After almost a year of wanting it, needing it, getting tired of watching it in shitty quality Torrent file-form on the laptop....one of the top three horror films to be made within the last five years (possibly more) has joined the elite ranks of my DVD collection.
Thanks, the Canadian division of Amazon.com and your Region 1 ways:
Just in case you don't know, or forgot (or weren't checking out my little site during Quarantine's pre-release months), [Rec] is totally-insane-and-amazing Spanish flick that Quarantine offered a surprisingly-worthy American version of. [Rec] is the superior one, naturally, but kudos to Quarantine for holding its own. No easy task.
For those who want to see this, hit me on the hip (means call my cell), and we;ll schedule something. It'd be both my honor and pleasure.
Yeah.....it's the shit.
And don't dare come at me with that inexcusable "Oh, but it has subtitles, forget that then" jargon. You'll immediately be dissed and dismissed.
It's feeling like some sort of Doomsday Project out here. Turn on the tube, and you're met with stories of parents successfully plotting to kill their children; shut the TV off in disgust, pick up a newspaper or sign on to any random news-y website, and something to the effect of "Company Doe, Inc. has just laid off 8,000 employees" greets your eyes within nano-seconds. Flip on the radio, hoping for some audible salvation, and you hear Lil Wayne's spacey ass attempting to make "rock music," causing eardrums to ooze out that inner red liquid that you nearly lost all of a month or so back when Kanye West covered up his terrible singing abilities by Auto-tuning his voice to sound "provocative," yet coming off more "intolerable" than "incredible."
Throw us a bone here. Something, please give already.
In times like these, I'm actually quite proud of myself for being able to maintain a calm sense of "just gotta ride it out and enjoy the things I do have." Such as a job (knock on stable wood, of course, just like everybody else in America), big creative dreams, a healthy loving family, great friends, and a massive DVD collection that'll continue to increase thanks to my insatiable appetite for cinema. Plus, this Monday night officially begins my journey into screenwriting, slowly but surely turning my only-have-been-talked-about dreams into a working-on-it-actively-now reality. Tons of stories bouncing around and grappling within my head, now given somewhere to grow.
All good things, indeed. But you know what my secret weapon for inner tranquility is, though? It's one of many, but the one I want to divulge at this given moment. Guilty pleasure central. Shameless indulgence in crappy product, no question. Here goes....the enjoyment of Harlem World's melted-mozzarella-on-a-provolone-spread jam "I Really Like It."
A video that defies "good idea" conceptualism.
Remember this one? Back in 1999 (ha! it's the 10th anniversary, come to think of it), jolly-old Mase launched his offshoot side group of neighborhood friends and sibling Baby Stace (Yup, that was really her rapping name.....what could be an even worse artistic tag? How about her groupmate's: Blinky Blink? Case shut.). Their album, cleverly-titled The Movement, pretty much sucked, released on So So Def and cluttered with they-wish-they-were-even-near-mediocre rappers and a mish-mosh of soft production and the occasional "hard street" beat. Forgettable, floppage. Totally.
"I Really Like It," though, is just sublime, if you ask me. A song so blatantly cheesy packaged in a video that is pure "ether" to an artist's credibility, "I Really Like It" is the kind of sarcastic-gem that VH1's old Awesomely Bad countdowns were designed for. A lowest-common-denominator spin on then-known-as-Puff Daddy's tried and true sampling bend, perpetrated by one of Puff's very own.
Still, the irony remains---Even the worst of musical sludge can sometimes raise a spirit or two. And "I Really Like It," no matter what time of day or mood I'm in, is a song that puts me in a happy place. It's just so downright perky, that it's undeniably a picker-upper. And when everything around you seems to be in dire straits, why not bask your ears in something that's end-to-end cheerful? Even if it's truly a shit sandwich on wax.
The Hobbit = the first Lord of the Rings prequel film, coming in 2012. With the coolest guy working in Hollywood, Guillermo Del Toro, directing. I've never been the biggest LOTR obsessor, but the idea of Del Toro being given commander-duties on the biggest franchise this side of Romero's Dead films (okay, Stretch Armstrong there, but a zombie lover can fantastize with the best of them) is quite pleasing. Interviewing Sir Del Toro shall forever remain a journalistic career highlight; could've talked international horror cinema for hours.
Empire, the best movie magazine around. Damn shame that owning each issue of cinema overload beats the piss out of your wallet. $10 an issue, thanks to importing costs and the such (it's printed out in London). I'm sure the Watchmen story is a doozy; all I've really read thus far have been the pretty-much-daily news bits following the court case and fandemonium.
This weekend, there's a new cute-teen-girl-haunted-by-ghosts-with-long-black-hair flick coming: The Uninvited. While watching the trailer, it only takes a cool 35 seconds, give or take a millisecond, to realize that its nothing more than a brain-drained, PG-13, Hollywood-lessened remake of a solid Asian horror exercise. The list of terrible examples is frightening (for all the wrong reasons): The Eye; Pulse; One Missed Call; Shutter. Remember any one of those? I'd hope not. The only worthy exceptions have been The Grudge (the passable first one, and just-barely the slightly-less-than-passable sequel) and the first of this kind, The Ring, which genuinely won.
And don't even get me started on Alexandre Aja's dreadfully-moronic Mirrors.
The ingredients found in The Uninvited's trailer would all shout "Present!" if the theater its playing in were a high school's homeroom: the above-mentioned ghosts with long dark locks, haunting an attractive, tormented young girl or two, most likely within the walls of a spook-house that was innocently seen as domestically-snug. The ghosts contort and crawl around awkwardly, as if the limbs are twisting and broken. And by trailer's end, a seasoned moviegoer is most likely groaning, "How many times have I seen that shit before?!"
See, and groan, for yourselves (in case you've yet to):
It wouldn't take Sherlock Holmes to figure out that I won't be seeing The Uninvited this weekend, or any time after (until the DVD hits, potentially). No use in wasting cash on something you know is going to be derivative, and, besides, I think it'd be excruciating having to watch the gorgeous, comedically-gifted Elizabeth Banks unsuccessfully try to act "scary" or "sinister"; it smells of Ryan Reynolds' unconvincing work in that crappy Amityville Horror remake, something foul.
I'd be better off just watching the Korean flick this generic ho-hummer is based on, I thought late last week, which is why I bumped A Tale of Two Sisters to the tippy of my Queue's pecking order the other day. The critical love for Two Sisters, made in 2003 by filmmaker Ji-woon Kim, is across-the-map glowing, some film-heads claiming that it's one of the creepiest movies to have come out within the last decade. That's a bold enough statement for me to be compelled. Sold!
C'mon....All you need is that preview to accept that The Uninvited is merely America's bloodless, overacted, miscast, neutered version.
Having just watched A Tale of Two Sisters, I don't need to actually "see" The Uninvited to know that its source material has been truncated and streamlined; A Tale of Two Sisters is heavier than an anvil hat on the brain. The Hollywood suits would never test the intelligence of the film's teenaged target audience the ways that Ji-woon Kim does here. The last 25 minutes alone had my head spinning and think-box grinding away, trying to decipher the twists and flip-flops that kept coming at me faster than Lost being fast-forwarded. The final shot, before the credits do their thing, brings the explanation home, though I'm still a bit cloudy on a few points that I won't go into here---I'd be better served discussing this flick with somebody else who has seen it, rather than circle-jerking myself off with a one-man analysis.
The skeletal story seems elementary: teenage Su-mi returns home after a stint in a mental insitution, and right off the bat we can tell that's all not well on the homefront. Daddy is shacking up with a stepmother, a replacement for Su-mi's birth-mom who seems to have died years before. Su-mi, defiant and confrontational towards her stepmum, only has one ally, her meekish and quiet sister Su-Yeoun. Before the Su's even know it, supernatural happenings start plaguing the house, sketchy goings-on that cause the stepmom to gradually increase her bitchiness yet leave the father strangely apathetic, ignoring the problems under his roof.
Like all the best Asian horror flicks, A Tale of Two Sisters never rushes itself to get to jump-scenes or gotcha!-moments. Ji-woon Kim lets the very-layered story unravel with real patience and very little music. Really, only about three or four official "scare scenes" are to be found, but that's inconsequential thanks to an overall mood of gloom, remorse, sorrow, and devolving pleasantness. There's also this strong sense of claustrophobia being that the entire movie (save for a few twenty-second instances here and there) takes place in the house. Each room becomes unusually familiar, and seemingly-unimportant objects we can see on dressers and under tables later reveal themselves to be crucial elements.
As for the horror pieces here, one part in particular stands out like a third nipple: it's a dinner scene, the stepmother and father having invited the girls' uncle and his main squeeze over for some supper. Ji-woon Kim plays this one perfectly, lulling the viewer into a state of numbness with an extra-long, one-sided, bizarrely-staged conversation that goes on and on, before suddenly the meal erupts into total mayhem:
A Tale of Two Sisters is definitely one that I'll have to watch again at some point; one sitdown doesn't feel like I'm doing the film justice. The twist(s) that the flick drops toward the end demand deeper looks. And the film's powerful melancholy vice-grip has me thinking that it'll be one I ponder for some days to come.
I may actually need to see The Uninvited sooner than later, come to think. Just to witness firsthand how badly they've sliced and diced Ji-woon Kim's R-rated, cerebral work. Sucks that Paramount Pictures isn't having any early media screenings....though that in itself is a red flag for the film's probably-fecal quality. Oh well.
Finally sat down to watch this one, after months of reading lavish online praise. Another one of these sad cases where a small yet scrappy and well-polished horror flick is dropped in like seven theaters nationwide for only two weeks, before hitting DVD racks with little media attention outside of the niche horror community. (See, Eden Lake. No, really...see it. It's great)
A damn shame, because Rogue is a pretty fun little ride. Shot like a pristine travel video for the Australian outback and acted commendably all around, its a simple survival yarn about boat-ride tourists trapped on a small island that's right smack in the middle of a mammoth crocodile's "territory." One by one, the unlucky "blokes" become croc chow, in the midst of in-crew squabbling and bickering.
And it's, safe to say, the best killer crocodile movie ever made. Not that there's tons of competition out there, or anything. But I feel confident in calling it such. Fuck a Primeval; that ish was wack juice packaged.
Written, produced, and directed by Greg McLean, a nicely-chopped filmmaker who's definitely one to keep peepers on. He was behind the homicidal-Aussie-abducts-and-picks-off-three-travelers film Wolf Creek, which my friends hated and blamed me for their having watched it, but has improved gradually with repeat viewings to become a miniscule dose brutality that I'm quite fond of. Here in Rogue, McLean exhibits similar minimalism with the scares that he showed in Wolf Creek, and it's just as effective, if not more. Very few crocodile attacks are seen, but when they do come, they're out of nowhere and pack a bone-cracking force. Especially one bit involving an irrational father who thinks he's just survived a botched escape plan. Naturally, he's bloody wrong, and the croc chomps down, rips his arm off, throws the man across the river, and proceeds to enjoy a juicy tourist snack. Yummy.
Speaking of the crocodile, it's fuckin' badass. Clearly CGI-made, but used sparingly enough that the computer-animation-usage doesn't look like a video game monster.
As the film gets in its groove, we're led to believe that, in standard horror practice, the bodycount will be staggering. The tourist group has about ten or so people tallied, so there's nothing foolish in thinking at least eight of them will flatline, violently, by film's end. Shockingly, McLean keeps the corpse-pile lean (no Mc); only four meet the croc's machete-like teeth, three of which meeting their makers off-screen. Normally, slim-pickins in the death registry is something to frown upon (greet, don't fear, the reaper), but for some odd reason it feels comfy in Rogue. Reasonable and smartly-plotted. This is more a survival action thing than a full-on monster mash, really.
It feels like a whatever nitpick, but I could've used some more character development here, considering that the kills were miniscule. Not caring about those on screen is tolerable when they're simply present to provide a glorious murder scene; when they're being used as foils for internal conflict and plan-making-kinks, however, I'd prefer to know them a smidge better. And aside from the heroic travel writer and tour guide Kate (short-haired fox Radha Mitchell), I can't recall any ditsinguishing character features from the boat's occupants.
Rogue isn't anything ground-breaking, or even exceptional, and may only appeal to the small faction of heads who love themselves some oversized-creature features. But even if you're just a straightforward fan of suspenseful thrillers, it's a good way to kill 90 minutes of your life. And it's on cable now, so it won't even cost you a nickel. Always welcome.
Plus, like I said earlier, it's the best killer crocodile movie ever. Much better than, say, this:
Though, that does look like something I'd totally watch. Voluntarily, without shame. Smiling, giggling, enjoying.
I mean, saying you'll be "wrestling during Wrestlemania" while walking the Screen Actors Guild awards red carpet, with a hint of humor, and then challenging Chris Jericho outright, is all in good fun.
And then actually going on Larry King's show to debate with Jericho is a somewhat-clever publicity stunt.
But not when you're a month away from (possibly, hopefully, very well could) winning the Best Actor award. The Academy doesn't exactly respect gimmicky, kinda-hokey moves like this. Has he shot himself in the foot here? I'd like to hope not, but fuck if I don't think he has just waved his statue "bye/good," Joaquin Phoenix-style.
I'd love to be proven wrong here, however, come Oscar night. Rourke deserves the prize, and this whole Wrestlemania jazz could blow over and be forgotten within a week. Optimism, employed.
Admittedly, though....it would be rather awesome to watch Rourke flatten Jericho with a top-rope-triggered "Ram Jam." I'd pay to see that (if no-pay-per-view Youtube didn't exist, of course).
.....or, a couple of randoms I'm fond of at the moment:
The uptight, clearly-not-comprised-of-15-year-old-boys TV censors have halted this PETA "you should become a plant-eater" commercial from airing this Sunday during the Super-Steelers-will-whoop-ass-Bowl. It's a bunch of Maxim model-types getting a bit too frisky with assorted vegetables, and it's amazing. Because, in case there's any question, my inner 15-year-old-boy still runs wild, and now I'm feenin' for some broccoli like none other.
Fellatio on a carrot would be one monstrous aphrodisiac, right? You know it would. Stop acting otherwise.
......
And, for those who don't regularly Refresh the homepages of despicable gossip blogs (you're better and stronger-willed than I; back-pats all around), Jessica Simpson has inflated to your-fat-aunt status, and it's kinda gross-looking. But at least it spawned this New York Post comic:
Been mulling over the Academy Awards' "Best Picture" nominations for the last week, and I've realized that if I had the power to select the five nods, it'd look completely different. When I whipped my little reaction post last week, I unfortunately neglected to address this, because the overwhelmed feeling I was overtaken with left me a bit dazed, left to stew in immediate impulses rather than sit with the nominations' list.
But now, some days removed and much freer of thoughts, here's my personal Best Picture nominees list (meaning, the five films I feel should've been nominated, if the Academy wasn't so conventional, voting based off political motivations and "is this a period piece, or about the Holocaust specifically" or whatever questions):
The Dark Knight Slumdog Millionaire The Wrestler Wall-E Milk
See....no singled-out love for The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, The Reader, or Frost/Nixon. I almost threw in Revolutionary Road, but I've decided that my liking of that one is more aimed at the performances of Kate Winslet, Leonardo Dicaprio, and Michael Shannon (two of which were snubbed vehemently by the Oscar folk). Doubt almost made it, as well, but the power of my dude Wall-E is all too mighty.
If only I had my own E-vaa to watch the Oscars with, lying on my snug bed.
With its promising (knock on wood) remake looming around my calendar's corner, peaking over from the March 13 page, The Last House on the Left has been rolling around in my head for the past few weeks, since I saw the remake's trailer play before My Bloody Valentine 3D (which, I d realize, I never wrote about on this here site....just know that, I really liked it, not loved; fun for what it was, and fearlessly-nude Betsy Rue needs to land some more scream-queen roles pronto). The "love it/merely like it" opinion seesaw rocks faster and more ongoing for Last House than practically any other film, and the blame continues to rest on its unnecessary goofy-cops subplot and the downright uneven tone throughout. But even when those faults ring louder than a school-hallway's worth of bells, the carnage-in-the-woods centerpiece and the bloodshed that it later inspires are so over-the-top in their sickness that I can't help but salute Wes Craven. I'm a bit tetched like that.
The film's biggest draw, though, has always been the central story: scumbags rape and murder innocent girls, and then unfortunately (without knowing the truth) seek refuge in the home of one of their hours-earlier victims, which the parents figure out and wage unholy vengeance. It's such a basic, everyday nightmare setup, one of those "how would I react if that were my loved on?" scenarios that can be interpreted in so many ways, and when in the hands of a deviant filmmaker such as early Craven can bless the pupils with oodles of gore and anarchy. The love of a family member called into immediate, extreme, retaliatory action.
[WARNING: THIS CLIP IS SPOILER-CENTRAL, IF YOU'VE NEVER SEEN LAST HOUSE AND WANNA SEE IT SOME DAY IN FULL CONTEXT WITH SURPRISES]
The lesser-informed moviegoer may think that this crackerjack of a revenge-tale idea belongs to Craven and his associates back in the '70s, but such an un-studied chap would be dead wrong. The truth is, the Craven crew directly lifted the story from an age-old fable called "The Virgin Spring," a classic that was brought to cinema by iconic Swedish director Ingmar Bergman back in 1959. Bergman's films are known for their slow-to-numbing-degrees pacing and beautifully haunting imagery, and The Virgin Spring is considered by many to be his best.
Rather than have to toss the flick into my now-300-DVDs-deep Netflix Queue, I was able to DVR it thanks to the wonderful IFC Channel's slept-on (pun intended, duhhh!) after-hours programming. It's a relatively quick film (only 90 minutes), but Bergman takes his time so painstakingly that the film feels like a marathon. Not in a bad way, however; even considering that I pretty much knew what was going to happen here (having seen Last House on the Left numerous times), I was still held captive from jumpoff to landing. Several lasting images are sprinkled all about, and cerebral religious themes are tossed in. In other words, Bergman's The Virgin Spring is the polar opposite of Craven's Last House ---Craven scrapped any underlying message and went strictly for crimson-covered shock value. His is like the grindhouse version of what Bergman accomplished some nearly-20 years earlier.
Which do I prefer? I hate to say it, since I realize how it's a level of cinephile blasphemy, but I'm more for Craven's take. I can admit why, however, with a straight face: I'm a guy who loves line-crossing exploitation and visceral things. The Virgin Spring is an exemplary, magnificent flick, there's no doubt...but it's almost too subdued for my tastes. This is coming from a guy who considers slow-burners such as 2007's There Will Be Blood and even the impressionist, Germany-issued 1920s' Vampyr to be masterpieces, so how's that for hypocritical, contradictory, eh?
The nuts-and-bolts of the story is the same here as Last House, the biggest differences being: rather than going on an unchaperoned concert trip with her sassy friend, the daughter here (named Karin) heads off to a church to deliver candles (The Virgin Spring takes place in 14th century Sweden, so mostly all plot-points serve its time-frame), and she's the only girl raped and murdered by the bastard strangers, who are three inbred-looking brothers/herdsman that Karin, in all her naive gullibility, sits down with for a picnic. The central rape/murder setpiece is a much quitier beast here, too. Bergman keeps it sans music, using facial close-ups and impeccable lighting tactics to drive home the "loss of innocence, and then loss of breathing life" impact like a gavel. In terms of sheer chills, Bergman's handling of this moment is far more effective than Craven's. The exposed-entrails and off-kilter, murky musical cues Craven punctuates his take with give the whole thing a much dirtier, why-am-I-watching-this feel; Bergman, on the other hand, hypnotizes you, smacking your sympathetic side more. By the time Karin was lying dead and disrobed in the forest, snow falling down on her as she's left to rot, you're sort of paralyzed with remorse and rage. Why did she have to die such a cruel death? She was just a smiling, kind, all-too-gullible little gal? At least that's what I thought.
It's probably because I'm not the most religion-minded cat around, but the obvious God-fearing themes here didn't hit me as hard as I'd imagine Bergman intended for. Karin's father, Tore, is a devout Catholic, as is her loving mother (who dresses oddly similar to the Virgin Mary my Catholic school textbooks illustrated), and when he finds out that the three herdsman sleeping under his roof killed his virgin daughter earlier, his boiled-over rage prompts him to slice-and-dice, without consulting a God who he feels has forsaken him. But after he's dispatched of the bad guys (one being an innocent little boy who didn't do anything to Karin, whose on-screen death makes me think that The Virgin Spring raised many an eyebrow back in '59/'60), Tore still prays for God's forgiveness. The whole notion of "does God really watch over us no matter when the time, even when a loved one is killed for no good reason?" is laid out clear as crystal. But again, I was more effected by the unjustified, premature death of a little girl and the vengeful repercussions than any Sunday School BS. Heathen, much?
The amount of memorable shots seen in The Virgin Spring far outweighs those of Last House on the Left, it should be said. Watching, through the in-focus flames of a fire, the father jam his dagger into the heart of one of the villains; the opening close-up of Ingeri's, Karin's jealous travel companion who watches her demise without helping, striking face (piercing eyes, and long rectangular lips) that is creepy-city; and the last staggering, disbelieving moments of Karin's life, right up to her lifeless, just-beaten-in-with-a-thick-branch, bloodied head trying to lift itself up for one last breath, and failing.
Bergman could shoot the ever-living shit out of a scene; the otherworldly, visually tangible-nightmares he delivered in the eerie-as-a-mug Hour of the Wolf (the only other Bergman joint I've seen, which I hope to change soon) alone have proven his legend to moi.
In closing (cringes in self-film-lover-loathing).... Craven's Last House on the Left > Bergman's The Virgin Spring
Hey, it's a personal preference matter. Get over it.
Some friends and (especially) my roommate may wonder why I'm not the quickest to jump at a night of endless Rock Band playing at our apartment. "Crack open some beers, and rock out" nights. Well, pals, if our band added Megan Fox as a new member, I'd quit my job and personally organize our very own tour. Bunk beds, of course. Five band members, only four beds. Think about it.
For the record, I believe that's Guitar Hero she's playing, but it's all the same shit anyway.
Though in a strangely masochistic way I wish it could happen more, rarely do I finish a film with a genuine "sick" feeling. Not to the point of vomiting, but more the degree where that pit at the bottom of your throat feels hollow, and random cringes make it appear as you're convulsing ever-so-softly.
It happened when I saw Inside for the first time at the Lincoln Center theater last year, and it just happened now as I reached the coldly tragic end of Michael Haneke's The Piano Teacher.
I've read all of the predominantly polarized word on Haneke's films: how they're brutal without showing much, and effecting through sporadic images of violence and extremities. The Austrian filmmaker has a pretty uncanny knack for upsetting his audience; the only other films of his I've seen are both versions of Funny Games, meaning the Austrian original and last year's remake with Naomi Watts. While the virtually shot-for-shot remake admirably didn't lose much in translation, Haneke's 1997 first-run is still my preference, because the first time experiencing Funny Games is a pretty off-putting, nihilistic ride, whether you're a fan or a plain-old hater. I'm not exactly ecstatic about it, but it's certainly a film/story that I respect in many ways.
The Piano Teacher, though, I'm totally unsure of. What I am certain of is that it's easily one of the most perverse, bleak character studies I've ever seen, and that's saying something. It's a quiet, focused, twisted look at Professor Erika Kohut, a middle-aged piano teacher who lives with her somewhat-domineering mother. She's ice-cold, shunning off warm conversations and remaining all about her business. But she meets a young, good-looking dude named Walter, who also happens to love classical music and enjoys playing it. He's taken aback by Erika's key-playing, and becomes smitten with her, signing up for her class just to get closer to her. Too bad she's the most sexually-confused-and-deranged women this side of a porno star locked away in a looney bin.
As he keeps trying to wiin her over and she repeatedly shuns him before going down on him and giving him the worst case of blue-balls imaginable, we start to see the cracks in Erika's sexuality. She sneaks off into a grungy peep-show booth to watch porno movies where girls give guys' head, watching the smut with her mouth covered by a cloth; she shuts her bathroom door with a mirror in her hand, and then cuts near her vagina while watching the incisions through the handheld mirror; after being rejected by Walter, she jumps on top of her mother in a desparate plea for love, crying while she tries to make out with her mother (eww, gross....exactly....she even says to ma dukes: "I saw the hairs on your sex." Spewing, allowed); and then, in a tide-changer of a scene, she gives Walter a letter that lists all of the things she'd like him to do to her sexually, which includes tying her up, beating her, and talking to her as if she's some trashy slave. Yes, Erika harbors some holy-shit intensely sick S&M fetishes, which disgust Walter. He rejects her, and from this point on is when The Piano Teacher gets really tough to watch.
Erika is played by Isabelle Huppert, and she gives a blazer of a performance. It's a seriously tough character to play, one that demands layers upon layers of subtle vulnerability and silent domination. The scenes of sexual dementia between Huppert and Benoit Magimel, who plays Walter, are all believably revealing. Especially the climax when [SPOILER WARNING] Walter, infatuated by Erika, storms into her apartment, locks her mother in a room and proceeds to beat Erika, in hopes that his carrying out her sexual requests will serve as some sort of aphrodisiac. It doesn't, however, and Erika is frightened and left speechless. Walter, confused and frustrated, basically rapes her, Erika remaining motionless as Walter thrusts upon her and continues to absolve himself by trying to console her. It's a chilling scene, filmed with nearly the same amount of unflinching voyeurism as the subway tunnel rape in Irreversible.
The Piano Teacher is actually an adapatation of a book by an author named Elfriede Jelinek, so I guess the "you're one sick fuck, dude" reactions should be hurled at him more than Haneke. But the film version is what I've just taken in, so Haneke is my target. And that's not to say "target" as an implication that I didn't like The Piano Teacher. Any time a filmmaker can craft a character study that both fascinates and appalls me, I must applaud. With an ending scene that really sucker-punched my gut, the film is definitely one I'll be thinking about for the next couple of days. Not one I'll rush back to watch again, but a movie that I'd love to discuss with some other heads who've seen it. Good luck finding them, I tell myself. You should've went to film school, you tool; if you had, you would have tons of friends who'd also spend an otherwise relaxing Monday night watching a woman vomit after a dude busts in her mouth.
Would I recommend The Piano Teacher? Sure, but only to those who share the same diesel sense of "the more strange and dark the film, the better" as yours truly.
....and, after a good 20 minutes worth of pacing around Cosmic Comics, mentally "me-vs-myself" debating over whether this would be money well spent or not, I opted for "yes," and now I'm pleased. 24 stories all in one hardcover shell, meaning 24 ironic twist endings and 24 marriages of shocks and messages. Divine.
As was the older guy who owns and runs the nerd-heaven of West 23rd Street, Cosmic Comics. The girl working the cash register seemed to be about my age, dressed in stereotypically-geek-ish blue hoop earrings, a green-and-black-striped sweater, and hair dyed with streaks of dark blue. Quite the friendly, excitable gal, she greeted my EC Comics Archives purchase with an unexpected dose of glee. "Oh my God, I have to go get my boss!" she immediately blurted. "He's going to be so impressed!"
Like that, she disappeared into some backroom for a good three minutes, leaving me to wonder, "Should I be scared?" You never know, right? Not that I was intimidated, in the slightest; just that, the ecstatic facial expression she beamed with caught me totally off-edge, and brought with it uncertain possibilities. Better judgment told me to "chill the fuck out," though, and by the time the older, white-haired, four-eyed fanman came out front, I had a great feeling of what was about to go down.
"She tells me that you're buying some EC Comics Archives....that's so great!" You could tell that these EC Comics volumes aren't exactly top-sellers at his shop, which surprises me, truthfully. "The only people that I've ever seen buy these are my age or only slightly younger. You can't be older than 25, right?" I'm actually 27, I informed the man, but thanks for keeping me even further away from the big 3-0. After chuckling, he told me that he is 58 and that the EC Comics arsenal was, and still is, the main reason why he became such a massive comic book head, and when EC released these newly-restored prints of their beloved 1950s-issued classics, he felt like his life come full circle. So seeing somebody as young as myself showing enough interest in his cherished EC product to shell out 50 cool ones filled him with "so much joy."
I must say, this was a pretty profound experience. I've always felt like I'm a bit beyond my years as far as storytelling-preferences go, but this pretty much solidified the hunches. I went on to tell him how at least once a week I wish I could've grown up at least 30 years earlier, when my love for conscious genre fiction and exploitation cinema would've fit like a much more-snug glove. And how as a kid I'd watch the old British horror anthology films that were directly inspired and adapted from the EC standards: Tales from the Crypt and Vault of Horror, especially included. And then we went off on a "That one scene was my favorite" tangent, all while the blue-haired girl listened in. Maybe it's a bit chauvinistic on my part to think, but I swear that she was feeling me something wicked, and, if I were in the mood to, I could've scored her digits and we could've read Scott Pilgrim comic books together under a scenic tree, in Central Park. But nope, not my type. Nice girl, though.
All in all, a rather rewarding and enlightening trip to Cosmic Comics. Money well spent, and nostalgia well absorbed and nicely delivered.
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