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.

 

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.

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 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

THE SEASONING HOUSE Review

 

Opening this years Film4 FrightFest, The Seasoning House is the directorial debut of grand-guignol genius and seasoned FrightFest alumni Paul Hyett; and If there’s one thing Hyett knows how to do, it’s make some nasty. He’s burnt Mikey Fassbender at the stake, Salem style. He’s given us *those* damn nightmare-pervading subterranean Crawlers. He’s even made Scotland look more post-apocalyptic than Glasgow High Street circa 2012. Now, after over 10 years behind the behind-the-lens that itch to step up and hold the megaphone just got to much. Thank God for itches.

 And thank god for knowing how to make some nasty. The Balkan brothel set THE SEASONING HOUSE is just as dark a nightmare as anything Hyett’s gore team has previously thrown together, but that’s not just to say it’s just some special effects guys having a glory-wank (I’m looking at you, Laid To Rest). In short, it’s stunning.

The Seasoning House is essentially a coming-of-age piece; that is, when one has to come of age in war torn Eastern Europe, prepare other girls to be good raping material & fight off the pitiless soldiers responsible for slaughtering your entirely family. Its coming-of-age drama for sure, but Diary of Adrien Mole this is not. We rather follow young Angel’s semblance at forming a new life in the wake of devastation & her veracity to survive in spite of the horrors she has seen. And horror is an understatement; The Seasoning House is just about as dark as they come. When the first 2 acts aren’t being viciously bleak, they’re being bleakly vicious. We see backchat throat slits (an incredible piece of practical effects), heroin stupors, pelvis breaking rape & some amazingly timed character offings. Be it his massive amount of experience within the genre, Paul Hyett has an amazing grasp of how, even in the midst of unrelenting nastiness, to consistently evoke gasps from the audience. Some of the kills in this are so blunt, off paced & happenstance (all compliments) that they hit you with all the surprise of a shark attack in the Sahara.

It’s not just the kills though; Hyett handles the whole step up to the director’s chair with a deft, confident hand, and an eye for both brutal realism and beautiful surrealism. Press comparisons to Pans Labyrinth are, if a tad grandiose a statement, not entirely unjustified. Hyett’s dreamlike soft focus- and frankly stunning- cinematography are perfect accompaniments to Angel’s forced dissociation from a brutal reality. Yet when it gets bleak, and boy does it, all veneer of dreaminess is masterly ethered away and we are left cringing at a ruthlessly stark picture of human atrocity.

Yet it’s when the atrocities get too much for young Angel, and she decides to break for freedom that the film really kicks up a gear. Angel’s escape [attempts?] are realistic, heart pounding and cathartically fist pumping, due in most part because of how much we care for the girl by this point in the picture. An innocent but determined girl, with an on par ruthlessness as the soldiers, Angel is the only person the audience cares for- and as such- we care for her a lot. Again, due in most part, to a show stealing, future-career-making performance from Rosie Day, who not only imbues Angel with all the qualities discussed above but also manages to do so while playing her deaf & mute. No short feat considering this is Day’s film debut. If any praise can be siphoned away from Hyett, it should be directed at Rosie Day; for she is, if not already, going to be a shining star in British cinema.

And to round out the entire movie comes, following despair, exasperation, triumph, fall, fight & just-deserts… an ending so ubiquitously unsettling it would be a travesty to divulge.

I give The Seasoning House:

8 too-broad-shoulders / 10 too-tight-airducts

An even more tantalizing prospect for you to consider once having seen The Seasoning House; Paul plans for it to be the first in his ‘War’ Trilogy, followed up by films he assures will be tenfold darker & more vicious than Seasoning House… Promises, promises, Mr Hyett.

And that’s my two cents.