Review 4: Dead to Rights

This revival will be more exciting than the Julianne Moore kind.

Good evening gremlins,

Like a star-crossed lover, I was fated to return to you.  My head is bloody but not unbowed in my resolution to remain true to horror despite the despairing drought of mainstream macabre.  It has been nearly a year since I last reared my skull to the dusky twilight of the genre.  Oh, let’s face it.  The Cabin in the Woods depressed me.  As I mentioned in my review, it left me with an uneasy, unsatisfied feeling as well as a nihilistic hole where my hope for horror once was.  Since then, I’ve come to terms with the film and can appreciate it as a scathing critique and intelligent (though snarky) deconstruction of how the things that make horror fun are, in all actuality, marvelously absurd.  I find it only fitting that I should return to you with a review of a remake of the blueprint for the satirical razorblade that was Cabin:

We don't need no stinkin' "The"

When Sam Raimi directed The Evil Dead in 1981, it became an instant camp staple. This resulted in the demon spawn of The Evil Dead 2 and the Mel Brooks-ian Army of Darkness.  Made with a strung together budget of $350,000, Raimi intended for the original flick to be a pure horror film born out of pure terror.  Instead, it was seen as schlock and began an assembly line of iterations that nod to the intrinsic horror formula Teen + Derp = BLOODY MESS.  

MATH!

Taking this response, Raimi essentially remade his own film and released it as The Evil Dead 2, employing more comedy for an effective, balanced film that many consider much more satisfying than the original.  From my initial peek at the trailer for Evil Dead, my impression was that Producers Sam Raimi and Bruce Campbell intended to follow through with their original intent to horrify.  And horrify it does.

The directorial debut of Fede Alvarez begins with the cookie cutter frame of sending 5 young friends off into a remote cabin in the middle of the woods together.  A smart writing choice (No doubt the influence of wildcard, Diablo Cody) gives impetus to the gathering.  Estranged Daniel (an uninspired but capable Shiloh Fernandez) is reunited with his friends to help his little sister Mia (Jane Levy) kick a nasty drug habit.  Along for the ride are old friends Olivia (Jessica Lucas) and Eric (Lou Taylor Pucci), as well as David’s current squeeze, Natalie (Elizabeth Blackmore), who is apparently there to lend a hand. Beyond that, the exposition offers nothing more than shoddy attempts at deepening already shallow relationships with even thinner dialogue.  Lucky for us, unlucky for them, things get bad pretty fast.  

In true ignorant teen fashion, they discover a demonic book (made from human flesh, no less. Yum!) which simply MUST be read aloud.  Thanks to that small amount of justification given by Mia’s drug abuse, it isn’t that farfetched than no one thinks twice when she begins to act peculiar.  If only D.A.R.E. had equated withdrawal to demonic possession, drugs would be much less prevalent in schools.

Crack will SWALLOW YOUR SOUL!

Buckets of blood turn into silos full as the gang works to wrangle the possessed Mia.  Jane Levy deserves a special nod here for her acting gymnastics as she stretches from pure wide-eyed terror to taking up the torch as pure badass.  The plot advances at an unflinching tromp, taking enough pause to give easter eggs of reference to the original flicks.  Even the music and sound design gives you trills of a chainsaw during moments of pulse grinding threat before any motor is actually revved.  The movie seems as though it’s squeaking toward a neat finish before turning up the excitement for a jaw dropping ten minutes that just. doesn’t. quit.

While fans of the original might not be as deterred by the bloodbath and gore as some tree-hugging virgins, the make-up effects are arguably the star of this film.  Some may call it excessive torture porn, I call it a showcase to a forgotten craft.  As for the oral fixation stuff?  

That’s just Raimi.  Evil Dead might not be the scariest film, but it is certainly the most unnerving and squirm inducing in years.  The violence is wildly eclectic, ranging from the banal (watch those papercuts) to the “I don’t know how you’re still alive but I’m glad you are so we can see what else you can take” variety.  Some may complain of a lacking storyline or meaning, but I would argue that the story is told through the violence, which, for the modern horror genre, is a strangely novel idea.

After viewing, I couldn’t help but think, ‘They make it look so easy!’  Most modern (American) horror, both original and rebooted, suffers from a hyper-polished look, as though each director uses the same desaturated filter.  Evil Dead falls prey to this in its initial setup until settling into sparsely used techniques that pull directly from Raimi’s playbook.  If there is anything to be taken away from this particular revival, it’s this:  If it works, work it.  Why use CGI when there are perfectly capable make-up artists?  Why settle for standard horror triggers and pratfalls in filming when you can do an intense zoom in on a delicate wrist pinned under a car?  If you want to pull a page out of a well worn book, you can look to The Evil Dead and its incarnates.

4 out of 5 Bloody Pearls

It is good to be back.  While my reviewing may not be consistent, I will be sprinkling the blog with previews for upcoming films, and any tender meaty treats I can find to share with you.  Take care lovies.  After seeing Evil Dead and with spring rains approaching, you may want to carry a poncho.

Ciao,

AP

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