High Five!

Borat Subsequent Moviefilm

by George Wolf, because Hope Madden can’t watch Borat’s pranks without leaving the room

You may have already seen a headline or two about Rudy Giuliani’s run-in with Sacha Baron Cohen as Borat.

When it happened this past July, Giuliani called the cops, and then boasted that Cohen didn’t “get him.” But now that Subsequent Moviefilm is here, we see Giuliani still lives in a world unhindered by reality, and Cohen still has a knack for finding cringeworthy humor in the most unseemly situations.

Much as changed in Borat’s world – and ours – since his 2006 adventure brought shame to his native Kazakhstan, and earned him a life sentence of hard labor. But now, with the American president’s fondness for dictatorships, Borat has a chance for redemption.

He must return to America, and get Kazakhstan on the short list for Trump’s “strongman club” by bribing Vice President Pence with a valuable offering.

The gift? Borat’s 15 year-old daughter Tutar- also known as “Sandra Jessica Parker Sagdiyev” (Bulgarian actress Maria Bakalova, nearly Cohen’s equal for stone faced boundary-pushing.)

Borat’s special delivery during Pence’s CPAC speech (beautifully synched to a COVID-19 reassurance of being “ready for anything!”) is rebuffed, so Giuliani becomes the next logical target.

And that road to Rudy is filled with Cohen’s fearless hijinx, again skewering the breeding grounds for bigotry, ignorance, misogyny, anti-semitism, QAnon, Karens and..what else ya got?

Pervy ex-mayors of NYC!

But Borat is pranking a meaner America this time. There are no layers to peel away anymore, the ugliness is out and proud. From a bakery to a pregnancy center to a Tea Party rally, the often hilarious audacity is tempered by the sadness of realizing we no longer need Borat to expose this underbelly.

So Cohen and director Jason Wolinar (a TV vet helming his first feature) make a smart and subtle pivot. Segments with Tutar’s “babysitter,” and another featuring two elderly Jewish ladies in a synagogue (one of which the film is dedicated to) mix the bracing humor with moments of touching sweetness. Cohen’s not going soft, just pausing to remind us there is hope.

Early on, Borat has to run from random Americans excited to see him on the street. It’s a refreshing acknowledgment that we’ve seen this schtick before. Yes, it’s still shockingly brazen and often laugh out loud funny, but the thrill of discovery is naturally gone.

But whether he’s Cohen posing as Borat or Borat posing as Cliff Safari (or John Chevrolet, take your pick), the comedy and the tragedy are nearly impossible to ignore, even if you want to.

Right, Rudy?

A Connecting Principle

Synchronic

by Hope Madden

Has it really been three years since filmmakers Justin Benson and Aaron Moorhead took us on the UFO death cult head trip that was The Endless?

It’s hard to tell with these guys. They really like to play with time.

Another riff on the same theme, Synchronic is a sci-fi fantasy about parallel dimensions and time travel—plus bath salts.

Steve (Anthony Mackie) and Dennis (Jamie Dornan) are best friends and NOLA paramedics, each facing his own existential crisis. Dennis can’t seem to move past the fear that he’s settled: for his wife, his job, his life. Meanwhile, Steve—whose existence of work, drink and women long ago ceased to have meaning—gets a medical diagnosis that has him rethinking everything.

So far so ordinary, but if you’ve seen anything these filmmakers have done (and you should see everything), you know something seriously weird is coming.

The film’s conceit is a fascinating one, and every grisly crime scene offers a curious clue that may eventually help Steve solve a mystery that gives him purpose and redirects his bestie. Benson, who writes and co-directs, offers plenty of opportunity for mind-bending action and wild set pieces.

He and co-director/cinematographer Moorhead cut back and forth through time to keep you guessing as to the mystery developing, but what’s left underdeveloped are the characters.

Two of the filmmakers’ previous three efforts focused on a pair of men linked through time and experience to the other—best friends in Resolution, brothers in The Endless. This kind of relationship has proven a beautiful anchor for their trippy plots, but Synchronic doesn’t invest enough time or attention to Steve and Dennis’s characters.

Both Mackie and Dornan are solid enough, but their chemistry is weak. The time-worn friendship is more discussed than exposed. Worse, Synchronic is the first of the filmmakers’ movies to lack a robust sense of humor. And it is missed.

The result is a sometimes dour though mainly melancholy effort that feels far less original than it really is. Synchronic is clever, to be sure, and at times quite touching. But for filmmakers who’ve until now positively dripped with inspiration, it feels like a step backward.

Casa de los Muertos

32 Malasaña Street

by Hope Madden

What is it about haunted houses that always sucker in big families? We saw it in The Conjuring and The Amityville Horror before it. And now another big old clan is about to regret that bargain dream house over at 32 Malasaña Street.

Albert Pintó’s nightmare follows the Olmedos, who take their two teenagers, their 5-year-old, an aging grandfather, and their shame to Madrid, leaving the country and their old lives behind. But haunted houses smell shame and secrets, don’t the Olmedos know that?

Pintó creates a dreadful, dreamy quality to the haunting, every shot’s framing and color, light and shadow taking on a painterly quality. He conjures a mood, a vintage era where hope and freedom bumped up against tradition and oppression.

The film is set in 1976, and like those other films of dream homes gone wrong, Malasaña creates concrete tension. The first response to any haunting is to just get the F out, but where are you supposed to take three kids and an elderly father? Where’s abuela supposed to plug in his C-Pap? The “down to our last penny and nowhere to go” vibe feels authentic under these circumstances.

But Pintó seems out to do more with the size of the family than simply convince you that thre’s nowhere to go. 17-year-old Amparo (Begoña Vargas) dreams of becoming a flight attendant, of flying up and away from this life, but the house itself is the metaphor for the family as a trap.

Faith and culture beget big families and poverty, and old-fashioned thinking creates monsters.

Where Pintó takes the metaphor is less inspired than it might be. Troublingly, the filmmaker’s throwback vibe retains that old horror trope of the physically disabled character as conduit to the supernatural, and enlightened lip service can’t excuse the way the film falls back on cliches of the monstrous “other.”

32 Malasaña Street sets complicated characters in motion within a familiar world. It just doesn’t use them to tell us anything new.

Brave New World

The Sounding

by Cat McAlpine

Liv suddenly stopped speaking when she was young, and no one could determine why, not even her psychologist grandfather Lionel. Now Lionel (Harris Yulin) is at the end of his life, and he has invited fellow doctor Michael (Teddy Sears) to their small island to continue his work with Liv (Catherine Eaton).

And then suddenly, Liv begins to speak again. Instead of circling relevant lines of Shakespeare on a page, she quotes him out loud.

What follows is an exploration of language, human connection, and grief. The harder the world tries to understand Liv, the more alternately chaotic and despondent she becomes. The Sounding is both frustrating and beautiful, much like Liv herself.

Eaton and co-writer Bryan Delaney do a lovely job showcasing the flexibility of Shakespeare’s language. Their script depends on a patchwork of his quotes to achieve any depth of emotion Liv needs. Directed by Eaton, the film has a wild quality often showing a moody sea or softly lit rooms. Yes, Eaton co-wrote, directed, and played the lead in The Sounding. And she’s a true triple-threat, delivering a fantastic performance.

As impressive as Eaton’s dedication to the project is, it’s worth asking if we need another woman who doesn’t or can’t use her own voice.

Although it pulls from many of Shakespeare’s works – quoting everything from Julius Caesar to Midsummer’s play within a play – The Sounding most prominently mirrors The Tempest.

In The Tempest, Prospero and his daughter Miranda flee political persecution to a wild island. There, Prospero discovers Caliban, a native of the island, and he attempts to teach Caliban his ways. But Caliban is wild and cannot control his animalistic tendencies.

Caliban spits back at his teacher,


You taught me language;

and my profit on’t

Is, I know how to curse.

The red plague rid you

For learning me your language!

Liv parrots the same at Michael, furious that he accuses her of not having language. Through her grandfather she’s been taught to use Shakespeare to see the world. In his absence, she uses Shakespeare as much to talk to his memory as she does to speak to the world.

As an attractive white woman stepping into the shoes of a native man who was demonized by his conquerors, the beauty of Liv finding her voice is a little obscured by her parallels with Caliban. How does her damnation or freedom reflect on Caliban’s fate? Likely, viewers won’t worry themselves with the comparison. And, ultimately, it’s up to us to decide if Liv’s unique language is a triumph of a life best lived or a quirky trait that shackles her agency. Either way, she seems happy enough just being herself.

Freedom Is Slavery

The Antenna

by Rachel Willis

The installation of a state-sponsored satellite dish on the roof of an apartment building is the inciting event for ominous, Orwellian horror in writer/director Orçun Behram’s first feature, The Antenna.

A commentary on the political situation in modern day Turkey, Behram’s debut film is focused on oppression. Though oppression takes many forms (the oppression of youth, the patriarchy, the status quo), the movie is most interested in the state’s suppression of speech and expression.

From the moment the satellite is fitted onto the roof of the building, sinister events occur. A black ooze, which emanates from the antenna, leaks through the walls, something Mehmet (Ihsan Önal), the building’s evening landlord, discovers when he’s called to a tenant’s bathroom to address the seeping goo.

The ooze creeps through the building, infiltrating more and more apartments as the night progresses toward the launch of the new state-run programming.

The kick-off event for the state’s broadcasting system is the “Midnight Broadcast.” Building superintendent, Mr. Cihan, has been advertising it to all the residents to ensure maximum audience participation. The Leader (who bears a certain resemblance to Recep Erdoğan) hosts the broadcast, and while the Leader’s delivery seems benevolent, the underlying message is a sinister reminder that dissent will not be tolerated.

Helping to tie the film’s many many pieces together is Mehmet. As odd and menacing events happen in the hours leading up to the Midnight Broadcast, he becomes increasingly invested in the fates of the residents in his building. Mehmet experiences a few disturbing visual and auditory assaults, all of which propel him to action.

The black ooze is a not-so-subtle metaphor for the insidious nature of state propaganda. But when you want to deliver a warning to your audience, knocking them over the head with the message is sometimes worth doing.

There is a lot working for Behram’s film. As we watch the events unfold, dialogue between characters is replaced by broadcasts from a threatening voice that emanates from every radio and TV. The tense score puts you on edge, and the climax is almost unbearably stressful as the auditory assaults reach their peak.

This is a reminder of what’s at stake when you take your freedom for granted in a world that seeks to rob you of it at every turn.  

Mrs. Mystery

Rebecca

by George Wolf

Let’s give credit where it’s due. Remaking a Hitchcock classic takes some stones. Beyond putting aside the inevitable comparisons, you’ve got to find a way to follow your own vision while honoring the elements that make the film worth revisiting.

A look at Ben Wheatley’s resume (Kill List, A Field in England, Sightseers, High Rise, Free Fire) suggests the promise of edge and/or sly wit. But Wheatley’s update of Hitch’s 1940 gothic potboiler Rebecca can never quite fulfill that promise.

Things start well enough. Armie Hammer cuts a detached and dashing figure as wealthy heir Maxim de Winter. Surrounded by luxury on a Monte Carlo holiday in the late 1930s, he still struggles to recover from the sudden death of his wife, Rebecca.

Max’s mood improves when he meets a young ladies’ maid (Lily James), who must sneak away from her employer Mrs. Van Hopper (Ann Dowd) each time Max sends handwritten invitations for increasingly intimate meetups.

The whirlwind courtship leads to an impulsive marriage, with Max taking the new Mrs. de Winter back to Manderlay, his family’s sprawling estate on the windswept English coast.

The new bride’s welcome, led by Manderlay’s imposing head servant Mrs. Danvers (Kristin Scott-Thomas, icy perfection), is less than warm.

The memory of Rebecca permeates the house and haunts the new wife. But even as she struggles to compete with the ghost of a seemingly perfect woman, the second Mrs. de Winter is drawn into a growing mystery of what really happened to the first.

James is a natural at delivering the innocence and naïveté of the never-named proletarian suddenly thrust into aristocracy. Likewise, Hammer’s chisled handsomeness and graceful manner make Max’s required mix of societal etiquette and subtle condescension instantly identifiable.

But their character arcs – like much of Rebecca‘s stylish narrative – begin to crumble with each new breadcrumb. Wheatley, going bigger than ever with a veteran writing trio’s new adaptation of Daphne Du Maurier’s celebrated novel, checks off the revelations in a workmanlike succession that’s almost completely devoid of the suspense and sexual anxiety that propel the original film.

So when the seismic power shift strikes the de Winter’s marriage, it lands as a turn less earned and more like a matter of melodramatic convenience.

It’s all perfectly grand and respectable, but never memorable. And by the time Wheatley’s final shot suggests a haphazard attempt to re-frame all of it, this Rebecca, like the young Mrs. de Winter, has a tough time measuring up.

Fright Club: Best Animated Horror

Cartoons can be scary. Scooby Doo knew it. You can paint a nightmare in a way that no amount of CGI or practical effects can really execute. Animation frees a filmmaker from the constraints of the concrete world, allowing for more imaginative storytelling. Here are our favorite animated horror gems.

5. Vampire Hunter D: Bloodlust (2000)

Feature length, R-rated anime is so often a simple excuse for fantasy fulfillment aimed at stunted adolescents of all ages. Director Yoshiaki Kawajiri’s 1987 film Wicked City certainly is that.

But in 2000, working from a story based on Hideyuki Kikuchi’s novel, Kawajiri executed the near-impossible. He made a sequel that was better than its much beloved predecessor (1985’s Vampire Hunter D).

Gothic and futuristic, beautifully drawn and nicely paced without losing the energy of the genre, Bloodlust delivers a gorgeous, bloody time.

4. Perfect Blue (1997)

This psychosexual thriller might feel garden variety if it had been made into a live action film. A young woman trades in her innocent image to take on more suggestive roles as an actress, only to find her fans turning on her in violent ways. Or is it an internal conflict over the way men and the media need to sexualize her that’s fragmenting her own mind?

In director Satoshi Kon’s anime vision, those familiar thriller tropes take on an unseemly dreamy quality. The animation style suggests more about the way mass media consumes a sexualized idea of innocence than any live action film could muster, and the hallucinatory quality achieved in the film would never have played this well in any other style.

3. Seoul Station (2016)

An animated side story to writer/director Sang-ho Yeon’s blistering zombie flick Train to Busan, Seoul Station gives us a chance to see what’s happening in other parts of Korea while Soo-an and her dad try to make it off the train alive.

A gripping story of people on the fringe, Seoul Station also boasts some incredibly imaginative animation. Scenes teem with slaughter, salvation, and social anxiety in a film that takes anime into reaches unsought before.

2. The Nightmare Before Christmas (1993)

Tim Burton penned and produced, directed by Henry Selick (Coraline), this tale of the Halloweentown/Christmastown mash up became an instant and unbreakable Goth favorite. Jack Skellington (“What’s happenin’, bone daddy?”) just doesn’t feel the same kind of love for Halloween that’s kept him motivated lo these many years. A little melancholy, he heads into the woods, only to take a wrong turn and find himself in the land of Christmas. Naturally, he and his fellow ghouls – meaning no real harm, you see – decide to kidnap Santa and run Christmas themselves… just this once.

The story, the music (by Danny Elfman, natch), the inspired stop-action style animation, and that sweetly macabre sensibility that Burton brings to every project spoke to the Nineties generation and continues to speak to outsiders, monsters, and lovers of animation everywhere.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T3xTgBED5cQ

1. Fear(s) of the Dark (2007)

A French import perfectly suited to a dark and stormy Halloween night, the film brings together some of the top graphic artists in Europe and America to present six animated vignettes that showcase some of the mind’s deepest fears.

The human mind is always more capable of true horror than any teenage slasher movie, and that is what this film is interested in exploring. shorts delve into social anxiety, sexual insecurity, sociopathic tendencies, needles, dismemberment and the good old fashioned fear of the dark to achieve an overall feel of impending doom. You’ll get goosebumps without really knowing why.

Viva la Revolution

Martin Eden

by Hope Madden

“The world is stronger than me.”

So opens documentarian turned feature filmmaker Pietro Marcello’s very Italian reimagining of the Jack London classic, Martin Eden.

An avowed Socialist, London’s 9th novel—written long after the working class author had found financial and social success that didn’t sit well with him—trails a penniless young man named Martin. He falls for the beautiful, wealthy Elena (Jessica Cressy) and works to become something worthy of her love.

Luca Martinelli, who was so empathetic and wonderful in The Old Guard, astonishes as the tragic hero. All roiling passion and resentment, Martinelli’s is a magnetic screen presence.

At first undeniably charming in his sincerity and eagerness, the bruises begin to show as Martin is knocked about by a class of people loath to accept him, and by his own blooming understanding of the bourgeoisie’s cultural and intellectual limitations.

More pointedly, Marcello echoes London’s sentiment on organized education as an insidious tool of subjugation. The film’s final position on socialism, capitalism, individualism and liberalism is more of a moving target.

Adding to the film’s vagueness is its repurposed setting: Naples of no clear time period. Based on clothing, cars, transportation, and scene the time period could be anywhere from the 40s to the 70s. An abrupt third act time jump—although only Martin seems to have aged—creates an even more ambiguous tone that doesn’t really benefit a film that can’t entirely nail down its political point.

Still, Marcello’s vision is vintage and gorgeous, thanks to Francesco Di Giacomo’s 16mm cinematography. Between the dreamy look, Marcello’s cut-aways to home movie style footage evocative of his own documentaries, and Martinelli’s arresting performance, the film develops an atmosphere more than a point. The film settles finally on a character study—a writer who seeks only to channel the world and destroys himself in the process.

It’s hardly an uncommon cinematic concept, but thanks to a beautiful picture and a stunning central performance, it still commands attention.

Down With the Sickness

Totally Under Control

by George Wolf

Totally Under Control is arriving at a complicated time, making a case that exists in a contrasting space.

The film eviscerates Donald Trump’s administration mere weeks from Election Day, yet it’s presentation is miles away from inflammatory. It’s timely enough to feature a tail-end acknowledgment of Trump’s recent COVID-19 diagnosis, but feeling more outdated with each day’s increasing infection numbers.

Directors Suzanne Hillinger, Ophelia Harutyunyan and the Oscar-winning Alex Gibney present a devastating case against the government’s handling of the pandemic. From the first documented U.S. case (Jan. 20th, Washington state), the response has been fought with brazen dishonesty, stupefying incompetence, and a firm insistence on politics Trumping science.

Apparently filmed in secrecy with the aid of a portable “covid cam” to avoid in person interviews, the film unveils its step-by-step timeline with a measured and confident tone. Utilizing a series of whistleblowers, graphs, stats and archival footage, Gibney, Harutyunyan and Hillinger earnestly deconstruct the folly of treating a country like a business.

And though Trump is certainly an understood subject, the finger-pointing is never belabored. Indeed, a flow chart of malfeasance sporting this many lackeys and sycophants would usually conclude a conspiracy, but by then it’s clear that’s not among this film’s objectives.

Sadly, this crisis is probably a long way from being over. But when the history is finally written, the most nagging question will be “How in the hell did this happen in America?”

And there will be no better time for Totally Under Control.