Bone Tomahawk

US | 2015 | Directed by S. Craig Zahler

Logline: In the Wild West four men set out to rescue a group that has been abducted by a tribe of primitive cave dwellers.

Novelist and aspiring screenwriter Zahler’s dream comes true, Hollywood comes a-knocking, with Kurt Russell attached. His dark Western journey into the heart of darkness is brought to life with bone-dry black comedy and gut-wrenching ultraviolence. Bone Tomahawk is one of the best revisionist Westerns of the past twenty years, and, along with Tarantino’s The Hateful Eight, gives Russell the second best role – and performance - he’s had/given in years. 

Set in 1890s, at the tail end of the Wild West, in Southern California, the story opens with a prologue that depicts the plight of two drifting vultures, Buddy (Sid Haig) and Purvis (David Arquette) on the outskirts of the township Bright Hope. Eleven days later Purvis shows up at the local bar, somewhat worse for wear. Back-up deputy Chicory (Richard Jenkins) has observed suspicious behaviour, and he notifies the Sheriff Hunt (Kurt Russell).

The lovely Samantha Dwyer (Lili Simmons) is called away from attending to her husband Arthur’s (Patrick Wilson) injured leg, to extract a bullet from a culprit’s leg. Meanwhile, young Gizzard (Maestro Harrell) hears a strange call on the night breeze. He inspects the stables.

Subsequently an arduous journey is embarked upon by Hunt, Chicory, a loyal sharp-shooter known as Brooder (Matthew Fox), and Arthur, as they set off on a five day jaunt across the Mojave desert to find the Valley of the Starving Man, where a tribe of brutal, in-bred cannibals dwell. The four townsmen must execute a daring rescue. The odds are against them.

Clocking in at two hours-ten minutes, the bulk of the movie is the incidents at Bright Hope and the trek itself. In the movie’s third act horror rears its monstrous head and cuts a bloody path of destruction, a standout set-piece being a savage vivisection of a man. In fact there are numerous special effects makeup moments, I was surprised the artists involved weren’t given proper credit, instead just being mentioned amidst the usual crawl at film’s end.

All performances are top notch; Russell, of course, delivers a wonderfully measured, restrained presence, a noble lawman indeed. Wilson is always good, but special mention to Jenkins, in the role of the old timer, and Fox (almost unrecognisable) as the suave, well-heeled Injun killer.

The cannibals are, apparently, troglodytes. Lathered in white okra, adorned with tusks, and brandishing bone tomahawks, and bow and arrow. The also have human teeth embedded in their throats, enabling them to make a harrowing scream/call-to-arms. The women of their clan have been blinded and left as baby machines.

There is a brooding minimalism and historical authenticity that exudes from Bone Tomahawk’s sweaty skin; the mannerisms, the dialogue (which reminds one of Tarantino-esque exchanges, but not as self-conscious or as clashingly modern), and a shroud of nihilism that hangs over like a dark desert cloud.

I’ll be bold enough to say, this is the Western Tarantino would love to make, but would never pull off. So put your timepiece away, it’s time to ride, it’s time to kill, it’s time to bleed. 

Straw Dogs

US/UK | 1971 | Directed by Sam Peckinpah

Logline: An earnest American and his young English wife settle in rural England and face increasingly vicious local harrassment. 

At surface level a powerful study of violence both implicit and explicit, but under the skin, Straw Dogs is a complex and disturbing morality play that poses far more questions than answers. It provokes and outrages, yet by the end offers only slight reward, leaving a bitter taste of copper, and the acid after burn of contempt. After the assault on the senses that is the siege at Trencher’s farm, empathy is left in ruin, humanity torn a sunder. 

Two years prior Sam Peckinpah had delivered one of the great, uncompromising Westerns, The Wild Bunch (1969); a ruthless, indulgent portrait on male self-righteousness, bravado and violent machismo. It was a farrago of raw energy and moral corruption. Peckinpah then polarised audiences even further, pushing his dark fascination with the human spirit and society’s innate misanthropy to a deeper, more insular level. Straw Dogs would tear apart all notions of love and trust, of jealousy and desire, and of man’s acumen for violence.

Based on the novel The Siege of Trencher’s Farm by Gordon Williams and adapted for the screen by David Zulag Goodman and Peckinpah, Straw Dogs tells the story of meek and mild David Sumner (Dustin Hoffman), an American mathematician who, with his pretty young wife Amy (Susan George), has moved from the States back to Amy’s home of Wakely, a small village on the coast of England, where she grew up. They’ve bought an old farmhouse up on the hillside that needs repairing, so David has hired a few of the local handymen, so that he can concentrate on his treatise on celestial navigation (the “astro-mathematic structures of stellar interiors”).

One of the builders is Charlie (Del Henney); an ex-lover of Amy’s who makes it very obvious he still carries a torch for her. Amy is flattered by his attention, but won’t stand for his sleazy behaviour. Charlie and his cohorts, Norman (Ken Hutchison) and Chris (Jim Norton) despise David, and challenge him by inferring he’s a milquetoast for abandoning his country in time of need (the Vietnam war). There’s tension between David and Amy as well, since David is so wrapped up in his equations and seems only to patronise Amy, leaving little time for genuine loving. Amy is restless, David is preoccupied. Frustration and neglect will soon collide, and tragedy will ensue.

Straw Dogs is such a thematically rich and intelligent work, darkly provocative, nightmarish, subversive. The characters don’t fit any easy mold, all drifting within a morally grey area. Obviously there are some that can be easily pigeon-holed as villainous, but there are agendas exposed that suggest not all intentions were evil at heart. If only ...

The most controversial part of the movie is the rape scene (which got the movie into a lot of trouble when it was first released and in the years following), or more precisely Amy’s response to Charlie’s rough attempt at seduction. It is apparent Amy still harbours an attraction toward him, but he’s by no means the man who makes her laugh, as her husband does. Amy’s flaunting of her naked body, and not wearing a bra beneath her sweaters, has been driving Charlie wild with lust.

WARNING! CONTAINS SPOILERS!

After orchestrating a snipe hunt for David, where the men stick it to him in the bush, leaving him floundering on the hilltop waiting for pheasants and ducks to fly by, Charlie arrives back at the farmhouse and surprises Amy who invites him in for a drink. But it’s more than booze Charlie’s after. He forces himself on Amy, she slaps him, he pulls her by the hair over the sofa where he pins her down and tears her robe and panties off.

At this point the assault changes gear. It appears no longer to be rape, but consensual sex as they have intercourse and she caresses his face and they kiss. It began as forced entry, but has become something far more complex. The image of Charlie is intercut with David, both men making love to her. But is Charlie providing a more passionate experience for Amy? “Hold me,” Amy whispers. Suddenly Norman is there in the room also, brandishing a shotgun. Amy isn’t aware as she lies on her stomach, her eyes closed in a state of post-coital satiation. Whilst Charlie holds Amy down, Norman sheds his pants and sodomises her. Amy screams in shock and pain. The first intercourse had been questionable in its reception; the second is violation, impure and simple.

David never finds out about the rape, which makes his act of defiance in the last third of the movie a curious stand. One would expect the drama to come from David seeking revenge, but Straw Dogs confounds this by having David respond to something more prosaic: one man’s house is his castle and should be protected at all costs. It is here that David’s failings as a husband and his strengths as a coward in turnaround are made explicit. He was witness to Charlie’s blatant interest in his wife, and he was too cowardly to confront the men about the killing of Amy’s pet cat, yet when David has brought the local pederast, Henry Niles (David Warner, in an uncredited role), into his home after accidentally hitting him with his car and the village lynch mob have come to collect him because local girl Janice (Sally Thomsett) is missing, presumed dead at the hands of Niles, David refuses to give him over. It is here where the siege takes place, and where David turns the tables on his attackers.

Whilst Amy is hysterical, David is transforming, becoming less human, more animal; less logical, more instinctual. But the most telling and the most distressing point is not made until the very end. Having dispatched all of the assailants in numerous violent ways, David tells Amy to stay in the house while he drives Henry Niles down to the village, even though he can’t be sure all the attackers are dead. As they drive through the impenetrable darkness Niles says, “I don’t know my way home.” “That’s okay,” David replies with a strange smirk, “I don’t know either …”

Straw Dogs deals with game-playing and the strategy of battle as metaphors and symbolism. We see Amy playing chess in bed, David working on his elaborate mathematical equations on his huge chalkboard, David and Amy fool around as if on a perpetual one-on-one game of their own making, David taunting the cat by throwing fruit at it, there’s the snipe hunt David is coerced into going on, and of course, the final siege, which is a series of confrontations and dispatches. There’s also the strange voyeurism that involves Janice and her brother Bobby (Len Jones), spying on David and Amy. Janice has a crush on David, but she ends up manipulating Henry Niles, as if on some strange death wish.

There’s also a thematic element concerning immaturity and its potent fragility in relationship to experience and innocence. “You act like you’re 14,” teases David to Amy, “I am!” she replies with a cheeky laugh. Charlie, Norman and Chris all act like they’re adolescents, bragging and cajoling each other. Henry Niles is a man-child. And of course David and Amy are cocooned in a bubble of immaturity as well.

Peckinpah’s direction is superb, helped by atmospheric cinematography from British cameraman John Coquillon. The editing is brilliant, especially the inter-cutting during the church social gathering which highlights Amy’s paranoia and trauma, and also during the siege (three editors, plus an editorial consultant were employed on the movie). The score, mostly sombre brass and woodwind, captures a suitably terse mood.

The performances are all first rate. Hoffman is at the top of his game (and only a couple of features into his career) playing the emotionally retarded stranger in a strange land, while Susan George matches him with her delicate balance of vulnerability and assertiveness. The support cast can’t be singled out, they’re all great.

Straw Dogs is a difficult movie; but for all the best reasons. It presents the moral quagmire of human frailty, it slaps you in the face, slashes you, and leaves you scarred, with blood on your hands. 

“Heaven and earth are not humane, and regard the people as straw dogs.”

Be My Cat: A Film for Anne

Romania | 2015 | Directed by Adrian Tofei

Logline: A deeply disturbed young man makes an unusual audition video in an effort to convince Anne Hathaway to act in his film.

With experience only as an actor, but many years of studying film history under his belt, this Eastern European filmmaker has decided to tackle the found footage genre head-on, taking the bull by the horns, and biting the bullet. His experimental feature blurs the lines of documentary and thriller, of reality and fantasy, of pipe dream and palpable nightmare, of social savvy and introverted delusion.

Adrian Tofei plays Adrian, a determined, albeit quietly desperate, man obsessed with the illusion of Anne Hathaway as a kind of altar, pedestal of Tinseltown. Cats are also one of his “things”, and at one point he casually admits to strangling them as an adolescent. But let’s get back to Anne. Anne and Adrian. He badly wants to impress her. Armed with a small consumer level camera Adrian rents a nearby pension (he lives with his mother, and there’s no way he’s going to be able to audition the substitute “Hathaways” with mother poking her nose in).

There are three women Adrian has selected, to be part of the process of luring Ms Hathaway. Local actors, obviously keen for the performance experience, the women have no idea of Adrian’s hidden agenda. Sonya (Sonia Teodoriu) is first up, and almost immediately butts heads with Adrian who tries to push her panic buttons.

Flory (Florentina Hariton) and Alexandra (Alexandrea Stroe) arrive more or less at the same time. Flory, who most closely resembles Hathaway, has her own flirty agenda, simply wanting to bed Adrian, whilst Alexandra is eventually forced into Final Girl mode. Adrian’s demands are simple: he wants the women to act as truthfully as possible, and in order to act truthfully, he must provide the necessary motivation: fear.

While Tofei injects a creepy sense of humour with his role, it is the naturalistic performances of the three women, especially Stroe, that give Be My Cat the dramatic gravitas, and keeps it so darkly fascinating, and genuinely unnerving. 

Trying to get a handle on Be My Cat is difficult; docu-drama as meta-horror, or maybe that’s faux-snuff as mockumentary. It’s a curiously refreshing blur, but definitely a vehicle for Tofei to indulge his passion for method acting. As the deranged director, Tofei immersed himself utterly into the character, only allowing filming decisions to be made as the obsessive director, not as Tofei. The result makes for a compelling, disquieting, resonant, and unique experience. It’s an existential nightmare, pushing the envelope of conventional found footage, but keeping in mind the grounded “authenticity” and creative inspiration and execution of The Blair Witch Project. 

Cat Sick Blues

Australia | 2015 | Directed by Dave Jackson

Logline: A young man becomes a masked serial killer in a deranged attempt to honour and resurrect the life of his beloved feline pet.

It’s always resfreshing to see a horror movie that strays outside the boundaries, jumping fences, spraying on walls, hissing at strangers, clawing at faces. Any narrative that refuses to play by the rules, yet delivers the goods, gets my enthusiastic nod of approval. Dave Jackson’s debut feature, which stemmed from a 2013 short, is probably the most original, unapologetic, and strangely affecting Australian horror movie since Bad Boy Bubby. They both involve dead cats, funny that.

Twenty-something loner Ted (Matthew C. Vaughn) is suffering rather badly. His cat, Patrick, his beloved pet since childhood, has passed away. Now Ted has had a major brain snap. In a desperate attempt to bring back his one and only he believes he must take the nine lives that his feline friend once possessed and harbour the blood for his successful resurrection. 

Ted has a sculptor make him a pair of cat gloves with razorsharp claws. He dons the too small red jumper from his adolescence and the huge full head black cat mask he got one Christmas as a lad. Now he is Catman, and (rather inexplicably) a danger to all women.

In a bizarre parallel narrative (or sub-plot, if you will) Claire (Shian Denovan) has a white cat called Ismelda, an Internet sensation. But in a cruel and tragic turn of events Claire’s beloved is also taken from her. Claire and Ted are on a collision course.

Channeling the surrealist cinema of late 70s/early 80s low-budget Euro, US, and Aussie exploitation fare, with many references, and yet, the movie remains thematically elusive and feels disturbingly original. It’s a troubling and confronting tale of a young man’s mental disintegration and a young woman’s grief and survival. Nothing can quite prepare you for the seemingly indulgent, harrowing weirdness, and nightmarish comedy, that is director/co-screenwriter Dave Jackson and co-screenwriter Andrew Gallacher’s Cat Sick Blues.

Props to Matthew Revert's retro-vibed score, and to Shian Denovan and Matthew C. Vaughn for their dedicated performances, but I must take my hat off to the special effects team for their dynamic and seamless use of excellent practical effects and in the right places CGI.

Cat Sick Blues is one of those instant cult classics. I could feel its dark, stylish energy from the startling credit sequence. The ending doesn’t quite deliver the pay off you are anticipating (although quite what I was expecting or wanting, I wasn’t sure), but in an unctuous and perverse way, it works; one can almost feel the fur ball working its way up the back of your throat, making you gag, spitting it out, and then licking it, because its your own.

Cat Sick Blues screens as part of Sydney’s A Night Of Horror International Film Festival, tonight, 7pm, Dendy Newtown. 

Goddess Of Love

US | 2015 | Directed by Jon Knautz

Logline: A mentally unstable woman begins a volatile descent into madness when she suspects her lover has left her for another woman.

From the working titles of Mania and The Dark Side of Venus, Jon Knautz’s third feature became the elusive and alluring, but more importantly, the double-edged sword, Goddess of Love. The Venus of this tale is no deity for worship; this is a warrior for whom reality and fantasy have collided and there will be intentional and collateral damage.  Goddess of Love is one bitchin’ psychosexual thriller.

Venus (Alexis Kendra, who co-wrote and co-produced with Knautz, and was also production designer) lives alone in her apartment decked out like an exotic Arabian love nest, although, sadly, she has no lover to share it with. She spends her days taking ballet lessons, tickling the ivories at home, and drinking lots of red wine and smoking pot, while her nights are spent dolled up and zoning out, taking her clothes off at a strip club.

One of her private lap dances is for Brian (Woody Naismith), a handsome photographer, and recent widower. They strike up an immediate rapport, and the mutual attraction leads them straight to third base, and an enthusiastic home run. Venus is over the moon. Despite Brian’s emotional fragility, she feels she has found the one, and it is time to invest her everything, beginning with serving his favourite pasta dish and finding him that perfect keepsake. 

But the honeymoon period, though sweet, is very short. Before Venus can say “Aphrodite’s got nothin’ on me!” Brian has retreated, and suddenly Venus finds their communication has been reduced to short, sharp text messages. Worse still, she intercepts a voice message to Brian from another woman, Christine (Elizabeth Sandy), who sounds way too friendly.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.  

Jealousy rears its ugly head with the savage intent of a green cut snake, and Venus is on the warpath. Infatuated with Brian, but more importantly, obsessed with Christine’s invasion and the injurious repercussions it is having on her own psyche Venus swiftly descends into a delusional rage, hell bent on revenge.

Knautz also acted as cinematographer, and the movie looks sensational. Whilst embedded with a cool, sensual style, awash with colour and dynamic movement, the narrative, both in mise-en-scene and character, is compelling. Kudos to Alexis Kendra for her fantastic central performance - she’s in almost every scene - as she bravely rides the rollercoaster of emotions, laid bare, being thrown around the arena of love’s cruel intent. 

As the tagline warns, “Be careful who you get close to.” This is one bombshell with a very short fuse. Her Tinder account should read, “Danger UXB.”

Goddess Of Love screens as part of Melbourne’s Monster Fest, Sunday, November 29th, 3pm, Lido Cinema.

Tangerine

US | 2015 | Directed by Sean Baker

Logline: On Christmas Eve, two Los Angeles streetwalkers spend most of their time trying to find a rogue pimp to learn the truth of his cheating ways.

As refreshing as sherbet ricocheting off your tongue, dang! Tangerine is fresh and vibrant and funny as forever. I love a movie like this; a small, but beautiful present, that unwraps with perfect folds, the packaging glittering, the merchandise gleaming, happy endings all round!

Sin-Dee (Kitana Kiki Rodriguez) is a transgender motormouth. Her BFF, Alexandra, (Mya Taylor), another transgender, deals with it. But Sin-Dee has serious drama going on. She’s recently emerged from a stint in prison, and now she learns her pimp boyfriend, Chester (James Ransone), has been sleeping with a mangy “fish” (slang for woman). She’s livid, and she’s determined to track the cheating asshole and give him a piece of her mind, and probably a black eye too.  

It’s the desolate urban wilderness of West Hollywood, in the City of Angels, on Christmas Eve. A taxi driver, Razmik, has had his fare share of fallen angels. He needs some sexual relief, and his homosexual predilection is to give head to a good-looking trannie. He picks up a stunner, who calls herself Selena. But much to Razmik’s shock, she’s all woman.

Alexandra is handing out flyers for a small singing gig she’s doing that night, nearby. She needs as much support as she can muster. It’s not helping that Sin-Dee is on a mission. Soon enough Sin-Dee’s unruly antics are too much for Alexandra, her tolerance exhausted. She storms off.

Sin-Dee finds the blonde slut whom Chester has been breaking off, and, after yanking her from a filthy sex party motel dive, she hauls the bewildered girl around the streets, whilst she tracks down the other culprit. Meanwhile Razmik has learned of Sin-Dee’s return, his favourite mister-ress, and he’s prepared to risk his marriage to see her before Xmas! Everything comes to a head downtown at Donut Time.

Tangerine was the darling of the Sundance Film Festival at the beginning of the year, and it’s charming the pants and skirts off every audience it plays to. It’s an instant cult classic before it’s even got off the festival circuit. Shot on three iPhone 5S devices, using the $8 FiLMiC Pro app, with a clip-on anamorphic lens, it’s sensational looking, but it does the movie a disservice if you let that “lo-fi” spec become a gimmick, or cloud your appreciation. Sure, it’s impressive, and I’m sure it will inspire a lot of wannabe filmmakers, but if it wasn’t for director Baker and his co-writer, Chris Bergoch’s witty and mischievous screenplay, and the bang-on performances from the two amateur, but undeniably charismatic leads - not forgetting James Ransone’s hilarious turn at movie’s end - then Tangerine would simply sink in the glut of indie movies that swamp the scene each year, regardless of its cool tech-stylistic.

What I loved especially about Tangerine (the meaning of title is frivolous, but I love it just the same) is all the movie directors and films that are reflected and embraced. Some influences are obvious, others less so, but all in a lovely, unpretentious way. The camp chaos of Pedro Almodovar, the sarcasm and bitchiness of Greg Araki, the anarchic wit of Shane Meadows’ Small Time, the layered naturalism of Robert Altman, the magic hour vibe of Wong Kar-Wai and Christopher Doyle, the swagger and bravado of Doug Liman’s Swingers, and the dreamy summer antics of Evan Glodell’s Bellflower.  Such a melting pot of influences, simmered to perfection.

Tangerine is a sweet delight indeed; my favourite movie of this year’s Sydney Film Festival, and one of my favourites of the year. 

Black Souls

Anime Nere | 2015 | Italy | Directed by Francesco Munzi

Logline: Three brothers from a southern Italian crime family become embroiled in an escalating feud with another family.

Imbued with the same sombre tone and dark design of two American modern classics, Francis Ford Coppola’s The Godfather and Abel Ferrara’s The Funeral, comes this authentic tale of morality and despair from the tenebrous heart of rural Calabria where the ‘Ndrangheta have laid down the law beyond the law for decade upon decade. Black Souls is as powerful and disquieting as its title suggests.

Based on a novel by Gioacchino Criaco, it tells the story of three brothers who are trying to keep the wealthy dynasty together, but petty differences, and the unruly younger generation is proving difficult. The eldest, Luciano (Fabrizio Ferracane), wants to remain out of the business, so he can continue to enjoy his twilight years with his goats and, hopefully, his son, Leo (Guiseppe Fumo), who idolises the two charismatic younger brothers, staunch Luigi (Marco Leonard), and savvy Rocco (Peppino Mazzotta), the business head of the family.

Following an argument, Leo, the hot head, acts impetuously and recklessly, blasting the windows of a rival gang’s bar. The consequences are tragic, and as a result, the family is drawn into the bitter machinations of feudal revenge. But this kind of vengeance is never just black and white, there is always red, and it spills every which way.

Black Souls doesn’t re-invent the wheel, as there is simply no need. There is nothing new on parade, no clever sub-text, or political angle. It is this straightforward, rustic approach, but executed with panache and attention to authenticity, which places Black Souls upon the mantle of the modern classic. A study of violence begetting violence, of morality being crushed under the weight of darkest human nature, Black Souls is the Italian crime family tale we’ve been waiting for.

The movie boasts superb performances from the entire cast (faces with more character than a fine aged vino rosso), with stunning cinematography and production/wardrobe design; all deep shadowy hues, black leather, steel, and wool. The dialogue measured, the behavior slowly unraveling, the slow-burn tension creeping up. You know this is not going to end well, but just how the cards fall is Black Souls’ Ace of Spades. A most darkly rewarding surprise, indeed. 

Going Clear: Scientology and the Prison of Belief

US | 2015 | Directed by Alex Gibney

Logline: An in-depth look at the Church of Scientology, its history, its methods, and its effects on those who have been on the inside.

Basing his documentary on the book by Lawrence Wright, Gibney – an extremely talented filmmaker – was primarily interested in finding out why so many people, especially high profile celebrities, had joined this so-called religion. He ended up with a powerful, and ultimately very disquieting, exposé on the inner workings and devastating consequences of this complicated belief system that has seduced so many.

I went into this packed (some two-and-a-half thousand) Sydney Film Festival afternoon screening knowing a little about Scientology, but not a lot. I was chiefly interested in the Hollywood connection, which includes Tom Cruise and John Travolta as two of its long-term poster boys, and the science fiction background stemming from its founder, L. Ron Hubbard. What I learned was a real eye-opener.

In a nutshell, Hubbard, who had enjoyed success as a prolific author of mostly pulp science fiction beginning during the 1930s, served in the military for numerous years, then became involved in the occult, and, after during his second marriage, made the declaration "Writing for a penny-a-word is ridiculous. If a man really wants to make a million dollars, the best way would be to start his own religion.” Hubbard published his book on Dianetics: The Modern Science of Mental Health, which sold by the truckload, and subsequently, founded the Church of Scientology, with his book as its bible, and “auditing” (via his electrometer) as its chief practice.

Going Clear (which refers to the process in which its members rid themselves of the emotionally painful experiences of their past enabling them to live joyful lives) exhibits a very damning picture of Hubbard’s creation, and in particular shows David Miscavige, the Church’s Chairman of the Board of nearly thirty years, as a megalomaniacal sociopath (it doesn’t do any favours for Tom Cruise either). This is an organisation that prides itself on being a non-profit church, and as such, is tax-exempt. It has, however, become one of the wealthiest financial institutions in America, worth well over a billion dollars.

No here comes the big crunch … This is a “religion” that reveals to its members, only after they have already “invested” huge sums of money and ascended up to the higher levels of indoctrination, that seventy-five million years ago an evil galactic ruler, named Xenu, solved overpopulation by bringing trillions of people to Earth in DC-8 space planes, crashing them into volcanoes and nuking them. The souls of these dead space aliens were then captured and shown films of what human life should be like, including false ideas containing God, the devil and Christ. The alien spirits, known as thetans, inhabit our bodies, and Scientologists believe that if they rid themselves of these they will be healthier and will even gain special powers like mind-over-matter.

Apparently some Scientologists have spent more than $300k to gain this knowledge. 

By using a combination of fascinating archival footage, recreations, and candid interviews with key figures, including director Paul Haggis, actor Jason Beghe, and high-ranking Church officials Mike Rinder and Mary Rathbun, who have managed to prize themselves free of the sticky web that is the Church of Scientology, Gibney has constructed an altogether gripping and enlightening portrait and study on the dangers of intense faith. Notably, but not surprisingly, Tom Cruise and John Travolta declined to be interviewed for the documentary.

And herein lies the documentary’s most salient point; one of humankind’s most fallible traits is our inherent “loneliness” and fear of thinking for one’s self. Religion – faith – seems to be the answer, but devoting oneself to the doctrines of a religion and/or cult (and let’s be honest here, Scientology is not a religion) can lead to emotional vulnerability, psychological manipulation, and, ultimately, abuse and exploitation. The Church of Scientology blatantly manipulates and abuses people, emotionally, psychologically, fiscally, and even physically. There is no joy here, only a mask hiding fear. 

I’m inclined to make a disclaimer: I’m not about to compare Scientology to other religions or cults, which is, in itself, a huge can of worms. I know there are religions that condone murder and practice paedophilia, but I’m not inclined to discuss them. My opinion here is simply on Scientology, based on viewing the doco Going Clear.

What is heartening to learn is that the membership for the Church of Scientology is shrinking. Hopefully, as a result of this high profile doco, the IRS will re-consider their decision to allow the Church to remain tax-exempt. I hope the FBI will initiate a criminal investigation into the human trafficking. And, maybe, just maybe, one day the Church will implode under the weight of its audit files. However, it is highly unlikely Cruise or Travolta will ever turn their backs on Hubbard (who passed away in 1987), as their audit files would probably contain enough dark secrets to ruin half of Hollywood. But that’s another kettle of fish!

Going Clear is required viewing for anyone who is fascinated by the question of faith, and/or the insidious influence of cults, or for anyone has been involved either directly, or indirectly, with a cult or sect. It is essential viewing, period.

Going Clear: Scientology and the Prison of Belief screens as part of the 62nd Sydney Film Festival, Wednesday 10 June, 8:35pm – Event Cinema 4.

Slow West

2015 | UK/New Zealand | Directed by John Maclean

Logline: A young Scottish man has traveled to America to search for the older girl he loves, and is reluctantly befriended by an outlaw who serves as the lad’s protector.

Writer/director Maclean is a Scotsman who shot a black and white short, starring Michael Fassbender, on a mobile phone in 2009. He then made another short which won a Bafta. Slow West is his first feature, and it stars Fassbender, alongside a grown-up Kodi Smit-McPhee. It’s a very accomplished first feature that captures all the right elements of a Western.

Shot in the Canterbury region of New Zealand, doubling for the Mid-West frontier of America, and it serves the landscape well.  It’s an evocative picture, a sombre and reflective piece, perhaps a lost companion story to Jim Jarmusch’s Dead Man. Certainly there are many similarities, and the way Maclean’s narrative flows, the self-contained scenes, the study of violence and yearning.

Jay (McPhee) is sweet sixteen. On a horse he rides, naïve of the trouble he is trotting toward. Silas (Fassbender) intercepts the boy, and together they ride across hill and dale. Silas has a hidden agenda, he knows the girl, Rose Ross (Caren Pistorius) and her father John (Rory McCann) are fugitives, and wanted dead or … dead. Silas keeps the wanted flyer to himself.

Bounty hunters are on their trail, lead by Payne (Ben Mendelsohn, sporting a fine fur coat). It won’t be long before they’ve caught up with Jay and Silas, and there’ll be trouble.

There was a period when Westerns were the ciné du jour of Hollywood, but they’re far and few between these days. Slow West is not your average Western, it lingers and meanders, taking inspiration from the masters, such as Leone and Ford, but also carving its own style. Slow West is an Irish and New Zealand co-production, a curious combination for such a genre, I can’t think of any other Westerns that have emerged from those countries.

Slow West reverberates with a curious sense of humour, and a romantic longing. The cast is excellent, and once again Fassbender delivers all the right nuances. How he manages to do period and contemporary films so effortlessly is something rather special. Props to Caren Pistorius, making the smooth transition from television to cinema, who completely fooled me into thinking she was a genuine Scots beauty.  

Slow West will be too languid for some, but it rewards with a suitably violent pay-off, and harnesses an ending that is not quite what you’re expecting, which is always a good thing.

Slow West screens as part of the 62nd Sydney Film Festival, Monday 8 June, 6:15pm – Cremorne

Strangerland

2014 | Australia/Ireland | Directed by Kim Farrant

Logline: A couple that has moved to a remote outback town find themselves at wit’s end when their two teenage children go missing.

The debut feature from a former documenteur, and it’s a mystery-drama smothered in the dust-laden atmosphere of the great Australian red desert. It’s a classic tale of rebellion and betrayal, of innocence and promiscuity, of the wounded and the living, of the present and the missing. Strangerland won’t be every person’s cup of tea, but for those who like those delicate moments in between Strangerland offers a darkened bounty.

The Parkers, Catherine (Nicole Kidman) and Matthew (Joseph Fiennes) are struggling to hold on to their marriage. He is irritable and disinterested, she is frustrated and mournful, together they are depressed, but functioning. Their two children, Lily (Maddison Brown) and Tommy (Nicolas Hamilton), are a handful. Ten-year-old Tommy likes to wander the empty streets at night, and fifteen-year-old Lily yearns for sexual intimacy.

It is Lily’s prior behavior that has prompted the move from the city. She was involved with her schoolteacher. The local boys take advantage of her loose morals. One night Lily follows Tommy on one of his jaunts. Matthew watches them slink off, his contempt for his daughter leaving him devoid of responsible parenting.

The next morning they’ve vanished. The night has swallowed them. This drives a wedge between Catherine and Matthew and their ugly past rears its head, as local detective David Rae (Hugo Weaving) tries to make sense of the disappearance. 

With a brooding soundtrack from Keefus Ciancia and stunning cinematography from P.J. Dillon, Strangerland is infused with a resonant and mesmerising mise-en-scene. The heat-soaked imagery and sweaty indecision permeates the characters as they struggle within their emotional turmoil. Catherine slowly loses the plot, as Matthew begins to unravel, and both resort to bad habits.

The performances are top notch, especially Nicole Kidman, whose bravura display of naked vulnerability and cracked resilience is amongst the best work of her career, up with Dead Calm, To Die For, Dogville, and The Human Stain. Hugo Weaving, although in a fairly thankless role, still owns his scenes, he’s just one of those reliably watchable actors. Also props to the young actors, especially Maddison Brown, she’s definitely one to watch.

Echoing the untouchable Picnic at Hanging Rock, Strangerland is a mystery that becomes less about the actual mystery and more about the people close to it, dealing with the event. This is ultimately a sad story about a crumbling marriage, and how extraordinary pressure can create a dangerous force of human frailty.

Strangerland screens as part of the 62nd Sydney Film Festival, tonight, 6:30pm, Saturday 6 June, 11:30am, 7:30pm, & 8:30pm – State, Casula & Cremorne.

Deathgasm

2015 | New Zealand | Directed by Jason Lei Howden

Logline: Two teenage metalheads form a band, summon an evil entity, and then attempt to reverse the demonic chaos they’ve unleashed. 

Just when you thought it was safe to go back to that quaint hospital soap opera, there’s a howl and a screech … nek minnit, a heavy metal demon snaps your funny bone and tears your soul asunder! All hail Deathgasm! \m/

Brodie (Milo Cawthorne), a slightly geeky heavy metal fan, befriends Zakk (James Blake), a cooler version of himself. With a couple of Dungeons and Dragons nerds, Dion (Sam Berkley) and Giles (Daniel Crewsswell) onboard they quickly form a band, Deathgasm, and with the lure of a black hymn promising power and fortune, Brodie leads them into a hell on earth after an ancient evil, The Blind One, is summoned.

It takes spunky love interest, Medina (Kimberley Crossman), to give Brodie some balls and take the demonic bull by the horns. But first there’s Aeon (Andrew Laing) and a horde of Satanic worshipers and all-round nasty motherfuckers to deal with first. There’ll be hell to pay, and there will be blood. Lots of it.

If you like your horror-comedy splattered from head to foot, a la Peter Jackson’s Braindead then you’ll love this decidedly Kiwi gore riot. Writer/director Howden, a visual effects whiz, has made his first feature, and it’s a bonza! Hilarious performances, with notable cameos from veterans Andrew Laing and Cameron Rhodes, crackingly funny dialogue, OTT cartoon gore gags, and enough metal references to keep the diehards happy.

It’s been a wicked period for New Zealand horror, with several ripsnorters over the past year. Deathgasm is best enjoyed in the cinema with a full house, all hooting and hollering along with the foul-mouthed, longhaired louts on screen. These are anti-heroes worth rooting for.

Might I add, Deathgasm would play very well after Housebound (another Ant Timpson-produced comic gem) in a comedy-horror double-bill. Keep that in mind a little further down the track when you’re wondering what crowd-pleasers are required for that pizza, beer and bullets night with the mates and sheilas at home.

Like I said, all hail Deathgasm! \m/

Deathgasm screens as part of Freak Me Out in the 62nd Sydney Film Festival, tonight, 8:15pm & Sunday 7 June, 8:30pm – Event Cinema 8 & Dendy Newtown

Goodnight Mommy

Ich Seh, Ich Seh | 2014 | Austria | Directed by Veronika Franz & Severin Fiala

Logline: A mother has returned home from hospital, and her two young sons become determined to uncover the truth of her operation and her real identity.

In the thematic tradition of the great Euro-horrors of the 70s and 80s, but shot with the clean, minimalist compositional style of Urich Seidl (who is producer), this domestic nightmare of identity and (dis)trust is the delightfully dark creation of Seidl’s partner, Franz, and her documentary collaborator Fiala. Delving into a fantasy world that merges and blurs the realities of adult and child, an escalating paranoia and moral slide pushes the narrative toward a deeply disturbing dénouement.

Elias (Elias Schwarz) and his twin brother Lukas (Lukas Schwarz) enjoy the expansive rural property of their parents with a gorgeous lake and surrounding forest. They seemingly inhabit a nine-year-old’s very normal realm of playful exploration and pretend. But the reality is, their world is far from normal. The parents have divorced, and the mother (Susanne Wuest) has recently arrived home from the hospital, her face swathed in bandages. Just what has happened exactly is unsure, and will remain that way.

The boys become increasingly distrustful of their mother’s post-op behavior. She is far stricter, aloof, and very demanding of her own recuperation. The young boys determine that mummy dear will need to prove her identity to them. Reassurance is paramount. Problem is, mummy is very reluctant to delve into the recent past. As such, the boys take the pressing issue into their own mischievous and malevolent hands.

There’ll be tears before bedtime.

What an extraordinarily original screenplay, and directed with a consummate style. Wuest’s central performance of the mother is superb, and the two real-life twins effortlessly capture that innate pre-pubescent awkwardness and curiosity combined. There is only a clutch of other speaking parts; the entire movie is essentially played out between the mother and her boys. It’s a psychologically claustrophobic movie, which tightens its screw until the final scenes, and then releases, the embers of ruin scattering on the night breeze.

The movie has a twist, but what is so clever, is that even if you discover the twist early on, there’s still another that refuses to be exposed. Knowing the first conceit doesn’t upset the narrative or make the story any less powerful or creepy. Goodnight Mommy is a perfectly disquieting nightmare, playing on that age-old childhood terror of your parents being imposters, whilst delivering a steadily horrifying portrayal of a truly damaged psyche, and the gruesome consequences of harbouring secrets from the disturbed.

I See, I See is the English translation of the original German-language title, which suggests a sly play on a children’s lullaby, however the international Americanised title is altogether more chilling and resonant, and fits the movie like a latex glove.

Goodnight Mommy is released on Blu-ray Disc as part of their Accent Collection by Accent Film Entertainment, 20th April, 2016.

Drunk Stoned Brilliant Dead: The Story of the National Lampoon

US | 2015 | Directed by Douglas Tirola

Logline: The history of the controversial and influential American satirical company and its flagship magazine.

Taking its bastard cue from a snobbish academic publication, The Harvard Lampoon, a couple of socio-political cowboys created a rag that wiped the dirty ass of America and smeared it under its nose like a dirty Sanchez. The National Lampoon loved to shock and offend, that was its primary agenda, but its spine was very much its funny bone, and nothing was published unless it made its editors laugh.

Henry Beard and Doug Kenney were the mad men behind the Lampoon grin. Beard was a studious workaholic, Kenney was a creative genius. They were chalk and cheese, but together they were magic. They garnered a sensational team of talent, especially writers and illustrators, including P.J. O’Rourke and Michael O’Donoghue, and young Mike Reiss and Al Jean (who would go on to produce The Simpsons).

Outrageous wit, transgressive satire, filthy, racist, sexist, anti-Semitic jokes filled the pages of the magazine, along with all manner of political degradation. This is what National Lampoon prided itself on, and it existed during a period when there was nothing else quite like it. This was the late 60s and the 70s. In the 80s the magazine began to experience trouble, and more so in the 90s. By the new millennium the Internet had pretty much ruined the party for everyone.

When The Lampoon decided to incorporate a live show it recruited numerous performers from Second Avenue, chiefly John Belushi, Chevy Chase, Christopher Guest, Bill Murray, Harold Ramis, and Gilda Radner. Later, Saturday Night Live pilfered the lot of them, much to the magazine editors chagrin. Later the magazine was seduced by cinema, and the first of several Lampoon movies emerged becoming instant cult favourites: Animal House, Caddyshack, and, of course, National Lampoon’s Vacation.

This is one hell of a fascinating documentary. If only the walls of the chaotic animal house that was the Lampoon’s offices could talk. Never mind, we’ve got this doco and numerous survivors to tell their tales and spill the fruity beans!

Tirola’s snappy pace and the cartoon style elements that punctuate the narrative add much colour and flavour to the documentary. The archival footage is hilarious, and the portfolio of mischievous artwork that graced the Lampoon covers.

Drunk, frequently. Stoned, oh, definitely. Brilliant, that goes without saying. Dead, well, some of the key players are, but the Lampoon legacy lives on. For anyone remotely interested in American satirical comedy, this is essential viewing. Oh, and Rest In Peace Doug Kenney, who “slipped while looking for a place to jump.”

Drunk Stoned Brilliant Dead is screenings as part of the 62nd Sydney Film Festival, Fri 5 June, 8:45pm & Mon 8 June, 2:15pm – Event Cinemas 9

Ex Machina

UK | 2015 | Directed by Alex Garland

Logline: A computer programmer is selected to participate in testing the human qualities of a prototype android with Artificial Intelligence.

Alex Garland is a clever fellow. I don’t like all of what he’s done in the past, but I admire his storytelling skills. I loved his novel The Beach, and I really like the first halves of 28 Days Later and Sunshine (both original screenplays). I’ve not seen his adaptation of Never Let Me Go, but I thoroughly enjoyed his screenplay for Dredd, and, now, I adore Ex Machina. Yup, I’ll even go one step further, I have a crush on a robot in a movie. There, I said it. 

Ex Machina is Garland’s directorial debut and it is a stunning piece of work, all mood and ambience, suggestion and restraint. It drips with a seductive science fiction premise, full of literary references, drenched in atmosphere, the vibe is lush and elegant, hard, smooth, and yet beautifully fragile. Garland will be hard-pressed to come up with a sophomore effort better than this sleek, beautiful machine.

Caleb (Domhnall Gleeson) is a young computer programmer working at the world’s largest Internet search engine company, Bluebook. He wins an in-house competition and is flown to a secluded property in the (Norwegian) mountains, where his boss, the genius CEO, Nathan (Oscar Isasac), lives as a recluse, apart from his immaculate housemaid Kyoko (Sonoya Mizuno). 

Caleb is to take part in a special testing and evaluation process, chiefly the Turing test, in order to ascertain whether Nathan’s prototype A.I., in the form of a fembot called Ava (Alicia Vikander), can pass muster as a human, in terms of its/her emotional and intellectual abilities. Caleb and Ava form and immediate bond, whilst Nathan observes their interaction through surveillance cameras.

The title alone is a brilliant play. The Greek phrase “deus ex machina” (god from the machine) refers to a plot device where a difficult problem is miraculously solved by the contrived intervention of some other event or by a character. By removing the “god”, the title implies that the A.I. progresses toward singularity, or transcends its machine trappings, and in Ex Machina, Nathan is playing God and Ava is his muse.

The three central performances, especially those of mischievous Isaac and sensual Vikander, are superb. The production design by Mark Digby, and the striking use of special effects (chiefly the work on Ava and Kyoko) is exceptional. The ambient music, credited to Geoff Barrow and Ben Salisbury, is excellent (reminding of the work of Carbon Based Lifeforms), as is the Rob Hardy’s pristine cinematography.

I found it hard to fault this movie. The ethereal, dreamy atmosphere, combined with its sombre, even ominous tone is similar to Spike Jonze’s wonderful Her, a perfect companion piece. Ex Machina is definitely one of my very favourite movies of the year. 

Mad Max: Fury Road

2015 | US | Directed by George Miller

Logline: After escaping the clutches of a fascist leader, a desert survivalist teams up with a rogue and her cargo, and together they attempt to outrun their brutal pursuers.

After the red dust has settled, the pounding drums and shredding guitar have quieted, the turbine engines have wound down, and the machine gun magazines have been exhausted, we can finally marvel, ponder and chew on George Miller’s post-apocalyptic opera. It’s been a long time coming, a long trek across the desert, and now it’s time to wrestle with Miller’s magnus opus.

We’d been praying that he was out there, somewhere, in the Wasteland, the Road Warrior, “Mad” Max Rockatansky, the ex-highway patrolman, whose life was torn to shreds when a ruthless gang ran down his wife and baby daughter as they tried despretely to escape. Those were in the early days of the collapse. But it’s been many years now. Max’s patrol car bears little resemblance to the Interceptor that he once used as a lawman. Now, in the stark, unforgiving desert beyond the ruined cities, Max’s souped-up vehicle is his only anchor, his battered refuge, his metal shell.

A two-headed lizard for breakfast, scouting the horizon, and boom, the War Boys are upon him, chasing him down a storm, trussing and gagging him as blood fodder for grotesque Immortan Joe (Hugh Keays-Bearne, Toecutter in the original Mad Max) and his fascist kingdom. But Max squirms free, and in the ensuing chaos winds up in an unlikely tryst with Furiosa (Charlize Theron), a hard-as-nails woman with a chip on her shoulder, and the scars to prove it.

Furiosa has the King’s wives as willing captives, all of them young and flawless creatures, swathed in muslin, savouring the emancipation, all with very silly names; The Splendid Angharad (Rosie Huntington-Whiteley), Toast the Knowing, (Zoë Kravitz [Lenny and Lisa Bonet's daughter]), Capable (Riley Keogh [Elvis Presley's grandchild), The Dag (Abbey Lee), and Cheedo the Fragile (Courtney Eaton). Later another model-turned-actor, Megan Gale, makes an appearance, as Valkryie, in even less threads. 

Mad Max: Fury Road is a chase movie, plain and simple; for two hours Immortan Joe and his circus pirates pursue Max and Furiosa, mayhem and destruction spilling out over the sand and rock in outrageous fashion. It’s an utterly exhilarating experience, for this is a unique piece of cinema, a $100m action extravaganza painted in bold and vivid strokes that looks plucked straight from the lurid pages of that glorious science-fantasy magazine Metal Hurlant (Heavy Metal). It appears the work of French comic book artist Moebius and the concepts of maverick Chilean visionary Alejandro Jodorowsky has certainly influenced the production designers. Miller actually worked closely with a UK comic book artist, Brendan McCarthy, on the movie’s storyboards, before the screenplay was even complete, such was the visual importance of the movie in terms of its raw cinematic power.

Indeed Fury Road works best on the most immediate audio-visual level. The sound design and Junkie XL’s percussive, bullhorn score punctuates the mise-en-scene with stylised aggression, while Miller's fellow veteran, and another legend, John Seale’s cinematography is absolutely stunning (If Seale doesn't win the Oscar next year, there'll be blood). 

So is Fury Road a sequel or a re-boot? It's apparently set in 2060. Perhaps it takes place between The Road Warrior and Beyond Thunderdome? Ultimately it's not that important. Miller places Max's tragic family origin as a haunting, reoccurring flashback, and for the trainspotters there's one iconic occular image lifted from the original movie and placed in a nightmare blink-and-you-miss-it moment. Fury Road exists as new blood on old sand. 

The sub-plot involving Furiosa’s agenda to return to her childhood Green Place isn’t that compelling, and the movie gets weighed down in a mud of bonding issues and identity crises about 2/3rds of the way across the barren landscape. Most importantly it's the narrative minimalism of the first Mad Max movie, and the spectrum of choreographed violence saturating The Road Warrior sequel that Fury Road demands most (and mostly delivers on). But if Miller had pulled the reigns in on the running time Fury Road would’ve packed an even greater punch.

The rich atmosphere and  extraordinary stunt work aside, Charlize Theron owns the picture. Just an oil-streaked sidelong glance from the cab of the War Rig into the rear-view mirror is enough of an iconic moment to last a decade. Bring on Mad Max: Furiosa! Hardy’s Max is very much a middle man, and it feels like Hardy is in a kind limbo, as he looks unintentionally bewildered most of the time. Admittedly it’s a real shame Mel Gibson wasn’t able to reprise his most famous role, and despite Hardy’s solid thespian laurels his delivery has none of the subtle angst or menace of Gibson’s, but at least Hardy concedes that Fury Road isn’t his movie.

There’s no doubt Fury Road will roar into the future as an instant cult classic, but I’m not about to slap the “masterpiece” decal on its bonnet. Definitely a thundering, cracking piece of cinema, and it's a very pretty piece to boot, I just wish now that Miller had been even more game, and shot the movie with no dialogue whatsoever (silencing some of those lesser performers). Hell, now THAT would be an expressionist, purist cinema-as-art statement like no other.

NB: The movie wasn’t shot in 3D, but post-converted, however I’m looking forward to a second viewing at IMAX in 3D so I can soak in the movie as pure cinema rollercoaster and not be concerned with following the story. 

Bad Turn Worse

2013 | US | Directed by Simon & Zeke Hawkins

Logline: A teen, his girlfriend, and buddy find themselves in a world of trouble after one of them steals from his boss and the other two become accessories. 

You can say the Hawkins brothers’ debut feature is a poor man’s Blood Simple, but that would be doing it a disservice. Sure, this Texan neo-noir doesn’t play anything down we haven’t seen before, and it doesn’t play with the power of cinema narrative in the same magical way as Joel and Ethan Coen did with their debut feature, but what Simon and Zeke do is cement themselves as efficient and compelling storytellers, and, most importantly, more than capable of producing a film that captures the atmospheric essence of the genre.

B.J. (Logan Huffman), a brazen opportunist with an arrogant head to boot, steals twenty grand from his boss, Giff (Mark Pellegrino), whom he takes for an idiot. Unfortunately, B.J.’s buddy Bobby (Jeremy Allen White) spills the beans when Giff reveals his true colours as a sadistic thug. Next thing you know B.J., Bobby, and B.J.’s gal Sue (Mackenzie Davis), who shared in the reckless spending of Giff’s cash, have fallen foul of Giff’s master plan to get his moolah back.

Before you can say, “Finger lickin’, cotton’ pickin’, beer swillin’” Bobby’s getting his end in, B.J.’s eavesdroppin’, and Giff has the three teens caught up in the spokes of some dirty big time thievin’ from Giff’s boss Big Red (William Devane). But everyone has an ulterior agenda, including Sheriff Shep (Jon Gries), who spells out a sly warning to young Bobby.

Penned by some dude by the name of Dutch Southern, yup, the movie’s original title (during its festival circuit) was We Gotta Get Outta This Place. Not the most inspired title, but essentially that is what B.J., Bobby, and Sue want, and what drives them. Sue and Bobby plan to go to university, whilst B.J. just wants to get the hell out of dodge. He doesn’t appreciate Sue’s literary passion, all those books with their fancy plots. Even Bobby finds Sue academic reach higher than he’s able to climb, but he’ll try and get a leg over if he can.

In one of the opening scenes Sue is in a café with Bobby discussing Jim Thompson, the legendary noir author. It’s a casual reference, which comes full circle at movie’s end. Later, in Sue’s bedroom, B.J. tries to seduce Sue, but ends up antagonising her, even threatening her in a passive aggressive way. If there’s a notable flaw with Bad Turn Worse, other than the second half not quite delivering on the danger and allure of the first half, it’s that the characters are almost too rich for the sauce they’re stewin’ in. And William Devane simply isn’t given enough screen time as the bathrobe-blazin’ big boss!

But hey, the lead performances, especially Huffman, Davis, and Pellegrino, are worth their weight in gold. Bad Turn Worse satisfies like a smoke after sex. Just don’t call it this noir a Cuban.  

Bad Turn Worse is released on Blu-ray & DVD by Accent Film Entertainment on May 20th. 

It Follows

US | 2014 | Directed by David Robert Mitchell

Logline: After having sex a teenager is stalked by a relentless, malevolent presence, and she seeks the solace and support of her friends whom try to aid her in stopping it. 

The retro vibe is so hip right now. And I love it. I love the old school feel, but I don’t necessarily like that everyone else loves it, but that’s just the cynic in me fighting for cool detachment. My favourite nightmare movies of the past few years have all channeled a particular retro atmosphere. Some filmmakers have deliberately had their movies take place in a period setting (The House of the Devil), while others have immersed the narrative with an 80s-influenced electronic score (Starry Eyes) or 70s-style languid pace (Honeymoon).

It Follows breaks numerous rules and unfolds in some kind of alternate reality that mirrors the real world, albeit with cracks spreading across its surface. The sensational score is definitely of the old school horror pulse, but while the characters’ fashion (clothes/hairstyles) echoes the 80s and 90s, the technology and production design is here, there, and everywhere (nowhere). Contemporary and classic cars pepper the streets, a prologue character uses a mobile phone, but they never feature again. Another character reads a book from a tiny clam-design electronic book invented entirely for the movie.

The movie is set in the desolate suburban streets of Detroit, with abandoned abodes and derelict apartment buildings littering the landscape. It is this haunted dome of existence that hangs over the movie providing a most distinct tone and mood. Along with Starry Eyes, it is one of the most atmospheric and curious horror movies of recent years. It straddles an uneasy relationship with the audience, pulling them in to the plight of its lead Jay (Maika Monroe), but never allowing the viewer to completely empathise with her. There is an aloofness that permeates the movie, a stain that lingers long after the last ambiguous image fades.

It is this ambiguity that gives It Follows much of its edge. There is frustration too, lots of it. But this is a movie about trust and betrayal, about sex and death, about the spectre of disease; a plight we understand as STDs, an epidemic we know as AIDS. The monster of It Follows, the creeping unknown, the evil that stalks, is manifest as naked hideous flesh, both strangers and loved ones. It is a nightmare most immediate.

Jay and her friends have no idea what is terrorising them, but the modern audience does. It infuses It Follows with a deep-rooted allegory, but at the same time Mitchell’s mise-en-scene weaves out of any pigeonhole clasp, out of any academic treatise. Of the cast Maika Monroe and Lili Sepe deliver the stand-out performances. But the real star of the movie is the darkly throbbing, oneiric soundtrack from Rich Vreeland (credited as Disasterpeace).

Continuity is a hot mess, and while I didn't find the movie frightening, I did find it undeniably creepy, especially in the first half when Jay is coming to grips with her terrible predicament. It possesses some genuinely grotesque imagery, and the resonant nightmare vibe overrides most of my quibbles. Jay's neighbourhood reminds horror fans of fictional Haddonfield, but this is Detroit, the crumbling infected and terminally afflicted. Any horror movie set here is home and hosed. It Follows owns the nightmarish loneliness of Detroit. 

Island Of Lost Souls

US | 1932 | Directed by Erie C. Kenton

Logline: After being rescued at sea, then unceremoniously dumped on an island, a man is welcomed by the isle’s deranged resident, a scientist experimenting on the genetic mutations of human with animal.

H.G. Wells novel has been made, notably, three times: as a trashy vehicle for Burt Lancaster in 1977 as The Island of Dr. Moreau, in the notorious hot mess that was Richard Stanley’s ill-fated attempt in 1996 under the same title, and, most impressively, in this pre-Hays Code tenebrous nightmare under the original book's title. A rarity, until Criterion Collection issued a superb edition a few years back, this adaptation by Waldemar Young and Phlip Wylie might not stick closely to Wells’ book, but it captures much of the essence, and it is easily the most unnerving of the three.

Dr. Moreau (played with wicked delight by Charles Laughton) is the obsessed surgeon, having established himself as some kind of deity. He lives in a large villa which he shares with his man servant Montgomery (Arthur Hohl) and his most prized possession, the panther woman, Lota (Kathleen Burke). Lota is, in fact, the only female on the entire island. The rest of the inhabitants are Moreau’s tribe of half-human mutants, abominations in the eyes of anyone other than the lunatic doctor. But soon enough his lunatic creations will take over the asylum, known to them as the House of Pain.

It’s a lean film, running at around 70 minutes, and told with great narrative efficiency. The stunning monochrome cinematography from Karl Struss plays with elements of expressionism, casting peculiar and striking shadows across the actors’ bodies and faces. The excellent production design and art direction capture a palpable sense of claustrophobia, whilst the jungle plants creep and probe from every corner.

But it is the special effects makeup that is the real star here; Wally Westmore, with Charles Gemora, created some truly astounding stuff. Unfortunately much of it hides in the shadows or is only glimpsed at, as the camera rarely lingers - but on one or two occasions a beastly visage lurches. In the Criterion Collection a bonus gallery of original make-up stills showcases just how exceptional was the work. Bela Legosi plays one of the tribe, the Sayer of the Law. You can recognise him from his eyes.

In the current climate, with science progressing in leaps and bounds, the basic concept of Moreau’s; the grafting of animal anatomy onto humans, and the genetic slicing of homo sapiens with any number of animal species is becoming less and less phantastic, and more and more like a waking nightmare! The dark carnal desires, however, remain unchanged. How would H.G. Wells relate to the shapes of things that have come?!

In a recent interview Richard Stanley stated that he is moving forward with another attempt at bringing H. G. Wells’ science-fiction-horror tale to the big screen, but this time completely on his own terms. He reckons it will be “X” rated, a very dark fantasy movie for adults. If he maintains the moral grey area and the dense shadows of this seminal horror flick, and keeps the practical effects to the fore, it will be a strong contender for best version yet.  

Wyrmwood: Road of the Dead

Australia | 2014 | Directed by Kiah Roache-Turner

Logline: A family man is thrust into a desperate quest to find his sister, kidnapped by a mad scientist, and battles a landscape littered with zombie mayhem.

Like a blistered sore oozing pus in the scorching sun, the blazing star that is Wyrmwood infects the screen with a virulent and ferocious chomp, tearing off strips and barking like a rabid, fetid dog. The most entertaining zombie flick since Zack Snyder’s re-boot of the Romero cult classic eleven years ago, and, let’s face it, there aren’t too many worth singling out from the horde of the last decade. Aussie brothers, Kiah and Tristan, have fashioned a kick-arse vehicle to showcase their talents. Their love of genre filmmaking, and their guerrilla tenacity has paid off handsomely.

Barry (Jay Gallagher) finds his family life thrown into chaos and wrenched from him in tragedy as the dawn of a zombie apocalypse spills its poisonous rays. With his wife Annie (Catherine Terracini) and daughter Meganne (Meganne West) they don gas masks and make their escape. But the infection gets its dirty clutches on Meganne, and subsequently Annie. Barry is forced to end their misery, and feed his own.

Later, amidst the blood and scrub, Barry meets Benny (Leon Burchill), and the two quickly form a mutual respect, born from desperation. They hold up in a barn with a couple more survivors and discover a crucial angle to their predicament: zombie blood and breath is flammable. Since gasoline no longer works they use the rank stench from a zombie’s mouth to power their 4WD. And off they go to find Barry’s sister Brooke (Bianca Bradey), who, unbeknownst to them, is trussed up and gagged in a makeshift lab, the pet project of one very deranged scientist.

Wyrmwood’s key selling point and adopted tagline - “Mad Max meets Dawn of the Dead” - is apt, but the keener horrorphiles will champion the movie’s big nod to Peter Jackson’s seminal flicks, Bad Taste and Braindead. From the remarkable DIY ingenuity (the filmmakers took four years to shoot the feature, just as Jackson did with Bad Taste) to the striking cinematography (the vivid, processed palette very reminiscent of Braindead), Wyrmwood moves at a cracking pace, and the strong look and visceral edge commands much of the movie’s appeal.

While the score throbs with a vengeance, the special effects - a combo of CGI and practical (a wrist snapping is a highlight) – prove most excellently handled, it is the cast that shine on; the three charismatic leads, all with impressive acting chops often overlooked in a low-budget, action-orientated piece. There’s a scene-stealing performance from Luke McKenzie as The Captain, however, it must be noted, Bianca Bradey’s eyes deserve their own separate billing, such is their intensity and the way the camera fetishises them! Jay Gallagher is an Ash/Mad Max combo, whilst Leon Burchill’s Aboriginal comic relief provides the movie with some of its most memorable, and funniest moments, especially the hilarious beer bottle scene (the whole sequence of which reminded me of the superb Kiwi short Zombie Movie).

Unlimited gun mags aside, and injecting their own furious take on the zombie sub-genre with a suitably ludicrous science fiction plot device Wyrmwood straddles the instant cult classic mantle with confidence, the kind of party flick that demands to be consumed with as much beer, pizza, and blunts, as you can scoff. Hell, I’m keen as mustard to get back out on that gore-streaked two-lane blacktop with Barry and Brooke!

Birdman (or The Unexpected Virtue Of Ignorance)

USA/Canada | 2014 | Directed by Alejandro González Iñárritu

Logline: A once successful movie superhero seeks serious consideration with a Broadway play, but is harassed and ridiculed in the days leading up to the play’s opening.

Brilliant, inspired, refreshing, witty. They’re just labels. So fucking what? It’s just my opinion, maybe backed up by a few comparisons. That’s what I do. I’m a critic. I share my two cents worth on a movie, and maybe you’ll see it, maybe you won’t. In the case of this blackly comic stab in fame’s dark heart, this delightfully vindictive shadow cast across the stage of recognition and success, the labels I throw at it are genuine and heartfelt. I do hope you see The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance, or Birdman, as it's more commonly known. This is easily one of the highlights of my year’s ciné calendar, and could very well take out top prize. The bar has been raised high. But not Icarus high.

Riggan Thomson (Michael Keaton) has seen better days. He’s pushing sixty and he’s taken on an ambitious project: directing and starring in a Broadway adaptation of Raymand Carver’s What We Talk About When We Talk About Love. His previous acting incarnation was a superhero, Birdman, which was huge on the big screen, four movies worth. But that was twenty years ago. Now Riggan has more flab than feathers. His cocky superhero alter ego is pecking his mind from deep within his psyche. He’s got a replacement actor, Mike Shiner (Edward Norton), who is threatening to sink the production. His ex-wife, Sylvia (Amy Ryan), is loitering with intent, his lover, Laura (Andrea Riseborough), drops a bombshell, and his grumpy rehab daughter, Sam (Emma Stone), is none-to-happy in the production assistant’s role. All he needs now is a theatre critic with her pen up her ass. Cue: Tabitha (Lindsay Duncan), on the end barstool, she’ll do nicely, thank you.

Along with fellow Mexican co-writers Nicolas Giacobone and Armando Bo, and American Alaxander Dinelaris, Iñárritu has fashioned an extraordinarily rich and vibrant portrait and study. It is a look at the fragility of the self, and a plucking of the machinations behind the fear of failure, and the hunger for respect. It is a satire of celebrity and the cult of personality. Birdman is a tale of spiritual evolution, a rollercoaster ride through the narrow, and well-worn corridors of theatre production and artistic endeavour. It is painted in a magic realism that gives its tinsel a particularly memorable sheen.

At the risk of sounding like a confounded cliché, this is the role Michael Keaton was born to play. But Keaton doesn’t chew the scenery, nor does he hog the limelight. This is almost an ensemble piece, with Keaton’s troubled super-anti-hero, quietly nudging everyone out of the way. Top props go to Emma Stone’s wily chip-on-her-dad’s-shoulder, probably her best performance to date. Ed Norton’s nicotine-slapped arrogance is a dark delight, and in contrast Naomi Watts, as anxious, fellow thespian, Lesley, provides the light relief. Zach Galifianakis’s camp Jake is the icing on the cake.

The superb performances aside, my hat is thrown off to Iñárritu and his loyal cinematographer, Emmanuel Lubeski, who’ve really achieved something astounding. The camerawork (made to look like one very, very long take) is amazing. The structure of the narrative – both visually and symbolically – is a cinematic joy to behold.

My first review of the year, and it’s an instant cult classic, bristling with quotes, searing with truths, floating on fantasy, finally set free by the rapture that is one’s soul torn asunder by love and acceptance. It’s an acquired taste, like eggs on toast with vegemite, and it doesn’t really matter how you interpret the ending, but that you feel it. Birdman is the triumphant gratification of human frailty.

Exit stage left.