#SDCC GAME OF THRONES PANEL – MY TWO CENTS

Well, here we go. San Diego Comic Con. Ready yourself. As always: views are mine- permanently caffeinated, perfunctorily regulated, likely offensive.

Clearly the big draw for the TV thread of this years San Diego Comic Con was of course the big Game of Thrones panel, and besides the compare having the comedic value of syphilis, it did not disappoint. Here are my two cents on why:

NEW CAST ANNOUNCEMENT! Aka Hey fans, here’s a slew of people you are going to grow to adore who we are then going to decimate in one fell swoop of Valyrian steel and leave you feeling as depressed as that time your childhood sweetheart dumped you via Tamagotchi note on a train to Weston. Ya get me?

Now- all cards on the table- because I read at the glacial pace of a paraplegic sloth I’m only half way into A Clash of Kings. As such, these characters mean very little to me. But what I can gather, between the Sands, nouveau Martells & Hotah; watch out anyone that isn’t in da House Martell massiv. I just hope among all hopes this means that Lady Olenna is bumped up to a season regular.

 

Then there’s also Jonathan Pryce playing a High Sparrow. Which will be interesting because the only bird I’ve ever seen high is a magpie after it huffed a half empty popper can on Canal Street.

But let’s face it, when it came to the cast, I can’t remember anything past Toby Sebastian. l Let’s look at that boy a second.

*le sigh*

Between this & all that panel talk of more male nudity… I digress.

Basically: yay new people; that means DB&D are less likely to bump off our faves. right? RIGHT!?

But yes aside from new shit, we had awkward George, even more awkward uber fans (Jack Sparrow, really?), awkward Sansa (is Sophie Turner okay, can we check on her please), possibly the most ingratiating host since Michael McIntyre, Natalie Dormer turning me straight and best of all Gwen (Brienne) & Rory (Clegane) having a stellar bromance.

Then there was the now annual Comic-Con quasi-official farewell to that seasons dearly departed, of which Season 4 had a bumper crop. Rose Leslie halted her resting-toxic-candy-sucking face long enough to quite heart-touchingly muse on my beloved Ygritte’s final moments. Aww (I’m still hung up on her loss). Clegane barked a little too much for the joke to be funny. But of course our little viper, who garnered the loudest crowd reaction on entry, was the man of the hour. Namely for this without-fault without-pause response when asked what’s better: dragons or direwolves?

Flawless, Pedro, flawless.

Dan & Dave were ever light on spoilers- though did spill that Season 5 will shoot in Spain & Croatia, so I’m mainly hoping to see Tywin rave it up in Magaluf & there to be a *hilarious* ‘ARE YE A CROW OR A CRO’’ pun. They also expressed script intent to up Stannis’ standing on the show to… “STANNIS THE MANNIS”. And you thought my pun was bad…

Mr Martin was a little more forthcoming, revealing that the prologue to The Winds Of Winter will be from the POV of Jeyne Westerling (crowd goes wild, I twiddle my thumbs). He also furthered my love of him in an extended call-to-arms to fans insisting that the differences between the novels & series canon mean nothing, and that one isn’t better than the other. Using the analogy of Scarlett O’Hara and her maternal differences in the book versus movie iterations of Gone With The Wind he said “Does she have three children (as in the book) or one (movie)? The correct answer is she doesn’t have any, because she’s not a real person”. So, shut it die-hards. There was nothing wrong with us having Talisa.

As for what Season 5 holds: all held tighter lips than… Erm… Okay everyone’s too promiscuous on the show for me to pull that joke. But effectively we know the usual: 10 episode run, airing next April. It’ll kick some serious vosma (yeah that was Dothraki what of it). They’re also fully into production, with Kit spilling – causing 2 specific panicked faces on the panel- that he starts shooting his scenes this past Monday. Hurrah for loose lips, eh Ygritte? (I knew I’d make the joke work somewhere).

And finally, if we gained anything from the full hour long panel- or even the entirety of Comic Con as a whole- it was this, my new go to saying to the haters:

Thank you Emilia.

And that’s my two cents.

GRAND PIANO Review

Picture this, the year is 1997- a group of young Spanish guys spill out onto the Valencian streets buzzing and fist-bumping the sky, the glowing marquee lights of El Cine illuminating their post-film adrenalin fuelled high jinks…

“Amigo, eso fue tan loco!”

“Sí bro, y Sandra Bullock está muy caliente”. They high five and begin to play fight providing their own explosion filled soundtrack. Towards the back of the group a quiet, wallflower type lags behind, not so thrilled by what they had just watched.

“pero no era creíble!” It doesn’t make sense! “Atrapado en un barco de exceso de velocidad?!” Trapped on an out of control speeding ship!? The wallflower protests, somewhat of a cinema connoisseur. The others turn to him, shocked.

With an air of mocking the leader of the group turns to the critic “Lo siento, friki, ¿dónde preferirías que ser atrapado? un piano?!” Sorry, GEEK, where would you rather they be trapped, a grand piano!?

The group burst out laughing and continue to play fight in rapture of Sandra Bullock’s permanently wet t shirt. The wallflower grows increasingly quiet… Trapped at a Grand Piano eh?

That young wallflower is a 20 year old Eugenio Mira

That story may or may not be true. Nor may have it been the inception of the idea behind GRAND PIANO, but I like to think it is- if anything just to justify the existence of the Titanic sized pile of sloth poop that was SPEED 2: CRUISE CONTROL (high five if you got my reference from the get go). You see, GRAND PIANO shares the primary idea behind that film, and others of its ilk (see SPEED, CELLULAR, PHONE BOOTH etc etc): hero trapped in some absurdist scenario by a megalomaniacal evil genius and bound for imminent disaster were they not to use their own genius skills to escape. Luckily for what it shares with SPEED 2, GRAND PIANO is not a Titanic sized pile of sloth shit.

The low down is as follows; young prodigal pianist Tom Selznick (played by Elijah Wood) is booked out of early retirement to play a one-off hot-ticket classical concert to honor his late mentor. Racked with pressure, Tom is sure he will bum up a note or two- and inevitably freeze like he did the night that forced his early retirement. Only this time, stage fright becomes stage plight as Tom learns once he sits down at the keys that a mysterious omnipresent figure is in the audience and intent on making sure he plays not one bum note. So intent on musical perfection, that he has a sniper rifle trained on both the increasingly panicked musician and his doting wife should any note be played wrong. See? Suddenly a speed-locked cruise liner doesn’t seem so absurd.

Yet for all said absurdities and eye rolling plot points, GRAND PIANO is an expertly crafted thriller that is taught as… well, a piano wire. Once that primary scenario is set up as described, the script deviates very little yet still manages to add constant twists and threats to the barrelling run time. Its schlocky and pulpy, yet is so fully aware of that and uncaring, that all but the most pragmatic of viewers can’t help but be caught up in the piece. As such, while still remarkably pulse pounding, the injection of self awareness and black humour make this a little more Billy Joel than Stravinsky, rounding off the harsher edges of a sniper-in-an-auditorium thriller that could otherwise have been resoundingly uncomfortable in the wake of the Dark Knight Rises cinema shootings.

Quite most remarkable is how simplistic Mira keeps the film. In a scenario as is, the sky is really the oyster, yet Mira trains the focus almost exclusively on Selznick’s performance and inner monologue. It’s restrained and honed towards the ultimate struggle of the hero: play perfectly and save your damsel.

Having equally as much fun as the script and audience, but a whole lot less restrained, is the frenetic and ADHD camera gymnastics; which nary ever presents a shot as we’re used to seeing it. Be it through constantly acrobatic crane shots, Wood’s carefully framed reflection in the eyes of his own adversary the piano, a devilishly clever split screen reveal that would make De Palma proud or a Honey-I-Shrunk-The-Kids journey through the very inner workings of the instrument. It’s almost not since hey-day Argento has the camera been so excited to shoot a confined space. Cinematographe Unax Mendia is a talent to behold and a future force to be reckoned with.

Similar applauds should go to GRAND PIANO’s almost entirely original score, which- carrying the on screen promise of ‘most difficult and unplayable piano piece in history’- suitably holds up to the enthralling and maestro superlative. It’s is a bombastic full-orchestra cacophony that holds the film’s pace and tension perfectly; and at times is so remarkably tied into the action on screen, it seems almost organic. The most perfect example of this synthesis, and taking the biscuit for my favourite cut in the flick is the crescendo of a murder scene in which the slitting of a characters throat with a broken shard of mirror is smash cut with the drawing of a bow across a cello, which in turn crescendos the score cue to the scene- culminating in an entirely bloodless but nonetheless visceral edit that would have Hitchcock in standing ovation.

All of GRAND PIANO’s players too are on point and in tune, working well as ensemble; always wonderful to see Dee Wallace on screen. With my only gripe being the big reveal of the villains identity slightly scuppered by both its big star actor portrayal and said actor featuring prominently in the opening credits. Elijah Wood turns in a pleasing and empathic lead and once again displays his love and respect for the genre. Between this, MANIAC, and the upcoming OPEN WINDOWS and COOTIES, I think we have ourselves a Scream King on our hands, horror fans- Jamie Lee Curtis can step aside.

With this his English language directorial debut, Eugenio Mira brings Bach, with orchestral delight, the sumptuous golden age of grandiose theatrical thrillers. Slick, assured and remarkably fast paced, the film is entirely better than it deserves to be from it’s high concept laurels and is a real, true, old fashioned crowd pleaser. So virtuoso in its arrangements, GRAND PIANO quite simply makes most other thrillers released this year sound like Chopsticks.

8 Blackberry product placements / 10 wait-is that Bill from Bill & Ted?!

And that’s my two cents.

 

MY 13 BEST FILMS OF 2013

Haters can hate, but from the lofty tooted blockbusters down to the busking-for-pennies indie gems, the schlocky pulp down to the obtusely arthouse, 2013 was- for me- one the best years for film in recent memory. I mean, we opened with arguably Tarantino’s meilleur, DJANGO UNCHAINED, wrapped up (almost) with Alfonso Cuaron’s jaw flooring epic GRAVITY, and as filling to that sandwich had the classier-than-Chianti THE CONJURING and robots using a cargo ship as a baseball bat) to PACIFIC RIM a Chtulaic sea beast (but not in a Michael Bay way, don’t worry). I mean, shit, even the horror remakes didn’t blow chunks.

So if you’re one of those people that are going to vomit forth the stream of annual cinematic odium all over your facebook status and gripe that MAN OF STEEL sucked harder than Miley Cyrus on a bong or STAR TREK INTO DARKNESS didn’t have enough lens flares or that THE HOBBIT didn’t have enough walking through fields for your distinguished taste or that THE HARRY HILL MOVIE… was THE HARRY HILL MOVIE, please, just watch 1.5 of any of the films below. 2013 was good, you’re just to obtuse to see it.

ENOUGH, MITCH, ENOUGH WITH THE VITRIOLIC FINGER POINTING, ON WITH THE SHOW!

But first, some honourable mentions (because even though I cheated by doing 13 instead of 10- hey its 2013, it’s thematic- I still couldn’t leave these puppies out)

EVIL DEAD- 50,000 gallons of blood. One scene. Chainsaw face fuck.

NO ONE LIVES- Possibly my most rewatched film of 2013. Pure campy schlock fun. I adore this film.

GRAVITY- Possibly the best Hollywood film of the year, big brash budget Hollywood at it’s bombastic best.

BRIDEGROOMS- For my bottom dollar, the most important documentary of 2013, if only this could get the ire, passion and attention that BLACKFISH has. A siren song & call to arms of LGBT rights across the world & a heart breaking life affirming story.

And three short films which, not only felt like and should be feature-length films, but if they were- would easily be scaling the 13 rungs of this list: GHOUL SCHOOL (dir. Brook Linder), ANGST PISS & DRID (dir. Fredrik Hana) and SAFE HAVEN (dir. Gareth Evans & Timo Tjahjanto).

And now for our feature presentation:

13- THE WAY WAY BACK

Small on inventiveness but big on charm, the charismatic directorial debut from the guys that penned the Oscar winning THE DESCENDANTS is the coming of age story you wish you had. Sam Rockwell is the mentor you wish you had (or husband, that’s okay too). And a side-splitting scene-stealing Allison Janney is the mother you wish you never had. But what really gives THE WAY WAY BACK its place here is for justifying my skin-crawling loath for Steve Carell.

12- STOKER

Is Stoker a big joke that only Chan Wook Park is in on? Because strip back the towering performances, glorious aesthetic, and portentously sumptuous imagery and what we have is a plot not indifferent to a midseason filler episode of Midsummer Murders. Lucky for us, none of that is stripped back, but rather lathered on with aplomb; and Chan Wook reaffirms his auterish deftness at Shakespearian melodrama. Also has a shot where a daddy long legs going down on Mia Wasikowska.

11- SNAP

This film has a dubstep remix of The Smith’s ‘How Soon Is Now’. That is all.

Lol jk. And even though SNAP has a scintillating score (which is occasionally synched to the visuals in some remarkable scratch editing)- not to mention some career best performances from its young ensemble, aforementioned editing & handy camera work, it’s the devilishly clever script that shines here. A serious-as-a-heart-attack and sharp-as-an-adrenalin-pen character study of a fractured psyche swings violently at its audience and packs serious clout in it inevitably strikes home.

10- WHAT MAISIE KNEW

Adapting a Henry James novel without its 50-shades-of-black darkness should be akin to remaking Jurassic Park without the dinosaurs, and yet WHAT MAISIE KNEW manages to fill James’ ethical dirge with earnest sentimentality and one of the finest performances by a child actor ever put to film (not to mention an incredibly brave one by Julianne Moore). This tale of parental divorce from the child’s perspective is as beautiful as it is heartrending and is quite possibly the film that moved me the most this year.

9- THE CONJURING

James Wans’ supposed coup-de-grace to the horror genre (yeah right after those box office takings) was not only the best pure horror film of the year, but also the best is possibly a good few years. Dripping with more class than Grace Kelly playing hoopla with a Moet bottle & 64-carat bracelets, THE CONJURING proved just how fine horror can be. And just how scary the dark empty corner of your bedroom can be. Also, Ryan Gosling does a sing on the soundtrack. No, really.

8- THE BATTERY

Just when I think I’m over zombie movies; just when I’ve had enough of road trip films; Just as I begin to utter that every baseball movie in existence puts me into a coma (yes, especially Field Of Dreams), along comes THE BATTERY and quite simply, proves me wrong. A small masterpiece, that drew from me every emotion a film can, THE BATTERY is the finest take on the zombie-comedy-dromedy subgenre we have ever had. And even beyond it’s sure to be marketed at horror demographic, the film is character writing: defined. Every screenwriter & actor should have this film as the 5^th gospel.

7- UPSTREAM COLOR

At first glance, UPSTREAM COLOR makes about as much sense as Amanda Bynes, and yet like the petals of the films catalytic orchid, peel back the rich layers & beneath is a profoundly deep study on existential doubt, a musing of the question ‘does identity define us or do we define identity?’, and refreshing of everyone’s college assurances that Thoreau is about as interesting as diving for rubble in a municipal swimming pool. Handsomely lensed, Stunningly assured & baffinglingly reflective, no genre is left unturned in director Shane Carruth’s burrowing into your deepest subconscious.

6- DANS LA MAISON

On time, early in high school, I quite like-liked a teacher, so I wrote a secret message of adoration & appreciation on a Satsuma & left in on my desk after class. DANS LA MAISON has made me able to vocalise that tibdit of depressive confession for the first time in 8 years. And that’s because even though I liked a teacher, I NEVER VOYEURISTICALLY MANIPULATED HER ENTIRE FAMILY, BROKE ROUGHLY 6 LAWS & LAY POST COITUS WITH HER. IN FRENCH. That being said, the wonderful after-school-special that is DANS LA MAISON is about as tense, wryly funny & subversively satirical as a film can be, and wonderfully paints the almost mystical power of storytelling.

5- ANTIVIRAL

When your daddy is David Cronenberg, you’ve got balls to debut with a body horror. Luckily, young pup Brandon Cronenberg not only has balls, he has effervescently stylistic and conceptually brilliant balls. And synthetically grown ones at that. A sterilely beautiful film, ANTIVIRAL is the finger pointing at every Daily Mail reader in the world; a Petri dish of fan-fetish-culture concepts from a not to distant future. It’s horror as it should be, horror that truly revolts in both senses of the word.

4-  BIG BAD WOLVES

Gary Glitter’s comeback tour prospect aside, I never thought I would laugh so much at a paedophile. Trust those pesky Isreali auteurs Aharon Keshales & Navot Papushado to not only prove me false, but also turn out one of the best thrillers of the decade, not just this year. But don’t let its belly-aching laughs belie the true gut wrenching nature of this beast: BIG BAD WOLVES delivers a more twisted & white knuckle ride than any theme park fare.  It is the kind of film that Tarantino or the Coen’s would be hailed for and proud of turning out.

[Side note: It also features my favourite score of the year, seriously go and listen to that grandiose sucker]

3- FRANCES HA

Frances Ha is joy on a platter. The rare kind of film that leaves me speechless, smiling ear to ear & devoid of any witty innuendo driven repartee on review (i’ll even withhold doing a Frances Hahahahaha pun, and not because it’s tragic). The mumblecore lovechild of Woody Allen & Lena Dunham, it scintillates in gleeful exuberance & a perfect encapture of 20-something life- being young, lost and hopeful. Everyone on lens shines, but, personal favourite for years now, Greta Gerwig owns the entire movie & turns in the performance of the year. Like a good deep-muscle massage it makes you cry & smile in just the right measures and leaves you post-credits with a resounding ache on your cheeks (face cheeks that is, minds out of the gutter kids).

2- THE DIRTIES

The Dirties is arduous, voyeuristic, devastating, and yet – in my eyes- the most important movie of 2013. It is the encapsulation of the horrors of bullying, and the dangerous arsenal of strength that anyone can get in this day and age. School shootings are inevitably a contentious and taboo topic of focus, yet with a high media saturation (featuring even on the last season of Glee) they run the risk of being used just as a contentious and taboo attention grabber. THE DIRTIES eschews that worry entirely and, its intentions set out from almost the get-go, barrels along to its inevitable shuddering conclusion with the speed & immense power of a freight train. THE DIRTIES left me shaken and speechless. A stark depiction of an intimate internal horror, THE DIRTIES it’s cinema at its most visceral & essential.

[Side note: it also features probably the hands down best credits design I have ever seen, worth the price of admission alone].

1- THE KINGS OF SUMMER

I go to the movies with hopes, for 90 minutes in a dark room, to be taken to another place, another life, to forget about the real world. KINGS OF SUMMER did just that. As such, it has a very special place in my heart, and I’m chagrin to analyse or explain it. KINGS OF SUMMER is like getting to watch STAND BY ME for the first time again. And if KOS is the new SBY, then startlingly astute newcomer Nick Robinson is surely the new River Pheonix. Here’s hoping he stays clear of the Viper Room on Sunset. There’s not much more I can or want to say about KINGS, other than see it. It’s a keeper.

And that’s my two cents.

Thank’s for sticking around, folks.

 

 

NO ONE LIVES Review

Woah woah woah… SPOILER ALERT! Then again with a film as bloodbath assured, cine-literate and reverentially paying homage to its 80’s American Slasher roots as NO ONE LIVES, the title is actually tacit: a given, a promise and a warning. Maybe instead it should be called ‘NO ONE LIVES… OBVS’.

The amiable all-out psychopath is as ingrained in American Culture as liberty, fried chicken & bad healthcare; from Norman Bates to Patrick Bateman, Michael Myers to Michael Moore (sorry, couldn’t resist, though he isn’t exactly amiable), the nation- and especially it’s film industry- loves a good serial killer. Now as the nation reeled from 9/11, the good old American psychopath just wasn’t scary anymore. Horror’s villains took a more global and nuclear face [RESIDENT EVIL(s), THE WALKING DEAD, THE CRAZIES] or familiar and familial [THE STRANGERS, THE PURGE, YOU’RE NEXT]. However, we horror fans crave what we crave, and amiable psychopaths share more with fried chicken than just cultural imbedding: they’re also mighty delicious. The ‘America’s Favourite Psychopaths’ Gallery may just be ready for a new psychopath to idolise.

In a stunningly original set up we follow a handsome and pretty 30-something boyfriend and girlfriend roadtripping through the American backwoods who hole up at some spit and sawdust bar only to have a decidedly unpleasant run in with the criminal hick locals and end up shackled & bound in a dingy factory. Oh yeah, by the way the boyfriend happens to be a skilled serial killing psychopath with a girl tied up in his trunk. Plot twist. Oops.

Director Ryuhei Kitamura is well adept at twisted stories and what follows is a cat-and-mouse fight for survival between villain and villains, littered with subtly- and smartly- hinted at twists and revelations, one-liners that make you want to fist pump the air and a cornucopia of demented set pieces, it’s some of the most fun you will have with a film this year.

To elaborate on the set pieces would be detriment to their surprise, and surprise they do. Every other death will have you recoiling from the screen or whooping and hollering along with the synth pulsing soundtrack. One particular incident that puts a whole new spin on the term ‘body bag’ defies the audience to not have their jaws on the floor, and sure would make one hell of a Halloween costume. Then there is an actual body bag. Or rather a bag filled to the seams with body parts that is a brilliant homage to FRIDAY THE 13^TH. Not to mention possibly the best throat slit since LAWLESS. The practical effects work by Robert Hall’s always impeccable team Almost Human are resoundedly top notch and appropriately icky, often stealing the show and blending seamlessly with the action choreography.

These set pieces don’t just come quick and fast, they effectively make up the entire run time. Every scene has its standout moment of batshit craziness, be it a self tracheotomy or a daughter-stepmother catfight. All of this makes the runtime haste along quicker than a 40oz beer turns to pee.

At the centre of all this, our good old charismatic all-American psycho known simply as The Driver (a brilliant, scenery chewing Luke Evans) is an endlessly creative mercenary of madness whose skill with a weapon is only trumped by his skill with one liners. Evan’s Driver is franchise worthy as far as characters go and I wouldn’t be surprised if this isn’t the last we see of him. Endlessly quotable, NO ONE LIVES’ dialogue veers from kick ass: “He’s dead” “You don’t know my brother… “ “and I never will” to the wonderfully campy “if I wanted to talk to an asshole I would’ve torn you a new one”.  The pièce-de-résistance dialogue speaking, of course being the actual reading of the title, once again sure to elicit many a punching of the air.

It is this that is most refreshing about NO ONE LIVES, in that it never takes itself fully seriously- some of the acting is almost seemingly deliberately bad, it throws down hammy lines quicker than Adam Sandler’s latest shit salad of a film, and seems perfectly adept at a few goofy fight scenes.  Kitamura seems to know exactly what he wants to do with the film, narratively and tonally, and to the right audience (AKA me), the film is a resoundingly rowdy success, guilty pleasure horror at it’s very finest. Stylistically too, Kitamura domineers, shooting in grain filled Super 16MM, the picture echoes the aesthetic of the 80s slashers it’s standing alongside (read: not simply paying homage). And it’s that cinematic grain that makes NO ONE LIVES feel all the more American cult classic, blood has rarely looked this grittily good on screen in 30 years.

America’s Favourite Psychopaths Gallery is set to open a new exhibit, and it’s called NO ONE LIVES. I’d recommend you don’t wear white.

9 human suits / 10 synthesiser hero-themes

And that’s my two cents.

I DECLARE WAR Review

“We did everything adults would do. What went wrong?”
― William Golding, Lord of the Flies

Luckily the battle cry vociferation from Jason Lapeyre’s pre-pubescent-Platoon I DECLARE WAR, is: not damn much went wrong, and yet if they were adults, it all would have been very very wrong.

You see, I DECLARE WAR is like nothing you’ve ever seen before, and yet is 100% made up of everything you’ve seen before. Take every classic war movie you’ve ever seen, put the ranks back in middle school and throw about the fanastical whimsy of a Beano and you’re two thirds of the way there. This is BLACK HAWK DOWN by way of STAND BY ME.

On surface level, I DECLARE WAR is effectively 90 minutes of battle re-enactment: A hot summer’s day skirmish of capture-the-flag between a group of middle school kids. A very well shot, acted, edited and scripted juvenile blitzkrieg of log-bazookas and red-paint-water balloon grenades, which actually manages to evoke a remarkable amount of tension & audience investment considering it’s under-16 ensemble cast are essentially play fighting. Said tension is in part due to the frequent stylistic infringement of the kids’ fantasies over the actual ‘play fight’ reality: a water balloon suddenly is a C4 loaded grenade, a Supersoaker is firing with muzzle flares & a dissonance of gun shots. These intrusions of real-world combat constantly blur the lines of what the audience is watching: is this still a battle of capture the flag? Do one of these kids have an actual gun? Is this going to turn Columbine?

Because quick witted scripted quips aside, this is no game to the characters- particularly team leaders PK (Gage Munroe) & Skinner (Michael Friend)- but rather an actual call to arms to save Private Ryan. In these 13 year olds minds, that flag is everything, blood may be shed. It is this handle of seriousness that means I DECLARE WAR never veers into pastiche. The film dolls out every archetype seen in every war film since PATTON: torture, honour, love, sacrifice, betrayal, abdication, revenge etc etc, yet it never does so with a wink-wink-nudge-nudge self awareness that would ruin the tone and effective tension of the movie. As in the opening Golding quote, These kids do everything that adults have done for decades of war cinema, yet manage to evade being derivative or formulaic because of in part the fresh faced slew of child actors & mostly the knifes edge balance between fantasy & reality, BB Guns & bowie knives. The playful satirising of war-film tropes & disturbing question of wait-did-she-actually-just-shoot-him-with-an-arrow keeps the audience constantly on edge.

Cliche as it may be, this review could have by-lined with pretty much any quote from Lord Of The Flies, but the allusions between Golding’s 1999 classic novel & Lapeyre’s feature film are too rife for the reference to not be made front & centre. Both contain a band of youths re-enacting the very atrocities of war, starting out as a juvenile game and ending in a varying amounts of bloodshed. And while I DECLARE WAR remains much lighter hearted and fleet footed than Flies- never ploughing the annals of actual mortal brutality- its social commentary on violence in today’s youth is still effervescently above subtext. In handling these themes of desensitisation of violence in youths in such a matter of fact & playful way, I DECLARE WAR is much more successful in its portrayal than more extremist accounts of juvenile violence such as ELEPHANT & WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT KEVIN. One can enjoy the film, fist bump the sky & grin from ear to ear, and yet still consider the acts of seriousness and aggression behind these children’s eyes. It really is masterful scripting.

Juggling the script with naturalness and keen delivery is a stellar ensemble cast of fresh faced newbies that we are likely to see proliferating our screens in the years to come if this performance is anything to go by. They remarkably capture the characters that flooded our classrooms growing up: the headstrong leader, the loyal follower, the wannabe popular douchebag, the layabout joker, the lovestruck do-anything; and play each of their roles with relatable accuracy and youthful innocence. Someone Ouija board River Pheonix and tell him he’s got competition.

On the lens aside of things, the entire film could in the wrong hands have looked like a YouTube Fanvid, yet the picture is blissfully crystal, the steadicam fluid & fervent & the depth of field pin-point. Cinematographer Ray Dumas used every inch of that Red One to capture the permanently forested surroundings as proficiently as possible. The film looks smashing.

I DECLARE WAR is lean & mean, yet charming & clever; a 1080p high definition Polaroid snapshot of both the cruel & fun nature of growing up. Full Metal Jackets now comes in kid sizes.

8 laser eyeballs /10 smashed hornet nests

And that’s my two cents.

BAD MILO! Review

Let’s be clear, I just watched ET’s demon baby-brother crawl out of Professor Wilder from ‘DAWSON’S CREEK’’s ass and chew off a publically masturbating doctor’s penis. I’m not entirely sure what my reviewing job is here. That alone will stand whether you – the audience- will want to watch this movie or not. But, alas- here’s my two cents on BAD MILO!

I give you E.T. That is, E.T. The EXCREMENT TERRESTRIAL.

The premise is as follows, meet Ken (Ken Marino), a plain Jane 30 something dude with a lame accounting job, relationship pressure from his girlfriend (the lovely Gillian Jacobs), stressful parents, and some severe bowel problems. But after Ken’s acquaintances start dropping dead faster than the crew of THE OMEN, It doesn’t take too long for him to realise said bowel problems are actually something a little more carnivorous than post-Saturday-night Jaeger shits; something that turns out to be… a butt demon. Yep, a butt demon.

And, no, that’s not a metaphor: Ken has a demon, which he nicknames Milo, who adorably looks not unlike ET’s foetal sibling living, in his asshole.  Milo, helpful little poop demon that he is, wants nothing more than to reduce Ken’s stress levels and so goes about dispatching Ken’s sources of stress in the most toothy way possible. Stress management has never looked so shitty.

Now, you can look allegorically at the film as a piece of Freudian Id study, a Kafkaesque physical agglomerate of one’s inner demons, a social simile on Zimbardo’s Lucifer Effect; but I’m fairly sure the movie itself states its intentions when our protagonist screams “I HAVE MONSTER UP MY ASS, THIS IS THE FURTHEST THING FROM A METAPHOR”.

Yet for as off the deep end berserk as that sounds, BAD MILO remains a remarkably restrained & understated comedic piece. I mean sure there are gags such as where Milo does his version of a dog coming in from the rain & shaking itself off, except in this scenario, it’s brown rain Milo is shaking off, but for just how batshit zonkers it *could* have gone, the film retains a tight grip on its sensible reigns. While for some this more retained approach will be its downfall, what it succeeds in doing is imbue BAD MILO! with an actual sense of purpose. For every grandiose poop-gag set-piece they don’t feature, Ken’s domestic drama remains all the more in perspective and important to the film’s storeline; in effect rendering the ridiculous relatable. It’s surprisingly clever restraint for what is essentially a midnight movie.

With that being said, some good gags aside- in particular a Mayan carving showing “the ancient myth surrounding the anus- and a rollicking STAR WARS-esque showdown finale between Milo and his nemesis, one can’t help but wish they’d pushed it a little bit further. Director Jacob Vaughn wears his inspirations on his sleeve, BAD MILO! is clearly the product of a childhood spent watching BASKET CASE & GHOULIES rented late night from a video store, and yet it never quite reaches the campy midnight-movie peaks that those inspirations manage. It almost feels as if thinks it’s more of a future cult movie than it actually is.

Future camp classic (clampsic?) it may not be, but enough with what it isn’t. What BAD MILO! is, is 85 minutes of damn good fun; and if that is all you want from film, you can do a lot worse that this one. The jokes tickle just enough, the actors do ample to hit all they can with the material, and towering above them all, the character of Milo- so fantastically designed & puppeteered -is cutesy and creepy enough that, the rest of the film aside, he may become a clampsic.

7 tiny vaginas / 10 rogue raccoon attacks

And that’s my two cents.

I SPIT ON YOUR GRAVE 2 Review

 

Nope.

And that’s my two cents.

I DIDN’T COME HERE TO DIE Review

Ladies & germs, freaks & geeks, I just applauded a film in my own damn living room. Sat in broad daylight, on my own, in my boxers, drinking a 3 hour old coffee, I applauded my own TV. And am I ashamed? Am I fuck.
I watch a lot of cinematic tap water, those 89 minute dirges that simply struggle to be adequate, limping along on limbs Frankensteined from their predecessors and selling it as ‘homage’. To list them here would be redundant, time consuming & detract from the more important review matter at hand, but you get what I’m referring to. For a movie to faithfully & entertainingly pay homage to the trashy VHS era of slashers is a hard enough nail head to hit [case and point, the well meaning but frankly dire GUTTERBALLS & MADISON COUNTY]. But to capture that spirit and elevate it beyond simple homage into something clever & fresh for a modern audience tired of simple recycling, that is more akin to hitting the head of a sewing needle. Thankfully, along with a *couple* of wayward blows, I DIDN’T COME HERE TO DIE strikes just that needle head.
The setup is been-there-done-that-got-the-t-shirt: a group of 20-something’s venture into the “Hey, this is pretty isolated” woods to “work on team building & volunteer work”- by which they mean booze & boobs- only to for things to go TERRIBLY TERRIBLY WRONG [Mwahahaha]. The film starts out just like this, and even more so just like every other of those aforementioned ‘homage’ pieces- complete with egregiously over the top film burn effects. We get it, you’re Grindhouse. I’ll even go as far as to admit this opening had me on shaky grounds, reaching for my iPhone & tweeting the following:

… Boy was I glad I stuck with it. Because when this kid breaks away from the pack, dear god does it do so with gusto. Just as I’m not afraid to admit I clapped at during its credit roll, I’ll also gladly admit this film- in its tear-away-from-the-pack moment, made me actually. physically. gasp. And that’s even more of a rarity than applause. To give away what that moment is would be severely detriment to the film, so for once I’ll steer away from spoilers. But know that this wasn’t even the half of it, the film is positively loaded with gasp moments. Going as far as to say that *every* kill/attack is ingeniously memorably, very we’ll executed and – especially in the pinnacle of this where a slippery incident with a chainsaw turns even more nasty that it sounds- gut bustingly entertaining.

From the shit hitting the fan to the credits rolling the film moves faster than a knife fight in a phone booth, and that’s both credit to some handily slick editing & a script that really knows how to right-hook the audience just when they think they’ve got their footing. That’s the real facet of fun here: while I DIDN’T COME HERE TO DIE does pay homage to its predecessors, it also transgresses their tropes & uses the genre savvy audience’s pre-expectations to its advantage- leaving you swapping between picking your jaw off the floor & giggling like a child at Christmas.

[SPOILER ALERT KLAXON]

For example, in a showdown between a malodorous jock and the sole remaining female who has to this point been set up as our final girl, the genre trope tells you who the winner of this showdown will be. So when a blunt boulder comes crashing to our final girls skull in a turn of surprisingly verite violence, it’s sold all the more shocking since it goes against what 30 years of horror copycats have taught us.

[END OF SPOILERS]

Both said slick editing & dandy writing can be attributed to Bradley Scott Sullivan, who also jumps in the cinematography & directing chair here- his first time doing any of these for a feature- and as such, this really is Sullivan’s feature. Sure the actors do a swell job and David Templin’s practical effects are gaudily gruesome, but Sullivan is the man of the hour here. And frankly, with this debut he’s embossed his name into most genre producers’ watch-list.
You’ll have to excuse my garrulous praise, but when you’ve seen so much ‘tap-water horror’ a surprise as impetuous as this, it’s really worth singing about. Sure, it’s far from perfect- the ‘retro’ colour grading is a little heavy handing & the sound mix often leaves much to be desired- but that’s not the point here. The name of the game here isn’t nuance or subtlety, it’s made for the same reasons Jackson made BAD TASTE. And it’s results are much the same: pure blood drenched fun. And in fact, I DIDN’T COME HERE TO DIE may just be the most fun I’ve had with a movie (festival environment aside, drunk friend trash marathons aside etc) in a damn long time. This is campy fun horror at its purest & most heartfelt. I DIDN’T COME HERE TO DIE deserved my applause, and it deserves yours too.
And that’s my two cents.

8 necklace-magic-tricks / 10 unfortunately-placed-branches

ON TENDER HOOKS Review

Samuel Taylor Coleridge- poet extraordinaire, aesthetic philosopher and all round hero- in 1817 or thereabouts coined the phrase ‘A suspension of disbelief’, suggesting insofar that if a  writer could infuse a human interest in a fantastical tale, the reader would suspend all judgement and flow with the piece, not matter what was thrown at them- however fantastical or horrific.

Little did old Sam know, not only could his handy phrase make the leap from page to screen, from reader to viewer (who didn’t get emotionally cavalcaded by the infusion of human interest to an abandoned cowgirl doll in Toy Story 2?!); but that its phraseology would be so apropos with the act of forcing a steel hook through your kneecaps and suspending from it. Or rather, be so apropos to Kate Shenton’s feature directorial debut, the touching expose documentary on said act: ON TENDER HOOKS.

Yes, the white elephant in the room is that this film is about a select community of folk who voluntarily pierce their flesh with less-than-tender hooks and hang their entire bodily weight from these piercings. To the majority it’s shudder inducing material; and sadly to most of those majority it’s also enough of a white elephant to have them reaching for the remote. Case and point: in a scene set at a Body Modification convention, a man who looks remarkably like Charles Bronson with 85% tattoo coverage & 50+ piercings watches members of the team suspend and responds, when asked what he thinks of it, with: ‘that’s too extreme for me’. Suffice to say, it’s gnarly stuff.

But to reduce ON TENDER HOOKS to merely this shock act alone would be tantamount to reducing GONE WITH THE WIND to Nazis. For a feature whose runtime is 85% actual footage of piercing & suspension, none of it feels gratuitous; nothing is played for wanton gore glory. Rather, the documentary is an earnest and, appropriately, tender window into a world unseen; and one I’d readily encourage any of that aforementioned majority to see – white elephant be damned. What we are watching here is not a film about suspension, but a film about people that suspend. Not to say it’s a deep psychological case study into the existential reasons behind suspension, for that would be far too clinical, far too judging: ON TENDER HOOKS is simply a love letter to the diverse family of suspendees.

To briefly digress it’s glowing intentions & touch on the films visuals. Shot for a near minus budget, with a crew of one, shot on a camera and edited on a computer that is advertised on ITV, ON TENDER HOOKS is understandably unpolished and rough around the edges. Such, though both adds to the film’s charm and provides a sense of intimacy to the act that would otherwise be ruined with a large crew of multi-camera coverage and cologne-commercial editing.

Kate Shenton- director, cameramiss, interviewer, interviewee & editor – enters into the scene a suspending virgin, and as such the audience very much takes the journey with her. Aid to this empathy is the films remarkably verite fly-on-the-wall aesthetic. When Kate winces is when we really wince. And to not ruin the films transcendental climax, but wince she does.

Shenton has previously shown with fictional shorts BON APPETITE & GIMP (check them out, they’re boss) that she has a great knack for comedy and cinema. Here, she shows she’s also a dab hand at personal documentary; a good thing considering her next outing is a similar fly-on-the-wall portrait on a character from ON TENDER HOOKS adventures in full body modification, entitled MODIFY ME. Miss Shenton is certainly one to watch from all filmic angles, fictional & non.

Human suspension is actually an act not entirely new to film, seen in varying iterations in from Michael Crichton’s 1978 COMA to last year’s body mod’ sensation AMERICAN MARY and more closely in the documentary MODIFY, but none quite portray the human aspect of the act. None quite manage to make the audience do as Coleridge proposed and suspend their disbelief and become as totally involved in the characters they’re watching. ON TENDER HOOKS does.

7 torn Achilles heels / 10 drunk hot poker brandings

And that’s my two cents.

 

http://ontenderhooks.com/

facebook.com/ontenderhooks

THE GUEST Review

Of all the short films I’ve seen this year- and believe me, there’s been many, few handled the perfect balance of style, substance & tease that so few shorts manage to grasp as effortlessly as Jovanka Vuckovic’s THE GUEST.

Existentialism can be seen as the beating heart of many a horror classic, from the gothic auteur of James’ seminal Turn of the Screw to the stark realism of JACOB’S LADDER. “Who, really, are we?”. That same beating heart resonates within THE GUEST, Vuckovic’s 3^rd time at the directing wheel, yet what those references manage to evoke over 200+ pages or 1 ½ hours, THE GUEST unravels in mere minutes- the age old adage that man’s greatest fear is what is inside his own head. Or is it? Such is the central dilemma to THE GUEST, and boy is it starkly terrifying in its raising of man’s fragility. Yet it never comes across as a preaching exercise, contrarily it raises more questions than it answer, and as such will likely stay with you long after the credits have rolled. It’s Kafkaesque dilemma, like a parasite burrowing into your brainstem.

That’s not to say all THE GUEST brings to the table is theoretical; possibly the only thing more terrifying than its concept is its ethereal imagery, which just like the existential problem will bury itself into your brainstem, as much for it’s beauty as its horror. These are quite simply images that, much like the film’s protagonist, you will not be able to remove from your memory. Special mention should be given to both Vuckovic for conceiving of such abstractly gorgeous tableaus but also cinematographer Ian Anderson for realising them so evocatively in an almost stroboscopic nightmare of beauty.

THE GUEST is a piece almost devoid of reviewability in analysis, thanks to its aforementioned existentialist nature; it’s not a case of ‘You’re best going in blind’, but rather I would be surprised if this film did not have a nonetheless profound but very individual impact on each of its audience members. It works on such a cerebral level, I feel it a disservice to dilvulge any more than I already have to you. Quite simply, seek it out at all costs.

A haunting and visually remarkable Faustian tale on its surface, with a transcendental beating heart within it; THE GUEST is more than welcome in my house.

8 blood mouthwashes / 10 talking arm chairs.

And that’s my two cents