There are two different types of horror movie geek. There are those whose requirements include exposed flesh, buckets of bodily fluids, unearthed crimson bathed organs, and a handful of idiotic dialogue. The other breed of gore hound wishes to find a message underneath the above listed requirements (save the bad dialogue). And since I consider myself one of the latter, I have no problem correcting anyone and everyone who is asking the question, "How much thought can there be in fueling a story of a merciless, machete wielding, teenager skewering, malformed sociopath who fell off the short bus?" -- Plenty. If a horror movie works, it works on a subconscious level. If it doesn't work, it is because the true art and message behind the film is not coming through. And unfortunately, the reason why this specific genre has received a bad wrap over the years is because of piles of cinematic carrion like this Friday the 13th pre-se-reboot-quel.
Iconic horror villains need motivation. They need a reason to disembowel, dismember, maim, and kill. Despite popular belief, they do not act on psychosis alone. If they do not carry out their duties with motivation, they add fuel to the horror-hating fire. The biggest problem with this latest Friday the 13th installment has to be it's villain's motivation (more accurately--a lack thereof). "Did Jason ever have motivation?", I hear a nasally squeak punch through from the back of the room, the section reserved for the everyday movie viewer. To which I respond -- Technically no. His mother did -- avenging the death of her son who drowned at the feet of horny, misdirected camp counselors. But when Jason came back for the sequels, his murderous drive slowly morphs from mommy issues to a territorial problem before dissipating completely (a common path taken by sequels). And since he has no motivation, it becomes easier to root for the dismemberment of one-dimensional, drunken, drug addled, sex craved teenagers and not question it. It's an inevitability that is accompanied by fake breasts and inane dialogue, and we have been fortunate enough to view it through the cracks of our nervous fingers.
Now that Friday the 13th has put me on the gore train without any message, I might as well enjoy myself, right? And so I note that Derek Mears says more with one eyeball than any other Jason before him, a chance to show a perfectly engineered pair of boobies is not wasted in death, and Jason's use of campers as bait really does make for a satisfying slaughter (an unfortunate slut is dangled over a campfire, trapped in her sleeping bag -- Oh the symbolism!).
There are life lessons hidden behind the masks and butcher knives of our favorite movie killers; they have a universal agenda. But even when the gold hearted virgin gets it in the end, where in lies the message? The good don't even stand a chance now? I understand the don't screw/ don't partake in recreational use of mind altering substances/ don't ignore a child in need morals, but damn, I can't even breathe now? According to Marcus Nispel and Michael Bay (die already!), as long as Jason's around, no one's safe. It kind of makes me wish they had killed him properly the first time.
The amount of directors that practice the autuer style of film making has become frighteningly scarce. No longer is the medium of film a privileged source of artistic expression for those who are crazy enough to man the helm. It is in this dismal detection that movies with no compelling mise-en-scene are delivered again and again like some sort of possessed vegetation that keeps reproducing. That is why Henry Selick comes as a breath of fresh air. The man is consistent in producing works that carry such intricate detail within the frame that I have to question his anal retentive sanity.
However...
Whereas Coraline is one intensely beautiful piece of work that will hold up next to Selick’s previous animated wonders, it suffers from an extreme case of faddish meticulousness.
No one can deny that Coraline is one magnificent piece of animated cinema. There are moments that even border on superhuman. To try and deconstruct how one man can direct a team of people to create such a mind-blowing outcome is beyond my comprehension. The film is stunning. And even though the visual complexity of this movie is unlike anything you have ever seen, it comes on like a wave of saturation that your brain might not be able to handle. Speaking as an admirer of aesthetically intense cinema, I had a hard time not thinking "Wow, I wonder how they did that", every few minutes. It became less about telling an interesting (and frightening) tale and more about showing off what the LAIKA production house is capable of with the right director and the right amount of money.
Never establishing well enough its target audience, Coraline would have benefitted from going full force one way or the other. The film is by no means a children's movie, nor is it frightening enough for adults. Knowing full well what Selick is capable of, I would have liked to have seen the man really stretch himself to his fear limit (the largest bit of disturbing imagery came from a very supple bust line, courtesy of Miss Forcible). And even though I posses a never ending thirst for all things horrific and terrifying, I can recognize the fact that the movies marketed to children when I was young undoubtedly scared the hell out of each and every one of us-- one could even make the connection that these films spawned my obsession with the macabre. Since I was fortunate enough to grow up in the same time period that produced gems such as Labyrinth and The Dark Crystal, I have a high standard for movies geared towards those vexatious little vermin we refer to as "children". And whereas Coraline won't make your kids soil themselves, at least it will get them to shut up for an hour and a half.
When did the mythology of the undead become null and void in the creation process of vampire cinema? The folklore behind these creatures is so deep with subtext and symbolism that one would think that they would be able to be put the “vampire” into any atmosphere and have its message radiate throughout the landscape with resounding fear. Lost Boys II: The Tribe proves that even the most sacred of monsters can in fact be tainted by a generation that carries a lust for extreme sports and a short attention span.
If I were to peel back the layers of carrion that are used to create this hideous display of uninspiring cinema (and I use that term reluctantly as this droll should not even be in the same category), I would more than likely find enough contrived dialogue, nonsensical plot points, and unmotivated cinematic techniques to cover a barren wall with straight to DVD releases. This thing has it all; orphaned teenagers, unmotivated T n’ A (is T n’ A every truly motivated?), a cast constructed of look-a-likes and the overly eager who can’t act to save their lives, and a fist full of cool for cooless sake.
I would like to know what part of any of this sounds appealing, because somebody was feverishly praying for a group of midnight surfing, movie quoting, Mountain Dew fueled bros turned vampires to be lead through a series of improbable scenarios while documenting it on their handheld JVC camcorder. If this isn’t enough to satisfy you, there is and extremely unnerving amount of statutory rape promotion. Apparently age doesn’t matter when you’re partner is immortal. He has enough experience for both of you. High Five!
The original Lost Boys took a timeless monster and made it contemporary, all the while keeping the theme of the vampire alive within the frame. The uncomfortable transition from adolescence to adulthood rings throughout the piece, where as in the sequel, no message is present to try and make this tale worth saving. I would like to see this movie as its own entity; as if its predecessor didn’t exist, but if it stands on its own, and the message is there, I’m having a hard time sifting through all the waste to find it.
In this celebration of the proclaimed “worst director ever”, Burton has found that character depth and connection are better substitutes for quirky aesthetics. True, the film is littered with Burton’s twisted perceptible fingerprints, but rather than concentrate on overbearing visuals, Burton has offered something different in Ed Wood -- well rounded characters. Granted, he had luck with the story and the characters as their tale is a true part of cinematic history, but his pension and empathy for the rejected has never been stronger.
Coming from a background of rejection himself, Burton’s connection with outcasts and oddities has always been the drive behind his films, and for the first time since Edward Scissorhands, these people actually fit in with their surroundings. A wide-eyed visionary with a passion for angora and women’s underwear, an elderly morphine addicted horror-film legend with a covet for the glory days, an apathetic scream queen hostess with pencil drawn eyebrows and an intimidating bust line -- these are the people that belong in a Tim Burton film. His universe makes for a perfect playground for such uniqueness.
Credit for this feature cannot be given to Burton alone. The reunion with Depp has created a brilliantly lovable protagonist, and Landau gives a heart wrenching performance as the washed up Bela Lugosi. Together, they create a duo that is as originally perfect as any I have ever seen. The supporting cast including a gender confused Bill Murray and a impatient, fame seeking Sarah Jessica Parker only enhances the connection between audience and character. These weirdos are as lovable as they are charismatic.
At it’s heart, Ed Wood is a story that reminds us that our dreams are worth following. We may lose faith along the way, especially after what may seem like endless rejection from unappreciative annotators, but we can’t crumble into a pile of self-loathing. We must not compromise our character or who we are as imaginative beings in order to satisfy the masses. I can’t think of too may other directors that are as familiar with this concept as Tim Burton. Even though this should be the film that he is remembered for, it won’t be. It’s too solid of a movie. And even at it’s weirdest, it never reaches that forseen level of obscurity we have come to anticipate from such a director. No, at best, Ed Wood will be a nice piece of trivia for future generations. Which is unfortunate for Burton because he won’t ever receive the credit he deserves as a serious director. His continuance to see how far he can stretch people’s tolerance for the strange and abstruse will always be compared to his earliest efforts. And when he does give another solid performance as a character driven director, people will only recognize the film’s lack of aesthetic curiousness.
In the early years of cinema there was a Russian filmmaker by the name of Lev Kuleshov who set out to prove the usefulness and effectiveness of film editing by juxtaposing images together and recording audience’s emotional reactions. The audience brought their own emotional reaction to the sequence of juxtaposed images of a man inter cut with different objects such as a bowl of soup, a coffin, etc. Although the man’s expression never changed, audiences swore up and down that his mood changed with each inter cut picture. Quantum of Solace takes this basic principle of montage and waves a large middle finger at it.
Luckily, the entire movie isn’t saturated with rapid editing; just the action sequences. In this ridiculous show of visual ADD, it is difficult to bring your own emotional reaction to what you’re seeing. Not to mention the fact that the geography of the scene becomes quite confusing. I just saw an axe go through a foot, but who did that foot belong to? Not only does this style of editing detach you from the scene, it reminds you that you are watching a movie. It’s hard to become fully engaged in Quantum’s story or characters.
Spastic action edits aside, Quantum of Solace has a lot of potential to go down in history as one of the better Bond films. It has everything in line to make a successful Bond film including explosions, high speed chases, tongue and cheek humor, sexy Bond girls, and a global domination conspiracy. Our hero, on the other hand, has become a bit one dimensional. Unfortunately for Bond fans, 007 has become a superhuman shell of a character whose basic motivation of revenge is never truly justified (especially in the final scene where his efforts lead him to an encounter with the source of his heartache). The last piece of his fallen love is discarded in the snow not as a symbol of forgiveness or growth, but rather a symbol of his newly acquired apathy. He has thrown away his last chunk of humanity.
After Casino Royale, the opportunity to flesh out the Bond character was hanging by unprotected string. All Forster and Craig had to do was cut it down. I don’t blame Craig for not taking the chance to make 007 a empathetic character, but I do blame Forster for not being able to deliver a believable Bond. I don’t want James Bond to cry, I don’t want him to become overwhelmed with emotion, and I don’t want him to stop banging broads with no attachment whatsoever. I do however, want some sort sparkle of an actual human being in Bond’s perfect blue eye. Just a hint of humanity. That way, when he’s blowing up buildings and drinking like a fish, I can root for a man worth rooting for.
With such a great set up with the first Hellboy, and fresh out from the most impressive work of both his and cinematographer Guillermo Navarro’s collective careers, there’s nowhere to go but up with this new installment in the Hellboy franchise. Wonderfully paced and brilliantly shot, Hellboy II: The Golden Army, feels at times like more than your typical “extract your brain upon entering the theatre” action film. True it isn’t without it’s flaws, but even those are cleverly masked. Flashbacks revealing the premise (a somewhat arguably lazy plot device) is told through a cleverly choreographed show of stop motion animation, and a sappy scene in Hellboy’s most vulnerable moment happens at the feet of one of Del Toro’s more frightening and beautiful monsters to date (Jones' Angel of death).
A language barrier accounts for some overly enthusiastic cheese, but Del Toro’s “isn’t this cool?” attitude works so well within the Hellboy format. His need to explain to the audience what is hip makes for some ridiculous puns and slow motion camera work, but whereas this habit hurt previous efforts, these fingerprints fit perfectly inside Big Red’s universe.
On the subject of message, Hellboy II: The Golden Army offers no solution to the problem it addresses. The human race has been the bane and suffering for mythical beasts and paranormal beings since the beginning. In their pride and never ending thirst for power, they have become numb to destroying both the beautiful and frightening. Whereas sometimes bringing up the problem is enough in itself, this time around it would have been nice to be given something other than an overwhelming sense of self loathing when the finger was pointed at man. Now I feel terrible for destroying the things that I used to be afraid of. Especially when the scary things are this pretty.
All in all, this film is a solid piece of action cinema thanks to its director and its director's choices. Rather than follow in the footsteps of the overwhelming wave of simpleton "comic book" directors, Del Toro refuses to adhere to the confines of a graphic novel. Hellboy II is a film, and he treats it like such. Comic book rules don't apply here. This is an entirely different monster. And for this monster, it's OK if you leave your brain inside its cavity when you watch it.
