MONSTERS (2010)

Three things I know about the Human Race as a species:

1.)            The sky is always falling;

2.)            We can survive anything;

3.)            We rarely, if ever, learn from our mistakes.

Those three elements are in constant play. We will always succumb to mass hysteria, a planet-wide Simpsons mob, over the smallest problem, whether caused by man or nature. After all the arm-waving and screaming we’ll overcome said problem. Then we will gleefully repeat the process, for we thrive on strife, drama and argument.

While Hollywood loves to exploit #1 for box office gains, setting drama right in the center of a catastrophic plummeting sky with disaster movies and hybrids of disaster movies like The Day After Tomorrow, Independence Day, The Towering Inferno, Volcano—ad infinitum, the “little guy” working outside the studio system rarely has the budget for the disaster and has to focus on the fallout. While the big boys have gotten in on this act as well—The Road, The Book of Eli—their scripts are generally placed years after the disaster, portraying the human race as hard-scrabbling mutants fighting each other for scraps of food. The “little guy” knows that #2 is a much more believable scenario: after the screaming stops, life goes on. As long as the Wal-Marts continue to operate, everything will be fine. The ground-eye view of a world-changing event, through the eyes of its survivors, is not only easier to depict on a limited budget but is usually more interesting to view human drama after all the explode-y parts are done.

Which was the thought of British writer/director Gareth Edwards and his new movie, the festival-darling Monsters. Six years after an exploratory probe crash landed in Mexico, new “life forms” have begun to sprout up South of the Border—and by “life forms” we mean “the creatures”: hundred-foot-tall squid/jellyfish hybrids that float above the trees and toss vehicles far into the air. Enormous and frightening as these rarely-glimpsed creatures are, they’re also deceptively beautiful and graceful swimming over the “Infected Zone”, as the middle part of Mexico has come to be known, but the devastation they leave behind is obvious: burned out homes, wrecked and rusting overturned vehicles, the debris of vicious battles between the towering creatures and our military’s finest weapons of mass protection. Television news, omnipresent even in the most impoverished areas, blare constant warnings of new threats, of the dangers of the upcoming creature migration, while in more populated areas, signs and graffiti demand that the military stop bombing innocent people and their villages whenever a creature is sighted. In fact, little is said about “random” attacks by the creatures. The “infected zone” seems scarcely infected, save for odd fungus growing the creatures’ eggs, pulsing with color in response to light and outside stimuli. But how this “infects” or even affects civilization is never spelled out. It’s the military that seems to be doing the bulk of the damage. And, of course, exploiting the situation.

Following one siege between monster and military, we are introduced to photo-journalist Andrew Kaulder, who shoots the rotting carcass of a dead creature before inquiring the whereabouts of the closest hospital. His boss’s daughter, Samantha, heir to a publishing empire, has been injured and he’s been conscripted to help her reach the coast, to board a ferry to uninfected America. Irritated at this interruption to his goal of shooting a live creature and selling it to the magazine’s front page, Kaulder grudgingly accompanies Sam to the port. But the ferries from Mexico to the U.S. are few and far between, and passage is expensive. The monopolistic tour guide demands $5,000 for a single ticket, but that does come with a free gas mask to protect travelers from… well, it varies, some say the animals’ toxic breath and/or blood, others blame military chemical weapons. Either way, it’s a good idea to have one on hand.

Kaulder and Sam spend the evening in the village celebrating her departure with booze and dancing before observing a haunting firelight vigil for the seemingly thousands of people killed since the creatures’ arrival. After a series of almost-predictable events, including Kaulder seeking out a new bedmate after Sam spurns his drunken advances, they are robbed of their passports and miss the final ferry—the port is now closed due to migration and mating season. Forced to make their way over ground through the Infected Zone, Sam and Kaulder are placed in the hands of increasingly dangerous and seedy guides, including an armed gang of soldiers of fortune, all too aware that the danger could come from above them in the trees, beneath the water below the boats or at the hands of their all-too human opportunists.

Critically lauded for its invention in the face of a miniscule budget, Monsters is a simple little story as frustrating as it is suspenseful. Director Edwards’ motives are pure, wanting only to depict the resilience of the human spirit, while painting unsubtle metaphors—intentional or not—for everything from illegal immigration—the aliens have settled in Central Mexico but are making their way north towards “the Wall”—to our occupation of Afganistan. With a budget of less than $500,000, Edwards and his tiny crew shot the film over the course of a few weeks, often shooting in locations without permission. After principal photography wrapped, Edwards set out to generate the CGI creatures and wreckage with store-bought software, so the fact that the aliens are relegated to extended cameos can be not only understood but forgiven, particularly given how gorgeously-conceived and rendered the animals are: all floating, seeking tentacles and their internal bodies communicating with each other in flashes of brilliant colored light. The film’s climax—where virtually nothing happens but our observing the creatures up close for the first time right alongside the leads—is nothing short of breathtaking.

But the frustrating part lies squarely on the shoulders of the two leads. Due to the constraints of the budget and schedule, Edwards left story and dialogue largely up to his actors, in particular Scoot McNairy and Whitney Able, which results in very little. Literally given nothing to do but travel, McNairy bitches and whines while the injured Able broods about a dissolving engagement and a damaged relationship with her father. The pair never really converse but make uncomfortable small talk throughout their journey—which is not only fine and acceptable and natural at the beginning, but becomes agonizing to sit through after the forty-five minute mark. Our leads have nothing to say and their model-frozen features convey even less. Their inevitable romance seems born out of boredom than shared adventure. While their journey would be fraught with danger even without the presence of the creatures, the fact that these enormous but nearly-silent attackers could be lurking camouflaged anywhere around them just adds to the tension parfait. And it’s been made apparent that even after six years, little attempt to understand the creatures has been made. They’re things for soldiers to fight or civilians to work around. “This happens every year,” a driver says, indicating the impending migration. “You just get used to it.”

Meanwhile, fully aware of their situation, the best improv our actors can conjure are meaningless and often head-slapping queries. A distant trumpeting sound, simultaneously ominous and beautiful, sending a tremor through the trees. Kaulder: “What is that? Seriously, what’s that sound?” When leaving one boat journey for the next leg of their trip, meeting their armed escorts who appear to have just dropped Indiana Jones off with the Hovitos, Kaulder: “Why do they have guns? Seriously, what do they need guns for?” Because, apparently, it’s easy to forget that 100-foot squids are lurking all around you. Meanwhile, Sam offers little input, preferring to smile enigmatically, sometimes grimly, always stoically, at the doom-filled situation. Upon seeing “The Wall” for the first time, constructed along the boarder—an awesomely-visualized shot from the steps of an Aztec temple—towering above both countries like a Republican’s greatest dream, Sam: “It’s like the eighth wonder of the world. Or something.”

Walking through an enormous burned-out hole in the side of the wall and encountering hastily-constructed signs pointing towards Quarantine, devastation around them with nary a soul to encounter, Kaulder: “What happened? Where is everybody?”

The banal discussion adds nothing to the already-long journey, every bit as exhausting for the viewer as the travelers, with the giant squids omnipresent Col. Kurtzes, and the actors do little to make their characters interesting enough to care about. Plucked from a mumblecore film, McNairy and Able are bland everymen, doing the fascinating premise a severe disservice. Edwards could have taken a page from Jacques Tati and kept the film dialogue-free and our sympathies would have undoubtedly increased. With Kaulder and Sam as our focal points, Monsters is like listening to The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn as read by Fran Drescher, wonderful and grating at the same time.

Unfortunately, its U.S. distributor Magnet Releasing seems to have found the attitude of our laconic leads to be the most enticing part of the film, since they dumped it onto a handful of screens with only a minimum of boring promotion—the poster’s tagline is “Beware” as if the studio itself wants the audience to stay away. If it weren’t for the strong word-of-mouth from those who caught it at South By Southwest, I don’t think I personally would be aware of it. 

If your mind’s eye is strong enough to paint the two out and focus merely on the passage from point to point, you’ll find Monsters to be quite the enjoyable experience. Far from the “worst, most boring movie ever”, as decreed by the mouthbreathers on the IMDb, Monsters is a contemplative, smart little science fiction movie because of what it shows and never tells. Since little is known or learned about the creatures, we’re not let in on anything either, so our wonder remains from beginning to (obvious) end. But we get majestic scenery along the way and are left wondering, “then what?” by the end—and in this case, it’s not such a bad thing.

SATURN 3 (1980)

In 1977, high off a starring-role in a hit television show, Farrah Fawcett-Majors made what seems in hindsight to be a concentrated effort to destroy her career. Eager to deny tabloid accusations that her then-husband Lee Majors had demanded she leave Charlie’s Angels to save their marriage, Farrah’s first and most obviously-detrimental move, motivated by a desire to “broaden her acting opportunities”, was to star in a comedy-thriller with under-rated-even-then Jeff Bridges called Somebody Killed Her Husband. So poorly-received was this movie that critics made the inevitable jokes to reflect the above, namely referring to the movie in reviews as “Somebody Killed Her Career”. Eager to reverse this change in fortunes Fawcett met with producers at Lew Grade’s ITC Entertainment to discuss a movie that should capitalize on a science-fiction/horror movie that had swept the world, namely, Ridley Scott’s Alien. The movie pitched to her would star veteran superstar Kirk Douglas, fierce “new blood” actor Harvey Keitel, with a script from literary darling Martin Amis, and would mark the directorial debut of acclaimed production designer John Barry. The movie: Saturn 3. The results: several Golden Raspberry awards and a return to Charlie’s Angels.

One of the most notorious misfires in science-fiction history, nearly every aspect of Saturn 3 inspires head-shaking. Telling a basic three-person story, Saturn 3 begins with the senseless murder of a starship captain about to embark on a mission to the third moon of Saturn, where a pair of scientists are farming food to replenish an overpopulated Earth. 

Alex and Adam (Fawcett and Douglas) are the only humans on the platform, their every need seen to by motorized salt and pepper shaker-shaped robots, and Adam’s every need seen to by Alex. Born on Saturn 3, Alex has never been to Earth and, therefore, is unaware that men her age exist. Adam, for his part, nearly thirty-years her senior, seems on the verge of a happy dance every time Alex is around. They sleep together, shower together, converse together. He reads to her phonetically and she irons him nightly.

The murderer, Benson, obviously evil because he’s played by Harvey Keitel, assumes the guise of Captain James and arrives on the space station with more luggage than Imelda Marcos. He’s brought with him the “first of the demigod series” of android, and he assembles the various parts into a robot named “Hector”, which looks to be a life-sized “Visible Man” model with a Luxor Jr. desk lamp for a head. Benson and Hector are there to get the project running at full efficiency. (People on Earth couldn’t care less that a sextegenarian is getting it on with his hot space muffin—they’re hungry and dying, dammit! Stop repopulating like rabbits and feed us!) So advanced is Hector that he will make one of them “obsolete”. The problem is that Hector is fueled by Benson’s brainwaves—and even some of his brain tissue!—and since Benson’s utterly psychotic and immediately fixated on Alex, so, ergo, is Hector. This spells trouble first for the couple’s pet dog and later for the couple. And even later for Benson. By the time the android tears off Benson’s face and wears it as a mask, ala C-3PO in Hannibal Lecter mode, you’re scarely aware that an hour of screentime has just whizzed by!

Actually, you are more than aware of the running time. At this point, you should be able to feel your hair grow. Within minutes of meeting Alex and Adam, you know exactly how the movie is going to end, unless, of course, you’ve never seen a movie before, in which case, god bless and have a blast. You’re also painfully aware of the clumsy “Adam & Eve & Harvey Keitel as the Serpent in Space” allegory, as well some Greek mythological thematics regarding Hector thrown in for good measure. Of course, most of you are only stopping by to catch some brief Farrah nudity and found yourself clawing your eyes out after glimpsing Douglas in the raw after one dirty trick. If you survive to the credit roll, you’ll wonder how Fawcett ever managed to recover.

All hyperbole aside, Saturn 3 isn’t that bad. As a science fiction movie, it’s no worse than the b-movie space operas that came before or since. It’s all meant as eye candy and if it was ever destined to be anything loftier, those goals were left behind long before the cameras rolled. That’s the real crime, of course; it never once tries to be better.

There’s plenty of blame to be shared—Barry and Douglas had a falling out early in production and the director stepped down, replaced by producer Stanley Donen, who was best-known for a little thing I like to call Singin’ in the Rain, or “One of the Best Musicals Ever Made”. However, Donen had also directed one of the best non-Hitchcock Hitchcock movies, Charade, so the movie should still have been in good hands. But the lackluster pace is proof that the new director had little to no interest in the finished project. What’s worse, he couldn’t stand Keitel’s Bronx accent and had him completely dubbed by a disinterested Roy Dotrice. Even the score by the great Elmer Bernstein seems bored by the film, with key themes repeated over and over but fading into the background as much as it can.

Douglas is completely miscast as Adam and that’s obvious from his first scene. Overdoing his charming hamminess, Kirk comes off like a doddering degenerate, leering at Fawcett’s barely-clad body and looking quite stiff in some of the action set pieces. The May-December romance is initially interesting, but becomes creepy almost immediately.

While it’s tempting to place the rest of the blame at Fawcett’s feet but to be perfectly honest, she’s given nothing to do. Her motivation is strictly from the Jayne Mansfield school, obviously instructed to “stand there and look sexy”. Her Alex is a wide-eyed waif in over her mostly-empty head and her sole existence is to provide an award for which the alpha males compete. To prove just how non-existent is her role is as an actual woman, one need look no further than the “Hector” subplot. Fueled by Benson’s lust for Alex, Hector wants her as well and will kill to have her (for what, exactly, it’s never made plain as Hector seems to be unaware that he’s lacking genitalia). So even the machines want to have sex with her! Alex, and by inevitable extension, Farrah, is reduced to the ultimate object. And at no point is she given an opportunity to step beyond this role. Every situation ends with a male required to rescue her. Alex takes no action. She’s merely the trophy, no more active in this game of “Capture the Flag” than the flag would be. While this is by no means surprising, given the push-pull battle feminism had with the rest of society, it’s still unfortunate, particularly when you consider that Fawcett was a shrewd businesswoman in real life (she chose the image used for the famous poster that decorated every teenage boy’s wall between 1977 and 1980). Of course, she did establish herself as a “serious” actress with Extremities, but that was still many years to come.

If Amis’ script is using this misogyny in irony—although given his treatment of heroines in the majority of his novels, this is unlikely—that aspect is utterly lost. And unless you’re captivated by the scenery (the ship’s interior is impressive, as are the functional space suit costumes) or the now-quaint special effects, you’re left with eighty minutes of two men pissing on each other’s legs followed by a duel with a plastic mannequin robot. Opportunities are wasted from minute one and the disintegration is almost hypnotic.

Though the DVD is out of print, a television cut of Saturn 3 (minus the few frames of nudity) does pop up on cable every now and then. There’s even a version almost ten minutes longer than the theatrical release, with some additional much-needed inane banter that does nothing to fill in the holes (What is Benson’s intention? What is Hector’s actual function?). So if you’re a real glutton for punishment, wait for the latter to run on SyFy. If you do, you deserve it. 

Movie Outlaw: THE ABSENCE OF LIGHT (2006)

[In the interest of full disclosure, because of the nature of the independent film business, writer/director Patrick Desmond and musician/star Rich Conant are friends of ours. They have both worked on past films of ours, we've gotten drunk with them, etc. Before you cry nepotism, however, I will state that this review was written before said friendship/support group was formed. That being said, however, this is my goddamn blog and I'll plug whoever the hell I want to.]

A world-weary killer-for-hire going by the name “Puritan” (Richard Conant) swears, as so many do, that his next job will be his last. However, this famous last words “last job” turns out to be more than he expected—more than anyone could have expected. A pair of corporations—Division 8 and “The Plague”—are at war over a devious piece of sophisticated software dubbed “Devour”. It seems that “Devour” will give the user the ability to rewrite any code… including DNA. Suddenly, our jaded anti-hero finds himself in the middle of a situation he can’t possibly comprehend and if he isn’t careful, he’ll be contributing to the eradication of the human race.

A star-studded The Absence of Light is, without a doubt, one of the most ambitious independent movies I’ve seen in a long time. The convoluted and complicated plot requires multiple viewings and asks that the audience pay close attention in order to follow what is going on and what is (and is not) being said. Despite the numerous action set-pieces, this isn’t a “whiz-bang” little action sf/horror thing whipped up in the filmmakers’ back yards. A lot of thought and purpose went into the crafting of this movie.

While the majority of the celebrities were filmed at various fan conventions over the course of a year, every star serves a purpose in Patrick Desmond’s complicated narrative and seems to be giving each respective role his or her all. The presence of so many well-known actors may actually be distracting on the first watch—it’s tempting to sit and go ‘hey, there’s Tony Todd! Take a drink!’ without absorbing the reason he’s there. Hence the need for at least a second viewing, which might be asking too much of the average man-cave slug, sad to say.)

That the pros (including Toms Savini and Sullivan, David Hess, Caroline Munro, Michael Berryman, Robyn Griggs and multiple others) are top-notch actually goes without saying. The nicest surprise is that Conant more than holds his own and manages to avoid playing Puritan as a cliché. His seasoned hit man is actually quite amiable as well as three-dimensional—particularly in scenes where his actions make him a tough person to like. Savini, too, seems to be having a terrific time, giving a fun, relaxed performance in a role quite different from what his fans might be expecting. Effects man-turned-actor Tom Sullivan is, I’m not ashamed to say, delightful as a quirky scientist and Berryman plays a straightforward businessman (more or less) and not a demented freak, which should be awesome news to Berryman fans.

While the casual viewer might be quick to point out the hotel rooms serving as many of the sets, this is actually in service of the corporation ideal as well, the sterility of the compositions making perfect sense. It’s obvious that Desmond and company worked their collective asses off crafting this movie and avoiding the obvious “audience-pleasing” pitfalls of graphic gore and nudity. They were out to create something new, to please their own artistic sensibilities. Whether or not the end result is successful is, ultimately, up to the viewer and the opinions are likely to differ radically from one person to the other.

All that said, after three viewings, I’m still hard-pressed to say exactly what the hell it’s all about. Some of this confusion could be chalked up to the fact that I’ve seen multiple incarnations of the movie (Desmond re-edited the film at least three times that I’m aware of). It’s story can’t be summed up in a single sentence but it takes chances that Hollywood would never dream of (no clear heroes or villains, a Hitchcockian morass of a plot) and that might very well be the reason it took as long as it did to find a legitimate distributor, despite its who’s-who cast roster. It won’t be to every viewer’s taste. But if you’re looking to catch something thought-provoking—even head-scratching at times—that presents some interesting ideas then this movie is for you. And is, perhaps, in a league all its own.