Manhunt (Oscar Season)

My darlings,


I'm so very sorry to have left you postless for so long.  I've been rather busy with that pesky thing we call "real life" and have had to deal with the harsh realities of winter.  You'll be pleased to know that I've oft thought of you in my absence.  In fact, I'm working on an article that should scratch at some murderous itches.  I know it's been aiding in mine.  Until then, I've a morsel for you to chew on.

Yesterday, Oscar nominations for the year were announced, and yet again, anyone who knows anything about film was left depressed, unsatisfied.  Perhaps they will soon be as numbed as I.  Let's face it, horror hasn't held any Oscar hopes in years.  Hitchcock, a cinematic legend of the century, never won a single Oscar.  He was nominated for Best Director five times (Rebecca, Lifeboat, Spellbound, Rear Window, and Psycho) but never earned a statue for his meticulous work.  When the Academy eventually gave him an award, all he had to say to them was "thank you." (Directors who've never won an Oscar)

In 1973, The Exorcist happened.  Yes, it happened.  People were throwing up and leaving, lines were out of control, and everyone wanted to see it. So many in fact, that it remains the 9th highest grossing film in history, AND the Number One grossing R-Rated film. Ever.  (Screw you SOPA) In 1974 the Golden Globes gave it 7 nominations and it took 4 awards, including Best Picture - Drama.  (Ellen Burstyn was nominated but snubbed) For horror, this was as good as it got.  Then it pressed on to garner 10 Oscar nods but only two glances of recognition which came in Sound Editing (woohoo..) and Best Adapted Screenplay.  (Ellen Burstyn was nominated but snubbed. Again.)  Horror never had it so good!  Unfortunately, it lost Best Picture in the supposed "Big Leagues" to The Sting.

Which also won Norman Rockwell his first Oscar for "Most upbeat mobster movie poster ever"

I want you to ask the next ten people you see if they've seen The Exorcist.  Then ask them if they've seen The Sting.  No, I'll wait.  Ten to roughly nothing?  Under 40? Interesting.  The Academy is supposed to catalog the advances in film, the cream of the crop, a time capsule collection of films that would show our progress as a race through the art of cinema.  According to the early 70s, America had a huge thing for mobsters and violence.  I guess Vietnam didn't get it all out of our system.

Jaws got 4 nods in '75 and won 3 (More than The Exorcist really?), including Best Sound.  Horror's good with that.  If you haven't seen it, watch The Strangers for some more recent excellent sound design.  Then the next baby of the genre boomed: The Silence of the Lambs.  The golden child of horror, it was the third film ever to win the Oscars in the top five categories: Picture, Actor, Actress, Director, Adapted Screenplay.  Anthony Hopkins is in the movie for a little over 16 minutes.  Some would say this is a testament to his power in that role.  I'm going to stay quiet on this one. 

Mum's the word, right Hanny?

Wait.  I hate to interject but, isn't golden child of horror accolades, The Silence of the Lambs more of a Thriller/Cop Drama?  Can we still count it as ours? No? My mistake.

Yes dears I know there are more classic nods like Whatever Happened to Baby Jane, Rosemary's Baby, and a few others even after Lambs but the point is that it does not happen every year.  However, every year we have a biopic, an indie upriser, and something generally patriotic up for the Best Pic grabs while horror sits, gaining cobwebs.  The most influential (whether it was high quality or not) horror in the past ten years has gone unnoticed.  Maybe if we make a movie about a gay mentally handicapped real person who was horribly disfigured and murdered in a scandal involving the White House who's a ghost that overcomes the overwhelming odds against him, we can spin it somehow.

Either way...

 I'm still on the lookout for the next great American horror.

Yours truly,
AP

Friday the 13th

Happy Friday the 13^th my freaky followers.

This is but the first of the three unlucky Fridays 2012 has in store for us and what better way to spend it than in celebration of all things macabre? I considered a few options for my personal observation of the holiday and found myself pent up by the delayed arrival of winter. What better way to spend a secluded evening than to watch and review all 12 Friday the 13^th movies one by one?

Just kidding. I'll be doing all six Leprechaun films.

In actuality, I let the midnight hour lead me where it may and found myself partaking in a zombie marathon. Starting with the French film The Horde, I then went back to the roots with Romero's original Night of the Living Dead, and ended on a pleasant note with Dead Alive. These movies set me to thinking about the supposed “zombie apocalypse” that has become so fashionable to be prepared for. I'm here to let you all know: there is no way to be prepared.

The Learning Curve

I don't care how many times you've read the Zombie Survival Guide or how many movies you've seen, you cannot preordain your plan of action during the zombie shamble-down. Like vampires, zombies come in many varieties. Are they loping? Can they use tools? Are they rage zombies? And that is only the tip of the glacier, my friends. Through trial and error, you and your party will have to learn the raw facts about these creatures. The Horde touched on this vaguely when a member of the core group is bitten in the leg. The characters stumble upon a delightfully mad tenant of the building in which they're trapped who has a simple solution: “Gotta lose that leg.” Now you might say to yourself, “But Psychette! Everyone knows that once bitten there is no return and you must pop your best friend once in the face before they turn, and then twice after they come back undead!”

Stop it.

By this point, you've already killed your own circle in a Mexican standoff over what zombie lore you're living out.

I doubt 60WPM will save you this time.

The fact of the matter is that no amount of supposed “mental preparation” will hand you the coding required to kill one of your loved ones on a hunch that they might try to eat you in the coming hour. Which brings me to my next qualm-

Gun Usage

According to a Gallup poll in 2005, estimates have been made that in America in 2010, nearly 50% of households contain a gun, roughly 30% of adults own a gun, and about 18% of adults own a handgun (So says here). I declare fuzzy math on this one. Also, take into account the fact that these guns are concentrated in certain areas of the country and spread sparsely in others, and you've got a lot of people who have never touched a gun before. While watching certain movies, I'm amazed at the glee of the everyday pleated khaki wearing man as he finds an Uzi of some sort to use against an onslaught of undead. While I'm sure given time and training and Google (of course the internet will still work during the apocalypse, right?)-

No bars...

-he would eventually learn the ins and outs of his weaponry, I highly doubt he can lift it without it going off in his face. Or not going off at all in the face of a zombie. Let's face it, the south will win this round. And so will-

The Trigger Happy Zombie Enthusiast Who Has Been Living for This

Let's face it, part of the appeal of a Zombie outbreak is that we will have an excuse to kill people without penalty. Our generation kills millions digitally on Call of Duty, Halo, etc. We love faking it. Now give half of these smack-talking douchebags a reason to go human hunting and it's Game Over.

Zombie films often allude to the bandwagon idealogy in regards to the re-animated, then parallels that with the de-humanization of those still living. There's a reason this works so well in storytelling. People are reduced to raw animal instinct when pushed against the wall; if survival is the ultimate goal, the distinction between living and undead in a mass becomes less important than clearing an area of all threats. Throw teenagers, PTSD victims, and numerous self-proclaimed “Survivalist”s together and what do you get? Screwed.

Poor puppy.

Lovelies, I just want you to be careful out there. Thinking that you're prepared for the worst is never an actual way to be prepared. Remember the SATs? Enjoy your first Friday the 13^th of the year. In fact, if it's warm enough, you should go to the lake.

XOXOXXX,

AP

No, seriously, it's more likely that I will inevitably do a tribute to Leprechaun.

Review 1: Bled, White, and Blue

Good afternoon my fellow Americans,

In our post 9/11 world, the word “patriotism” has become a hot button for politicians and the media-cracy. I don't want to get into that (yet). Instead, I would like to talk about the commonality afforded to us by our founding fathers and give an example of how it appears in the horror genre. As Americans we are given certain inalienable rights including, and sometimes indeed limited to, life, love, and the pursuit of happiness. Although these rights should unite us, the continual fight between political parties to define these rights has risen to a fever pitch as our 2012 election draws near. This spark of rivalry is downright explosive in my film review debut:

Living the American Dream, one shell at a time.

Homeless 101:

It is important to start by giving a short introduction to the homeless. After all, it would be a great slip in social graces to confuse one with another, especially if one holds a shotgun. According to the modern Encyclopedia (i.e. Wikipedia), a “hobo” is actually a vagabond who works. Meanwhile, a “tramp” will only work when forced, and a “bum” is what smells a little damp on the bus.

"You've got it all wrong!  I only work at gunpoint"

The premise is simple. In fact, it's in the title. Grindhouse trailer turned feature film, Hobo With a Shotgun doesn't create any unnecessary expectations for itself. Director, co-writer, and creator Jason Eisenener dumps audiences along with his titular Hobo (portrayed by Rutger Hauer) in Scum Town, a place where the streets flow rusty with blood, children are victimized by Santa Claus, and, from what I can tell, everyone makes a living through disorganized crime. (Re: Scum Town) The ringleader and Capulet in this crimson city is The Drake (the cheerfully campy Brian Downey) whose two privileged sons run Richie Rich gone wrong escapades all over town. In a scene very early on, we're shown that our hobo longs for a lawnmower. Although early on this seems to rekindle memories of a former home, it's later revealed that he yearns for an honest day's work with an honest day's pay, differentiating him from the rest of the homeless. Aren't you glad we had that little lesson earlier? Eventually, upon witnessing a young prostitute named Abby (Molly Dunsworth) nearly become a victim of The Drake's den, the hobo's had it and takes vigilante action against crime. This doesn't bode well with The Drake's crooked leash on the city so he incites citizens to instead retaliate by committing even more violence. This time, against Scum Town's swollen homeless population.

Rutger Hauer's steely acting does a fair job of controlling the reigns from the film's open but there is only so much that can be done with Hobo's wishfully clever script. The laughs drawn from lines such as “I'm a fucking miracle worker! I'm gonna make it rain!” before dousing the street in a fire hydrant spray's worth of blood aren't sincere and create distance between viewer and story. Using enough saturated color to make a kaleidoscope hurl, Eisener paints in broad strokes and there is absolutely nothing subtle about this homeless romp. Red drenches scenes involving anything remotely Republican or conservative (such as our first introduction to The Drake's bordello), while our humble hobo broods liberally in blue hues (making a report at the police station). I have to admit, at first I was a little titillated to see a bit of cultural relevance among the carnage. This was soon depleted as I became bludgeoned by the cinematic equivalent of “Rich excess Capitalist bad. Poor uprising good.” Christian symbology also grows fervent as the film progresses and obstructs the hope of at least enjoying the film for face value: as a rabidly fun revenge splattergasm. Which, might I add, even the film admits to being in a later showdown between Hobo and The Drake's more Vanilla Ice-like son, Ivan (Nick Bateman). Not to mention that, despite this already unsatisfying interference, it also takes over 30 minutes for our protagonist to acquire his trademark weapon. That, my dears, is what we call false advertising.

Speaking of advertising, where can I find one of these for those cold, cardboard nights?

The film especially loses it's stride as Eisener attempts to deepen the relationship between Abby and Hobo. Their entire interaction seems like a disparate effort to lighten the misogyny that blankets the entire film. The leading female is still a prostitute and, from the looks of her given circumstances, will always be a prostitute. Also, putting the two characters side by side can only create a semblance of a father-daughter relationship which doesn't pay off for the female-pointed violence. One line in particular stood out to me as the prime example of the hopelessness of being a woman in this particular world. During a later scene, a cop who has previously tried to employ Abby sits on duty with his young partner who seems to be the only innocent character in the entire film. The dirty cop lays it out plainly for the rookie: “You can't beat up your wife like you can beat up a whore. That's what I love about them.”

Fair.

But even by enlisting the aid of the young girl and portraying Hobo's softness with her doesn't make her any more powerful or useful as a character, period.

Final Cut:

Like anyone who glazes over while watching the nightly news, Hobo audiences aren't given much of an impetus to care one way or another who wins. The entire 86 minutes of celluloid is spent impressing the moral that no matter what you do, people will die brutally at the hands of one another. Unfortunately, the high body count and enjoyably hokey methods of death used throughout the film set a precedent for enjoying massacres, leaving an apathetic glaze on audiences akin to the inactive empty eyed stare of citizens of Scum Town, whom, I would like to point out, are only inspired to action after being enticed by The Drake that anyone who brings him the head of the hobo gets all his “broads”. The story is left as empty as a shotgun shell while we're left more curious about how the spray blew some inarticulate bastard apart. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy a good laugh at the expense of fictional flesh as much as anyone else, but if you're looking for a story, the trailer just about covers it.

2.5 out of 5 Bloody Pearls

(Graphic Coming Soon!)

That's all for today kittens.  Have you seen Hobo With a Shotgun?  Leave a comment about your own experience.

Until next time,

AP

An Invitation

To those who may not be concerned,

You should be.

I've decided that it's time to share the unsettled rattlings I've stumbled across that may have been rolling around under your very own feet.  Take comfort, dear heart, you are in good hands. 

You see, many years ago I became extremely fascinated with the macabre and the creatures involved. From a very young age, I aspired to reach the heights of "Scream Queen". It seemed only fitting that I should fill the footsteps of Laurie Strode, Nancy Thompson, and any other “bitch” who went up the stairs rather than out of the front door. Looking back, I believe that perhaps that is the very reason they spoke to me so. No matter what butcher knife, chainsaw, molestation, or insane Klown they stumbled upon, they overcame the deprecating shouting hoards in darkened theatres in order to destroy, and ultimately, overcome their fears. As I get older and venture out into the real, and sometimes very simple horrors we face, it enrages me that simpletons who rot in chairs get to criticize the hardships of true survivalists. I invite you instead to share in the horror along with me through reviews of film past and present, a glance at the horrifying nature of what is considered “in”, and perhaps more importantly, by joining me in some of my personal reflections on a regular basis as I look into the empty abyss that has been left in humanity's wake.

So where do you fall? Do you stand among those who will go to interminable lengths to exist or at least to see the struggle? Or are you goading a fated stranger from the comfort of your own home?

The point I'm trying to make my dears; is not to get too comfortable. After all, the lap of luxury is skinned from dead things.

Or this multi-anused industrial felt design by Joshua Ben Longo. Your pick.

 Honestly, whatever would you do among this madness without me?

Ciao,
AP