Keeping this one short and tart. It's late, I'm zonked. Mentally tapped. Had a night of debauchery planned, but all went South (no) thanks to some tardy, unfocused friends. No sweat, though. It was all for the better, since I got to watch the great little Timecrimes (2007; put in minimal theaters in America late last year briefly), a Spanish "time travel" thriller that's smarter than a female MENSA member giving a male road scholar some brains. It's more responsible for my current cranial fatigue than a week's worth of job-doing, no question. Written and directed by a fella named Nacho Vigilondo, Timecrimes is one of those films that vastly impresses from opening frame to closing reel, full of head-spinners, mind-blowers, and tightly-constructed narrative zigs and zags.
It's serious like that.
You basically have this schlubby, everyday-joe middle-aged guy named Hector who sneaks some peeks, using binoculars, at a sexy naked chick in the woods behind his house as his wife is going out to run some errands. The birthday-suit-wearing lady disappears, so, being the voyeuristic perv that he is, Hector heads in the woods to find her, and from here sets off a chain of events that fondles the chronology of time in so many wicked ways that you'd think Vigalondo gets off to calendars that don't have swimsuit-clad chicks splattered throughout. Hector reluctantly enters some sort of time machine being worked on by a random scientist operating within the woods (scientist played by Vigalondo himself), and by doing so Hector embarks on a fucked-up journey where there's three Hectors all trying to not screw up the natural chain of events. It's like Groundhog Day on mean-spirited acid, but instead of the same day being started over and over again, Hector's day never ends, yet still restarts. Heady for days and nights.
Vigalondo must've fine-tuned this script for a good year or two un-distracted, because it's so neatly crafted and hole-less that I have no choice but to hail Sir Vigalondo as "that new Spanish filmmaking dude." Timecrimes is exciting, creepy, surreal, violent, confusing, streamlined, clever, and enigmatic, all at once, never seeming contrived.
Of course, since American film studios suck scrote, a Timecrimes remake is already being developed. I think by David Cronenberg, actually, which is rather promising, in ways. But I can't but wish that Timecrimes was given a bigger stateside theatrical release, for droves of audiences to bask in its dopeness. Filmgoers around these parts would've largely ignored it, naturally, but it deserved a big shot. Bigger than it got.
You should've rented it yesterday. Catch up with yourself, now.
Full disclosure: If not forFilm Drunk, I would've never been exposed to this video clip. And my life would've been all the darker, emptier for it. So, credit is completely due. Film Drunk is the most consistently funny movie news site on the Net, in my opinion, so get familiar with it. Just a suggestion.
Now, to this video. Speaks for itself. If anybody can figure out what its original source material is, I'll be forever in your debt.
Film Drunk: "So I had a choice between (A) telling you all about Queen Latifah’s new play-on-words titled rom-com (Just Wright) and (B) posting this clip of a dog milking a goat. You can see how that went. My only criticism is that the goat character is just screaming for some sunglasses and a cigarette. I believe this is actually Brett Ratner’s demo reel."
The odds of this new The Haunting in Connecticut scaring me in any way, shape, or shriek are slimmer than Nicole Richie's waist, yet I'm still seeing it later tonight. When it comes to horror flicks that my better judgment says will be mediocre at best, I'm a total masochist. Minus the ball strapped into my mouth, or hands tied behind my back. Instead, overpriced fountain soda in hand, significantly leaner wallet in pocket. The main problem I have with modern-day "haunted house films" is that they never, ever steer clear of convention, jacking scenes and set-ups from the infinitely superior classics. It's best to accept that no film of this ilk will ever come within a peachfuzz-hair-strand of Stanley Kubrick's The Shining, or 1963's The Haunting---both stellar in all facets. Hell, these new flicks don't even stand a chance of topping the original, not-as-good-as-those-two-greats Amityville Horror, even when they're blatant moving-photocopies (see The Haunting in Connecticut).
Yet, I'll continue to spend hours upon hours in darkly lit theaters watching these latest attempts, because I'm sucker for horror-love. I can't help but feel pounds of inner sadness, though, at the dreadful feeling that it's become nearly impossible for a new ghost story to give me the shivers. Have me frozen in my seat, overpriced fountain soda poking at my bladder in a state of "Let me out, man! This shit is freaking me out, too! And I'm liquid nothingness!" Maybe I'm too seasoned of a viewer. Or perhaps I'm putting too much stake in a film's necessity of at least bringing fond memories of The Shining to mind for all the right, effective, successful reasons. It's not even a matter of a PG-13 rating, either. Initially, I cringe at that teeny-bopper-targeted rating for a horror flick, but when I sit back and think clear of prejudice, I realize that something as wonderful and simple as The Haunting, if released today, would very well earn a mere PG rating, no 13 required. Scares can be scored without gore or wanton violence; it's all about the execution.
Which brings me to a little rarely-seen-by-most United Kingdom TV movie from 1989, The Woman in Black. I forget which cable channel it was that I first saw this film on, back when I was barely out of grammar school. But boy, did it treat my mind like a cow's ass being branded.
IMDB'S plot synopsis: "When a friendless old widow dies in the seaside town of Crythin, a young solicitor is sent by his firm to settle the estate. The lawyer finds the townspeople reluctant to talk about or go near the woman's dreary home and no one will explain or even acknowledge the menacing woman in black he keeps seeing. Ignoring the towns-people's cryptic warnings, he goes to the house where he discovers its horrible history and becomes ensnared in its even more horrible legacy."
A couple years ago, I came across it for cheap on Amazon.com and immediately threw it into my DVD arsenal, and wouldn't you know it.....The Woman in Blackstill scares the piss out of me. I've long tried putting my finger on exactly why it frightens me on par with The Shining and those classics, maybe even more so in ways. There's no question that the Woman in Black herself carries the lion's share of the blame; speechless, motionless and with those piercingly-dead eyes, she's the epitome of "scary old lady." Pad her presence with the film's overall bleak Gothic tone (courtesy of director Herbert Wise), and you have a recipe for minimalist success that today's filmmakers wish they could pull off.
Two scenes in particular have done wonders for my insomnia over the years. The first is something of an infamous "Oh shit!" moment amongst horror heads in the know, deservedly so----the lawyer is shuffling about restless in bed, standard nocturnal practice. Like most of us do, he concedes defeat and sits up, but unlike all of us, he is met with the Woman in Black hovering over his bed. A shock moment if there ever was one. The second is the film's final moment, a denouement that bleeds with tragic macabre----not to entirely spoil it (though, chances are none of you will have the opportunity to see this flick unless it's on my watch, which is unfortunate), but it's the unhappiest of endings, taking place on a lake after the lawyer thinks he's escaped the Woman in Black's clutches forever. While on a little rowboat with his wife and infant child, he learns that the scary old bitch isn't done with him yet. I remember distinctly just how bruised and gut-punched this final scene left me the first time I watched. Just devastating.
watch the picture behind him at the 1:02 mark
Part of me thinks that I should just go home and re-watch The Woman in Black tonight, rather than drop coin on The Haunting in Connecticut. I'd surely fulfill my want-to-be-scared-this-evening quota. For free, too. That's not going to happen, of course, and I'll soon be exiting the 34th Street AMC theater with equals droplets of annoyance and frustrations.
Despite the fact that I neglected to bring an extra pair of clean underwear with me today, I'd totally pay an extra $10 for the Woman in Black to appear as a theater usher tonight. While the attention-deficit, manufactured-Hollywood-crap-garbling audience around me wouldn't even bat an eyelash, I'd be intensely shook.
I'd be surprised if more than five of you fine heads out there even knew that a fresh Street Fighter film came out within the last two months. More like rotten, actually, because the reviews were excruciating and the flick, Street Fighter: The Legend of Chun-Li, died an early lights-out in theaters. I skipped it, as did the rest of mankind, but I'm thinking that it'll make for some fun comedic viewing once the DVD comes out (which will probably in another month or so).
Case in point: this now-infamous bad acting performance from Chris Klein, a never-really-that-talented guy who could've had Hollywood in the palm of his hand post-American Pie films but then made a little miggle called Rollerball, and then his toilet flushed. And now he's achieved a rekindled notoriety, but for all the wrong reasons. Some crafty joe compiled eleven minutes worth of his (exact opposite of) finest scenes from Street Fighter: The Legend of Chun-Li, with clever "Pop-Up Video"-ish comments to add insult to the guy's injury:
Look at this way.....even if Klein's acting causes some in-the-mouth vomiting, at least there's plenty of Moon Bloodgood to go around there.
Eric Roberts, in 1984's The Pope of Greenwich Village. What a wild yet focused, spastic but controlled performance. You've been cast alongside an in-his-initial-prime Mickey Rourke, and you own nearly every scene you share with the Mick. No easy feat.
As the live-wire, hot-headed Paulie, cousin of somewhat cooler-acting Charlie (Rourke), a then-28-years-old Roberts churns out a a character who can't control his reckless urges even when he's fully aware of just how badly he's fucking things up for both he and Charlie. The Pope of Greenwich Village is an under-hailed entry into the "down and out guys concocting an illegal get-rich scheme that goes to shit" subgenre of crime flicks, not unlike Dead Presidents or Stanley Kubrick's The Killing. What sets this one apart, though, is a natural comedic flair throughout, largely served up by Roberts. Which is driven home in the surprisingly "happy" final scene. His "Paulie" is the standard problem-starter alongside Rourke's straight man, and their scenes together exude "cool."
At this year's Independent Spirit Awards, Rourke began his acceptance speech by shouting Roberts out and challenging all talented, risky filmmakers to give Roberts a shot similar to the one Darren Aronofksy gave Rourke with The Wrestler. I second that notion, now having rewatched The Pope in Greenwich Village. The electric talent seen here is no doubt still within the guy; just watch The Dark Knight for the tenth time and pay close attention to his understated menace as crime boss "Maroni." Dude hasn't gone South skill-wise.
How about somebody out there scripts up a flick that follows the uphill climb of a former gangster trying to do right by his motherless teenage daughter. That's a role today's Roberts could blow a hole through, no question.
How about it? 2010, the year that Eric Roberts makes his triumphant comeback. Clock starts now.
Welcome back, James Gandolfini. What a perfect voice-choice he is for one of the beasts.
I love how the shots of the beasts running look, especially. Live action, all day. Spike Jonz and company should be commended with endless kudos for going the "physical costumes" route over CGI blah-blah. This isn't a "kiddie movie" I'd take my niece to any time soon, it'd probably freak her the jeez out.
But I'll be there bright and early. Fruit Roll-Ups smuggled within my coat pocket, Capri Suns ready to quench my thirst.
Whipped up a list of my favorite "based on a true story" gimmick-y horror flicks for the latest entry in my "Theater of Mine" column over at the KING site. Check it out, if interested. Timed with this week's latest Amityville Horror knockoff, The Haunting in Connecticut, which I'm very likely catching tonight.
Initially, The Haunting in Connecticut's trailer lulled me into a premature sense of optimism, most likely due to those slick organ notes at its end. I'm a sucker for Gothic-y, atmospheric scores. But the more I've seen from it and read about it, I can't shake the feeling that it'll ultimately be a forgettable slop of PG-13 jump scares and shrieky-music cues. And those never do anything more than irritate.
At the least, the flick provided an excuse to write up this list, which was pretty fun and relatively effortless. Whether that's good or bad, who knows? Made me happy, and that's the M.O. [LINK BELOW THE PIC]
The list includes a cameo from my boy "Tarman," from 1985's so-damn-good Return of the Living Dead, which is reason enough alone to give it a go, no?
And, really, every post should have some Tarman. "Moooorre.....braaainnnss!" *followed by a smile*
This is the first list of this kind I've ever done, so there are some kinks that'll be ironed out next time, and more the time after. I have some future list ideas in the works, so I'll give myself plenty a chance to improve. For one, I forgot about a few films that should've made the cut (Wolf Creek, David Cronenberg's Dead Ringers, David Fincher's Zodiac even); and two, a commenter pointed a choice-of-word error regarding Ed Gein, who only killed two people, making my use of "several" a bit improper. Like I said, a work in progress.
When it comes to A+ horror, should I be looking over at Sweden just as much as I am toward France? Last year's Let the Right One In first snapped Sweden's fingers to grab my attention, and now comes this new trailer for a flick called Psalm 21 that looks quite great.
Official Synopsis: Psalm 21 is a thriller about Henrik, a modern young priest living in Stockholm. He has nightmares about his dead mother. One day, he recieves word from the coronary in a remote village, deep in the dark woods of Nothern Sweden: his father, a priest himself, has drowned. The circumstances of the drowning are unexplained.
Henrik drives through the endless forests of Northern Sweden up to the desolate village of his father to investigate the circumstances of his demise. As he learns more about the drowning - and about his father - the door to the unknown cracks open. Shadows from the past emerge from the void. They return to our world with one specific purpose.
Revenge.
The sad, harsh truth of the matter is that, like every other foreign film that excites me in potent measure, it'll be many moons before I get to see this Psalm 21 business. Fucking passports and expensivve airfare.
Trailer and synopsis first spotted over at: Dread Central
I've been racking my brain for the past hour, trying to think of a film that depicts the descent into madness with more verve and imagination than Peter Jackson's Heavenly Creatures (1994), and I'm failing miserably. Admitting defeat now. My watching this one has been in the making for years now, evolving from innocent thoughts of "I'd like to check that out, sounds interesting," to repeat "not in stock" letdowns at Blockbuster, to, most recently, a "very long wait" status on Netflix.
Finally, by some divine hands reaching down into my Queue and lighting fire into the DVD's donut-hole-center, Heavenly Creatures arrived in my mailbox the other day. This was the rare instance of me going into a movie with virtually zero prior knowledge or spoilers read. All I knew was that Jackson co-wrote the script after researching the hell out of a 1954 murder case out in New Zealand, in which two teenage girls killed the one girl's mother but were soon captured after the daughter's diaries were discovered. What I didn't know was that the two girls, Pauline (middle name Yvonne, which she's frequently called) and Juliet (played by Kate Winslet, in her feature film debut) , shared a lesbian love that was rooted in deeply disturbed delusions, heightened through a fairy tale novel they were dreaming up together. Peter Jackson, who had previously proven himself a master of over-the-top gore spectacles with flicks such as 1994's Dead Alive, used Heavenly Creatures as a creative departure of sorts---a slick choice of subject, too, since this film does include a few scenes of carnage, and an overall sense of growing disturbia that Jackson plays like a colorful toy.
Watching Heavenly Creatures, you can see the seeds being planted for Jackson's eventual Lord of the Rings-era excellence. Particularly in two sequences: the first, a daring, unique tracking shot through a sand castle, with the camera zooming through the sandy corridors and up the staircases at a dreamlike clip; and especially in scenes where the girls daydream of prancing around with the mythical characters of their novel, medieval power-players depicted in life-size clay form in Jackson's eyes. Rarely has losing one's mind felt as innocently wonderous as it does here. As if it's Laurel Hardy's March of the Wooden Soldiers (a childhood holiday favorite of mine). This one comes during Pauline/Yvonne's first sexual experience:
The most impressive aspect of this film, however, falls more into the writing department than solely directing. On paper, this story most likely reads as an international equivalent to something along the lines of Harmony Korine's Bully, another "escalating revenge plot" based-on-true-events narrative. Bully took a much more straightforward, bleak approach to its rising homicidal tendencies; Heavenly Creatures, on the other hand, basks in the---mostly in Yvonne's unhappy head--- are presented as joyous, transcendent forms of escapism. Playful, even. As the story progresses, though, and the murder plan starts to show itself, Jackson slowly pulls back from the fun-side and embraces the darkness. It's so subtle how he does it. Until the final 15 minutes, it's invisibly handled. Only when the girls go off on a day-trip with Yvonne's mother does Jackson show his death-in-all-its-horror card.
The focus on expanding insanity can also be seen as an ironic counterpoint to the age-old, Proposition 8-related idea that homosexuality goes hand in hand with madness. Total bullshit, of course, but a discussion that Jackson comments on with a firsthand sense of objectivity. Heavenly Creatures seems to agree with the anti-homosexuality prosecution whenever the girls' parents take centerstage, but then switches back to defending such a sexual choice through euphoric exchanges between the female leads. It's an interesting back-and-forth, one that is up for debate (if anybody out there has seen this film and is down to chat).
I'd love to describe the entire final sequence in all its blindsiding force, but I'd rather allow others to check the film out for themselves and feel similarly pistol-whipped from their closed-eye's side. Just know that Heavenly Creatures is one of the most peculiar, fascinating, and creatively diesel studies of madness that I've seen. Even inspirational in many ways, as well as motivational, but I won't get into the reasons as to why here, now. Saving that for later. Jackson's best film (in my opinion, this one is better than the Lord of the Rings series, but that's a matter of preference) shows that pitch-black issues can be covered in shiny cloth and still maintain the integrity. Well done, sir. Well done.
I'm now even more intrigued to see Jackson's upcoming The Lovely Bones adaptation; Heavenly Creatures is about the closest piece of evidence available that the man is capable of bring Alice Sebold's equal parts melancholy and hopeful book to life. I'm ready. Bring it on.
Maybe the resemblance is intentional. Dude is definitely one to do such random shit. I'm doubting it's on purpose here, though.
That's a shot from the video for Eminem's new single, "We Made You," set to surface on April 7. 50 Cent isn't on the song (fortunately), he just appears in the video. Produced by Dr. Dre, back to the old Em days (I'm guessing).
I'm psyched. Literally. Seriously. I'd emrabce a mediocre Eminem album with open arms these days. No pause necessary; I'm talking about the album.
Seems there's a new foolproof formula for idiot-box comedy: the word "down" + veterans from the school of Judd Apatow + weekly alf-hour basic cable airtime = goodness.
First there was HBO's Eastbound and Down, the laugh-perfect rule-breaker that not enough people watched, foolishly, and now it's gone forever, seemingly. The plan all along was to restrict the series to only six episodes, so this was all predetermined, yet still frustrating and depressing. I've only come across a small handful of folks who've told me that they watch(ed) and love(d) the show, and that's irritating. HBO promoted Eastbound and Down poor as hell, relying purely on word-of-mouth for a show that didn't have lasting legs in the first place. What good does graudally-increasing buzz do for a show that only has six weeks to live? Instead of beating that gone-to-mundane-shit snooze Entourage down our throats every time a new season starts, HBO should've invested a few more dollars into marketing and spreading word about Eastbound, the ballsiest, sharpest comedy I've seen on the tube in ages. And easily HBO's best comedy in the last decade.
In the wake of Eastbound and Down comes the Starz channel comedy Party Down, about a ragtag group of struggling wannabe actors and screenwriters working as caterers in Los Angeles. Eastbound's cast was almost entirely comprised of "who's that?" heads (aside from Will Ferrell's small role and star Danny Mcbride's scene-jacking in Pineapple Express); Party Down, though, is packed with proven studs. Still has an ounce of the "I know that face, but from where?" but not as strongly. The lead is Adam Scott, who fans of Step Brothers will recognize as John C. Reilly's douchebag brother; its two female players are sexy/funny Lizzy Caplan (Mean Girls, Cloverfield, HBO's True Blood) and always-on-point Jane Lynch (Role Models, The 40-Year-Old Virgin); there's an Apatow bit player mainstay, Martin Starr (dude from Knocked Up who grows his beard out); and then there's Ken Marino, who, if you're cool, you'll know as an original member of the oft-forgotten but still-working steadily The State comedy crew.
Any opportunity to post a Lizzy Caplan pic is one not to miss.
The show doesn't seem to have the anarchist touch of Eastbound, but that's not a bad thing. Party Down approaches its laughs with a calm confidence in the characters. This first episode has a couple sight gags (drunk guy swan-diving into a pool naked; Marino "rubbing one out" in a teenage girl's bedroom), and both work, but otherwise the show doesn't seem to harp on punchlines, or "zingers." Just casually humorous conversations, engaged by colorful, troubled, reality-detached dreamseekers dressed in white button-ups and pink bowties.
Fun fact: the pilot was directed Fred "Kevin Arnold" Savage, and represents a huge leap forward for the man (his last kinda-high-profile directorial gig was Daddy Day Camp 2, painfully). Also fun: One of the pilot's writers is Paul Rudd, which explains a ton. Watching the episode, I thought to myself a few times, "I could see Rudd playing Adam Scott's character." Being that Rudd is emerging as a perennial favorite in these parts, that's reason enough to stick with Party Down, ride out the rest of the 10-episode season.
"A new half-hour comedy on cable that I could very well grow to love" can only mean one thing ---- it fall off the programming map within months, like every other one from my recent past. Dear lord, let The Life & Times of Tim come back!
These days, the idea of this faux trailer feeling totally real isn't far-fetched. Though, I'd gladly welcome this than most other remakes. Figures this'll never be made, then.
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