BEST WORST MOVIE (2010)
Directed by Michael Stephenson
What would you say is the worst movie ever made? Last week, I discovered my contender for that spot. But is there any movie you've ever seen that, despite its myriad flaws, you can't help but love it? For some, it's The Rocky Horror Picture Show, for others, Ed Wood Jr.'s Plan 9 From Outer Space (though I personally prefer Bride of the Monster. I'm a sucker for Bela Lugosi). For a good many people, that honor goes to Troll 2.
Made in 1989 by Italian director Claudio Fragasso and starring a group of Utah locals, Troll 2 has garnered the reputation of the "Worst Movie Ever Made," earning the "top" spot on IMDb's "Bottom 100" list at one point (as of today, it's still on the list at #76). It was never released in theaters, but instead went straight to video and HBO. Though the actors were all amateurs, there were a couple who entertained dreams of Hollywood super-stardom. When they saw the finished film, however, their hopes were dashed. Everyone agreed: this movie stinks.
However, the film was not a total loss. Years later, fans of the film held midnight screenings and even full-blown parties built around it. It's cult of fans are just as dedicated as any the Rocky Horror crowd could boast. So when word of this reached Michael Stephenson - who played the young Joshua Waits in Troll 2 - he decided to make a documentary about the fans.
Along for the ride, he brought George Hardy, who played his father in the film. George, an affable dentist now living in Alabama, is more than happy to join him. They round up the rest of the cast and even the director, and tour the United States and Canada, making appearances at screenings. And when word gets out that the cast and director will be there, the screenings sell out quickly.
This film touches on a lot of subjects, not the least of which is the effect that this new-found celebrity has on these yokels who appeared in a bad movie nearly 20 years earlier. George seems to embrace it at first, but after a disastrous trip to England (apparently, it's not as big a hit over there), he is brought back down to earth, realizing his place is in the dentist's chair, not on the big screen (though he wouldn't rule out doing another film). But George isn't the only eccentric in the cast. Don Packard, who played the store owner in the film, was on leave from a mental institution when he auditioned. Margo Prey, who played Diana Waits, has been caring for her ailing mother and hasn't acted in years (that whole scene looked like something out of a suburban Grey Gardens). But all of them (save Margo) got together for the screenings, and everyone had a great time.
But the question that they really only touch on is this: what is it about these movies that make us love them so much? On the surface, they're terrible, and yet they endear themselves to us. Well, I can't speak for Troll 2, as I've never seen it. But there are some turkeys that I love (including, but not limited to: Bride of the Monster, The Room, Hook, etc.). I can really only say that the reason I love them is either because 1) I loved them as a child and never really let go of that love or 2) There is a kind of naive enthusiasm behind them, where the film-makers may not have been talented, but they were sincere and were having fun. And if that fun and/or sincerity makes it to the screen, then they must have done something right. Even if they did end up making what amounts to an unintentional comedy.
You would think that everyone involved would be glad that their crappy little film has garnered such a cult following, but director Claudio Fragasso comes across as more than a little bitter when he finds out about his movie's status "Worst Ever." He argues that he made a good film, but the actors screwed it up. Or he blamed the language barrier. Or the crew. Or pretty much everyone but himself. Instead of saying, "I learned from my mistakes, and I can now watch Troll 2 and chuckle a little bit," he insists that his movie was a good one and all the critics are wrong. It's a surprisingly bitter note in an otherwise upbeat and strangely heartwarming movie.
But as good as this doc was, it doesn't make me want to watch Troll 2. Sorry.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Day 74: Let Them Hate Me, So Long As They Fear Me
CALIGULA (1979)
Directed by Tinto Brass (credited for "Principal Photography") and Bob Guccione ("Additional Scenes")
Starring: Malcolm McDowell, Helen Mirren, Peter O'Toole, John Gielgud, Teresa Ann Savoy
I hate the way my mind works sometimes. I haven't made a post here in almost two whole months, as I've been moving cross-country and getting myself situated. When I remembered this little project of mine, I felt I couldn't just come back with any old film. No, I needed to make a splash. I needed to come back with something big.
And now, I'm wishing I hadn't.
I knew going in that this movie was going to bet a tough one. What else should I have expected from a film that Roger Ebert called "utterly worthless, shameful trash."? Just how tough it was going to be came as a surprise.
To truly understand this disaster, we have to go back to its very inception. See, back in the day, author and screenwriter Gore Vidal was working on a script for a film on the life of Caligula Caesar, based on an unmade TV mini-series by Roberto Rossellini. Of course, you can't make a movie without money, so Vidal went to Penthouse magazine founder and publisher Bob Guccione. And this was the film's most costly mistake. Guccione, naturally, wanted to sex up the script a bit, but he also wanted to make it more like the sword-and-sandal epics of the 50's and 60's. It was to be a spectacle of lavish proportions that would be a bit sexier than audiences of the time were used to. Guccione hired Tinto Brass to direct and the production would be designed by Fellini's art director Danilo Donati. Acting heavyweights Malcolm McDowell, Peter O'Toole and John Gielgud were hired. The production was to be begin in 1976 and was slated for a 1977 release. Sounds like any other production so far, right? Just go and make the movie.
Not so fast. Vidal rewrote the script five times, which delayed production; he was banned from the set for arguing with Brass. Maria Schneider, who had been cast as Drusilla, balked at the amount of nudity and sex in the film and was replaced by Teresa Ann Savoy. Brass' rough-and-tumble shooting style didn't allow Donati to finish his sets in time, which resulted in more script changes. Brass and Guccione would argue over the sexual content of the film so, of course, more changes and more delays. After principal photography was completed, Guccione took over post-production. He went back and shot several minutes of hardcore orgy footage (something he had not discussed with Brass), and basically took over the editing process himself. Vidal and Brass both disowned the film. And it didn't debut until 1979.
But I'm willing to bet that the process of making this film, as unpleasant as it was, was nothing compared to actually sitting through it. For the moment, I'm going to put the porno stuff aside and just focus on what a terribly sloppy movie this is. A lot of the blame for that has to go to Guccione himself, who was inexperienced at film-making of any kind. He chose shots that were out of focus. He chose takes of the actors giving extremely over-the-top performances. There is zero continuity. Nothing makes any sense whatsoever. The actors, for their part, give it their all, except for John Gielgud, who played Nerva. It is painfully obvious that he was just there for the paycheck. Though his death scene, where he had slashed his wrists in a bath, was very well-done. Maybe that's because I envied him at that point. Malcolm McDowell is simply recreating the role of Alex, from A Clockwork Orange, only in a toga instead of a codpiece. Peter O'Toole, who played Caligula's syphilis-ridden uncle Tiberias, gives one of the strangest performance I think I've ever seen. Rumors of him being drunk on the set are rampant, and I believe it. If I had to work on this movie, I'd be drunk on set, too.
Now this movie would have been bad enough as it is, but then there's the orgy scenes. There is nothing tasteful about them. It's just straight-up porn. And it's not even simulated, as more mainstream films usually do. It's all there and it's all real. And there's really no point to it. It doesn't move the story along (assuming this movie has a story) and it's not even very well made. It's...well, it's porn. The only difference is that the pizza guy and the pool cleaner are wearing sandals.
This is the first movie I've done for this project that has absolutely no redeeming qualities. And the thing is, it's not just bad - it's insulting. There is no excuse for this movie; it's not a "historical drama," or a "classical epic." It's not even a good porno! And yet it was made and marketed in such a way as to make the audience think it was all these things and more. "It wasn't just a movie, it was a cultural event! It broke down barriers! It was an act against censorship!" No. No, it wasn't. It wasn't any of those things. If anything, it was the single biggest case for censorship ever made. And it's not a terrible movie because it's a porno. It's a terrible movie for trying to tell the audience it was more than that; and for thinking that hiding behind respected actors and millions of dollars could make it anything more than it is.
But in the interest of saying something nice......the sets were good.
Directed by Tinto Brass (credited for "Principal Photography") and Bob Guccione ("Additional Scenes")
Starring: Malcolm McDowell, Helen Mirren, Peter O'Toole, John Gielgud, Teresa Ann Savoy
I hate the way my mind works sometimes. I haven't made a post here in almost two whole months, as I've been moving cross-country and getting myself situated. When I remembered this little project of mine, I felt I couldn't just come back with any old film. No, I needed to make a splash. I needed to come back with something big.
And now, I'm wishing I hadn't.
I knew going in that this movie was going to bet a tough one. What else should I have expected from a film that Roger Ebert called "utterly worthless, shameful trash."? Just how tough it was going to be came as a surprise.
To truly understand this disaster, we have to go back to its very inception. See, back in the day, author and screenwriter Gore Vidal was working on a script for a film on the life of Caligula Caesar, based on an unmade TV mini-series by Roberto Rossellini. Of course, you can't make a movie without money, so Vidal went to Penthouse magazine founder and publisher Bob Guccione. And this was the film's most costly mistake. Guccione, naturally, wanted to sex up the script a bit, but he also wanted to make it more like the sword-and-sandal epics of the 50's and 60's. It was to be a spectacle of lavish proportions that would be a bit sexier than audiences of the time were used to. Guccione hired Tinto Brass to direct and the production would be designed by Fellini's art director Danilo Donati. Acting heavyweights Malcolm McDowell, Peter O'Toole and John Gielgud were hired. The production was to be begin in 1976 and was slated for a 1977 release. Sounds like any other production so far, right? Just go and make the movie.
Not so fast. Vidal rewrote the script five times, which delayed production; he was banned from the set for arguing with Brass. Maria Schneider, who had been cast as Drusilla, balked at the amount of nudity and sex in the film and was replaced by Teresa Ann Savoy. Brass' rough-and-tumble shooting style didn't allow Donati to finish his sets in time, which resulted in more script changes. Brass and Guccione would argue over the sexual content of the film so, of course, more changes and more delays. After principal photography was completed, Guccione took over post-production. He went back and shot several minutes of hardcore orgy footage (something he had not discussed with Brass), and basically took over the editing process himself. Vidal and Brass both disowned the film. And it didn't debut until 1979.
But I'm willing to bet that the process of making this film, as unpleasant as it was, was nothing compared to actually sitting through it. For the moment, I'm going to put the porno stuff aside and just focus on what a terribly sloppy movie this is. A lot of the blame for that has to go to Guccione himself, who was inexperienced at film-making of any kind. He chose shots that were out of focus. He chose takes of the actors giving extremely over-the-top performances. There is zero continuity. Nothing makes any sense whatsoever. The actors, for their part, give it their all, except for John Gielgud, who played Nerva. It is painfully obvious that he was just there for the paycheck. Though his death scene, where he had slashed his wrists in a bath, was very well-done. Maybe that's because I envied him at that point. Malcolm McDowell is simply recreating the role of Alex, from A Clockwork Orange, only in a toga instead of a codpiece. Peter O'Toole, who played Caligula's syphilis-ridden uncle Tiberias, gives one of the strangest performance I think I've ever seen. Rumors of him being drunk on the set are rampant, and I believe it. If I had to work on this movie, I'd be drunk on set, too.
Now this movie would have been bad enough as it is, but then there's the orgy scenes. There is nothing tasteful about them. It's just straight-up porn. And it's not even simulated, as more mainstream films usually do. It's all there and it's all real. And there's really no point to it. It doesn't move the story along (assuming this movie has a story) and it's not even very well made. It's...well, it's porn. The only difference is that the pizza guy and the pool cleaner are wearing sandals.
This is the first movie I've done for this project that has absolutely no redeeming qualities. And the thing is, it's not just bad - it's insulting. There is no excuse for this movie; it's not a "historical drama," or a "classical epic." It's not even a good porno! And yet it was made and marketed in such a way as to make the audience think it was all these things and more. "It wasn't just a movie, it was a cultural event! It broke down barriers! It was an act against censorship!" No. No, it wasn't. It wasn't any of those things. If anything, it was the single biggest case for censorship ever made. And it's not a terrible movie because it's a porno. It's a terrible movie for trying to tell the audience it was more than that; and for thinking that hiding behind respected actors and millions of dollars could make it anything more than it is.
But in the interest of saying something nice......the sets were good.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Day 73: It's Only A Movie, Only A Movie, Only A Movie....
THE LAST HOUSE ON THE LEFT (1972)
Directed by Wes Craven
Starring: Sandra Cassell, Lucy Grantham, David Hess, Fred J. Lincoln, Marc Sheffler, Jeramie Rain, Gaylord St. James, Cynthia Carr, Marshall Anker, Martin Cove
By now, all of my readers (and I love all three of you) know how I feel about films that are hyped up beyond what they can possibly deliver. And this is one of those cases. Up until now, the only thing I knew about this film was the classic poster that claimed that this was no less than the most harrowing film you will ever sit through. And it really isn't. It is and exercise in extremely poor taste - and an effective one, at that - but as far as being scary? Not so much.
The story centers around two high school girls; Mari (Cassell) and Phyllis (Grantham) who go into the city to see a rock concert. While trying to score some grass, the come acrossBob Dylan Junior (Sheffler), a junkie who just busted out of prison with his brother Krug (Hess), child molester and all-around sex fiend Weasel (Lincoln) and slutty gun moll Sadie (Rain). The group drives the two girls out to the woods where they beat, rape and eventually kill them. In the ultimate ironic twist, the group find shelter for the night in the house where one of the girls lived. And once her parents find out what happened, they quickly and effectively plot revenge.
Now all of this sounds like typical horror/slasher/exploitation movie stuff, and it is. And, handled the right way, it can be plenty scary. But the way Craven directs this picture, you'd think it was a comedy. The soundtrack is upbeat, there are a couple of bumbling cops (Kove, Edwards) who provide comic relief, and the banter between Mari and her parents is like something out of a sitcom. About the only thing that's handled seriously are the most brutal scenes in the film. And even in those scenes, the actors playing the baddies act like they're in a comedy. And the effect is not so much scary as much as it is disturbing.
And this may have been what Wes Craven was going for, but there's not a lot of balance. We switch from one scene in which the girls are put through some of the most humiliating scenarios imaginable to another scene with the two Keystone Cops who get clue after clue after clue about the whereabouts of the girls, but can't put two and two together. We go from tragedy to comedy in a matter of seconds. And I don't know about you, but when I see a girl brutalized on screen, the last thing I want you to cut to is a scene where two cops try to hitch a ride on the roof of a chicken truck. Sorry, but I don't feel much like laughing after that.
About the only real tension we get in the movie is in the third act, when Mari's parents discover what happened to her. They quickly devise a plot almost as elaborate as Macauly Culkin's burglar traps in Home Alone. And they do it rather quickly, not taking any time to mourn their loss. Of course, where Home Alone was cartoony in it's violence, here we have the exact opposite. In this house, revenge is a dish best served with a chainsaw.
The Last House on the Left is an effective screamer, to be sure, but it is almost laughably uneven. There's no emotional arc. I guess that's hardly surprising for a film that was originally conceived as a hardcore porno version of Ingmar Bergman's The Virgin Spring (!?). And it did make enough of an impact to get Wes Craven noticed. And as far as debut films go, I've seen worse. But it's not the harrowing experience the poster told me it would be. It was right about one thing, though: "It's only a movie." No more, no less.
Directed by Wes Craven
Starring: Sandra Cassell, Lucy Grantham, David Hess, Fred J. Lincoln, Marc Sheffler, Jeramie Rain, Gaylord St. James, Cynthia Carr, Marshall Anker, Martin Cove
By now, all of my readers (and I love all three of you) know how I feel about films that are hyped up beyond what they can possibly deliver. And this is one of those cases. Up until now, the only thing I knew about this film was the classic poster that claimed that this was no less than the most harrowing film you will ever sit through. And it really isn't. It is and exercise in extremely poor taste - and an effective one, at that - but as far as being scary? Not so much.
The story centers around two high school girls; Mari (Cassell) and Phyllis (Grantham) who go into the city to see a rock concert. While trying to score some grass, the come across
Now all of this sounds like typical horror/slasher/exploitation movie stuff, and it is. And, handled the right way, it can be plenty scary. But the way Craven directs this picture, you'd think it was a comedy. The soundtrack is upbeat, there are a couple of bumbling cops (Kove, Edwards) who provide comic relief, and the banter between Mari and her parents is like something out of a sitcom. About the only thing that's handled seriously are the most brutal scenes in the film. And even in those scenes, the actors playing the baddies act like they're in a comedy. And the effect is not so much scary as much as it is disturbing.
And this may have been what Wes Craven was going for, but there's not a lot of balance. We switch from one scene in which the girls are put through some of the most humiliating scenarios imaginable to another scene with the two Keystone Cops who get clue after clue after clue about the whereabouts of the girls, but can't put two and two together. We go from tragedy to comedy in a matter of seconds. And I don't know about you, but when I see a girl brutalized on screen, the last thing I want you to cut to is a scene where two cops try to hitch a ride on the roof of a chicken truck. Sorry, but I don't feel much like laughing after that.
About the only real tension we get in the movie is in the third act, when Mari's parents discover what happened to her. They quickly devise a plot almost as elaborate as Macauly Culkin's burglar traps in Home Alone. And they do it rather quickly, not taking any time to mourn their loss. Of course, where Home Alone was cartoony in it's violence, here we have the exact opposite. In this house, revenge is a dish best served with a chainsaw.
The Last House on the Left is an effective screamer, to be sure, but it is almost laughably uneven. There's no emotional arc. I guess that's hardly surprising for a film that was originally conceived as a hardcore porno version of Ingmar Bergman's The Virgin Spring (!?). And it did make enough of an impact to get Wes Craven noticed. And as far as debut films go, I've seen worse. But it's not the harrowing experience the poster told me it would be. It was right about one thing, though: "It's only a movie." No more, no less.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Day 72: It's Always the Same and It's Always Different
HENRY: PORTRAIT OF A SERIAL KILLER (1986)
Directed by John McNaughton
Starring: Michael Rooker, Tom Towles, Tracy Arnold
Shot in less than a month in and around Chicago on grainy 16mm film on a budget of just over $100,000, Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer follows the exploits of two friends - Henry (Rooker) and Otis (Towles) - who go on a killing spree around the Chicagoland area. There really is no rhyme or reason to their crimes. They kill a guy selling black-market TVs. They massacre an entire family. They'll shoot a guy on the side of they freeway just for kicks. Henry has been at the senseless murder game for quite a while, but Otis is new to it, and the thrill begins to go to his head. Blissfully unaware of all this is Otis' sister Becky (Arnold), who came to town to get away from her abusive husband. This unlikely trio is happy enough at first, but things get out of control very quickly.
This is an independent horror film that reminded me, in many ways, of Tobe Hooper's The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. Both were micro-budgeted films that focused on a group of isolated loners who love to kill people. Both proved that you don't need a gigantic budget to scare the crap out of an audience. And, probably most important, both are based on the exploits of real-life serials killers. Chain Saw was inspired by Ed Gein. Henry was inspired by Henry Lee Lucas, a killer from Texas who was convicted of eleven murders and suspected of dozens (maybe even hundreds) more.
One of the things I'm discovering is that horror films can be broken down into to two categories: the ones that are scary and the ones that are disturbing. Henry certainly falls into the latter category. No one ever jumps out at the camera or waits behind the corner in this film. What we get is a series of scenarios in which Henry takes Otis under his demented wing. We watch a monster create a monster, and the depths to which Otis sinks disgust even Henry. But Henry is no prize himself. He, too, is capable of the most depraved acts. He's just not as brazen about it. Most of what is disturbing about Henry goes on inside his own head. In what is probably the most brilliant directorial decision in the film, we occasionally hear the screams of Henry's victims, usually when he's getting ready to do hi thing. We don't flashback and actually see it, but there's really no need. And this way, we get a glimpse of his past in much more unique fashion. But despite what the title would have you believe, the film is not so much about Henry, nor is it truly a portrait of one man. It really is an ensemble piece. It doesn't even focus on Henry exclusively until the last few minutes of the film, and even then, it doesn't necessarily provide us with a "portrait." It's really more of a "snapshot."
As influential as this film is, it almost never saw the light of day. Director John McNaughton turned into his producers a two-and-a-half hour VHS copy of the film that had to be watched on a tiny monitor with barely audible sound. This was because he couldn't, for whatever reason, bring in the negatives to be processed. Needless to say, his producers were unimpressed, and the film was shelved for many years. When it was finally brought to light, the MPAA (remember them?) gave the film an X-rating. In fact, it was because of this film (and a few others) that the MPAA finally created the NC-17 rating for adults only films that were not of a pornographic nature.
And that last little bit of information should be enough to tell you whether or not this movie is for you. Personally, I found it more disturbing than outright scary, but that's actually the kind of horror I like. Anybody can make you scream, but it takes a certain kind of twisted mind to get under your skin. And Henry does just that.
Directed by John McNaughton
Starring: Michael Rooker, Tom Towles, Tracy Arnold
Shot in less than a month in and around Chicago on grainy 16mm film on a budget of just over $100,000, Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer follows the exploits of two friends - Henry (Rooker) and Otis (Towles) - who go on a killing spree around the Chicagoland area. There really is no rhyme or reason to their crimes. They kill a guy selling black-market TVs. They massacre an entire family. They'll shoot a guy on the side of they freeway just for kicks. Henry has been at the senseless murder game for quite a while, but Otis is new to it, and the thrill begins to go to his head. Blissfully unaware of all this is Otis' sister Becky (Arnold), who came to town to get away from her abusive husband. This unlikely trio is happy enough at first, but things get out of control very quickly.
This is an independent horror film that reminded me, in many ways, of Tobe Hooper's The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. Both were micro-budgeted films that focused on a group of isolated loners who love to kill people. Both proved that you don't need a gigantic budget to scare the crap out of an audience. And, probably most important, both are based on the exploits of real-life serials killers. Chain Saw was inspired by Ed Gein. Henry was inspired by Henry Lee Lucas, a killer from Texas who was convicted of eleven murders and suspected of dozens (maybe even hundreds) more.
One of the things I'm discovering is that horror films can be broken down into to two categories: the ones that are scary and the ones that are disturbing. Henry certainly falls into the latter category. No one ever jumps out at the camera or waits behind the corner in this film. What we get is a series of scenarios in which Henry takes Otis under his demented wing. We watch a monster create a monster, and the depths to which Otis sinks disgust even Henry. But Henry is no prize himself. He, too, is capable of the most depraved acts. He's just not as brazen about it. Most of what is disturbing about Henry goes on inside his own head. In what is probably the most brilliant directorial decision in the film, we occasionally hear the screams of Henry's victims, usually when he's getting ready to do hi thing. We don't flashback and actually see it, but there's really no need. And this way, we get a glimpse of his past in much more unique fashion. But despite what the title would have you believe, the film is not so much about Henry, nor is it truly a portrait of one man. It really is an ensemble piece. It doesn't even focus on Henry exclusively until the last few minutes of the film, and even then, it doesn't necessarily provide us with a "portrait." It's really more of a "snapshot."
As influential as this film is, it almost never saw the light of day. Director John McNaughton turned into his producers a two-and-a-half hour VHS copy of the film that had to be watched on a tiny monitor with barely audible sound. This was because he couldn't, for whatever reason, bring in the negatives to be processed. Needless to say, his producers were unimpressed, and the film was shelved for many years. When it was finally brought to light, the MPAA (remember them?) gave the film an X-rating. In fact, it was because of this film (and a few others) that the MPAA finally created the NC-17 rating for adults only films that were not of a pornographic nature.
And that last little bit of information should be enough to tell you whether or not this movie is for you. Personally, I found it more disturbing than outright scary, but that's actually the kind of horror I like. Anybody can make you scream, but it takes a certain kind of twisted mind to get under your skin. And Henry does just that.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Day 71: Long Live The New Flesh
VIDEODROME (1983)
Directed by David Cronenberg
Starring: James Woods, Deborah Harry, Sonja Smits, Peter Dvorsky, Leslie Carlson, Jack Creley
Max Renn (Woods) owns and operates a seedy UHF station in Toronto called CIVIC-TV. With a name like that, you'd expect it to be a sort of public television affiliate, but instead, Max fills the Canadian airwaves with softcore porn and graphic violence. One fine day, his assistant Harlan (Dvorsky), by way of a pirate satellite dish, comes across an odd show called "Videodrome," in which a woman is beaten and tortured on a plain set - no plot, no context, no explanation. Of course, Max is thrilled by this concept, believing it to be the next big thing, because Max is a scumbag and is okay with that fact.
Max goes on television to defend his sleazeball antics, but is upstaged by the eccentric Professor Brian O'Blivion (Jack Creley), who appears via television...on television. He does this to prove his point that, someday, television will replace life as we know it. But Max couldn't care less, as he proceeds to bed the other panelist, pop-psychologist Nicki Brand (Harry). At his apartment, Nicki pops in a tape of "Videodrome" and is mesmerized by what she sees. Taking this as a sign, Max tries to find out as much about "Videodrome" as he can in a effort to make a deal with the producer. But the more he finds out about "Videodrome,"the more his world begins to collapse. He begins having wild hallucinations, not the least of which is a ten-inch vertical gash in his abdomen. His focus now switches to finding out what's causing the hallucinations, but he finds that the secret behind "Videodrome" isn't too far behind, either.
There's more - a lot more - about a government plot to purge North America of the freaks and perverts who feed on sex and violence, and a video librarian who reprograms Max to "accept his new flesh," but to go into more detail would take all night. It's an amazingly complex story that's been woven into 87 short minutes.
The whole concept centers around television and its control over us. Even in the early 1980's, this wasn't too far-fetched. But David Cronenberg takes things a step further: "Videodrome" is almost like a virus that invades the body of whoever watches it. The sickness becomes literal, and, in true Cronenberg fashion, it wreaks some rather gruesome havoc. The special effects, done by Oscar winner Rick Baker, are pretty impressive and stomach turning at the same time. They seem sort of dated by today's standards, but the practical effects also give off a sense of realism in a pretty unbelievable story.
Now, of course, there comes the debate as to whether or not this is a true "horror film." Personally, I would categorize it under "Science Fiction," but there are certainly many horror elements in the film, not the least of which are the various mutations Max goes through. Many have called David Cronenberg the master of "body horror," a sort of sub-genre that deals with disease and death. If horror preys on our fears of what we can't control, then the concept of our bodies turning against us is about as scary as anything. We may not be afraid of slashers, creepers or mythical monsters, but the minute our own bodies start acting funny, our fear of death surfaces. Besides, who says sci-fi can't also have a bit of horror mixed in (Alien, anyone)?
Videodrome was way ahead of its time, both in terms of vision and scope. It may not go for outright scares and screams, but it works on your mind rather than your nerves, which I've always found scarier.
Directed by David Cronenberg
Starring: James Woods, Deborah Harry, Sonja Smits, Peter Dvorsky, Leslie Carlson, Jack Creley
Max Renn (Woods) owns and operates a seedy UHF station in Toronto called CIVIC-TV. With a name like that, you'd expect it to be a sort of public television affiliate, but instead, Max fills the Canadian airwaves with softcore porn and graphic violence. One fine day, his assistant Harlan (Dvorsky), by way of a pirate satellite dish, comes across an odd show called "Videodrome," in which a woman is beaten and tortured on a plain set - no plot, no context, no explanation. Of course, Max is thrilled by this concept, believing it to be the next big thing, because Max is a scumbag and is okay with that fact.
Max goes on television to defend his sleazeball antics, but is upstaged by the eccentric Professor Brian O'Blivion (Jack Creley), who appears via television...on television. He does this to prove his point that, someday, television will replace life as we know it. But Max couldn't care less, as he proceeds to bed the other panelist, pop-psychologist Nicki Brand (Harry). At his apartment, Nicki pops in a tape of "Videodrome" and is mesmerized by what she sees. Taking this as a sign, Max tries to find out as much about "Videodrome" as he can in a effort to make a deal with the producer. But the more he finds out about "Videodrome,"the more his world begins to collapse. He begins having wild hallucinations, not the least of which is a ten-inch vertical gash in his abdomen. His focus now switches to finding out what's causing the hallucinations, but he finds that the secret behind "Videodrome" isn't too far behind, either.
There's more - a lot more - about a government plot to purge North America of the freaks and perverts who feed on sex and violence, and a video librarian who reprograms Max to "accept his new flesh," but to go into more detail would take all night. It's an amazingly complex story that's been woven into 87 short minutes.
The whole concept centers around television and its control over us. Even in the early 1980's, this wasn't too far-fetched. But David Cronenberg takes things a step further: "Videodrome" is almost like a virus that invades the body of whoever watches it. The sickness becomes literal, and, in true Cronenberg fashion, it wreaks some rather gruesome havoc. The special effects, done by Oscar winner Rick Baker, are pretty impressive and stomach turning at the same time. They seem sort of dated by today's standards, but the practical effects also give off a sense of realism in a pretty unbelievable story.
Now, of course, there comes the debate as to whether or not this is a true "horror film." Personally, I would categorize it under "Science Fiction," but there are certainly many horror elements in the film, not the least of which are the various mutations Max goes through. Many have called David Cronenberg the master of "body horror," a sort of sub-genre that deals with disease and death. If horror preys on our fears of what we can't control, then the concept of our bodies turning against us is about as scary as anything. We may not be afraid of slashers, creepers or mythical monsters, but the minute our own bodies start acting funny, our fear of death surfaces. Besides, who says sci-fi can't also have a bit of horror mixed in (Alien, anyone)?
Videodrome was way ahead of its time, both in terms of vision and scope. It may not go for outright scares and screams, but it works on your mind rather than your nerves, which I've always found scarier.
Down to the Wire...
Okay.
I've got just under three months to watch 30 films. Right now, I'm working full-time (or very nearly). I'm also planning a cross-country move. I probably won't have access to a computer for a while, once I get where I'm going. So my goal to watch 100 films in a year is in danger of not being reached. But dangit, I'm gonna try.
And so we plunge ahead into October, which, as we all know, ends with Halloween. That being the case, I'm going to watch nothing but horror films this month! I'm not worried about being scarred for life, since I'm already pretty scarred as it is.
I've got just under three months to watch 30 films. Right now, I'm working full-time (or very nearly). I'm also planning a cross-country move. I probably won't have access to a computer for a while, once I get where I'm going. So my goal to watch 100 films in a year is in danger of not being reached. But dangit, I'm gonna try.
And so we plunge ahead into October, which, as we all know, ends with Halloween. That being the case, I'm going to watch nothing but horror films this month! I'm not worried about being scarred for life, since I'm already pretty scarred as it is.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Day 70: For The Greater Good...
HOT FUZZ (2007)
Directed by Edgar Wright
Starring: Simon Pegg, Nick Frost, Timothy Dalton, Jim Broadbent, Olivia Coleman, Paddy Considine, Rafe Spall, Martin Freeman, Bill Nighy, Cate Blanchett (uncredited), Peter Jackson (ditto)
Police Constable Nicholas Angel (Pegg) is the bright shining star of the London Police Department. In fact, he's so good, he's making the rest of the Metropolitan Police look bad. So while he's promoted to Sergeant, he is also transferred to the sleepy little village of Sandford, where there hasn't been a recorded violent crime for decades. The big-city cop has a hard time fitting in with the small-town force and it's laid back Chief Butterman (Broadbent) and action film loving son Danny (Frost). But when several citizen meet a string of spectacularly violent ends, Sergeant Angel suspects murder. However, the rest of force - as well as the rest of the town - just think it's a string of freak accidents. Sergeant Angel's number one suspect is the sleazy supermarket owner (Dalton), but knowing it and proving it are two different things.
The same team that brought us Shaun of the Dead now tries their hand at the action-buddy-cop-film. As with Shaun, it doesn't seek to make fun of the conventions of the genre, but rather plays them up for laughs in the way of a good-natured homage. The filmmakers are obviously fans, and it shows. There are references to nearly every cop movie out there, from the overt rip-offs of Point Break and Bad Boys II to more subtle references to Chinatown. But the film is more than just a string of pop culture references. It stands on its own two feet and puts its own spin on things. It even has a third-act shootout that rivals anything Michael Bay has put out.
Pegg plays Sergeant Angel as a sort of British equivalent to Joe Friday - a no-nonsense cop who just wants to get to the bottom of things. He plays everything by the book (literally - he carries it around in his patrol car with him) and has a hell of a time doing so with the lackadaisical force he's been partnered with. Nick Frost plays Constable Butterman with the same lazy joie-de-vivre as his character "Ed" in Shaun. However, in this film, PC Butterman looks up to Sergeant Angel as a mentor, who can teach him the finer things about police work, like how to jump through the air firing two guns at once. But the standout performance is Timothy Dalton's turn as the sleazy Simon Skinner, who runs the local supermarket. As soon as you see him, you know he's up to no good. There's not a lot in the way of mystery about him. But as I said before, part of the fun is trying to figure out how he's responsible.
And I'm going to leave it at that, as the end of this film has a pretty interesting twist that I don't want to give away. Let's just say that Skinner wasn't acting alone. At first, this big "twist" was a bit disappointing and more than a bit confusing, but what they do afterward makes up for it. It's certainly an ending you won't forget. But that's all I'm saying. Watch it for yourself!
Directed by Edgar Wright
Starring: Simon Pegg, Nick Frost, Timothy Dalton, Jim Broadbent, Olivia Coleman, Paddy Considine, Rafe Spall, Martin Freeman, Bill Nighy, Cate Blanchett (uncredited), Peter Jackson (ditto)
Police Constable Nicholas Angel (Pegg) is the bright shining star of the London Police Department. In fact, he's so good, he's making the rest of the Metropolitan Police look bad. So while he's promoted to Sergeant, he is also transferred to the sleepy little village of Sandford, where there hasn't been a recorded violent crime for decades. The big-city cop has a hard time fitting in with the small-town force and it's laid back Chief Butterman (Broadbent) and action film loving son Danny (Frost). But when several citizen meet a string of spectacularly violent ends, Sergeant Angel suspects murder. However, the rest of force - as well as the rest of the town - just think it's a string of freak accidents. Sergeant Angel's number one suspect is the sleazy supermarket owner (Dalton), but knowing it and proving it are two different things.
The same team that brought us Shaun of the Dead now tries their hand at the action-buddy-cop-film. As with Shaun, it doesn't seek to make fun of the conventions of the genre, but rather plays them up for laughs in the way of a good-natured homage. The filmmakers are obviously fans, and it shows. There are references to nearly every cop movie out there, from the overt rip-offs of Point Break and Bad Boys II to more subtle references to Chinatown. But the film is more than just a string of pop culture references. It stands on its own two feet and puts its own spin on things. It even has a third-act shootout that rivals anything Michael Bay has put out.
Pegg plays Sergeant Angel as a sort of British equivalent to Joe Friday - a no-nonsense cop who just wants to get to the bottom of things. He plays everything by the book (literally - he carries it around in his patrol car with him) and has a hell of a time doing so with the lackadaisical force he's been partnered with. Nick Frost plays Constable Butterman with the same lazy joie-de-vivre as his character "Ed" in Shaun. However, in this film, PC Butterman looks up to Sergeant Angel as a mentor, who can teach him the finer things about police work, like how to jump through the air firing two guns at once. But the standout performance is Timothy Dalton's turn as the sleazy Simon Skinner, who runs the local supermarket. As soon as you see him, you know he's up to no good. There's not a lot in the way of mystery about him. But as I said before, part of the fun is trying to figure out how he's responsible.
And I'm going to leave it at that, as the end of this film has a pretty interesting twist that I don't want to give away. Let's just say that Skinner wasn't acting alone. At first, this big "twist" was a bit disappointing and more than a bit confusing, but what they do afterward makes up for it. It's certainly an ending you won't forget. But that's all I'm saying. Watch it for yourself!
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