There’s a real thread of forgiveness, consequences and redemption in current horror. It fuels Romola Garai’s Amulet, Jayo Bustamante’s La Llorona, and now, Limbo, the cheeky neo noir from writer/director/producer Mark H. Young.
Jimmy (Lew Temple) looks like a pretty cut-and-dried case to
Balthazar (Lucian Charles Collier). He shot a grandmother (Veronica Cartwright)
in the head robbing a pawn shop, caught a bullet in the back and now he’s here,
facing judgment. But why has the man upstairs deemed Jimmy worthy of his own
defense angel (Scottie Thompson)?
Must be something big. Even the other guy’s getting in on
the deal. Both sides are weirdly interested in the outcome of this one case.
Young (Feral)
has a knack for efficient, low budget horror. His work is not inspired, but it
definitely makes the most of its budget. And in this case, you also have to
hand it to him for casting.
Besides the always-welcome Temple and the great-to-see Cartwright, Limbo brings in familiar faces Richard Riehel (jump! to conclusions guy from Office Space), and James Purefoy as Lucifer.
Lauryn Canny (Darlin’)
delivers the strongest performance as a prostitute back in real life that may
or may not prove Jimmy’s worthiness of forgiveness, but everyone’s fun.
Purefoy, who relishes these campy roles, chooses a hillbilly accent for Satan.
Odd.
Odder still is whatever accent
Collier is attempting, but that hardly sinks the film. It’s a goofy fantasy and
just about anything flies.
The circular logic isn’t as tight as Young may think it is, but again, Limbo provides serviceable fun. No scares and not a ton of laughs—indeed, where Young is hoping to land on the horror-comedy spectrum is a bit muddy—but thanks mainly to a game cast, Limbo is still a pretty good time.
Prolific Norwegian filmmaker Hans Petter Moland follows up
his first foray into blockbuster territory—a Liam Neeson-fronted English
language remake of his own vengeance thriller Cold
Pursuit—with the decidedly non-blockbuster, specifically Norwegian
drama Out Stealing Horses.
This pensive and utterly gorgeous film sifts through time to
land on the moment that irreversibly alters the course of a life.
In this case, it’s Trond’s life. It’s winter of
‘99—almost the millennium—and the aging Trond (Stellan Skarsgård) is just
settling into hermithood. Though he’s been in Sweden for years, the death of
his wife in a car accident (he was at the wheel) convinced him to cross the
river back to his childhood home of Norway to sit quietly and think.
And then he meets his neighbor, who inadvertently stirs
up memories and gives Trond’s meditation new direction.
Moland adapts Petterson’s beloved novel, streamlining until what’s left is an extremely intimate tale only mildly hampered by the tiresome flashback structure. Moland only hints at the novel’s historical context, instead developing a sense of fearful awe in the face of life, the small moments that determine an individual’s trajectory, and the insistent longing to imagine what could have been.
The technical mastery at work in this film—from sound design to lighting, from Rasmus Videbæk’s gorgeous cinematography to Kaspar Kaee’s unerring score—adds power to Moland’s every meditative moment. In perfect harmony with the team, Moland effortlessly evokes the senses throughout this sometimes Malick-esque photo album of the summer that everything changed.
Moland and team create the glimmering, lush and gorgeous memories Trond relives—too gorgeous to be exact, but exactly as gorgeous as needed to be memory.
Out Stealing Horses can’t quite make the current-day footage ache or resonate quite so clearly. The events adult Trond deals with feel artificial, a forced structure. But that doesn’t rob the film of its magic.
Director Andrea Dorfman and her frequent collaborator, writer Jennifer Deyell, are quietly establishing a pattern. They are preoccupied by the fact that people are preoccupied with a woman’s relationship status.
They’ve certainly put a fine point on that with their latest,
Spinster.
A sort of anti-romantic comedy, the film opens as a voiceover gushes through the most romantic, fairy tale meeting ever. Pan to Gaby (Chelsea Peretti, Brooklyn Nine-Nine), the caterer listening to the bride-to-be with overt cynicism, possibly a little contempt, definitely mockery.
Gaby is 39 today and before the day is over, her boyfriend
will break up with her, her married friend’s buddies will demean her
childlessness, her dad will disappoint her (and she him), and her brother will
forget it’s her birthday but rope her into babysitting.
That is to say, the stage is set for Gaby to actually take
stock of her life and address what’s really causing her existential grief.
(Hint: it’s not a boyfriend.)
Peretti is so comfortable in this character that she creates
believability even when situations and the ensemble around her lack
authenticity. Dorfman’s film has an episodic, even sit-com feel to it. She
pieces together moments of Gaby’s life with a more “and then this happened, and
then this happened” approach than with an outright narrative.
On occasion, this works. Peretti’s one-on-one chemistry is
often enough to elevate individual scenes. Her deadpan delivery is ideal for Deyell’s
slyly clever script, which refuses to preach, preferring to resignedly point
out certain frustrating realities.
Though the execution lacks polish, Spinster makes up for most of that with Peretti’s cynical charm and its own quiet determination to subvert its chosen genre.
Who’s the greatest American poet? Maya Angelou? Sherman
Alexie? Walt Whitman? I will argue that it’s Charles Bukowski.
He really only wrote for about 24 years, but he has nearly
70 books in print: novels, collections of short fiction, and poems. My God, the
poems.
If you are also a
fan, documentarian Matteo Borgardt has a film for you.
You Never Had It: An Evening with Bukowski shares a rediscovered interview from 1981. Italian reporter Silvia Bizio visits the writer in his San Pedro home and they talk for about an hour. It’s very low key, and honestly, not a great deal is covered or discovered in terms of the interview itself.
But.
If you’ve ever just wanted to sit in Bukowski’s living room as wine bottle after wine bottle empties, as ash trays fill, as Max the cat finds a good position on Linda Lee’s lap—friends, this is indispensable viewing.
’81 was a big year for him. Bukowski’s about halfway through
his seminal novel Ham on Rye, he’s recently returned from the European
trip documented in his nonfiction text Shakespeare Never Did This, and
that trip/book’s photographer Michael Montfort makes himself at home on the
floor near the ash tray on the end table.
It’s all very low key as people drink and smoke and Bukowski
talks. He doesn’t wax philosophical, doesn’t argue too much, doesn’t make
proclamations or yell or curse. He doesn’t really even tell any stories, but he
does read a few poems (good ones!).
This is hardly the first documentary on Charles Bukowski. (In fact, Taylor Hackford directed the first, 1973’s Bukowski.) But as a general (and quite lovely) rule, previous docs focused on his raucous readings. If you want to hear Bukowski read, there are at least five full length docs that will let you do that.
It’s far rarer to spend some time with the writer at home.
Perhaps because she is drinking herself or perhaps because
the writer is in a cagey mood, Bizio never really finds a good footing for
questions and answers, although humanity and Bukowski’s low opinion of it
offers the slightest hint of a theme for the proceedings. The tour of the house
goes badly, and back-and-forth about sex in his writing uncovers little.
If that sounds negative, it shouldn’t. The whole scene is like a page from one of his books: things not going as well as he’d hoped, the fault likely his own, but at least there’s wine. The more wine, the worse it will go, but there you have it.
You Never Had It will not entertain everyone equally, but it will thrill a handful of people and you know who you are.
We want to thank Cati Glidewell, also know as The Blonde in Front, for joining us to talk through some of the best blond(e)s in horror. There’s a lot of names here, but I think we may have proved that—with a few really bloody exceptions—blondes do seem to have more fun in these movies.
The Dudes
6. Francis Dollarhyde (Tom Noonan), Manhunter (1986)
Tom Noonan’s entire career is defined by a mixture of tenderness and menace. It begins with his unusual physical appearance, including his almost colorless locks, and ends with performances that realize everything broken and horrifying about a character—especially Francis Dollarhyde. The terrifying chemistry between Dollarhyde and a blind Joan Allen’s is heartbreaking perfection.
5. Mark Lewis (Carl Boehm), Peeping Tom (1960)
Like Norman Bates across the pond, England’s Mark Lewis (Carl Boehm) is an innocent. Boehm’s blank stare, his frightened mouse reflexes, his blond locks all contribute to a character so tender you can’t help but root for him—although it would be great if he’d stop murdering women.
4. Kakihara (Tadanobu Asano), Ichi the Killer (2001)
A bleach blond in a Japanese film will automatically draw the eye, but Kakihara’s not just here to catch your attention. Genius filmmaker Takashi Miike and Tadanobu Asano created this badass to upend your expectations. He’s the baddie, right? And man-child Ichi is the innocent? Or is Miike toying with you?
3. Gage (Miko Hughs), Pet Sematary (1989)
Get the Kleenex ready because the ridiculously cute Mike Hughs has a date with a semi. A toddler when he filmed this movie, Hughs really turns in a remarkable performance, whether he’s tugging your heart strings or slicing through Fred Gwynne’s Achilles tendon.
2. David (Keiffer Sutherland), The Lost Boys (1987)
Hubba hubba. The rock star duds. The homoerotic relationship with Jason Patrick. The mullett! Keiffer Sutherland’s bad boy David was so cool you couldn’t help wanting to hang out with him. Eating maggots seems like a small price to pay, really. Nobody said the cool kids’ table would be tasty.
1. John Ryder (Rutger Hauer), The Hitcher (1986)
There are those with a thing for bad boys, and then there are those with a thing for Rutger Hauer. He’s not a bad boy—he’s not even in the same zip code. His John Ryder will make you feel all kinds of weird things because he’s not your garden variety dangerous character. What he will do to you, to that nice family in the station wagon, to your new girlfriend, is more awful than anything you can think of.
The Women
6. Chris Hargeson (Nancy Allen), Carrie (1976)
When De Palma launched the ultimate in mean girl cinema, Nancy Allen delivered the ultimate mean girl. Chris Hargeson’s bloodthirsty princess energy has to convey something horrifying if she is to properly offset what poor Carrie White has to content with at home. Luckily for us (not so much for Carrie), she does.
5. Tomasin (Anya Taylor Joy), The Witch (2015)
Watching The Witch, you realize that writer/director Robert Eggers chose everything: every sound, every image, every color. And while Tomasin’s family looked like gaunt, hard working, colorless cogs in God’s wilderness wheel, Thomasin did not. Even as we open on Anya Taylor Joy, confessing her sins and begging forgiveness, she is lit from within. A beacon. It’s just that her light has caught the wrong kind of attention.
4. Casey (Drew Barrymore), Scream (1996)
The genius Wes Craven and his producer Drew Barrymore pulled an incredible and soon-to-be endlessly copied sleight of hand with Casey—the spunky female played by the biggest star in the cast. With this character, Craven introduces the meta-movie-commentary that defines this film while simultaneously upending our own unconscious investment in those tropes by killing Casey off in Act 1.
3. Carol (Catherine Deneuve), Repulsion (1965)
We went back and forth. Would it be Deneuve as gorgeous seductress Miriam in Tony Scott’s 1983 vampire film The Hunger, or innocent driven to madness Carol in Polanski’s Repulsion? (He does know how to torture innocent young women, doesn’t he?) Deneuve’s performance in Repulsion is so compelling and difficult—playing primarily alone for about half the film—that it won out, but either way, she’s a blonde to be reckoned with.
2. Pamela Voorhees (Betsy Palmer), Friday the 13th (1980)
The OG Karen (to steal a phrase from this episode’s co-host The Blonde in Front), Pamela Voorhees has a plan and she’s sticking to it. This funny business among the camp counselors needs to be addressed, corrected. Enough is enough. Betsy Palmer’s performance is spot-on, so comforting and in control before it goes completely batshit. Jason may get all the love, but Mrs. Voorhees took care of business first.
1. Carrie White (Sissy Spacek), Carrie (1976)
Like his idol Hitchcock, Brian De Palma had a thing about blondes—what that fair hair represented, what it could mean. For De Palma, it might be the bombshell of Angie Dickson’s character in Dressed to Kill, or the innocence of Carrie White. Of course, Sissy Spacek’s Oscar nominated performance in the film was what really sold this sheltered, shell-shocked little lamb, but you can’t deny she had that look.
Co-writer/director Kelly Blatz announces his presence with
authority, creating a minor cinematic miracle with his feature debut, Senior
Love Triangle.
Inspired by co-writer Isadora Kosofsky’s remarkable longterm photo essay
of the same name, the film delivers a candid look into the intimate relationship
among three elderly characters: William (Tom Bower), Adina (Anne Gee Byrd) and
Jeanie (Marlyn Mason).
The film is equal parts charming, frustrating and
heartbreaking. More importantly, it takes its characters seriously. In an era
where veteran actors entertain us via “those crazy old people!” vehicles (watching
Diane Keaton become a cheerleader in Poms
sapped my will to live), Senior Love Triangle feels gloriously anarchic.
The magic of Blatz’s film is that it offers a character study of the sort we
simply never see.
Thanks to thoughtful writing and breathtaking performances—neither
of which rely for a moment on shorthand—we get to know three unique
individuals. William is an irascible, arrogant, 84-year-old charmer. His
sophisticated lady love Adina indulges his ego, but when her son has him kicked
out of Adina’s posh retirement high rise, William finds himself in a
lower-quality establishment.
Not to worry! He’s just finishing a lucrative deal that will
set him up so he can buy a mansion and get Adele away from those Nazis in her
building. (That is to say, he’s being routinely scammed.) In the meantime, over
at his new digs he meets exuberant flirt Jeanie. (Mason’s performance is a
particular triumph.)
Blatz, with an incredible assist from Kosofsky’s work, sees
the characters’ humanity, their sexuality, their courage and weakness. He sees
their loneliness, their vulnerability to outside forces and to each other,
their need. These are complicated characters, vibrant and alive.
Senior Love Triangle offers an underseen perspective
on aging (the perspective of the aged themselves) without romanticizing. Dangerous
misconceptions about masculinity weigh as heavily on their safety and happiness
as their own physical deterioration.
The film is a heartbreaker that just does what it wants to do. Just like William.
It was bound to happen, and no doubt the inanely titled Host
is the first in a succession of films to tap into quarantine and pandemic
frustrations to fuel horror. The fact that co-writer/director Rob Savage
employs found footage for his of-the-moment horror show seems even more
obvious.
Sometimes, though, it’s the most obvious choices that work
out. Savage taps into the real emotional gap between face-to-face and virtual
relationships as a handful of mates jump on a Zoom meeting for a bit if fun.
Separated because of lockdown, the buddies decide to create an event: an online séance. Haley (Haley Bishop) is hoping her friends will be respectful of the medium Seylan (Seylan Baxter), but those hopes are dashed when Teddy (Edward Linard) convinces the group to do a shot every time Seylan says “astro plane.”
“It’s astral plane,” Haley sighs.
Naturally, their irreverence is repaid.
Savage treads the same aesthetic as The Den or Unfriended:
Dark Web, but in many ways his effort is even more successful—perhaps
because it speaks so articulately to our immediate condition. Host is
incredibly simple and spooky in the way that it exploits our isolation and the
vulnerability that comes with that.
And while the medium itself is hardly groundbreaking and is
sometimes irritating, Savage takes advantage of the limitations of found
footage horror. The likability of the characters help you suspend disbelief during
the portions where they’d clearly have put down the damn computer, and because the
film manages to keep your interest, you get to enjoy the spook house effects. A
lot of these jump scares are old school fun.
Lean and mean, running a brisk 56 minutes, the film doesn’t busy itself too much with why or how or really even what. Instead it quickly upends our new normal with old fashioned scares.
When my son was young, we liked to watch Animal Face-Off, an
educational program that proposed hypothetical battles between animals that
wouldn’t normally fight. Sperm Whale v Colossal Squid, African Lion v Nile
Crocodile, Walrus v Polar Bear.
Ohioan Scott Wiper delivers a similar culture clash movie:
Brit gangster v hillbillies with money. The filmmaker drops us in the Appalachians
along with London mob elite Harris (Malcolm McDowell), his muscle, Neelyn
(Vinnie Jones), and Neelyn’s girl, Fiona (Lenora Crichlow).
After decades of hard, dirty work, these men are about to
make a deal with an oilman who can’t get legal money to drill. They finance
Preston (Ron Perlman) and his son Junior (Brandon Sklenar) now, and it pays off
for the rest of their lives.
Bills are exchanged, drinks are drunk, but when the dust
clears the next day, Fiona comes up missing.
Even at 55, Jones is still an intimidating presence. He’s
looking a bit worse for the wear here, but the effect gives Neelyn a weariness that
serves the character well. And while it’s always wonderful to see veterans
McDowell and Perlman with real characters to dig into, it’s Sklenar who
impresses most.
His entitled sociopath schtick slides fluidly from charming
and hateful, and the fact that he and writer/director Wiper offer the character
both intelligence and physical prowess makes this a villain who may just stand
a chance.
It’s also to the filmmaker’s credit that the West Virginians
are rarely the oversimplified hillbilly clichés we’ve come to expect.
Which isn’t to say the film is full of nuance. Though the tone is less laughable, The Big Ugly sometimes takes on a Roadhouse feel about it. Plot contrivances and obvious resolutions mark a film that’s clearly breaking no new ground.
The subplot about the heads of the families carries too little
weight and too much screen time. It’s hard to complain about an
honor-among-thieves conflict between two such beloved genre veterans as Perlman
and McDowell, but Wiper tells of the bond more than he shows it, so the payoff
feels unearned.
Still, for a B-movie, The Big Ugly delivers what it needs to. Our favorite Animal Face-Off was Hippopotamus v Bull Shark because we love it when the big, lumbering beast you’d bet against turns out to be the badass. Doesn’t everybody?
The first thing you know about Shudder’s new original doc In Search of Darkness is that it’s an encyclopedic look at horror movies from the Eighties.
The second thing you need to know is that it’s 4 hours and
20 minutes long.
Right?!!
Why filmmaker David A. Weiner decided this had to be a standalone doc rather than a short series is beyond me. Certainly you can (and no doubt will) pause the film and come back to it, which is simple enough to do with Shudder. Still, having devoted about 1/3 of my waking day to a single documentary, I feel as if I should have learned more about Eighties horror than I did.
The bright spots: Tom Atkins is as delightful as you hope he
is, as, of course, is Barbara Crampton. John Carpenter and Larry Cohen are as
curmudgeonly; Keith David’s saucy baritone makes every anecdote extra fun; Alex
Winter makes some interesting connections between films and society at large;
and some of the industry insider talking heads seem knowledgeable.
There’s no real rhyme or reason to the specific titles discussed, but more problematic is the superficial treatment of the genre. In four and a half hours, I should have learned something, should have heard of a movie I’d never known about. In Search of Darkness refuses to connect any dots.
Some of the asides about VHS cover art, for instance, are briefly interesting, but other such tangents only emphasize the film’s overall weaknesses. The discussion of the final girl or of gratuitous nudity in 80s horror lacks any kind of insight, but when the piece on horror soundtracks did not mention Goblin, it dawned on me that in early 4 ½ hours, not a single foreign title is discussed.
No Argento,
no Fulci, no Deodado – niente.
A ninety minute doc that contents itself with a nostalgic traipse down VHS store aisles would be fun. A doc series that contextualizes the phenomenal explosion in the popularity of horror in the Eighties, digging into sexism, feminism, foreign titles, changing music, the Reagan influence, the impact of VHS and MTV – that would be amazing. In Search of Darkness is neither.
