townsend (Cary Grant) becomes smitten with her, Helen finds an easier way to make a buck—several bucks in fact. Dirty secrets can’t stay hidden for long however and when a newly returned Edward discovers how his wife’s been paying the bills while he was being treated abroad storm clouds gather over their marriage with custody of their 5-year old son (Dickie Moore) directly in the eye of the hurricane. Surprisingly for the time, von Sternberg handles the issue of sex and infidelity with a delicacy that avoids the usual tawdriness and moral grandstanding. Neither Helen nor the audience is asked to approve of her actions but when faced with two impossible choices (sell your biggest asset or watch your loved one die) is any decision the right one? And later, what lengths would you go to if you were faced with the prospect of never seeing your child again? Reflecting the plight of his female protagonist, Von Sternberg’s sets likewise go from homey kitsch to opulent stage lights (a “jungle voodoo” dance routine with Dietrich in simian drag is beyond camp) to fleabags and flophouses before returning full circle just in time for a ridiculously sentimental final fade no doubt written in by the censors. Dietrich is Dietrich of course, her shadowed eyes and seductive voice working both for and against her as Helen’s meteoric fall from grace takes her from sultry chanteuse to raggedy barfly on the lam with a little kid in tow (that voice and those eyes not quite fitting into her increasingly squalid surroundings). Marshall, on the other hand, is a bit of a cold fish with his clipped British accent and stiff upper lip while Grant gives us a sexy playboy whose heart may not be golden but at least it beats when compared to Marshall’s clockwork passion. But it’s child sensation Dickie Moore who winds up dominating his co-stars, his natural performance treading that fine line between pathos and preciousness—to this day he remains one of Hollywood’s more bearable child stars. Despite being hamstrung by the morality watchdogs (gee everyone, Cancel Culture is older than you think!) Blonde Venus remains a testament to Dietrich’s star power both on the screen and behind it.
Honey [Miele] (Italy/France 2013) (7): Irene, alias “Honey”, has a unique sideline—she helps terminally ill people end their lives at home by supplying them with a deadly cocktail of alcohol and illegal barbiturates which she smuggles into the country. But she is forced to confront her own personal problems after she hooks up with Carlo, a perfectly healthy and financially secure middle-aged client who has simply grown tired of life. Suddenly the issue of assisted suicide which seemed so black and white to her in the past takes on several shades of grey causing Irene to not only rethink what she is doing but to examine her own motivations for doing it in the first place. Director Valeria Golino’s low-key examination of backdoor euthanasia in a country where Catholicism still holds sway is a compelling hybrid of verité realism and arthouse flourishes perfectly played out by leads Jasmine Trinca and Carlo Cecchi. Her role as Honey a conflicted mix of complacent altruism and unspoken moral reservations, and his a grumpy old man whose growing discontent with the tediousness of it all ignites a series of fiery clashes between him and his would-be angel of mercy—clashes which eventually lead them both to a place they weren’t expecting. Working with cinematographer Gergely Pohárnok, Golino colours her drama with touches of the surreal which turn everyday sights and sounds into spiritual metaphors: planes land or take off like departing souls; little ballerinas race down the sidewalk like frilly cherubs; and a group of windsurfers head to the beach, their boards and sails fluttering against the sky like angels’ wings. Shadows also figure prominently—more specifically hands and ghostlike silhouettes—while an undiagnosed heart condition leaves Honey with a tingling in her chest every time she takes on a new assignment (guilt? compassion? both?) or else goes swimming in the deep blue sea, her wetsuit clinging like a shroud. Even a discarded scrap of paper takes on a metaphysical dimension in the unlikeliest of places and a pair of ear buds replace the sound and fury of the real world with revealing ballads. Staunchly refusing to take a moral stance on this contentious issue the director instead allows her characters to show, by example, that it is more complex than either side is willing to admit.
Steamboat Bill, Jr. (USA 1928) (7): One of Buster Keaton’s last “great” films, this romp along the banks of the Mississippi is notable for its painful looking physical comedy and impressive special effects. When the estranged son whom he hasn’t seen in years comes to visit him, rough and gruff riverboat captain William “Steamboat Bill” Canfield is disappointed to say the least. Not following in his father’s footsteps at all, Bill Jr. (Keaton) is a short, scrawny, and somewhat fey misfit who immediately gets under his dad’s nerves—cue a barrage of slapstick pratfalls, backflips, and mechanical mayhem as the younger Canfield tries (unsuccessfully) to learn the ins and out of a paddlewheel ship. And just to make matters worse, he’s also in love with the petite daughter of a rival captain who aims to put Bill Sr. out of business. The usual silent comedy hijinks ensue as the young lovers go to ridiculous lengths in order to see each other, including walking a plank, while their mule-headed fathers hurl insults and physical abuse at one another. It’s a wonder Keaton didn’t break his neck with all those tumbles and leaps between decks made without the benefit of a stunt double or a CGI department, all the while maintaining his signature hangdog expression. A stint at a haberdashery is pure schtick as his father tries to butch him up with just the right hat, an attempted jailbreak is foiled by a loaf of bread, and a walk in the rain is milked for all the yucks it can generate. But Keaton’s genius for comic timing is put to the test for the film’s stormy climax in which industrial cranes and a half dozen high-powered airplane propellers were used to simulate a hurricane. Life-sized sets are blown to shreds, houses are tossed into the river, and an uprooted tree becomes airborne with Keaton clinging to its trunk—all accomplished with split second precision and no miniatures. One scene which has now become iconic has an actual wall falling onto an oblivious Keaton who manages to escape harm because he just happens to be standing right where the wall’s solitary open window lands…if his calculations had been off by just a few inches he would have been killed in real life. An impressive, occasionally breathtaking offering from Hollywood’s hazy crazy early years before talkies changed the landscape forever.
Life of Pi (USA 2012) (8): Ang Lee’s adaptation of Yann Martel’s novel is a beautifully realized adventure with universal appeal. Growing up in rural India, little Pi Patel developed a fascination with the Divine starting with his native Hindu pantheon and gradually encompassing the theologies of neighbouring Christians and Moslems with a bit of Judaism thrown in. But what the young lad was able to accept in theory is put to the test when, en route to a new home in Canada, his ship sinks in a violent storm leaving him the sole human survivor aboard a lifeboat with a couple of zoo animals that were being transported in the hold—including an adult Bengal tiger. Now orphaned and very much alone on the open sea, an adolescent Pi (Suraj Sharma, absolutely convincing) must learn to survive despite hungry sharks in the water, a hungry cat as a shipmate, and his own mounting fears. Nominated for eleven Oscars and winning four including cinematography, special effects, and directing, Pi’s predicament is turned into a surreal psychodrama (or metaphysical journey if that is your preference) rife with dazzling metaphors: interactions with a furry man-eating carnivore shed light on the human psyche, an idyllic island underscores the perils of temptation after the sun goes down, and “God” (or human resilience) is to be found in the details from thunderstorms and schools of flying fish to a most unusual tropical skyline and lessons gleaned from a survival handbook. Told in flashback as an adult Pi (Irrfan Khan, mesmerizing) recounts his tale to an author eager for ideas, Lee muddies the psycho-theological waters even further when Pi, all too aware of the author’s mounting skepticism regarding the tale’s more fanciful elements, offers a more mundane account of what actually happened aboard that boat—an alternate truth which still doesn’t quite jibe with the “official report” filed by the lost ship’s owners. So where does the truth lie, and how can we ever be sure? In the end it really doesn't matter for the film’s sheer scope and visual impact will have as many interpretations as there are audience members to see it…even the significance of the protagonist’s name is open for debate. Shot against a background of burning sunsets and rolling seascapes (actually filmed in a Taiwanese wave tank?!) and containing some of recent cinema’s more striking images—the CGI tiger seems so real you’ll want to pet it and an underwater sequence showing a submerged Pi watching as his ship sinks to the ocean floor, its lights still shining through the murk, was as horrifying as it was beautiful—this is one of those rare “spiritual films” which will leave both believers and non-believers with something to ponder.
Poor Things (Ireland/UK 2023) (6): Once upon a time there was a mad scientist named Godwin (Willem Dafoe in grotesque Halloween make-up) who found the body of a suicide victim (Emma Stone, Best Actress) floating down the Thames. Piqued by the possibilities he brought the corpse home and through the miracle of 1940s special effects brought her back to life. Now, with the figure of a mature woman but the brain of a newborn—quite literally, for this scientist is mad—“Bella” must grow up all over again from petulant toddler to impulsive adolescent and beyond. But things don’t quite roll out as planned after Bella develops a mind of her own and begins to question the status quo of a Victorian society rife with misogyny, inequality, and sexual repression at every turn… Loosely based on Alasdair Gray’s 1992 novel of the same name, director Yorgos Lanthimos’ morality tale certainly dazzles the eye with intricate studio sets that make his 19th century steampunk world unfold like so many children’s pop-up books. Using camera techniques, colour, and dialogue to denote his protagonist’s maturation—scenes go from narrowly focused B&W shots often delivered through a warped fish eye lens to expansive panoramas teeming with bright crayon shades while Bella’s vocabulary likewise increases exponentially—Lanthimos also employs his usual bag of tricks, namely graphic sex and oddball peccadilloes, to give us a sardonic fairy tale in which Frankenstein gets a radical feminist makeover. Liberated in everything from sexual mores to socialist ideals long before it would become fashionable, Bella graduates from enthusiastic masturbation to taking a lover to turning tricks with nary a moral qualm yet her first sight of abject poverty almost destroys her. But her natural predilection for optimism and justice will prove more than a fair match for those who would own her (a jealous lover implodes, an old ex fares even worse) or otherwise force her to conform (a self-confessed cynic finds himself at a loss for words when she challenges his dim worldview). Her somewhat facile epiphany in a nutshell: what’s between a woman’s legs controls men, what’s between her ears terrifies them. There’s a lot of meat to process but, alas, the director spends so much time painting the screen with fantastical vistas that it becomes distracting and one can only shove so much meaning into an already inflated script before even the cleverest ideas start to fly by unnoticed—I did appreciate Bella’s nickname for her creator however…”God”…LOL! In the end the movie poses a tired but still worthwhile argument (DEI and all that) but only if we’re able to move past some of its more eye-popping diversions. Mark Ruffalo is sexy-crazy as Bella’s first sexual casualty, Ramy Youssef is the epitome of self-control and self-doubt as the man who truly loves her, and Kathryn Hunter gives a brief but masterful performance as a dwarf-like Parisian madame whose fragile stature belies an enormous power.
Kinds of Kindness (Ireland/UK 2024) (7): Be forewarned, when a film is written and directed by modern day Greek Oracle, Yorgos Lanthimos, you can assume a few things: it will be odd, its purpose will be obscure at best, and he’s going to fuck with you. That being said, this triptych of contemporary fables starring Emma Stone, Jesse Plemons, Hong Chau, and Willem Dafoe, is pretty much a standard example of the artist at work. First tale: a highly paid salaryman’s good fortune is wholly dependant on whether or not he can satisfy the demands of his tyrannical boss who takes sadistic delight in overseeing every aspect of his life from the clothes he wears and how much he weighs to what he eats and how many times he screws his wife. But when the boss issues an unspeakable order the employee rebels…only to discover that free will is more terrifying than he thought. Second tale: when his wife, who was believed lost at sea, returns home a heartbroken policeman is at first delighted. However, the woman’s strange behaviour gradually leads him to suspect that she has been replaced by a doppelgänger, and as his paranoia increases his demands that she prove herself lead to horrific consequences. Third tale: a charismatic cult leader sends a pair of acolytes into the world to search for a woman who, according to prophesy, possesses great spiritual power. But the two uncover nothing but dead ends and false messiahs until the female acolyte—battered, disillusioned, and fallen to despair—follows up on a promising lead… So, whether it be in the form of corporate autocracy, the unreasonable and often hurtful ultimatums we inflict on those we love, or the empty promises and meaningless rituals of religion, it’s all about…manipulation and control? Tinged by Lanthimos’ signature absurdities (both amusing and grotesque, erotic and frightening), with Jerskin Fendrix’s score following along using solitary piano notes and funereal choirs, this is definitely not a Saturday afternoon crowd-pleaser. Domestic abuse turns macabre as a woman serves up her pan-fried thumb with a side of cauliflower; managerial overreach turns homicidal; and a fervent search for the Second Coming leads to a breakdance routine followed by an ironic coda so caustic you can only shake your head and giggle. Not the director’s best effort given that those little cinematic tricks seem more studied this time around (off-kilter cameras, stilted dialogue, eccentric characters etc. etc.) but if thoughts were arrows he still manages to score a few bullseyes and his cast light up the screen like a chain of Roman candles.
Trois fois rien [Three Times Nothing] (France/Canada 2022) (5): When three homeless men wind up with a winning lottery ticket they discover that what should have been a dream come true turns out to be more of a nightmare starting with the fact that without ID cards, fixed addresses, and established bank accounts they can’t even cash their prize cheque in the first place. The resulting reality shock and subsequent clash of personalities are what drive this tepid comedy as the three friends learn that money really can’t buy happiness (though it can buy lots of booze and consumer goods). But it’s a joke that doesn’t go very far before turning into a sappy series of heart-tugs and life-affirming groups hugs. Canada’s Antoine Bertrand flaunts his Quebecois accent as the bearish “Twiggy”, the group’s de facto leader and loud voice of reason whose impatient outbursts hide the fact that the cause of his homelessness is still very much an open wound. A grizzled Phillip Rebbot plays “Captain”, a gay alcoholic and embodiment of misplaced compassion, his small acts of kindness too often backfiring. And Côme Levin gives an athletic performance as “Arrow”, a pathologically manic runaway whose extremely annoying bursts of lunacy are meant to represent…youthful zeal?…hope springing eternal? The three actors do generate sparks as an Odd Trio thrown together by fate and circumstance but their pratfalls fail to elicit more than a stifled yawn and the jokes generally fall flat. Furthermore, their stagey tantrums followed by sober reconciliations and male bonding moments quickly become tiresome. Just to be charitable I will say that the film’s three eventual resolutions are more or less believable and a closing sequence of stills, including an unexpected group photo, is handled well. Special shout out to Max, the pooch who played Arrow’s pet dog affectionately named “Asshole”. His slobbering performance lending credence to the idea that casting a cute animal can elevate any film from bad to mediocre.
The Girl Can’t Help It (USA 1956) (7): A hot-tempered New York mobster (Edmond O’Brien) tasks a washed-out alcoholic talent agent (Tom Ewell) with turning his busty platinum blonde moll (Jayne Mansfield) into the next big jukebox sensation. Unfortunately, the deal quickly sours for all involved when the girl proves she has neither talent nor ambition; the agent begins to fall for her ample charms (a feeling which appears mutual); and the suspicious mobster, sensing infidelity in the air, inches ever closer toward a jealous rage. Presented in widescreen Cinemascope and eye-searing DeLuxe Color, 20th Century Fox’s sexy rock ’n roll comedy certainly cashes in on Mansfield’s boobs and tightly cinched hourglass figure (could she even breathe in those dresses?) However, whereas Marilyn Monroe made the “ditzy blonde” into something of a trademark, Mansfield imbues her curvaceous character with a bit more brains and a few less squeaks, a twist which gives the script’s sexual innuendos and naughty sight gags (as she strolls by the milkman his bottle erupts into a white fountain…ahem) an ironic edge. In comparison the rest of the cast just seem to be along for the ride: Ewell pines away and trips over himself, O’Brien blusters and scowls, and Henry Jones (playing O’Brien’s right hand man) goes from cynical abettor to sentimental sap as true love begins to bloom. The real attraction though is the numerous musical cameos from such popular artists as Little Richard, Fats Domino, Eddie Cochran, and a ghostly Julie London crooning her hit single “Cry Me a River” as Ewell’s drunken agent goes through the DTs. In fact, the musical interludes were so popular they apparently inspired impressionable youngsters like Paul McCartney, John Lennon, and Jimmy Page. In the end it’s so much sparkly fluff and cartoonish drama—including those opening and closing segments in which the actors walk off the screen to address the audience directly—but as a breezy cinematic postcard from a bygone era it has glitter to spare. And who doesn’t appreciate a bit of glitter now and again?
1408 (USA 2007) (7): Yet another Stephen King short story gets padded out to a feature length film and the finished product, while not jaw-dropping, does manage to get under your skin. Popular writer Mike Enslin (John Cusack) makes a living debunking stories of supposed hauntings so it comes as no surprise that he eventually finds his way to New York’s faded Dolphin hotel where he plans to spend one night in room 1408—scene to dozens of suicides and suspicious “natural deaths” since the building was first opened almost a century ago. Ignoring stern warnings from the Dolphin’s secretive manager (Samuel L. Jackson) who warns the author that no one has managed to last more than an hour in that “evil room”, Enslin checks in and so the countdown begins. Starting with bad vibes and a few odd turns (paintings suddenly hang crooked, the plumbing turns nasty, the radio takes on a life of its own) and progressing into increasingly elaborate CGI territory with heaving walls and ghostly visitations, Enslin gets caught up in an existential stand-off against an invisible enemy who seems to know his every weakness… Grief and despair get a gruesome makeover in director Mikael Håfström’s special effects extravaganza wherein one man’s private pain is translated into mounting scenes of chaos and mayhem. There’s a sad reason behind Enslin’s cynical bravado toward all things spiritual and as his evening from Hell progresses it begins to haunt him in several devilishly inventive ways from melting telephones to migrating brick walls. Will he make it to checkout time? Cusack is in fine athletic form as he leaps and rolls with the supernatural punches, his initial skepticism giving way to shocked disbelief and gaping horror before finally registering something far more humane. And although the part is relatively small, Jackson’s enigmatic administrator is open to more than one interpretation especially given his final line. Lastly, despite some overblown effects and gimmicky devices (the number 13 crops up in various guises) there is a cerebral dimension lurking just beneath Håfström’s incendiary free-for-all which, depending on one’s leaning, can be interpreted as either pure psychodrama or mystical journey.
The Curse [Nocebo] (Ireland/UK/Philippines 2022) (4): Subtlety goes out the window in this shrill lecture on the evils of globalization disguised as a supernatural thriller whose heavy-handed approach manages to undermine its own message while insulting its audience. All is not well in the sprawling mansion owned by UK fashion designer Christine (Eva Green screaming her damn head off), her brutish husband Felix (a scowling Mark Strong), and their adorably slappable daughter “Bobs” (Billie Gadson…smack!) Due to a tragic incident in her past an emotionally fragile Christine is now suffering from anxiety attacks, bouts of amnesia, and terrifying hallucinations—all of which place a strain on her personal and professional life. And then mysterious Filipina housekeeper Diana (Chai Fonacier all smiles and creepiness) shows up and proceeds to disrupt the household even further with her unsettling stares and homespun voodoo rituals. But is she interested in healing the distraught Christine as she claims to be…or has she come to twist the knife even further? In the overdone horror show that follows—featuring guilty consciences, malevolent parasites, and a zombie dog—third world exploitation will haunt the hallways of white privilege with a tormented Christine seeking solace in the gentle ministrations of an increasingly dominant Diana while both head toward a climactic twist that can be seen from a mile away thanks to all those flashbacks. Director Lorcan Finnegan wears his heart on his fist, punching his way towards the film’s big reveal while his otherwise talented cast are reduced to hysterics or, in the case of Fonancier, a stereotyped Hollywood witch doctor. It’s not that the movie’s sympathies are without merit—a dedication in the closing credits is well placed and those evil parasites represent the best kind of irony—but sometimes less is more and had the director allowed viewers to figure out the message for themselves instead of rubbing their faces in it the results could have been far more powerful.