Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. It’s a popular sentence in the Old Testament, one used to excuse a lot of needless suffering, mainly women’s. It’s not the only spot in the Bible that condemns sorcery, divination and what not. Jesus never mentioned it, though. (He never said anything about women being submissive to their husbands, either.)
Islam is no more forgiving, and Nour (Golshifteh Farahani, Paterson) is about to run afoul of keepers of both faiths and keepers of none in Hood Witch.
Co-writer/director Saïd Belktibia examines the muddy difference between a religion’s acceptable magic and harmful witchcraft. However similar the practice, the differentiator seems to be based primarily on whether a woman benefits.
Nour makes a living smuggling exotic animals into Paris, mainly to be used in rituals of healing. Newly divorced and struggling financially to raise her son Amine (Amine Zariouhi), Nour is in the development stages of a new app that will link users to a variety of different healers.
Nour knows it’s all smoke and mirrors. Her impressionable son is not so sure. Her abusive ex (Jérémy Ferrari, sinister) is willing to believe, as long as it’s a man of religion wielding the mirror and blowing the smoke, and as long as it’s his ex-wife who suffers.
Though Hood Witch is far more a drama/thriller than an outright horror film, it does follow a longstanding genre tradition of using witchcraft to point out religions’ hypocrisy and misogyny. But the filmmaker goes further, complicating characters by implicating capitalism as being equally dangerous—particularly to the desperate and easily manipulated—as religion.
Farahani delivers a fierce, passionate performance full of rage, compassion and vulnerability. Nour is sharp and not without a conscience, but when tragedy strikes it’s because of her meddling. The consequences, though, are deeply unsettling.
Belktibia’s pacing and framing match Nour’s panic, and it’s impossible not to panic along with her. Hood Witch is a tough watch, as misogyny and apathy play out in the film the same way they play out every miserable day, infecting each generation like a poison. The rage that fuels Nour and the film is what feels most relatable.
“People think I’m possessed by the devil. I think I’m just angry.”
There are unexplored ideas and mixed messages that keep Hood Witch from becoming a great film, but it’s an angry, observant thriller and solid reflection of the time.
What Barry Levinson, working from a script by Goodfellas and Casino writer Nicholas Pileggi, has done is made a historical recap of a true American gangster tale enlivened by the gimmick of two De Niros. Because, obviously, one sure way to draw attention to your gangster picture is to cast Robert De Niro. Casting him twice? Ba da bing!
De Niro plays the aging version of two childhood buddies, Vito Genovese and Frank Costello. Vito’s a loose canon psychopath. Frank’s a smooth operator, a diplomat. And though it was really Vito who was in charge of the five boroughs, it was Frank who brought things together in peace and prosperity while his friend was in exile waiting out a double murder rap.
But now Vito’s back and he wants all he believes he has coming to him, and he lacks the patience to wait on Frank’s charity.
De Niro’s Frank also narrates the story from a place of retired peace, which keeps him on the screen even more (not a bad choice) but leeches any real tension from the adventure. But a shoot-em-up thriller is not what Levinson’s after. His goal is to showcase the machinations and counter moves of two very different criminal minds.
De Niro’s Frank Costello performance is understated, almost affable and he shares a lived-in chemistry with onscreen partner Debra Messing as wife, Bobbie. His Vito is a fun riff on Joe Pesci—less explosive, but stewing with the same idiosyncrasies, insecurities and wise cracks.
The surrounding ensemble (including two actors doing Columbus, Ohio proud—Todd Covert and Brian Spangler) impresses, carving out memorable characters, often with limited and highly populated screen time.
It’s a capably made, solid movie but there’s not much to distinguish it from a lot of other gangster pictures except that you get two times the star power from the actor who continues to prove he’s America’s greatest onscreen gangster.
The first English language remake (third overall) of the 2019 Argentinian thriller 4×4, Locked streamlines the vigilante festivities for a fairly generic teaming of one veteran trope and one new favorite.
Tech cautionary tales are all the rage, and thrillers have been car-centric back to at least Duel and Race With the Devil in the 70s. So, when the desperate Eddie (Bill Skarsgård) breaks into a luxury sedan, he quickly finds himself at the mercy of one vengeful Dr. William (Anthony Hopkins) and the latest in auto security gadgets.
Director David Yarovesky and screenwriter Michael Arlen Ross soften Eddie’s edges from the start. Yes, he’s a f*&kup, but he’s got a cute young daughter and really wants to do better for her, right?
William isn’t moved. He’s got his own agenda, and it starts with giving Eddie a painful tour around his pimped-out ride. Eddie’s locked into the steel reinforced frame, the car is soundproofed and polarized, the seats are equipped with tasers, the glass is bulletproof, the heat and AC can be pushed to lethal levels, all while William probes and taunts Eddie via a call on the in-dash display.
The conversations tell us much about William and Eddie, and a little too much about the film’s message of classism and wealth inequality. What’s worse, when William disconnects, and Eddie is free to explore the car for weaknesses, he conveniently talks to himself so we can be let in on his thought process.
Yarovesky (Brightburn) has some success making the single setting visually interesting, faring better with the action opportunities that come from William deciding the put the car in “drive” and enact some vehicular justice against any suspected criminals.
Skarsgård tries his best to give Eddie some needed depth, and Hopkins seems delighted to get cartoonishly villainous. But Locked can never develop the psychological engagement of 2013’s auto mystery Locke or the clever thrills of Trunk: Locked In from just two years ago.
And most surprisingly, it pulls punches from its own source material, settling for a surface level morality play without the shades of grey that almost always leave a more lasting impression.
New to Shudder this week is Matthew John Lawrence’s (Peckerhead) charming dismantling of the slasher genre and insightful look at the impact of adolescence on the generations.
Bloody Axe Wound stars a spunky Sari Arambulo as Abbie Bladecut. Her family video store lives and dies on the movies they package and rent, slashers starring her dad, the infamous serial killer Roger Bladecut (Billy Burke under heavy prosthetics), slashing his way through their hometown’s high school students and campers alike.
But ol’ Roger’s getting old. Well, technically he died as a boy at that campground, but for decades he’s been a grown man haunting Lover’s Lane and other tropey spots, coming back from the dead whenever the adventure takes that turn. But lately, well, he doesn’t seem to be healing as quickly. He’s lost a step or two.
Perfect! Because Abbie’s ready to step in. Dad reluctantly, tentatively agrees, sending her to the town high school to make minced meat of the chosen clique. But Abbie soon realizes that these kids are not so bad.
The film delivers some honest moments, however comedically staged, about watching your child outgrow you, lose their need for you, see what used to be honored tradition as old fashioned nonsense in need of change. Bloody Axe Wound is sharpest when Lawrence and his game ensemble use the coming-of-age storyline to make points about horror movies, and slashers in particular.
Burke and Arambulo share a delightfully begrudging chemistry, and their scenes at home and at the video store are populated with genre-loving easter eggs that suit the meta undertaking.
Likewise, the cast of high school misfits—Molly Brown, Margot Anderson-Song, Taylor Watson Seupel and Eddie Leavy—create a warm friend group you can see wanting to hang out with.
The kills (and near kills) are often clever and the characterizations are funny. The film’s mythology gets mushy and the story comes to a close with more of a nod to horror tropes than an acknowledgment of the internal conflicts and genuine emotion the story built, but it’s still fun.
How many great horror films are set in Appalachia? So many that we had to leave these off the top 5 list: Wrong Turn, Evil Dead, Jugface, The Mothman Prophesies, The Descent, even Silence of the Lambs!
Because what were we looking for? Something that really dug into the landscape, the people of the area. Films that couldn’t have been set anywhere else. It was a tough cull, but we think we landed on the best.
5. Tucker and Dale v Evil (2010) (West Virginia)
Horror cinema’s most common and terrifying villain may not be the vampire or even the zombie, but the hillbilly. The generous, giddy Tucker and Dale vs. Evil lampoons that dread with good natured humor and a couple of rubes you can root for.
In the tradition of Shaun of the Dead, T&DVE lovingly sends up a familiar subgenre with insightful, self-referential humor, upending expectations by taking the point of view of the presumably villainous hicks. And it happens to be hilarious.
Two backwoods buddies (an endearing Tyler Labine and Alan Tudyk) head to their mountain cabin for a weekend of fishing. En route they meet some college kids on their own camping adventure. A comedy of errors, misunderstandings and subsequent, escalating violence follows as the kids misinterpret every move Tucker and Dale make.
T&DVE offers enough spirit and charm to overcome any weakness. Inspired performances and sharp writing make it certainly the most fun participant in the You Got a Purty Mouth class of film.
2. The Blair Witch Project (1999) (Maryland)
A master class in minimalism, Blair Witch scared the hell out of a lot of people back in the day. This is the kind of forest adventure that I assume happens all the time: you go in, but no matter how you try to get out – follow a stream, use a map, follow the stars – you just keep crossing the same goddamn log.
One of several truly genius ideas behind Blair Witch is that filmmakers Daniel Myrick and Eduardo Sanchez made the audience believe that the film they were watching was nothing more than the unearthed footage left behind by three disappeared young people. Between that and the wise use of online marketing (then in its infancy) buoyed this minimalistic, naturalistic home movie about three bickering buddies who venture into the Maryland woods to document the urban legend of The Blair Witch. Twig dolls, late night noises, jumpy cameras, unknown actors and not much else blended into an honestly frightening flick that played upon primal fears.
3. Devil to Pay (2019) (Georgia)
The tale is anchored with a quietly ferocious turn by Danielle Deadwyler (who also produces) as Lemon, a hardscrabble farmer trying to keep things up and wondering where her husband has been these past days.
One of the most tightly written thrillers in recent memory, The Devil to Pay peoples those hills with true characters, not a forgettable villain or cliched rube among them. The sense of danger is palpable and Deadwyler’s commitment to communicating Lemon’s low-key tenacity is a thing of beauty.
Hell, the whole film is beautiful, Sherman Johnson’s camera catching not just the forbidding nature of Appalachia, but also its lush glory.
2. The Night fo the Hunter (1955)(West Virginia)
Robert F. Mitchum. This may be the coolest guy there ever was, with an air of nonchalance about him that made him magnetic onscreen. His world-wizened baritone and moseying way gave him the appearance of a man who knew everything, could do anything, but couldn’t care less. And perhaps his greatest role in definitely his best film is as serial killer/preacher Harry Powell in the classic Night of the Hunter.
The iconic film noir sees Mitchum as a con man who cashed in on lonely widows’ fortunes before knocking them off. He’s set his sights on Willa Harper (Shelley Winters), whose bank robber husband had been a cell mate before his execution.
What unravels is a gorgeously filmed, tremendously tense story of Depression-era Appalachian terror as Powell seduces the widow and her entire town, but not her stubborn son. Many of the performances have that stilted, pre-Method tinge to them, but both Winters and Mitchum bring something more authentic and unseemly to their roles. The conflict in styles actually enhances an off-kilter feel director Charles Laughton emphasizes with over-the-top shadows and staging. It gives the whole film a nightmarish quality that, along with Mitchum’s unforgettable performance, makes Night of the Hunter among the best films of its era.
1. Deliverance (1972) (Georgia)
Nine notes on a banjo have never sounded so creepy.
Deliverance follows four buddies staving off mid-life crises with a canoeing adventure in southern Georgia, where a man’s not afraid to admire another man’s mouth.
They stop off, as travelers must, at a service station. No one warns them, no one delivers ominous news, but come on, no one had to. One look at the locals spending their days at that gas station should have been enough to convince them to turn back.
James Dickey streamlined his own novel to its atmospheric best, and director John Boorman plays on urbanite fears like few have done since. Dickey and Boorman mean to tell you that progress has created a soft bellied breed of man unable to survive without the comforts of a modern age.
Mark McDonagh (co-director and writer Michael Casey) deals with all of the same issues most teenagers do: strange parents, bullies, and an utter lack of confidence. Mark’s one outlet for his angst – punk rock – singles him out even more amongst his family and community. When Mark meets Lulu (Sinead Morrisey), the goth girl who lives next door to next door, he’s instantly infatuated and desperate to impress her. As the two begin to spend more time together, they form their own band Lulu and the Electric Dreamboat – with Mark being the aforementioned Electric Dreamboat.
Ireland’s own John Carney has had a bit of a monopoly on romantic music infused films since Once burst onto the scene in 2007. With Lulu and the Electric Dreamboat, writer/directors Casey and Paddy Murphy seek to deliver something a little more ornery than it is sweet. And for the most part they succeed. There’s a chaotic sense of humor to Lulu that certainly sets it apart from Carney’s more earnest work. From Mark’s overly-supportive parents (with mis-matched accents), to Mark and Lulu stealing the local church’s donation box, the humor comes more with a punk rock sneer than it does a twinkle in its eye.
Casey and Morrisey have a charming chemistry that allows for an easy investment in their burgeoning friendship/romance. Neither character is particularly groundbreaking with the mousey punk kid and the mean goth girl being pretty worn out tropes. The two actors work well with a fairly thin script – leaning more into the physicality of the roles and the audacious humor.
The low-budget nature of the film occasionally creeps in with a spotty sound mix, a visual palette that’s rather flat and bland, and a peripheral cast that isn’t always up to snuff. Grace is – and should be – given to indie film, but it’s harder to overlook said budget deficiencies when they take you out of the movie.
Lulu and the Electric Dreamboat is a fun enough punk rock romance even if it’s a little rough around the edges.
What is more diabolical: enacting a global plan for widespread destruction, or pursuing a selfish agenda in your relationship, ready to twist the knife precisely where it hurts your partner the most?
Black Bag has a satchel full of fun weighing the two options, as director Steven Soderbergh and a crackling ensemble contrast the power plays in both love connections and spy games.
Michael Fassbender and Cate Blanchett (already sounds good, right?) are downright delicious as Londoners George Woodhouse and Kathryn St. Jean, master spies and devoted spouses. He’s emotionless and tidy, an expert cook, and a dogged sleuth with a hatred of dishonesty. She’s cool, calculating and seductive, with a wry sense of humor, a prescription for anxiety meds and a sudden cloud of suspicion around her.
Could Kathryn really be the mole who has stolen a lethal malware program and is shopping it to Soviet extremists? And can George be trusted with the job of investigating his own wife? The agency director (Pierce Brosnan) doesn’t hold back his distaste for the predicament.
While hosting a dinner party for two other couples who also mix business and pleasure – Freddie (Tom Burke)/Clarissa (Marisa Abela, so good as Amy Winehouse in Back to Black) and James (Regé-Jean Page)/Zoe (Naomie Harris) – George spots the first clue that Kathyrn’s allegiances may be compromised.
So the game is on.
Veteran screenwriter David Koepp follows his minimalist winner Presence with a smart and twisty throwback drama, relying less on action and more on dialog and plot, often staying a step ahead of your questions about internal logic. There’s a good bit of dry British humor here, too, which these stellar performers dig into with understandable relish.
From the opening prologue – an extended take that winds through the cityscape with purpose – Soderbergh seems perfectly at home with this self-assured style . The aesthetic is lush and sometimes showy, but in a relaxed manner of somebody who knows his audience is going to appreciate it.
They should. Black Bag is an adult-centric drama that offers bona fide movie stars, glamour and romance, challenges, surprises and humor. And it gets it all done in 90 minutes. Throw in a fine meal beforehand, and you’ve got a damn fine date night that just might put you in a pretty friendly mood when you get home.
So, this mild-mannered bank manager (Jack Quaid) has a rare medical condition, and he can’t feel pain. He spends his entire life extremely cautious because with even a minor injury, he could bleed to death without knowing he’s even injured. But then the girl of his dreams is kidnapped by bank robbers, and he decides to risk everything, use the condition to his advantage and save her.
Yes, that does sound like the most contrived movie ever—no doubt good for a handful of action gags but ultimately superficial and dopey.
Don’t sell Novocaine short.
The film is a smart rom com loaded with action and laughs, tenderness and badassery. Amber Midthunder (Prey) plays Sherry, the flirtatious extrovert who finally nudges Nate (Quaid) toward the real, scary, injury-friendly world. Their chemistry is sweet and authentic. You get why Nate decides to risk it all.
Ray Nicholson is a lot of fun as the gleefully sadistic bank robber, and Spider-Man’s bestie Jacob Batalon delivers reliably enjoyable goofy best friend vibes. A bright, engaging ensemble including Betty Gabriel and Matt Walsh elevates every scene with subtle comic instincts that strengthen both the action and the draw of human relationships.
Directors Ben Berkand and Robert Olsen (The Body, Villains) invest in the comedic possibilities of every action set up without overpowering the action itself. Car chases, fisticuffs, shoot outs and more are choreographed for thrill, performed for laughs. It’s a delightful mix.
None of it would work if Quaid couldn’t effortlessly sell the sad sack loverboy, but he does. Never does this feel like a fella with a particular set of skills. The lanky actor does lovestruck and low confidence equal justice.
One of the reasons the film succeeds the way it does is that Lars Jacobson’s script does not hate Nate as he is. The film wants him to take some risks, sure, but nothing about Novocaine believes what Nate needs is to man up and kick some ass. He’s a romantic, as awe struck by Midthunder as the audience is, and we’re all just rooting for their happily ever after. And some Neosporin.
If you were the right age in the late 80s, professional wrestling was an unavoidable cultural monolith with larger-than-life stars like Hulk Hogan, Andre the Giant, Macho Man, and many more. In Raging Midlife, Alex (co-writer Nic Costa) and Mark (Matt Zak) were the biggest fans of “Raging Abraham Lincoln” when they were kids. (Ragin’ Abe is so much in the mold of the Macho Man that he’s played by an actual impersonator who is credited as “Motch O Mann”. )
At a wrestling event, their idol tears off his iconic purple tank top and tosses it to the two boys, but they can only hang on to it for a moment before Alex’s younger sister Mindy (Emily Sweet) causes it to be lost amongst the frenzied crowd.
Flash forward to the present and Alex and Mark are now in their 40s and stilling searching for the tank top from Ragin’ Abe, believing it will somehow fill the void in their lives. Alex has dreams about how much better his life would be if he could walk around wearing that shirt. They get sniped at the last second on an eBay auction and spend the rest of the film pursuing Tyler (Darielle Mason), the woman who won the auction, so they can take back the tank top.
Raging Midlife is a comedy that leans HARD on being silly. As an example, as an adult, Alex’s sister Mindy is basically a cartoon character of a villain. At one point she wears a hunting outfit with tiger hide shoulder pads and drives a four-wheeler covered in animal bones that happens to have a harpoon cannon. It’s so out of left field and inconsistent with the film’s otherwise grounded universe that I can only compare it to Nickelodeon shows like The Adventures of Pete & Pete or Salute Your Shorts that were unafraid to suddenly swerve to the absurd.
The movie bounces between hijinks as Alex and Mark continue to try and steal the tank top from Tyler. It briefly swings into romcom territory as Alex sets himself up to go on a blind date with Tyler and then he predictably develops feelings for her, but this really doesn’t go anywhere with so little time given to the subplot and the lack of chemistry between the actors.
Raging Midlife is propped up by some notable cameos—Paula Abdul, Eddie Griffin, and Walter Koenig. Koenig, with his real life Judy Levitt, helps deliver the funniest scene in the movie as dry cleaners who have strange costumes and impressive sex toys in their shop.
Director/co-writer Rob Tyler also earns some laughs by playing Rob the eccentric tech support/hacker friend who will accept payment in puppies.
In the end, the film delivers more groans and cringe-worthy moments than laughs. Nostalgia can be a funny thing; I just wish Raging Midlife was funnier.
