THE KILLING JAR (2010)

The first rule of independent filmmaking is use what you have. It’s an axiom employed by such geniuses as Robert Rodriguez and Ray Dennis Steckler. Think about what your assets are while keeping your limitations in mind, and you can make the latter become the former. If you have a bulldog and a motorcycle, use them for your movie. If you do not have something, like, say, a Sherman Tank or a herd of camels, don’t put them in your script, that way you won’t look stupid when it comes time to shoot the “Sherman Tank chases the herd of camels’ and none of those things have materialized. You can just shoot the “bulldog rides the motorcycle’ scene instead.

Without knowing anything about the production of The Killing Jar, I can make the reasonably-educated guess that writer/director Mark Young (Tooth and Nail) understood that his limitations were likely to be budgetary. By confining his tense story to a single location ensured that he could concentrate his funds on hiring terrific actors to populate the story. Setting the movie in that classic noir “out of the way diner’, rather than, say, in the Taj Mahal, Young could afford solid performers and fan-favorites like Amber Benson (Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Drones), Harold Perrineau (Lost, Oz), Lew Temple (The Devil’s Rejects), the one and only Danny Trejo (Machete), Jake Busey and “Crazy Uncle Mr. Blonde” Michael Madsen. This cast also helped Young hedge other bets. If, at times, his script weren’t bullet-proof, water-tight or whatever other phrase you’d prefer, at least the cast would keep the story propelled forward.

Late one rainy night at the Copal Grill, two strangers arrive and throw the “nothing ever happens here” tedium out of whack. One moment, it’s just Deputy Lonnie (Temple) and trucker Hank (Kevin Gage) listening to waitress Noreen (Benson) fight with Jimmy the cook (Trejo) over the lack of air conditioning. He threatens to fire her; “Haven’t you fired me enough for one week?” she asks. One night like any other. Over the radio, the DJ announces the kick-off of the County Fair and then breaking news of the gruesome murder of a family in the next town over. The killer was seen driving away in a black pick-up truck. Enter two strangers: John Dixon (Perrineau) in his ill-fitting suit and sales convention name tag, and “Doe” (Madsen), a hulking, surly man in black leather jacket. Doe’s tense and unfriendly demeanor leads to an awkward confrontation—more a battle of machismo and control—with Deputy Lonnie. Doe storms out of the diner but returns moments later. Murdering two with an enormous shotgun, he corrals the others and holds them hostage, giving no indication of what he wants or what he’ll do next.

Soon, a third stranger arrives with a suitcase full of money, to pay the man who carried out the murder of the family mentioned on the radio. “Mr. Green” (Jake Busey(!) doesn’t know who he’s there to meet and Doe might not be the man he wants—but if not him, then who? Someone in the diner has a secret.

The Killing Jar should be required viewing for all indie filmmakers as a guide to overcoming limitations. Simple without becoming simplistic, Young makes good use of his space, the familiar story and allowing established actors to bring their own takes to archetypical characters. While the script offers few surprises, it’s never less anything than entertaining. It avoids the existential meandering of Headless Body in a Topless Bar as well as the tedious moralizing of Albino Alligator, and there’s none of the hipster pandering of the last two decades worth of straight-to-video Tarantino knock-offs—except for some repetitious back-and-forth dialogue, particularly in the third act, that does become momentarily grating. Young’s movie is precisely as advertised: a straightforward, neo-noir thriller, free of irony or tongue-in-cheek self-awareness that’s actually very refreshing.

Where The Killing Jar subverts expectations is in the performances. Since the characters are little more than utilitarian “types”, there is plenty of room for the actors to play and bring their own little quirks to the roles and thus avoiding stereotypes. Casting blonde, blue-eyed Benson as the small-town-girl-with-big-city-dreams waitress Noreen, the viewer has the instant recognition and understanding of the character’s job in the film, but the actress brings both the vulnerability but also the unexpected strength and human personality to the stock “type”. We’ve all seen Madsen scary and crazy, and he brings his playfulness along as well during the intimidation scenes, but he’s also perfect during the big “reveal” scene—which is also an aspect of Young’s script that can really be appreciated. “Doe” had no plan; by his own admission, he was having a bad day and just “snapped”, then could never turn back. Madsen makes that perfectly believable. The same can be said for the rest of the cast, right down to the two ancillary “Romeo and Juliet” runaway teens who serve no purpose but as additions to the body count, but they still feel like real human beings because of the performances. Strange as it is to say, by avoiding twists or tricks, Young’s movie is actually much stronger for it. By not trying to subvert the audience’s expectations, he actually manages to do so effortlessly.

Young should also be given high points for his direction, particularly in the manner of blocking. I could be completely off-base, but it seemed to me that The Killing Jar had a tight production time working around the tight schedules of his stars. By corralling the main players in the rear of the diner while Madsen takes certain characters aside for one-on-ones, Young is able to hide the fact that there are very few scenes where everyone is present at the same time. (Trejo, for example, never interacts physically with any other character, and dead bodies are dragged behind counters so that the actors aren’t simply corpsing around wasting valuable shooting time and money.) He and Cinematographer Gregg Easterbrook also utilize the over-the-shoulder to great effect—the best way of having a stand-in during shot-reverse-shots and a perfect money-saving technique. Best of all, he avoids calling attention to these limitations with tight, claustrophobic camera set-ups and only eagle-eyed viewers will catch these short cuts. (Of course, I just drew attention to the mind behind the curtain, but out of respect and not maliciousness, I promise!) Again, these are all valuable lessons to budgetarily-limited indies, who should definitely take note: let your actors do their jobs, think ahead, figure out the best ways to keep your movie moving. As Young also served as editor, it can’t be too absurd to think that he shot with the final edit in mind as well. Oh, and another lesson: hire Lisa Reynolds (Zombieland, The Walking Dead) for the special effects because The Killing Jar has some of the best on-screen blood of any move in recent memory—from pooling to spatter, there’s never once any of that give-away beading so familiar to the modestly-budgeted.

In fact, the only blatant misstep of The Killing Jar may be in its title. Referring to the container entomologists use to suffocate insects (as illustrated during the non-sequiter title sequence), The Killing Jar has no relation to the story told, and the only explanation I was able to summon is the suspicion that Young at one time hoped to use the moody song by Siouxsie and the Banshees for a credit accompaniment. But in its place, we get a perfectly lovely number sung by Benson herself to go along with the enigmatic title, so in the end, it’s just a shruggable element.

Best of all—and rare for this column—The Kiling Jar is readily available on DVD for your viewing pleasure. So if you’re in the mood for a good old fashioned thriller without any of that troubling post-modernism that’s become de rigueur, this one comes recommended. Official Site.

CURTAINS (1983)

Those who consider themselves collectors and/or historians have an affection for old technology. In the music world, vinyl records are once again in vogue, the black-plastic discs are selling in second hand stores better than almost ever, turntables are back in fashion and indie bands who want to improve their cred will press their own singles and 7”. At the same time, this nostalgia hasn’t been revisited upon the 8-track or the cassette tape, but a quick glance at the gamer world reveals a yen for the simpler time of chunky 8-bit Atari games and even text-based adventures ala Zork. And though Betamax died a painful, lingering death (much like HD-DVD), for movie buffs there will always be love for the Laserdisc, no matter how blue our rays may be. But for lovers of trash, the obscure, the grotesqueries and hidden treasure, no format has endured at conventions and on Craig’s List like VHS. In the ‘90s the DVD boom ensured that these sturdy plastic bricks with their colorful sleeve covers filled landfills across the world by the millions. But because of the staggering home video revolution of the decades prior, it will be a very, very long time before the format vanishes from the face of the earth. VCR/DVD combos continue to sell at Wal-Mart right next to top-of-the-line DVRs and “Cash-In Culture” stores all over the US line their shelves with videotapes, the covers sun-drenched and color-drained, their recorded images fuzzy and smeary, often the tracking has been shot to hell. But like the imperfect pops and hiss of vinyl recordings, there’s something comforting and familiar about VHS. Maybe because its understandable or maybe because it was so essential to the formation of the Gen-X film-lover’s DNA. As we of the Reality Bites generation approach our forth decade on the planet, we sway in our rocking-out chairs and reminisce about the glory days of the mom-n-pop video stores with their Nirvana of oddities that you just can’t find on DVD.

Which is likely the crux of the VHS phenomenon. Because of the home video boom, stores were desperate for content. In the ‘80s, when YouTube was something beyond the scope of even the great visionary George Lucas, the hunger for near-instant satisfaction was growing. The phrase straight-to-video was concocted out of sheer necessity. Lorenzo Lamas’ entire career hinged upon it! The format brought forward rainmakers like Tim Ritter, Kevin Lindenmuth, JR Bookwalter, Ron Bonk, Jeffrey Arsenault. A whole new industry of entertainment (and “entertainment”) thrived during these years. “I have to return some videotapes,” wasn’t just Patrick Bateman’s catchphrase, it was a declaration of responsibility, maturity, and independence—you were taking your own entertainment requirements into your own hands. Sure, the porn industry was the real pioneer of this era, but it was the zeitgeist seized by low budget horror that propelled it forward. As far as labels like Vestron were concerned, every VCR-owning household in America should have a pneumatic tube system installed right next to it, so that the latest goreflic—Truth or Dare, Killing Spree, Blood Diner, Woodchipper Massacre, The Video Dead—would just suck away the minute it was kindly rewound, to be replaced just as quickly with a satisfying plunk. Wouldn’t that have been heaven, ‘80s babies?

For all its technological wonder, DVD never reached the frenzied heights—or depths—of the VHS era. So those bricks of the by-gone days filling under-the-table cardboard boxes marked “$1 each”, ubiquitous at garage sales and flea markets, are truly archeological finds. And for every die-hard horror fan, there’s a personal holy grail. For some, it’s Killer Party, for others, it’s Curtains.

At a time when slasher movies were a dime-a-dozen, renting Curtains would have netted you change. Despite the grotesque cover—often the best part of these VHS treasures (I’m looking at you, Richard Corben’s painting for Spookies)—the back of the box didn’t promise much. A killer in an “old hag” mask, a hand-held sickle, Samantha Eggar. So far, not sold. But hell, it’s in, it’s a three-day rental, and you have friends coming over. What the hell? Maybe there will be some good gore.

What we get, after the FBI logo and the requisite trailers for other offerings of low-rent joy, is an opening credits sequence involving Eggar berating someone off screen. She points a gun into the air and as the camera pulls back, she’s revealed to be alone on a spotlit stage. Her antagonist stands in the shadows behind the balcony klieg, urging her to go farther, to find “Audra”. Eggar is acclaimed actress Samantha Sherwood, and with her director, the extremely intense Jonathan Stryker (John Vernon), she’s about to embark on some unique research for what will surely be the role of her career. To play the emotionally-damaged “Audra”, Samantha allows herself to be institutionalized, with Stryker signing as her executor, so that she can study the other inmates of the asylum.

But then Stryker pulls a dirty trick on her. He abandons Samantha in the grim little nuthouse and turns his remote cabin into a beautifully-furnished casting chateau, inviting six eager starlets to a week-long audition session, so that he might “find the right ‘Audra’.” Among the invitees are stand-up comedienne Patti (Lynne Griffin), aging soap star Brooke (Linda Thorson), casting-couch regular Tara (Sandee Currie) and figure skater/aspiring actress Christie (Lesleh Donaldson). In addition, there’s a dancer with little dialogue, a potential leading man with no lines (Michael Wincott, who gets a hot-tub sex scene with Tara but no close up) and a sixth woman into rape games who never makes it to the party. She’s stabbed to death soon after her “whatever works for you” fun-n-games, and the murderer steals from her room the creepiest, most horrible-looking china doll ever created. The doll pops up throughout the film at the moment of someone’s death—which is preferable than looking at the miserable-looking porcelain waif. Stryker’s biggest surprise comes when Samantha shows up completely unexpectedly. It’s revealed that she had managed to escape from the asylum and has no intention of Jonathan casting anyone but her in the part of the demented ‘Audra’.

As is the normal course of action, one by one, each of our little budding ingénues gets picked off in increasingly-violent manners by a killer wearing an “old hag” mask that Stryker uses in acting exercises. The highlight best-remembered by the ‘80s gorehounds is Donaldson’s ice-skating routine interrupted by the hag on her own pair of skates, dashing towards the shrieking Christie like an deleted scene from Slap Shot.

Unfortunately, the movie bounces here and there without much thought towards either suspense or resolution. When he isn’t seducing his actresses, Stryker’s humiliating directing methods would make Josef Von Sternberg say “dial it down”. Meanwhile, those not being seduced, humiliated or murdered pontificate about the “type” of woman “Audra” might be and what they would do to get the part. “I was so eager to get into pictures, I slept with a guy from Fotomat,” says Patti during her routine. “You know how they say your pictures are in and out in 24-hours? He was in and out in 24 seconds.” Laughs, applause. And when there isn’t pontificating, characters vanish for long, long periods of time. Eggar, our prime suspect, is missing from the screen in order to cast suspicion upon herself. Others just stop being in the movie here and there. Wincott’s character is last seen driving drunkenly into the woods on a snowmobile, while Patti…who knows. Takes a long bath? Gets caught in the pantry? Explores the wonders of nature? For the last act of the film, she ain’t there.

The admittedly-tense and off-putting climax involves Tara in an annexed props warehouse, hiding from the hag amidst hanging costumes and mannequins, all the well fully aware that the hag is in there somewhere too. The claustrophobic setting, the creepy lighting, the misdirection, all elements for a perfect climax! But as more than one reviewer has pointed out, by this point, it no longer matters who the killer is because it could literally be any of them. We’re given nothing to hang our hats on in terms of character development and the actresses are clearly on their own to make the most of their roles. By the time Christie’s head pops up in Brooke’s toilet, the viewer is actually hard-pressed to remember just who that Sani-Flush-soaked face belongs to.

As it turns out, this befuddlement isn’t really the movie’s fault. The movie tries hard. The performers did their best. But Curtains, apparently, had a very troubled production history. Filming began in 1980, with Prom Night wunderkind Peter Simpson as producer, and acclaimed composer Paul Zaza behind the piano once again, to conjure moody musical atmosphere, just as he had done on other Canadian chillers like My Bloody Valentine and the aforementioned Prom Night series. At the helm was cinematographer Richard Ciupka (Atlantic City) making his directorial debut, with a script in hand by Robert Guza, Jr. (General Hospital and, oh yeah, Prom Night). Considering that Prom Night was such a moneymaker, this seemed like the perfect team to recreate slasher magic.

Problems began when Ciupka’s original choice for Brooke, Celine Lamez (The Initiation), reportedly “pulled a diva” on set. The pair allegedly had problems relating to each other on a professional level, but the final straw came several weeks in when she refused to do an agreed-upon nude scene. Production shut down, Simpson and Ciupka recast Linda Thorson, and much of the film had to be reshot, restaged, or scrapped. During all this, director and producer also, allegedly, clashed over the type of film they were making. Simpson, apparently, wanted another Prom Night, a money maker. Ciupka, however, also apparently, wanted to explore the psychology of actresses and their relationship with demanding directors, and how far “the method” should be employed by emotionally unstable thespians. Ciupka wanted long, langorous tracking shots (and many survived); Ciupka wanted the smash cut, the startle, the scream. In the end, Ciupka’s contract was cancelled, his directing credit is billed to the fictitious Jonathan Stryker (nice of ol’ Jonathan to continue directing even after he’s murdered in the third act), Simpson and his producer brother Richard finished the film as quickly as possible and, as a result, Curtains is a bit of an opening-night closure.

And perhaps, in the end, Simpson was right. When Curtains concentrates on the stalk-n-slash elements, the movie excels. The gore is minimal, but the scenes build with suspense and bring those familiar giddy chills so familiar from its VHS horror ilk. When the movie focuses on the brief and protracted relationships between Stryker and the actresses, the pace flounders, as if the movie itself is uncomfortable with this part of the story. There are also numerous plot holes shot through the narrative due to the mangled production schedule—the most glaring involving an exposition scene with Samantha not too long after her escape from the asylum, where she feeds the actresses’ headshots into a fireplace while discussing her escape and plan for revenge with a woman hidden half-off screen, allegedly her accomplice in the escape. This scene is never followed-upon and never referenced again. So, of course, because we horror fans are such typical humans, this now-throw-away scene is the most intriguing aspect of the story.

According to the ever-reliable Wikipedia, Echo Bridge released Curtains as part of the Midnight Horror Collection: Bloody Slashers DVD collection in 2010, but with crummy, non-lurid cover art, a lousy transfer (likely from a VHS dupe) and a handful of other movies that may have been cool to discover on some dusty back room, but not necessarily worth digging around in a discount bin to retrieve. Because of the troubled production, or perhaps because of other rights issues, or perhaps just due to lack of interest, Curtains remains in its VHS limbo. Copies can be found, if this is indeed your Grail, and it is fun to watch overall. But its status as “lost gem” may stem more from its unavailability than its content. Still, the DVD boom was definitely the poorer of the gold rushes due to its distinct lack of little oddities like this. Sure, Blockbuster shelves were filled with DVDs of Daddy Day Care, but post-Gen-Xers never experienced the little thrill of finding something weird and lurid lurking near the back of the brightly-lit, corporate and sanitary store. The big business of DVD just didn’t appreciate shadows in its stores. 

MURDER BY DECREE (1979)

Ironically, fandom by and large is fascinated by minutae. “Ringers”, as Tolkien fans are sometimes called, are encyclopedic in their knowledge of Middle Earth and its history. The same goes for fans of Star Wars, Marvel and DC comics, Star Trek and Harry Potter. (And Twilight, too, but those little girls should be outgrowing that triviality soon.) These obsessions aren’t limited to fictional worlds either, as any Civil War re-enactor, WWII buff, or Renfaire griper will demonstrate at the drop of a date. If an enveloping history contains multitudes and layers, there is someone—or a club of someones—eager to explore it all.

1979’s Murder By Decree, directed by Bob Clark (whose own bizarre and diverse oeuvre--Black Christmas, Porky's, A Christmas Story--deserves its own graduate-level study), combines the obsessive loves of the “Ripperologists” and the “Sherlockians” by combining two fascinating off-shoots of Victorian London—Sherlock Holmes and Jack the Ripper, the world’s greatest detective vs. history’s most elusive villain. By bringing the fictional exploits of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s master sleuth and his real-world London into the seedier underside of a London even more real, director Clark and screenwriter John Hopkins merge the dizzying, labyrinthine details of both mythologies.

Cliff’s Notes for those unfamiliar with either scenarios: Sherlock Holmes is the world’s only “consulting detective”, a brilliant misanthrope and likely “highly functioning sociopath” (as he describes himself in his latest incarnation in the BBC’s Sherlock), finds joy only in pitting his vast intellect against baffling mysteries. One person in the world can stand to be around him: his only friend and biographer, Dr. John Watson. Under Doyle’s direction, Holmes and Watson embarked on dozens of adventures in the foggy, gaslamp-lit streets of London during the reign of her Majesty Queen Victoria. In real life and during the exact same period (1888), an unknown man (or men) was running around the poverty-stricken slums of London’s Whitechapel district, murdering and mutilating at least five prostitutes and may or may not be responsible for another half-dozen more. The details surrounding the “Jack the Ripper” case have been sifted through not only by the police force at the time (headed by Scotland Yard Inspector Fred Aberline), but by obsessive-compulsive historians over the following hundred-plus years. Because the crime was never solved, it seems the best and most-natural fit to involve Holmes, in what will certainly be his greatest mystery!

Taking its cue from the popular scenario put forth by author Stephen Knight in his book Jack the Ripper: The Final Solution, Holmes deduces that the five victims possess knowledge that could damage the Monarchy and are being silenced by a governmental assassins. With this game afoot, it’s up to Holmes and Watson to protect the last potential victim, Marie Kelly, and put a stop to the madness—even if it means bringing down the government and its shadowy Masonic machinations!

Despite even the best efforts of brilliant detectives throughout history, including FBI profiler John Douglas, who makes only a “best guess” in his book, The Cases That Haunt Us, and because we’re creatures who need to believe that someone has to be in charge, be they benevolent or malevolent, or else all is chaos, it’s too tempting to believe in a Machiavellian conspiracy involving Albert Prince Regent, an illegitimate child, and a quintet of prostitutes blackmailing the Queen, leading to their elimination by any means necessary. Mixing in the secretive Freemasons and adding a dash of occultism only sweetens the delightful stew. Despite a truckload of evidence against this story, it still makes for the most irresistible of solutions for many scenarists, not the least of which Alan Moore, whose holistic approach to the apocalyptic time of 1880s London resulted in the mad and wonderful graphic literature From Hell, and its bastard offspring film version featuring Johnny Depp as a too-young Abberline and Heather Graham as a too-clean Marie Kelly.

Placing the great Sherlock Holmes in the midst of one of the most notorious unsolved murders in history gives the viewer—obsessive or no—a sense of closure, if only temporarily. Murder By Decree, of course, wasn’t the first time Holmes was set upon the ripper’s trail. Other cases were recounted in the cinematically so-so (but excrutiatingly marketed—“Biff! Bang! Crunch! Here comes the Original Caped Crusader!”) A Study In Terror (1965, starring “Baron Munchausen" John Neville as a serviceable Holmes, and Frank Finlay as Lestrade—who also plays the Inspector in Decree). In print, we have the notorious and, to some, indefensible The Last Sherlock Holmes Story by Michael Diblin (in which Holmes himself is the Ripper!), as well as the better-received and Doyle-heir blessed Dust and Shadow: An Account of the Ripper Killings by Dr. John H. Watson by Lindsay Faye. In any of the above cases, the pairing is natural and even necessary. We as a species abhor loose ends but adore our climactic showdowns with our greatest heroes and villains. So both intricate narratives weave together quite beautifully without ever—or necessarily—being true.

At least, for the casual viewer.

For the obsessive “Ripperologists” and anal-retentive “Sherlockians”, Murder By Decree may prove a bit maddening. If the viewer happens to be both, by the time the end credits roll, sedatives may be required. Utilizing the much-debunked Royal/Masonic Conspiracy theory will already cause some pain, but it gives Hopkins script a great amount of breathing room. While Knight’s solution implicates 1^st Baronet and Royal surgeon-in-ordinary Sir William Gull and his coachman John Netley, Hopkins changes their names to protect their maligned identities. A few events are shuffled around further and much more is made of the institutionalized Annie Crook (played here by a splendid Genevieve Bujold), alleged (by the theory) to have wed Prince Albert in a secret Catholic ceremony which would have eliminated him from the ascendancy to the throne.

More damning—or, okay, perhaps “darning” might be the better phrase—is the portrayal of Holmes and Watson by Christopher Plummer and James Mason, respectively. For hardened fans of the classic acerbic Holmes or the cinematically bumbling Watson (thanks ever so much, Nigel Bruce), the heroes in Murder By Decree may come as a complete—though not unpleasant—surprise. While the events of the case take place during the height of Holmes’ and Watson’s careers, their relationship is presented as comfortable and broken in. Holmes and Watson banter affectionately with each other (best exemplified in the “You squashed my pea, Holmes” scene -

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DPUHMuSxiEo) and seem more like a married couple than a crime-fighting partnership. It could also be argued that the actors are two old for the time-period, but that’s what you get for fighting with the experts. My personal biggest complaint is that Holmes does so little detective work. He acts on hunches and intuition, lets suspects go far too easily (as evidenced in the scene involving “psychic” Robert Lees—played here by Donald Sutherland—who is allowed by Holmes to avoid implicating either himself or the real culprit he “envisioned”). 

But the movie excels in atmosphere—the thick fog of the streets, the dank horror of Bethlehem Hospital (aka “Bedlam”) where Annie Crook is held, the absolute tweediness of the costuming. And before one starts to think that Holmes might be too much of an old nellie, Clark stages an exciting climax pitting the Ripper’s sword-cane against the weighted ends of Holmes bolo-scarf. It also feeds us our cake and allows us to have it too, as an appeal to Holmes’ (characteristic, considering that he shot a "VR" for "Victoria Regent" into the wall of his apartment) sense of Queen-and-Country provides us with both the solution of the murders and the reason behind the Great Detective’s own silence regarding the matter.

What it all comes down to is exactly what lies at the nucleus of all movies: if you buy the premise, you buy the bit. If you’re a stickler and nitpicker, Murder By Decree may drive you absolutely batty. If your only Holmesian frame-of-reference is Guy Ritchie’s “Bam! Bang!” redeux with Robert Downey, Jr., you may find Clark’s take a bit too slow and old fashioned for your taste. But if you’re somewhere in the middle, if you’re neither a Sherlockian nor Ripperologist—or if you can divorce yourself from facts and canon—you may find yourself thoroughly entertained by Murder By Decree. 

THE MIDNIGHT MAN (1974)

There was this strange period beginning in the mid-60s and lasting through the late ‘70s where classic matinee idols felt forcibly removed from their “comfortable” periods and jammed headlong into the modern day. Sometimes, I refer to this displacement as “whitesploitation”, but that’s hardly accurate. While younger actors like Sidney Poitier, Tony Curtis and, later, Al Pacino and Clint Eastwood, seemed at home in movies that were both culturally relevant to the times they were made, others of the strong jawed hero variety didn’t fare too well. Watching guys like John Wayne, Kirk Douglas, Mitchum, even Carey Grant, share screen time with hippies and yippies, dealing with “modern” drama, drugs and free love just seemed… uncomfortable. These weren’t guys who lived in the present. They were cowboys, pirates, gangsters. They belonged in their suits, their chaps and spurs, their hats of many styles. We grew up watching them gun down bad guys, not fight off co-ed chippies many, many years their younger. Maybe Wayne and Douglas and their ilk lived a past that never happened, invented by the studios and the directors who crafted the worlds, but that’s how we thought of “the past”, shaped by the movies encapsulating them. Take those guys out of the “then”, as artificial as it may have been, and shoehorn them into the—also artificicial—now just never felt right.

To put it in modern terms, how many people out there prefer the Harrison Ford of Working Girl as compared to his Indiana Jones—or even his comedic cowboy in The ‘Frisco Kid? Put Ford in a suit, he just looks uncomfortable, and that makes us uncomfortable. Sure, The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull was a misfire for multiple reasons, but it wasn’t because Indy looked out of place.

In 1973, Burt Lancaster stepped out of the foggy ‘40s and oppressive ‘50s and joined the modern world of the ‘70s by starring in and co-directing a here-and-now thriller titled The Midnight Man. Lancaster even co-wrote the script with his directing partner, Roland Kibbee, as well as author David Anthony, who wrote the book said script was based on, The Midnight Lady and the Morning Man. Who’s to say who excised the “Lady and the Mourning” from the title?

Set in then present day, Lancaster is an anachronism the minute he steps off a bus in the opening sequence, but for good reason—his Jim Slade is both an ex-cop and an ex-con, older and weary from his time spent in the joint. He takes a job as a night watchman at Jordan College (played by South Carolina’s Clemson University) and almost immediately steps into the middle of a murder conspiracy involving a Senator’s screwed-up daughter, blackmail, backwoods thugs, betrayal and profanity. (No greater shock have I had in my life than witnessing a long-haired hippie-freak tell stalwart Lancaster to “Fuck off” and retain his teeth.)

Burt’s charisma conveys him through a network of character actors including Cameron Mitchell, Charles Tyner, Ed Lauter, Harris Yulin and the future Daisy Duke, Catherine Bach, making her feature film debut. The central mystery begins with a late-night break-in. Several cassette tapes have been stolen from the psych professor’s office, containing the innermost confessions of a handful of students. Slade quickly dismisses two of the suspects—one of whom confesses to being “queer” in order to mess with the professor—and figures out that the target recording belonged to young, nubile Natalie, the emotionally-unstable daughter of a powerful politician. When she is subsequently murdered, Slade is drawn further into the labyrinth where he is frequently accused of various crimes, suspected of others due to his ex-con status, and involved in numerous late-night shenanigans. Meanwhile, he hangs out with his best friend from his police days (Mitchell) and attempts a romance with his fetching parole officer (Susan Clark).

During the course of this overlong movie, we are subjected to the horrors of Lancaster interacting with the various subversive college types straight out of Hair and the creeping discontent smears itself over the viewer by the end. When Lancaster is not attired in his night watchman uniform, he’s in a costume familiar to us: simple suit and fedora, as if he’d brought his wardrobe with him from the set of Sweet Smell of Success. But all around him is paisley and tie-dyed and groovy, long hair, bell-bottoms, joints are smoked and Burt is constantly disrespected. Regardless of your political leanings, you await the eventual hippie-beatdown but it never comes. The movie’s tension comes from the viewer’s disconnect with matinee Burt and the Burt before us, crammed into a world he should never be a part of.

You don’t put John Wayne in a Hawaiian shirt and you don’t surround Burt Lancaster with hippies. It may not be a law of Hollywood, but it should be. 

Eventually, this Gordian knot of a drama that doesn’t so much unravel as it is solved using King Soloman’s methodology. So convoluted, the mystery can’t be “solved” so much as “summed up”, and Slade provides a voice-over that cleaves our knot in twain, literally explaining the preceding events, double-dealings, criss-crossings and nighttime muddlings. And even with Lancaster straight-out telling us what happened, the story still makes precious little sense, resisting all attempts to stuff it into the box labeled “hard boiled mystery”. The story, like Lancaster, doesn’t fit the ‘70s trappings either. It’s drunken, listing Chandler unfolded in a post-political South.

The Midnight Man was not a box office success, though likely for reasons other than existential disconnect, and Lancaster would never direct another film. It would be years before he returned to his rightful place in the past in Zulu Dawn (let’s forget his brief role as Ned Buntline in Altman’s Buffalo Bill and the Indians), but it was too late to go back. Despite a brief stay in the old west in the largely unmemorable cowbrat adventure Cattle Annie and Little Britches, Lancaster never did find his foothold in the previous times. It wasn’t until he embraced himself as an anachronism—re-inventing his Birdman of Alcatraz Robert Stroud character in Atlantic City, a more subdued Elmer Gantry in Local Hero—that a glimmer of “classic” Burt was re-established. He even poked fun at his (and Douglas’s) matinee image in the hit-or-miss action comedy Tough Guys. But until Lancaster settled in the present, succumbing to distinguished dignity in later roles, did he finally make peace with the modern movies. He may not have gone out with a bang in Field of Dreams (transformed into a young Frank Whalley and back) and his later TV roles, but he went out like we expected: head held high, back straight, teeth gleaming.

In the movie afterlife, you can be sure no one ever again got away with telling Burt Lancaster to “fuck off”.

…

Oh, The Midnight Man pops up on TCM every now and then. It’s not currently available on domestic DVD but there's an expensive PAL Import available on Amazon. 

HISSS (2010)

 According to Indian legend, there is a stone, the “Nagmani”, which will provide immortality to any who possess it. The Nagmani is protected by the snake goddess, Nagin, and she will not relinquish the stone willingly. If one can manage to capture her mate, Nagin can be persuaded to trade the Nagmani for his safety. But her anger will terrible and her grief will be vengeful. A curse will fall upon the land, causing miscarriage and misfortune, and the Nagin will transform from snake to woman and back again until she finds her mate and rights the wrongs that have been done.

This legend, depicted in the film’s prologue, provides the background for Hisss, a new film directed by Jennifer Chambers Lynch (Boxing Helena). Set in modern day India, the story begins with an American named George States (Jeff Doucette) who is suffering from late-stage brain cancer and seeks the Nagamini in a last desperate attempt to save his own life. He and his hired mercenaries track down the Nagin while she is entwined around her mate. Separating the two snakes, George makes off with the male, leaving the female Nagin to thrash in anguish (as much anguish as can be depicted by a snake, anyway). Knowing the Nagin will follow, George and his fearful thugs take the male back to their underground bunker of a lair and wait for the snake goddess to make her move.

Meanwhile, police inspector Gupta (Slumdog Millionaire’s Irrfan Khan) is dealing with the chaos of Holi—the springtime “Festival of Colors”, a holy carnival celebrated en masse by dancing, reveling and spraying colored paint over everyone and everything. He and his wife (Divya Dutta) have tried desperately to conceive a child, only to result in miscarriage (the worst and most-recent coinciding with George’s kidnapping of Nagin’s mate). His job is stressful, his marriage troubled, his live-in mother-in-law demented (she refers to him as her “other daughter” and berates him for being too ugly for a man to want), Gupta is beleaguered.

Meanwhile, the Nagin transforms herself overnight into a beautiful woman (played by Mallika Sherawat). Mute like her snake form, Nagin is confused at first about the human world. She steals a sari to cover herself and makes her way into the city. Once there, she is caught up in the Holi and finds herself captivated by the rhythmic music. Distracted, she is led away by two young punks who intend to rape her. It should go without saying that attempting to rape a snake goddess is way at the top of the List of Very Bad Ideas. Later that day, Gupta is summoned to the blood-soaked flat and surveys the remains of the two punks. One is full of very large holes. The other is little more than a lump of meat, gristle, bone and fabric—as if his body had been regurgitated by a very large snake. Gradually, the stories of Nagin, Gupta and George intertwine, leading to an appropriately gruesome (but surprisingly low-key) climax.  

Here’s the part of the article where I admit to having almost no experience with the cinema of “Bollywood”. During my research, I discovered just how deeply my ignorance runs as “Bollywood” refers only to Hindi-language movies, while Tamil-language films from Sri Lanka fall into the categories of “Jallywood”, while Indian Tamil cinema is referred to as “Kollywood”. Therefore, I am not only unfamiliar with one subset of the largest output of films in the world, but also two others. This realization was, to say the least, very damaging to my ego and is rectifying this is sure to suck up a lot of free time in the future.

My lack of education in this area meant that while I knew Irrfan Khan looked familiar (due to his appearing in Western films like A Mighty Heart and particularly Slumdog), I’m more versed in the ouvre of Newhart’s Jeff Doucette (he played “Harley”, the chronically unemployed goof). I was even less familiar with the beautiful Sherawat, who is gradually breaking through in Hollywood by co-starring (for good or bad) in Jackie Chan’s The Myth and William Dear’s upcoming Politics of Love (aka Love, Barack). And while my innate nerd provided me a passing knowledge of the “Naga” animal people (not primarily snakes) of Hindu culture, I was completely ignorant of the previous Indian films detailing the story, including Nagin (1976), Nagina (1986) and it’s sequel Nigahen (1989).

In truth, Hisss may have escaped my attention entirely were it not for my slavish devotion to special effects artist Robert Kurtzman, who designed the Nagin’s transformation and half-snake/half-human appearances. (On a personal note, I got to see some of these early designs in person during a visit to Kurtzman’s studio – I mention this only because I think it’s cool and I like to work it into casual conversation.) After Lynch Jr.’s disastrous Boxing Helena and the irritation Surveillance, were it not for Kurtzman’s involvement, I may have given Hisss a misss (sorry, couldn’t resissst) entirely, giant snake-woman or not. 

While there is a rather beautiful partially-diagetic musical number set during the Hori, with Sherawat front and center of the dance amid swirling silk and spraying color, the emphasis in Hisss is definitely on the horror/mystery aspects, so the movie leans more towards the effects end of the spectrum. That being said, while Kurtzman’s practical makeup—the costume, prosthetics and larger puppets—are extremely satisfying for the horror geek, the CGI bounces along the “okay” to “what-the-?” on this harshly-scored scale. Keen-eyed effects hounds will also notice, very quickly, when Lynch’s direction lets the effects down, particularly during shots of the beautifully-crafted male snake puppet (the film is quick to point out at the beginning that no live snakes were actually used). Perhaps this can be shoved onto the shoulders of editor Tony Ciccone, but an editor can only work with what he’s given.

On the other hand, there are numerous “quiet” moments of both horror and beauty, particularly a standout scene where a naked Sherawat slithers up a lamp post and sleeps beneath its warmth. Khan’s fleeting moments with Dutta as they address their strained marriage also packs tiny gut punches unmatched by event the most glorious of gore (and an autopsy of the regurgitated lump of rapist is especially nasty—praise be to Ganeesh).

A quick view of the IMDb reviews reveals that Hisss was not well-received in its initial Indian release, with many reviewers from that part of the world denigrating it as “low-grade” and a “B-Movie” unbefitting of an actor of Khan’s stature. High marks are given all around to Sherawat’s body, but little is made of her nearly-silent and wonderfully communicated performance as the bewildered “Ichhadhari Nagin” in human form. One reviewer was confused as to the film’s setting, due to a number of different dialects spoken on-screen. When Hisss is finally released in the U.S., this is unlikely to be a problem, as Lynch shot the film simultaneously in English and Hindi and it’s not like many of the unwashed horror fans will catch the difference between Malayalam dialect of Kerala and the more-common Hindi speech of Mumbai. I certainly didn’t, though I did chuckle at the Hindi-dubbed voice of Doucette, expecting the “dum-de-dum” voice of Harley. But that’s because I am, sadly, a member of the unwashed Ugly American horror masses. (Another chuckle came from the fact that Hisss utilized the “studios of Filmistan”, which sounds like something Garry Trudeau would invent. I know, I’m a bad person.)

The version of Hisss I was fortunate enough to view was a Hindi-language foreign press screener DVD. There is no word on the film’s official website when—or if—there will be an American release. If one does not surface, it will be an honest shame because I, for one, am grateful to Hisss for opening the doors for me to Indian cinema and I think it’s a perfect introduction to that world for similar horror fans. No matter what the language or culture, nearly all of us appreciate a gorgeous girl who can turn into a giant snake. It’s one of those common loves that keeps this wonderful world turning. 

Marketing Department: Why use this: 

When there's something as boring as this available?

DEAR MR. GACY (2010)

Just a few months into his freshman year at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas, Jason Moss became obsessed with serial killers. With a career in the FBI or forensics as his end goal, he sat down with an endless amount of texts on famous murderers and forensic psychology, took up a large sack of immortal teenage hubris and began to write to some of the most infamous monsters in modern history, from the point of view of someone who would most fit the profile of each one’s individual favorite victim. In the case of Charles Manson, Moss adopted the tone of a budding militant dissatisfied with “the establishment”. With Richard “The Night Stalker” Ramirez, Jason posed as the head of a Nevada Satanic Cult, seeking guidance from one who truly knew “the Dark Lord”. And with John Wayne Gacy, the notorious “Clown Killer” who raped and murdered more than thirty young men and boys, burying their bodies beneath his own house, Jason’s tactic was that of someone sexually-confused, emotionally and physically abused by family, and desperately lonely.

In the end, all of Jason’s intended targets wrote him back. In most cases, he maintained an ongoing penpal relationship with his pals in the pen. With Gacy, his relationship got much deeper, much more twisted, and much more difficult to sever as the letters continued. Recounting his experiences in his book, The Last Victim, Jason took on the persona not only of “Jason Moss, the timid victim” but also of his younger brother, “Jarrod Moss, the new disciple of John Wayne Gacy”. In attempting to manipulate Gacy into revealing personal secrets, as he had with the other killers, Jason forced himself to live out some of Gacy’s most twisted fantasies—at least in the narrative he had created in the letters—including becoming a subservient sexual slave to his brother. While brother Jarrod was real, the paper-trail Jarrod and his relationship with fictional Jason was not—as he emphatically points out multiple times throughout the book. It was all Jason Moss and his perceived control over Gacy.

The letter exchanges turned into weekend phone conversations. And as Moss juggled multiple “friendships” with the killers—forcing him to keep an elaborate time-line of record keeping so he knew who he was for each man—his schoolwork suffered, his real friendships and relationships deteriorated, his home life with his parents increased its normal tug-of-war, and he found himself living more and more internally, almost trapped in the roles he’d created. Yet he never once felt as if the control had slipped. It was always Jason Moss, the genius student, and not Jason Moss the fictional victim, who had control over the Clown Killer. There was no struggle; to Moss’s mind, Gacy bought his rap hook, line and sinker.

Until the day Gacy finally backed him into a corner, sending him money and a plane ticket to visit him in the Menard Correctional Institution, where he was awaiting execution following the rejection of his final appeal. Gacy even went so far as to bribe a guard into posing as the warden for Moss’s mother, to assure her that her son would be in perfectly safe hands. In reality, the hands Jason had played into were the most dangerous ones imaginable.

There has been a lot of debate as to the amount of veracity present in Moss’s book, The Last Victim. Having written it with his college professor and mentor, Jeffrey Kottler, PhD (who seems, if possible, even more narcissistic in his brief forward and afterward than Moss does throughout the entirety of the admittedly patience-wearing narrative), Jason is arrogant, self-absorbed and manipulative from the start, but all by his own admission, which makes his flat intentions easier to swallow. Again and again, Moss states that failure is never an option for him, whether be it a school assignment or an argument with his “controlling” mother. An important character in the book, Mrs. Moss is painted as set in eternal struggle with her headstrong son, forbidding him from going forward with his project despite her own fascination with true crime planting its initial seeds in him. For much of the book, it’s his mother who is the genuine antagonist in his life. The serial killers become little more than screwed up mail buddies.

But every now and then, Jason stops and seemingly thinks about what he’s doing, how these dark and twisted individuals are affecting him personally. But he doesn’t let that stop him, not even after his terrifying face-to-face with Gacy.

Which is where most people’s suspension of disbelief seems to come crashing down. Kottler, in his intro, says the question they got most was “why”—why would a straight-A, all-American kid (a weightlifter, a kickboxer, on his way to sainthood) involve himself with the damaged lives of these horrible people? Why would his parents ‘allow’ him to do so? Why would the killers bother to write him back? Why would the Menard prison, even if Gacy was days away from state mandated death, allow the historically unhinged killer to spend any time alone in a room with this naïve kid? For the latter, bribery is offered as an excuse for the climax. For the former questions, it’s always Jason’s will that surmounted the “why?”, barreling forward with the distinctly alpha male definition: “no one tells me what to do”.

After The Last Victim hit the bestseller lists in 1999, Moss hit the talk show circuit and Hollywood batted a big-screen adaptation back and forth. As it passed hands and was ultimately abandoned, Moss became a criminal defense attorney and weathered the predictable waves that he’d lied about it all, about some, about details. Further speculation was derived from the book’s odd shifts in tone and narration (possibly attributable to Kottler’s attempt to “humanize” Moss when he descends his deepest into me-first prickdom) that Moss was affected more than he ever let on, that he was living vicariously through his correspondents, relishing the crimes that he could never bring himself to do, but had always haunted and fascinated him.

It’s this speculation that forms the rubbery spine of Dear Mr. Gacy. Using genuine passages from letters to and from Moss and Gacy, Kellie Madison’s script tries to make sense out of Moss the man. Forced to shuffle around some details, Dear Mr. Gacy’s storyline focuses on Moss and his relationship with Gacy, jettisoning Manson, Dahmer, et al, for the sake of dramatic momentum. She proposes that his project was for a term paper on criminal psychology before setting down to the meat. Writing and rewriting his first letter to perfect the tone of a lonely, timid teenager, Moss manages to catch the Clown Killer’s attention, his letter standing out from the piles of daily mail Gacy received at his comfortable cell. Between painting and long phone calls with his lawyer, Gacy becomes intrigued by this on-paper Jason Moss and attempts to reel him in further, playing on this perceived need for friendship and guidance. He tests the waters with references to masturbation and homosexuality before opening up the possibility of an encounter between Jason and his brother (renamed “Alex” in the film). Clearly, Gacy has found something with which to entertain himself during those long days of confinement.

Right around Act 2, however, Madison’s script starts to veer into a speculative direction that does not exist in The Last Victim. While Jason intones over and again that his constant research of murder and mayhem to stay “in character” for his various pen pals took its toll on him emotionally and psychically, Madison takes that opportunity to turn the movie into Apt Pupil. Over the phone, Gacy instructs Jason on how to observe people in order to learn and manipulate them, which leads to Jason stalking a pretty co-ed and, later, a potentially violent encounter with a motel prostitute.

Whereas in the book, Moss doth protest almost too much about any trace of homosexuality, the movies goes out of its way to ensure that the audience knows that gay = fucked up and/or evil. When his research leads him to paying a male prostitute for instruction on lingo and jargon, the situation, of course, ends in a roofied Jason staggering out of the bar from Cruisin’, dodging sodomy left and right. While Gacy declares that he’s bisexual, the movie quickly mentions that he’s a “homo” who hadn’t had sex with his own wife for years before his conviction. And, of course, Gacy only wants Jason’s sweet ass for himself and that’s his sole motivation for his evil.

Whether this homophobia is inferred from elements in Jason’s story or from producer invective is not clear, but these moments stand out as false for minutes after they occur—particularly when the script bends some of the real instances to suit the narrative needs. In the book, Jason does contact a male prostitute through classified ads and does pay him for a brief interview, but it takes place in the middle of the day, in a Vegas strip diner, with both of them dressed for work. This transmogrification into something seedy and dangerous is unnecessary. As is a moment where Jason loses his cool with “Alex’s” schoolyard bully. In the book, Jason forces Jarrod to fight his tormentor on his own and put it behind him, which illustrates the sort of control Jason exerts over everyone. You stand on your own feet. In the movie, the sequence is not only out-of-place but only serves the film’s narrative that Jason is inherently weak-willed and under Gacy’s control the entire time. The cat-and-mouse aspect of the story—who is in control, the student or the killer?—is lost in the After School Special of “Never Write to a Gay Multiple Murderer”.

However, the homophobic overtones aside, these small detail-shifts will annoy only those familiar with The Last Victim. Viewers going into Dear Mr. Gacy blind will discover a competently-directed movie (by Svetozar Ristovski, produced by Clark Peterson of another serial killer movie, Monster) filled to the brim with terrific performances, particularly on the parts of Jesse Moss (no relation) and the great William Forsythe, as Jason and Gacy respectively. Forsythe exudes both menace and charisma in every scene and his presence dominates the film from the moment he’s introduced, even during long passage of his physical absence. Jesse Moss takes the occasionally unpleasant and even creepy Jason Moss and turns him into a sweet, even sympathetic kid who doesn’t want to admit he’s in over his head. But it’s the sweetness that stands out, not the arrogance, and that’s what Madison wants to focus on, as it underscores the “why?” Making Jason sweet and upstanding undercuts his ego-driven passion for “getting one over” on both Gacy and the FBI. And it opens the doorway to the almost-exhausted “You’re just like me!” confrontations. While this route is perfectly satisfying for a movie-of-the-week, it boils a complicated emotional and intellectual story down to very trite elements.

Which in no way harms the tension or the impact of the inevitable climax—indeed, the movie takes the final face-to-face with Gacy a little further and a little faster than the book and makes you wonder—likely not for the first time—if Jason was holding back his version of what actually happened when he finally met his correspondent and realized that he was trapped in his victim persona.

Ultimately, neither the book nor the movie is 100% satisfying on its own. Taken together, they seem to be two parts of a still-unfinished whole. Jesse Moss allows us a glimpse behind the dead eyed arrogance of the real Jason Moss (who is shown on Sally Jesse Raphael during the end credits) and find the human that resides there. The book gives us a peek behind the curtain of the facts and the research at the monsters that lurk in every town.

What the movie cannot do, of course, is reconcile who the “real” Jason Moss was. Of course, no one can. On June 6, 2006, Moss killed himself in his Nevada home, which reopened the speculative floodgates. Had he allowed Gacy too far in to his psyche? Had he come too close to the darkness within himself? Or was he afraid the bullshit he’d concocted, as many felt the book had been, would be revealed for what it truly was: the product of a disturbed and immature student from Las Vegas?

We’re left with questions from an engrossing best-selling book about serial killers, and a very tense and well-made movie based on what they had to work with (out on DVD from Anchor Bay as we speak).

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.